The Paid Companion (19 page)

Things had not gone entirely according to plan tonight.

He hadn’t been expecting that last desperate assault from his victim. The two old men had died so easily. He had assumed that the damned butler would be equally obliging.

When Ibbitts had flung himself at him, knife in hand, blood soaking the front of his shirt, it was as if a dead man had been shocked by an electricity machine into a semblance of life.

The sense of raw terror he had experienced was still upon him, rattling his nerves and clouding his usually well-focused brain.

Out in the darkened street the unlit hackney waited. The coachman huddled into his greatcoat, nursing his bottle of gin. The killer wondered if the man on the box had heard the pistol shots.

No, he thought. Highly unlikely. Ibbitts’s lodgings were at the back of the old, stone building, and the walls were thick. In addition there were several carriages in the street, rattling and clattering loudly.

If the coachman’s ears had picked up any sounds at all, they would have been greatly muffled.

For a second or two he hesitated, and then he decided that there was nothing to be concerned about in that quarter. The coachman was quite drunk and had little interest in his passenger’s activities. All he cared about was his fare.

Even if the driver were to grow curious or decide to talk to his friends in the tavern, there would be no risk, the killer thought as he bounded up into the cab of the vehicle. The hackney driver had never seen his face. The mask concealed his features quite adequately.

He dropped onto the worn cushions. The coach rumbled into motion.

The killer’s breathing gradually steadied. He reviewed the events of the past few moments, going over each twist and turn with his brilliantly honed, logical mind. Methodically he searched his memory for errors or clues that he might have inadvertently left behind.

Eventually he was satisfied that the matter was under complete control.

He was still breathing a little too fast; still a bit light-headed. But he was pleased to note that his nerves had calmed. He raised his hands in front of his face. There was no light inside the cab, so he could not see his fingers clearly, but he was fairly certain that they no longer trembled.

In place of the frantic sensation he had experienced after the unanticipated attack, waves of giddy excitement were now sweeping through him.

He wanted-no, he
needed-to exult
in his great success. This time he would not go to the exclusive brothel he had used after he had killed George Lancaster and the other old man. He required a far more personal celebration, one that befitted his unfolding destiny.

He smiled in the darkness. He had anticipated the need to savor this thrilling achievement and had planned for it, just as he had planned all of the other aspects of the business.

He knew exactly how he would mark this bold triumph over his opponent.

18

The old man gazed into the crackling fire, one gouty foot propped on a stool, a glass of port in his gnarled fingers. Arthur waited, his arms resting on the gilded sides of his chair. The conversation with his companion had not gone smoothly. It was obvious that for Lord Dalling time had become a deep pool in which the currents of the past and the present were intermingled, rather than a river that ran in only one direction.

“How did ye happen to learn of my interest in old snuffboxes, sir?” Dalling asked, frowning in a befuddled manner. “Collect ‘em yourself, do ye?”

“No, sir,” Arthur said. “I visited several shops that specialize in selling fine snuffboxes and asked for the names of those clients the proprietors considered their most knowledgeable customers. Your name came up in several of the best establishments.”

There was no need to add that it had been considerably more complicated obtaining the old man’s current address. Dalling had not made any additions to his snuffbox collection in years, and the shopkeepers had lost track of his whereabouts.

In addition, the elderly gentleman had moved two years previously. Most of his contemporaries were either dead or suffering great gaps in their memories and could not remember the location of their old friend’s new lodgings. But fortunately one aging baron who still played cards every night at Arthur’s club had recalled Dalling’s new street and number.

They sat together in Dalling’s library. The furnishings and the books on the shelves dated from another era, as did their owner. It was as if the past thirty years had never happened, as if Byron had never written a word, as if Napoleon had not been defeated, as if men of science had not made astonishing strides investigating the mysteries of electricity and chemistry. Even his host’s tight breeches dated from another time and place.

The tall clock ticked heavily in the silence. Arthur wondered if his last question had sent his companion back into the murky depths of the pool of time, never to resurface.

But Dalling stirred at last. “A snuffbox set with a large red stone, you say?”

“Yes. With the name Saturn worked into the design.”

“Aye, I recall a box such as you describe. An acquaintance carried it for years. Quite a lovely little box. I recall once asking him where he had purchased it.”

Arthur did not move for fear of distracting the old man. “Did he tell you?”

“I believe he said that he and some companions had commissioned a jeweler to create three similar boxes, one for each of them.”

“Who was this gentleman? Do you remember his name?”

“Of course I remember it.” Dalling’s face tightened fiercely. “I’m not senile, sir.”

“My apologies. I never meant to imply that.”

Dalling appeared somewhat mollified. “Glentworth. That was the name of the man who owned the Saturn snuffbox.”

“Glentworth.” Arthur got to his feet. “Thank you, sir. I am very grateful for your assistance.”

“Heard he died recently. Not long ago. Within the past week, I believe.”

Hell’s teeth. Glentworth was dead? After all the effort it had taken to track him down?

“I didn’t attend the funeral,” Dalling continued. “Used to go to all of them, but there got to be too many, so I gave up the habit.”

Arthur tried to think of how to proceed. Everywhere he turned in this maze, he met with a blank wall.

The fire crumbled. Dalling took a jeweled snuffbox out of his pocket, flipped the lid open and helped himself to a pinch. He inhaled the pulverized tobacco with a quick, efficient little snort. Closing the box, he settled deeper into his chair with a heavy sigh of satisfaction. His heavy lids closed.

Arthur started toward the door. “Thank you for your time, sir.”

“Not at all.” Dalling did not open his eyes. He fingered his exquisite little snuffbox, turning it over and over in his hand.

Arthur had the door open and was about to step out into the hall when his host spoke again.

“Perhaps you should talk to the widow,” the old man said.

