Otherwise Engaged by Amanda Quick
“You must take a positive attitude toward this situation,” Penny said. “There is nothing the public loves more than a great sensation involving murder and an interesting lady. Your encounter with the Bridegroom certainly meets both requirements. I’m sure that when all is said and done it will inspire sales of your book. Mr. Galbraith is nothing if not pragmatic when it comes to publishing.”
“I can only hope you are correct,” Amity said. “There is no denying that you are far more versed in the ways of Society than I am. You have a knack for navigating awkward situations. I am in your hands.”
Penny surprised her with a knowing look. “You have hiked in the wilderness of the American West and the jungles of the South Seas. You survived a shipwreck and confronted a would-be thief in a San Francisco hotel room. You have ridden a camel and an elephant. To top it off you are now the only woman in London known to have survived an attack by a criminal who has killed three women thus far. Yet you quail at the very thought of having to deal with the social world.”
Amity sighed. “I did not fare well the last time I went into Polite Society, if you will recall.”
“That was a long time ago. You were only nineteen and Mama did not protect you properly. You are much older now and, I’m sure, a good deal wiser.”
Amity winced at the “much older” and felt the heat rise in her cheeks. She knew she was flushing an unbecoming shade of red, but there was no avoiding the fact that at twenty-five she had crossed the boundary that separated marriageable young ladies from the doomed-to-spinsterhood crowd.
The memories of the Nash Debacle, as she privately termed it, always made her cringe. Her broken heart had healed quite nicely but the dent in her pride was permanent. It pained her to acknowledge how naïve she had been. In the wake of the discovery that Humphrey Nash’s intentions were less than honorable, Amity had concluded there was nothing for her in London. The last letter from her father had come from Japan. She had packed her bags and purchased a ticket on a steamship bound for the Far East.
“I am most certainly older now,” she conceded. “But I’m starting to wonder if I am cursed when it comes to London. I have been back for only a month and my name is on everyone’s lips. What are the odds that I would feature in not one but two scandalous situations. Speaking of which, I fear that it is only a matter of time before Mr. Stanbridge learns that his name is being dragged through the gutter press.”
“If and when Mr. Stanbridge discovers that his name has been brought up in connection with an illicit shipboard affair, I’m sure he will understand that it was not your fault,” Penny said.
“I’m not at all certain of that,” Amity said.
Secretly she hoped that he might at least discover that hers was not the only name featured in the newspapers lately. It might even impel him to send a letter or a telegram informing her that he was less than pleased. A message of any kind would offer her assurance that he was alive and well.
She had heard nothing from Benedict since the Northern Star had docked in New York. The following day he had boarded a train to California. To all intents and purposes he had vanished. True, he had said something vague about calling on her when he returned to London, and for a time she had been hopeful that she would someday find him on the doorstep. But a month had passed and there had been no word from him. She did not know whether to be hurt because he had so easily forgotten her or worried that whoever had shot him on St. Clare had tracked him down and made a second—successful—attempt to kill him.
It was Penny who had assured her that if a gentleman of Stanbridge’s rank and wealth had been murdered abroad the papers would be filled with the news. Unfortunately, Amity thought, that bit of logic left her with the depressing realization that while Benedict might feel some degree of gratitude toward her—she had saved his life, after all—he had certainly not developed any feelings of a romantic nature toward her.
In spite of that searing kiss on the promenade deck the night before they had docked in New York.
Night after night she told herself that she must put her foolish dreams back on the shelf. But night after night she found herself thinking of that magical time on board the Northern Star. As Benedict recovered from his wound, they had walked together on the promenade deck and played cards in the lounge. In the evenings they sat across from each other at the long table where the first-class passengers dined. They had talked of many things long into the night. She had found Benedict to be a man of wide-ranging interests, but it was when the conversation turned to the newest developments in engineering and science that his eyes heated with an enthusiasm that bordered on true passion.
Mrs. Houston bustled in from the kitchen with a fresh pot of coffee. She was a handsome, robust woman of middle years. Her brown hair was lightly streaked with gray. Penny had hired her after moving out of the large, fashionable house that she had entered as Nigel’s bride.
Penny had set up her new home in a much smaller town house in a respectable but quiet and not particularly fashionable neighborhood. In the process she had dismissed the entire staff of the mansion. Now there was only Mrs. Houston, who had come from an agency.
Amity sensed there was more to the story. It was true, Penny no longer needed a great many servants. Nevertheless, her household staff had been trimmed to a bare minimum. When Amity had asked why Mrs. Houston was the sole live-in employee, Penny had said something vague about not wanting a lot of people underfoot.
“I’m sure it’s only a matter of time before they find the Bridegroom’s body,” Mrs. Houston declared. “I’ve read all the accounts in the papers, Miss Amity. The wounds you inflicted were clearly of a grave nature. Surely he cannot survive them. One of these days they’ll find him in an alley or the river.”
