“After all I did for him.” Amity whipped out a hankie and blotted her eyes. “I saved his life. If not for me he would have died in an alley on St. Clare. And how does he repay me? By compromising me on board theNorthern Star. Within days after arriving in London my reputation was in tatters.”
“I see,” Humphrey said again. He sounded cautious now.
She choked back a sob. “I was so relieved when he announced our engagement. I believed that he had done the gentlemanly thing and saved me from ruin. But I have discovered that he was only using me for his own ends.”
“Uh, what ends would those be?”
“He and his uncle, who is connected to certain parties in the government, were searching for a spy, if you can imagine. They did, indeed, find her—with my assistance, I might add. And what is my thanks?”
Humphrey ignored the last bit. “What is the name of this spy, Amity?”
“Lady Penhurst.” Amity flicked the hankie, waving the details aside. “I’m sure you heard that she took her own life last night. In the middle of a ballroom, no less. But that is neither here nor there. What matters is that last night Mr. Stanbridge informed me that he no longer requires my assistance in the case. He terminated our engagement and demanded that I return the Stanbridge family necklace. By tomorrow my reputation will have been destroyed beyond repair.”
Humphrey cleared his throat. “About this notebook you mentioned.”
“Yes, of course. I brought the missing pages with me.” She opened the satchel and removed two sheets of paper covered with drawings, symbols and equations. “Mr. Stanbridge doesn’t know that I took them, not yet. But by tomorrow he will have discovered that they have vanished. I cannot wait to see the expression on his face when he realizes they are gone.”
Humphrey eyed the pages. “What makes you think that I have any interest in those pages?”
“Lady Penhurst told me everything last night. She was delighted to chat about her Russian contact. But all she really wanted was the Rose Necklace. I was to bring it to the masked ball. Of course she did not realize that the notebook that one of you stole is missing the crucial pages detailing certain specifications for Foxcroft’s solar engine and battery.” Amity smiled. “I can see by the expression on your face that you were not aware of that fact until now yourself. But, then, you probably haven’t had time to take a close look at the notebook.”
Humphrey was starting to appear alarmed. “Are you certain that those pages are from the Foxcroft notebook?”
“Yes, of course.” Amity waved the hankie again. “Mr. Stanbridge explained the plan to me when he asked me to assist in the capture of the spy. They hoped to catch her at the costume ball. But that effort failed because Lady Penhurst took her own life rather than hang as a traitor. Personally, I suspect you are the one who murdered her, but I don’t care a jot about that. I never did like the woman.”
“The only thing you want is revenge, is that what you are saying?”
“Well, I don’t mind telling you that a small financial gesture of gratitude would also be appreciated. We both know how expensive it is to live the globetrotting life.”
“Indeed.” Humphrey did not take his eyes off the pages in her hand.
“I am rather low on funds and my sister refuses to part with any of the money she inherited from her late husband,” Amity continued. “She does not approve of my globetrotting. I was hoping that my travel guide for ladies would prove successful, but given the disaster to my reputation it is unlikely to ever see the light of print.”
“May I examine those pages, Amity?”
“What? Oh, certainly. Not very interesting, really. Just a lot of drawings and calculations. Oh, and a list of materials for something called a photovoltaic cell.”
She rose and set the pages down on the desk. Humphrey examined them intently for a few minutes. His frown tightened with each passing tick of the clock.
“What makes you think that these pages are from the Foxcroft notebook?” he asked.
“Aside from the fact that Mr. Stanbridge told me, do you mean? Well, there is the rather obvious matter of the signatures.”
“What signatures?”
“At the bottom of each page,” Amity said. “Evidently Elijah Foxcroft was obsessed with the fear that his drawings would be stolen. So he signed and dated every page in the notebook just as an artist signs his work. See for yourself. Lower right-hand corner.”
Humphrey stared at one of the pages. Disbelief warred with uncertainty on his face. Then anger took hold, tightening his handsome face into a dangerous mask.
“That son of a bitch,” he rasped very softly.
“Whom do you refer to?” Amity asked politely. “Elijah Foxcroft?”
“Not Foxcroft. Stanbridge. The bastard tricked me.”
“Very untrustworthy, our Mr. Stanbridge. As I have learned to my great cost.”
“Bloody hell.” Humphrey opened a desk drawer. “I don’t give a damn about the damage to your reputation, Amity.”
