Page 107 of The Paid Companion

“This is so exciting,” Charlotte said.

“I think the venture deserves to be celebrated with more than a cup of tea,” Lucinda announced.

She rose from the sofa, opened a cupboard and took down a dusty decanter of sherry.

“One moment,” Charlotte said, some of her enthusiasm evaporating. “What happens if we lose the wager? We could not possibly cover our bets.”

“For heaven’s sake, Charlotte, use your head.” Lucinda removed the cut glass top of the sherry decanter. “The only way we could lose is if St. Merryn were to actually marry Elenora. Now, how likely do you think that is?”

Charlotte’s face cleared instantly. “Likely? It is inconceivable that a gentleman of his wealth and position would marry a paid companion. I don’t know what got into me to even suggest that we might lose.”

“Quite right,” Elenora said. With an effort of sheer will, she forced back the tears that threatened to fall. She managed a bright smile and raised her sherry glass. “To our wager, ladies.”

Half an hour later she set off for the mansion on Rain Street with a feeling that she was walking toward her own doom. It was all very well to drink to a rosy future free of financial worries and filled with the challenge of running her little bookshop, she thought. And no doubt someday, when her tears had dried, she would be able to enjoy the life she planned to create for herself. But first she would have to deal with the pain of parting from Arthur.

She emerged from the park and walked slowly along the street that would take her home.No, not home. This street leads back to your place of temporary employment. You do not have a home. But you will have one eventually. You are going to create it for yourself.

At the front door of the big house she remembered that most of the staff was away for the day. She possessed a key and was perfectly capable of opening the door.

She let herself into the hall and removed her pelisse, gloves and bonnet.

What she needed was a cup of tea, she decided. She walked along the hall that led to the back of the house and went down the stone steps into the kitchens. She glanced at the door of the room through which she had overheard Ibbitts extorting money from poor Sally. Only two days later the butler was dead.

She shuddered at the memory and moved on down the hall. The door to Sally’s bedchamber was open. She glanced inside, expecting to see the maid curled up with her novel.

The room was empty. Perhaps Sally had decided to go out for the day after all.

In the large kitchen, she prepared herself a tray and carried it upstairs into the library. There she poured herself some tea and went to stand at the window.

The house had been transformed in recent days. The task was not yet complete, but it was already a vastly different place than it had been on the day she had arrived. In spite of her sad mood, she took a quiet satisfaction in what had been accomplished thus far.

The floors and woodwork gleamed from recent polishing. Rooms that had long been closed had been opened up and cleaned. Covers had been removed from the furnishings. The windows and once-dark mirrors now sparkled on the walls, drawing the sunlight into spaces that had long been filled with gloom. On her instructions, the heavy drapes throughout the mansion had been tied back. There was hardly a speck of dust to be found anywhere.

The gardens were starting to look much more inviting, too, she noticed. She was pleased with the progress that had been made. The gravel paths were all neatly raked. The overgrowth was being methodically trimmed. Fresh planting beds were being repaired. The work on the fountain had begun.

She thought of how beautiful the view from the library would be in another couple of months. The flowers would be in full bloom. The herbs would be ready for the kitchens. The waters of the fountain would sparkle in the sunshine.

She wondered if Arthur would think of her from time to time when he looked out this window.

She finished her tea and was about to turn away when she noticed the man in sturdy work clothes and a leather apron crouched over a flowerbed. She thought about the replacement tiles for the fountain. It would do no harm to have a word with the gardener to make certain that the order had been placed.

Hurrying from the library, she let herself out into the garden.

“A moment, please,” she called as she walked swiftly toward the gardener. “I would like to have a word with you.”

The gardener grunted, but he did not look up. He continued pulling weeds.

“Do you know whether or not the order for the fountain tiles was placed?” she asked, coming to a halt beside him.

The man grunted again.

She bent down slightly, watching as he yanked out another straggly green weed. “Did you hear me?”

Her heart almost stopped.His hands.The gardener wore no gloves. She could see his long, graceful fingers. A gold signet ring glinted on his left hand. She remembered the feel of that ring beneath the thin glove the killer had worn the night he had invited her to waltz with him.

She caught a trace of his unpleasant scent and straightened quickly. Her pulse was beating so frantically now that she wondered if he might hear it. She stepped back and clasped her hands together to still the fine tremors. She glanced quickly at the door at the back of the house. It seemed a million miles away.

The gardener rose to his feet and turned toward her.

---