Captives of the Night (Scoundrels 2)

"It doesn't matter what sort of man Francis was," she said. "No one had the right to kill him—not in cold blood, in that despicably underhand way. Worse men than he have been murdered, and the judges have pointed out that the bad character of the victim doesn't mitigate the crime. I couldn't make myself believe it mitigated even what I had done—else I should never have gone to Quentin. I-I'm sorry it took so long for me to stop being a coward. I realize that's made everything harder for you."

"To me it seems you make everything harder for yourself," he answered. "What you perceive as cowardice to me seems sensible caution. I saw that you had a great deal to lose and nothing to gain by voicing your suspicions. That is simple enough to comprehend. But when these great abstractions enter the equation—justice, good and evil, courage and cowardice, truth—ah, then, everything changes."

Having apparently studied Francis' decanters to his satisfaction, Esmond returned to the window.

Leila tried to bring her focus back to her hands, or the table nearby—on anything but him. She couldn't. His prowling the perimeter of the room made her edgy. He moved with the fluid grace of a cat, and just as noiselessly. Unless one watched, it was difficult to determine where he was and where he was going and what he would do. She was having enough trouble trying to make sense of his words and making the right replies.

"The authorities were 'sensible' and 'practical' about my father's death," she said. "Consequently, I'll never know who killed him. For all I know, I've seen his murderer, even spoken to him. It's not a pleasant idea to live with."

"I am sorry, Madame."

She wasn't looking for pity, and wished she'd chosen her words more carefully. The compassion she heard in his voice hurt. "I know the chances of that are remote," she said. "With Francis, it's different. His killer could be one of scores of people I know. Someone I've served tea, or dined with. I've tried to be sensible about it, but everyone I see stirs up the same question. It makes me frantic, wondering, Is this the one?'"

He turned his head to meet her gaze…and hold it. "It is too much, I understand, for you to live with two unsolved mysteries. To me, most of life is unsolved mysteries. But our characters are different, are they not?"

His steady gaze made a flurry within her, as though her secrets were living creatures, scurrying to hide from that probing blue light.

"I don't think my character has much to do with the problem at hand," she said. "Unless you have any lingering suspicions that I killed Francis."

"From the beginning, that did not make sense to me. For some time now, I have considered it out of the question. The only puzzle was the ink—which you have explained."

Relief washed over her, so profound that she was embarrassed. His belief in her guilt or innocence should not have loomed so large. Yet it had haunted her...because he haunted her. Still. He saw too much, and she had too many secrets. She could only pray his penetrating eyes wouldn't uncover them.

"That does simplify matters," she said briskly. "You've eliminated one suspect."

He smiled. "Now only several hundred thousand remain. Shall we cross Lord Quentin off the list?"

She nodded. "If he had done it, he'd have tried to convince me I was mad—and probably would have had me carted off to Bedlam forthwith."

"We make progress. Two suspects eliminated. And myself, Madame? Or perhaps I raced to and from Norbury House the previous night while everyone slept?"

"Don't be silly. You hadn't any mo—" She broke off, her face burning.

He came to the sofa, clasped his hands behind his back, and gazed down at her. Too close. The air grew heavier, overwarm and crackling with tension.

He let the silence lengthen, deliberately, she thought. The oppressive stillness made her all the more fiercely, inescapably aware of him.

"Desire," he said very softly.

The word whispered its wickedness in her heart, and echoed there. It seemed to echo through the entire room, a devil's whisper, taunting.

"Shall we pretend it was not so?" he asked. "Will you, so very observant, feign ignorance of the obvious?"

"It's pointless to discuss it," she said tautly. "I know perfectly well you didn't kill Francis."

"But I had so potent a motive. I had wicked designs upon his wife."

"You would never be that stupidly desperate," she said, scowling at her hands. "For anybody."

His soft chuckle made her look up. "I agree that killing your husband does not strike me as the wisest way to further my designs."

"Not to mention it's too curst direct."

His blue eyes glinted. "You would prefer I were more direct?"

"I prefer to discuss the crime," she said. "Which is what you were hired—assigned—whatever the devil it was—to do."

"I shall do so, I promise you."

"That is all I de—require."

"But of course," he amiably agreed.

"Very well, then." Her palms were damp. She pretended to smooth out a crease in her skirt. "I suppose you'd like to get started."

"Yes. In the bedroom."

Her hands stilled.

"The scene of the crime," he said. There was a tinge of amusement in his voice.

"I thought the officers had scoured every inch of the house," she said, fighting to keep her tones level. "Do you expect to find anything useful after a fortnight?"

"I am hoping you will find something for me. You lived with the victim, while I knew him only socially. It is you who can tell me most about your husband, his friends, his habits. Also, you are an artist. Your powers of observation make you a most useful partner in this enterprise."

For two weeks Leila's head had been churning with questions, speculations, theories. She had noticed a great deal, though those observations hadn't led to any satisfactory conclusions. She had prepared herself to cooperate fully and share her observations freely and frankly. She needn't be so reluctant to accompany an investigator to Francis' bedroom, she chided herself. It was business. Nothing more.

Esmond had moved to the door. He stood waiting.

Leila rose. "I trust no one saw you come?" Her voice was just a bit unsteady. "It wouldn't do, you know—"

"I am aware of the proprieties," he said. "With the English, appearance is everything."

She wanted to throttle him. "Appearance. She closed the distance between them in a few strides. "Is that sarcasm or innuendo? I've noticed you're very good at both. And at appearances."

She waited for him to open the door, but he only smiled down at her. "Now what appearance of mine do you take exception to, I wonder?" he asked softly. 'The one in the inquiry room, as a constable?"

She blinked. "Good grief. How did you know?”

"That is the same question I should ask you. Quentin himself did not recognize me until I spoke to him—in my own voice."

"I didn't know," she said. "I just…guessed."

"Sensed," he corrected. "There is a difference."

Her heart thudded. "I'm observant. You just said so."

"I was most disconcerted," he said.

"Well, you've returned the favor, monsieur. How in blazes did you know?"

He shrugged. "Perhaps I am a mind reader."

"There's no such thing."

"Then what was it, do you think?" His voice had dropped to a whisper.

Also, Leila belatedly noticed, he had somehow moved several inches nearer without appearing to move at all.

She reached for the door handle. "I think I am being led down a path I do not wish to follow," she muttered, jerking the door open.

She marched out and on toward the stairway.