My True Companion (7 page)

“To what end?” said Millie, her eyes glistening with unshed
tears. “A posthumous pardon is of little use to my father.”

“But it may be of use to you, in restoring your status, and
you may be able to claim some compensation for your loss. Then you can tell Mrs
Oakengate to go to hell … Sorry,” he sat back in his seat. “I forget how to
behave in front of ladies sometimes.”

Millie had to admit that the thought of being able to live
independently was an attractive one, but the cost for her had already been too
high. A sum of money might make her life easier, but she would always know that
it came out of her father’s misfortune. “I don’t care about money,” she said,
speaking in all honesty. “I do care about clearing my father’s name.”

“Good. Who knows, you might then settle down and marry some
boring little bank clerk.”

“You mean I will be a suitable wife then,” said Millie, with
more bitterness than she intended. “Yes, I suppose I shall. It’s just a pity
that I would rather marry someone who did not care a jot either way, and who loved
me enough for it not to matter to him. In which case, I shall probably never
marry.”

“Unfortunately we live in a world where such things do
matter,” said Haxby. “Particularly when there has been a war where millions of
young men lost their lives. If people believe that your father is guilty of
hastening their end, by sharing our secrets, it will be hard for them to
forgive and forget. It’s unjust, but the sins of the father, and all that…”

Millie felt her heart sink, and her enthusiasm for their
adventure wane. Even when she believed he may just be trying to seduce her, she
had secretly hoped that he would turn out to have feelings for her, despite her
family ignominy. Now she knew that whilst he may desire her for a few hours,
his status would always prevent anything further between them. Haxby sighed.
“And now I’ve hurt you, which is the last thing I ever wanted to do.”

“No, you’ve spoken the truth, and I’m grateful for it. In
the words of Mrs Oakengate I was getting ideas above my station. You have successfully
cured me of that.”

“Millie …”

What a silly girl you are, Millie, she thought to herself,
staring out of the window and avoiding his searching gaze for the rest of the
trip.

Chapter Seven

Most of Millie’s worries were swept up in the excitement of
their arrival in London. Being in the capital always enthralled her; the hustle
and bustle of traffic, where horses and carriages still shared space with new
motorcars; the noise of the barkers on roadside stalls and the elegant young women
who went about the important business of being elegant young women. They had
poise and confidence that Millie envied. She could not help noticing the
glances they cast in James Haxby’s direction, and fancied that their gazes
hardened when they saw the mouse of the woman walking next to him. Each and
every one of them would have made a more suitable companion.

They took a taxi cab to the Ritz Hotel where Haxby booked
them rooms next door to each other. Millie had assumed they would return to
Derbyshire that evening. She also assumed that they would go to Chlomsky’s
embassy, to keep watch, only to learn that Haxby had contacted a detective
agency, who kept watch on their behalf.

“We will have dinner here, then the agent is going to come
along and report his findings,” said Haxby, before they were each shown to
their room.

“I thought we’d be the ones watching,” said Millie.

“That’s hardly wise. Chlomsky knows us.”

“But you said that you needed me to identify Vasily.”

“Oh, I do. I do.” His manner was vague. “Come, we’ll change
for dinner, and I’ll meet you in the restaurant.” It seemed to Millie that
Haxby once again held something back. His manner became vague.

Millie was embarrassed to admit that she had nothing to
change into. “I was not expecting us to stay the night,” she said. All she had
brought with her was a small bag, containing a few toilet items and Barbara
Conrad’s novel, which she had intended to read on the train. Even that gave her
a pang of guilt, as she had not asked, telling herself that it would not
matter, since she intended to return to Fazeby Hall.

Haxby looked her up and down appraisingly, then said, “Don’t
worry, I know a woman who can take care of that. Go and freshen up, and someone
will come to you.”

Half an hour later, Millie answered a knock at her door. It
was a middle aged woman, with a motherly air. Behind her stood a porter,
carrying a large trunk.

“Hello, Miss, I’m Mrs Turner, a friend of Mr Haxby’s. I’ve
brought your particulars.”

