Captives of the Night (45 page)

He heard her sharply indrawn breath, and cursed himself. Wrenching back his self-control, he stood up. "I talk like an ignorant brute," he said. "Please forgive me. To think of you upon the streets — a young girl… It upset me. Yet it is just as I deserve, for I thoughtlessly distressed you about Helena. Even for her, you feel compassion."

If he had inflicted hurt, she concealed it well. She stood a bit more arrogantly erect, but that was all. "Compassion is one thing," she said. "Maundering on about the past is another. It’s probably this damned room. I always found it… oppressive. Everything so heavy and ornate. The air was always stale, because he'd never open a window. After his little soirees, it would reek of wine and smoke."

"It is an oppressive room, I agree," he said.

"I always said his tarts had to have strong stomachs. Not to mention that he created a prime environment for vermin. You could not have got me into this bed, even if the entire mattress were stuffed with strong repellent herbs like tansy. As it was…"

Frowning, she stepped back a few paces from the bed, her gaze lifting to the rectangular canopy.

"The bags," she said after a long pause. "The bags of herbs."

He looked up, too, and his brain promptly went to work. "To discourage the insects, you mean."

She drew back the fabric. "There, you see? In all four corners — those small balloonlike decorations with the tassles. He had them made to match. That's why they look like part of the draperies. But they aren't. They tie to the supports. Every few months, you take them down and put in a fresh supply of herbs."

Ismal was already pulling off his boots.

"He did that himself," she said. "His sole domestic chore."

He understood. In the next moment, he was standing on the bed, squeezing the fabric bags as Helena had probably done. He found what he was looking for in the right-hand corner at the head: paper crackled under his hand.

Balancing himself with one foot on the nightstand, he untied the bag. Then he dropped down to a sitting position. Leila climbed onto the mattress and sat beside him.

He gave her the bag. "You made the deduction, madame. You must do the honors."

She loosened the drawstrings and emptied the contents onto the mattress. The resulting heap comprised a handful of tansy and one carefully rolled-up sheet of lavender-tinted stationery. It took but an instant to open it. It was blank.

She turned gleaming eyes upon him. "She did it. She got the letters. I'll wager fifty quid this is her own writing paper." She held it up to his nose, though Ismal already recognized the paper as well as the scent.

"Perfumed," Leila said. "Helena's scent. Very distinctive. She left it on purpose, so Francis would know who'd done it — just as he had left that stickpin for Sherburne to find."

That was all it took. The one sentence. After weeks of collecting bits of information and doing precious little with them, Ismal's mind finally began assembling the pieces.

He took the sheet of paper from her. "Evidently, Helena did not realize your husband had no sense of smell," he said. "Still, the paper is also distinctive. All in all, a broad enough hint. Do you not find this odd?"

She looked at him, then at the paper. "Goddamn. Yes. It's obvious, isn't it? She wouldn't have left a message if she'd poisoned the laudanum. You don't hide messages for a man you know will be dead within twenty-four hours. Also, you don't
deliberately
leave incriminating evidence behind."

He nodded. "Even if we supposed she stole the papers on New Year's Eve, and came back weeks later to poison him — "

"Which is highly improbable — "

"She would have remembered to remove the evidence implicating her."

"So someone else poisoned him," Leila said. "And Helena didn't know. That would explain her being so upset about my sense of smell. Francis' death and the inquest must have come as a shock to her. And probably to Langford, if he'd hired her to steal."

"Timing," he said. "We have both been puzzled by the timing. It seems that the theft and poisoning did not occur at the same time — most likely, not even the same day. So we must theorize that Helena stole the papers either on New Year's Eve or the next time she was sure you were safely away. That leaves the first night you were at Norbury House. Sunday, the eleventh of January."

"Either way, I think we have to eliminate Langford, too. Why risk a scandal at best — a nasty murder trial at worst — when Francis couldn't bother him any more?"

"That leaves us with Avory, Sherburne, and Lady Carroll." He was beginning to see just what was left — timing, personalities, connections. He should have put it together weeks ago. A week ago at least.

"Yes, yes, I know." She rubbed her head. "But it doesn't — there has to be something. Helena. I know she's the key. Damn. I need to see it in black and white." She stuffed the paper back into the bag and got off the bed. "I need to get out of this beastly room, too. As soon as we've solved this pestilential murder, I'm going to strip this whole damned chamber down to bare walls and floors, I vow."

"Actually, I would prefer we found another house."

She halted halfway to the door.

"After we are wed," he said. "A larger house. So that you might have one full floor for your work area."

The air began to pulse. She marched to the door. "We can talk about that later," she said. "I'm having enough trouble keeping things straight in my head as it is. I need to write it down. I'm going to the studio."

He could have told her she didn't need to write anything down. He could explain what had happened, or most of it. But it would give her more satisfaction to work it out on her own. And so he held his tongue and followed her to the studio.

It took Leila about ten minutes to realize Ismal was humoring her. He sat beside her at the work-table, his attention seemingly riveted on the sheet of foolscap she was covering with notes and arrows. He seemed to be listening attentively to every syllable she uttered.

