Captives of the Night (32 page)

"What do you expect?" she demanded. "It ain't as though she's got much else to think about. From what I've heard, she's scarcely set foot out of the house in weeks."

"I do not keep her under lock and key," Ismal said, wondering if there was some sort of conspiracy afoot. First Leila, then Nick, now this old witch. "She is free to come and go as she pleases."

"Where the devil's she to go when she ain't
asked
?" the old witch demanded. "Why ain't you using your influence to get her out where she can do some good? If she's as quick and noticing and clever as you say — "

"It is
dangerous
."

"Then look out for her."

He stared at her. "I beg your pardon?"

"You heard me. You're good at not getting killed, ain't you? At not being dead when any normal person would be. According to Jason, you been poisoned, bashed in the head, shot at, drowned, stabbed, and Lord only knows what else. Watching out for a mere female should be child's play."

"I cannot be with her every moment," Ismal pointed out irritably. "Even if I could, it would look very strange. People would talk."

"Don't be such a sapskull," she said. "Not every moment. I'll look after her while she's with me."

A feeling of cold dread settled into Ismal's gut. "But you are returning to Mount Eden."

"No, I ain't."

"But Lady Edenmont is expecting her babe any day, Quentin told me."

"Had it last night. A gel. Finally."

"You will want to be with her."

"No, I won't. I aim to be in London — since it’s obvious you ain't getting anywhere on your own." She left the chair to yank upon the bell pull. "Might as well have that black-eyed rogue of yours bring us something fit to drink. You got the same look on your face Jason gets when he don't want to see reason."

At nine o'clock that evening, Leila stood before her easel, pretending to paint while she wondered whether infatuation was playing tricks on her reason. Or at least her hearing.

Last night, Esmond had responded to her request by trying every way he could to change the subject. When that had failed, he'd pleaded exhaustion and decamped. Now, if her ears weren't deceiving her, he had actually just announced that he wanted her out sleuthing among Francis' enemies. Not only wanted it, but had arranged this very day to make it happen.

One of the upper class' most formidable women, the Dowager Lady Brentmor, was coming tomorrow to begin the process of getting Leila established in London Society.

According to Esmond, the old lady was even now telling her friends that her primary reason for coming to London was to visit Mrs. Beaumont and congratulate her on her triumphant handling of the Home Office imbeciles.

Leila was well aware that Lady Brentmor was notorious for her low opinion of men in general and her contempt for those in authority in particular. The dowager was also quick to defend women who, like herself, made their own way in the world despite the masculine forces arrayed against them.

It was, therefore, as Esmond explained, perfectly in character for Lady Brentmor to take under her wing a woman who had shown the authorities for what they were: a "lot of bullying ignoramuses." Those, according to him, were the dowager's exact words. Having met her months before, Leila was certain these were among the mildest of the old lady's choice stock of descriptives. She could make even Fiona blush.

It was also perfectly in character, Leila thought, for Esmond to choose a sponsor whom few in Society would dare contradict.

"If Lady Brentmor told the prime minister to jump off a bridge," Fiona had once remarked, "Wellington would meekly ask, 'Which one?'"

Leila had no doubt that Esmond had found the ideal chaperon. She couldn't help wondering about his abrupt change of mind, however. He'd just said that her talents were being wasted, that she would be of greater use out in the world gathering information — all of which was very flattering, and precisely what she wanted, desperately. Yet he didn't behave as though he was happy about it. Though she had kept on trying to paint while he talked, she could hardly fail to notice his restlessness.

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 dosed 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.