Captives of the Night (Scoundrels 2)

Only this accursed case, which would not end, whose tangled threads led back a decade to the most shameful period of his life, Ismal thought. "No, my lord, nothing to complain of," he said.

"And nothing to worry about, either. Edenmont and his in-laws are bound to cooperate. After all, they have a great deal to lose if any of the truth gets out. Jason Brentmor took some pains to make sure no one would find out his brother was involved with Bridgeburton."

"We all have much to lose," Ismal said.

"Yes, well, I count on you to handle the matter with your usual discretion." Quentin paused. "It seems Mrs. Beaumont will require considerable diplomacy. She didn't seem at all pleased about my sending for you."

"I think she wished very much to hurl your handsome paperweight at...somebody," Ismal said. "I doubt she will give me a warm welcome this evening."

"Think she'll break furniture, do you? Over your head, perhaps?"

"Luckily, my skull is very hard. If Lord Edenmont could not break it, there is a reasonable chance Madame cannot, either."

"I hope not. That head of yours is very valuable to us, you know." Quentin threw him a shrewd glance. "Take care you don't lose it, my dear count."

Ismal's reply was an angelic smile.

"You understand me, I think?" Quentin persisted.

"Think what you like," Ismal said. With that and one graceful bow, he left the room.

¯¯

Despite Leila's fervent prayers to the contrary, the Comte d'Esmond arrived precisely at eight o'clock that evening, as he'd appointed. Well aware that he hadn't been pleased with his assignment, she supposed he'd spent some time arguing with Lord Quentin after she left—to no avail, apparently.

She didn't understand how Quentin came to have the power to give the count orders of any kind. He'd told her Esmond was an agent of some sort, and totally trustworthy, but he hadn't explained the count's exact position with His Majesty's government. Given her previous experiences with Esmond, Leila had small hope of enlightenment.

By the time Nick had shown the count into the parlor, her nerves were wound taut as clock springs. Nick swiftly vanished again and, after a terse exchange of greetings, she offered wine, which Esmond declined.

"Nick tells me you have not yet interviewed new servants," he said.

"I had a great deal on my mind, as you are unfortunately now aware."

His mouth tightened. He moved to the window and looked out. "It is just as well," he said. "I shall send to Paris for a proper housekeeper and manservant."

"I am perfectly capable of hiring my own staff, Monsieur," she told him frigidly.

He came away from the window, and her breath caught.

The candlelight drew streaks of molten gold in his silky hair and burnished the smooth contours of his perfectly sculpted face. His flawlessly cut coat of deep blue hugged his powerful shoulders and slim waist, and turned his sapphire eyes the color of a late night sky. She wished she had her weapons—a brush in her hand and a blank canvas before her—so that she could reduce him to color and line, two dimensions, aesthetics. But she was weaponless, trapped, in a room where there was suddenly far too much of him, demanding and fixing her attention, and stirring a host of unwanted memories: the heat of a rock-hard body pressed, for an instant, to hers...the scorching intensity of a piercing blue glance...and the scent, distinctively, dangerously, his.

He was all flawless elegance and aristocratic courtesy, detached, aloof...yet he dragged at her senses, insistently, and she couldn't break the pull for all her will. All she could do was fight to hold her ground, and so she clung to her anger as though it were a life rope.

Esmond met her icy stare with a small smile. "Madame, if we quarrel over every minor matter, we shall make the progress of snails. I am aware that you are vexed with Lord Quentin's choice of investigator."

"I'm aware you're vexed with it, too," she said.

His smile remained in place. "A fortnight has passed since your husband's death. Whatever trail might have existed is cold. No evidence of prussic acid was found anywhere—in your husband's body or in the house. Except for the ink, that is. But we now know the ink was not in the room until you put it there. There was no sign of forced entry or burglary. Our murderer did not leave behind so much as a piece of lint. No one saw anyone—including your husband—leave or enter the house during the previous evening. We cannot ask direct questions of anybody, lest the wrath of the English nobility fall upon us and crush us. In the circumstances, it seems next to impossible that we shall ever discover who killed Monsieur Beaumont. I shall spend the remainder of my life upon this case. Naturally, I am delighted."

If she'd had a fraction less control, she would have slapped him. As it was, she was so angry and mortified that tears stung her eyes. She blinked them back.

"If the task is too much for you," she choked out, "then tell Lord Quentin to find someone else. I didn't ask for you."

"There is no one else," he said. "The matter is exceedingly delicate, as you well know. I am the only one of Lord Quentin's associates who possesses the necessary discretion. I am also the only one who possesses the necessary patience. I have enough of that for both of us—which is fortunate, for I suspect you have very little. I have just pointed out only one small necessity—trustworthy servants—and already you wish to strike me."

Leila felt heat rising in her neck. Stiffly she turned away, moved to the sofa, sat down, and folded her hands in her lap. "Very well. Send for the damned servants," she said.

"It is for your protection." He walked to the fireplace and studied the grate. "It is also for discretion's sake. Since we have so little that is concrete, we must talk and reflect. I shall be forced to ask you endless questions, some of them impertinent."

"I'm prepared for that," she said. She wasn't. She could never be prepared for him.

"Based on what I learn from you, I shall go out and seek further enlightenment," he continued. "Th

en I must return again and again to ask more questions." He glanced over his shoulder at her. "Do you understand? It is a long process. Sometimes I may be here for hours. Since no one must know I am investigating the matter, my visits could arouse disagreeable gossip. If you do not wish such gossip,

I must visit in secret, which means after dark. I must come and go unnoticed. Thus the necessity for servants of unquestionable discretion and loyalty."

Weeks, she thought. Weeks of his coming and going by night. Asking questions. Probing. Why oh why had she gone to Quentin?

Because the alternative was worse even than this, she reminded herself.

She stared at her folded hands. "I can't risk gossip. I shouldn't be allowed into respectable households to do portraits if people thought me...immoral."

"But of course. A woman of uncertain reputation is not permitted in many great houses. The English appear to believe that women's frailties are contagious, while men's are not." He wandered to the curio cabinet and studied the collection of oriental objects behind the glass. "This is why you never took lovers and why you continued to live with your husband."

In spite of her inner turmoil, she'd almost smiled at his apt assessment of the English double standard. The last sentence wiped her amusement away. "That's not the only reason," she indignantly told his back. "I do have morals—not that it's any of your affair."

"English morals," he said.

"Since I happen to be English, I don't see what other sort I ought to have."

"You might have the practical sort," he said. "But you possess the so-English conscience. Your husband is dead. This is inconvenient, for it makes you a solitary woman who must step even more carefully to keep her reputation white. The practical course is to find a companion to see you through your interminable English mourning period, then acquire another husband."

Leila stifled a gasp.

"Instead," he went on, "you seek revenge—for a man who shamed and betrayed you repeatedly."

She could not believe her ears. She stared at him—or rather his back, for he'd moved on to the ornate table that bore a tray of decanters. This wasn't what she had expected, not of the man who'd withdrawn so coldly, believing her a murderess. But she should have known better than to expect anything. Esmond defied logic. She would not, however, let him put her on the defensive.