Captives of the Night (Scoundrels 2)

"I see," he said, his voice almost a growl. "Is there anything else you wish to mention, Mrs. Beaumont?"

Some time later, Ismal climbed into the carriage seat opposite Lord Quentin.

"Well, it took long enough, but we got our verdict," said His Lordship. "Accidental death by laudanum overdose."

"Better the inquiry was lengthy," Ismal said. "The coroner is satisfied he's done his duty thoroughly."

He removed his greasy wig and studied it. Leila Beaumont had recognized him. Even Quentin hadn't, at first—but she had, from across a large room...while she was being interrogated by an irritable coroner. Surely she was the Devil's own work.

"And the public will be satisfied, too, I hope." Quentin frowned. "I'm not, but that can't be helped. We couldn't afford a murder verdict."

"We did what was necessary," Ismal said.

"Maybe I'd have liked it better if she hadn't made us look a pack of fools."

Ismal smiled faintly. "The painting business, you mean."

Sir Gregory Williams, the artistic expert, had insisted the painting could not have been completed in less than two days and refused to believe it had been done by a woman. As a result, several officers had been ordered back to Madame's house to obtain other samples of her work. An hour after uttering his misogynistic remarks, Sir Gregory had been forced to gulp them back down.

"Sir Gregory appeared rather foolish," said Ismal. "Still, he had conscience enough to admit his mistake. Yes, the lady had undoubtedly painted the glassware study, he admitted, and yes, the treatment of the subject as well as the brushwork evidenced a serene state of mind."

Ismal, too, had been obliged to admit a mistake, inwardly at least. He hadn't considered the implications of the wet painting. In the studio, all his attention had been given to the devastation she had wrought. All his interest had focused on her temper...so much passion.

He'd let emotion taint his objectivity—an unforgivable sin. He was furious with himself, and with her, the cause. Nonetheless, his expression remained one of mild amusement.

"It was that dratted ink," Quentin said. "If she didn't kill him—"

"Obviously, she did not."

"You weren't so sure before."

"I did not need to be sure. Her guilt or innocence was irrelevant to my task."

"If she didn't spill that ink to protect herself, it could have been to protect someone else," Quentin persisted. "Or do you think the ink bottle had stood upon the nightstand, where it had no business being? No diary in the drawer, no paper, not even a pen. How do you explain it?"

"Beaumont may have set it down for a moment and forgotten it." Ismal shrugged. "There are a host of explanations."

"Doesn't explain her. Quick-witted female like that." Quentin's countenance grew thoughtful. "It does make one wonder. Did she really think Beaumont's death was an accident? Did that clever woman miss what was obvious even to me?"

"Does it matter?" Ismal dropped the wig onto the seat beside him. "The matter is settled, our secrets are safe, and none of your noble friends will be troubled by an embarrassing murder investigation."

"More than likely, it was one of those noble friends who did it," Quentin said gloomily. "Even though my hands are tied and justice seems to be out of the question, I should like to know who killed him." He leaned forward, his hands on his knees. "Don't you want to know who did it? Don't you have a lengthy list of questions you'd like answered about this plaguey business?"

Yes, Ismal thought. He'd like to know how the curst woman had recognized him today. That was even more troubling than his uncharacteristic leaping to a wrong conclusion. His civilized self told him she'd penetrated his disguise because she was an artist, more keenly observant than others. The superstitious barbarian inside him believed this woman could see into a man's soul.

He told the barbarian that no human being, even he, could read minds or hearts. He discovered secrets, yes, but that was no magical power, merely a well-honed skill in observing and translating the smallest clues of voice, face, gesture. Accordingly, he never betrayed himself through such inadvertent clues. Yet she must have discerned...something. In some way, he'd betrayed himself to her, just as in the last week he'd somehow let desire undermine his intellect.

He didn't like "some ways" and "some hows" and the loss of control they implied. Once, a decade ago, a woman had weakened his will and reason, and he was still paying. He wouldn't risk destruction again. He would attend the funeral, for appearances' sake. Then, he would return to the Continent, and this time, forget her.

