Captives of the Night (Scoundrels 2)

He stood panting like an animal, his loins aching, and watched in furious despair while she retied the drawstring, shoved her skirts down over her long, shapely legs, yanked up her chemise, and hastily refastened her bodice.

"On the table," she said, her voice throbbing. "You would have had me on the be-damned worktable. I wish I had been drunk. That at least would have constituted some sort of excuse. But I wasn't drunk. I wasn't flirting, making advances. My only fatal error, it seems, was trying to—Lord, how am I to explain?" She pushed herself off the worktable and gazed at him exasperatedly. "Don't you understand? I want to do something. Instead of waiting about, all the day. When we began this inquiry, you said you needed my help," she continued quickly, before he could answer. "You called me a 'partner.' But you're doing it all by yourself, and you don't even want to tell me anything. You'd never have told me about Vingt-Huit if I hadn't worked half of it out for myself—then nagged you for the rest. How was I to help when you wouldn't even tell me the basic facts about Francis? How was I to know what to look for?"

His conscience gnawed. He had kept her in the dark about Vingt-Huit only to protect himself, because he'd feared she'd never forgive him for using her.

"Why do you bother coming here at all, when you don't trust me?" she asked, her eyes still pleading with him. "Is it just to seduce me? Is that all I am? A challenge to your powers of seduction? An amusing problem to solve in your leisure time?"

"You are the worst problem of my life," he said bitterly. "And it is not amusing. This night I have trusted you with more than any one other person knows. But that is not enough for you. You want everything."

"So do you," she said. "But you don't want to give anything. You don't know how to be friends with a woman. Which shouldn't surprise me, since you don't know how to be friends with anybody. You don't know how to have a conversation that isn't manipulative, or—"

"You were trying to manipulate me!"

"Which is intolerable, obviously, since you took swift measures to put a stop to it." She reached up to smooth his rumpled neckcloth. "God forbid you should have to regard me as an equal, and play fair."

Though he suspected she was manipulating now, his heart responded to the physical gesture—with its hint of forgiveness, and more important, possessiveness—and softened accordingly.

"You are not playing fair now, Leila. You are trying to confuse my mind. I do not know what you want."

"I'm trying to be patient," she said. "Because maybe if I'm patient and reasonable, you'll believe I can keep a cool head when need be. And maybe, in time, you'll actually let me help you."

He smiled. "I can think of several ways you can help—"

"With the inquiry," she said. She gazed up at him, her golden eyes lit with something startlingly like admiration. "I want to be part of it, knowingly, this time."

Then it finally dawned on him what had happened. She thought he was a hero. "Vingt-Huit," he said dazedly. "You were not distressed at all. You were...fascinated."

"Yes." She smiled, too. "I think it was a fascinating case, and you were brilliant. And this time, I want to be your partner."

Chapter 11

Though well aware Ismal had come home after three o'clock in the morning, Nick mercilessly roused him at seven-thirty.

"Guess where the Duchess of Langford went yesterday," he said as he set the breakfast tray on Ismal's lap.

"I am not in a humor for riddles," Ismal said.

"Mount Eden."

Ismal had just raised the coffee cup to his lips. He set it down. One of Nick's tasks was to cultivate the servants of all those connected with the inquiry. Among these "new friends" was the Langfords' cook.

"She left about an hour after quarreling with Avory," Nick amplified. "It's speculated that she went to cry on the Dowager Lady Brentmor's shoulder—as I'm informed she's in the habit of doing."

The dowager was Jason's mother. She was also grandmother of Esme, now Lady Edenmont—the young woman Ismal had tried to steal ten years ago. According to Jason, Lady Brentmor was a formidable businesswoman who struck terror into the granite hearts of London's most powerful financiers. Her own heart was about as soft as a paving stone. Ismal doubted her shoulder was any more accommodating.

"Lady Langford's been going to her for years," Nick was saying. "Ever since she was a new bride and got into some money troubles. You said the duchess and Avory had a row about money. Maybe she's gone to Lady Brentmor because he's in deeper than he lets on."

"I do not like this," Ismal said.

"Well, you can't keep everyone confined to quarters." Nick moved away to open the drapes. "Can't stop them from going out, can't control who sees them and who doesn't. Can't arrange everyone's household to suit your convenience."

"I assume there is some point to these not so subtle remarks," Ismal said coldly. "You find fault with my methods?"

"I wouldn't dream of questioning your methods," Nick said. "But then, no one would, would they? Even Quentin must assume you're seriously trying to solve Beaumont's murder with your usual coldblooded efficiency. So I couldn't possibly wonder why, considering her talents, you don't encourage Mrs. Beaumont to interact with as many people as possible. She practically had Sherburne eating out of her hand, you said."

"I do not want murder suspects eating out of her hand," Ismal said sharply. "She is not a professional. It is too dangerous."

Nick stared at him for a moment. "Oh. Yes, certainly. Shall I let Quentin know about the Duchess of Langford?" he asked in more mollifying tones. "He may want to go to Mount Eden and find out what that was all about."

"Yes. Go tell him. Now."

Having experienced difficulty running Quentin to ground, Nick didn't return until two hours later.

By then, Ismal had washed, shaved, and dressed, and retired to the library to brood upon the sofa.

At eleven o'clock, Nick entered the library to inform his master that the Dowager Lady Brentmor was standing in the vestibule, insisting she knew perfectly well that the Comte d'Esmond was at home, and she had no intention of leaving until she'd spoken to him.

"She won't go away," Nick said. "I don't know what to do—short of picking her up and chucking her out the door."

Ismal was already on his feet, shrugging into his coat. He'd heard the noise, and all his instincts were on the alert. Now the old scar in his side twinged as well. Though he'd never met the woman, he'd heard enough about her from Jason to understand that being thrown bodily from the house wouldn't daunt her in the least.

"Send her up," he said.

Moments later, the door swung open and a small, fierce old lady marched into the room. She was scowling like a thunderhead and thumping a cane which must be intended primarily for use as a weapon, for she was in no need of its support. In her other hand she carried a purse nearly as big as she was.

Ismal had already arranged his countenance into a politely smiling welcome. Now he bowed—though he rather expected she'd take the opportunity to rap the cane upon his skull—and murmured that this was an unexpected and most pleasurable surprise.

"Unexpected it may be," she said with a sniff. "The pleasure I strongly doubt, but you was born a liar, I collect."

She stalked about the room, punctuating her steps with thumps of the cane.

"Read, do you?" she asked, eyeing the bookshelves.

"Yes, my lady. I can write as well."

Shrewd hazel eyes fixed on him. "I know that well enough. You're a dab hand with a pen, as I recall. Brilliant forgery that was, of Mrs. Stockwell-Hume's hand."

Ismal winced inwardly. Ten years ago he'd forged a provoking letter in Mrs. Stockwell-Hume's hand to lure the dowager and her granddaughter to London. "Your memory is excellent," he said, betraying not a glimmer of uneasiness.

"I didn't come to reminisce about old times," she said. "I come to have a look at you." She did so, eyeing him up and down, not once but three times.

"Handsome is as handsome does," she grumbled. Selecting

the hardest chair in the room, she sat. "The question is, what've you been doing?"

"I believe Lord Quentin told you of my present task."

"Don't be tiresome. Sit down," she ordered. "I'd rather look a man in the eye without getting a crick in my neck."

Ismal drew up the next hardest chair and perched upon it.