"To soften my heart," she said.
"Yes." He stepped back from the bed. "And in another moment, I shall be on my knees, begging you to take pity. I am abominable. A great problem."
"Yes," she said. "Yes, you are. Go away, Esmond. Now."
He went promptly because, though he'd spoken as truthfully as he could—more truthfully than he'd done in years—he could not overcome the habits of a lifetime. He had missed nothing—the way her eyes softened while he spoke, the way her posture eased and her body shifted ever so slightly, inclining toward him—and every instinct had urged him to take advantage. He would have fallen to his knees and begged, conscienceless beast that he was. Because he hadn't lied. He didn't know how to stop wanting her. And so nothing—honor, wisdom, caution, even pride—could keep him from trying.
Chapter 10
On the stroke of noon, Nick entered Ismal's bedroom to announce Lord Avory's arrival. Ismal was still in his dressing gown.
"Shall I let him cool his heels in the library?" Nick asked.
"What sort of mood is he in?"
"About as beastly as yours." Nick slammed shaving materials onto the washstand. "I daresay you'll expect to get shaved in thirty seconds."
"You should not have let me oversleep."
"When I tried to wake you, you offered to relieve me of my private parts. In painfully explicit terms." Nick commenced to stropping the razor with vicious energy.
"I think I prefer to shave myself today," Ismal said. "Send His Lordship up."
Nick stalked out.
Ismal had lain awake a long time, pondering Leila Beaumont's aching temples and the self-loathing that seemed to be part of it—a shame Ismal had little doubt her husband had planted. Beaumont, clearly, had possessed a gift for poisoning minds.
Undoubtedly, Sherburne's mind had been poisoned, to cause such a bitter and painful estrangement from an adoring wife who'd erred but once—and then mainly thanks to her husband's provocation. Then there was Lady Carroll, who'd conceived such an intense hatred of Lord Avory...and Avory himself, with the terrible secret that prevented his wooing the girl he loved.
Unfit, Avory had called himself. He had also pinpointed the time his problems had begun. Two years ago, right after Edmund Carstairs' suicide.
During his sleepless hours, Ismal had begun to formulate a theory. Now, as he began lathering his face, he prepared himself to test it. He wasn't looking forward to the procedure. He had become rather fond of Lord Avory...who was attached to him, trusted him, looked up to him as though Ismal were an infinitely heroic and admirable older brother.
Avory couldn't know Ismal was a vulture, waiting to pluck out his secrets.
Just as Ismal finished lathering his face, the marquess entered.
"Please forgive me," Ismal said as he took up the razor. "I overslept."
"I wish I had done." Avory plunked himself down on the window seat. "Instead, I spent the morning reviewing my accounts with Mama."
Ismal gave him a sympathetic glance. "Your expression tells me the experience was not agreeable." He began shaving, his mind working with the same brisk sureness as his hand.
"It is thoroughly mortifying to have to account—with receipts—for every curst ha'penny," his guest said. "Today I learned receipts aren't enough. I'm now expected to provide all the whys and wherefores as well. So we quarreled." He bent to brush a speck of dust from his boots. "I told her that I she disapproved of how I spent my paltry allowance, she needn't give me any. She threatened to oblige me. I recommended that she and Father make a proper job of it and disown me entirely," he said, straightening.
The vulture began to circle and descend.
"It is no use, you know," Ismal told him. "If you do not wish to inherit, you will have to hang yourself. They cannot disown you. You are all they have—the last male of your line."
"Not all they have. There are other branches of the family tree." Avory gave a short laugh. "Still, I most certainly am the very last of the direct line. Father's so proud of the fact that the title's gone straight from father to son since the time of the first Duke of Langford—unlike the convoluted genealogy of the Royal Family. As though that were anything to boast of, when it's just a matter of luck."
His face hardening, he rose and moved to the dressing table. "It seems our luck has run out." He sank down into the chair and began arranging Ismal's toiletries in rows in order of size.