And so, aloud he said, "No, I am not curious. It is done, our problems are over, and I am content."

Chapter 4

Francis' funeral took place the day after the inquest. The Comte d'Esmond attended the services and came with the others to the house after. He expressed his condolences and courteously offered to let Nick remain with Leila until she'd found replacements for the Demptons.

She politely declined—to Esmond's relief, she was unhappily certain. His speech and manner were all that was correct—neither a degree too cool nor overwarm. But she could sense the chill in him as palpably as if a wall of ice stood between them.

Unfortunately, when she went on to explain that one of Mr. Herriard's staff would fill in temporarily, both David and Fiona insisted she borrow from their staffs instead. Fiona was growing rather sharp with David when the Duke of Langford, who'd been standing nearby talking to Quentin, took it upon himself to render a judgment.

"Esmond's servant has had a week to familiarize himself with your requirements," said His Grace. "His remaining would produce less disruption, on all sides. I should think you've had disruption enough, Mrs. Beaumont."

"Quite right," said Quentin. "Simplest solution, I should think."

Leila glimpsed a flash of something—rage, or perhaps disgust—in Esmond's eyes, but before she could respond, he did.

"Certainement," he murmured. "I return to Paris soon, in any case, and so there is not the smallest inconvenience. Nick can follow me after your household affairs are settled."

She glanced at Andrew, who nodded agreement, naturally. One didn't contradict the Duke of Langford. David had turned away. Even Fiona, who habitually contradicted everybody, held her tongue.

Leila lifted her chin as she met Esmond's enigmatic blue gaze. "I seem to be outnumbered," she said. "All the same, I regret trespassing further on your generosity."

He responded with some chivalrous, typically Gallic nonsense and shortly thereafter took his leave.

He left the chill behind, and something terribly like despair. Not since that night long ago in Venice had Leila felt so bitterly, wretchedly alone.

By now she knew how much Esmond had helped her. After Andrew had provided a detailed report of the inquest, she'd perceived how very unpleasantly matters could have gone for her had anyone but Quentin supervised the case.

She'd meant to express her gratitude to Esmond. She'd even rehearsed a brief but neatly worded speech. The trouble was, the wall of ice had cut her off before she could begin. Now she suspected that he'd merely acted gallantly, as his nationality—and, no doubt, some sort of noblesse oblige—required. Having obliged, however, he refused to be further associated with her.

She should not be surprised, and she had no business feeling angry or hurt, she told herself.

Langford was definitely no friendlier. It was clear he didn't want his son or Fiona—daughter of one of his dearest friends—associated with a bourgeois female artist whose poor taste in husbands and lack of breeding had resulted in scandal. He'd made it clear that even their servants were too good for the likes of Leila Beaumont—let the foreigner's menial look after her.

The irony was, Langford couldn't know how richly she deserved his censure. He couldn't know, either, the high price she was paying already. Frantic to save herself and shield Andrew, she'd never truly contemplated the consequences of concealing murder: the total isolation, the need to guard every word, gesture, expr

ession, lest something slip—very possibly to the killer himself—and worst of all, the bitter pangs of conscience.

She couldn't look her friends in the eye, and she couldn't look at others without suspecting them. She couldn't wait for her visitors to leave, yet she dreaded being alone with her guilt and fears.

Her visitors did leave at last, and exhaustion got her through that first night. She was too tired even to dream.

But in the days after that, she knew no peace. She lost her appetite. She couldn't work, couldn't bear to take up a drawing pencil. Every time the door knocker sounded, every time a carriage clattered into the square, she thought it was Quentin, coming to arrest her, or the killer, coming to silence her forever.

She diagnosed herself as hysterical, yet the hysteria continued, exacerbated by nightmares that made her dread falling asleep.

Finally, a week after the inquest, she told Nick she was going to church—St. George the Martyr was but a few steps from the house—and set out for a brisk walk. She ended, as she had so many times before, in the burial ground.

Where Francis lay now.