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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 caseconveniently 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
    A mity 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 womenwould 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