Otherwise Engaged

by Amanda Quick

  “I don’t doubt that,” Benedict said. “But, you see, here’s the thing—I’m rich, too. I don’t need their money.”

  “Is that so?” Declan’s expression turned shrewd. “Then why did you travel all the way to St. Clare and then go on to meet with Foxcroft in Los Angeles? I know you went there, by the way. When I discovered that you had purchased a ticket on a train bound for California, I guessed where you were headed. But by the time I arrived you had already left with Foxcroft’s notebook.” Declan paused. “He’s dead, you know. The cancer took him less than forty-eight hours after he gave you his notebook.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Benedict said. “He was a brilliant engineer.”

  “I don’t suppose you’d care to tell me exactly what happened on St. Clare? Everyone on board the Northern Star said that you had been attacked by a thief, but I never believed that story. I think you were there for the same reason I sailed to the island—to examine Alden Cork’s solar cannon. But it was gone and Cork was dead by the time I found him.”

  “When did you arrive at Cork’s laboratory?”

  Declan looked grim. “Not long after you did, evidently. Cork’s body was still on the floor. But the local police had arrived and were starting to ask questions. It was obvious they had settled on the notion that Cork had been killed by a foreigner, someone off one of the ships that was in the harbor that day. I thought it best not to be seen so I immediately returned to the Star.”

  “And took a shot at me along the way, perhaps?” Benedict asked.

  “No, I swear it. I’m not the one who shot you. I’ve been one step behind you at every turn. It wasn’t until I followed you to Foxcroft’s laboratory in Los Angeles that I realized the importance of his solar engine system, though. The cannon won’t function without it, will it?”

  “No. How did you come to be familiar with Cork’s and Foxcroft’s inventions?”

  “An agent of the United States came to see my father and my uncle. The agent wanted to know if a cannon fueled by the energy of the sun and powerful enough to serve as a battleship weapon was technically feasible. He said there were rumors that such a device had been constructed by a British inventor named Alden Cork who had established a laboratory somewhere in the Caribbean. My father and uncle were familiar with Cork’s work, of course, but they weren’t particularly worried about it.”

  “The world of inventors working on solar energy devices is a small one,” Benedict said.

  “As I said, my father and my uncle didn’t think Cork’s design could function as a battleship gun, but they were sufficiently concerned to send me to St. Clare to take a look at it. When I learned that you had been shot, my first assumption was that you were the person who had murdered Cork and that you had been wounded in the process. Later, when you took the train to Los Angeles after we docked in New York, I realized that in all probability you were on your way to see Elijah Foxcroft. So I followed you. Again I was too late.”

  “What made you so certain that I went to see Foxcroft?”

  Declan’s smile held no trace of amusement. “As you said, the world of inventors working on solar energy devices is small. At one time Elijah Foxcroft was an employee of Garraway Oil. He was fired because he wanted to focus his research on solar energy rather than oil. We were aware that he had set up his own laboratory in Los Angeles to pursue his dream of a solar engine.” Declan paused. “Do you have any idea of who murdered Cork or who stole Foxcroft’s notebook?”

  “We assume the killer and the thief are one and the same and that he is in the employ of the Russians.”

  Declan nodded. “I am aware that the Russians and the British have been playing a dangerous game of strategy for some time now. Both sides want to control the future of Central Asia and the East.”

  “Personally, I’m of the opinion that neither empire can control that part of the world, but as long as the Russians are attempting to do so, the Crown is convinced it has to stop them.”

  Declan shook his head. “So the game goes on.”

  Benedict folded his arms. “A close look at a map of North and South America makes it clear that the U.S. government is playing a few strategic games of its own.”

  Declan shoved his fingers through his hair. “I can’t argue with that. But I think it is safe to say that neither your government nor mine would want the Russians to have a superior battleship weapon. Damn it, we’ve got to work together on this.”

  “Given the disgraceful manner in which you have treated my housekeeper and my butler, I see no reason to assist you in any way. I am going to have Hodges summon the constable now. I imagine it will take the nearest one about two minutes to get here.”

  “You’re going to regret this, Stanbridge.”

  “I’m sure I’ll learn to live with that regret.” Benedict looked at Hodges. “You may summon the police now.”

  Hodges inclined his head. “At once, sir.”

  “Damn it,” Declan muttered.

  He swung around, yanked open one of the French doors and rushed out into the garden.

  Hodges looked at Benedict. “Do you still wish me to summon the police, sir?”

  “Don’t bother. I’m sure Garraway will be several streets away by the time a constable arrives. In any event, it may be more useful to leave him on his own for a while. I will inform my uncle about him in the morning. Cornelius can deal with the Americans. I have enough trouble of my own at the moment.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Benedict surveyed the chaotic state of the study. “Do you see the decanter? If Garraway spilled my good French brandy, I’m going to very much regret letting him leave in one piece.”

  “I believe the brandy is still standing, sir,” Mrs. Hodges said. She stepped over a pile of tumbled books and moved some newspapers to reveal the decanter.

