"Yes."
"Yes, of course, for there he was again and again. In the house right after Beaumont died. And at the inquest, testifying. And still in London, week after week. All the same, I tried to believe these were coincidences. Just as I convinced myself all he wanted was an affair with you. I waited, telling myself he'd give up sooner or later, because you'd never consent."
"He doesn't give up," she said.
Andrew smiled bleakly. "I misjudged him. Wishful thinking, perhaps. I thought, in time, you'd turn to me, and we would wed—as we should have done ten years ago, in Paris. I wanted to take care of you. I wanted to make things right. I never meant you harm, Leila. You know that, else you wouldn't have come to me today."
She blinked back tears. She couldn't help grieving for him. He was a good man who'd had the misfortune to become tangled with the worst of villains. Her father. Francis.
"And you ought to know better than to tell me as much as you have," she said, her throat tight. "You know you needn't confess, even to me. You must be aware how little proof we have."
"It doesn't matter. You know the truth."
"That isn't evidence." They hadn't any. A bottle of prussic acid, which one might find in countless houses. A forged will, and no way to prove it was forged, because no sample of her father's handwriting existed. Esmond could explain how Andrew had gone to the house, poisoned the laudanum, and still managed to be on the Dover mail coach he was supposed to be on. But they hadn't found the coachman, and even when they did, he might not remember Andrew, especially after three months and countless passengers. Or if he did remember, he might not be willing to admit to taking up a passenger where he wasn't supposed to.
"Circumstantial evidence will do," he said. "And he's clever enough to put together a case, eventually. I'd rather not wait. I've never been hunted before. It's a horrible feeling. I don't want him hunting me. I'd rather get it over with." He cleared his throat. "You're not to worry, and your friends aren't to worry. I know how to hold my tongue. I'm a lawyer, recollect. The only public scandal will be my own."
"Oh, Andrew." Her eyes filled.
"I shouldn't have let Beaumont marry you," he said. "But I did and can't undo it. He's done enough damage. I shan't add to it." He smoothed his gloves and straightened his spine. "You'd best let them off their leashes, my dear. It's growing late, and they'll be missing their tea."
Ismal stood at the window in Quentin's office while Mr. Herriard wrote his confession. When the solicitor was finished, he reviewed it twice, made a few minor corrections, then handed it to Quentin, who gave the pages but one quick glance before handing them to Ismal.
The circumstances of the crime were clearly described, from the moment Beaumont had accosted Herriard on the morning of 12 January. Beaumont had threatened to reveal the lawyer's part, ten years earlier, in a "criminal conspiracy involving weapons stolen from the British military." In exchange for silence, Herriard had agreed to take his former partner to the Continent and provide him with ten thousand pounds.
Just after six o'clock that evening, Herriard had arrived to collect Beaumont and found him in an advanced state of intoxication, raving that he would not leave England without his wife. Herriard dragged him upstairs and urged him to hurry with his packing. Beaumont only fell upon the bed, and continued drinking, while Herriard, concerned they'd miss the mail coach, began packing for him. Before he finished, Beaumont passed out.
Having already made up his mind to kill Beaumont at some point on the journey, Herriard altered his plans. While his victim slept, he dropped into the laudanum bottle a few grains of the prussic acid he'd brought with him, unpacked, and tidied the room. He then went downstairs, packed up the dinner Beaumont had scarcely touched, tidied up there and in the kitchen, and left by the back entrance—the same way he'd come.
Some blocks from the house he hailed a hackney and ordered the driver to take him post haste to the coaching inn in Piccadilly. They'd arrived seconds before the Dover mail coach was to depart. Fortunately, Herriard's place hadn't been taken. He ate Beaumont's dinner en route.
His confession contained nothing about Leila's father, no hint of what Beaumont had told him about the five people who'd taken their carefully planned revenge, and no mention of Vingt-Huit. It dealt only with the murder, with means, motive, and opportunity. It was neatly and concisely explained, every "i" dotted, every "t" crossed. The confession was guaranteed to result in a speedy trial and prompt condemnation to the gallows.
