The Paid Companion

by Amanda Quick

  Elenora lowered the toast. “What was it?”

  “The name of the man who may have been Saturn. Evidently he died a few days ago. I intend to pay a call on his widow this morning.”

  “That is very exciting news,” Elenora said, too elated by the clue to chastise him for having neglected to mention it earlier. “You must take me with you.”

  He cocked a brow. “Why is that?”

  “A bereaved widow may be hesitant to talk about private matters with a gentleman she does not know. Having another woman present will make her feel more comfortable.”

  Arthur pondered that for a moment. “You may be right. Very well, we shall leave at eleven-thirty.”

  Elenora relaxed slightly. Whatever else had changed between them, one thing had not been altered. Arthur was still treating her as a partner in this affair, one whose advice he valued. She would cling to that knowledge.

  Margaret beamed. “On another topic, Arthur just told me that he knows that I write novels. Is that not astonishing? And to think that I was afraid that he would send me back to the country if he discovered the truth.”

  Elenora met Arthur’s eyes across the table. She smiled. There was very little that would escape his notice when it came to those for whom he felt responsible.

  “Somehow, I am not at all surprised to find out that he has been aware of your career all along, Margaret.”

  Forty minutes later, she opened the door of her bedchamber and surveyed the hall. It was empty. She had heard Arthur return to his room a few minutes before, to dress for the visit to Glentworth’s widow. Margaret was hard at work on her manuscript, as usual at this hour.

  That meant that there would be no one in the library.

  She stepped out into the corridor and went quickly toward the linen closet. Her slippered feet made no sound on the carpet.

  When she reached the closet, she glanced back along the hall one last time to make certain there was no one about to observe her actions. Then she let herself into the small, dark room and shut the door.

  By touch she found the lever that opened the hidden panel and pulled it cautiously.

  The bookcase slid back. She moved out onto the balcony and looked down to be sure that none of the servants had decided to dust the library at that moment. But as she had anticipated, she had the long chamber to herself.

  Scooping up the skirts of her gown, she went swiftly down the spiral staircase and crossed the room to where she and Arthur had made love.

  She searched the area anxiously, but there was no sign of her blue garter. It had to be here somewhere, she thought.

  Last night she had not noticed it was missing until after Margaret had left. When she had realized that her left stocking was rolled down to her ankle she had assumed that the garter had come undone in the rush of getting out of her gown and into her wrapper. She had made a note to look for the missing item this morning in the daylight.

  But a thorough search of her room a few minutes ago had not produced the garter. That was when she had realized that it had likely been lost in the library. A vision of Bennett Fleming having seen it and come to the obvious conclusion had induced a fit of near hysteria.

  It was one thing to be a woman of the world, a lady of mystery and experience. It was quite another to have a very nice, very proper gentleman like Bennett Fleming discover one’s garter in a place where it had no business being found.

  She allowed herself a sigh of relief when she saw that the blue garter was not anywhere in plain sight on the carpet. That meant that Bennet had probably not seen it the night before. Unfortunately, it did not rule out the possibility that one of the servants had come across it that morning.

  She got down on her hands and knees to search under the sofa.

  “Looking for this?” Arthur asked from somewhere above.

  The sound of his voice gave her such a start that she rose too quickly. She narrowly avoided banging her head on the edge of a table.

  She steadied herself and raised her eyes to the balcony where Arthur leaned casually on the railing. The blue garter dangled from the fingers of his right hand. He must have noticed her sneaking into the linen closet and followed her, she decided.

  Irritated, she got to her feet.

  “As a matter of fact,” she said, careful to keep her voice very low, “I was looking for it. You must have known that I would be concerned about where it was lost. You could have said something earlier and saved me a good deal of anxiety.”

  “Don’t worry, I recovered it last night before Fleming noticed it.” Arthur tossed the garter negligently into the air and caught it just as easily. “He never guessed that you had had your wicked way with me only moments before he arrived.”

