Page 51 of The Paid Companion

They both knew that he had not meant that threat, she thought. After all, if Arthur had not bothered to pursue his real betrothed when she had run off with another man, he was hardly likely to engage in a duel over the honor of an imitation fiancée.

It was only much later, when she was going upstairs to her bedchamber, that she remembered that Arthur had never answered her question: He had not told her what he did to make himself happy.

17

The buxom serving wench made one more attempt to snag his attention when she saw that he was making for the door of the smoky tavern. Ibbitts gave her a brief, contemptuous survey, letting her know that the sight of her full breasts spilling out of the stained bodice of her dress filled him with disgust, not lust. Her cheeks went red. Anger and humiliation flashed across her face. With a swish of her skirts, she whirled and hurried off toward a table of raucous patrons.

Ibbitts muttered a curse and opened the door. He had been in a foul temper since St. Merryn had let him go two days earlier. Several hours of drinking bad ale and throwing bad dice tonight had done nothing to improve his mood.

He slouched down the steps into the street, turned and started toward his new lodgings. It was just going on midnight, and there was a full moon; an ideal setting for footpads. A number of carriages rattled up and down the street. He knew they were filled with drunken gentlemen who, bored with their clubs and ballrooms, came to this neighborhood in search of more earthy pleasures.

He shoved one hand deep into the pocket of his coat and wrapped his fingers around the hilt of the knife that he had brought along for protection.

The silly serving wench was a fool to think that he would even consider lifting her skirts. Why would he want to share the filthy sheets of a tavern girl who likely bathed only once a week, if that? In the past few years he had become accustomed to tumbling the clean, perfumed ladies of the Quality; ladies who dressed in silks and satins; ladies who were ever so grateful for the attentions of a strong, well-made man who could satisfy them in bed.

A figure moved in the shadows of the alley up ahead. He tensed, nervously tightening his hand around the hilt of the knife. He heard the slap of shoes on pavement and glanced back at the tavern door, wondering if he should make a run for it.

At that moment a drunken whore stumbled out of the darkness, singing an off-key ballad to herself. She spotted him and stumbled to a halt.

“Well, now, yer a fine-looking one, ye are,” she called out. “What d’ya say to a bit o’ sport? I’ll give ye a good price. Half the gennelmen’s rate. How does that sound?”

“Get out of my way, you stupid woman.”

“No call to be rude.” She hunched her shoulders and headed toward the lights of the tavern. “That’s always the way with the handsome ones. Think they’re too good for the likes of a hardworking girl.”

Ibbitts relaxed a little but quickened his pace. He was anxious to get back to the safety of his new lodgings. It was time to contemplate his future. He had plans to make.

He still had his looks, he reminded himself. With luck he would keep them for a few more years. He would soon find another post. But the sad truth was that it was unlikely he’d ever again turn up a situation as comfortable and as profitable as the one he’d just lost.

The bleak prospect stoked his rage. What he wanted was revenge, he thought. He’d give a great deal to make St. Merryn and Miss Lodge pay for ruining his pleasant arrangement at the mansion in Rain Street.

But the only way to do that was to find a means of using the information he had obtained by eavesdropping. Thus far, he had not been able to come up with a promising scheme.

The big hurdle was that he did not know who in Society to approach. What member of the ton would be willing to pay for the news that St. Merryn was trying to find his great-uncle’s killer or that the amusing jest concerning Miss Lodge’s origins in an agency was actually the truth?

And there was another obstacle. Who would take the word of an unemployed butler over that of the powerful earl who had dismissed him?

No, he was probably doomed to return to his former career, he decided as he arrived at his new address. And it was all the fault of St. Merryn and Miss Lodge.

He let himself into the dingy hall and went up the stairs. The only good news on the horizon was that he was not going to have to start looking for a new post immediately. Over the course of the past few months, he had surreptitiously removed some lovely silver items and a couple of excellent rugs from the Rain Street house and taken them to the receivers in Shoe Lane who dealt in stolen goods. As a result he had some money put aside that would enable him to take his time selecting his next situation.

He stopped in front of his room, dug out his key and fitted it into the lock. When he opened the door he saw the weak glow of a candle flame.

His first befuddled thought was that he had somehow unlocked the wrong door. Surely he had not been so foolish as to go off and leave a candle burning.

Then the voice came out of the darkness, chilling him to the bone.

“Come in, Ibbitts.” The intruder moved slightly in the corner. The folds of a long black cloak shifted around him. His features were hidden beneath a heavy cowl. “I believe that you and I have some business to transact.”

Visions of the legions of husbands he’d cuckolded over the years blazed in his brain. Had one of them learned the truth and taken the trouble to hunt him down?

“I... I...” He swallowed and tried again. “I don’t understand. Who are you?”

“You do not need to know my name before you sell me the information you possess.” The man laughed softly. “In fact, it will be infinitely safer for you if you do not learn my identity.”

A glimmer of hope leaped within him. “Information?”

“I understand that you have recently left the employ of the Earl of St. Merryn,” the man said. “I will pay you well if you can tell me anything of interest concerning that household.”

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