The Paid Companion (9 page)

Ned reddened and started to stammer. “Beggin‘ yer pardon, ma’am, but it hasn’t been used in all the time that I’ve been working here.”

“I see.” She possessed herself in patience. “In that case, where will I find breakfast this morning?”

“In the dining room, ma’am.”

“Very well. Thank you, Ned.”

She went down another passage and walked into the dining room. She was somewhat surprised to see Arthur seated at the end of the very long table.

He glanced up from the newspaper that was open in front of him, frowning slightly as though he did not quite know what to make of her there at that hour.

“Elenora.” He rose to his feet. “Good day to you.”

“Good day to you, sir.”

The door that led to the pantry swung open. Sally appeared looking even more frazzled and anxious than she had the day before. Her forehead glistened with perspiration. Long tendrils of hair had escaped her yellowed cap. She stared at Elenora and wiped her hands on a badly stained apron.

“Ma’am,” she said, making an awkward curtsy. “Didn’t know you would be coming down for breakfast.”

“I noticed,” Elenora said. She nodded meaningfully toward the long table.

The maid rushed to the sideboard and yanked open a drawer.

‘While the girl set a second place, Elenora crossed the room to examine the dishes that had been provided.

The situation in the kitchen had not improved since the night before. The eggs had congealed. The sausages were an unappetizing color and the potatoes reeked of old grease.

In desperation she selected a couple of slices of limp toast and poured herself a cup of lukewarm coffee.

‘When she turned back to the table, she saw that Sally had set the second place at the opposite end of the table from where Arthur sat.

She waited until the girl had left the room before picking up the napkin and silver. She moved the place setting up the table to a position on Arthur’s right, where she sat down with her limp toast and coffee.

There was a moment of awkward silence.

“I trust you slept well last night,” Arthur said eventually.

“Very well, indeed, my lord.” She sampled the coffee. It was not only very cold, it was dreadful. She set the cup down. “Do you mind if I ask if your household staff has been with you for a long time?”

He looked mildly surprised by the question. “Never saw any of them before in my life until I arrived a few days ago.”

“You don’t know any of them?”

He turned the page of his newspaper. “I spend as little time as possible here. In fact, I haven’t used the place at all in the past year. On the rare occasions when I come to London, I prefer to stay at my club.”

“I see.” His lack of interest in the mansion certainly explained a few things, she thought. “Who oversees the servants?”

“My grandfather’s elderly man-of-business takes care of all matters concerning this household. I inherited him together with the mansion, and managing the place is his only remaining task. I do not use him for any other business.” He picked up his cup. “Why do you ask?”

“There are a few housekeeping details that require attention.”

He tasted his coffee and winced. “Yes, I noticed. But I do not have time to deal with them.”

“Of course not,” she said. “I, however, do have some time. Do you have any objection to my making one or two changes in the management of your home?”

“I do not consider it my home.” He shrugged and lowered his cup. “In fact, I am thinking of selling it. But please feel free to make any changes you like while you are here.”

She nibbled at the drooping toast. “I can certainly understand why you would wish to sell. This is a large and expensive residence to maintain.”

“The cost has nothing to do with it.” His eyes hardened. “I simply dislike the place. When I marry, I will require a house in town for occasional use, but I will purchase another residence for that purpose.”

For some reason his comment caused her to lose what little interest she’d had in the toast. Naturally he was contemplating a real marriage, she thought. Why had mention of it depressed her spirits? He had a duty to the title and his family. Furthermore, when he did get around to selecting his countess, he would do what other men in his situation did: He would look for a sheltered young lady just out of the schoolroom, the sort of female he had deemed too delicate and too innocent to be employed as a make-believe fiancée.

St. Merryn’s bride-his real bride-would be a lady with a pristine reputation; one whose family was unsullied by scandal or a connection to trade. She would bring him lands and a fortune, even though he had no need of either, because that was how things were done in his world.

It was time to change the subject, she decided. “Is there any news of interest in the papers?”

