Captives of the Night

by Loretta Chase

Leila ignored it. Obviously, she and Francis were not ideal employers. They'd been through three different sets of servants in ten months. All had disapproved of her.

  "When will tea be ready?" Leila asked.

  "In a trice, mum. I was only hoping to get in to change Mr. Beaumont's bedding first—but the door's still shut tight."

  And Mrs. Dempton knew better than to knock. When Francis' door was closed, he was not to be disturbed unless the house was on fire. Today Mrs. Dempton had surely heard for herself what had happened when the master's wife had troubled his rest.

  "Then I suppose he'll have to wait until tomorrow for clean sheets," said Leila.

  "Yes, mum, only he did ask particular, and told Mr. Dempton he'd have a bath, and now the water's near boiled away, because I told Mr. D. not to haul it up until that door was open. The last time—"

  "Yes, Mrs. Dempton. I quite understand."

  "And Mr. Beaumont asked for scones for his tea, which I was happy to make, I'm sure, as he don't eat enough to keep a mouse alive, but there they are, turning stone cold in the kitchen and the water boiled away and you looking for your tea, and the bedding not even changed." The disapproving expression sharpened into accusation.

  She thought it was all Leila's fault, obviously. Leila had quarreled with her husband and he'd locked himself in his room to sulk, inconveniencing the servants.

  But surely he'd given the orders after the quarrel, and so he could not have been sulking then—or intending to sleep so long. Leila frowned. Laudanum, of course. He'd complained of a headache. He must have taken laudanum and fallen asleep. There was nothing new in that.

  Nonetheless, she felt a prickle of uneasiness.

  "I had better look in on him," she said. "He may have an engagement. He'll be vexed if he sleeps through it."

  She left the studio and moved quickly down the hall to his bedroom. She rapped at the door. "Francis?" He didn't answer. She gave a harder rap and called to him more sharply. No response. "Francis!" she shouted, pounding on the door.

  Silence.

  Cautiously she opened the door and looked in.

  Her heart skidded to a stop.

  He lay on the carpet by the bed, his hand wrapped about the leg of the toppled nightstand.

  "Francis!" Even as she cried out, she knew he couldn't hear her, couldn't be roused, ever again.

  Mrs. Dempton came running at the sound, stopped short at the doorway, and let out an ear-splitting shriek.

  "Murder!" she screamed, scuttling back from the door. "God help us! Oh, Tom, for the love of heaven! She's killed him!"

  Leila didn't heed her. She moved stiffly to her husband's too-still form and, kneeling beside him, touched his wrist, his neck. His flesh was cool, too cool. No pulse. No breath. Nothing. Gone.

  She heard Mrs. Dempton screeching in the hall, heard Tom's heavy footsteps as he hurried up the stairs, but it was mere noise in some other world far away.

  Dazedly, Leila looked down.

  Broken glass. Shards from the water glass, smooth and clear, and the etched glass of the laudanum bottle. Puzzle pieces of blue and white porcelain...the water pitcher.

  "Missus?"

  She looked up into Tom Dempton's narrow, leathery face. "He—he's...please. Get the doctor. And—and Mr. Herriard. Quickly, please. Hurry, you must hurry."

  He knelt beside her, checked for signs of life as she had, then shook his head. "Doctor won't do him no good, missus. I'm sorry. He's—"

  "I know." She understood what had happened, though it didn't make sense, either. Yet the doctor had warned him. Francis himself knew. He'd told her: the wrong dosage was poison. She wanted to scream.

  "You must go," she told Dempton. "The doctor must come and—and..."

  Sign the death certificate. Papers. Life went away and left papers. Life went away and you put what was once alive into a box. Into the ground. Only a few hours ago he'd stood shouting at her.

  She shuddered. "Get the doctor. And Mr. Herriard. I'll stay with—with my husband."

  "You're all a-tremble," said Dempton. He offered his hand. "Best come away. Mrs. D. will stay with him."

  She could hear Mrs. Dempton weeping loudly in the hall beyond. "Your wife is the one who needs looking after," Leila said, fighting to keep her voice level. "Try to calm her, please—but do fetch the doctor. And Mr. Herriard."

  Reluctantly, Tom Dempton left. Leila heard his wife trailing after him down the stairs.

