Captives of the Night

by Loretta Chase

  He had scarcely sat down on the sofa before he got up to walk to the fire. Then he moved to the bookshelves and studied them. Then he went to the cupboards and opened and shut every single door. Then he went to the windows and studied the closed drapes. He went on to unstack and restack the canvases leaning against the wall. He ended his circuit of the studio at the worktable. Having made a neat pile of her sketchbooks, he was at present putting all the pencils into one jar and all the brushes into another.

  "It sounds like an excellent plan," Leila said cautiously into the silence. "I assume she understands what I'll be doing—or have you persuaded her to sponsor me out of the goodness of her heart?"

  "I have told her about the inquiry." He perched on the stool and, taking up a knife, began sharpening a pencil with quick, sure strokes. "I know she can be trusted. Quentin himself often consults her on financial matters. She has a vast network of informants in the world of commerce, here and abroad. In fact, it was she who called on me today. She had previously provided some information during the Vingt-Huit case. Yesterday, she obtained a document she believed I would be interested in."

  He paused briefly. "I might as well tell you. Your husband was blackmailing Lord Avory. But it was not for the reason one might expect. We did not know—and Lady Brentmor was one of a very few who did, it seems—that Avory's elder brother was…attached to Edmund Carstairs."

  "Attached?" Leila repeated uneasily.

  Esmond explained.

  She stared at him.

  He shrugged. "Indeed, it vexes me. Charles was unforgivably careless. For him, an Englishman, to write indiscreet letters to another Englishman—in the diplomatic service, no less—is the height of stupidity. Worse, his younger brother—who already has problems because of this same young diplomat—must pay for the elder's mistake. Worse still is that Avory paid, most likely, to shield his parents—the same parents who cannot forgive him because he is not the model of perfection they think his brother was. Still, it is some comfort to know our affections are not misplaced. Avory may be confused, but he is not base or evil. Instead, it appears that he has been caught in a trap of others' making."

  Leila realized her mouth had been hanging open for some time. She shut it and commenced to cleaning her brushes. Charles had been guilty of an unspeakable crime against nature and Esmond dismissed this monstrosity as carelessness. All that annoyed the count—and annoyance seemed to be his sole emotion—was that Charles had been indiscreet. Which shouldn't surprise her, given the cool way he'd described Vingt-Huit's trade in sordid secrets and perversion.

  She wondered whether there was any vice, any sin, any crime Esmond wasn't familiar with and just as casual about. A vivid image appeared in her mind's eye of herself, entangled with him upon the worktable, crazed with lust like an animal—and just inches away from discovering what, precisely, he liked to do with a woman. She felt the blood draining from her face.

  Who are you? she wanted to shriek. What are you?

  "I have shocked you," he said.

  She picked up her palette knife and began viciously scraping the palette. "I'm just not quite adjusted to the fact that pursuing these sorts of puzzles is like putting one's hand in a nest of venomous snakes," she said. "The closer you get to the bottom of the matter, the more tangled it becomes with complications—and they all turn out to have fangs. But I suppose that's just because I'm not used to poking into other people's nasty secrets," she quickly added. "I daresay in time, I'll develop an immunity. Like yours."

  "I was born in a viper's nest," he said, examining the deadly point he'd made. "I have lived among serpents. But so have you. The difference between us is one of degree—and of awareness, assuredly. You were kept in ignorance. But from my earliest consciousness, I knew what was about me. If I had not, I should have been dead long since."

  She watched numbly while he returned the pencil to the jar and selected another. "If you are to go out into the world seeking a murderer, Leila, you had better understand what is about you. I shall be vastly annoyed if you get yourself killed."

  A chill slithered down her spine.

  "I shan't be altogether pleased myself," she managed to choke out. "If you're trying to terrify me, you're doing an excellent job. Do you want me out sleuthing or not?"

  "I would prefer to keep you where you will be safe."

  With you? she asked silently, while she watched the knife flick steadily, transforming her pencil to a needlelike shaft.

