Lord Raeburn gave Oliver a wry smile. “Don’t worry, lad, I won’t ravish your employer. I may be a blackguard in the eyes of the world, but I do have some standards.”
Well. Could the man be any more insulting? She shouldn’t be offended—she was meant to look like an old trout—but the twenty-nine-year-old woman beneath the black hat was inexplicably annoyed. Mary set her tea down, causing the liquid to splash on its saucer.
“Perhaps you’d better tell me why you are here.”
“I need a woman for a month.”
Mary rose to her full height—not that there was much of it—in umbrage. “We are not that sort of employment agency, Lord Raeburn. Good afternoon.”
“Oh, get off your high horse and sit down. I didn’t make myself clear. I need to hire a woman to infiltrate the guests of that new hydrotherapy spa. The Forsyth Palace Hotel. In the Highlands. Have you heard of it?”
Mary had. There had been full-page advertisements in all the London papers when it opened last year. It was built in the Scots baronial style, accommodating 200 guests and offering first-class accommodations for healthy visitors and various hydropathic treatments for those whose health was not so robust. Mary had even entertained the idea of sending her aunt there, but Mim would never leave the agency solely in Mary’s hands.
To be fair, Mary had received amazingly astute advice from her aunt—Mim was sharp as a tack, especially when it came to the trickier clients. Lord Raeburn might be joining that list, if Mary could figure out what he wanted.
“You say ‘infiltrate.’ Why do you not employ an inquiry agent? I know several reputable agencies I can recommend.”
“They’re all men, Mrs. Evensong. I need a woman to lay a trap for the doctor who runs the place. The man responsible my wife’s death.”
Mary turned her teacup, wishing she had the ability to read the dregs. “Why haven’t you gone to the authorities with your suspicions?”
“Och, what’s the point? They think I’m guilty—it’s just they don’t have enough proof. But I’ll tell you this—my wife was seduced by that piece of sh—slime. Dr. Josef Bauer,” he spat. “I have my wife’s diary. Everything’s in there. She paid him a fortune to keep it quiet.”
Mary looked across her desk at the baron. His color was still vivid through the light gray of her lenses. Judging from the expression on his face, he was in a state of controlled fury. She wouldn’t want to see him lose that control. A man his size would frighten anyone with a modicum of sense. It was difficult to imagine his wife daring to be unfaithful. Surely she would know there would be consequences.
“What would you want this woman to do?”
“Pretend to be a patient. Toss around my money and attract Bauer’s attention. Get cozy with him.”
She shook her head. “As I said, we don’t employ ladies to do that kind of work.”
“She wouldn’t have to fu—uh, fornicate with him. Just catch him doing something unethical. Like trying to kill her and pass it off as an accident after she made her will over to him.”
“I doubt any one of my job seekers would be willing to make themselves a possible murder victim, Lord Raeburn,” Mary said dryly.
“It doesn’t have to go that far, of course. If he’s accused of carrying on romantically with one of his patients, that should be enough to ruin his reputation. What husband or father would trust him to cure his wife or daughter? And anyway, I’d be there to keep your woman safe.”
Mary’s mouth dropped open a second too long. Goodness, she must look like the veriest imbecile. “You?” she asked, when she gathered her scattered wits.
“I’ve booked a suite of rooms there. I’m having some renovations done to Raeburn Court now that Edith is . . . gone. The hotel is not two miles away, and it’s only natural I stay close to supervise. It’s the only decent place to stay in the area. The only place, period. We’re a bit isolated from the world.”
Yes, that was the spa’s attraction—unspoiled countryside. Pure air, high altitude, fresh water. Enough wildlife and waterfalls to thrill any amateur photographer. Yet there was train service to Pitcarran, a charming little town close enough for a day trip in one of the hotel’s horse-drawn wagonettes.
It seemed Mary had committed the advertisements to memory. She wondered if Oliver had saved any stories about it.
“Bauer knows me. I make him nervous,” Lord Raeburn continued. “He may slip and make a mistake.”
“He also may be on his best behavior,” Mary said. “Does he know he has you for an enemy?”
“Oh, yes.”
Mary shivered at the glitter in Lord Raeburn’s black eyes.
“Let me see if I understand this. You wish Dr. Bauer to be discovered in a compromising position with a patient, even though he knows you will be watching him.”
“The man’s ego—you are familiar with that alienist fellow Freud?—knows no bounds. He’s full of himself. I think because I will be there he’ll flaunt his indiscretions in front of me, knowing there’s not a damn thing I can do about it. Who will believe anything bad I have to say about him? Me, a man who killed his wife? I have no credibility.” Lord Raeburn sat back in his chair, looking vulnerable for the first time. Mary decided she had to reread all the newspaper accounts of Lady Edith Raeburn’s death.
“Let me think about this.”
“I don’t have time for you to dillydally, Mrs. Evensong. If you can’t get someone to do it, I’ll have to hire some actress. I do know a few.”
Yes, Mary had heard that he did. Lord Raeburn and his wife had lived apart for most of their marriage. No wonder the poor woman sought comfort in the arms of a sympathetic Dr. Bauer.
“Why haven’t you already?”
“The girls I know—let’s just say they’re more suited to the chorus line than playing an heiress. I need someone fresh. Innocent. Someone Bauer will think he can corrupt with no consequences. From what little I know, he only debauches virgins, who are then too mortified to confess their stupidity.”
“Then why did Dr. Bauer target Lady Raeburn?” From the moment she asked the question, Mary knew she had made a mistake. She watched Lord Raeburn struggle to frame his answer.
Instead of the shout she expected, his words, when they came, were quiet. “My wife was very young when we married. Delicate. She had a disgust of the marital act. Or perhaps she just had a disgust of me. Josef Bauer somehow overcame her objections.”
Mary Evensong was rarely surprised by anything her trickier clients had to tell her, but she was surprised now. Lord Raeburn had bared his heart. His pain. Somehow she knew he’d never told the truth to anyone before.
Edith Raeburn had been a virgin. And a fool.
Mary made her decision, and hoped she wouldn’t be sorry. “I’ll do it. That is, I’ll find someone for you. When will she have to leave?”
“We wouldn’t want to arrive at the hotel together—let’s say, get your girl to come a week from Thursday. The sooner we can put a period to Bauer’s villainy, the better. Do you have someone in mind?”
“Yes,” Mary said, hoping Aunt Mim would approve of her madcap plan.
Mary wasn’t madcap—she was steady. Sensible. Responsible. Boring. But that was about to change.
She pulled out a contract and discussed terms as if she didn’t have black and yellow bees buzzing drunkenly in her head.
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In the Arms of the Heiress (A LADIES UNLACED NOVEL) Page 31
