"So that's where you inherited your naughtiness," Leila said with a smile.
Fiona smoothed her gloves. "Yes, I suppose I am terribly like him in many ways. Nine brothers and not a one of them seems to—Oh, what am I doing?" she exclaimed. "I meant to stop for only a minute. My coachman will be cross with me for keeping the horses waiting."
She gave Leila a quick hug. "I'll come back as soon as I can. Be sure to write every day, else I shall go mad with boredom."
Without waiting for a reply, she hurried out, unaware she was leaving her friend to go mad with boredom. And loneliness.
At Leila's urging, Andrew had resumed his interrupted business trip to France. She hadn't seen David in at least a week. No one else had visited since the funeral. Except Esmond.
She would not think about him.
She wouldn't think about anyone or anything. All she had to do was keep busy, and she could do that even if she couldn't produce anything of artistic value. She'd had dry spells before. She knew how to fill up the time.
She spent the afternoon building stretchers and the evening tacking canvas to them. The next day she prepared rabbit-skin glue and coated the canvases with it.
The next day she was preparing to apply the next layer—white lead paint mixed with turpentine—when the Earl of Sherburne called.
He was one of the very last people Leila expected—or wanted—to see. On the other hand, she'd seen no one else. Whether the visit boded good or ill, he would at least provide temporary distraction from a mind that refused, despite all the busy work, to stop thinking.
All the same, if the visit proved disagreeable, she would want an excuse to cut it short. Thus Leila's only effort toward making herself presentable was to remove her smock, wash her hands, and push a few loose pins back into the unruly mass of her hair. Sherburne would understand that he'd interrupted her work, and if she chose to get back to it quickly, he would have to understand that as well.
Gaspard having allowed him to wait in the parlor, Leila found His Lordship standing before the curio cabinet, his hands clasped behind him and a frown on his harshly handsome face. He hastily erased the frown, and they exchanged greetings. He offered his condolences. She made the suitable responses. She politely invited him to be seated. He politely declined.
"I do not mean to take up much of your time," he said. "I see that you have been working. I also understand that my presence cannot be altogether agreeable, given what passed the last time I had occasion to visit."
"There's no need to speak of that," she said.
"There is. I am aware that I behaved abominably, Madam," he said. "The quarrel was with...others. It was wrong of me to bring you into it. I have long owed you an apology."
Leila had only to glance once into his countenance to comprehend that the words hadn't come easily to him. His expression was rigidly controlled. As it had been the day he'd mutilated his wife's portrait.
"You paid for the painting," she said. "It was yours to do with as you wished."
"I wish I had not done it," he said.
He wouldn't have, her conscience reminded, if she'd paid attention to what was going on about her.
"I rather wish you hadn't, either," she said. "It was one of my better efforts. But if it worries you so, I can always paint another."
He stared at her for a long moment. "That's...you are—you are very good...generous. I did not..." He put his hand to his forehead. "I fear it cannot be so easily mended. How…awkward. But you are very good. Truly. You have sent my wits begging."
She gestured at the decanter tray. "If you would be so kind as to pour, I shall drink a glass of wine with you. Whether or not a new portrait is possible, we can make friends again, I hope."
She did not care for wine in the middle of the afternoon, but he clearly needed it. She owed him something. Some kind of help, even if it was simply giving him something to do while he recovered his composure.
It did seem to help. By the time he handed her the glass, he seemed fractionally more at ease. Yet she couldn't help wondering if ruining her painting was all that had troubled him. The way he had searched her face—what had he been looking for?
What would the murderer be looking for? she silently amended. Sherburne had by no means been obliged to come, and the visit was difficult for him.
Reasons…not what they seem.
She watched him take a long swallow of wine. "I didn't mean to imply you must make it up to me," she said carefully. "I had guessed you were angry with someone else. I often take out my vexations on inanimate objects."
"It was clear enough who I was angry with, thanks to the spectacle I made of myself that day. It couldn't have been difficult for you to put two and two together." He met her gaze. "I was not the only one who'd been betrayed by my spouse. I was a brute to heap insult upon injury."
