"He's got a lot of nerve. The goat's bedded at least half the married women of Paris."
Ismal waved this aside. "What interested me was that he was surprised, even by my very small success with his wife. It seems he is unaccustomed to worrying about her. Now, however, I have planted the seed of doubt, which I shall cultivate. That is but one of the ways I shall make his days and nights unquiet."
Nick grinned. "No harm in mixing some pleasure with business."
Ismal set down his cup and, closing his eyes, leaned back against the plump cushions. "I believe I shall leave the greater part of the business to you. There are persons at the upper levels of Parisian authority in Beaumont's pay. You will arrange a series of incidents which will require him to pay more for protection. The incidents will also frighten away some of the more vulnerable clients. They pay a great deal for secrecy. If they feel unsafe, they will cease patronizing Vingt-Huit. I have some other ideas, which we will discuss tomorrow."
"I see. I'm to do the dirty work while you amuse yourself with the lady artist."
"But of course. I cannot leave Madame to you. You are half English. You have no comprehension of violent-tempered women, and so, no appreciation. You would not have the least idea what to do with her. Even if you did, you haven't the necessary patience. I, however, am the most patient man in the world. Even the tsar admits this." Ismal opened his eyes. "Did I tell you that Beaumont nearly dropped a decanter when I mentioned the tsar? It was then I knew beyond doubt I'd found my man."
"No, you didn't mention it. Not that I'm surprised. If I didn't know you better, I'd think the only one you were interested in was the woman."
"That, I hope, is precisely what Monsieur Beaumont will think," Ismal murmured as he closed his eyes once more.
¯¯
Fiona, the Viscountess Carroll, was intrigued. "Esmond—a bad influence? Are you serious, Leila?" The raven-haired widow turned to study the count, who stood talking with a small group of guests by the recently unveiled portrait of Madame Vraisses. "That's quite impossible to believe."
"I'm sure Lucifer and his followers were beautiful, too," said Leila. "They had all been angels, recall."
"I've always pictured Lucifer as dark—rather more in Francis' style." Her green eyes gleaming, Fiona turned back to her friend. "He's looking especially dark this evening. I do believe he's aged ten years since the last time I was in Paris."
"He's aged ten years in three weeks," Leila said tightly. "I didn't think it was possible, but since the Comte d'Esmond became his bosom bow, Francis has taken a decided turn for the worse. He hasn't slept at home for nearly a week. He came in—or rather, was carried in—this morning at four o'clock. He was still in bed at seven o'clock this evening, and I was half inclined to attend the party without him."
"I wonder why you didn't."
Because she didn't dare. But this Leila would not confide, even to her one woman friend. Ignoring the question, she went on detachedly, "It took another twenty minutes to rouse him and make him take a bath. I do wonder how his tarts can bear it. The combination of opium, liquor, and perfume was overpowering. And of course he notices nothing."
"I can't think why you don't throw him out," said Fiona. "It's not as though you're financially dependent on him. You haven't any children he could threaten to take away. And he's too lazy for violence."
There were worse consequences than violence, Leila could have told her. "Don't be absurd," she said, taking a glass of champagne from a passing servant. She usually waited until later in the evening to enjoy her single glass of wine, but tonight she was tense. "The last thing I need is to live separately from my husband. The men plague me enough as it is. If Francis were not about, playing the possessive spouse, I should have to fight them off myself. Then I'd never get any work done."
Fiona laughed. She was not, strictly speaking, beautiful, but she seemed so when she laughed, partly because everything about her seemed to gleam: the even white teeth, the sparkling green eyes, the ivory oval face framed by sleek black curls. "Most women would rather a complaisant husband," she said, "especially in Paris. Especially when someone like the Comte d'Esmond appears on the scene. I'm not sure I'd mind his exerting his bad influence on me. But I should want to observe him at close range first."
The mischievous spark in her eyes intensified. "Shall I catch his attention?"
Leila's heart gave a sharp thump. "Certainly not."
But Fiona was already looking toward him again, her fan poised.
"Fiona, you must not—really, I shall leave you here—"
Esmond turned at that instant and must have caught Fiona's eye, for she beckoned with the fan. Without hesitation, he began crossing the room to them.
