The Paid Companion (7 page)

Arthur went back to his desk and sat down. He looked at Elenora and Margaret in turn.

“As I have explained, I want the pair of you to do whatever is necessary to distract the attentions of Society so that I can conduct my business affairs with the greatest degree of privacy possible.”

“Yes, of course,” Elenora murmured.

“You will make arrangements immediately to attend the most important and most fashionable balls and soirees so that everyone in Society will see that I really do have a fiancée.”

“I understand,” Elenora said.

He looked at Margaret. “As Elenora’s chaperone and female guide, you will deal with the details involved in making certain that she creates an immediate and convincing impression on the Polite World.”

“Yes, Arthur.” Margaret’s expression seemed somewhat strained.

“She will need suitable gowns, hats, gloves and all the fripperies that go with them,” Arthur continued. “Everything must be in the most current mode, of course, and purchased from the right shops. You know how critical fashion is in Society.”

There was a short pause during which Margaret seemed to collect herself

“Yes, Arthur,” she said again. This time her smile was decidedly shaky.

Elenora glanced at her in surprise, wondering what was amiss.

Arthur, however, did not seem to be aware that anything was wrong.

“Very, well, I think that is all for now,” he said, reaching for a leather-bound journal and a pen. “You may both go. I’m sure you have a number of things to do to prepare yourselves. Let me know if you have any questions.”

Elenora wondered if he realized that he was dismissing them as if they were members of his staff. Of course, she reminded herself, in her case that was the simple truth.

Margaret’s relationship to him was a different matter entirely, but to Elenora’s astonishment, the other woman did not appear to be offended. In fact she seemed suddenly desperate to escape the library.

Elenora thought about her reaction of a moment before, when Arthur had casually informed her that she would be responsible for all matters of fashion and style.

She was fairly certain that what she had glimpsed in Margaret’s eyes was an expression of glazed horror.

***

Arthur waited until the door closed behind the two women. Then he put aside the journal and got to his feet. He went to stand at the window facing out into the garden.

He knew that Elenora suspected that he had not told her everything. She was right. But he considered it best that she did not know the full truth. There was no need to tell Margaret, either. Both women would find it easier to act their parts if they did not know what had really prompted him to write the play in which they were performing.

He remained there in front of the window for a long time, staring out into the misty garden and thinking about how much he disliked this house.

His grandfather had brought him here to live shortly after his parents had died in an inn fire. He had been six years of age at the time. He had not known his grandfather until then because he had never met him. The old earl had been furious with his son for making a runaway marriage. Arthur’s mother had been a young lady possessed of neither fortune nor social connections. The old man had refused to receive her or his grandson.

His grandfather had certainly known how to hold a grudge, Arthur thought.

But the shock of losing his son in the fire had forced the old man to realize that Arthur was the only heir that he was going to get. He had brought his grandson back to the big, gloomy house in Rain Street, and then he had dedicated himself to the task of ensuring that Arthur did not follow in what he saw as his son’s romantic, irresponsible footsteps.

He had learned his lessons well, Arthur thought. His grandfather had drilled his obligations and responsibilities into him from that very first day. Ten years later, when he had lain on his deathbed, the old man had still been at his self-appointed task. His last words to Arthur had been, “Remember, you are the head of the family. It is your duty to take care of the rest of them.”

The only bright spots during the decade he had spent with his grandfather had occurred during frequent extended visits to the home of Arthur’s eccentric great-uncle, George Lancaster.

It was Uncle George who had provided the positive, supportive influence that had enabled him to weather the old earl’s bleak and rigid temperament, Arthur thought. Unlike the others in his vast and far-flung family, George Lancaster had not expected anything more of him than that he be what he was, a growing boy with a boy’s hopes and dreams and curiosity.

It had been George, not his grandfather, whom Arthur had come to love in the way that he had once loved his father.

Now George Lancaster was gone, murdered less than two months before.