“Just the customary gossip and scandal broth.” Disdain ran deep in his voice. “Nothing of importance. What do you have on your schedule for today?”

“Margaret and I plan to go shopping.”

He nodded. “Excellent. I want you to make your appearance in Society as quickly as possible.”

“We should be ready to attend our first party tomorrow evening,” she assured him.

Ibbitts entered the dining room carrying the badly tarnished salver from the front hail. The tray was heaped with a pile of cards and notes.

Arthur looked up. “What have you got there?”

“Another batch of calling cards and an assortment of invitations, m’lord,” Ibbitts said. “What do you wish me to do with them?”

“I will deal with them in the library.”

“Yes, m’lord.”

Arthur crumpled his napkin and got to his feet.

“You will excuse me, my dear,” he said. “I must be off. Later today I will let you have the list of social affairs that you are to attend this week.”

“Yes, Arthur,” she murmured in her most dutiful tones. She would not take his my
dear
seriously, she told herself. The endearment was solely for Ibbitts’s benefit.

To her astonishment, he leaned down and kissed her; not on her cheek but directly on her mouth. It was a very brief, very possessive kiss; the sort of kiss a man bestowed upon a real fiancée.

Who would have guessed that Arthur was such an excellent actor? she mused, a bit dazed.

She was so rattled by the unexpected display of fraudulent affection that she could not speak for a moment. By the time she recovered, Arthur had left the dining room. She heard the muffled ring of the heels of his elegantly polished Hessians out in the hail.

“Will there be anything else, madam?” Ibbitts asked in a tone that suggested strongly that there could not possibly be anything of the sort.

“As a matter of fact, there is something else.” Elenora dropped her napkin on the table. “Please bring me the household accounts for the past two quarters.”

Ibbitts stared, uncomprehending, for several seconds. Then his cheeks turned a dull red. His mouth worked a few times before he managed to speak.

“I beg your pardon, madam?”

“I think that I made myself quite clear, Ibbitts.”

“The old earl’s man-of-affairs keeps the household accounts, ma’am. I do not have them. I merely keep a tally of the expenses and give the information to Mr. Ormesby.”

“I see. In that case, perhaps you can answer some questions for me.”

“What questions, ma’am?” Ibbitts asked warily.

“Where is the cook?”

“She quit her post a few months ago, ma’am. Haven’t been able to replace her. But Sally seems to be working out well in the kitchen.”

“Sally is, indeed, working very hard, but she is not cut out to be a cook.”

“I hope to hire a new cook from an agency soon,” Ibbitts muttered.

“Do you, indeed?” Elenora got to her feet and started toward the kitchen door.

“Where are you going, ma’am?” Ibbitts demanded.

“To consult with Sally about kitchen matters. Meanwhile, I suggest that you direct your efforts toward securing a new cook and another maid. Oh, yes, and we will require a couple of gardeners as well.”

Ibbitts’s eyes darkened with anger but he said nothing. Elenora felt a cold chill between her shoulder blades when she turned her back on him to enter the kitchen.

10

The killer made another adjustment to the heavy iron-and-brass machine and stood back to examine his handiwork.

He was so close. He had solved the last great mystery in the ancient lapidary, the one his predecessor had failed to unravel. One or two final adjustments and the device would be complete. Soon the mighty power of Jove’s Thunderbolt would be his to command.

A feverish elation flashed through him, as hot and cleansing as an alchemist’s fire. His whole being thrilled to the prospect of success.

He glanced at his watch. It was nearly dawn. He walked through the laboratory, turning down the lamps. Then he picked up the lantern and entered the crypt.

He had learned that there were two secret entrances to the laboratory. The iron cage that descended from the ancient abbey overhead was useful, but he did not like to employ it frequently because he was concerned, as his predecessor had been, that oft repeated use would invite the curiosity of those who lived nearby.

True, most people in the vicinity feared the abbey, believing it to be haunted. But some bold person might be tempted to overcome his dread if he happened to notice a fashionably dressed gentleman coming and going from the chapel every night. Therefore the killer reserved the iron cage for those occasions when he was in a hurry.

