Page 81 of The Paid Companion

She stared at him. “You cannot be serious.”

“Buy another set of garters and have the bill sent to me,” Arthur said.

He kissed her on the mouth before she could scold him. When he finally raised his head, she was breathless.

“On second thought, you had better buy several sets of garters.” He smiled with deep satisfaction. “I intend to create an extensive collection.”

26

We buried my husband a few days ago.” Mrs. Glentworth looked up at the portrait that hung over the fireplace. “It was quite sudden. There was an accident in his laboratory. The electricity machine, you know. There must have been a terrible shock. It stopped his heart.”

“Please accept our condolences on your loss, Mrs. Glentworth,” Elenora said gently.

Mrs. Glentworth gave a perfunctory nod. She was a frail, bony woman with sparse gray hair tucked up under an old cap. The cloak of genteel poverty and stoic resignation hung heavily around her thin shoulders.

“I warned him about that machine.” Her fingers clenched around the handkerchief she held, and her jaw jerked as though she was grinding her back teeth. “But he would not listen. He was forever conducting experiments with it.”

Elenora glanced at Arthur, who was standing near the window, a full cup of tea in one hand. His face was a cool mask that did little to conceal his watchful expression. She was quite certain that he was thinking precisely the same thing that she was thinking. In light of recent events, the fatal accident in Glentworth’s laboratory appeared to be more than a mere coincidence.

But if Mrs. Glentworth suspected that her husband had been murdered, she gave no sign of it. Perhaps she did not particularly care, Elenora thought. The shabby parlor was filled with the gloom appropriate to a mourning household, but the widow herself appeared tense and rather desperate, not sad. Elenora could have sworn that, beneath their hostess’s proper words and civil manner, a simmering anger burned.

Mrs. Glentworth had received them willingly enough, suitably awed by Arthur’s name and title. But she was obviously bewildered.

“Were you aware that my great-uncle, George Lancaster, was killed by a burglar in his laboratory a few weeks ago?” Arthur asked.

Mrs. Glentworth frowned. “No, I did not know that.”

“Did you know that your husband and Lancaster were great friends in their younger days?” Elenora added quietly.

“Of course.” Mrs. Glentworth squeezed the handkerchief. “I am very well aware of how close the three of them were.”

Elenora sensed Arthur going very still. She did not dare to look at him.

“Did you saythreeof them, Mrs. Glentworth?” Elenora asked in what she hoped was a mildly curious fashion.

“They were thick as thieves for a time. Met at Cambridge, you know. But all they cared about was science, not money. Indeed, they devoted themselves to their laboratories and ridiculous experiments.”

“Mrs. Glentworth,” Elenora began cautiously. “I wonder if—”

“I vow, I sometimes wished that my husband had been a highwayman or a footpad.” A tremor shook Mrs. Glentworth. Then, as though a dam had crumbled somewhere inside her, the pent-up anguish and anger poured forth. “Perhaps then there would have been some money left. But, no, he was obsessed with natural philosophy. He spent almost every last penny on his laboratory apparatus.”

“What sort of experiments did your husband conduct?” Arthur asked.

But the woman did not appear to have heard the question. Her rage was in full flood. “Glentworth had a respectable income when we married. My parents would never have allowed me to wed him if that had not been the case. But the fool never invested the money. He spent it without thought for me or our daughters. He was worse than a confirmed gambler, always claiming that he needed the newest microscope or another burning lens.”

Arthur tried to intervene to redirect the conversation. “Mrs. Glentworth, you mentioned that your husband had a third friend...”

“Look around you.” Mrs. Glentworth waved the hand in which she held the handkerchief. “What do you see of value? Nothing. Nothing at all. Over the years he sold the silver and the paintings to raise money to purchase items for his laboratory. In the end, he even sold his precious snuffbox. I thought he’d never part with it. He told me he wanted to be buried with it.”

Elenora took a closer look at the portrait above the mantel. It showed a portly, balding gentleman dressed in old-fashioned breeches and coat. He held a snuffbox in one hand. The lid of the case was set with a large, red, faceted stone.

She glanced at Arthur and saw that he was studying the portrait too.

“He sold the snuffbox that he carries in that portrait?” Arthur asked.

Mrs. Glentworth sniffed into the handkerchief. “Yes.”

“Do you know who bought it from him?”

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