Captives of the Night

by Loretta Chase

  She hugged him. "Yes. Oh, yes. You are a truly remarkable man."

  "Indeed, I am a prince."

  "Noble to the core."

  He grinned. "At the core I am very bad. A big problem. But only you see the core. My pedigree is enough for the others. It should be—I worked very hard to earn my title."

  She drew back. "To earn it? You are not telling me your title is legitimate?"

  "King Charles himself bestowed it upon me."

  "But you're not Alexis Delavenne."

  "By French law, I am."

  He explained that finding the missing "sucker shoot" of the Delavenne family had been one of his earliest missions. He finally located Pierre Delavenne in the West Indies and was obliged to kidnap him to bring him back to France.

  "He was very angry," Ismal said. "He had taken a black woman as his mistress and fathered half a dozen children and liked his life just as it was. He hated France in general and the Bourbons in particular. Eventually, it occurred to some of us to make intelligent use of his hostility. I needed an identity; he didn't want his. The similarity of surnames, as you can imagine, struck my superstitious nature. I legally adopted the name, which pleased King Charles, and he bestowed the title upon me, which pleased my English slave drivers."

  She laughed. "And so you really are the Comte d'Esmond, after all."

  "And you shall be my comtesse."

  "How absurd. I—an aristocrat."

  "It is not absurd. You are haughty as a duchess." He tangled his fingers in her hair. "You do not mind, I hope?"

  "I shall try to ignore my consequence as much as possible," she said. "And I shall continue to call you Ismal in private. If it slips out in public, we shall say it's a pet name."

  "You may pet me all you like, wherever you like." He guided her hand downward. "Let me help you find some places."

  Chapter 18

  The dowager arrived just as Leila and Ismal were enjoying a second cup of coffee.

  She followed close upon a harassed-looking Gaspard's heels, and pushed her way into the dining room before he could announce her, let alone ascertain his employers' wishes.

  Ismal calmly greeted her and pulled out a chair. She swept the room and its occupants one withering glare, then sat and opened her mammoth purse.

  "You'd better marry her," Lady Brentmor told Ismal as she slammed a sheaf of papers onto the table.

  "I am happy to report that Madame has perceived the error of her ways. She has agreed to let me make an honest woman of her."

  "It was the charitable thing to do," Leila said. "He's utterly useless without me."

  "That's true enough," her ladyship muttered. She handed two documents to Ismal. "I hope you've told her a few things. Otherwise, you've got a devilish lot to explain."

  "I have confessed all my black past—all but the secret that was not mine to reveal." He frowned down at the documents. "This is Jason's hand."

  "He come in late last night. He's still sleeping, and I wasn't about to wait all day for him to wake up." She turned to Leila. "Would've been here weeks ago, but he got my letter finally, and stopped in Paris to look into the problem himself. The money," she added in response to Leila's baffled look. "I thought there was something wrong about your money—that bank account. I was sure Jason had told me, ages ago, that your pa had set aside ten thousand pounds for your dowry."

  "Ten thousand?" Leila repeated blankly.

  "Jason did go looking for you—after he'd settled other pressing matters here, that is," the dowager said with a scowl at Ismal. "But by the time he got to it, you was wed, and Herriard seemed to be looking after your affairs well enough. So Jason never gave it no more thought."

  "Ten thousand pounds," Leila said, her mind whirling.

  "Jason had a lot of cleaning up to do after his fool brother," Lady Brentmor went on. "Your pa's partner in crime. That's the name Esmond here was too delicate to mention. My son Gerald. You might as well know. We're in the same boat, ain't we?"

  "Your son was my father's partner," Leila said slowly, trying to take it in. "And I had a dowry of...ten thousand pounds. That does...explain...a good deal."

  "It certainly do explain why Andrew Herriard took such good care of a little nobody orphan gel, protecting her funds from her philandering sot of a husband. It was one thing in the beginning, when Herriard was just starting his practice. But even after he got important, he looked after you like you was the Royal Family. But then, he wouldn't want anyone else looking after you. Someone else might start asking embarrassing questions."