"So that is the problem," Ismal murmured as he angled the shaving glass for a better view of the marquess' countenance. "You believe you will fail to produce the necessary heir." He saw the muscle leap in Avory's jaw. "Or do I misunderstand?"
There was a very long silence. Ismal continued shaving.
"I shouldn't have quarreled with Mama," Avory said at last in a low voice. He was staring at the orderly arrangement he'd made. "I simply should have told her. But it's not the sort of thing one tells anybody. I didn't mean to tell you. But I seem to have dropped a broad enough hint. I'm always complaining to you. Sorry."
"It is necessary to speak to someone," Ismal said. "You refer to impotence, yes?"
¯¯
Several hours later, Ismal sent Avory home with a list of dietary instructions, a recipe for an herbal tisane, and the promise that Nick would prepare and deliver some pills before nightfall. The pills were no more necessary than the diet and tisane, for the cure was already taking effect. The problem was all in Avory's head, where Beaumont had maliciously put it with a few well-chosen words. Ismal had simply excised it with a few very different well-chosen words. But being English, the marquess was more likely to believe in the efficacy of bad-tasting medicines than mere speech.
After instructing Nick to make the harmless pills as foul-tasting as possible, Ismal set out for a walk. The last few hours had proved emotionally wearying. Since the fatigue was mental rather than physical, exercise was a preferable remedy to lying about brooding.
He was striding briskly through Pall Mall when he spied a familiar black-garbed feminine figure entering the door of number fifty-two—the British Institution. Madame Beaumont was accompanied by a gentleman. And neither Gaspard nor Eloise was anywhere in sight.
Within minutes, Ismal had gained admittance. Moments later, he found her in a chamber where a handful of artists labored before an assortment of old master works. She was speaking to one of the artists—a young woman—and the fellow with her turned out to be Lord Sellowby. Who turned out to be standing much too close.
Ismal simply stood in the entryway, looking idly about while he focused all his furious concentration on Leila Beaumont. Finally, after two interminable minutes, her posture stiffened and her gaze shot to him.
Arranging a polite smile on his face, Ismal approached.
"The British Institution is exceedingly popular today,” said Sellowby, after greetings had been exchanged and the young artist introduced as Miss Greenlaw.
"I misunderstood," Ismal said. "When I saw Madame Beaumont enter, I assumed some of her works were on display."
"They might be," said she icily, "if I'd been dead a couple of centuries."
"And if she were a man," said Miss Greenlaw. "You shan't find a woman artist's work in this lot." She informed Ismal that she was entering the annual competition to create a companion piece to one of the works on display. The three best works would win prizes of one hundred, sixty, and forty pounds, respectively.
"Miss Greenlaw did me the honor of requesting a critique," said Madame. "Which I am sure she would prefer not be done before a crowd."
"I do not believe two onlookers constitute a crowd," Sellowby said with a faint smile.
"Two bored and fidgety men do," she said. "I know you'll fidget—first, because the discussion isn't about you and second, because you won't understand what it is about." She waved her hand dismissively. "Go talk among yourselves—or look at the pictures. Perhaps you'll absorb some culture by accident."
"I shouldn't dream of taking such a risk," said Sellowby. "I shall await
you outside, Mrs. Beaumont. Esmond, care to join me?"
By the time they reached the pavement, Ismal was apprised of the fact that Mrs. Beaumont had consented to dine with Sellowby and his sister, Lady Charlotte, at what Sellowby deemed the ungodly hour of six o'clock.
"One encounters fewer strictures when dining with the King," Sellowby said as they ambled down the street. "My sister must have an early dinner. Mrs. Beaumont must speak to Miss Greerdaw first, for she promised. But before she could do that, we had to wait for Mrs. Beaumont's woman servant to finish whatever it was she was doing, so that she could accompany us."
Eloise, it turned out, was waiting in His Lordship's carriage. This news allayed Ismal's agitation not a whit.
Sellowby was a large, dark, well-built man with a sleepy gaze and sardonic manner certain women found irresistibly intriguing. Ismal imagined one certain woman intrigued across a dinner table set for two. Thence his imagination moved through a dimly lit hallway, up a set of stairs, through a bedroom door and on, with bloodcurdling clarity, to a bed.