"I am sorry, Monsieur Herriard, but we cannot hang you," said Ismal. "If you force us to go to trial, you will assuredly be condemned, and we shall be obliged to seek the Crown's mercy. Madame will insist upon a pardon, and I cannot get one without explaining the mitigating circumstances. Several people will be obliged to support my petition: Lord Quentin, the Duke of Langford, Lord Avory, Lord Sherburne, Lady Carroll—and Madame Beaumont, of course. All that we have tried to keep quiet will be revealed, along with all that Quentin and I had previously tried to suppress."
"That Vingt-Huit business, you mean," said Herriard. "But there is no need—"
"I worked very hard to keep Beaumont's crimes from being known, you see, because the exposure would hurt his victims. I should have killed him, but I have an unconquerable aversion to assassination. If I had it to do over, I still would not kill him. Yet I would have managed matters differently. I fear I erred in letting him return to England. The consequences of that error fell upon you. For this reason, I feel some responsibility. If not for me, you would not have been placed in so distressing a predicament."
"My predicament was a consequence of what I did ten years ago," said Herriard.
"Madame believes you have made amends for that," Ismal said. "For ten years, as all the world knows, you have served your clients conscientiously, often above and beyond duty. You care for them as though they were your children. Never, since Jonas Bridgeburton betrayed your trust, have you allowed any other to betray the trust of those in your charge. That, to me, seems very like amends."
"I wasn't looking for her pity," said Herriard. "I only wanted her to understand I wasn't like Beaumont, that I wasn't his partner in crime all these years."
"She understands. Her heart is generous, monsieur. And just. She said that because of you, she became as good as she was capable of being. She told me how your lectures, your care, your unwavering support made her strong. Because of you, she strove to achieve great things. And because of you, she had both the means and the courage to prevent her husband's making a victim of her."
Ismal came away from the window and held the confession out to Herriard. "I know it relieved your heart to write this, monsieur. I ask you, for her sake, to destroy it."
White-lipped, Herriard stared at the page. "You hunted me. You had a score of men there to take me up. Isn't this what you wanted?"
"We took you into custody as a precaution," said Quentin. "No telling what your state of mind was."
The lawyer met Ismal's gaze. "You thought I'd hurt her."
"She is dear to me," Ismal said. "I, too, prefer to err on the side of caution."
"Dear to you. I see." Herriard took the confession then and, his face rigidly composed, tore the sheets into neat halves. Then he halved them again, and once again. He laid the pieces on the desk.
"What am I to do now?" he asked. "I can't—you can't expect me to take up my life as it was."
"I believe Lord Quentin has some ideas," said Ismal. "He has dealt with such thorny problems before." He stepped away from the desk. "Now, gentlemen, if you will excuse me, I have some private matters to attend."
He found Leila in the studio trying to occupy her mind by occupying her hands. She was tacking canvas to a stretcher. She set the hammer down when he entered.
"Is it all right?" she asked.
"Did you not tell me to make it right?" he returned. "Do I not obey your smallest command? Am I not your slave?"
She threw herself into his arms. "You are a wonderful man
," she said. "You are the most understanding, wise, clever, compassionate—"
"Slave," he said. "I am your slave. It is very, very sad."
"It isn't. You know it was the right thing to do. You knew just how Andrew felt. He'd paid for ten years, tried to make up for what he'd done, clear his conscience. Then to have Francis threaten to destroy everything he'd worked for and built—it wasn't fair. It would be criminal to hang him for what he did. It would be the most horrible kind of justice. A hideously cruel joke—another of Francis' cruel jokes."
"Do not upset yourself." He held her close, stroking her hair. "Quentin will find some way to make Herriard useful. He will make a new life, as I did, and cleanse his soul with disgusting work. Who knows? Perhaps the Almighty will show mercy to him as well and lead him to a brave and loving woman. Who will make him her slave."