  "But it is too late," he said. "You are fascinated, obsessed with this mystery, and you probe at me and plague me because there is no one else. Tiens, I must turn you loose to plague others—and hope, meanwhile, that your survival instincts are as strong as your inquisitive ones."

  "There's only one killer," she said.

  "And a host of people with secrets they might kill to protect." He tucked the pencil back among its fellows. "Please do not forget this, even for a moment. You must consider every one you deal with a venomous serpent and deal with each as the snake charmer deals with the cobra. Everyone, Leila. No exceptions. Trust no one."

  Trust no one. Born in a viper's nest. Lived among serpents. Yes, that fit, she thought, turning toward her canvas—fireplace, footstool before it, a corner of the sofa. Simple interior. Unlike his. She had sensed early on that there was darkness behind his fair, angelic exterior. Darkness in his past and in his heart.

  And he was right. She was fascinated and obsessed...with every thread of the case that connected to him and told her something about him and what he was. She did plague him, because he plagued her. She hardly cared any more who had killed her swine of a husband. It was the man who'd charmed and tormented Francis who fascinated her. A dangerous fascination, as Francis had learned to his cost. He'd compared Esmond to laudanum, but Esmond put it better: a snake charmer. Truth again.

  Once he turned the charm upon you, you couldn't look away. He didn't have to beckon. His physical beauty and some innate magnetism drew effortlessly. When he did beckon—and all he needed was a few artfully chosen words, the right tone of voice—you were done for.

  "Leila."

  There. Soft, questioning, the faintest hint of anxiety. Just right. Perfect.

  Slowly she brought her gaze to his and felt the tug, palpable, of that aching blue.

  "Are you listening to me?" he asked. "It is important." He came off the stool.

  "You want me to be careful," she said. "And discreet. I understand." She edged to the other side of the easel.

  "I do not want you in danger," he said. "I would keep you safe, but all I do is make a prison, it seems. I trap you with me. It is not fair. I know this. I cannot help it." Moving nearer, he touched her hair. "I weary you with demands—your mind, your feelings, your body. It is not fair, as you said. With others, even though you will be working, there will be some amusement, stimulation, non? If not rest, a change at least. And the satisfaction of discovering your own way. You will like this, will you not?"

  "Yes." That was the truth, too. To have something, some small part of her life, under her control. He understood that. But then, it was his business to understand others.

  "I have pleased you, then?" he asked softly, taking her hand.

  "Is that what you want?" she asked. "To please me?"

  "Since the plan displeases me greatly, it must be for you," he said, playing with her fingers. "Fortunately, it is also sensible and efficient—which is what I shall tell myself a thousand times while I go crazy with worry."

  "You can't expect me to believe you'll be sitting—or lying about—fretting, while I do all the work." She wondered despairingly how so light a touch, upon her fingers only, could flood every inch of her body with tingling sensation.

  "I do not see what else I can do. All I seem to be good for lately is looking after one confused marquess and devising ways to lure one too-clever woman into my arms." He took her other hand. "I did not sleep so well last night, Leila. You cut up my peace."

  "Knowing you has
n't been exactly tranquilizing for me, either," she said, her gaze dropping to their twined hands. Even now she felt the tug, though he wasn't pulling. Her body ached to be closer...to what? Physical beauty and fatal charm. Exteriors. She should be trembling to contemplate what lay within.

  "It is true. I am a problem, I know." He released her hands and wandered away to the sofa.

  Watching him subside into his usual oriental potentate pose, she wondered just how much time he had spent in the East. Few western European aristocrats could have overcome years of breeding to loll about in that careless way. Fewer still could make it look so natural. If he beckoned with his hand and a crowd of dancing girls whirled into the room at the summons, Leila wouldn't have been in the least taken aback.

  Mechanically, she reached for her sketchbook.

  "Nay, Leila," he said. "Come, talk to me."

  "I think we'll converse more productively at a distance," she said.

  "I know you think I am unreasonable," he said. "But I am not altogether a brute. I wish to make amends." He laughed softly. "Come, I will teach you a trick—to manage me."