“Those accounts were written by newspaper reporters, none of whom were present at the scene,” Amity said. “In my opinion, it is entirely possible that the monster survived, assuming he got medical attention.”
“Must you be so negative?” Penny chided.
“Medical attention,” Mrs. Houston said. She appeared quite struck by the notion. “If he was badly injured, he would have been forced to seek out the assistance of a doctor. Surely any man of medicine called upon to tend such wounds would be aware that he was treating a violent person. He would report the patient to the police.”
“Not if the killer managed to convince the doctor that the wounds had been inflicted by accident or by a footpad,” Amity said. “May I have some more coffee, Mrs. Houston? I shall need a great deal of it in order to get through the interview with that man from Scotland Yard who sent a message asking if he could call this morning.”
“His name is Inspector Logan,” Penny said.
“Yes, well, we can only hope that he is more competent than his predecessor. The inspector who spoke with me after I escaped the killer was less than impressive. I doubt if he could catch the average street thief, let alone a monster like the Bridegroom.”
“According to Inspector Logan’s message, he is not due to call until eleven o’clock,” Penny said. “You do not look as if you slept well. Perhaps you should take a nap after breakfast?”
“I’m fine, Penny.” Amity picked up her cup. “I have never been able to nap during the day.”
The muffled clang of the door knocker echoed down the hall. Amity and Penny exchanged startled glances.
Mrs. Houston’s face set in disapproving lines. “Who on earth would be calling at this hour?”
Amity put down her cup. “I expect that will be Inspector Logan.”
“Shall I tell the inspector to come back at a decent hour?”
“Why bother?” Amity said. She crumpled her napkin and set it beside her plate. “I may as well get the conversation over now. No point postponing the inevitable. Perhaps Inspector Logan is early because he has some news.”
“Yes, of course,” Penny said. “Let us hope
Mrs. Houston went down the hall to answer the door.
A hush fell on the room. Amity listened intently as Mrs. Houston greeted the caller. A man’s voice—dark, gruff and freighted with impatience and command—responded.
“Where the devil is Miss Doncaster?”
Amity felt as if she had just been struck by a very large ocean wave.
“Oh, dear,” she whispered. “That’s not Inspector Logan.”
In spite of her sleepless nights and too much coffee—or perhaps because of those two factors—frissons of panic and excitement shivered through her. The little icy-hot tingles of awareness splashed across her nerves and caused her pulse to kick up. In all of her travels she had met only one man who had such an effect on her.
“Miss Doncaster is at breakfast, sir,” Mrs. Houston announced. “I’ll let her know you’re asking for her.”
“Never mind, I’ll find her.”
Boot steps echoed in the hall.
Penny looked at Amity across the table, a delicate frown crinkling her brows.
“Who on earth—?” she started to ask.
Before Amity could answer, Benedict swept into the room. His hair was windblown and he was dressed in traveling clothes. He carried a leather case under one arm.
At the sight of him joy and relief flashed through her. He was alive. Her worst nightmare was just that—merely a nightmare.
And then the outrage set in.
“What a surprise, Mr. Stanbridge,” she said in her steeliest accents. “We weren’t expecting you this morning. Or any other morning, for that matter.”
He stopped short, eyes tightening at the corners. Evidently that was not the greeting he had been anticipating.
“Amity,” he said.
Predictably, it was Penny who took charge of the volatile situation, doing so with her customary grace and dignity.
“Mr. Stanbridge, allow me to introduce myself, as my sister appears to have forgotten her manners. I’m Penelope Marsden.”
For a dash of time Amity did not think that Benedict would allow himself to be distracted by the introduction. Judging by her experience of his company on board the Northern Star, he had excellent manners when he chose to use them. For the most part, however, he had little patience for the niceties of Polite Society.
But clearly it dawned on him that he had overstepped the bounds of good manners by invading a lady’s morning room at such an early hour, because he turned immediately toward Penny.
“Benedict Stanbridge, at your service.” He inclined his head in a surprisingly elegant bow. “I apologize for the intrusion, Mrs. Marsden. My ship docked less than an hour ago. I came straight here because I saw the morning papers. I was concerned, to say the least.”
“Perfectly understandable,” Penny said. “Won’t you join us for breakfast, sir?”
“Thank you,” Benedict said. He looked at the silver coffee pot with something approaching lust. “I would be very grateful. I didn’t get breakfast, as we docked earlier than anticipated.”
Penny looked at Mrs. Houston, who was staring, fascinated, at Benedict. “Would you be so kind as to bring Mr. Stanbridge a plate, Mrs. Houston?”
“Yes, ma’am. Right away, ma’am.”
Mrs. Houston quickly regained her professional composure but her eyes sparkled with curiosity. She bustled through the swinging door of the pantry.
Benedict pulled out a chair and sat down. He set the leather case conveniently at hand on the sideboard and examined Amity as though he had her under a microscope.
“You are unhurt?” he asked.
“A few minor bruises, but they have all disappeared, thank you,” she said.
