An Ideal Companion

by Anne Ashley

  Ruth couldn’t help smiling at this. It was perhaps the first genuine curl that had appeared on her lips all evening thus far. Hugo was without doubt the most considerate and most likeable gentleman she’d ever known, was ever likely to know. Yet, there was no denying he was damnably perceptive, and more than capable of being quite dictatorial on occasions. She accepted at once that she would need to reveal at least some of her misgivings without, she fervently hoped, betraying that most heartrending concern. She couldn’t bring herself to share that with him, not yet a while.

  ‘Well, for one thing, you haven’t allowed me to thank you properly for this beautiful necklace. And I do sincerely thank you, Hugo.’ No one could have mistaken the sincerity in her expression or her voice, before she lowered her head to peer down at that lowest gem seductively nestling at the swell of her breasts. ‘It’s without doubt the most beautiful thing I own and I include all Lady Beatrice’s trinkets in that judgement... But you shouldn’t have bought it for me.’

  ‘Strictly speaking, I didn’t,’ he confessed. ‘I did purchase the earrings from Rundell & Bridge the other day, when I—er—just happened to be passing. The necklace I inherited from an aunt of mine some years ago. Sarah inherited the bulk of the jewellery, but my aunt left that particular gaud to me. I cannot imagine why. Perhaps she thought I’d find a suitable wearer for it one day.’ He paused to study the glowing cluster of chestnut curls crowning her head. ‘But that isn’t what you mean really, is it, my angel?’ he continued, resorting to the endearment he used nowadays with increasing frequency. ‘What you’re desperately trying to convey to me is that it is perhaps a little too soon...that, unlike me, who now knows perfectly where his future lies...and with whom...you need a little more time.’

  This blunt and not particularly romantic expression of his feelings brought her head up as he knew it would. He would have been the first to admit that, given the choice, he would have much preferred to make his declaration in the privacy of some sweetly perfumed rose arbour; to have presented her with the beautiful engagement ring, which he had also purchased from Rundell & Bridge, before taking her into his arms. Sadly, a salon rapidly becoming increasingly crowded with guests was not the ideal setting for such romantic overtures.

  All the same, he was well aware that Ruth was no fool. The instant she had realised those pearls had come from him, she would have strongly suspected the overriding significance of his gift—that his interests were well and truly fixed. So, quite naturally, he had experienced heartfelt relief earlier to see her wearing the set, simply because, at the very least, it clearly showed that she wasn’t indifferent to his regard. What he glimpsed now, as she at last raised her eyes to his, sent his spirits soaring, for it left him in no doubt whatsoever as to the state of her own feelings.

  There was no hint of feigned shock or needless maidenly displays of embarrassment; only the warmth of a sweetly loving smile, accompanied by an expression of real gratitude for his understanding, was all there was to see.

  ‘Very well, my angel,’ he said softly, before gently capturing one hand in order to press his lips lightly across the soft skin. He would have much preferred a more ardent display of his passion, but he was prepared to maintain the tight control he’d exerted over himself for a while longer. ‘I shall allow you more time... But don’t keep me waiting too long...please.’

  ‘I shan’t do that,’ she promised, before becoming aware of the inordinate number of guests now having arrived for the party. ‘Heavens above! I never realised Sarah had invited so many.’

  ‘She’ll be greeting one or two more than initially expected. I took it upon myself to invite a couple of people I just happened to run across the other evening when I was out with my friend the Viscount. Most fortuitous!’ he declared, sounding very well pleased with himself.

  Instantly alert, Ruth scanned the ever-increasing throng for likely candidates, but, apart from one or two exceptions, there was no one she recognised. ‘Do I know them, by any chance?’

  ‘One of them you certainly do...a young reprobate by the name of Boothroyd.’

  ‘Heavens above!’ she exclaimed again. ‘What’s he doing in town? I gained the distinct impression last autumn that he hoped to return to Oxford. Or did I completely misunderstand?’

  Hugo slanted a mocking glance. ‘I think it would be more accurate to suggest his family was hoping he would be allowed to return. Seemingly, young Tristram had other ideas, and is now renting rooms in Curzon Street. I believe you’ll find his young companion of far more interest, however.’

