Captives of the Night (Scoundrels 2)

She knew she'd let her feelings rule her intellect. Instead of keeping the conversation safely upon a social path, she'd poked and prodded about the most sensitive area. One needn't be an expert in murder inquiries to understand that, if Sherburne had killed Francis to keep him from publicizing the ugly details of what had happened, he might kill anyone else he feared possessed those facts.

Leila could only hope Sherburne believed she didn't know the ugly details. She hoped he hadn't confided his troubles and endured her unsolicited advice merely to pick her brain. Yet every instinct told her he'd come for help, likely because his pride wouldn't let him confide in friends or relatives. Leila Beaumont, however, had survived countless episodes of infidelity. Who better than a survivor to advise him?

Every instinct told her Sherburne had trusted her and confided as much as he was capable of confiding to any human being. Yet that didn't mean he didn't have other secrets burdening his heart. Like murder.

He'd trusted her, and her heart had gone out to him—and to his wife—and Leila must betray him all the same. She'd asked for justice. She wanted to find her husband's murderer. Sherburne had a motive. In justice, she couldn't keep that secret. In justice, she had to tell...Esmond.

"Damn," she muttered, rubbing her throbbing temples. "Damn you, Francis, to hell."

Chapter 8

A week later, Leila still hadn't contacted Esmond. She may never have brought herself to do it if David hadn't called.

After he'd finished apologizing for not visiting sooner, he let her know what had occupied him: his new bosom bow, the Comte d'Esmond.

David's idol, rather, for it soon became clear that Esmond had very quickly progressed in the marquess' estimation from casual acquaintance to some sort of demigod. David told her the count spoke at least twelve languages fluently, had been everywhere and done everything, was a scholar and philosopher, a brilliant judge of every subject under the sun, from literature to horseflesh, and an expert at everything, from chess to flirtation.

For nearly two hours he sang the count's praises while regaling Leila with details of where they'd gone, who had been there, what Esmond had said to this one and that, especially what he'd said to David. Every word, evidently, was a pearl of sublimest wisdom.

By the time he left, Leila's nerves were at the breaking point.

She had spent the last week in a torment of guilt and indecision, aware it was her duty to tell Esmond about Sherburne, but unwilling to open a door which could lead the earl to the gallows.

Instead, she'd dithered—making bad drawings, preparing canvases she didn't want to paint, wishing some visitor would come to distract her, then feeling relieved and distraught at the same time when no one did. She'd gone for walks, to the burying ground, but even that didn't clear her head. Either Eloise or Gaspard went with her, because Leila was not permitted to go out unescorted. Though she was wise enough to appreciate the protection, she couldn't forget whose servants they were and whose orders they acted under. Which meant she couldn't keep Esmond out of the turmoil in her mind.

And while she'd been accomplishing nothing—except making herself more crazy—Esmond had been stalking David.

They had attended every rout, ball, card party, musicale, and play in London—where the count spent half his time playing the God of Perfection to David and the other half flirting with every female between the ages of eighteen and eighty.

He'd even taken David to Almacks'—that bastion of respectability to which Leila Beaumont never had, never would be admitted in a million years, because she was a mere peasant. Not that she wanted to enter those stuffy assembly halls. She had tried, though, every way she could, to get David to go—to meet respectable young ladies and associate with decent young men of his own class. David, however, had said he'd rather be buried alive. Neither his parents nor Leila had been able to persuade him to darken the portals of Society's marriage mart—but he'd gone at Esmond's bidding.

Esmond, whom he scarcely knew. Esmond, who was interested in him only as a murder suspect, who didn't give a damn about him, and who would drop David—and hurt him by doing so—the instant a more promising suspect came along.

And it was all her fault.

She stood at the parlor window, staring bleakly into the fog-shrouded square.

She'd said she wanted justice, wanted to know the truth, but she couldn't face truth if it was ugly, if it would hurt anyone she cared about. Esmond had been right. She wanted clean abstractions. Not dirty, painful reality.

Most of all, she didn't want the pain of seeing him again.

Shutting her eyes, she pressed her forehead to the cold glass.

Go. Stay. Keep away. Come back.

Come back.

Weakness.

Because she'd let him make her feel weak, she reproached herself. She'd never let Francis do it. She'd stood up to him, right to the very end. No matter how she felt, she'd behaved, always, as though she were strong.

She opened her eyes and turned away from the window, away from the haze and gloom outside.

She was strong. Cowardly and base in some ways, yes, but not in all. Sensual weaknesses weren't all she'd inherited from her father. He'd passed on his cleverness and toughness, too. If he'd been clever and ruthless enough to plot and get away with so many crimes, surely his daughter was clever and tough enough to face and solve one.

And surely, after ten years' dealing with Francis, she must be able to deal with Esmond. She knew how to close off her feelings, conceal her vulnerabilities. She'd amassed an arsenal of weapons against men. Somewhere in her armory there must be a weapon, a tactic, a defense that would preserve her.

Half an hour after Lord Avory departed, Madame Beaumont marched into the kitchen.

Gaspard thrust away the pot he'd been scouring and leapt to attention.

Eloise put aside her chopping knife, wiped her hands on her apron, and gazed at her mistress with no expression whatsoever.

"I assume you have some discreet means of passing a message to the Comte d'Esmond," the mistress said haughtily.

"Oui, Madame," said Eloise.

"Then tell him, if you please, that I wish to speak with him at his earliest convenience."

"Oui, Madame."

“Thank you." She swept out of the kitchen.

Gaspard looked at his wife. She said nothing until the mistress' footsteps could no longer be heard.

Then, "I told you," said Eloise.

"He will not come, my little one," said Gaspard.

"He will not wish to come," his wife returned. "But this time, I think, the master cannot make matters exactly as he wishes. We

ll, why do you stand there like an imbecile? Go," she said, waving him off. She took up her knife once more. "Go tell him."

Gaspard went out, his face grim. Only when the door had closed behind him did Eloise smile. "How I wish I could see Monsieur's face when he's told," she murmured.

At eleven o'clock that night, Ismal stood in Leila Beaumont's studio doorway. During the short walk down the hall, he had composed himself—or rather, the outer man. The inner man appeared to have no hope of composure.

Ten days he had kept away and kept himself busy, outwardly at ease and easily entertained. Inwardly he'd been wretched. To be with her made him edgy and irrational; to be away from her made him restless and lonely. The former was worse, yet it was the former he wanted, evidently, for she had only to beckon, and he had come running.

His willpower and wisdom hadn't held out more than a few hours. Her message had come at five o'clock, and here he was, will and wisdom crushed by longing. He had missed her. He'd even missed this disorderly room, because it was hers, where she worked, where her true self lived.

Nonetheless, he behaved as though he were exceedingly put out—as though she'd interrupted the most joyous day of his life.

She was sitting at the worktable, spine straight, chin high.

He imagined his lips against her smooth white throat. He gave her a curt nod. "Madame."

"Monsieur."

He would not go to her. A few steps closer, and her scent would come to him. He walked to the sofa and sat down.

There was a silence.

After a minute, perhaps two, he heard—for he wouldn't look—the rustle of fabric, the scrape of the stool upon the wood floor, then slippered footsteps approaching. When she reached the worn rug, the sound was further muffled, but it sounded as loud in his ears as drumbeats. So, too, did his heart drum, as her scent came to him, carried by the curst draught from the windows.

She paused only a few feet away. "I apologize," she said. "I humbly beg your pardon for offending your delicate sensibilities by trying to tell you how to do your job. Most thoughtless of me. You are a genius, after all, and everyone knows geniuses are exceedingly sensitive creatures."