Page 7 of The Paid Companion

P erhaps it was the steady drizzle that made the mansion in Rain Street appear to loom on some other dark, metaphysical plane. Whatever the reason, there was an air not only of gloom but of neglect about the place, Elenora thought. It reminded her of the house where Lucinda kept watch over her dying employer, but on a far grander scale. It was as if something had expired inside the St. Merryn mansion a long time ago and the big house had begun to decay.

Elenora checked the card St. Merryn had given her to make certain that the hackney had brought her to the right address. Number Twelve Rain Street. There was no mistake.

The door of the hack opened. The driver handed her down and then unloaded the trunk that contained her personal possessions.

On the point of leaving her there in the street, he eyed the front door of the mansion with a dubious expression.

“Yer certain ye’ve come to the right place, ma’am?” he asked.

“Yes, thank you.” She smiled, grateful for his obvious concern. “Someone will be out to collect my trunk in a moment. There is no need for you to hang about.”

He shrugged. “If ye say so.”

He clambered back up onto the box and let out the reins. Elenora squelched her own serious misgivings as she watched the vehicle disappear down the street.

When the hackney was gone, she was conscious of being very alone in the mist-shrouded street.

Just as well, she told herself as she went briskly up the steps. Better that no one had witnessed St. Merryn’s new fiancée arriving in a hack. This way her sudden appearance in Society would be all the more intriguing and curious in the eyes of the Polite World. At the end of this business she would simply disappear in the same mysterious fashion.

A small thrill swept through her. She was about to become a woman of mystery, an actress. She had the oddest feeling that she had spent her whole life waiting in the wings, preparing to take the stage, and now the moment had arrived.

She had donned her favorite gown for this occasion, a deep, claret-red walking dress that Mrs. Egan had ordered for her from her own personal dressmaker. Pinned to the bodice was the elegant little watch that her former employer had given her as a parting gift.

“You’ll do just fine, my dear,” Mrs. Egan had declared with maternal satisfaction when she had given Elenora the watch. “You’ve got spirit and nerve and a kind heart. Nothing can keep you down for long.”

She reached the top step and banged the heavy brass knocker. The sound seemed to echo endlessly deep inside the big house.

For a moment she heard nothing. Then, just as she was starting to wonder if she had, indeed, made a mistake in the address, she caught the faint patter of footsteps on a tile floor.

The front door opened. A young, very harried-looking maid looked out at her.

“Yes, ma’am?”

Elenora considered how to proceed. St. Merryn had told her that he intended to maintain their charade in front of his servants. But she was well aware that the staff of any household generally paid considerably more attention to the doings of their employers than said employers realized. She had a hunch that even if the maid and the other servants had not already realized that there was no genuine fiancée, they had, at the very least, deduced that there was something distinctly amiss about the situation.

Nevertheless, there was no use going about this in a half-hearted manner, she decided. She was being paid to act, and she must do so as convincingly as possible. The maid, like those in the Polite World to whom she would soon be introduced, was part of her audience.

“You may inform your employer that Miss Elenora Lodge has arrived,” she instructed in a polite but authoritative tone. “I am expected. Oh, and please have one of the footmen fetch my trunk from the street before it is stolen.”

The maid managed a hasty little curtsy. “Yes, ma’am.” She stepped back to allow Elenora into the hall.

Elenora waited until the young woman had vanished through a doorway before allowing herself to breathe a small sigh of relief.

She turned slowly on her heel, taking stock of the front hall. It was just as bleak and forbidding as the outside of the house. Very little light penetrated through the high windows above the door. The heavily carved wooden panels darkened the interior still further. A number of classical statues and Etruscan-style vases occupied the shadowy niches around the room. The place had the musty, dusty air of a museum.

Curious, she stepped to the nearest marble pedestal and drew her gloved fingertip lightly across the surface. She frowned at the distinct line that appeared and brushed her hands together to get rid of the dirt that had accumulated on the tip of her glove. No one had cleaned thoroughly in here in quite some time.

Footsteps sounded in the hall, heavier than those of the maid. Elenora turned around.

She found herself gazing at the most astonishingly handsome man she had ever seen in her entire life. From his high, noble brow to his finely chiseled features, smoldering eyes and artlessly curled hair, he was a vision of masculine perfection.

If not for the fact that he wore a butler’s formal coat and trousers, he could have modeled for an artist seeking to paint a vision of a romantic poet in the style of Byron.

