Captives of the Night (Scoundrels 2)

Sellowby was a large, dark, well-built man with a sleepy gaze and sardonic manner certain women found irresistibly intriguing. Ismal imagined one certain woman intrigued across a dinner table set for two. Thence his imagination moved through a dimly lit hallway, up a set of stairs, through a bedroom door and on, with bloodcurdling clarity, to a bed.

"It would have been a good deal simpler if Fiona were about," Sellowby went on. "But if she had been, we shouldn't have this problem in the first place."

Despite the thundering in his ears, Ismal did understand the words and somehow amid the turmoil, his brain managed to operate.

"I am sorry to hear this," he said. "Madame Beaumont has had problems enough, I should think."

"I mean Charlotte, my sister," Sellowby clarified. "She's in a dither because Fiona hasn't answered any of her letters—or anybody's, it seems. Charlotte's heard from most of the Woodleigh family, all in a dither because they haven't had a word from Dorset—not even a note from their pestilential Aunt Maud. If Mrs. Beaumont can't quiet this tempest in a teapot, I know just what will happen. I shall be ordered to Dorset to demand an explanation—from a woman who can't bear the sight of me—for the benefit of her family and my busybody sister."

"But there are nine brothers," Ismal pointed out, his detective instincts stirring.

"And every last one of them dances to her tune. Fiona ordered them to keep away, and they wouldn't dream of disobeying. Have you ever heard anything so idiotic?"

"It is odd that Lady Carroll would write to no one," Ismal said. "Surely she realizes they are anxious about her sister's health."

Sellowby paused to frown into a printshop window. "Odd isn't the word for Fiona. I'm not sure what the word is. 'Inconsiderate' will do for the moment. Because of her, we are obliged to plague Mrs. Beaumont. And wouldn't you know it? Not a one of them thought to invite her out until they needed something from her. Even then, they must do it by proxy. My only consolation is that Charlotte has ordered an excellent dinner and I shall supply my very best wines. Mrs. Beaumont will be lavishly fed, at any rate."

"You make her sound like a lamb led to the slaughter."

Sellowby turned away from the window and gave a short laugh. "Quite. I begin to sound just as theatrical as the others. But she knows what she's getting into. I did warn her about our ulterior motives."

And naturally, she would jump at the chance to go out, to do some detecting of her own, Ismal unhappily realized. Or perhaps she simply wanted to spend a few hours in the company of a more manageable man, a normal English rake.

Finding he liked neither proposition, Ismal tried to persuade himself she simply wanted to help, as she'd wanted to help Sherburne. Yet she had held Sherburne's hand...and she had been detecting. And so, Ismal couldn't like the way she "helped," either. His gut was in knots and he had the irrational urge to dash Sellowby's brains out on the pavement.

Still, he remained outwardly his usual ingratiating self. When at last Madame exited the building, Ismal bid her and Sellowby a courteous adieu and casually sauntered away.

Leila came home at half-past nine. At nine thirty-seven, she was quarreling in the studio with Esmond.

"Asked you?" she repeated indignantly. "I don't ask your or anyone's permission to dine out."

She stood, stiff with outrage, in the center of the carpet. She wanted to throw something. That he of all men—lying, manipulative snake that he was—should dictate to her—in her own house. And look at him. He couldn't even pace like a normal man. Instead he prowled the room, like a surly jungle cat, closing in for an attack. She wasn't afraid. She had some attacking of her own to do.

"You were not dining," he snapped. "You were detecting. Which is not your business, but mine."

"It’s not your business to tell me what my business is," she said crisply. "You do not dictate my social activities—such as they are. Do you think I've nothing better to do than sit about all evening, waiting for you? If, that is, you're in a humor to turn up. Not that you've turned up lately to much purpose other than immorality."

"You try to turn the subject," he said, stalking past the draped windows. "That has nothing to do with the issue at hand."

"It is the issue," she said, summoning her control. "I have learned virtually nothing from you but how extremely talented a seducer you are. And I begin to suspect you want it just that way. You don't want me to know anything about this case. You especially don't want me to suspect there's more to it than meets the eye."

His restless motion slowed fractionally, telling Leila she'd aimed accurately.