The archaic term made Millie smile. Mrs Turner ordered the
porter to leave the luggage. It was with further embarrassment that Millie
realised she had not given him a tip. “Mr Haxby will take care of that,” said
Mrs Turner, as if reading her mind. “Now, let me look at you. Oh yes, if Mr
Haxby knows anything it’s women’s sizes.”

“Does he?” said Millie, standing in the middle of the room,
whilst Mrs Turner took her measurements. “Do you … erm … do you do this for him
with a lot of ladies?”

“I’m sure I shouldn’t gossip,” said Mrs Turner. “Don’t slump
your shoulders, dear. But yes, he has used my services more than once.”

“I see.” Millie’s face flushed with shame. No doubt Mrs
Turner thought of Millie has just another notch in Haxby’s bedpost. She
wondered if everyone in the hotel thought the same. What on earth had she
walked into?

“I think, on reflection,” said Millie, trying to regain some
pride, “that I’ll wear my own clothes after all.”

“I’m sure it’s a very nice dress, Miss,” said Mrs Turner, eyeing
Millie’s grey tweed pinafore doubtfully, “but hardly suitable for dinner at the
Ritz. Let me show you what I’ve brought, and if there’s nothing you like I’ll
send for something else.”

Millie fully expected to be presented with clothes more
suitable to a lady of the night, so she was pleasantly surprised to see that
Mrs Turner had brought along clothes that were similarly elegant to those worn
by other young ladies in London. She settled for a dress of ivory Brussels
lace, which settled on her curves as if it had been designed with her in mind.

“Oh, you’re a picture, Miss. A real picture,” said Mrs
Turner. “I’ve seen lots of young ladies wearing that dress, but none as
delightfully as you.”

Millie’s pleasure was momentarily abated by the thought that
another of Haxby’s lovers had also worn the same dress. The words lamb to the
slaughter crossed her mind. He would hardly seduce her in a restaurant full of
people but the idea that these same people – the staff at least – would be used
to him courting many other young women in public was too painful to
contemplate. And afterwards, when they returned to their rooms … Millie tried
not to think of it.

With a matching scarf around her shoulders, as some security
against the low cut of the neckline, and her hair brushed to a luscious shine,
she eventually made her way downstairs to the restaurant, to find Haxby
waiting.

Looking devastatingly handsome in a black tuxedo, he drew
admiring glances from many of the women present. Oblivious to the equally
admiring glances she received from the men, Millie joined him.

“Well …” he said, as he helped her to her seat, “I’m seldom
rendered speechless, but for once I don’t know what to say.” As she sat down,
and he pushed her chair under her, she felt his mouth against her hair, sending
a thrill through her whole body. “You look exquisite,” he whispered. “Like a
bride, in fact.”

Millie blushed, but any awkwardness she felt in replying
was, thankfully, taken up with the process of ordering dinner.

“And champagne, I think,” Haxby said to the waiter, closing
his menu after they had chosen.

“My father brought me here once for afternoon tea,” said
Millie, just for something to say.

“Everyone should have tea at the Ritz at least once in their
lifetime,” said Haxby. “My mother used to bring me, whenever we visited
Britain.”

“You weren’t brought up here?”

“No, my family were old colonials. I was born in the West
Indies. Then my father became an ambassador, and we moved around a lot.”

“Is that why you seldom stay in one place for long now?”

“Yes, I suppose it is,” said Haxby. “There isn’t anywhere I
can really call home.”

“Yet your loyalties are to Britain.”

“Of course. One never forgets the mother country. When I’m
too old for travelling, I fancy I’ll move to Kent. Keep a few goats.” Millie
laughed at the idea of Haxby as a farmer. “Oh, you may mock, young Millie, but
a man has to have something to keep him going into his old age.”

“You don’t think you’ll ever marry then?” Millie regretted
asking the moment she said it.

“I’d make a terrible husband,” he replied. “After all, what
woman would want to spend her whole life travelling? They want a home,
children, with a grocer on the corner.”

“Your mother travelled … from what you say.”

“My mother was – is - an exceptional woman, and there are
very few like her.”

“Where is she now? Still travelling?”