Leila rarely blushed. Her face felt warmer than it should, however. "You're shockingly forward," she told her friend as she started to move away.
Fiona caught her arm. "I shall seem a great deal more brazen if I'm obliged to introduce myself. Don't run away, Leila. It's not Beelzebub, you know—at least not on the outside." Her voice dropped as the count neared. "Lud, he's stunning. I do believe I shall faint."
Well aware that Fiona was no more likely to swoon than to stand on her head, Leila set her jaw, and with rigid politeness, introduced the Comte d'Esmond to her incorrigible friend.
Not ten minutes later, Leila was waltzing with him. Meanwhile, Fiona—who'd been so determined to study Esmond closely—was dancing with a laughing Francis.
Leila was still trying to figure out just who had engineered this arrangement when the count's soft voice came from above her head.
"Jasmine," he said. "And something else. Unexpected. Ah, yes—myrrh. An intriguing combination, Madame. You blend scents in the same distinctive way you mix colors."
Leila used a light hand with perfume, and she'd put it on hours ago. He should have needed to be much closer to identify it, but he held her nearly a foot away. It was a fraction too near for English propriety, though well within Gallic bounds. All the same, he seemed far too close. In their many encounters since their first meeting, he had never touched her except to kiss her knuckles. Now she was tautly aware of the warm hand clasping her waist, the faint friction of glove against silk as he gracefully guided her round the ballroom.
"With scent at least I need only please myself," she said.
"And your husband, of course."
"That would be pointless. Francis has almost no sense of smell."
"In certain circumstances, that may be a gift—when, for instance, one walks the streets of Paris on a hot summer day. But in other circumstances, the loss must be a profound one. He misses so much."
The words were harmless enough. The tone was another matter. The last and only time Esmond had flirted openly with her was the day she'd met him. Leila wasn't certain he'd flirted covertly since then, either. Maybe the tone she heard as seductive wasn't meant to be. But intended or not, she felt the inner hurry his soft voice had triggered time and time again, even during the briefest of encounters. In its wake came the usual flutter of anxiety.
"I'm not sure how profound it is," she said coolly, "but it does affect his appetite. It seems to be getting worse. I believe he's lost a stone in the last month."
"So I have observed."
She looked up, then wished she hadn't. She had
looked up into those eyes a score of times by now, yet every time they caught and held her fascinated. It was the rare color, she told herself. The blue was too deep to be human. When—if—she painted those eyes, anyone who hadn't met him would believe she'd exaggerated the color.
He smiled. "You are transparent. Almost I can see you selecting and mixing your oils."
She looked away. "I've told you I'm a working woman."
"Do you think of nothing else?"
"A woman artist must work twice as hard as a man to achieve half his success," she said. "If I weren't single-minded, I wouldn't have stood a chance of painting Madame Vraisses' portrait. At tonight's unveiling, they would have been applauding a male artist instead."
"The world is stupid, I agree. And I, perhaps, am also a little stupid."
She was, too, to look up into those eyes again. She was already short of breath and dizzy—from trying to talk and waltz simultaneously. "You don't think women should be artists?" she asked.
"Alas, I can think only one stupid thing: that I dance with a beautiful woman who cannot distinguish a man from an easel."
Before she could retort, he swept her into a turn—so swiftly that she missed a step and tripped over his foot. Almost in the same heartbeat, an arm like a whipcord lashed round her waist and hauled her up hard against a mainmast of solid, male muscle.
It was over in an instant. The count scarcely missed a beat, but went on easily guiding her through the crowd of dancers quite as though nothing had happened.
Meanwhile, a fine stream of sweat trickled between Leila's breasts, and her heart hammered so loudly that she couldn't hear the music. Not that she needed to hear it or think about what she was doing. Her partner was fully in control, as poised and sure of himself as he'd been at the start.
He was also several inches closer than he'd been before, she belatedly discovered.
Her swimming mind cleared and the haze of swirling colors about her resolved into individuals. She saw that Francis was staring at her, and he wasn't laughing any more. He wasn't even smiling.
Leila became aware of a faint pressure at her waist, urging her a fraction nearer. Now she realized she'd felt it before and must have responded mindlessly—just like a well-trained horse answering the smallest tension of the reins, the lightest pressure of knee to flanks.