"I shall pray for that," she said. "I never understood why he didn't wed. There were lots of women who would have jumped at the chance. But he said it today. One of them had to marry me. I suppose staying unwed was part of Andrew's 'amends'—so he could be there for me if anything happened to Francis."
"Now you have me, and no Herriard to fall back upon," he said. "You had better take very good care of me."
She drew back a bit. "I'm not very good at taking care of husbands. An artist is not the most attentive sort of wife."
"Fortunately, I do not require very much attention. I am well able to amuse myself." He glanced at the stretcher. "Perhaps I shall learn some new skills."
"You want to be a painter?"
"Nay. One in the family is enough. But you must show me all your secret arts and preparations, and I shall exert my mind to devise improvements. Also, I can cultivate clients. Perhaps, in time, you will receive Royal commissions. Now that I am retiring from Quentin's employment—"
"You're not serious." Her tawny eyes widened. "You'll be bored to distraction."
"You will not drop your work to traipse about the globe with me, and I would not take you on such missions. Nor would I go away without you. Naturally, I must retire. Besides, you forget that I will also be busy acquiring strays."
He took her hand and led her to the door. "I think that between furthering your career and accumulating children—oh, and matchmaking, beyond doubt—I shall have my hands more than full."
"I hope not," she said. "I was rather looking forward to continuing our partnership—as sleuths, I mean. It's been very interesting. Stimulating. Perhaps…" She paused as they reached the foot of the stairs. "Perhaps Quentin might let us look into the occasional problem. You wouldn't want your skills to rust from lack of use, would you?"
"The occasional problem. Theft. Blackmail. Murder, I suppose."
She continued up the stairs. "People have all sorts of terrible secrets that lead to problems. Only look what we've accomplished in three months: the Sherburnes. David and Lettice. David and his father, too. You know Langford's proud of David's effort to protect his brother's secret."
"Good deeds," he said. "You have resolved to become a saint, it seems."
They had reached her bedroom door. Her mouth slowly curved. "Not altogether. We could be saintly in public and wicked in private. We seem to be good at that."
"We." He opened the door.
"Oh, yes." She stepped inside. He followed and shut the door.
"We, certainly," she said. "As in 'made for each other,' as Lady Brentmor remarked. And Jason Brentmor agreed with her. He stopped by while you were with Quentin. He brought Mrs. Brentmor with him."
"Ah, the divine Arabella." He pulled off his neckcloth.
"They decided they approved your choice of countess." She sat on the bed and took off her slippers. "Apparently, I am sufficiently willful, bad-tempered, and just reckless enough to keep you alert."
"I see. You told them about hitting me with the bed-warming pan." He shrugged out of his coat.
"I'm glad I did tell them-I'd felt rather guilty." She began unfastening the jet buttons. "But Jason explained that it was simple amends. You'd abused my trust. I exacted payment on your skull. He agreed, too, that it was proper for me to give Andrew a chance to admit his wrongs and for me to offer forgiveness as I saw fit."
"Naturally, Jason would agree. You acted just as he would have done. I told you how he helped me make peace with his family ten years ago."
He watched the dress slip down over her shoulders, then her hips. "Like him, you want to understand fully before you judge. Like him, you will change your mind if facts warrant it. Like him, you have a wisdom distinct from intellectual quickness. Fortunately, yours is also a woman's wisdom."
While he spoke, the dress had dropped to the floor, followed by the chemise.
"And it inhabits a woman's body," he murmured. Swiftly, he rid himself of his own few garments and bent to unlace her corset.
"You like the body very much, I know," she said.
The corset fell away, revealing creamy curves. Swallowing a groan, he untied the petticoat and eased it down.
"Ah, well, I am almost human," he said hoarsely.
"Yes. You were born strange."
He drew the silk drawers down over her lush hips. They slid down her shapely legs and sank with a rustling whisper to the floor. He unfastened the garters, tossed them aside, and drew the black stockings off.