  “Pour three glasses, Mrs. Hodges. Make those large glasses. We all deserve some. It has been a rather trying evening.”

  “Yes, sir,” Mrs. Hodges said.

  She splashed brandy into three glasses and handed them around.

  Hodges studied Benedict with a considering air. “Can we assume that your evening was no more satisfactory than ours, sir?”

  “You have no idea,” Benedict said.

  Nineteen

  Your mother is here to see you,” the attendant said. He peered through the bars on the door while he inserted a key into the lock. “Expect she wants to see how you’re getting along.”

  The patient’s spirits soared. Mother had come to see him. Perhaps she’d had a change of heart and decided to believe his side of the story. With luck he could convince her to free him from this prison they called a hospital.

  Until recently he had always been able to convince her that he was not guilty of all the small incidents for which he had been blamed over the years. There had always been sound explanations. It was a fact that small pets frequently suffered fatal accidents and the servants could be so very careless when it came to lighting fires. And Mother did so want to believe him.

  But in the wake of the discovery of the bodies of the three brides, persuading Mother that he’d had nothing to do with the killings had become increasingly difficult. The episode with Amity Doncaster had proved disastrous. Mother had finally concluded that he was, indeed, the killer.

  He had to find a way to make her believe that he’d had nothing to do with the attack on Doncaster. It was so obvious that the wounds he had suffered had been inflicted by an enraged whore who had assaulted him with a knife when he refused to pay for her services.

  Mother had come to see him. Surely that was a clear indication that she wanted to be convinced that he had recovered from his latest case of shattered nerves.

  Thankfully he had also recovered from the knife wounds the bitch had inflicted.

  “How nice of Mother to come all this way to visit me,” he said.
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br />   He put down the photographs of the hospital gardens that he had been arranging and rose from the table. He moved stiffly. His wounds had healed but he still ached in places. Each twinge was a reminder of unfinished business. He smiled at the attendant. “I trust you told her that I was at home and happy to receive callers, Mr. Douglas?”

  The attendant chuckled. “Yes, indeed, sir.” He swung the heavy door wide.

  The roaring relief crashing through the patient threatened to overwhelm him but he knew he could not afford to appear euphoric. Displays of strong emotions of any sort were discouraged by Dr. Renwick and the hospital staff. The goal of therapy was a calm, well-ordered mind.

  The patient winced as he pulled on his coat. Every time he felt the aches and twinges he knew a flash of rage. But he managed to maintain an air of composure in front of the attendant.

  During the course of his earlier stay at Cresswell Manor, he had discovered that the trick to gaining privileges such as permission to photograph the flowers in the Manor’s gardens was to affect a serene, polite, attentive demeanor. There were so many times when he yearned to vent his fury, but for the most part he was able to fight the urges.

  True, there had been that incident with one of the maids shortly after his arrival, but the promise of a bribe had kept her silent. In any event, it was not as if he had hurt her, at least not nearly as much as she deserved. He had merely struck her hard enough to send her to the floor. Really, what had she expected him to do after the way she had treated him? She was just a servant who had gotten above herself. She had dared to try to give him orders. The silly woman had actually had the gall to tell him not to touch her. She had even threatened to report him to Jones, the ruthless man in charge of the hospital staff.

  He should have done more than strike the stupid maid, the patient told himself. He should have taken a knife to her as she deserved. He was quite certain she was no virgin. But he knew he could not start cutting up the women on the staff, so he kept his needs in check. In any event, the maid was not worthy of his attentions. Just a bloody servant.

  Bloody. Yes, indeed, a little bloodletting was exactly what the maid deserved—and what he needed to regain his sense of control.

  But he did not have to concern himself with the maid any longer because Mother was here.

  “She’s waiting in the gardens,” the attendant said. “I’ll escort you. Dr. Renwick says you don’t need the leg shackles because you’ve been responding well to therapy.”

  “Thank you,” the patient said. He was careful to keep his tone humble. “I have been feeling much better since I started the treatments again.”

  The good doctor’s therapy was very modern. It consisted of daily doses of his special nerve tonic based on quinine and nightly injections of opiates in various formulations. All patients followed a vegetarian diet devoid of any spices that might excite the nervous system. There was an emphasis on a strict routine that consisted of therapeutic baths, exercise and evenings spent listening to Dr. Renwick play the piano. Renwick was convinced that music had the ability to soothe agitated nerves.

  For the most part, the regimen, with the exception of the doctor’s piano playing, was tolerable, if decidedly boring. Fortunately, Renwick believed that the arts, such as photography, were also good for the nerves. The patient had been allowed to take photographs of the hospital gardens and develop his own pictures in a darkroom provided by Renwick.

  Nevertheless, the pressure to act like a sane man who had been wrongfully locked away in an institution was taking its toll. He could not stop thinking about the bride who had escaped. Thoughts of Amity Doncaster obsessed him, night and day. He had to convince Mother that he was innocent—that it was safe to take him back to London with her.

  The attendant unlocked the doors at the end of the corridor and escorted the patient down the staircase and into the grand hall of the old mansion. Together they walked past the hospital offices, the doctor’s personal laboratory where he concocted his medications and the kitchens.