"It would have been a good deal simpler if Fiona were about," Sellowby went on. "But if she had been, we shouldn't have this problem in the first place."
Despite the thundering in his ears, Ismal did understand the words and somehow amid the turmoil, his brain managed to operate.
"I am sorry to hear this," he said. "Madame Beaumont has had problems enough, I should think."
"I mean Charlotte, my sister," Sellowby clarified. "She's in a dither because Fiona hasn't answered any of her letters—or anybody's, it seems. Charlotte's heard from most of the Woodleigh family, all in a dither because they haven't had a word from Dorset—not even a note from their pestilential Aunt Maud. If Mrs. Beaumont can't quiet this tempest in a teapot, I know just what will happen. I shall be ordered to Dorset to demand an explanation—from a woman who can't bear the sight of me—for the benefit of her family and my busybody sister."
"But there are nine brothers," Ismal pointed out, his detective instincts stirring.
"And every last one of them dances to her tune. Fiona ordered them to keep away, and they wouldn't dream of disobeying. Have you ever heard anything so idiotic?"
"It is odd that Lady Carroll would write to no one," Ismal said. "Surely she realizes they are anxious about her sister's health."
Sellowby paused to frown into a printshop window. "Odd isn't the word for Fiona. I'm not sure what the word is. 'Inconsiderate' will do for the moment. Because of her, we are obliged to plague Mrs. Beaumont. And wouldn't you know it? Not a one of them thought to invite her out until they needed something from her. Even then, they must do it by proxy. My only consolation is that Charlotte has ordered an excellent dinner and I shall supply my very best wines. Mrs. Beaumont will be lavishly fed, at any rate."
"You make her sound like a lamb led to the slaughter."
Sellowby turned away from the window and gave a short laugh. "Quite. I begin to sound just as theatrical as the others. But she knows what she's getting into. I did warn her about our ulterior motives."
And naturally, she would jump at the chance to go out, to do some detecting of her own, Ismal unhappily realized. Or perhaps she simply wanted to spend a few hours in the company of a more manageable man, a normal English rake.
Finding he liked neither proposition, Ismal tried to persuade himself she simply wanted to help, as she'd wanted to help Sherburne. Yet she had held Sherburne's hand...and she had been detecting. And so, Ismal couldn't like the way she "helped," either. His gut was in knots and he had the irrational urge to dash Sellowby's brains out on the pavement.
Still, he remained outwardly his usual ingratiating self. When at last Madame exited the building, Ismal bid her and Sellowby a courteous adieu and casually sauntered away.
Leila came home at half-past nine. At nine thirty-seven, she was quarreling in the studio with Esmond.
"Asked you?" she repeated indignantly. "I don't ask your or anyone's permission to dine out."
She stood, stiff with outrage, in the center of the carpet. She wanted to throw something. That he of all men—lying, manipulative snake that he was—should dictate to her—in her own house. And look at him. He couldn't even pace like a normal man. Instead he prowled the room, like a surly jungle cat, closing in for an attack. She wasn't afraid. She had some attacking of her own to do.
"You were not dining," he snapped. "You were detecting. Which is not your business, but mine."
"It’s not your business to tell me what my business is," she said crisply. "You do not dictate my social activities—such as they are. Do you think I've nothing better to do than sit about all evening, waiting for you? If, that is, you're in a humor to turn up. Not that you've turned up lately to much purpose other than immorality."
"You try to turn the subject," he said, stalking past the draped windows. "That has nothing to do with the issue at hand."
"It is the issue," she said, summoning her control. "I have learned virtually nothing from you but how extremely talented a seducer you are. And I begin to suspect you want it just that way. You don't want me to know anything about this case. You especially don't want me to suspect there's more to it than meets the eye."
His restless motion slowed fractionally, telling Leila she'd aimed accurately.
'That's why you don't want me out with others," she went on, her confidence building. "You're afraid I'll hear something. Well, it's too bloody late." She marched straight into his path, bringing him to a sharp halt. She looked him square in the eye. He tried to stare her down, his eyes shooting fierce blue sparks. She refused to be cowed. She was getting used to being singed.