“I am Ibbitts, madam,” he said in a deep voice. “I apologize for any inconvenience you may have suffered. His lordship is waiting for you in the library. If you will follow me, I will announce you.”

A tiny warning bell clanged somewhere in her mind. There was nothing objectionable about his words, she thought, but she was convinced that there was a thinly veiled disdain buried in them. Perhaps it was her imagination.

“Thank you, Ibbitts.”

She handed him her bonnet. He immediately turned to set it on a dusty marble-topped table.

“Never mind,” she said quickly, snatching the hat out of his hand before he could put it on the grimy table. “I’ll keep it with me. About my trunk. I do not want it left out there in the street.”

“I very much doubt that anyone would steal your trunk, madam.” Ibbitts could not have made it plainer if he had tried that he was certain her trunk contained nothing of value.

She had had enough of his polite sarcasm. “Send a footman for it now, Ibbitts.”

Ibbitts blinked owlishly, as though confused by the unsubtle reprimand. “Any thief with a bit of common sense knows better than to steal from this household.”

“That is only somewhat reassuring, Ibbitts. I fear that there are a great number of thieves who lack common sense.”

Ibbitts’s expression tightened. Without a word, he reached out and yanked hard on a velvet bell pull.

A tall, thin, gangly-looking young man of about eighteen or nineteen years appeared. He had red hair and blue eyes. His pale skin was sprinkled with freckles. He had a nervous, rabbity air.

“Ned, fetch Miss Lodge’s trunk and take it upstairs to the bedchamber Sally prepared this morning.”

“Aye, Mr. Ibbitts.” Ned scurried out the front door.

Ibbitts turned back to Elenora. He did not actually say, there, are you satisfied now? But she was certain he was thinking the words.

“If you will come with me,” Ibbitts said instead. “His lordship does not like to be kept waiting.”

Without waiting for a response, Ibbitts led the way along a dimly lit hall toward the back of the big house.

At the far end of the corridor he ushered her into a long room paneled in heavy, dark wood. She was relieved to see that the windows in the library were not covered by heavy curtains as they were at the front of the house. Instead, the thick, brown velvet drapes had been tied back to frame the view of a wild, chaotically overgrown, rain-drenched garden.

The library was furnished with a murky carpet badly in need of cleaning and several items of substantial furniture in a style that had been out of fashion for several years. The high, shadowy ceiling had been painted with a dreary scene of a twilight sky at some point in the distant past. Bookshelves lined most of the walls. The leather-bound volumes were old and dusty.

A narrow, circular staircase studded with wrought iron balusters twisted upward to a balcony that was lined with more bookshelves.

“Miss Lodge, my lord.” Ibbitts made his announcement as though he was reading Elenora’s name from an obituary notice.

“Thank you, Ibbitts.” At the far end of the room, near the window facing the unkempt garden, Arthur rose from behind a heavily carved desk.

Silhouetted against the poor light his hard face was unreadable. He came around the front of the desk and walked toward her down the length of the room.

“Welcome to your future home, my dear,” he said.

It dawned on her that he was playing his part in front of the butler. She must do the same.

“Thank you. It is so good to see you again, sir.” She made her best curtsy.

Ibbitts backed out of the room and closed the door.

The instant the butler disappeared, Arthur halted midway down the room and glanced at the clock. “What the devil took you so long? I thought you would be here an hour ago.”

So much for his role of gallant fiancé, Elenora thought. Evidently her new employer did not intend to maintain the charade when they were private.

“I apologize for the delay,” she said calmly. “The rain made the traffic quite difficult.”

Before he could respond, a woman spoke from the balcony overhead.

“Arthur, please introduce me,” she called down in a warm, soft-spoken voice.

Elenora looked up and saw a tiny bird of a woman who appeared to be in her mid thirties. She had delicate features and bright hazel eyes. Her hair, dressed in a simple chignon, was the color of dark honey. Her gown appeared to be relatively new and made of expensive fabric, but it was not in the latest style.

“Allow me to present Margaret Lancaster,” Arthur said. “She is the relative I mentioned, the one who will be staying here while I conduct my business affairs. She will go about with you and lend her services as a chaperone so that your reputation will not suffer while you are in this household.”

“Mrs. Lancaster.” Elenora dropped another curtsy.

“You must call me Margaret. After all, as far as the world is concerned, you will soon be a member of the family.” Margaret started down the circular staircase “My, this is going to be so exciting. I am quite looking forward to the adventure.”

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 soirées 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.

A rthur 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.”