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 hall.
“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 h
aving trouble with several parts of my latest manuscript. They all involve scenes at fashionable parties and meetings with high-flyers 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 hall 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 hall 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.
He had eventually left her service and sought another post. It had not taken him long to find an even more lucrative position in another wealthy household. Once again he had found himself called upon to satisfy a young wife whose bald, middle-aged husband spent most of his nights with his mistress.
Like his first employer, the lady had been very generous, not just with her favors and his quarterly wages, but also, more important, with expensive gifts.
For a few years he had pursued his career with great diligence. In addition to a number of posts in which he was obliged to meet the demands of several astonishingly lusty ladies, he had obtained one or two positions in the service of wealthy gentlemen. The men had been just as appreciative of his two great assets as the women.
But a year ago, disaster had struck. True, he had long since grown weary of the tiresome demands of his employers. Work that nature had intended to be pleasurable had become, well, work. Nevertheless, he had told himself that the pay and the gifts were worth the labor.
Then one night, to his great horror, a problem arose. Rather, to be more precise, his second great asset had failed to arise.
His face might have been his fortune, but it was not much good on its own. His excellent career depended just as much, if not more, upon his reliability and endurance in bed.
To his dismay, he had been ignominiously let go from his post. But once again luck had been with him. Seven months ago he had found his present position here in the mansion in Rain Street. The elderly man-of-business who had hired him had given him a few simple instructions. Ibbitts was to supervise a small staff suitable for maintaining the large house and ensure that the earl’s London residence would be ready for its owner on the rare occasions that St. Merryn elected to come to town for one of his brief stays.
Ibbitts had found his new post to be ideal in every respect. Not only was there no employer to be kept satisfied in the bedchamber, but St. Merryn had not even bothered to put in an appearance.
Until now Ibbitts had been free to do as he liked in the big house. He had used the opportunity to set about making arrangements for an early and comfortable retirement.
Things had been going well until St. Merryn had arrived a few days before, unannounced, expecting the household to be prepared for him. Ibbitts had been terrified for the first twenty-four hours after the earl had taken up residence. Emboldened by the long absence of his employer, he had made several modifications in the staff. The result was that the mansion was not in the best order.
He had made the changes for an excellent reason: economy. There had been no point retaining the cook or the housekeeper
or the second chambermaid or the gardeners when the mansion’s owner was not around to make use of their services.
He could only hope that St. Merryn would not stay long, Ibbitts thought. In the meantime, he would learn as much as possible about the earl’s private affairs.
Over the course of his career, he had discovered that there was often a very good market for information about his employers’ secrets.
8
Bennett lowered himself into the chair across from Arthur and glanced back once more toward the lean, angry young man who was just leaving the club. “I see Burnley is here this afternoon.”
“Yes.” Arthur did not look up from his newspaper.
“I saw him watching you a few minutes ago. I swear, if looks could kill, you would have cocked up your toes by now.”
Arthur turned the page. “Fortunately, looks do not have that effect upon me. At least, Burnley’s do not.”
“I believe that he has conceived a deep hatred of you,” Bennett warned quietly.
“I cannot comprehend why. He is the one who got the lady, not me.”
Bennett sighed and sank deeper into his chair. It worried him that Arthur refused to show any signs of concern about Roland Burnley’s clear and unwavering dislike of him. But, then, at the moment his friend was focusing all of his attentions on his scheme to catch his great-uncle’s murderer. And when Arthur concentrated on a venture, it consumed him until it was completed.
Such intense single-mindedness could be a decidedly irksome trait at times, Bennett thought. But he was forced to admit that it was likely the reason why Arthur had, in the matter of only a few years, managed to rebuild the once-depleted St. Merryn fortunes to their current very high level.
Although he knew that Arthur was not interested in hearing any warnings about Roland Burnley, Bennett felt obliged to deliver another one.
“Rumor has it that Burnley’s financial situation has deteriorated to a very low point,” he said, trying to ease into the subject from another angle. “He is trying to recoup his gaming losses in the hells.”