  Leila turned to Ismal. "That would explain why Andrew was so disturbed about your interest in me.

  "I assuredly mean to ask embarrassing questions." Ismal handed the two documents to Leila. "These are Jason's copies of the instructions your father supposedly wrote to the bank, the day before he disappeared. I suggest you pay close attention to the language."

  Leila needed to read only the first letter to understand.

  "The style is familiar, is it not?" he asked. "You have received countless business letters from your solicitor over the years."

  "In other words, Andrew forged these letters to the bank."

  "Also your father's will, I have little doubt. A trip to Doctors' Commons will settle that question easily enough." His smile was grim. "A forger to catch a forger, you see."

  "He stole my dowry," Leila said. "Nine thousand pounds. From an orphan. And all the world thinks him a saint. I certainly did. He could tie my insides into knots with just a few words, ever so kindly uttered. That manipulative hypocrite."

  "I am sorry, Leila. I know I must not say it was all my fault—"

  "Not unless you wish to persuade me you're the Prince of Darkness," she said crisply. "You didn't make Andrew do it, any more than you made Francis take me away and seduce me."

  "All the same, they took advantage of a situation I created: your father crazy with fear and drink—the servants drugged or incapacitated—and you unconscious, unable even to scream for help."

  "They didn't have to take advantage. Decent men wouldn't. Can't you see?" She flung the papers down and got up to pace the room. "It was planned. I'm sure of it. They already knew about the ten thousand pounds. Had to. That's not the sort of thing you find out in a matter of minutes from a raving drunk. And they knew about me. They didn't just wander in off the street. That carriage was packed. Those letters were written ahead of time, I'll stake my life. Andrew couldn't do that on the spur of the moment."

  "Unless you have the gift, it requires repeated attempts."

  She scarcely heard him. She was trying to remember. "The servants, too. That was wrong. The little kitchen maid...when it should have been Gabriela who brought my tea. Something was wrong before you came." She closed her eyes. "In the hall. Papa. You. The big man and the small, dark one with you—and Papa was annoyed."

  She opened her eyes to stare at the doorway. "Because Antonio wasn't there. Papa had to answer the door himself."

  "It is true. I wondered why he had so few servants. Risto had no trouble. He did not even need Mehmet's help."

  "Because Andrew and Francis had already lured away or driven off the servants who would have caused difficulties. All they had to do was wait until Papa's unexpected visitors had left, then move in to carry out their plan." She turned to him.

  "Your mind has leapt, as mine has, I think," he said. "When you came to in the carriage, Beaumont told you your father was dead. I wondered how he knew, for Jason said the body was not found for two days."

  "He said your men carried Papa away. But that doesn't make sense, does it? Even if they disregarded your orders, even if they had made off with Papa, they wouldn't have left me—an eyewitness—behind. It was Francis and Andrew who carried or led Papa off and dropped—or pushed—him into the canal."

  "And so we have our motive," Ismal said.

  "We have a villain.” Leila said.

  "I wish Jason was here," the dowager muttered. "He wouldn't believe me when I sai
d you was made for each other."

  Mr. Andrew Herriard, returning from his midday meal, paused before the front door of his office to gaze at the man he'd just passed. He wasn't the only one to stare, though there were others who preferred to look the other way when the shabbily clad man with the lantern, cage, and dog passed. While a necessity in London, the ratcatcher was not the most agreeable of figures to contemplate. He was certainly not agreeable to contemplate directly after luncheon.

  Mr. Herriard was still frowning when he entered the ground floor office. His senior clerk, Gleever, looked up at him with some concern. "I do hope the pies weren't overcooked again, sir," he said.

  Mr. Herriard explained that the pies had been satisfactory, but seeing a ratcatcher was not. "I do hope our neighbors aren't experiencing problems again," he said. "If one becomes infested, we all soon do, and it makes a singularly poor impression upon clients—as I've told my colleagues repeatedly."