  "She killed him, Tom," came the strident voice. "You heard her screaming at him, telling him to die. Told him to roast in hell, she did. I knew it would come to this."

  Leila heard Dempton mutter some impatient response, then the slam of the door. Mrs. Dempton's cries subsided somewhat, but she didn't quiet altogether, and she didn't come back upstairs. Death was there, and she left Leila to look upon it alone.

  "I'm here," she whispered. "Oh, Francis, you poor...Oh, God forgive you. Forgive me. You shouldn't have gone alone. I would have held your hand. I would. You were kind once. For that...Oh, you poor fool."

  Tears trickling down her face, she bent to close his eyes. It was then she became aware of the odd scent. Odd...and wrong. She looked at the broken laudanum bottle, its contents soaking the carpet near his head. But it wasn't laudanum. This smelled like...ink.

  She sniffed, and drew back, chilled. There was water and laudanum. Nothing else. No cologne. But she knew this odor.

  She sat back on her heels, her eyes darting about the room. She'd heard the noise. The crash and the thump. He'd knocked over the nightstand, and pitcher, bottle, and drinking glass had crashed down with it. He'd fallen. But not another sound. No cry for help, no curses. Just the noise for an instant, then silence.

  Had he died in that instant?

  She made herself bend close and sniff again. It was on his breath and in the air about him. So very faint, but there: bitter almonds. Why had she thought of ink?

  Her mind didn't want to think but she made it. Ink. The doctor. In Paris. Long ago, yes, telling her to keep the windows open. He'd taken up a bottle of blue ink. Prussian blue. Even the fumes could make her very ill, he'd told her. "Artists, they are so careless," he'd said. "Yet it is they who spend their lives amid poisons of the most deadly kind. Do you know what this is made of? Prussic acid, child."

  Prussic acid. The symptoms began in seconds. It killed in minutes. The heart slowed...convulsions...asphyxiation. A teaspoon of the commercial variety could kill you. It was one of the deadliest of poisons, because it was so quick, the doctor had said. It was also hard to detect. But there was the bitter almonds odor.

  That was what she smelled.

  Someone had poisoned Francis with prussic acid.

  She shut her eyes. Poisoned. Murdered. And she had been quarreling with him, loudly, bitterly.

  She's killed him. You heard her…Told him to roast in hell.

  English juries…they've hanged plenty—even the pretty ones.

  A jury. A trial. They'd find out. About Papa.

  Like papa, like daughter.

  Her heart raced. She'd never have a chance. They'd all believe she was guilty, that evil was in her blood.

  No. No, she would not hang.

  She rose on shaky limbs. "It was an accident," she said under her breath. "God forgive me, but it must be an accident."

  She had to think. Coldly. Calmly. Prussic acid. Bitter almonds. Yes. The ink.

  She crept noiselessly from the room, looked down the stairs. She could hear Mrs. Dempton sobbing and talking to herself, but she was out of sight. Her voice was coming from the vestibule, where she was waiting for her husband to return with the doctor. They'd be here any moment.

  Leila hurried to the studio, snatched up a bottle of Prussian blue and was back in Francis' bedroom in seconds.

  Her hands trembling, she unstopped the bottle and laid it on its side amid the shards of the laudanum bottle. The ink trickled from the bottle onto the carpet, and the potent fumes rose.

  The fumes. She mu
st not remain here and inhale them. The doctor had said even that could make one ill.

  She rose and retreated only as far as the threshold, though she wanted to run as fast and as far away as possible. She wanted to faint, to be sick, to be anything but fully conscious. She made herself stay. She mustn't run. She mustn't leave Francis alone, and she mustn't be sick or swoon. She must think, prepare herself.

  She focused all her will on that. There were sounds below, but she shut them out. She must make herself very calm. No tears. She couldn't risk even that small loss of control. She needed all her will.

  She heard the footsteps upon the stairs, but didn't look round. She couldn't. She wasn't ready. She couldn't command her muscles.

  The footsteps neared. "Madame." It was a soft voice, a whisper so low she wasn't sure she heard it. The entire house seemed to be whispering. Murder.

  Like papa like daughter.

  Hang the pretty ones,

  "Madame."