And he was bored.

She put down the pencil and folded her hands. "Go ahead, tell me," she said.

"I am listening," he said. "It is very interesting what you say of Sherburne. I myself saw him with Helena Martin on that night I encountered Avory. Indeed, it is possible Sherburne confided his troubles — or part, at least — to her."

"You may be listening, but you're not thinking."

He treated her to his most seraphically innocent expression. "What makes you believe I am not thinking?"

"Your eyes. Your thinking color is several degrees more intense. You don't need to think because you've worked it all out."

He let out a sigh. "I thought you would prefer to assemble the pieces yourself."

"I prefer to observe the genius at work," she said.

"It is not genius. You have pointed out some pertinent issues. I have merely connected them."

"I'm well aware that we make a good team," she said.

With a faint smile, he took up the pencil. "It is true. For instance, you did say a short while ago that Helena did to your husband as your husband had done to Sherburne. That made me wonder how much she knew of the Sherburne episode, and whether she had purposely adopted your husband's spiteful style."

He turned the sheet over. At the top, he wrote Helena's name, then Sherburne's, connecting the two with a line.

"This afternoon, you reminded me that Langford and Lady Carroll's father were close friends," he said. "Lady Carroll is considered head of her family. Everyone turns to her. I asked myself, if she found herself in an impossible situation, to whom would she turn?"

He wrote Fiona's name below Sherburne's, and Langford's under Helena's, then drew connecting lines — Langford to Fiona, Langford to Helena.

"We believe Langford also had a large problem with your husband — blackmail. This bothered me, not simply because the duke is so powerful, but because it did not fit your husband's pattern. Customarily, Beaumont lured one into his nets,
then
exploited or attacked. So I considered the timing."

On the lower half of the paper he drew a grid. "The month of December," he explained as he filled in the dates.

"On the second of December is the Fatal Ball. Letty's garters are stolen, and we assume Lady Carroll goes to the Duke of Langford for help. To Langford, your husband is a worthless cur, a pernicious influence on his son. At this point, however, he realizes that the cur is rabid."

Leila was beginning to see, too. "It's one thing to corrupt a grown man," she said. "Another to abuse a gently bred virgin — especially the youngest daughter of his best friend."

"So I theorize that Langford confronted your husband. Perhaps he threatened destruction if the rabid dog did not leave England immediately. Your husband, cornered, responded by producing one of Charles' letters — and evidence that there were more. The duke found himself not only two thousand pounds poorer but at the mercy of the mad dog."

"Intolerable," she said. "So Langford went to Helena."

"And they made their plans. I have little doubt these included having Lady Carroll deal with you — to get you out of the way so that Helena could do her work."

Leila looked up from the rough calendar. "So you think that’s
all
Fiona did? But why was she so late coming to Norbury House? You don't think she was helping Helena, do you?"

"I think — " He turned toward the windows. "I think a carriage has stopped in front of this house. A coach and four." He was off the stool and at the windows in the next instant. He peered through the slit between the drapes. "A gentleman emerges."

"At this hour? It's past eleven." Her heart hastened to double time. "You've got to get out. Hide. You can't — "

"Certainly not." He came back and patted her on the shoulder. "It is only the Duke of Langford. You wait here. I will go down and calm Gaspard. He will be alarmed."

She couldn't believe her ears. "Are you mad? You can't go…" But he was already across the room and out the door. Gone.

Leila stared at the open doorway. Langford. At this hour. And Ismal, cool as you please, going down — to
her
front door — to what?
Greet
the duke? At eleven o'clock at night — in the house of his
mistress
?

She got up from the stool, then sat down again. Ismal had told her to wait. He was the professional. He knew what he was doing. Beyond doubt he'd been in far more awkward situations before. More dangerous ones. Gaspard and Eloise were downstairs. Langford wouldn't commit mayhem in a respectable neighborhood, before witnesses.

But what in blazes was he doing here at this hour? He was supposed to come tomorrow. She'd planned for that. She hadn't planned for this — tonight. What would she have done if Ismal hadn't been here?
Esmond
, she corrected. She must think of him as Esmond for the moment. She mustn't forget that. No slips. He wouldn't make any. He was discreet. He'd have a brilliant excuse for being here.

At least they were fully dressed. Or were they? She tried frantically to recollect. Had she taken off his neckcloth? Had he? She checked her buttons and hooks. All fastened. Her hair was a mess, but then, it always was.

She heard footsteps, voices. She snatched up the piece of foolscap, folded it, and thrust it into the sketchbook. She leapt off the stool just as the Duke of Langford entered, Ismal close behind.

Then, too late, she noticed the herb bag hanging from the easel.

Swallowing an oath, she lifted her chin and marched to her guests. She sketched the duke a curtsy, received a sketchy bow in return and icily polite greetings.

"This is an unlooked for honor," she said.

He directed a steely grey gaze down his nose at her. If the look was meant to be intimidating, it failed. All that impressed Leila was his strong resemblance to David. It was very evident when one stood so near. She focused on that, to keep her mind — and eyes — off the telltale bag.