"I went out, Esmond," she said. "I heard something. Do you care to hear about it—or do you prefer to waste your valuable time in an idiotic row?"
"I am not idiotic! You put yourself in danger. You do not even consult with me first."
"So you can tell me what to do?" She swung away from him. "Because I'm too stupid to figure it out for myself? Just because it's so easy for you to play havoc with my morals, you think I'm brainless, don't you? Just because you've pulled the wool over my eyes from the start, you think I'm an imbecile."
"That is nonsense," he said, storming after her, toward the fire. "What is between us has nothing to do-"
"It has everything to do with everything! There's nothing between us. Never has been. You only pretend it to keep me distracted—and you're good at that, aren't you?" she demanded. "At pretending. Distracting. You drove Francis distracted. With jealousy. Do you actually believe I'm too stupid to see the flaw in that picture?"
He drew back sharply.
Ah, yes. He hadn't been prepared for that.
There was a short, deadly silence.
Then, with a patently false, patronizing smile, he asked, "What flaw?"
"If you want to seduce another man's wife," she said, her voice low and level, "it is counterproductive to arouse the husband's suspicions. You are far too clever and calculating to let that happen. Ergo, your main interest was not seduction."
She moved to the sofa and perched on the arm and watched the words sink in. Now that she'd commenced what she'd braced herself to begin and finish, she felt wonderfully calm. Outrage and hurt rolled away, like a spent storm, leaving crystal clarity behind. "I have a theory of what you did want," she said. "Thanks to something Sellowby mentioned."
"A theory." He turned away to the mantel and took up the small bust of Michelangelo, then put it down again.
"It begins with Edmund Carstairs," she said.
He went very, very still.
"That friend of David's who shot himself after some important papers were stolen from him," she amplified. "According to Sellowby—who was in Paris at the time, having an affair with a diplomat's wife—the papers were confidential letters from the tsar. Your friend, the Tsar of Russia."
The light played fitfully upon his pale gold hair, but that was the only sign of motion.
"The tsar demanded someone get t
o the bottom of it," she said. "According to Sellowby, no one could. And so I found myself wondering, Esmond, just who might be called in to solve a riddle no one else could. Then I asked myself why the tsar's good friend, the Comte d'Esmond—who also turns out to be friends with British and French royalty—should choose, out of all the men in Paris, a sodden nobody like Francis Beaumont as boon companion."
He turned then, very slowly, as though drawn in spite of himself. The lines at the corners of his eyes were sharply etched.
"'The reasons for certain friendships" she softly quoted. "'Not always what they seem.' I pay attention, you know. I do treasure your little gems of wisdom."
His blue gaze grew clouded.
"It was a slow ride home," she said. "The streets were busy this evening. I had ample time to ponder a number of puzzling matters. Why, for instance, the great Lord Quentin bothered with the suspicious death of a nobody like Francis. Why His Lordship had no trouble believing my astonishing announcement that my husband had been murdered. Why His Lordship was so very obliging about conducting a covert inquiry into the murder. And why, of course, he sent for you."
"In the carriage," he said very softly. "You formulated this theory of yours during the ride home."
"I believe I see the outlines," she said. "I do see a discreet inquiry regarding those Russian letters that began some time ago. And Francis must have been the primary suspect, since you devoted nearly all your time to him. Since it was so very discreet, since he was never prosecuted, I assume there must have been potential for some nasty scandal. What I can't decide is whether the papers alone held the potential for scandal or whether Francis was involved in some larger crime, and the papers were merely a part."
Shaking his head, he looked away. "This is bad," he said. "You cannot—You should not—Ah, Leila, you make me so unhappy."
She heard the unhappiness in his tones, and something more in the sound of her own name. Not the crisp English Lie-la nor yet Lay-la, but something uniquely, caressingly, his. The sound echoed achingly inside her, and she understood then that he was genuinely troubled on her account.
Captives of the Night Page 18