  Her head turned slowly, jerkily...to inhumanly blue eyes and a crown of spun gold hair. She didn't understand why he was there. She wasn't sure he truly was there. She couldn't think about that or anything. Tears were burning her eyes and she mustn't cry, mustn't move. She would shatter like the glass, the bottle, the pitcher. Broken…puzzle pieces.

  "I c-can't," she mumbled. "I must..."

  "Yes, Madame."

  She swayed, and he caught her in his arms.

  She shattered then and, pressing her face to his coat, she wept.

  Chapter 3

  It was Fate that had driven him here, Ismal thought, and Fate that sent Leila Beaumont into his arms.

  Fate, evidently, was in a vicious humor.

  Ismal was aware of her soft, untidy hair tickling his chin and of the lush ripeness of the body pressed tautly to his. With the awareness came a hunger so fierce that it darkened his reason. But he dragged his mind back from the darkness to take in the room beyond, for he was all too aware of what lay there as well.

  He'd turned her back to the scene when he caught her, and now he studied it over her head: the corpse, the overturned nightstand, the broken glass and crockery...and one unbroken bottle of ink. The hysterical woman servant below had babbled of murder. His instincts told him the same.

  At the sound of footsteps, Ismal looked down to the landing, just as Nick appeared there, his upturned countenance politely blank.

  Ismal nodded, and Nick hurried noiselessly up to him.

  "Take her to one of the rooms below, and get her brandy," Ismal told him in Greek, his voice a shade too harsh. "Do what you must to keep her there."

  Nick gently disentangled her from his master and pushed a fresh handkerchief into her hands. "It'll be all right, Madame," he said soothingly. "Don't you mind a thing. We'll see to it. I'll fix you some tea. You leave it to me," he continued as he guided her down the stairs. "Doctor's on his way. There, lean on me, that's right."

  Leaving Mrs. Beaumont in his servant's capable hands, Ismal slipped into the master bedroom.

  He studied Beaumont's blue-tinged countenance briefly, then lifted the eyelids. If he'd died of a laudanum overdose, the pupils would be narrowed to pinpricks. Instead, they were widely dilated.

  Ismal sniffed cautiously, then drew back, his eyes on the ink bottle. The main odor was that of the ink, and it was not healthy, he knew. That, however, wasn't what had killed Francis Beaumont. Though the odor about the mouth and body was barely discernible, Ismal's sensitive nose recognized it. Beaumont had ingested prussic acid. Frowning, Ismal rose.

  Allah grant him patience. To kill the man was understandable, but she might as well have killed herself, too, while she was about it, for she could not have devised a quicker route to the gallows. Motive, means, opportunity—all pointing to her.

  But it was done, he told himself, and could not be done again more intelligently. At least she'd shown sense enough to spill the ink. That should confuse matters. He would take care of the rest. Lord Quentin, the man he'd secretly worked for this last decade, would insist upon it.

  He would see, as quickly as Ismal had, that an inquest was unavoidable. Even if the physician failed to notice the odor of prussic acid, he'd be sure to observe the dilated pupils. He'd want an autopsy.

  In any case, the death was suspicious, thanks to the curst Mrs. Dempton. Ismal had hardly entered the house before the demented female had not only repeated what she'd overheard of the quarrel, but reported that Mrs. Beaumont had sent for her lawyer as well as the doctor. Mrs. Dempton would share these incriminating tidbits with everyone else who'd listen. The newspapers would be all too eager to listen.

  Since, given these disagreeable circumstances, an inquest was inevitable, it had better be carefully managed. Only one verdict—accidental death—was acceptable. The alternative was a murder investigation and public trial. The Vingt-Huit matter might easily come to light, opening Pandora's box. News of the government's clandestine activities could set off a public outcry that could easily bring down the present ministry. Even if the government survived the uproar, countless people—not simply Beaumont's victims, but their innocent kin—would suffer public disgrace and humiliation. Whole families could be destroyed, here and abroad.

  In short, one could either allow one woman to get away with murder or set off a cataclysmic scandal.

  It was not a difficult choice, Ismal reflected as he left the master bedroom and shut the door behind him. For once, duty and inclination were in full agreement.

