Chapter Ten
Ten
Miss Doncaster, I cannot begin to express the depths of my admiration, not only for you, personally, but for your succinct and insightful writing,” Arthur Kelbrook said.
“I have read every single one of your essays in the Flying Intelligencer. Your descriptions of foreign landscapes are positively brilliant. It is as if I was at your side, viewing the scenes with you. I shall never forget the poetic picture you painted of the sun setting on that island in the South Seas.”
“Thank you, Mr. Kelbrook,” Amity said. She flushed, unaccustomed to such rapturous praise. “Very kind of you to take the time to read my little pieces in the Flying Intelligencer.”
The reception hall of the Society for Travel and Exploration was crowded.
The guest of honor, Humphrey Nash, had concluded his talk a short time ago and was now holding court at the far end of the room.
He was surrounded by admirers and rivals alike.
There were, Amity noted, a considerable number of ladies in the group.
The Society was one of the few travel and geographical institutions open to women, but Amity knew that was not the only reason there were so many females at the reception.
Nash was a tall, handsome, athletically built man endowed with a patrician profile and piercing green eyes.
His curly brown hair was cut short in the modern style.
He was also a very fine photographer. His beautiful pictures of temples, exotic gardens, snow-peaked mountains and ancient monuments lined the walls.
Amity tried not to let her gaze stray toward Humphrey but it was difficult.
She had been anxious about attending the reception tonight, but a part of her had known that she needed to see Humphrey again to prove to herself that she had recovered from what, at the age of nineteen, she had considered to be heartbreak.
Tonight, watching him as he commanded the audience from the podium, she found herself wondering what she had ever seen in him.
He was still the handsome, dashing explorer who had captivated her at nineteen, but she had realized immediately that she was no longer under his spell.
She had to admit that walking into the hall on the arm of her so-called fiancé had provided a great deal of satisfaction.
It was probably quite immature to hope that Humphrey had noticed her sitting with Benedict in the audience and had, perhaps, heard that she was engaged.
But she told herself that she deserved to savor the moment.
After all, Humphrey had caused her no little humiliation when he had taken advantage of her na?veté to try to persuade her into an illicit affair.
Her reputation had taken a blow at nineteen that had destroyed her chances of making a respectable marriage.
It was, she often thought, a good thing that she enjoyed foreign travel, because she’d had little option but to leave the country. She smiled at the thought. Setting out to explore the world had been the best thing that had ever happened to her.
Penny was halfway across the room. She looked especially lovely tonight in a dark blue gown that complimented her hair.
The blue dress was an audacious choice. According to the social dictates of mourning, a wife was expected to spend a year and a day in black.
Amity had been both astonished and delighted when Penny had come downstairs in the gown.
True, it was a very dark shade of blue but it was, nevertheless, blue—not black or even gray.
Amity had to admit that she was rather enjoying the knowledge that she herself was dressed in a stylish, fashionable manner. The conversation in the dressmaker’s salon came back to her.
“The deep green color will draw attention to your eyes and enhance the drama of your dark hair,” Penny said. “I suspect that Mr. Stanbridge is in for a surprise tonight.”
“Why on earth would he be surprised by the sight of me in a dress?” Amity asked. She touched the delicious, rich folds of the green fabric. “He has seen me on any number of previous occasions and I assure you, I was in a gown each time. It is not as though I go about in the nude when I am abroad.”
The dressmaker lifted her eyes toward the heavens and muttered “Mon Dieu” in a very bad French accent.
Penny ignored her to give Amity a severe look. “I expect that on each occasion you were wearing one of those wretched brown or black things you always pack for your travels.”
“They don’t show wrinkles and stains,” Amity said, finding herself on the defensive. “And they launder well.”
“I don’t care how easily they can be washed and dried and ironed,” Penny said. “The colors are not flattering and they don’t show your figure to advantage the way this gown will.”
The gown was simply, elegantly styled with long, narrow sleeves and a snug bodice that ended in a point just below her waist. The skirt was artfully tailored to create a long, narrow line in front that, nevertheless, allowed for relative ease of movement.