  "No danger of infestation, sir, I promise you. The fellow did come here, but it was a mistake, as it turns out. He'd got the wrong street altogether, you see. We'd been in the cellar but a few minutes before he realized his error. He did apologize, sir. And took the trouble—since he was here, as he said—to look at the places we'd closed up after the last time. Said they were nice and tight."

  "I'm relieved to hear it."

  "Said we might get a mouse now and again, but no worse."

  "I'd rather no vermin of any kind,” said Mr. Herriard. "Let us go down and see what may be done."

  Half an hour later, Mr. Herriard stood at his office window, gazing down at the street below, and chillingly aware that something had already been done. The small, dusty jar of prussic acid his landlord kept in the cellar was gone.

  The lawyer told himself it might have disappeared weeks ago. The landlord might have removed it, convinced the rat problem was solved.

  Mr. Herriard returned to his desk, signed the papers Gleever had prepared for him, ticked those items off his schedule, and left the office to attend to the next.

  His errand took him to Great-Knight-Rider Street, to the south of St. Paul's. It was there, in Doctors' Commons, that he received the second shock.

  "I am sorry, Mr. Herriard," said the clerk. "I did promise to have the documents ready for you, but we've been at sixes and sevens. Lord Quentin was here with the Comte d'Esmond, and it took nearly an hour to find what they wanted. And we were fortunate indeed it was only an hour—for a will ten years old and misfiled in the bargain."

  "How very odd," said Mr. Herriard.

  "I didn't see why they must come pester us about it," the clerk said. "But then, they should have pestered you instead, I don't doubt. I hope we spared you that inconvenience at least."

  "One of my clients' wills, I take it," said Mr. Herriard. "Of ten years ago, you said."

  "Bridgeburton was the name, sir. I haven't put it back yet. Perhaps you'd like to look at it, refresh your memory—for they may bother you all the same."

  "That won't be necessary," said Mr. Herriard. "I remember."

  After he left Doctors' Commons, Mr. Herriard walked through the busy streets of the City, and on westward. He walked steadily, shoulders straight, his face its customary mask of quiet amiability.

  He walked to a burial ground, and through its gates, and made his way along the narrow paths until he reached a three-month-old grave.

  He stood a long while studying the simple monument Leila Beaumont had ordered. No cherubs or weeping willows. No poetic inscriptions. No mention of beloved spouse of anybody. Just the simplest bare facts of name, date of birth, date of death: 13 January 1829.

  "You bastard," he said.

  Then he bowed his head and wept.

  The afternoon waned, and the shadows about him lengthened. He remained in the same rigid pose, weeping still, oblivious to the law officers scattered about the graveyard, blocking all escape routes. He didn't notice that their leader stood with a man and a woman not many yards away.

  "They're all in place," Quentin said. "Best take him while there's still light. Mrs. Beaumont, I think you ought to return to the carriage. If he won't come quietly, matters could become unpleasant."

  "Matters are unpleasant," she said. "I want to speak to him." She started to move away.

  Ismal clasped her arm. "Do not be foolish," he said. "Even villains weep. He cries for what he has lost, not remorse."

  "I need to understand," she said. "And he won't tell me with the lot of you about."

  "He stole from you," Ismal said. "He taught you to mistrust yourself, so that he could control you. What more is there to understand?"

  "I don't know—but if there is, he deserves a chance to explain. As Sherburne did. As David and Fiona did. As you did," she added in lower tones.

  Ismal let go of her. "I shall be but a few feet away," he whispered. "If he raises a hand to you, I shall cut out his heart."

  "I should hope so," she said, and briskly walked on down the path to Andrew.

  Even when she stood beside him, he didn't so much as turn his head. "Andrew," she said.

  He stiffened, and looked about, then hastily drew out a handkerchief and wiped his face. "Have they come for me?" he asked.

  Perhaps she was a gullible fool, but her heart went out to him. She had to clench her fists to keep from taking his hand. "Yes," she said.

  "I'm sorry," he said. "A nasty murder trial. Just what nobody wants, I'm sure. I thought of hanging myself. A bullet through the brain. A dose of prussic acid would be easiest—and appropriate. But Esmond took it, didn't he? And I never thought to stop at the chemist's first. I just...walked...here." He put the handkerchief away. "Beaumont was insane, you know. I hadn't any choice."