Penny frowned in faint disapproval of her icy tones. Amity ignored the look. She had a right to be annoyed with Benedict, she thought.
“According to the press, you did considerable damage to the bastard with that little fan you carry.” Benedict nodded once, evidently pleased. “Nice work, by the way.”
Amity raised her brows. “Thank you. One does one’s best in those circumstances, I assure you.”
“Right,” Benedict said. He was starting to look wary. “Did they find the body?”
“Not that we know of,” Amity said. “But we are expecting news from an Inspector Logan of Scotland Yard later this morning. I am not hopeful that any real progress has been made, however. Logan’s predecessor appeared to be in over his head.”
“Never a good sign,” Benedict said. He reached out to help himself to a slice of toast from the silver toast rack.
A woman could only take so much.
Amity banged her cup down onto the saucer. “Damn it, Benedict, how dare you stroll into this house as if nothing ever happened? The very least you could have done was send a telegram to let me know that you were alive. Was that too much to ask?”
Six
Amity was furious.
Benedict was amazed that she possessed the energy for such a heated emotion considering what she had gone through three weeks ago. But the fire in her amazing eyes was definitely dangerous.
This was not exactly the passionate reunion that he had been dreaming about for the past month, he thought.
He used a knife to slather some butter on the toast while he tried to think of the best way to respond to the outburst. Nothing brilliant came to mind.
“My apologies,” he said. “I thought it best to have as little communication as possible until I got back to London.”
She gave him a cool smile. “Did you, indeed, sir?”
This was not going well, he decided. He told himself he had to make allowances for her volatile emotional state. If the press had gotten even half the story correct, she was lucky to be alive. Most women would have taken to their beds following such an ordeal. They would have remained in those beds for a month, dining on weak broth and tea and periodically resorting to their vinaigrettes.
Then again most women would not have survived the attack, he thought. Admiration mingled with the overwhelming relief that he had experienced when he had walked through the door of the morning room a short time ago. The papers had stressed that she was alive and unharmed, but he knew that he could not rest until he had seen her with his own eyes.
He should have known that he would find her eating a hearty breakfast.
Amity was the most unique woman he had ever encountered. She never ceased to astonish him. From the first moment he had seen her there in that wretched little alley on St. Clare, he had been mesmerized. She reminded him of a small, sleek, curious little cat. The range of her interests intrigued him deeply. One never knew what subject she would bring up next.
During the course of the passage from St. Clare to New York, Amity had turned up in the most unexpected places on the ship. It was obvious from the start that the crew adored her. On one occasion he had gone searching for her only to find her emerging from a tour of the ship’s galley. She was still engaged in deep conversation with the head chef, who had been holding forth at length on the logistics of providing so many meals to passengers and crew over the course of a long voyage. Amity had appeared keenly interested. Her questions were sincere. The chef looked as though he was half in love with her.
And then there was the time he had found her in close conversation with the handsome, young American, Declan Garraway. Benedict had been startled by the sense of possessiveness he had experienced when he had discovered the pair together in the ship’s library.
Garraway was fresh out of an East Coast college and in the process of seeing something of the world before he assumed his responsibilities in the family business. He had seemed quite taken with modern theories of psychology, which he had studied in school. He had lectured Amity enthusiastically on the subject. She, in turn, had taken notes and asked a great many questions. Garraway had been enthralled, not only with
Over the course of the past few weeks Benedict had pondered his own conversations with Amity on board ship. He had no doubt bored her to tears with his descriptions of such exciting inventions as Alexander Graham Bell’s design for a wireless communications device called a photophone. She had managed to appear so interested that he had been inspired to move on to other subjects. He had held forth at length on how several renowned scientists and engineers such as the French inventor Augustin Mouchot were predicting that the coal mines of Europe and America would soon be exhausted. If they were proved right, the great steam engines of the modern age that powered everything from ships and locomotives to factories would grind to a halt. The need to find a new source of energy was the focus of all the major powers. And so on and so forth. On one less than memorable occasion he had even gone so far as to regale her with a detailed explanation of how the ancient Greeks and Romans had experimented with solar energy.
What had he been thinking?
He had asked himself that question every night for a month. Amity had been trapped on board the Northern Star with him all the way from St. Clare to New York. It had been a golden opportunity to impress her. Instead, he had gone on endlessly about various topics related to his engineering interests. As if any woman actually wanted to hear about his engineering interests.
But at the time Amity had seemed keen to discuss his speculations and theories. Most women he knew, with the glaring exceptions of his mother and his sister-in-law, considered the realms of engineering and invention to be beneath the proper interests of a gentleman. Amity, however, had gone so far as to make notes, just as she had when she chatted with Declan Garraway. Benedict conceded that he had been flattered. Afterward, though, on the long train trip to California, he’d had ample time to consider the very real possibility that she had simply been polite.
When he thought of his time with Amity on the Northern Star he much preferred to contemplate their last night together. The memory had heated his dreams while they had been apart.