In the back, the fabric was draped over a discreet little bustle.
The dressmaker had pronounced herself horrified by Amity’s fan.
Madame La Fontaine had insisted that it did not enhance the gown.
She had suggested, instead, one fashioned of delicate wooden spokes that opened to display an orchid scene.
But Amity had held her ground. In that one instance Penny had taken her side.
Neither of them had deemed it wise to explain to the dressmaker that the fan was actually a weapon.
The poor woman would have been thoroughly shocked at the notion of a lady carrying a blade to a reception.
Tonight the tessen was suspended from a silver chatelaine at Amity’s waist.
“I would not miss a single one of your travel pieces,” Kelbrook said. “I assure you, I am your most faithful reader, Miss Doncaster.”
“Thank you,” Amity said again.
She took a step back, trying to put more distance between them. But Kelbrook took a step closer. It dawned on her that the glitter in his eyes was excitement, not admiration, and a rather unwholesome excitement at that.
“I was shocked by the news that you were attacked by that dreadful killer the press refers to as the Bridegroom,” he continued. “I must ask how you escaped. The accounts in the papers were rather vague about that aspect of the affair.”
“Luck had a great deal to do with it,” Amity said briskly. She inched back another small step. “That, plus some experience in getting out of tight quarters.”
She was not about to demonstrate her fan to him. There was little point carrying a disguised weapon if everyone knew the secret. One did not confide in near strangers, even those who expressed great devotion to one’s writings.
Arthur Kelbrook was in his mid-forties. He was pleasant-looking in a bland sort of way, with a receding hairline, pale gray eyes, a soft mouth, broad hands and very little neck.
All indications were that he was fated to expand in girth as the years passed.
The buttons that fastened his expensively tailored coat were pulled taut across his midsection.
He was certainly not the handsomest or the most distinguished-looking man in the room, Amity reflected, but his earnest, sincere manner at the start of their conversation had been charming, even endearing.
Kelbrook was the only one she had met that evening who seemed genuinely interested in her travel adventures.
Everyone else was transfixed with Humphrey Nash.
Which was not to say that she had failed to attract the attentions of several other men in the room, she thought.
From time to time she caught a number of males casting quick, speculative glances in her direction.
She knew they were wondering if a woman who dared to go abroad on her own was reckless in other ways, as well.
It was not the first time she had encountered so-called gentlemen who presumed far too much.
“I hear the police have not yet discovered the body of the Bridegroom,” Kelbrook said.
“No.” She did not add that there might not be a body to discover.
Kelbrook lowered his voice and edged closer. “There was, I understand, a great deal of blood at the scene.”
Whatever charm Arthur Kelbrook had exhibited a short time ago had worn off. She was starting to become more than impatient. A deep unease was stirring inside her.
“Quite true,” she said. She kept her tone vague and pretended to search the room. “I wonder where my fiancé is.”
There was no sign of Benedict. Just when you need a man he disappears, she thought.
“You must have struggled valiantly,” Kelbrook said. “But what could a gentle, delicate lady like yourself do to defend herself against a great, rutting beast of a man?”
Kelbrook’s intensity was increasing. So was the feverish look in his eyes.
A chill iced Amity’s neck. She tried to step around Kelbrook but he was somehow in her path.
“I assure you the matter was resolved in mere minutes,” she said briskly. “I simply jumped out of the carriage.”
“I can only imagine how it must have been for you, pinned beneath that brute, his hands on your maidenly body, your nightgown tumbled about your waist, his trousers no doubt open.”
“Good heavens, sir, I do believe that you are as mad as a hatter.”
Amity whirled on her heel intending to depart the scene. She collided with a large, immovable object.
“Benedict.” Jolted, she stopped short. The little green cap that was angled over her left brow came free of its pins. “Oh, for pity’s sake.” She managed to grab the cap before it landed on the floor. “I didn’t see you standing there, sir. Must you sneak around like that?”
“Who was he?” Benedict asked.
The low-voiced question was laden with a dark, fierce, decidedly dangerous threat.