Page 52 of The Paid Companion

The cultured, well-educated voice marked the intruder as a gentleman. The last of Ibbitts’s anxiety evaporated. Euphoria took its place. He had learned the hard way over the years that the men who moved in the elevated circles of Society were no more to be trusted than those who lived in the stews, but there was one significant difference between the two groups: The men of the ton had money to spend and were willing to pay for what they wanted.

His fortunes had turned yet again, Ibbitts thought. He sauntered into the room, smiling the smile that had always turned heads. He made certain that he stood within the circle of light provided by the candle so that the man in the cloak could see his handsome features.

“You’re in luck, sir,” he said. “I do, indeed, have some interesting information to sell. Shall we discuss the terms of our bargain?”

“If the information is of use to me, you may name your price.”

The words were music to Ibbitts’s ears.

“In my experience, gentlemen only say that sort of thing when they are pursuing women or vengeance.” He chuckled. “In this case, I expect it’s the latter, eh? No sane man would go to such lengths to get his hands on an irritating female like Miss Elenora Lodge. Well, sir, if it’s revenge against St. Merryn you’re after, I’m more than happy to help you.”

The intruder said nothing in response, but his very stillness renewed a measure of Ibbitts’s nervousness.

It did not surprise him to learn that St. Merryn had such a determined and relentless enemy. Men as wealthy and powerful as the earl always managed to annoy a few people. But whatever the intruder’s reasons might be, Ibbitts had no intention of inquiring into them. He had survived in the households of Society all these years because he had learned the fine art of discretion. Take, for example, the way he had been very careful not to let St. Merryn know that he was aware of the inquiries the earl was making into his uncle’s murder.

“A thousand pounds,” he said, holding his breath. It was a very daring price. He would have settled for a hundred or even fifty. But he knew that the Quality never respected anything unless it came at considerable cost.

“Done,” the intruder said at once.

Ibbitts allowed himself to breathe again.

He told the man in the cloak everything he had overheard in the linen closet.

There was a short pause after he finished.

“So, it is as I anticipated,” the intruder said, speaking softly as though to himself. “I do, indeed, have an opponent in this affair, just as my predecessor did. My destiny grows more clear by the day.”

The man sounded odd. Ibbitts grew uneasy again. He wondered if he had given away too much information before getting his hands on the money. The Quality did not always feel an obligation to keep their bargains with his sort. Oh, they were quick enough to pay their gaming debts because those were considered matters of honor. But gentlemen were content to let shopkeepers and merchants wait forever when it came to their bills.

With a deep sigh, Ibbitts prepared to accept a much lower fee, if it proved necessary. He was not in a position to be particular, he reminded himself.

“Thank you,” the man said. “You have been most helpful.” He stirred again in the shadows, reaching one hand inside the flowing folds of the cloak.

Too late Ibbitts understood that the stranger was not reaching for money. When his hand reappeared, moonlight danced evilly on the pistol he held.

“No.”Ibbitts stumbled backward, clawing for the knife in his pocket.

The pistol roared, filling the small room with smoke and lightning. The shot struck Ibbitts in the chest and flung him hard against the wall. A searing cold immediately began to close around his vitals. He knew that he was dying, but he managed to cling to the knife.

The damned Quality always won, he thought as he started to slide down the wall. The ice spread inside him. The world began to go dark.

The intruder came closer. He took a second pistol out of his pocket. Through the gathering haze that clouded his vision, Ibbitts could just make out the wings of the cloak that swirled around the man’s polished boots. Just like one of those winged demons out of hell, Ibbitts thought.

Rage gave him one last burst of energy. He shoved himself away from the wall, the knife clutched in his fingers, and flung himself toward his killer.

Startled, the villain swerved to the side. His booted foot caught on the leg of a chair. He staggered, trying to find his balance, the cloak flaring wildly. The chair crashed to the floor.

Ibbitts struck blindly; felt the blade pierce and rip fabric. For a second he prayed that he would bury the knife in the demon’s flesh. But it snagged harmlessly in the thick folds of the cloak and was jerked from his hand.

Spent, Ibbitts collapsed. Dimly he heard the knife clatter on the floor beside him.

“There is a third reason why a man might tell you to name your price,” the intruder whispered in the darkness. “And that is because he has no intention of paying it.”

Ibbitts never heard the second shot that exploded through his brain, destroying a large portion of the face that had always been his fortune.

The killer rushed from the room, pausing only to put out the candle and yank the door closed. He stumbled down the stairs, his breath coming and going in great gasps. At the bottom of the steps he suddenly remembered the mask. Yanking it out of the pocket of the cloak, he fitted it over his head.

Things had not gone entirely according to plan tonight.

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