  "Francis was mad and desperate and he was forced to leave England," she said. "He must have needed money. He must have threatened to expose you unless you helped him. Is that it?"

  "I didn't know what he'd been up to until he told me. About Langford and the letters. Sherburne and his wife. Lettice Woodleigh. Avory. I had no idea. I didn't even know about that filthy brothel of his until he told me. He was waiting outside the office the morning after they gave him what he deserved. I didn't want to be seen talking to him. I took him down to the cellar. And I listened to him raving, and wanted to throttle him. Then I spotted the bottle of prussic acid. I wasn't sure then how I would do it, but I knew I must. I hadn't any choice. They poison mad dogs, you know. That's what he was."

  "You had no idea what your partner had been up to all these years?" she asked. "Am I to believe you two only came together to kill my father and steal my dowry? Then you went your separate ways?"

  "We did what we had to ten years ago," he said. "Your father ruined us. I invested in good faith. It wasn't until he'd lost all my money that I found out the kinds of criminal enterprises he'd put my funds into. The authorities were closing in on him, and I'd be dragged down with him. There wasn't any choice. We had to get rid of him and destroy everything that could link us to him."

  "You didn't have to steal my dowry," she said.

  "It wasn't stolen. Your dowry went to your husband."

  "I see. And he gave half to you—for services rendered, I collect."

  He winced. "I tried to make it right," he said stiffly. "I told Francis at the start that we couldn't take your money unless one of us married you. I told him we couldn't abandon a seventeen-year-old girl—leave her fatherless, with a paltry thousand pounds and no one to take care of her." He met her gaze. "Even after Beaumont ruined you, I would have married you, Leila. I would not have abandoned you. Perhaps I should have wed you, regardless. As it is, I shall never forgive myself for not watching you more carefully—or him, rather."

  "You let me believe it was my fault he seduced me," she said. "All these years I've believed I was...a whore. By nature. Weak-willed and inclined to wickedness, like Papa. All these years I've felt ashamed of who I was and what I was."

  He inhaled sharply, as though she'd struck him. "Dear God—
I—my dear, I never meant that."

  "That's what I believed," she said.

  His shoulders sagged. "I just wanted to make you strong. You were so naive. You hadn't an inkling of your effect on men. I was afraid Beaumont would neglect you, leaving you prey to others like him. I wanted to put you on your guard, that was all—so that no one else would use and hurt you and destroy your self-respect. The last thing I would have wanted was to destroy it myself. I think the world of you, Leila. Always have."

  As she looked up into Andrew's pale, tautly composed countenance, her conscience urged her to put herself in his place—a thirty-two-year-old bachelor confronting a despoiled adolescent girl—and ask whether she could have dealt with it any better than he had.

  And looking into her own heart, she had to admit that she had been abominably naive, even in adulthood—about men, about love, about normal human desire, as Ismal had taught her. Perhaps she would have soon put Andrew's long-ago lecture into more rational perspective if Francis hadn't made her believe something was wrong with her. Just as he'd made David believe something was irreparably wrong with him.

  "I believe you," she said gently. "I should have realized. It's not your nature to be cruel or manipulative. That was Francis' talent. Just because you had the misfortune to be tangled with him doesn't mean you were like him."

  "I didn't know what he was like," he said. "If I had...well, there's no point in 'if onlys.' I didn't know. Not a fraction."

  She brushed a twig from the tombstone. "I didn't realize more than a fraction either, until very recently."

  "With Esmond's help, apparently." He glanced back. "There he is, like some damned nemesis. And Quentin with him." With a weary shrug, he turned back to her. "I had a feeling something was wrong when I heard Lady Brentmor had taken you up. I knew that her son, Jason, had been in Venice ten years ago, on your father's trail. Then there was Esmond, in Paris a year ago. And within a month, it appears, Beaumont's disgusting empire fell to pieces. I suppose Esmond saw to that."