  In those first terrible moments in the master bedroom, Leila had forgotten that Andrew Herriard had already left for the Continent the previous day. Thanks to a storm in the Channel, her message was slow to reach him in Paris. Consequently, he didn't get back to London until the day before the inquest.

  He came straight to the house, without stopping to change out of his traveling clothes. Still, not until Fiona had left them alone in the parlor did his calm amiability give way to frowning concern.

  "My dear girl," he said, taking Leila's hands in his.

  The gentle voice, the warm strength of his hands, drove back the demons of the last six days.

  "I'm all right," she said. "It's a—an unpleasant business, but merely a formality, I'm sure."

  "A terrible strain upon you, all the same." He led her to the sofa and sat down with her. "Take your time and tell me as best you can, from the beginning."

  She told him virtually the same story she'd told Lord Quentin three times, the magistrate twice, and Fiona once. It was the truth, but not all of it. Leila told Andrew a bit more about the quarrel, but not much more. She described it in general terms, letting him assume she couldn't remember the details clearly. She didn't mention the prussic acid odor or the ink she'd spilled.

  Even with Andrew, whom she would trust with her life, there was only one route to take: the death was an accident.

  She was guiltily aware that Andrew would be appalled at what she'd done. To shield a murderer was a criminal act, and he would not countenance it, regardless what was at stake.

  She wasn't so noble. While Andrew might find some way to save her from the gallows, the truth about her father would surely come out and destroy her career. She would, as always, find some way to survive. But Andrew's career would be jeopardized as well. He had never told the authorities he'd found Jonas Bridgeburton's daughter alive, and he'd had to take some not strictly legal steps to give her a new identity.

  The average lawyer's career might withstand a small, very old blot on his copybook. Andrew Herriard, however, was one of the most highly regarded solicitors in England, not simply because of his brilliant legal mind, but because of his unshakable integrity. He was being considered for a knighthood at least, possibly a peerage.

  Leila wouldn't let his life be blighted because of her.

  No matter what happened at tomorrow's inquest, no matter what the doctors found in Francis' body, she wouldn't be destroyed, and Andrew wouldn't be disgraced. She'd had six days to think and plan, and she'd found
, as she always did, a way to manage matters. She hadn't let Francis victimize her. She wouldn't let a lot of law officers do it, either.

  All she cared about now was Andrew, and her heart lightened when his worried expression began to abate. She had only to glance up into his gentle brown eyes to know he believed her innocent.

  "It was simply an unlucky chain of circumstances," he said reassuringly. "Still, you were fortunate that particular client happened along. I understand Esmond is very well connected, here as well as abroad."

  "Apparently he had only to snap his fingers and Lord Quentin came running."

  "I couldn't ask for a better man than Quentin to oversee this farce of an inquiry. An unavoidable farce, thanks to Mrs. Dempton's unaccountable behavior. She will cost the Home Office much needless labor and expense." He searched her face. "But they're minor concerns at present. I'm sorry you've had to endure so much. At least I find you in good hands: Lady Carroll is devoted to you—and that young manservant seems a steady fellow."

  "He's Esmond's servant," she said. "Nick is a sort of bodyguard. I was given a choice between him and one of Quentin's men. Someone was needed to keep out the curious." She explained that apart from her dressmaker, only David had been admitted. He'd called the day after Francis' death, and she'd asked him to discourage others from calling until after the inquest.

  "Very wise." He smiled. "You've done everything just as I should have advised. It would seem I'm scarcely needed."

  "I only wish you hadn't been needed," she said. "I'm sorry to bring so much trouble to you."

  "Nonsense," he said briskly. "As usual, you leave me little to do. You've acted wisely and bravely, as you have for years. My only regret is that this marriage has demanded so very much wisdom and courage. Even in death, he's a trouble to you."

  His sympathy set her conscience shrieking. "I'd have been in worse trouble if he hadn't married me," she said. "And I should be in far worse by now if you hadn't forgiven me and stood by me and—and helped me become better."

  She would never forget the day, ten years ago, when she'd had to explain why she must marry Francis Beaumont, though Andrew disapproved. She would never forget Andrew's grieved expression when she confessed she was no longer a virgin. His sorrow had been far more devastating than the anger and disgust she'd steeled herself for.