She slid back to the center of the bed. He crept toward her and knelt between her legs. "I was born for you," he said.
He bent and kissed her, deeply and lingeringly, while slowly driving her down onto the pillows. She wrapped her arms tightly about him.
"Yes, hold me," he said. "Keep me, Leila. You are the night. All my nights. And all my days. All my happiness. You know this." He stroked longingly, lovingly, down her silken skin. "Je t'aime."
"I know," she said. "But tell me. Again. And again."
He told her in all his twelve languages, and with his hands, his mouth. He told her freely, and happily, for his heart was light. There were no secrets left between them. This night, he could love her fully, give of himself entirely, as she had given of herself to him. And that, he found, as she welcomed him inside her, was the way to paradise.
Later, as Ismal held her in his arms, and their hearts slowed to quiet contentment, he told her what paradise was to him.
"I loved my homeland," he said softly. "I have dreamed of it as good men dream of heaven."
"In Paris, I told Fiona you were like Lucifer," she said.
"Cast out from Paradise. You sensed this."
"I wasn't aware of that at the time. I simply suspected you were a devil with the face of an angel. But I always did have a soft spot in my heart for Lucifer. I should have given him another chance. I'm sure there were extenuating circumstances."
"Only you would look for them." He smiled. "Only you could see what I truly was. If I had been Lucifer, you would have knocked me about, and dragged me hither and yon doing good deeds. And then you should have pounded on heaven's gate and demanded I be let back in."
"I should do my best." She trailed her fingers through his hair. "I should like to go there with you."
"To heaven?"
"To Albania. To share it with you."
"Perhaps, one day. But it is not necessary. I only wanted to explain, to you and to myself, that this was all I knew of love—to love my homeland. I think this is why I had so much dread of love. I grieved ten years for what I had lost."
"I love you," she said. "I wish I could give everything back."
"You have," he said. "It is in your soul, I think. Perhaps the Almighty put it there, that you might keep it safe for me until I was ready. I hear it, see it, smell it when I am with you: the Ionian wind singing in the fir trees, the rushing rivers, the sea, the mountains, the soaring eagles. I see my homeland, my people in you, in the way you move, in your nature. Proud and fierce and brave. I think you were Albanian in another life, and my soul sensed this when I met you in Paris. I looked into your burning eyes, and my soul called to yours. Shpirti im, it call
ed."
"Shpirti im," she repeated.
He drew her closer. "How easily it falls from your lips. Surely it is your soul's own language."
"It must be. Teach me more."
"In our tongue—"
"Ours. Yes."
"It is not Albania, but Shqiperi. And I, your husband-to-be, am a Shqiptar."
"Shqiperi. Shqiptar. And I, your wife-to-be—"
"You are Madame," he said. "My lady. Always. So it is written."
"Kismet," she whispered.
"Yes. Kismet." He brought his mouth to hers. "My lady. My Leila. My beautiful Fate."
THE END
Discover Loretta Chase
The Royal Bridesmaids Anthology
Scandal Wears Satin
Silk is for Seduction
Royal Weddings Anthology
Last Night’s Scandal
Don’t Tempt Me
Your Scandalous Ways
Not Quite a Lady
Lord Perfect
Mr. Impossible
Miss Wonderful
The Last Hellion
The Mad Earl’s Bride
Lord of Scoundrels
Isabella
The English Witch
The Lion’s Daughter
The Sandalwood Princess
Knaves' Wager
Viscount’s Vagabond
The Devil’s Delilah
About the Author
Loretta Chase holds a B.A. from Clark University, where she majored in English and minored unofficially in visual art. Her past lives include clerical, administrative, and part-time teaching at Clark and a Dickensian six-month experience as a meter maid. In the course of moonlighting as a corporate video scriptwriter, she fell under the spell of a producer who lured her into writing novels... and marrying him. The union has resulted in more than a dozen books and a number of awards, including the Romance Writers of America's RITA® Award.
Captives of the Night Page 33
