Captives of the Night (Scoundrels 2)

The music of desire grew louder, their rhythm stronger and faster, driving to appassionato.

She was desire, and desire was a mad dance, a wild valle with the night. She clung, surging with him in stormy harmony. She was lost, as he was, to feverish need, yet she was with him, holding him, even as they raced to crescendo.

Then she was eternity, and eternity was the vast night heavens where the stars blazed. His needy soul reached for her, into the void. Leila. With me. Keep me.

She was there, her mouth claiming his, her strong, beautiful hands holding him fast. She was there, a burning star, his, and rapture was a searing burst of gold fire. He blazed for an instant…then fell…into the void, consumed.

Chapter 14

Despite orders to the contrary, Nick was waiting up when Ismal returned near daybreak.

"Herriard's back," Nick said as he took his master's hat and coat. "He—What the devil have you done to your neckcloth?" He scowled at the linen dangling limply from Ismal's neck. "I hope to heaven no one saw you like that. And where are your other things? You didn't leave them there, did you?"

Ismal remembered Leila in his silk robe, the sash draped about her head like a turban, the trousers clinging to her lush hips and long, slender legs. "They were stolen," he said. "How did you learn about Herriard? I thought he planned to be away until the first of April."

"Lady Brentmor came looking for you not ten minutes after you left. Bursting with news for you. Only you weren't here and she had to collect Mrs. Beaumont from Lady Carroll's and take her to a card party."

Ismal headed up the stairs. "I trust her news can wait until morning."

"It is morning, in case you haven't noticed," Nick said, trailing after him.

"Tell me after I sleep, then. I am rather weary."

"Well, so am I. Only I had to stay up, didn't I, because you won't let me write things down, and if I fell asleep I might forget some important detail."

Ismal ambled into his bedroom and, pulling off his cravat, sat on the edge of the mattress. "Tell me then." He began to tug off his boots.

"Evidently, the old lady got some reports from her informants late in the afternoon," Nick said. "Item one: Late in December, the Duke of Langford paid two thousand quid for shares of a company that doesn't exist."

"Ah." Ismal set his right boot down. "This makes sense. Lord Avory is kept on a relatively modest allowance. It was more profitable for Beaumont to bleed the father. Also, much more dangerous."

"Suicidal, I'd say. Because—and this is item two—the Duke of Langford has some interesting friends in the demimonde. Some burly fellows you wouldn't want to meet in a dark alley. And a talented courtesan by the name of Helena Martin. He's her landlord."

"This is very interesting." Ismal placed the left boot beside its mate. "According to Quentin, Helena in her youth had a brief but very successful career as a thief." He had not considered it unusual or significant. Hundreds of children in London's slums stole and whored to survive. Helena Martin was one of the very rare cases of upward mobility. A skilled—and discreet—thief could prove very useful at times. Certainly Beaumont had employed such in Paris.

"That's item three," Nick said. "But I told her you already knew. Item four is a reminder that Quentin's men didn't find a single document in Beaumont's house that could be used to blackmail anybody."

Ismal nodded. "Either none were left or someone stole them." He looked up at Nick. "So it is possible Helena stole them—for Langford."

"An experienced thief would know where to look, wouldn't she? Not to mention it’s possible Helena had been in the house before. Beaumont did take tarts home when his wife was away."

"The trouble is, once the papers were stolen, it was unnecessary to kill the blackmailer." Ismal pulled off his shirt and tossed it to Nick.

"Maybe Helena had reasons of her own—or Langford felt it was safer to be rid of Beaumont once and for all."

"An interesting theory. But no more than that. We need something more substantial than speculations."

Nick was frowning down at the wrinkled shirt. It took him a moment to respond. "Yes. Well. Speculations."

"Is that all? May I rest now?"

Nick shook his head. "Item five."

"No wonder you were afraid to sleep. The old witch came with a very long list, it seems."

"The old witch has been busy," said Nick. "Unlike some people I could mention."

"It is a tiresome case." Ismal yawned. "I prefer to let you and her do all the boring work. Perhaps you would be so kind as to proceed more concisely with the rest of your items, and keep the editorial comments to yourself."