  She raised her eyes in order to favour him with a questioning glance. ‘Shall I?’

  ‘Oh, yes, most definitely! He’s a—er—young baronet by the name of Hilliard, Sir Philip Hilliard, to be exact.’ He smiled at her astounded expression. ‘Yes, most interesting, is it not, my angel? Our young Mr Tristram Boothroyd turns out to be none other than a good friend of the deceased baronet’s son. They were at school and at Oxford together for a time, apparently. I wonder how many confidences they exchanged down the years? Yet another of those surprising connections, don’t you agree? The plot undoubtedly thickens!’

  ‘I’ll own it is intriguing. All the same, I don’t quite see why young Tristram should wish to kill Lady Beatrice.’

  ‘Oh, I’m not for a moment suggesting he did. In fact, I’d go a deal further and say I discounted him right from the beginning, mainly because of his age. But his knowing the dead man’s son is most fortuitous. You must have appreciated yourself by now that the key to this mystery lies somewhere in Sir George Hilliard’s life, and not, as we had first supposed, in Lady Beatrice’s. And who better to shed some light on that particular issue than his own son. He just might be able to divulge something of interest. Sadly, he’s unlikely to relate any details to me.’

  ‘Why so?’ Ruth demanded to know, having considered Hugo just the sort of person in whom one would instinctively confide. He simply oozed an aura of trustworthiness and discretion.

  ‘Because I strongly suspect he was brought up by his mother, without too much masculine interference. I would describe him as a retiring young chap, totally unlike Tristram Boothroyd. Their friendship, unless I much mistake the matter, is a classic example of opposites attracting. It’s also my belief the young baronet is much more likely to feel comfortable in the company of women...older women,’ he added, with only the faintest betraying twitch about his mouth when brown eyes regarded him suspiciously.

  ‘I see... You believe he’ll look upon me as some harmless maidenly aunt who enjoys a good gossip.’

  ‘I wouldn’t go as far as to say that, exactly, my angel,’ he responded, exerting praiseworthy control over his voice. ‘But should you succeed in putting him at his ease, I earnestly believe he’d be far more likely to confide in you than in me.

  ‘Ah! And you shall soon be granted the opportunity to put my theory to the test,’ he added, his gaze now fixed on the entrance to the salon, where Sarah, ably supported by her husband, stood greeting the steady stream of new arrivals. ‘I think it’s time we began circulating before too many more perceive we have a distinct partiality for each other’s company, which will ultimately set the gossips’ tongues a-wagging, of course. But, have no fear, I shall remain extra-vigilant this evening and bring the young baronet over to you at an opportune moment.’

  Ruth didn’t attempt to detain him further, for she, too, had begun to notice certain glances being directed at their particular corner of the room. She had noticed, too, the arrival of a lady who had welcomed her so graciously to her home just two short weeks before and didn’t hesitate to further their acquaintance.

  ‘Ah, my dear! How lovely it is to see you again,’ the Dowager Lady Constance Styne greeted her, with the same degree of warmth as she had shown at their first encounter. ‘Do make yourself comfortable beside me. You remember my granddaughter Clara, I’m sure.’

&nbs
p; Ruth politely exchanged greetings with the shy young woman on Lady Constance’s left before addressing the Dowager directly again. ‘Do you happen to be acquainted with the young gentlemen over there, at present in conversation with Colonel Prentiss, ma’am?’

  Lady Constance reached for the lorgnette fixed to an elaborate chain about her neck and peered through it in the general direction of the door. ‘No, my dear. I cannot say I recognise either of them. Do you happen to know them?’

  ‘The golden-haired young gentleman is a Mr Tristram Boothroyd. You might possibly be acquainted with his great-aunt, Lady Augusta Fitznorton. She resides not too far distant from Dunsterford Hall, as it happens. Lady Beatrice knew the nephew, slightly. She was also acquainted with the father of the dark-haired young man, one Sir George Hilliard. I seem to remember he was found dead at the very coastal town where your husband owned that little house Lady Beatrice sometimes stayed at.’

