Captives of the Night (Scoundrels 2)

The fumes. She mu

st not remain here and inhale them. The doctor had said even that could make one ill.

She rose and retreated only as far as the threshold, though she wanted to run as fast and as far away as possible. She wanted to faint, to be sick, to be anything but fully conscious. She made herself stay. She mustn't run. She mustn't leave Francis alone, and she mustn't be sick or swoon. She must think, prepare herself.

She focused all her will on that. There were sounds below, but she shut them out. She must make herself very calm. No tears. She couldn't risk even that small loss of control. She needed all her will.

She heard the footsteps upon the stairs, but didn't look round. She couldn't. She wasn't ready. She couldn't command her muscles.

The footsteps neared. "Madame." It was a soft voice, a whisper so low she wasn't sure she heard it. The entire house seemed to be whispering. Murder.

Like papa like daughter.

Hang the pretty ones,

"Madame."

Her head turned slowly, jerkily...to inhumanly blue eyes and a crown of spun gold hair. She didn't understand why he was there. She wasn't sure he truly was there. She couldn't think about that or anything. Tears were burning her eyes and she mustn't cry, mustn't move. She would shatter like the glass, the bottle, the pitcher. Broken…puzzle pieces.

"I c-can't," she mumbled. "I must..."

"Yes, Madame."

She swayed, and he caught her in his arms.

She shattered then and, pressing her face to his coat, she wept.

Chapter 3

It was Fate that had driven him here, Ismal thought, and Fate that sent Leila Beaumont into his arms.

Fate, evidently, was in a vicious humor.

Ismal was aware of her soft, untidy hair tickling his chin and of the lush ripeness of the body pressed tautly to his. With the awareness came a hunger so fierce that it darkened his reason. But he dragged his mind back from the darkness to take in the room beyond, for he was all too aware of what lay there as well.

He'd turned her back to the scene when he caught her, and now he studied it over her head: the corpse, the overturned nightstand, the broken glass and crockery...and one unbroken bottle of ink. The hysterical woman servant below had babbled of murder. His instincts told him the same.

At the sound of footsteps, Ismal looked down to the landing, just as Nick appeared there, his upturned countenance politely blank.

Ismal nodded, and Nick hurried noiselessly up to him.

"Take her to one of the rooms below, and get her brandy," Ismal told him in Greek, his voice a shade too harsh. "Do what you must to keep her there."

Nick gently disentangled her from his master and pushed a fresh handkerchief into her hands. "It'll be all right, Madame," he said soothingly. "Don't you mind a thing. We'll see to it. I'll fix you some tea. You leave it to me," he continued as he guided her down the stairs. "Doctor's on his way. There, lean on me, that's right."

Leaving Mrs. Beaumont in his servant's capable hands, Ismal slipped into the master bedroom.

He studied Beaumont's blue-tinged countenance briefly, then lifted the eyelids. If he'd died of a laudanum overdose, the pupils would be narrowed to pinpricks. Instead, they were widely dilated.

Ismal sniffed cautiously, then drew back, his eyes on the ink bottle. The main odor was that of the ink, and it was not healthy, he knew. That, however, wasn't what had killed Francis Beaumont. Though the odor about the mouth and body was barely discernible, Ismal's sensitive nose recognized it. Beaumont had ingested prussic acid. Frowning, Ismal rose.

Allah grant him patience. To kill the man was understandable, but she might as well have killed herself, too, while she was about it, for she could not have devised a quicker route to the gallows. Motive, means, opportunity—all pointing to her.

But it was done, he told himself, and could not be done again more intelligently. At least she'd shown sense enough to spill the ink. That should confuse matters. He would take care of the rest. Lord Quentin, the man he'd secretly worked for this last decade, would insist upon it.

He would see, as quickly as Ismal had, that an inquest was unavoidable. Even if the physician failed to notice the odor of prussic acid, he'd be sure to observe the dilated pupils. He'd want an autopsy.

In any case, the death was suspicious, thanks to the curst Mrs. Dempton. Ismal had hardly entered the house before the demented female had not only repeated what she'd overheard of the quarrel, but reported that Mrs. Beaumont had sent for her lawyer as well as the doctor. Mrs. Dempton would share these incriminating tidbits with everyone else who'd listen. The newspapers would be all too eager to listen.

Since, given these disagreeable circumstances, an inquest was inevitable, it had better be carefully managed. Only one verdict—accidental death—was acceptable. The alternative was a murder investigation and public trial. The Vingt-Huit matter might easily come to light, opening Pandora's box. News of the government's clandestine activities could set off a public outcry that could easily bring down the present ministry. Even if the government survived the uproar, countless people—not simply Beaumont's victims, but their innocent kin—would suffer public disgrace and humiliation. Whole families could be destroyed, here and abroad.