  They went outside into the sunlit gardens. Towering hedges and cascading ivy concealed the high walls and the iron gates that surrounded the hospital. A woman was seated on a stone bench in the charming gazebo at the center of the gardens. She had her back to him but he could see that she wore a wide-brimmed bonnet and a stylish gown. Mother always prided herself on being in the first stare of fashion.

  He could convince her to take him back to London, the patient thought. Confidence swelled inside him. Mother did not believe him as readily as she had when he was younger, but he knew that she still desperately wanted—needed—to believe in him.

  Smiling, the patient went forward eagerly.

  “Mother,” he said. “It was good of you to come to see me. I have missed you so much.”

  Twenty

  One look at Penny’s face was all it took to tell Benedict that he was in serious trouble.

  “My sister is dressing,” Penny said. “She will come downstairs in a moment. I wish to have a few words with you before she arrives.”

  They were in the drawing room. The carriage was waiting in the street. Earlier Benedict had sent around a message informing Amity that there had been developments he wished to discuss with her. In his note he had also mentioned that he hoped she would be free to go out, as he wanted to take the opportunity to introduce her to his brother and sister-in-law. He had received a crisp note in response. I will await you at ten.

  He had arrived promptly at ten. But it was Penny who had appeared first.

  “If this is about my relationship with your sister,” he said, “I can assure you—”

  “Last night you began an affair with my sister.”

  Benedict steeled himself. “If you are concerned about my intentions—”

  “You have already made your intentions plain, Mr. Stanbridge. You wish to conduct a liaison with Amity and she appears to be amenable to such an arrangement.”

  That stopped him. “She is?”

  “I will not stand in her way. She is an adult. Furthermore, she is a modern-thinking woman. She has every right to make her own decisions. But as widely traveled and as worldly as she believes herself to be, Amity is still quite naïve in certain respects. I expect you to protect her.”

  “You refer to the killer who has fixed his attentions on her. I swear I am doing everything in my power to stop him.”

  “I do not refer to that situation,” Penny said coolly. “It is understood that you and Inspector Logan will find the killer and stop him. That is not the sort of protection I meant.”

  He went blank. “I don’t understand.”

  “You will see to it that Amity does not become pregnant. Do I make myself clear, Mr. Stanbridge?”

  A rush of embarrassed heat slammed through him. He knew he was probably turning red. He could not remember the last time he had blushed.

  “Very clear, Mrs. Marsden,” he managed.

  Footsteps sounded on the stairs.

  Penny lowered her voice. “I assume a gentleman of your experience is aware of condoms and how to use them?”

  Amity was in the hall now.

  He collected himself and his nerves. “Yes, Mrs. Marsden,” he said through his teeth. “Rest assured I am aware of such devices.”

  “I am relieved to hear that. I expect you to employ them.”

  Amity appeared in the doorway, a bonnet dangling from one gloved hand. She was dressed in a demure, high-necked walking dress outfitted with what Benedict knew the ladies termed street-sweeper ruffles at the hem. The ruffles were designed to protect the expensive fabric of the gowns from dirt and grime.

  Amity glanced curiously at Penny and then looked at Benedict.

  “Whom are you going to employ?” she asked.

  “Never mind,” Benedict said. “I will explain later. Are you ready to go out?”

  Amity did no
t appear satisfied with his response but she did not argue. “Yes.” She put on her bonnet and tied the strings. “The day is quite pleasant. I won’t need a coat.”

  Benedict inclined his head at Penny. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Marsden.”

  “One more thing before you leave, Mr. Stanbridge,” Penny said in the same cool voice she had used to deliver the lecture on protection. “Are your brother and his wife aware that your engagement to my sister is a pretense?”

  “No,” Benedict said. “And I intend to keep it that way.”

  Amity looked startled. “But surely there is no need to conceal the truth from your family,” she said. “Your brother and his wife will understand the reason for our charade.”

  “Quite possibly,” he allowed. “But families are inclined to talk about such matters. And there is always someone listening.” He smiled at Mrs. Houston, who waited out in the front hall. “I trust Mrs. Houston. She is a part of our little band of investigators.”

  Mrs. Houston looked pleased. “Thank you, sir.”

  “But there are always a number of people coming and going from my brother’s house—servants, clients, friends. I don’t want to risk having someone outside the family overhear a bit of gossip as interesting as a false engagement would prove to be.”

  “Your point is well taken,” Penny said. She was clearly troubled by the thought. “For now I think you are right. The engagement must appear to be real.”

  Benedict met her eyes. “Absolutely real.”

  Twenty-one

  Declan Garraway is after the notebook?” Amity asked. “I must say I am somewhat surprised but not entirely shocked. I knew there was something slightly off about him.”

  “Did you? That’s news to me. Every time I saw the two of you together you appeared to be charmed by Garraway.”

  “I liked him very much. He is a most interesting gentleman. But I did think from time to time that he was a bit too curious about you.” Amity blushed. “His curiosity made me wonder if he might be a tiny bit jealous of you.”