Chapter Sixteen
Sixteen
I must say, the news of your engagement came as something of a surprise, Ben.” Leona, Lady Penhurst, smiled at Benedict, managing to ignore Amity, who was standing beside him. “Can we assume that the wedding will take place in the near future? Or do you plan an extended engagement?”
Leona was a beautiful woman, tall, willowy and regal.
Her profile was classically molded. Her dark hair gleamed in the light of the chandeliers that hung from the ballroom ceiling.
Diamonds and emeralds decorated her ears and dipped low into the deep décolletage of her garnet-colored satin and lace gown.
But all the glitter and charm could not conceal the frustration and bitterness in her brown eyes.
Leona had been blessed with any number of attractive attributes, Amity thought, but she had been cursed in marriage.
Lord Penhurst was, as Penny had said, slipping rapidly into senility, but he appeared to be in remarkably good health for a man his age.
Amity suspected that a good deal of Leona’s venom was directly attributable to the fact that her husband was still hanging around.
“My fiancée and I intend to marry as soon as possible,” Benedict said. He looked around the room, clearly bored with the conversation.
Amity winced inwardly. She could not blame Benedict, she thought. He probably had no notion of how he had just added a little more fuel to the fires of anger that burned deep inside Leona.
Leona seized on the opening. She focused rather pointedly on Amity’s midsection.
“I understand the need for a hasty marriage,” Leona said with sugary sympathy.
“I thought I detected that special glow about you, Miss Doncaster. But not to worry, your gown appears to be designed to conceal any small . . . mistakes. I congratulate you both. Now, if you will excuse me, I do believe my husband is indicating that he wishes to leave.”
Leona floated away on a foaming tide of elegantly draped skirts. Benedict pulled his attention from the crowd long enough to scowl at Leona’s departing figure.
“What the devil did she mean by that comment about your gown?” he asked. “I think the dress looks very nice on you.”
“She was implying that the reason we are planning a hasty wedding is that I am pregnant,” Amity said.
Benedict’s jaw tightened. “Leona is an extremely irritating female.”
Amity fiddled absently with her tessen while she watched the crowd. “I am told that you knew her rather well at one time.”
Benedict glanced down at the lethal fan. A smile edged the corner of his mouth and a dark amusement lit his eyes.
“I think I can guess who may have mentioned that supremely unimportant fact,” he said.
“My sister thought it best to forewarn me.”
“I admit that there was a period in my life when Leona and I passed some time in each other’s company. For a while I was under the impression that she found me . . . interesting.” Benedict shrugged. “But when I discovered that in reality she considered me to be a great bore we parted ways.”
“May I ask how you came to make that discovery?”
Benedict surprised her with one of his rare, quick, grins. “She made the mistake of telling one of her friends, who told her husband. He, in turn, mentioned it at his club. Word got back to me.”
“I see.” Amity peered at him. “You don’t appear to have had your heart broken by the incident.”
“To be honest, it was something of a relief when the end came,” Benedict said. “I had become aware of the fact that it was all she could do not to yawn in my presence.” He paused and then asked coolly, “What about you and Nash? Did he break your heart?”
“I certainly thought so at the time. But, then, I was only nineteen. In hindsight, I consider that I had a very narrow escape. Marriage to Humphrey Nash would have been a nightmare. I very much doubt that he is capable of loving anyone except himself. He does hold a great deal of admiration for his own accomplishments.”
“I don’t suppose there is any possibility that he might be the Bridegroom?”
The hopefulness in Benedict’s voice would have been amusing under other circumstances, Amity thought. He obviously yearned for an excuse to do something drastic to Humphrey.
“No,” she said firmly. “He is not the Bridegroom. Furthermore, I regret to report that none of the other men I have met here tonight fit my memories of the killer.”
“Damn. We need to get beyond the names on that guest list.”
“How do you propose to do that?”
Benedict contemplated the crowd in silence for a long moment. Amity knew that he was silently envisioning possibilities and probabilities.
“Well?” she prompted after a time.
