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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 inengineering 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 calledupon 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