  She gave him a look of patent skepticism.

  "Well, then, what will you do?" he asked. "I am not like your husband. You have tried saying 'no' and I answer with coaxing. Or faulty hearing. The locked door is useless. You have tried taking a poker to me. Also useless. Do you wish to try something else—and risk failure? Or will you take advantage of my present remorseful mood and learn what I shall regret telling you later, when I recover?"

  She supposed she had nothing to lose. If he was lying, she was done for. But she would be done for in any case. She tossed the sketchbook onto the worktable and crossed the room to him.

  He shifted back and patted the exceedingly small space he'd made for her, near his waist. Cursing under her breath, Leila sat.

  "There. Already I am quieting," he said. "Because you are near, where I want you to be, and I can feel your warmth."

  She, too, was aware of warmth, and of the scent pulsing in it, exotic, male. Like invisible smoke, it mingled with her own, a thread of myrrh coiling through it—hers or his, she couldn't tell.

  "Now, the trick is to lull my mind," he said. "You do not want me to think, because I am devious. You want to make the male instincts sleepy, dull. You make a bargain with me. Instead of the pleasure I seek, you will give me one more acceptable to you." He brought her hands to his face. "Weave me a dream with your hands. Make a beautiful painting in my mind," he told her, guiding her hands to his temples.

  She didn't believe it was possible to lull or dull him in any way. On the other hand, she couldn't pretend she didn't want to touch him. The woman wanted to stroke and caress. The artist wanted to study the angles and curves of his intriguing face. She couldn't resist any more than the sculptor, Phidias, could have resisted, had Apollo appeared in his studio and, placing himself under the mortal artist's hands, given him leave to study immortal beauty.

  She slid her hands free. "Don't tell me any more," she said. "Let me figure it out on my own."

  Reminding herself that he wanted to be lulled and soothed—not examined—she began as she would have wanted someone to begin on her. Lightly placing her fingers at the center of his forehead, she brushed outward. Very gently. Not oil brushstrokes, but watercolor.

  He closed his eyes and let out a whisper of a sigh.

  She went on with feather light strokes from the center outward to the silken hairline. The faint lines on his forehead—indiscernible until now, when she concentrated there—eased under her rhythmic touch. She sensed, as well, the slight relaxation in his breathing.

  Encouraged, she moved on to the bridge of his nose and stroked out over his eyebrows, noticing that they were shades darker than his hair, and just a tint lighter than his long, thick lashes. Then, down and outward she brushed her fingers, from the patrician nose out along the high angle of his cheekbones. She found the tiny lines she'd noticed weeks ago, which tightened when he was disturbed. She discovered as well something she hadn't noticed before. Just below his right ear near the jawbone was an irregular line of minute scars.

  Whatever he was, whatever he'd done, he'd suffered more damage than she'd guessed. The awareness hurt, gentled her inwardly, and in an instinctive act of comforting, she stroked his hair back.

  "Ah, yes," he murmured, turning his head into the strokes.

  Like a cat, she thought, biting back what must surely be an idiotish smile. He wanted to be petted, wicked creature, and like any cat unself-consciously sought more.

  But she liked it, too: the silken hair sliding over her fingers, the warmth of his scalp, the supple muscles of his neck, moving sinuously in response to her hand.

  At this moment, he was a beautiful cat, delicious to stroke. She enjoyed the power, even the uncertainty of it—the awareness that he was dangerous and could turn upon her at any moment. The sense of imminent danger stirred its own dark species of pleasure.

  At any rate, he seemed to like this best, and his breathing was slowing, deepening. Remembering the magic he'd worked on her, she focused on stroking and kneading his scalp and neck in the same hypnotic way.

  The action lulled her as well. Her mind wandered through dreamy images—of shimmering golden cats prowling silk-draped rooms...deep blue midnight through an open window...the mingled scents of flowers and herbs and smoke...a faint melody, the aching wail of a woodwind...a summer breeze whispering in fir trees.

