Captives of the Night (Scoundrels 2)

"I wonder what you'll see." She took up a pencil. "I wonder what they'll tell you unwittingly, and how you'll get them to tell you. I've never watched you at work as a detective. I almost wish I were a man, so that I could be there."

He laughed softly. "What you wish, I think, is to keep an eye on your young favorite."

That wasn't all she wished, but it was what she could admit. "Worse than that," she said. "If I could, I'd put David on a leash. But I can't."

"Ah." He bent nearer, and the familiar masculine scent wrapped about her like a net. "Shall I leash him for you, Madame? Will that ease your anxieties?"

She focused on the pencil. "Why should you? Won't that impede your detecting?"

"Not if he wants to be reined in. From what you said a while ago, I received that impression. If the impression is correct, he will be grateful for a friend who leashes him—and all the more inclined to trust me. You see?" he asked softly. "I listen carefully to what you say, and I am not altogether unwilling to be led. But now I must go to gather my clues." He drew back.

He bowed, and the unsteady light flickered over his pale gold hair, touching a thread here, another there. A fleeting, uncertain motion. In the same way, her hand moved, the fingers lifting from the table—as though they wanted to be the light, and touch, too. It was no more than a flicker of movement in no more than a pulsebeat of time. Her fingers were properly still by the time he straightened. Yet a part of her wished she dared to be as bold as he had been—to let her hand go where her eyes were drawn. Where her heart, too, was being drawn, she feared.

"Au revoir," he said. "Until next week, then. After Eloise and Gaspard arrive."

"Next week, then." She opened a sketchbook to avoid giving him her hand—because she wasn't sure she could trust herself to let go. "Good night, monsieur," she said politely.

¯¯

Eloise and Gaspard appeared a week later.

Either one of them could have stormed the Bastille single-handed.

Eloise stood—and that was ramrod straight—five feet ten inches tall and was built along the lines of a public monument. Every inch of her was solid muscle. She was Michelangelo's ideal woman—if he bothered with women. One of Leila's painting maitres had insisted Michelangelo's models had all been men. "One has only to study the musculature," he'd said. "Masculine, beyond doubt."

The painting master, clearly, had never met Eloise.

Her thick hair was dyed an uncompromising black and drawn back into a large, mercilessly tight knot—all as smooth and sleek as though lacquered over. Though she couldn't possibly dye her eyes, they were nearly as black as her hair, with the same steady sheen, so that they, too, seemed coated with varnish. They were enormous—or would have been if the rest of her face hadn't boasted equally powerful proportions: a great nose—beside which Wellington's would have appeared dainty—broad cheekbones, a wide mouth filled with large white teeth, and a jaw that made one think of nutcrackers.

Gaspard, too, was dark, large, and equally well muscled. Still, despite his two-inch advantage in height, he seemed much the slighter of the pair. In the circumstances, it was altogether strange to hear him call his monumental wife "ma petite" or "ma fille," or any of the other diminutive endearments he treated her to.

Eloise scorned endearments. She addressed him by his name. She referred to him as "cet homme"—that man. As in "That man has not yet brought the coals? But what can one expect? They are all the same. Insensible."

After a mere twenty-four hours, Leila still found the housekeeper rather overwhelming. She wasn't at all surprised that even Fiona was utterly bereft of speech for a full two minutes after Eloise had left the parlor.

The housekeeper had brought tea—and enough sandwiches and pastries for two score ladies. Fiona stared at the mountains of food, then at the door through which Eloise had exited, then at Leila.

"I contacted an employment agency in Paris," Leila explained, as she'd rehearsed. She took up the teapot. "I've never had much success with English servants, and in light of recent events, I doubted I had a prayer of getting good ones. English servants, generally, are exceedingly particular about their employers. I doubt one suspected of murder—even if it was only for a day or two—would meet their standards of respectability."

She filled Fiona's cup and handed it to her.

"Perhaps they misunderstood," Fiona said. "Perhaps they thought you wanted a bodyguard. I daresay she wouldn't experience any difficulty in keeping out curiosity-seekers and undesirables. She has only to stand there."

Clearly, Esmond had thought of that. He certainly hadn't attempted to find someone unobtrusive.

"She doesn't seem to experience any difficulty with anything," Leila said. "She's been through the entire house, scrubbing and dusting and polishing every item out of its wits, yet somehow she also managed to cook—for a regiment, it would appear."

"It looks delicious, at any rate. And whether it tastes so or not, I expect we'd better make a good show of eating it."

They ate and talked and talked and ate, and the sandwiches and pastries disappeared at a startling rate. That is to say, Leila was as startled as Fiona when they finally stopped and discovered they'd left scarcely a crumb.

"Devil take her!" Fiona exclaimed, staring at the devastated tea tray. "I shall have to be carried to my carriage—by six burly guardsmen." She leaned back against the sofa cushions, her hand on her stomach. "Come to think of it, that's not such a bad idea."

Leila laughed. "Don't get your hopes up, my lady. Eloise can carry you. She won't even need Gaspard's help."

"Gaspard." Fiona's eyes twinkled. "I suppose he's even bigger than she is?"

"It's a matching set."

"How divine. I might have known you'd do something out of the ordinary. Parisian servants, and each of them built like a man o' war. To what end, may one ask? To keep your beaux out—or to keep the right one in?"

"To keep them out, of course," Leila answered lightly. "Haven't I always kept them out?"

"Even Esmond—the so-beautiful and charming Esmond? Surely he's called, and surely you didn't turn him away."

"Except for you, I haven't seen a visitor in days."

"But, my dear, he seems to be quite settled in dreary London. One can't help wondering why he prefers it to Paris. And one must bear in mind that he did set out in pursuit of you practically the moment he heard you'd left Norbury House. And he came directly here, did he not?"

"Certainly. He was all a-fever to have his pretty face immortalized," Leila said.

"Yes, he was consistent on that point. That was the excuse he gave me, and he stuck to it with the coroner. But then, Esmond is discreet. How silly of me to forget. Naturally, he wouldn't call so soon."

"He can't possibly be discreet to put that speculative look in your eyes."

Fiona laughed. "I think he's divine. Just perfect for you."

"I'm flattered to learn that a French debauchee is perfect for me."

"Come, you must admit that you'd like to do his portrait," Fiona said. "He's perfect in that way at least—a subject worthy of your talents."

"I've spent the last six years painting nothing but human faces. At present even a Royal commission couldn't tempt me."

"A pity you ended with Lady Sherburne." Fiona glanced up at the trio of oriental watercolors hanging over the mantel. "The portrait isn't in then-drawing room, or anywhere that anyone can see. In fact, no one's ever seen it."

No one ever would, Leila thought, remembering Sherburne's last visit to her studio, when he'd destroyed the canvas with a stickpin. She hadn't told even Fiona about the episode. She hadn't told Esmond either, she realized. She'd written the earl's name, that was all. Well, she hadn't had time to talk about anything but David, had she?

"Not that one is surprised." Fiona went on. "Sherburne left all of London in no doubt he couldn't bear the sight of his wife—and, naturally, everyone soon deduced why. But then, he could hardly keep it a secret. He had to do something."

>

Leila looked at her friend. "I'm out of touch with town gossip. But I can guess what this is about. I've heard that tone and seen that expression in your eyes before. This has something to do with Francis, I assume. What happened? The usual? Was Lady Sherburne another of his conquests?"

"The evidence seems to point in that direction. Sherburne was one of his constant companions for months. Then, suddenly, Sherburne would have nothing to do with him. Meanwhile, it was obvious the Sherburnes were at war—living in separate wings of that immense house—she, rarely going out and he, rarely going home."