“I will avenge you,” Arthur vowed quietly. “On my oath, the murderer will pay.”

6

The maid, Sally, had just finished unpacking Elenora’s trunk when there was a soft knock on the door of the bedchamber.

Sally opened the door to reveal an anxious-looking Margaret standing in the hail.

“I wonder if I might speak to you, Elenora?” Margaret glanced to either side, evidently assuring herself that the corridor was empty. “It is somewhat urgent.”

“Yes, of course. Come in.” Elenora smiled at Sally. “That will be all for now. Thank you.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Sally hurried out of the room, closing the door behind her.

Elenora looked at Margaret. “What is the problem? I could see that something made you quite anxious downstairs in the library.”

“Anxious is a mild word.” Margaret flung herself into a chair. “Stricken with panic would be a more accurate way to put it.”

“And why is that?”

Margaret rolled her eyes. “Because I am here under false pretenses, of course.”

Elenora was amused. “So am I, when you consider the matter.”

“Yes, well, in your case that is not a problem. Arthur hired you from that agency.” Margaret waved a hand. “He interviewed you. He knows precisely what he has got in you, and he has written your part with that in mind. But my situation is quite different, and when he discovers that I am not at all what he believes me to be, he will be furious.”

Curious now, Elenora sank down slowly on the side of the bed and studied Margaret. “Would you care to explain?”

“I suppose I should begin at the beginning. A fortnight ago Arthur came to see me. He explained his plan to present a false fiancée to Society and asked if I would agree to act as a chaperone. I told him that I would be happy to assist him in his scheme.”

“That was very kind of you.”

“Kind? Bah. I leaped at the chance. This is the first opportunity that I have had to come to London since my Season fourteen years ago.”

“I see.”

Margaret grimaced. “My husband was a middle-aged man when I married him. He suffered from gout and he detested travel of any sort. During our time together I was unable to do anything more than make occasional visits to my mother and my aunt. Do you have any idea of what it is like to be trapped in a tiny village for fourteen years?”

“Well, yes, as a matter of fact I do.”

“Oh.” Margaret winced. “Sorry. I did not mean to carry on that way. The thing is, I am a writer.”

“Really? How exciting.” Elenora was entranced. “Have you been published?”

Margaret smiled. “Yes, as a matter of fact. I write for the Minerva Press. I use the name Margaret Mallory because I am quite certain that my prickly Lancaster relatives would not approve of having a writer of novels in the family.”

“This is wonderful. I have read two of your books,
The Secret

Wedding
and
The Proposal. I
adored both of them.“

“Thank you.” Margaret blushed. “Very kind of you to say so.”

“It is the truth. I am a great fan of your work, Miss Mallory. I mean, Mrs. Lancaster.”

“Please, you must call me Margaret.”

Elenora hesitated. “You say your identity is a secret from everyone in the family? Including his lordship?”

“Arthur is the very
last
person I would wish to have discover the truth.” Margaret made a face. “He is a man of many exceptional qualities when it comes to investments and such, but I fear that he takes his role as head of the family far too seriously. His grandfather’s influence, no doubt.”

Elenora thought about the fierce self-control she had perceived in the earl’s enigmatic eyes. “Yes, I can see that there is a certain sternness in his nature.”

“Not to put too fine a point on it, Arthur can be inflexible, autocratic and downright dictatorial. Furthermore, he does not approve of the current fashion for novel reading, and I shudder to think of how he would respond if he discovered that I actually wrote such books. At the very least, he would never have asked me to come to London to chaperone you. Promise me that you will not reveal my secret.”

“I promise.”

“Thank you. Now then, as I was about to explain, I have been having trouble with several parts of my latest manuscript. They all involve scenes at fashionable parties and meetings with highflyers in Society. But I cannot write those bits with any conviction because I know almost nothing about life in Polite Circles.”

“I thought you said you had a Season?”

“It lasted less than a fortnight because Harold made his offer almost immediately after he met me. In any event, that was fourteen years ago, so I am very much out of touch.”