In short, one could either allow one woman to get away with murder or set off a cataclysmic scandal.

It was not a difficult choice, Ismal reflected as he left the master bedroom and shut the door behind him. For once, duty and inclination were in full agreement.

In those first terrible moments in the master bedroom, Leila had forgotten that Andrew Herriard had already left for the Continent the previous day. Thanks to a storm in the Channel, her message was slow to reach him in Paris. Consequently, he didn't get back to London until the day before the inquest.

He came straight to the house, without stopping to change out of his traveling clothes. Still, not until Fiona had left them alone in the parlor did his calm amiability give way to frowning concern.

"My dear girl," he said, taking Leila's hands in his.

The gentle voice, the warm strength of his hands, drove back the demons of the last six days.

"I'm all right," she said. "It's a—an unpleasant business, but merely a formality, I'm sure."

"A terrible strain upon you, all the same." He led her to the sofa and sat down with her. "Take your time and tell me as best you can, from the beginning."

She told him virtually the same story she'd told Lord Quentin three times, the magistrate twice, and Fiona once. It was the truth, but not all of it. Leila told Andrew a bit more about the quarrel, but not much more. She described it in general terms, letting him assume she couldn't remember the details clearly. She didn't mention the prussic acid odor or the ink she'd spilled.

Even with Andrew, whom she would trust with her life, there was only one route to take: the death was an accident.

She was guiltily aware that Andrew would be appalled at what she'd done. To shield a murderer was a criminal act, and he would not countenance it, regardless what was at stake.

She wasn't so noble. While Andrew might find some way to save her from the gallows, the truth about her father would surely come out and destroy her career. She would, as always, find some way to survive. But Andrew's career would be jeopardized as well. He had never told the authorities he'd found Jonas Bridgeburton's daughter alive, and he'd had to take some not strictly legal steps to give her a new identity.

The average lawyer's career might withstand a small, very old blot on his copybook. Andrew Herriard, however, was one of the most highly regarded solicitors in England, not simply because of his brilliant legal mind, but because of his unshakable integrity. He was being considered for a knighthood at least, possibly a peerage.

Leila wouldn't let his life be blighted because of her.

No matter what happened at tomorrow's inquest, no matter what the doctors found in Francis' body, she wouldn't be destroyed, and Andrew wouldn't be disgraced. She'd had six days to think and plan, and she'd found

, as she always did, a way to manage matters. She hadn't let Francis victimize her. She wouldn't let a lot of law officers do it, either.

All she cared about now was Andrew, and her heart lightened when his worried expression began to abate. She had only to glance up into his gentle brown eyes to know he believed her innocent.

"It was simply an unlucky chain of circumstances," he said reassuringly. "Still, you were fortunate that particular client happened along. I understand Esmond is very well connected, here as well as abroad."

"Apparently he had only to snap his fingers and Lord Quentin came running."

"I couldn't ask for a better man than Quentin to oversee this farce of an inquiry. An unavoidable farce, thanks to Mrs. Dempton's unaccountable behavior. She will cost the Home Office much needless labor and expense." He searched her face. "But they're minor concerns at present. I'm sorry you've had to endure so much. At least I find you in good hands: Lady Carroll is devoted to you—and that young manservant seems a steady fellow."

"He's Esmond's servant," she said. "Nick is a sort of bodyguard. I was given a choice between him and one of Quentin's men. Someone was needed to keep out the curious." She explained that apart from her dressmaker, only David had been admitted. He'd called the day after Francis' death, and she'd asked him to discourage others from calling until after the inquest.

"Very wise." He smiled. "You've done everything just as I should have advised. It would seem I'm scarcely needed."

"I only wish you hadn't been needed," she said. "I'm sorry to bring so much trouble to you."

"Nonsense," he said briskly. "As usual, you leave me little to do. You've acted wisely and bravely, as you have for years. My only regret is that this marriage has demanded so very much wisdom and courage. Even in death, he's a trouble to you."

His sympathy set her conscience shrieking. "I'd have been in worse trouble if he hadn't married me," she said. "And I should be in far worse by now if you hadn't forgiven me and stood by me and—and helped me become better."

She would never forget the day, ten years ago, when she'd had to explain why she must marry Francis Beaumont, though Andrew disapproved. She would never forget Andrew's grieved expression when she confessed she was no longer a virgin. His sorrow had been far more devastating than the anger and disgust she'd steeled herself for.