Captives of the Night

  Ismal looked up into her smoldering tawny eyes. How he wanted her—the insolence, the scorn, the heat...passion.

  "It is true," he said. "I am very sensitive. But you apologize so sweetly that I cannot resist. I forgive you, Madame."

  "You relieve my mind. And I, of course, forgive you."

  "I have not apologized."

  She waved her hand dismissively. "I forgive you for that, too."

  "You are a saint," he murmured.

  "Possibly. You, regrettably, are not. But I'm prepared to overlook that, and help you. It's the Christian thing to do."

  "Your generosity overwhelms me."

  "I doubt anything overwhelms you." She moved away—to stand by the fire, he thought at first. Instead, she pushed a heap of canvas onto the rug, to reveal a shabby but comfortably cushioned footstool.

  "If you wish to throw something at me, the bust of Michelangelo would be easier to lift," he said.

  She shoved the footstool toward the sofa. “I'm not going to throw anything. I'm going to sit at your feet and humbly offer my pitiful bits of information and bask in your blinding brilliance."

  Accordingly, she sat and folded her hands upon her knees. Her expression a perfect mockery of humble dutifulness, she asked, "Where should you like me to begin?"

  Farther away, he thought. Her honey-gold head was just within reach. His fingers itched to tangle themselves in that tantalizing disorder.

  "Wherever you wish," he said.

  She nodded. "Sherburne, then. What do you know about him?"

  He didn't want to know about Sherburne. Ismal wanted his hands in her hair, his mouth on hers. How was he to think about the inquiry when his head swam with her scent and his body ached to be near, enfolded with hers, as he had dreamed every curst night these last ten nights and all the nights before?

  "He was a friend of your husband's," Ismal said. "Until, that is, Monsieur Beaumont offended. With Sherburne's wife, it would seem, for the friendship ceased, and the Sherburnes had some grave quarrel about the same time. I have also heard Sherburne visited you a week ago."

  Her ripe mouth curled.

  "You are amused that your husband debauched Lady Sherburne?" he asked.

  "I am amused because this whole time you've behaved as though I didn't exist," she said. "You let me believe I couldn't be of any possible use to you—yet you've been spying on me all the while. I suppose Gaspard and Eloise provide daily reports."

  "I am well aware you exist, Madame. As aware as if you were a thorn in my foot."

  "I'm amazed, then, that you didn't come the instant you'd heard. Weren't you in the least curious about what I might have found out?"

  "You did not send for me."

  "I am not in charge of this inquiry. You are," she said. "I'm the temperamental and irrational one, remember? You must have encountered difficult informants before and managed them. If you could get David to Almacks', you could surely get me to answer a few questions."

  "You know very well that I cannot manage you," he said. "You make me stupid—as you make every man who deals with you. Even your husband was stupid where you were concerned. Knowing the secret about your father, he had the power to rule you, yet he could not."

  "I should be in a fine predicament had I let Francis—"

  "Even Quentin, one of the most powerful and clever men in England, could not manage you. It is no surprise, then, that Avory is enslaved—"

  "Enslaved! Just what are you implying?"

  "And Sherburne, too. I cannot believe it is a coincidence that he went home to his wife after visiting you, and remained with her all that night and all the following day and night—and that suddenly, since then, he is always wherever she is."

  Her countenance lit. "Truly? Have they made up?"

  Her triumphant expression told him all he needed to know: somehow, during that short visit a week ago, she had wrapped Sherburne round her finger.

  "Yes," Ismal said, frustratedly aware that he was in a similar condition...and irrationally jealous, besides.

  Her smile widened. "Then you've just proved yourself wrong. He wasn't stupid at all. On the contrary, he came to his senses."

  Then she told him of her meeting with Sherburne. Ismal tried to focus on the crucial aspects, but when she was done, his mind fixed on one issue, and that one ruled his tongue.

  "You held his hand?" he asked tightly.

  "To make him listen," she said. "It was instinctive, I suppose. Not ladylike, I'll admit. But it worked, and that’s all that matters."

  "It was not instinct," he told her. "Yours are disciplined hands." He nodded at them. "You exert your will through them, communicate. And I think you are conscious of their power. I hope you are," he added testily. "Otherwise, you were abominably incautious."

  "Power?" she repeated, studying them, apparently oblivious to his irritation. Then her attention transferred to his right hand, resting upon the purple pillow. "You can do it too, can't you?" she said. "Exert your will. Communicate. Only you know what it is you're doing to the other person." She looked up. "Do you ever do anything without calculation?"

  "Describe the stickpin," he said.

  She stared at him for a moment. Then she bowed her head in a mockery of downcast humility. "Yes, sir. Certainly, sir."

  He wanted to drag her off the footstool, onto the carpet. He leaned back and shut his eyes and made himself listen to her cool, concise description.

  It was a man's stickpin, she told him, but Sherburne had not been wearing it. The one in his neckcloth was set with an emerald. The one with which he'd destroyed the painting had been plain gold, in some form she hadn't been near enough to distinguish precisely. She thought it was some sort of leaf or flower, but she wasn't sure. For all she knew, it might have been a face or a figure.

  Ismal forced his unwilling mind to analyze. After a few minutes' reflection he asked, "What made you believe that all Lady Sherburne needed was forgiveness and affection?"