  Entranced, she lost track of time and might have gone on petting her purring jungle cat all night, but even her strong hands had their limits. Aching muscles brought her back to the waking world...and to the realization that the purr she heard was the deep, steady breathing of a man sunk in slumber.

  He seemed truly asleep this time, for when she took her hands away, he didn't move a muscle. Experimentally, she shifted away a bit. No response. She got up from the sofa. He was oblivious.

  She padded quietly out of the studio and carefully closed the door behind her. Then, erasing the triumphant smile from her face, she headed downstairs. She found Eloise in the dining room, polishing the china cupboard.

  "Monsieur has fallen asleep," Leila told her.

  Eloise's sleek eyebrows went up.

  "I don't know whether to wake him or not," Leila said. "The fact is, I'm rather tired myself, and he's arranged for me to meet with an important caller tomorrow. The Dowager Lady Brentmor. I want to be at my best."

  Eloise nodded. "If he wakes, he will wish you to go back to work with him—for he is a man, and insensible. But you wish to make an early bedtime, which is wise. Go to bed, Madame, and enjoy your respite. Be assured he will be roused and out of the house before daylight."

  "Yes. Thank you. And—and if he wakes before then—"

  "He shall go home, Madame." She gave Leila a conspiratorial smile. "You need your rest. It will not be disturbed, I promise you."

  Chapter 12

  Three weeks later, Leila was beginning to wonder whether she really was being left to do all the work.

  Esmond hadn't sneaked into her house since the night she'd put him to sleep. He had said something then about her finding her own way. Evidently, he'd meant it, because the following day, during her first meeting with Lady Brentmor, the dowager had relayed a message to that effect: when Mrs. Beaumont discovered something of importance, she was to summon the count. Until then, he'd keep out of her way. With which proposal Lady Brentmor heartily agreed.

  "You ain't never done Society proper before," she had said. "It's work, my gel, and make no mistake. The last thing you'll need is him pestering you in the middle of the night when you're dead on your feet and your head's pounding like a steam engine. It's going to be talk, talk, talk, dinning in your ears until you wish you was born deaf."

  As it turned out, the dowager hadn't exaggerated.

  In accordance with proper mourning etiquette, the gentlemen could not ask Leila to dance or indulge in even the mildest flirtation. That left her most o
ften in the company of women and limited her exercise to talking and listening. Thanks to Lady Brentmor's inexhaustible energy, Leila had been talking and listening for nearly every minute of her waking hours.

  At the moment, she was pretending to be listening to and watching a somewhat inept comedy being enacted upon the stage beneath the dowager's theater box. In reality, Leila was wrestling with a pair of riddles while trying very hard not to let her eyes stray to a box nearby. Lord Avory's box, to be precise, which he and Esmond occupied at present.

  Leila didn't want to look that way. She had seen Esmond many times in these last three weeks at the various entertainments she attended. She had found that if she wanted to speak privately with him about the case, she was the one who'd have to make it happen. She had resisted that temptation. She meant to continue resisting until she had something of value to share. She wanted to present him with solutions or at least solid clues, not questions. And only if her information would advance the inquiry. She wasn't sure that her two riddles would. But they nagged at her.

  First, there was Sherburne. Ever since she'd learned that he had led Society in snubbing her husband, Leila had assumed it was the only revenge he dared for Francis' debauching Lady Sherburne. According to the dowager's gossipy friends, though, Sherburne had first cut Francis at Lady Seales' rout. That had taken place more than a week before Sherburne destroyed his wife's portrait. Had he waited all that time after discovering Francis' treachery to take out his frustrations on the painting? Or had Francis previously offended him in some other way? If so, how?

  The second problem sat beside her: Fiona. She had returned to London yesterday—without Lettice—and something clearly was wrong. She had hardly mentioned her sister at all, except in the most vague and evasive way. Leila doubted her friend would have returned if the girl were gravely ill. On the other hand, Fiona seemed far more troubled now than she had been when she left for Dorset. Her eyes were dull, her color poor, and she had been unusually subdued since yesterday.