'That's why you don't want me out with others," she went on, her confidence building. "You're afraid I'll hear something. Well, it's too bloody late." She marched straight into his path, bringing him to a sharp halt. She looked him square in the eye. He tried to stare her down, his eyes shooting fierce blue sparks. She refused to be cowed. She was getting used to being singed.

"I went out, Esmond," she said. "I heard something. Do you care to hear about it—or do you prefer to waste your valuable time in an idiotic row?"

"I am not idiotic! You put yourself in danger. You do not even consult with me first."

"So you can tell me what to do?" She swung away from him. "Because I'm too stupid to figure it out for myself? Just because it's so easy for you to play havoc with my morals, you think I'm brainless, don't you? Just because you've pulled the wool over my eyes from the start, you think I'm an imbecile."

"That is nonsense," he said, storming after her, toward the fire. "What is between us has nothing to do-"

"It has everything to do with everything! There's nothing between us. Never has been. You only pretend it to keep me distracted—and you're good at that, aren't you?" she demanded. "At pretending. Distracting. You drove Francis distracted. With jealousy. Do you actually believe I'm too stupid to see the flaw in that picture?"

He drew back sharply.

Ah, yes. He hadn't been prepared for that.

There was a short, deadly silence.

Then, with a patently false, patronizing smile, he asked, "What flaw?"

"If you want to seduce another man's wife," she said, her voice low and level, "it is counterproductive to arouse the husband's suspicions. You are far too clever and calculating to let that happen. Ergo, your main interest was not seduction."

She moved to the sofa and perched on the arm and watched the words sink in. Now that she'd commenced what she'd braced herself to begin and finish, she felt wonderfully calm. Outrage and hurt rolled away, like a spent storm, leaving crystal clarity behind. "I have a theory of what you did want," she said. "Thanks to something Sellowby mentioned."

"A theory." He turned away to the mantel and took up the small bust of Michelangelo, then put it down again.

"It begins with Edmund Carstairs," she said.

He went very, very still.

"That friend of David's who shot himself after some important papers were stolen from him," she amplified. "According to Sellowby—who was in Paris at the time, having an affair with a diplomat's wife—the papers were confidential letters from the tsar. Your friend, the Tsar of Russia."

The light played fitfully upon his pale gold hair, but that was the only sign of motion.

"The tsar demanded someone get t

o the bottom of it," she said. "According to Sellowby, no one could. And so I found myself wondering, Esmond, just who might be called in to solve a riddle no one else could. Then I asked myself why the tsar's good friend, the Comte d'Esmond—who also turns out to be friends with British and French royalty—should choose, out of all the men in Paris, a sodden nobody like Francis Beaumont as boon companion."

He turned then, very slowly, as though drawn in spite of himself. The lines at the corners of his eyes were sharply etched.

"'The reasons for certain friendships" she softly quoted. "'Not always what they seem.' I pay attention, you know. I do treasure your little gems of wisdom."

His blue gaze grew clouded.

"It was a slow ride home," she said. "The streets were busy this evening. I had ample time to ponder a number of puzzling matters. Why, for instance, the great Lord Quentin bothered with the suspicious death of a nobody like Francis. Why His Lordship had no trouble believing my astonishing announcement that my husband had been murdered. Why His Lordship was so very obliging about conducting a covert inquiry into the murder. And why, of course, he sent for you."

"In the carriage," he said very softly. "You formulated this theory of yours during the ride home."

"I believe I see the outlines," she said. "I do see a discreet inquiry regarding those Russian letters that began some time ago. And Francis must have been the primary suspect, since you devoted nearly all your time to him. Since it was so very discreet, since he was never prosecuted, I assume there must have been potential for some nasty scandal. What I can't decide is whether the papers alone held the potential for scandal or whether Francis was involved in some larger crime, and the papers were merely a part."

Shaking his head, he looked away. "This is bad," he said. "You cannot—You should not—Ah, Leila, you make me so unhappy."

She heard the unhappiness in his tones, and something more in the sound of her own name. Not the crisp English Lie-la nor yet Lay-la, but something uniquely, caressingly, his. The sound echoed achingly inside her, and she understood then that he was genuinely troubled on her account.