The Paid Companion | Herophine

Chapter Thirty Two

Hero

The weak illumination supplied by the small lights of the carriages and the gas lamp at the door of the Green Lyon faded rapidly behind Hero. He moved more quickly, trying to keep Roland's lantern insight. He had to concentrate to keep his weight on the balls of his feet so that the heels of his boots would not sound a warning on the paving stones.

Roland, on the other hand, was making no particular attempt at stealth. His steps were swift and sure; a man who knew where he was going.

The cramped, twisted street was lined with small shops that were all closed and shuttered for the night. No lights shone in the rooms above the business establishments. It was not a particularly dangerous neighbourhood in the light of day, but at this hour only a fool would come here alone.

What drew Roland here?

A few minutes later his quarry came to a halt in front of a darkened doorway. Hero moved into a vestibule and watched as Roland let himself into a small, cramped hail. The lantern light flared briefly and then disappeared entirely when the door closed behind the young man.

It occurred to Hero that Roland might be visiting a woman in this street. There would be nothing unusual about such a situation. It was common for gentlemen, even those who had been recently wed, to keep a mistress on the side. But that type of indulgence was expensive. By all accounts, the Burnley finances were in exceedingly poor shape.

Hero watched the windows on the floor above the door that Roland had just entered. There was no sign of lantern light. Roland must have gone to a room at the back of the building.

He would learn nothing standing about in this doorway, he concluded. He lit his own lantern, turned the light down very low, and moved out of the shadows. He crossed the tiny street and tried the door through which Roland had disappeared.

It opened easily.

The dim light of the lantern revealed the stairs that led to the floor above the shops. Hero removed the pistol from the pocket of his coat.

He went up the stairs cautiously, watching for any unexpected shadows on the landing. Nothing moved in the darkness.

At the top of the steps, he found himself in an unlit corridor. There were two doors. A slender edge of light showed beneath one of them.

He set the lantern down so that the weak glare lit the floor but did not throw him into a strong silhouette. No sense making a perfect target of himself, he thought.

He went to the door and tried the knob with his left hand. It turned easily in his fingers. Whatever he was about here, Roland did not seem to be concerned that someone might walk in on him with a pistol. Then again, perhaps he simply did not intend to stay very long and wished to be able to leave quickly without having to fumble for a key.

Hero listened intently for a moment. There was no conversation inside the room. He could hear only one person, presumably Roland, moving around inside.

A drawer opened and closed. A moment later there was a squeak. The rusty hinges of a wardrobe?

When he heard a lengthy scraping sound he used the noise as cover to open the door.

He found himself looking into a small chamber furnished with a bed, a wardrobe and an old washstand. Roland was crouched on the bare wooden floorboards, searching under the bed. He did not hear Hero enter the room.

“Good evening, Burnley.”

“What?” Roland jerked around, staggering to his feet. He stared. “Tiffin! So it’s true.” Anguish leapt in his eyes. It was washed away an instant later by a wave of searing anger. “You did force her into your bed! You fucking bastard.”