Page 32 of The Paid Companion

He looked at her. “Mercury was the member of the Society who was killed by the explosion in his laboratory.”

“I see. Well, that makes it rather difficult to conclude that he might be the killer, does it not?”

“It makes it damned impossible.” He sighed. “Yet I find myself returning again and again to that possibility.”

“Even if he were still alive, why would he wait all these years to murder your great-uncle and steal the lapidary and the stone?”

“I do not know,” Arthur said simply. “Perhaps it took him this long to unravel the secret of drawing the energy from the red stones.”

“But there is no secret.” She spread her hands. “Your great-uncle told you that the alchemist’s tale was no more than a fantasy.”

“Yes, but Uncle George also told me something else,” Arthur said slowly. “Something that has been weighing on my mind. He claimed that, as undeniably brilliant as Mercury was, he was also showing signs of mental instability, perhaps even of outright madness, toward the end of his life.”

“Ah.” Thoughtfully, she tapped her fan against her palm. “So this Mercury might have begun to believe in the power of the red stones.”

“Yes. But even if that were the case, it all happened a long time ago. Mercury, whoever he was, has been in his grave for a very long time.”

“Perhaps someone has stumbled upon his notes or journals and decided to pursue his research.”

Arthur experienced a flash of new respect. “That, Miss Lodge, is a very interesting theory.”

A woman’s light, teasing laughter stopped him in mid-sentence. The sound came from the other side of the tall hedge. A man’s voice murmured a response.

“Yes, I saw her with Hathersage,” the lady said. “Miss Lodge is certainly an Original, is she not? But if you ask me, there is something extremely odd about her.” She sniffed daintily. “About the entire situation, come to that.”

“What makes you say that, Constance?” the man asked. He sounded both amused and curious. “It appears to me that St. Merryn has found himself a most intriguing fiancée.”

Arthur recognized the voice. It belonged to a man named Dunmere, a member of one of his clubs.

“Bah.” Constance did more than sniff this time. She gave a small snort of disgust. “St. Merryn cannot be serious about marrying her. That much is obvious. When a man of his rank and position takes a wife, he selects a young heiress from a good family. Everyone knows that. This Miss Lodge has obviously been on the shelf for several years. No one knows anything about her family background. Furthermore, judging by her manner and what I have heard of her conversation, I would venture to say that she is no naïve innocent.”

Arthur glanced down and saw that Elenora was listening intently to the conversation on the other side of the hedge. When she met his eyes, he put a finger to his lips, signaling for silence. She nodded in understanding, but he noticed that she was frowning.

With luck, he thought, the gossiping pair would wander off in another direction.

“I disagree,” Dunmere said. “St. Merryn is considered to be something of an eccentric. It would be quite in keeping for him to choose a wife who is not out of the usual mold.”

“Mark my words,” Constance retorted, “there is something very strange about his betrothal to Miss Lodge.”

Arthur could hear footfalls on the gravel and the soft rustle of skirts now. So much for avoiding Constance and Dunmere. They were making their way toward the fountain.

“Perhaps it is a love match,” Dunmere suggested. “St. Merryn is rich enough to be able to afford such an indulgence.”

“A love match?” This time Constance’s laughter was thin and brittle. “Are you mad? This is St. Merryn we are discussing. He is as cold-blooded as they come. Everyone knows that the only things that arouse his passions are his investments.”

“I will admit that he does not appear to possess any strong romantic sensibilities,” Dunmere conceded. “I was in the club that night when he was told that his fiancée had eloped. I will never forget his astonishingly casual reaction.”

“Precisely. Any man possessed of even a modicum of romantic sensibility would have given chase.”

“No offense my dear, but a fiancée who has betrayed her future husband with another man is not worth risking one’s neck for in a dawn appointment.”

“What of St. Merryn’s honor?” Constance demanded.

“It was not his honor that was at stake,” Dunmere said dryly. “Rather, it was the young lady’s. Rest assured that there is no man in the ton who would dream of questioning St. Merryn’s honor.”

“But from all accounts, St. Merryn behaved as though the entire affair was nothing more than a singularly dull bit of theatrics that was more suited to Drury Lane.”

“Perhaps that is how he considered it,” Dunmere said in a thoughtful tone.

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