  She made a face, gathered her skirts in both hands and started up the stairs. “Allow me to tell you, sir, that, on occasion, your sense of humor is decidedly skewed.”

  “There are those who would tell you that I have no sense of humor at all, skewed or otherwise.”

  “One can certainly understand how those persons arrived at that conclusion.” She came to a halt at the top of the staircase and held out her hand for the garter. “May I have that?”

  “I think not.” He dropped the garter into his pocket. “I’ve decided to start a collection.”

  She stared at him. “You cannot be serious.”

  “Buy another set of garters and have the bill sent to me,” Arthur said.

  He kissed her on the mouth before she could scold him. When he finally raised his head, she was breathless.

  “On second thought, you had better buy several sets of garters.” He smiled with deep satisfaction. “I intend to create an extensive collection.”

  26

  We buried my husband a few days ago.” Mrs. Glentworth looked up at the portrait that hung over the fireplace. “It was quite sudden. There was an accident in his laboratory. The electricity machine, you know. There must have been a terrible shock. It stopped his heart.”

  “Please accept our condolences on your loss, Mrs. Glentworth,” Elenora said gently.

  Mrs. Glentworth gave a perfunctory nod. She was a frail, bony woman with sparse gray hair tucked up under an old cap. The cloak of genteel poverty and stoic resignation hung heavily around her thin shoulders.

  “I warned him about that machine.” Her fingers clenched around the handkerchief she held, and her jaw jerked as though she was grinding her back teeth. “But he would not listen. He was forever conducting experiments with it.”

  Elenora glanced at Arthur, who was standing near the window, a full cup of tea in one hand. His face was a cool mask that did little to conceal his watchful expression. She was quite certain that he was thinking precisely the same thing that she was thinking. In light of recent events, the fatal accident in Glentworth’s laboratory appeared to be more than a mere coincidence.

  But if Mrs. Glentworth suspected that her husband had been murdered, she gave no sign of it. Perhaps she did not particularly care, Elenora thought. The shabby parlor was filled with the gloom appropriate to a mourning household, but the widow herself appeared tense and rather desperate, not sad. Elenora could have sworn that, beneath their hostess’s proper words and civil manner, a simmering anger burned.

  Mrs. Glentworth had received them willingly enough, suitably awed by Arthur’s name and title. But she was obviously bewildered.

  “Were you aware that my great-uncle, George Lancaster, was killed by a burglar in his laboratory a few weeks ago?” Arthur asked.

  Mrs. Glentworth frowned. “No, I did not know that.”

  “Did you know that your husband and Lancaster were great friends in their younger days?” Elenora added quietly.

  “Of course.” Mrs. Glentworth squeezed the handkerchief. “I am very well aware of how close the three of them were.”

  Elenora sensed Arthur going very still. She did not dare to look at him.

  “Did you say three of them, Mrs. Glentworth?” Elenora asked in what she hoped was a
mildly curious fashion.

  “They were thick as thieves for a time. Met at Cambridge, you know. But all they cared about was science, not money. Indeed, they devoted themselves to their laboratories and ridiculous experiments.”

  “Mrs. Glentworth,” Elenora began cautiously. “I wonder if—”

  “I vow, I sometimes wished that my husband had been a highwayman or a footpad.” A tremor shook Mrs. Glentworth. Then, as though a dam had crumbled somewhere inside her, the pent-up anguish and anger poured forth. “Perhaps then there would have been some money left. But, no, he was obsessed with natural philosophy. He spent almost every last penny on his laboratory apparatus.”

  “What sort of experiments did your husband conduct?” Arthur asked.

  But the woman did not appear to have heard the question. Her rage was in full flood. “Glentworth had a respectable income when we married. My parents would never have allowed me to wed him if that had not been the case. But the fool never invested the money. He spent it without thought for me or our daughters. He was worse than a confirmed gambler, always claiming that he needed the newest microscope or another burning lens.”