“No, she owns a farm in Kent. Keeps a few goats.”  He
smiled. “Honestly. That’s why I know it’s where I’ll retire.”

“Meanwhile you just want excitement and glamour.”

“Oh glamour isn’t worth having. It’s too transient and the
public’s idea of it changes from year to year. But excitement, yes, most
certainly. My biggest fear is boredom.”

Millie was tempted to ask him why on earth he was sitting in
the Ritz with her. Instead she lapsed into silence for a while as they ate
their starter. “Mr Haxby…”

“I think we can dispense with that now. Call me Jim.”

She could not explain to him that it was the last thing she
wanted to call him. Had he not told her that women called him that when they
became intimate with him? To do so would be to admit that she wanted to be on
those terms with him. To feel his arms around her, and to know how it felt to …

“Do you really care about clearing my father’s name? Or is this
whole thing just your way of getting me into your bed?” The question came out
far more savagely than Millie intended. It was the only way she could armour
herself against his searching eyes, which appeared to be looking right through
the thin material she wore.

“Now what brought that on?” To Millie’s surprise he laughed.
It made her feel even worse, because he clearly saw her as a thing of
amusement.

“It was Mrs Turner telling me how often she’d taken care of
the ladies you bring to the Ritz. Really, I wonder that so few of them possess
the correct attire.”

Haxby threw down his knife and fork, causing several other
diners to look over at them. He hissed across the table, “Millie, despite what
you obviously think, I am not in the habit of bringing women here to seduce
them. I work for a government agency. I have often had call to bring new female
agents here, and coach them in how to behave in such surroundings. It’s a fact
of our work that those women willing to take on the danger are not always able to
fit into any society. Do you understand?” He said the last words as though
speaking to a ten-year old.

“Yes,” she said, her head bowed in shame.

“I assure you that I have no intention of seducing you, now
or at any other time.”

He might just as well have slapped her in the face. To learn
that his intentions were entirely honourable would have been one thing. It
would have removed some of the strain of being alone with him. But to learn
that he in no way found her desirable, or ever would, filled her with despair.

How she managed to eat the food the waiter placed in front
of her, she did not know. At the back of her mind was the idea that it would be
sinful to waste such expensive food. She ate mechanically, because it was
something to do that prevented her from having to speak to him.

They were eating dessert when a man arrived and joined them
at their table.

“This is Mister Barraclough. He’s a private detective,”
Haxby informed Millie. His manner had returned to normal, as if the previous
exchange had not taken place. “Barraclough, this is Miss Millicent Woodridge.”

Barraclough was a coarse looking man, who looked as
uncomfortable in the Ritz as Millie felt. His stiff collar had left a red mark
on his neck, which he kept rubbing. He was a man who clearly had little time
for pleasantries, merely nodding at Millie. “We found Vasily, but unfortunately
he gave us the slip,” Barraclough explained. “Ran into a music hall, and got
lost amongst the crowd.”

“So you’ve no idea where he is now?” said Haxby.

“Oh yes, we’ve managed to track him to a house in Wimbledon.
I’ve just come along to ask what you want to do next. Don’t worry, one of my
men is still watching.”

“What have you managed to find out about him?”

Barraclough took out a shabby notebook and began reading from
its pages. “He’s only worked for Chlomsky for a few weeks. Was hired by some
agency abroad, when Chlomsky’s own valet got himself run over by a car.”

“Was it an accident?” asked Millie, her mind turning to
ideas she could not yet fathom.

“There’s no way we’ll ever find out, Miss. It happened at
the Embassy, which as you know, is sovereign land. They keep things to
themselves.”

Haxby called the waiter for the bill, and said, “I’ll come
along presently, Barraclough. Get back there and make sure you don’t lose him
again.” He turned to Millie and said, “I’ll see you to your room.”

“Am I not coming with you? I thought you wanted me to
identify him.”

“I don’t think that will be necessary now. Besides, I don’t
want to put you in any danger.”

Millie was about to say that it was hardly worth her making
the trip to London, but thought better of it. Clearly Haxby was disappointed
with her. She wondered if he had meant to seduce her, as a means of amusement
to make the time pass more quickly, and he was angry that she had seen through
his plans.