  Although it wasn’t strictly true that Lady Beatrice had ever mentioned the name George Hilliard within her hearing, Ruth didn’t allow the little white lie to prick her conscience, especially when it produced an immediate result.

  ‘Oh, good gracious! I’d forgotten all about that! Yes, you’re perfectly correct, my dear. There was some mystery surrounding it, I seem to remember. Sir George was supposed to be some miles away in Brighton, with a group of friends.’ Again she made use of her aid to vision. ‘So that’s Sir George’s boy, is it...? Cannot say he resembles his father overmuch. Devil for the ladies, rumour had it at the time. But charming for all that, and very handsome, of course.’

  The Dowager turned the lorgnette on Ruth for a second or two before letting it fall. ‘How on earth did you come to hear about that, my dear? I feel sure it all happened years ago, a year, maybe two, before Beatrice moved to Somerset.’

  Ruth raised one hand in an airy, dismissive gesture. ‘Lady Bea did occasionally talk about her life in London and the people she’d known. She was unlikely to forget that particular incident when she happened to have stayed in the coastal town where the tragedy occurred.’

  Seemingly Lady Constance found nothing odd about the response as she immediately went on to reveal, ‘I seem to remember Sir George’s wife couldn’t understand why he was there at all. His death then gave rise to a deal of speculation. The gossips at the time would have it that some hidden mistress held the key to the mystery. Given his reputation where the fair sex was concerned, I suppose it was understandable. But I cannot recall that anything ever came to light. No one, apparently, came forward offering information and his death was eventually put down to a tragic accident.’

  Again she subjected Ruth to a prolonged gaze. ‘I must say I’m rather surprised Beatrice ever discussed any aspects of her past with you, my dear. I gained the distinct impression from the many letters we exchanged, after her removal to Somerset, that she wished to forget the life she’d left behind. I gained the distinct impression, too, that she had grown very bitter towards a great many people, including friends. She never asked after anybody. The only time she ever wrote about a person from her past was to scribble something derogatory about the poor soul.’

  She shook her head, appearing genuinely saddened. ‘I was reading through the correspondence we exchanged only the other day, as it happens. Afterwards, it seemed to me, although I might be quite wrong, that she had changed out of all recognition; that she derived much enjoyment out of other people’s misery. Perhaps because she had suffered so much herself she had grown quite insensitive to other people’s feelings.’

  ‘No, ma’am, Over this defect I do not think you’re wrong,’ Ruth responded, her mind’s eye having conjured up a clear image of Lady Beatrice’s expression over dinner on that fateful evening so many months ago. She had resembled nothing so much as a vicious predator with some hapless victim within her power. Only on that particular occasion, of course, the victim of her spite might well have found the courage to retaliate.

  ‘Although, perhaps, I hadn’t been aware of it during the ten years I was with her,’ Ruth admitted, ‘I cannot now recall she had a favourable word to say about anyone. Sad though it is to say, there was a streak of vindictiveness in her nature...of spite.’

  It was at this point that two young gentlemen guests approached to invite both Ruth and Lady Constance’s granddaughter to join them in a set of country dances that was forming. To avoid arousing suspicion, Ruth graciously accepted, even though she would have much preferred to remain in the hope of discovering something, anything, that might shed more light on Lady Beatrice’s untimely death.

  * * *

  Unfortunately, by the time the set had come to an end her place at Lady Constance’s side had been taken by another. As it would have created a decidedly odd impression were she to boldly return to occupy the granddaughter’s position on the lady’s other side, she resigned herself to the fact that she was destined to learn nothing further from the informative matron for the time being at least.

  So, in an attempt to fulfil the hostess’s wishes, Ruth remained on the dance floor, with a succession of partners displaying varying skills, until such time as exertion demanded she quench her thirst. She then made a beeline for the table where the fruit punch was being dispensed and had only just been presented with a refreshing cup when Hugo amazingly appeared from nowhere, with two much younger gentlemen in tow.

  Quite skilfully affecting a look of amazement, she allowed Mr Boothroyd to take her hand. ‘What a delightful surprise! I never thought to renew our acquaintance. At least though, sir, it is a much happier occasion than when we last spoke.’