Nick's jaw clenched. "Very well. Sir. Item five: Lady Brentmor—by means she doesn't choose to explain—has obtained information regarding Mrs. Beaumont's finances. Thanks to the financial acumen of her man of business, Mr. Andrew Herriard—"

"I know his name," said Ismal.

"The dowager says every last ha'penny is accounted for. Mrs. Beaumont has an ample income, thanks to a series of sound but canny investments. A few risks that paid off very well. No oddities or discrepancies. No skirting the bounds of ethics."

"Just as we already knew."

"Indeed, all was in order. Except for one thing."

Ismal waited through the obligatory dramatic pause.

"Mrs. Beaumont started out with only a thousand pounds," said Nick.

"That is not so surprising." Ismal's stomach was a bit queasy, though he was certain the dowager would not have breathed a word to Nick about the secrets of a decade ago. "It was my understanding that her father was bankrupt."

"Apparently, Lady Brentmor thinks there should have been a lot more money, not less. I'm to inform you—this is item six—that she intends to contact sources at a bank in Paris. She seems to think Beaumont got his hands on the money before Herriard turned up to take charge."

"I do not see what Her Ladyship hopes to accomplish," Ismal said with a trace of irritation. "It was ten years ago—and stealing from an orphaned girl would fit Beaumont's character. It would be but one in a long list of injuries he did her. However, since she did not kill him, it is irrelevant to the inquiry."

"I did point that out to Lady Brentmor. She told-me it wasn't my business to think, but to listen. Item seven," Nick began.

"Heaven grant me patience!" Ismal fell back on the pillows and shut his eyes. "When will you be done with your accursed items? I shall be an old man before you finish, I think."

"Next time, I'll make the old lady wait," said Nick. "I'd like to see you make her stifle editorial comments. I haven't told you the half of what she—"

"Item seven," Ismal coldly reminded.

"Christ. Item seven," Nick grated out. "News from abroad. From Turkey."

Ismal's eyes flew open.

"Jason Brentmor left Constantinople three months ago," Nick said. "He's on his

way home. She thought you'd want to know." He left, slamming the door behind him.

Leila was acutely conscious of the fine thread of moisture stealing down between her breasts. Fortunately, several layers of clothing concealed this fact from nearby onlookers.

At Lady Seales' soiree at present, only two onlookers stood nearby, discussing the political situation in France. One was Andrew Herriard, the picture of quiet gentlemanly elegance as he hovered protectively at her shoulder. The other, unquietly stunning in a midnight blue coat and blinding white linen, was the cause of Andrew's reversion to guardian role: the so-called Comte d'Esmond.

Her former guardian's behavior was making Leila wonder whether the spurious count was also Andrew's reason for returning to London two weeks ahead of schedule. Earlier in the day, when he'd called, Andrew had in his mild way given her to understand that he was concerned. Oh, he had approved of Gaspard and Eloise. After all, they were quiet, well-mannered, and obviously diligent—as the terrifyingly clean house practically screamed. Even in her studio, not a trace of the previous night's profligacy remained—no forgotten bit of clothing, no spilled cognac, not a strand of hair clinging to carpet or sofa pillows, not a speck of dust, a piece of lint. Just as though nothing had happened.

Only it had, and Leila had been burningly conscious of the fact throughout her previous conversation with Andrew. Her stomach had knotted with guilt, just as it had when she was a girl, listening to one of his gentle lectures. He hadn't precisely lectured today. But even while applauding her choice of staff, he had managed to drop more than one subtle hint about her finding a live-in companion. She had met those mild hints with evasive incomprehension. Luckily for her, he hadn't pressed.

Today, evasion, she thought. Tomorrow, black falsehoods, no doubt. She had failed Andrew and fallen, but she was wicked at heart and didn't care. All she cared about—like any hardened sinner—was not getting caught. She was Jonas Bridgeburton's daughter, truly.

Ismal—Esmond, she reminded herself—was not helping. He remained talking to Andrew as though the man were his dearest friend. He was cultivating Andrew, which the latter, being nobody's fool, must surely comprehend. Meanwhile, Leila sweated with the strain of driving away simmering recollections of the previous night.