Captives of the Night (16 page)

He'd watched her confusion soften to yearning and had known he might have gone further. He had wanted to, badly enough — to press his mouth to that hammering pulse — to touch his mouth to her flesh — her neck, her shoulders, her breast… He swore under his breath.

To want anything badly, especially a woman, was fatally unwise. He was thirty-two years old, and even in his youth he had not panted and salivated over women like a rutting mongrel. He was as calculating in seduction, as artfully manipulative in lovemaking, as in all else. Even in the throes of pleasure, he remained in control.

He could not control Leila Beaumont properly. One moment, she was clay in his hands. In the next, she slipped free somehow and… questioned. Everything.

More disquieting still, she seemed to sense every untrue answer. The falsehood about his broken hand hadn't satisfied her any more than those about his penmanship. He doubted she'd have been satisfied even if he could have overcome his innate caution so far as to put pen to paper.

That caution went far too deep to be overcome, though, because it had been bred into him early. In Albania, there was no such thing as
private
correspondence, thanks to Ali's spies. Very young, Ismal had understood that even the most harmless remarks could be fatally misconstrued by the periodically deranged vizier. Thus, what one wrote became part of the game of survival. On the rare occasions Ismal had put anything in writing, he'd taken care to employ another's style — sometimes to shield himself, more often to make trouble for the other.

It was beyond doubt a useful skill in his present profession. No one, for instance, would ever know who'd written the discreet warnings to
Vingt-Huit's
most vulnerable patrons, or the complaints about the place to the Parisian police.

Assuredly, it would have been easy enough to forge another's handwriting for Madame's benefit, but that was still too risky. Undoubtedly, she'd notice something false or wrong, just as she had the instant she'd looked at his hands… and wrought so much havoc in the process.

The pitying way she had looked at them, and tenderly touched them, moving closer — too close — of her own volition, so that her scent coiled about him and stole into his blood… and her hair, so soft… her neck… the silken skin that made him so hungry.

And so he'd endured ten deaths fighting to keep his baser instincts under control.

"Fool," he reproached himself. "Imbecile."

He willed himself to focus on her list. She had made four and a half dense columns of names across the wide paper. He perused each column several times. Most of these people he had met. Several he eliminated as too stupid for the crime. None of the other names stirred his instincts — probably because they were obstinately fixed upon Leila Beaumont.

He considered the first column again, the names that had come quickest to her mind. Among them were Goodridge, Sherburne, Sellowby, Lackliffe, and Avory — — -

Ismal frowned as he scanned the column again. In Quentin's office, she'd said Beaumont was a corrupting influence with a talent for attracting innocents. Yet precious few on her list qualified as such.

Tomorrow night, then, Ismal would pursue that question.

Tomorrow night, he thought, would be a long time in coming. He was impatient for it already — he, the most patient of all men.

He rose from the sofa and moved to the window, her list still in his hand. The gaslights winked in the mist-laden darkness. It was not so late. London was fully awake — most of it. The demimonde had only begun to play.

There would be diversion, certainly, at Helena Martin's cozy establishment this night. At present, she was the most fashionable of London's courtesans. Several of the men on Madame's list would undoubtedly be there. Yet a visit need not be all work. Helena had delivered her invitation personally, and another sort of invitation had glowed warmly in her dark eyes.

That would be best, Ismal decided. Just as Beaumont had told him: if a man couldn't have one woman in bed, he had only to find another.

Ironic that both men were obliged to seek substitutes for the same woman.

Ismal shrugged. Life was full of ironies.

Within ten minutes of joining the throng at Helena Martin's, Ismal located three of the men on the list. Two — Malcolm Goodridge and the Earl of Sherburne — were busy vying for Helena's attention. After exchanging a few social pleasantries, Ismal decided he would leave Helena to them. Though she was a beautiful, vivacious woman, he saw in a moment that she wouldn't make a satisfactory substitute.

With two possible suspects so intensely occupied, and no other female in the vicinity promising sufficient distraction, Ismal focused on the third man on the list: Lord Avory, the Duke of Langford's heir. Ismal noted that the marquess was tall, fair, and aristocratically handsome — and he didn't belong here.

Though he was trying to belong by flirting with a red-haired ballet dancer, Ismal was certain His Lordship's heart wasn't in it. A man bent on pleasure with an accommodating female would not have that hunted look in his eyes.

Since they'd met at Beaumont's funeral, it was easy enough for Ismal to strike up a conversation. And, since the young man didn't want to be where he was, it was even easier to detach him from the redhead and extract him from the party altogether.

A half hour later, they were sharing a bottle of wine in a private room of a dub on the fringes of St. James'. Ismal's admiration of the Canaletto landscape hanging over the mantel had led to a discussion of art and so, very soon to Leila Beaumont, whose talents Avory couldn't praise highly enough.

"It isn't simply that she makes excellent representations," the marquess was saying. "It’s that the subject's character and personality truly
infuse
the work. One day, mark my words, her portraits will be priceless. I'd give anything to have one — of anybody."

"But surely you own one of yourself," Ismal said. "You are a good friend, after all."

Avory studied the contents of his glass. "She hadn't the time."

"I sympathize," Ismal said. "She had no time for me, either. I had almost lost hope until, at Norbury House, Lady Carroll told me that Madame had no new commissions."