  His momentary expression of puzzlement only went to reinforce her belief that he, at least, had absolutely nothing to do with Lady Beatrice’s death. ‘By Jove, yes!’ he finally exclaimed, clearly having at last recalled the widow’s demise.

  He then went on to explain briefly to his silent friend his adventures in the snow the previous autumn, before glancing about the room. ‘I must say, sir, this is a jolly party you’ve invited us to,’ he declared, addressing himself to Hugo, while eyeing several of the younger ladies present. ‘Who’s that dashed pretty girl sitting over there, do you happen to know?’

  ‘Miss Clara Styne. Allow me to make you known to her,’ Hugo invited with aplomb, before favouring Ruth with a conspiratorial wink, while demanding she save him the supper dance.

  As she was acutely aware of precisely what the wink had meant to convey, she gave little thought to Hugo’s personal request and concentrated all her thoughts on attempting to keep the shy baronet with her. She was surprisingly aided by the young man himself, who proved at a stroke that he might be diffident, but he was not ill mannered, when he remained by her side and politely asked if she would care to step out on to the dance floor.

  ‘That is most kind of you, sir. But I rather fancy I should prefer to sit for a while to regain my breath and should consider it a great kindness on your part if you would bear me company for a short time, as I know so few people present this evening.’

  This turned out to be the perfect thing to say, for Sir Philip himself then freely admitted to having been a rare visitor to the metropolis; Ruth was then able to engage him in conversation about the joys of living in the country.

  ‘And I believe we have something else in common, sir,’ she enlightened him, after they had discussed country pursuits at some length and there was a slight lull developing in the conversation. ‘You, so I understand, lost your father when you were very young.’

  Ruth had been expecting to see his suddenly startled expression. Although he was a reserved young man, whose shyness was evident in a slight stammer, there was, she had already decided, absolutely nothing wrong with his understanding. In fact, she would go so far as to say he was, in his own quiet way, refreshingly adroit, quite unlike his friend Mr Boothroyd.

  ‘I’m not in the least surprised you appear shocked, Sir
Philip. It was observing your friend on the dance floor a moment ago that suddenly brought it to mind,’ she continued without suffering any pangs of conscience, before going on to explain, with a few other slight deviations from the truth, how Lady Beatrice had happened to have stayed at the place where his own father had met his death.

  ‘Of course, I never knew mine. But for you it must have been such a grave shock to have lost him in such an unexpected way.’

  Although he appeared distinctly thoughtful, it was a relief to Ruth to detect no real evidence of grief etched in the young face, before he finally admitted, ‘Y-yes, I suppose it was a shock, Miss Harrington. B-but, truth to tell, my sisters and I rarely saw much of him. We lived for the most part in the country with Mama, while he stayed mostly in London. On those occasions when Mama did remove us all to the town house, Papa seldom visited the schoolroom...except during that time when my youngest sister was so gravely ill and Mama was constantly occupied with the doctor. It was a very unhappy period, as you can imagine. Our baby sister died and so, too, did Papa not so very long afterwards. And then, of course, Shippie left us, too, about that time.’

  ‘Shippie...?’ Ruth echoed gently, sensing the young man had grieved more for the loss of his young sister than he had his father. ‘Was she a nurserymaid?’

  ‘Oh, n-no, our governess. And a great gun! Her real name was Shipley, if my memory serves me correctly. M-my sisters and I really liked her.’ He frowned. ‘I seem to remember, too, she was n-newly arrived from the country when she came to us. She took us out for a great many walks, at any rate. I was s-sorry when she left us so unexpectedly. I was sent away to school not long afterwards and my poor sisters were forced to put up with an old d-dragon of a governess.’

  It was at this point that the set of country dances came to an end. Almost immediately afterwards guests were invited to take to the floor for the supper dance. Hugo again miraculously appeared to claim his partner, thereby bringing the conversation with the baronet to an abrupt end. Even so, as she watched the young man walk away, Ruth experienced the distinct feeling that she had learned something of real significance. Unfortunately she was denied the opportunity to dwell on just what it might possibly have been, for she found her arm being entwined possessively round her partner’s, as he escorted her on to the dance floor.