19

The costume ball was a crush. Lady Fambridge had displayed what Elenora had learned was her well-known flair for the dramatic in the decor she had chosen for the evening. The large, elegant room was lit with red and gold lanterns rather than blazing chandeliers. The dim illumination steeped the space in long, mysterious shadows.

A number of potted palms had been brought in from the conservatory. They had been strategically placed in clusters along the walls to provide secluded niches for couples.

Costume balls, Elenora had quickly discovered, were all about dalliance and flirtation. They provided opportunities for the jaded members of Society to play their favorite games of seduction and intrigue even more openly than was usual.

Arthur had admitted that morning at breakfast that when he had elected to accept the invitation, he had not realized the event would require a domino and a mask.

That was what came of leaving social decisions to a man, Elenora thought. They did not always pay attention to the details.

Margaret and Bennett both appeared to be enjoying themselves thoroughly, however. They had disappeared half an hour before. Elenora had a hunch that they were making good use of one of the palm-shrouded bowers scattered strategically around the room.

She, on the other hand, was making her way through the crowd toward the nearest door. She needed a rest.

For the last hour she had dutifully danced with any number of masked gentlemen, rarely bothering to hide her own features behind the little feathered mask she carried in one hand. The point was for her to be recognized, after all, as Margaret had reminded her.

She had carried out her responsibilities to the best of her ability, but now she was not only bored, her feet were also beginning to hurt inside her soft leather dancing slippers. A steady diet of balls and soirees took its toll, she thought.

She had almost reached the door when she noticed the man in the black domino making his way determinedly toward her. The cowl of the enveloping cloak-like garment had been drawn up over his head, casting his face into deep shadow. As he drew closer she saw that he wore a black silk mask.

He moved like a wolf gliding through a flock of sheep in search of the weakest lamb. For an instant her spirits rose and she forgot all about her sore feet. When he had left the house earlier that evening, Arthur had taken a black domino and a black mask with him. He had said he would meet her at the Fambridge ball and accompany her home.

She had not expected him to arrive so early, however. Perhaps he had met with success in his inquiries and wanted to discuss the new information with her. She took some comfort in the knowledge that, although he seemed intent on ignoring the attraction between them-at least for now-he had more or less made her a consultant in this affair.

The stranger in the domino arrived in front of her. Elenora’s excitement evaporated instantly. This was not Arthur. She was not certain how she knew that with such certainty before he even touched her, but she did know it.

It was not the man’s voice that gave him away-he did not speak. There was nothing odd about that. He was not the first gentleman that night to use gestures to invite her to dance. Voices were easy to identify, and several guests preferred to play their games anonymously. Nevertheless, she had recognized most of her partners, especially those with whom she had danced the waltz on previous occasions.

The waltz was a surprisingly intimate sort of exercise. No two men conducted it in quite the same manner. Some went about the business with military-style precision. A few steered her around the floor with such energetic enthusiasm that she felt as though she was engaging in a horse race. Still others took advantage of the close contact to try to rest their hands in places where propriety dictated they did not belong.

She hesitated when the man in the black domino offered his arm in a graceful flourish. He was not Arthur, and her feet really did hurt. But whoever he was, he had made a considerable effort to get to her in the crowd. The least she could do was dance with him, she thought. After all, she was being paid to perform a role.

The man in the mask took her arm. In the next breath, she regretted her decision. The touch of his long, elegant fingers sent an inexplicable chill through her.

She caught her breath and told herself that it must be her imagination. But her senses rejected that logic. There was an aura about the stranger that stirred her nerves in a most unpleasant manner.

‘When he guided her into the steps of the waltz, it was all she could do not to wrinkle her nose in reaction to the unwholesome odor that emanated from him. She could tell that he had recently perspired very heavily, but the smell of his sweat was not that which was produced by normal exertion. It was tainted with some essence that she could not identify; a vapor that filled her with disgust.

She studied the small portion of his face that was not covered by the mask. In the lantern light his eyes fairly glittered through the slits cut in the black silk.

Her first thought was that he was intoxicated, but she discarded that theory when she realized that he was not the least unsteady or lacking in coordination. Perhaps he had just won or lost a fortune in a game of whist or hazard. That might account for his air of unnatural excitement.

Tension tightened the muscles in her body. She wished with all her heart that she had not accepted the cowled man’s offer of a dance. But it was too late. Unless she wanted to cause a scene, she was trapped until the music ended.

She was positive that she had never danced the waltz with this man before tonight, but she wondered if she had met him at some other affair.

‘Are you enjoying the evening, sir?“ she asked, hoping that she could tempt him into speaking.

But he merely inclined his head in a silent, affirmative response.

The long fingers gripped her own so tightly that she could feel the outline of the ring he wore.

She felt his gloved hand tighten at her waist and almost stumbled in response. If he attempted to move his palm lower, she would end the dance immediately, she told herself She could not abide him touching her any more intimately.

She shifted her fingertips from his shoulder to his arm in an effort to put a little more distance between them. The movement caused her palm to glide across a long, jagged tear in the voluminous folds of the heavy black cloth of the domino. Perhaps the garment had got caught on the door of his carriage. Should she mention the rip in his cloak to him?

No, the less said between them the better. She did not want to make polite conversation, even if he proved willing to talk.

And then, without a word, the man in the mask brought her to a halt at the edge of the dance floor, bowed deeply, turned and strode swiftly toward the nearest door.

She watched him leave, slightly stunned by the strange episode and exceedingly relieved that it was over.

The folds of her own cloak-like domino suddenly felt much too warm. She needed that breath of fresh air now far more than she had a few minutes before.

Raising her mask to conceal her face, she managed to escape the shadowy ballroom without attracting any more attention. She went down a quiet hall and sought refuge in the Fambridges’ moonlit conservatory.