  Arthur tried to intervene to redirect the conversation. “Mrs. Glentworth, you mentioned that your husband had a third friend . . .”

  “Look around you.” Mrs. Glentworth waved the hand in which she held the handkerchief. “What do you see of value? Nothing. Nothing at all. Over the years he sold the silver and the paintings to raise money to purchase items for his laboratory. In the end, he even sold his precious snuffbox. I thought he’d never part with it. He told me he wanted to be buried with it.”

  Elenora took a closer look at the portrait above the mantel. It showed a portly, balding gentleman dressed in old-fashioned breeches and coat. He held a snuffbox in one hand. The lid of the case was set with a large, red, faceted stone.

  She glanced at Arthur and saw that he was studying the portrait too.

  “He sold the snuffbox that he carries in that portrait?” Arthur asked.

  Mrs. Glentworth sniffed into the handkerchief. “Yes.”

  “Do you know who bought it from him?”

  “No. I expect my husband took it to one of the pawnshops. Probably got very little for it, too.” Mrs. Glentworth’s jaw trembled with outrage. “Not that I saw any of the money, mind you. He never even bothered to tell me that he had sold it.”

  Arthur looked at her. “Do you happen to know when he pawned it?”

  “No. It must have been shortly before he managed to kill himself with that electricity machine.” Mrs. Glentworth used the mangled handkerchief to blot up a stray tear or two. “Perhaps that very day. I seem to recall that he had it at breakfast that morning. He left the house to take his exercise and was gone for some time. That was no doubt when he went to find a dealer.”

  “When did you notice that the snuffbox was gone?” Elenora asked.

  “Not until that evening when I found his body. That afternoon I had gone out to pay a call on a friend who was ill. When I returned, my husband had already come home and locked himself in his laboratory for the day, as was his custom. He did not even bother to emerge for dinner.”

  “That was not unusual?” Arthur asked.

  “Not at all. When he got involved in one of his experiments he could spend hours in his laboratory. But at bedtime I knocked on the door to remind him to turn down the lamps when he came upstairs. When there was no answer I grew concerned. The door was locked, as I said. I had to get a key to open it. That was when I . . . when I . . .” She broke off and blew her nose.

  “When you found his body,” Elenora completed gently.

  “Yes. It was some time before my nerves recovered to the point where I noticed that his snuffbox was gone. Then I realized that he must have sold it that very day. Heaven only knows what he did with the money. It was certainly not in his pockets. Perhaps he decided to pay off one of his more pressing creditors.”

  There was a short silence. Elenora exchanged another knowing glance with Arthur. Neither of them spoke.

  “I never thought he’d part with that snuffbox, though,” Mrs. Glentworth said after a while. “He was very attached to it.”

  “Was your husband alone in the house while you were out that afternoon?” Arthur asked.

  “Yes. We have a maid, but she was not here that day. In fact, she is rarely here anymore. She has not been paid in some time, you see. I suspect that she is searching for another post.”

  “I see,” Arthur said.

  Mrs. Glentworth gazed around with a resigned air. “I shall have to sell this house, I suppose. It is my one asset. I can only pray that I will get enough for it to pay off my husband’s creditors.”

  “What will you do after you sell the house?” Elenora inquired.

  “I shall be obliged to move in with my sister and her husband. I detest them both and they feel the same way about me. They have very little money to spare. It will be a miserable life, but what else can I do?”

  “I shall tell you what else you can do,” Elenora said crisply. “You may sell this house to St. Merryn. He will give you more than you will obtain if you try to sell it to someone else. In addition, he will allow you the use of it for the remainder of your life.”

  Mrs. Glentworth gaped at her. “I beg your pardon?” She shot a quick, disbelieving glance at Arthur. “Why would his lordship want to purchase this house for more than it is worth?”

  “Because you have been extremely helpful today, and he is happy to show his gratitude.” Elenora looked at Arthur. “Is that not correct, sir?”

  Arthur raised his brows, but all he said was, “Of course.”