“Connections,” he said very quietly.
“What?”
“There must be links and connections to the killer. We need to find the right one.”
“I don’t understand,” Amity said.
“We can’t talk in here. Let’s take a walk in the gardens.”
“Certainly.”
Benedict took her arm and steered her through the crowd and out onto the broad terrace.
The extensive gardens behind the mansion were drenched in shadows.
Here and there lanterns bobbed like fairy lights in the night.
On one side of the grounds a glass-walled conservatory glittered obsidian dark in the moonlight.
At the far end Amity could see the looming outline of a large structure that resembled an Italian villa.
She had been told that it was the handsome stables that Gilmore had built to house his impressive collection of horses.
For the first time since they had arrived at the Gilmore ball, Amity allowed herself to take a deep breath.
She had not realized how tense she had been all evening until now.
It was as if she and Benedict had been on stage from the moment they had arrived.
All eyes had turned toward them when they had entered the ballroom—and just as quickly turned away again.
But then the whispers had begun. They had ebbed and flowed through the crowd.
More than once Amity had caught snatches of the conversations.
“I see that she is not wearing the family necklace.”
“I wouldn’t put too much stock in the engagement. Obviously he hasn’t given her the Rose Necklace.”
It was a relief to escape the ballroom, Amity thought.
“I am not cut out for this sort of thing,” she said.
“Neither am I,” Benedict said.
It occurred to her that they did not need to explain the meaning of those statements to each other. They both understood.
The evening air was pleasantly cool and refreshing after the overheated atmosphere of the ballroom. Amity noticed that she and Benedict were not alone on the terrace. A handful of other couples stood in the shadows around them. Low murmurs and soft laughter drifted on the night air.
Benedict paused only briefly. Then, evidently not satisfied with the degree of privacy that the terrace afforded, he drew Amity down the steps into the deeper darkness beyond.
A summer moon shone down, spilling silver and shadow across the elegantly manicured gardens.
Amity was reminded of the nights on board the Northern Star.
She was overcome with a sense of wistful longing.
Fate in the form of a killer had brought Benedict back to her, but she might only have him for a short time.
That knowledge filled her with a sense of urgency.
She must savor every moment with him, she thought.
They walked along the graveled path until it ended at the entrance to the elegant stables. There they halted. Amity folded her arms around herself to ward off the small chill that drifted through her. She examined the stables.
“The Gilmore horses live in quarters that are much grander than those of most of the people in London,” she observed.
“Everyone knows Gilmore is obsessed with his bloodstock.” Benedict looked at her. “Are you cold?”
“The night has turned rather crisp, don’t you think?”
Without a word he took off his coat and draped it around her bare shoulders. Just as he had done that last night on board ship, she thought; just before he had kissed her.
“Better?” he asked.
“Much better.” The coat felt oddly heavy.
She realized there was an object in one of the pockets.
The heat of Benedict’s body and his very masculine, acutely invigorating scent clung to the fine wool.
Surreptitiously, she breathed in the faint essence of the man.
“What did you mean when you said there are always connections?”
Benedict lounged against the wall of the conservatory and looked back toward the brilliantly illuminated mansion. “Earlier we considered the possibility that the killer did not attend the Channing ball himself but that someone he knew well was present that evening.”
“You are thinking that is the connection that we need to discover, the guest with whom the killer is closely acquainted. That task will be far more difficult.”
“If we are no longer looking for the killer but rather someone who knew him fairly well, we must return to the original guest list.”
“Benedict, I must tell you that I am very concerned that the guest list is a dead end. We may be wasting a great deal of time.”
“I know. But as Logan keeps reminding us, it is a starting point. Tonight we managed to eliminate a number of men from our list.”
“If Penny is right, the person who is connected to the killer may also be here at the Gilmore ball this evening. But how can we possibly identify that individual?”
Benedict wrapped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her close. “There is one other fact that we have which we should not forget.”
“What is that?”
“The gap in time between the first murder and the next three. If we could account for that delay we might be able to narrow the list of suspects.”