“I think I begin to understand your dilemma.”

Margaret sat forward. “When Arthur asked me to help him with his scheme I thought it would be the perfect opportunity to come to London to observe and record details of the Social World. So naturally I told him that I would be delighted.” She threw up her hands in despair. “But that was before I realized that he also expected me to deal with the gowns and all of the rest of what it takes to go into Society.”

“Ah.”

“I am very sorry, Elenora, but I do not have any notion of how to go about locating the most fashionable dressmaker or milliner or glove maker. I feel I should confess to Arthur, but if I do he will surely send me home and find someone else to act as your chaperone.”

“Hmm.”

Margaret gave her an expectant look. “What are you thinking?” Elenora smiled. “I am thinking that there is no reason to bother Arthur with these pesky problems. I’m sure we can handle them without too much trouble.” She thought about the pile of cards she’d spotted heaped on the tarnished salver on the hail table. “Arthur’s title and position will ensure that we have any number of invitations. All we really need is the name of a skilled dressmaker. She will be able to guide us to all the most fashionable shops.”

“How do you propose to find the right dressmaker?”

Elenora chuckled. “My former employer was somewhat unusual when it came to her taste in clothing. She preferred to wear only garments made of purple fabric.”

“How odd.”

“Perhaps. But Mrs. Egan is nothing if not a lady of fashion. I can assure you that every single one of her purple gowns was created by a most exclusive dressmaker, one with whom I am well acquainted because I accompanied my employer on several trips to her shop.”

“But she will surely recognize you.”

“I do not think that need concern us,” Elenora said. “During my time with Mrs. Egan I learned that good dressmakers rise to the heights of their profession not just through skill but also because they have a talent for discretion when it comes to the affairs of their most important clients.”

Margaret’s eyes sparkled. “And as the future bride of the Earl of St. Merryn, you certainly qualify as a very important client.”

7

Ibbitts stood in the darkness of the linen closet and considered closely the conversation he had overheard earlier.

It was quite by accident that he had discovered the small hole in the hidden wall panel that made it possible for someone inside the closet to eavesdrop on conversations in the library. He suspected that the secret opening had been cut many years before, by a clever servant who’d had the good sense to keep track of his employers’ business.

One thing was certain, Ibbitts thought. He had been right about Miss Lodge. He had known from that very first moment when he had caught her examining the dusty table in the hail that there was something strange about her. True, she had smiled at him, the way women always did, but he had not detected the telltale flash of lust in her eyes. Not even a glimmer of sensual interest.

She had admired him the way one might admire an attractive painting or work of art; with appreciation but nothing more.

It was most unusual and somewhat disturbing. His face was his fortune, as his mother had predicted, and people, especially women, always responded to his fine looks.

He had been aware straight from the cradle that his handsome features were a great asset. Even as a young boy, he’d understood that people regarded him in a way that was markedly different than the manner in which they viewed his brothers and sisters and the other children in his village.

His face had made it easy for him to obtain that first, fateful post in the household of the fat, aging baron who had lived just outside of the village. The old man had recently married a lady several decades younger than himself It transpired that his lordship’s new bride was very pretty and very bored. She had been delighted with Ibbitts; dressing him in handsome livery and insisting that he wait upon her at every meal.

The first night that she had invited him into her bed he had quickly understood that he possessed another great asset in addition to his face. In that moment when he had knelt behind her plump, soft buttocks, burrowing deep into her snug heat, he had glimpsed a vision of the bright, successful future that awaited him.

It had dawned on him that fateful evening that the world was likely well-populated with rich, attractive young wives who, for reasons of money and social connections, had been married off to fat, old men. He had concluded that London would afford him the best career opportunities.

He had been correct. When the aged baron had died in his sleep a few months later, his widow had wasted no time moving her entire household to town. She had taken Ibbitts with her, promoting him to the rank of butler. He had remained in her employ for more than a year before growing weary of her unceasing demands.