  Mrs. Glentworth looked uncertainly at Arthur. “You will do such a thing merely because I answered your questions today?”

  He smiled faintly. “I actually am quite grateful, madam. Which reminds me, I have one last question that I wish to ask.”

  “Yes, certainly.” Hope and relief began to lighten Mrs. Glentworth’s drawn expression.”

  “Do you recall the name of your husband’s third friend?”

  “Lord Treyford.” Mrs. Glentworth frowned slightly. “I never met him, but my husband mentioned him frequently enough in the old days. Treyford is dead, though. He was killed many years ago while still a young man.”

  “Do you know anything else about him?” Arthur pressed. “Was he married? Is there a widow I might consult? Any children?”

  Mrs. Glentworth thought about that and then shook her head. “I do not believe so. In the early days my husband made several references to the fact that Treyford was too devoted to his researches to be bothered with the demands of a wife and family.” She sighed. “Indeed, I believe he was quite envious of Treyford’s freedom from such obligations.”

  “Did your husband make any other comments about Treyford?” Arthur asked.

  “He used to say that Lord Treyford was far and away the most brilliant of their little group. He once told me that if Treyford had lived, England might have had its second Newton.”

  “I see,” Arthur said.

  “They thought themselves so clever, you know.” Mrs. Glentworth clasped her hands very tightly in her lap. Some of her anger returned to her face. “They were sure that they would all change the world with their experiments and their elevated conversations about science. But what good did their study of natural philosophy do, I ask you? None at all. And now they’re all gone, aren’t they?”

  “So it seems,” Elenora said quietly.

  Arthur put down his unfinished tea. “You have been very helpful, Mrs. Glentworth. If you will excuse us, we must be on our way. I will have my man-of-affairs call upon you at once to settle the business of the house and your creditors.”

  “Except for her, of course,” Mrs. Glentworth concluded harshly. “She’s still alive. Outlived them all, didn’t she?”

  Elenora was very careful not to look at Arthur. She was aware that he was standing just as still as she was.

  “S
he?” Arthur repeated without inflection.

  “I always thought of her as some sort of sorceress.” Mrs. Glentworth’s voice was low and grim. “Perhaps she really did place a curse on them. Wouldn’t have put it past her.”

  “I don’t understand,” Elenora said. “Was there a lady among your husband’s circle of close acquaintances all those years ago?”

  Another wave of anger flashed across Mrs. Glentworth’s face. “They called her their Goddess of Inspiration. My husband and his friends never missed her Wednesday afternoon salons in the old days. When she summoned them, they rushed to her townhouse. Sat about drinking port and brandy and talking of natural philosophy as though they were all great, learned men. Trying to impress her, I suspect.”

  “Who was she?” Arthur asked.

  Mrs. Glentworth was so lost in her unpleasant memories that she seemed confused by the question. “Why, Lady Wilmington, of course. They were all her devoted slaves. Now they are all dead, and she is the only one left. A rather odd twist of fate, is it not?”

  A short time later Arthur handed Elenora up into the carriage. His mind was occupied with the information that Mrs. Glentworth had just given them. That did not stop him from appreciating the elegant curve of Elenora’s attractive backside when she leaned over slightly and tightened her skirts to step into the cab.

  “You managed to make that visit cost me a pretty penny,” he said mildly, closing the door and sitting down across from her.

  “Come now, sir, you know very well that even had I not been present, you would have offered to assist Mrs. Glentworth. Admit it.”

  “I admit nothing.” He settled back into the seat and turned his attention to the conversation that had just been concluded in the shabby little parlor. “The fact that Glentworth died in a laboratory accident only a few weeks after my great-uncle was murdered indicates that the killer may have struck not twice but three times.”

  “Glentworth, your great-uncle, and Ibbitts.” She folded her arms beneath her breasts as though she had felt a sudden chill. “Perhaps this mysterious Lady Wilmington will be able to tell us something of value. Are you acquainted with her, sir?”