"Mrs. Beaumont stopped accepting them after she finished Lady Sherburne's portrait. Near Christmas that was. She'd been working nonstop since moving to London and she wanted a good, long rest, she told me."

"I was unaware of this." Ismal wondered why neither the artist nor Lady Carroll had told
him
. "All I comprehended was that there might be time for me. But she had left Norbury House, and so, in the next moment, I was in my carriage, making for London, posthaste." He smiled ruefully. "Little did I know I would be obliged to admit this to a coroner and jury. Yet I cannot regret my action. If not for my vanity and greed for a portrait, I should not have arrived at the Beaumont house when someone, clearly, was needed."

"It must have been ghastly for her." The marquess turned the wineglass in his hands. "I didn't get word until late that night. I called first thing next morning, but Lady Carroll was there by then and — Well, I could only do Mrs. Beaumont the kindness of keeping away, and urge everyone else to do likewise — as she asked. And they all obliged, though I'm sure they were dying of curiosity."

He looked up. "Odd, isn't it? Society is rarely so considerate, even of its own, and she's not — well, one of us, I suppose you'd say, though that sounds hideously snobbish."

Ismal wondered just how many had kept away out of loyalty, and how many out of fear. Beaumont knew secrets. People might worry that his wife was privy to some of them. Ismal wondered whether Avory, for instance, had heard a request or a threat.

"It was good of her friends to respect her privacy," Ismal said.

"Frankly, I was happy to keep away from the inquest. It would have made me wild to watch her being questioned." The glass turned round and round in the marquess' hands. "Father said you were one of the first to testify, and you left immediately after."

"I felt this would be wisest, in the circumstances," Ismal said. "All the men at the inquest, except for her respectable solicitor, were either elderly or plain. I was the only one of her admirers there. I wanted the jury to attend to the proceedings — not to speculate whether I was her lover. Because you and the other fine gentlemen kept away, I was too… conspicuous."

Avory reached for the wine bottle. "I should think you'd be that regardless who was there. You're rather out of the common way."

Ismal knew perfectly well he was. He was also aware the remark was a probe and wondered what exactly Avory was looking for.

He said nothing. He waited.

The marquess refilled their glasses. When this was done and still Ismal didn't speak, a muscle began to work in the younger man's jaw.

"I didn't mean any offense," Avory said tightly. "Surely you've noticed the women swooning in your vicinity. Even if you've grown inured to that, you must have realized — " He set down the wine bottle. "Well, I am putting my foot in it. As usual."

Ismal's expression was mildly curious, no more.

"I thought you realized you were the exception," Avory went on doggedly. "That is to say, Francis had never been jealous of anyone. He'd never worried about Mrs. Beaumont at all… until you came along. I thought you knew."

The marquess was mightily curious about Beaumont's jealousy. Perhaps Beaumont had dropped some hint of the true reason. He might have done, if he and Avory had been very intimate. That was a reasonable assumption, given Beaumont’s attraction to both sexes and the marquess' apparent discomfort with courtesans. It would explain, too, his devotion to a man so much older, and so far beneath him in every way.

There was an easy way to find out.

"Beaumont was tiresome, and most unkind," Ismal said. "I should not say this of your friend, but in truth, he vexed me greatly."

"He could be… vexatious."

"Because he made such a show of jealousy, I could scarcely speak to his wife without stirring scandal," Ismal said. "This was not only inconsiderate of her reputation, but also unfair."

"He wasn't always… considerate."

"I am a reasonable man, I hope," Ismal went on. "If she does not wish the liaison, I must accede to her wishes and make do with whatever small privilege she bestows — a dance, conversation, flirtation. I contented myself accordingly. Why could he not do the same?"

"With Mrs. Beaumont, you mean? I'm afraid I don't — "

"
Non, non
," Ismal said impatiently. "With me. Never before did I have this problem with another man. I was tactful, I thought. I told him I had no interest in him — in any man — in that way. I — "

"Good God." Avory sprang up from his chair, spilling wine in the process. He quickly — and shakily — set the glass upon the mantel.

One question answered. The marquess hadn't even suspected Beaumont was infatuated with the Comte d'Esmond.

Ismal promptly assumed a deeply chagrined expression. "I beg you will excuse my indelicacy," he said. "In my vexation, I forgot myself and where I was. Such matters are not spoken of openly in your country."

"Not generally." The marquess raked his fingers through his hair. "At least not on such short acquaintance."

"Please forget I mentioned this thing," Ismal said contritely. "I would not dream of offending you — but you are too easy to talk to, and I let my thoughts go straight from my brain to my tongue without reflection."

"Oh, no, I'm not — well, not offended. It’s flattering that you find me easy company." Avory tugged at his neckcloth. "I was just… startled. That is, I knew you upset him. It never occurred to me that he was jealous in — in
that
way. Well."

He collected his wineglass and returned to his seat. "You'd think, after two years, I'd know better than to be shocked at anything to do with him. Yet he never — I hadn't an inkling."

"Ah, well, I am older — and French."

"I can hardly take it in." Avory drummed his fingers on the chair arm. "He — he mocked them, you see — men of that sort. He called them… 'motiving dogs' and — and Isum boys' — and — well, I daresay you've heard the names."