Page 54 of The Paid Companion

“Of course I remember it.” Dalling’s face tightened fiercely. “I’m not senile, sir.”

“My apologies. I never meant to imply that.”

Dalling appeared somewhat mollified. “Glentworth. That was the name of the man who owned the Saturn snuffbox.”

“Glentworth.” Arthur got to his feet. “Thank you, sir. I am very grateful for your assistance.”

“Heard he died recently. Not long ago. Within the past week, I believe.”

Hell’s teeth. Glentworth was dead? After all the effort it had taken to track him down?

“I didn’t attend the funeral,” Dalling continued. “Used to go to all of them, but there got to be too many, so I gave up the habit.”

Arthur tried to think of how to proceed. Everywhere he turned in this maze, he met with a blank wall.

The fire crumbled. Dalling took a jeweled snuffbox out of his pocket, flipped the lid open and helped himself to a pinch. He inhaled the pulverized tobacco with a quick, efficient little snort. Closing the box, he settled deeper into his chair with a heavy sigh of satisfaction. His heavy lids closed.

Arthur started toward the door. “Thank you for your time, sir.”

“Not at all.” Dalling did not open his eyes. He fingered his exquisite little snuffbox, turning it over and over in his hand.

Arthur had the door open and was about to step out into the hall when his host spoke again.

“Perhaps you should talk to the widow,” the old man said.

19

The costume ball was a crush. Lady Fambridge had displayed what Elenora had learned was her well-known flair for the dramatic in the décor she had chosen for the evening. The large, elegant room was lit with red and gold lanterns rather than blazing chandeliers. The dim illumination steeped the space in long, mysterious shadows.

A number of potted palms had been brought in from the conservatory. They had been strategically placed in clusters along the walls to provide secluded niches for couples.

Costume balls, Elenora had quickly discovered, were all about dalliance and flirtation. They provided opportunities for the jaded members of Society to play their favorite games of seduction and intrigue even more openly than was usual.

Arthur had admitted that morning at breakfast that when he had elected to accept the invitation, he had not realized the event would require a domino and a mask.

That was what came of leaving social decisions to a man, Elenora thought. They did not always pay attention to the details.

Margaret and Bennett both appeared to be enjoying themselves thoroughly, however. They had disappeared half an hour before. Elenora had a hunch that they were making good use of one of the palm-shrouded bowers scattered strategically around the room.

She, on the other hand, was making her way through the crowd toward the nearest door. She needed a rest.

For the last hour she had dutifully danced with any number of masked gentlemen, rarely bothering to hide her own features behind the little feathered mask she carried in one hand. The point was for her to be recognized, after all, as Margaret had reminded her.

She had carried out her responsibilities to the best of her ability, but now she was not only bored, her feet were also beginning to hurt inside her soft leather dancing slippers. A steady diet of balls and soirées took its toll, she thought.

She had almost reached the door when she noticed the man in the black domino making his way determinedly toward her. The cowl of the enveloping cloaklike garment had been drawn up over his head, casting his face into deep shadow. As he drew closer she saw that he wore a black silk mask.

He moved like a wolf gliding through a flock of sheep in search of the weakest lamb. For an instant her spirits rose and she forgot all about her sore feet. When he had left the house earlier that evening, Arthur had taken a black domino and a black mask with him. He had said he would meet her at the Fambridge ball and accompany her home.

She had not expected him to arrive so early, however. Perhaps he had met with success in his inquiries and wanted to discuss the new information with her. She took some comfort in the knowledge that, although he seemed intent on ignoring the attraction between them—at least for now—he had more or less made her a consultant in this affair.

The stranger in the domino arrived in front of her. Elenora’s excitement evaporated instantly. This was not Arthur. She was not certain how she knew that with such certainty before he even touched her, but she did know it.

It was not the man’s voice that gave him away—he did not speak. There was nothing odd about that. He was not the first gentleman that night to use gestures to invite her to dance. Voices were easy to identify, and several guests preferred to play their games anonymously. Nevertheless, she had recognized most of her partners, especially those with whom she had danced the waltz on previous occasions.

The waltz was a surprisingly intimate sort of exercise. No two men conducted it in quite the same manner. Some went about the business with military-style precision. A few steered her around the floor with such energetic enthusiasm that she felt as though she was engaging in a horse race. Still others took advantage of the close contact to try to rest their hands in places where propriety dictated they did not belong.

She hesitated when the man in the black domino offered his arm in a graceful flourish. He was not Arthur, and her feet really did hurt. But whoever he was, he had made a considerable effort to get to her in the crowd. The least she could do was dance with him, she thought. After all, she was being paid to perform a role.

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