The lost river was the safer if more tedious route for his regular nightly trips to the laboratory.

At the rear of the crypt, water lapped at the secret underground dock. He got into one of the small, shallow-bottomed boats he kept there. Balancing carefully, he set the lantern on the bow and picked up the pole.

A firm shove sent the little boat into the current of the long lost river. The vessel floated gently in the dark, foul-smelling water. The killer was obliged to crouch now and again to avoid the ancient stone footbridges that arched overhead.

It was an eerie, unsettling journey. Although he had made the trip many times now, he did not think that he would ever become accustomed to the oppressive darkness and the foul odor. But he took a thrilling comfort in the knowledge that his predecessor had come and gone to the secret laboratory countless times along this strange route. It was all a part of his great destiny, he thought.

One of the ancient relics that littered the riverbanks came into view. The lantern light danced across a marble relief partially submerged in the mud. It depicted the scene of a strange god wearing an odd cap. The figure was shown in the act of slaying a great bull.
Mithras,
according to the remarks in his predecessor’s journal, the mysterious lord of a Roman cult that had once flourished in these parts.

The killer averted his gaze the way he had learned to do whenever he came upon one of the old statues. The accusing stares in those sightless eyes always made him uneasy. It was as if the old gods could see that place inside him where the strange energy that fueled his genius seethed and simmered; as if they understood that it was not entirely under his control.

11

The following day, shortly after ten o’clock in the evening, Elenora stood with Margaret and Bennett Fleming in the shelter of a cluster of potted palms.

“The first dance is critical,” Bennett explained, assessing the crowd with the wise air. “We must make sure that it is with the right gentleman.”

Elenora peered through the palm fronds. The chamber was ablaze with lights from the pendulous chandeliers. Mirrors lined one entire wall, reflecting the glow of the dazzling scene.

Brilliantly gowned ladies and gentlemen dressed in the height of fashion laughed and gossiped. Elegant couples floated across the dance floor. Music poured down from the balcony where the musicians were ensconced. A small army of servants in blue livery made their way through the throng carrying trays of champagne and lemonade.

“I do not see why I cannot dance with you first,” Elenora said to Bennett.

She had decided immediately upon meeting Bennett Fleming that she liked him very much. One look at his sturdy frame and earnest eyes and she had understood why Arthur trusted him. Bennett Fleming gave the impression of being one of those rare, good-hearted, steadfast people that one knew one could rely upon in a crisis.

“No, no, no, that will never do,” Bennett assured her. “Whoever goes first will set a certain standard, you see. ‘Whoever he is, he has the power to make you instantly fashionable.”

Margaret regarded him with open admiration. “How do you know such things, sir?”

Bennett turned a dull red. “My late wife was a lady who enjoyed the pleasures of the Polite World. One learns things when one is married to an expert.”

“Yes, of course,” Margaret murmured. She reached into her reticule and took out a small pad of paper and a tiny pencil.

Bennett frowned. “What are you doing?”

“Making notes,” Margaret said airily.

“Whatever for?”

“My journal.”

Elenora swallowed a laugh. She wondered what Bennett would say if he knew that Margaret was doing research for her new novel.

“I see.” Bennett’s brows came together in a narrow-eyed expression. He took a swallow of champagne and assumed the air of a man preparing to go into battle. “As I was saying, the question of which gentleman should be allowed the privilege of being the first is extremely important.”

“Hmm,” Elenora murmured. “The process of selection sounds very similar to that of choosing one’s first lover.”

Bennett coughed on his champagne.

“Like the process of choosing a lover,” Margaret repeated to herself, scribbling furiously on her notepad. “Yes, I like that turn of phrase. Makes it all sound quite intriguing, does it not?”

Bennett stared at her. “I cannot believe you wrote that down for your journal.”

“It will make for interesting reading later, don’t you think?” Margaret gave him a bright smile and dropped the notepad into her reticule.

Bennett evidently decided not to respond to that question. Instead he turned his attention back to the dance floor. Quite suddenly he brightened with obvious relief.