"I've long been past that sort of injury," she said. "I wish you would put it behind you as well."
"I should like to know how that's done," he said tightly. "I should like to know how I am to look into my wife's face and pretend nothing has happened, nothing has changed."
She knew too well how it was done. She had done it, in the beginning. This man might not be standing here now if she'd continued to do it, instead of running away.
"You might try recalling the sort of man my husband was," she said. "I strongly doubt Lady Sherburne had any idea what she was getting into. Francis could be...unscrupulous."
He turned away, to the curio cabinet again. "So I learned. The hard way." He paused, and Leila watched his fists clench and unclench.
"It was wrong, very wrong of me to bring you into it," he said. "My only excuse is that I was not altogether rational at the time. There was nothing I could do, you see. Having discovered what he was capable of, I dared take no action, because he might easily retaliate by publicizing the—the details of the episode. I should be made a laughingstock and Sarah should be ruined. Utterly. An intolerable situation. And so I relieved my feelings by destroying your work."
She knew he didn't, entirely, deserve her compassion. He'd betrayed his wife more than once. Yet Leila couldn't help understanding. She knew there rarely was anything anyone could do. Even she had been afraid to leave Francis, afraid of how he might retaliate. He'd not only humiliated this man, but made it impossible for Sherburne to call him to account. Intolerable, yes, it must have been, not to be able to avenge the injury in a duel. Intolerable enough, perhaps, to drive the earl to another sort of revenge.
"At least you paid for the portrait first," she said, crushing a surge of anxiety.
"Indeed, it seems we continue to pay." He turned back to her. "We have had a disagreeable few months. She weeps." He touched his forehead again, and Leila understood that it was a gesture of helplessness and, perhaps, incomprehension. "It is...not pleasant. I much dislike going home. Yesterday was our anniversary. I gave her sapphires. We had people to dinner. What a beastly farce it is."
"Lady Carroll mentioned the sapphires," Leila said gently. "She told me they were very fine and became your wife exceedingly."
"Sarah wept all the same. After the guests left. Again this morning. I wish she would not." He set down his glass. "I should not speak of it."
"Not to me, perhaps," she said, "but to your wife."
"We don't speak, except in company."
He was in pain, and Leila couldn't bear it. Whether or not she could have changed or stopped Francis, damage had been done. It was a debt he'd left behind, and she must pay it, as she would have done financial debts.
"Were the sapphires a—a peace offering?" she asked.
His jaw hardened. "It was our anniversary. I could hardly give her nothing."
She put her own glass down and summoned her courage. "It's none of my affair, of course, but it seems to me that what she wants is forgiveness, not a lot of cold, blue stones. Haven't you both suffered enough? Will you let Francis' unkindness keep you apart forever?"
His mouth set in a thin line. He
didn't want to listen. His pride didn't want to. Yet he remained and did not deliver the setdown Leila so richly deserved. He was a peer of the realm, she a mere bourgeois. He could not be standing there, stock-still, out of a politeness he by no means owed her.
Leila took heart. "Surely you must see that she's sorry for what she did. For your own peace of mind, can you not show her some affection?"
"Affection." His voice was expressionless.
"She's a lovely young woman, my lord. I don't see why that should be so very difficult." She took his hand. "Come, you are older and wiser than she is. Surely you can coax her round?"
He looked down at their clasped hands. Then a very reluctant smile softened his countenance. "I should like to know who's being 'coaxed round' at present," he said. "You possess talents of which I was altogether unaware, Mrs. Beaumont."
She released his hand. "It's not my place to offer advice. It's just that I'm sorry Francis caused so much trouble. I wish I could fix it. I shouldn't blame you for holding a grudge, but I'm greatly relieved that you do not."
"Not against you," he said. "I wanted you to know that."
She assured him she believed him, and they parted not long thereafter, to all appearances, as friends.
Not until he was safely out of the house did she allow herself to sink to the sofa and pray she hadn't made a fatal mistake.
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."