  "She was obviously very much in love with her husband," she said. "He not only neglected her, but had flaunted his affairs. I'm sure she intended no more than a flirtation with Francis, doubtless in hopes of making Sherburne jealous or at least getting his attention. I doubt she had any idea what Francis was really like. Few women did. For some reason, they saw only what he wanted them to see—until it was too late."

  "And so she was seduced, and discovered her mistake too late, you think."

  "If she was seduced," she said. "Rather difficult to seduce a strictly reared, upper-class young lady who's desperately in love with her husband, don't you think? Not to mention Francis was forty, and looked sixty by then. Hardly an Adonis."

  "What, then? What do you suspect?"

  Her eyes darkened. "He got me drunk, you know. After the first time I rejected his advances. It worked. Once. Never again. But with Lady Sherburne, he would have needed only the once."

  So that was why Madame drank so little, Ismal thought.

  He said, "If this is the case, it is possible her husband found her intoxicated, in circumstances showing clearly that she had been with another man."

  "Sherburne knew it was Francis, but I strongly doubt she told him." She considered. "I can only conclude the stickpin belonged to Francis...and he left it behind...and it was distinctive enough for Sherburne to know whose it was."

  Ismal recollected a shop in Paris and an erotic pendant that had enchanted Beaumont. "I can make a guess why he recognized it," he said. "Your husband evidenced a taste for certain curiosities."

  "There's no need to be delicate," she said. "I'm aware of his tastes. The oriental fertility deities in the curio cabinet are the mildest example. He also owned a set of lewd watches—and a collection of naughty snuffboxes. And the usual dirty books. Those items, unlike the oriental gods and goddesses, were not on public display. He kept them for his private amusement. And for selected friends, of course."

  "I should like to examine them."

  "You're more than welcome to th
em," she said. "I was tempted to throw them out, but some of the pieces probably belong in a museum—not that I can imagine what museum would wish to display them. They're still in his room. Shall I fetch them?"

  Ismal shook his head. "I want you to give them to Lord Avory," he said. "I shall encourage him to visit again soon. When he does, you will ask him to take charge of these objects for you. He will do so to oblige you, though he will be most embarrassed. Then he will come to me for advice. While I examine them, perhaps he will reveal something useful."

  "How clever," she said. "How calculating."

  "I calculate upon Lord Avory's affection for you," he said.

  "And his dependence upon your infallible wisdom," she returned.

  He smiled. "I think you are jealous. I think you wish me to spend all my time with you instead."

  "Clever, calculating, and conceited," she said.

  "It is your own fault. If you had sent for me sooner, you should not have missed me so very much."

  She lifted her chin. "You came promptly enough. Maybe you missed me."

  "Yes," he said softly. "Very much."

  "Because you need my help," she said. "Admit it. You wouldn't have known about the stickpin if I hadn't told you."

  Ismal sighed. Then he came off the sofa to kneel beside her. She stiffened.

  He bent nearer and grew drunk on the clean fragrance of her hair, mixed with the exotic combination of jasmine and myrrh and the elusive scent that was herself. He could not be wise and honorable. He'd given up fighting with himself the instant she'd come to him with her insolent apology and taunting golden eyes.

  Effortlessly, without intention or guile, she'd shattered his resistance.

  All that mattered to him now was wearing down hers.

  "I need you," he said. "I admit this."

  She stared straight ahead. A faint color washed over her high cheekbones. "I sent for you to discuss the case," she said. "To pass on information. That’s all."

  He said nothing. He waited, focusing every iota of his will on what he wanted.

  There was a long, thrumming silence. Then Esmond leaned in closer, and her breath caught as his lips grazed her ear.

  Don't. Her mouth shaped the word, but the only sound was her own too rapid breathing.

  He brushed his cheek against hers, nuzzling, as a cat would. And please don't, she silently pleaded, while she fought to keep from reaching up to stroke his neck, to feel the silk of his hair against her fingers.

  She'd had all her weapons ready, prepared for any assault, but this wasn't assault. His scent, the warmth emanating from him, and the teasing friction of his skin against hers worked some insidious spell, turning her weapons against her. All her muscles were taut and aching, fighting her, trying to break free of reason and self-control.

  And he knew it. She saw that in the glance he slanted at her. He was waiting, aware of what he was doing to her. He didn't move, scarcely seemed to breathe, yet she could feel the pressure increasing.

  Will. His against hers. And his was more potent. Dark, masculine, relentless. She strained against the pull, but it was useless.

  She'd been born weak. Sin was in her nature.

  He was strong and beautiful, and she wanted him.

  His lips brushed her cheek, promising tenderness. And that promise opened a rift inside her, an emptiness she'd hidden from herself, successfully. Until now.

  She lifted her hand to his sleeve, instinctively, to hold onto him, as though the aching loneliness were a treacherous sea, and his strong body a lifeline.

  Then he caught her, as though she were, in truth, drowning, and swept her from the footstool, and drew her into the haven of his arms.

  This time, when his lips met hers, there was no hot punishment. This time, as though aware of the emptiness she felt, he filled her with pleasure. His mouth played with slow sensuality over hers. A delicious game...so tender. No fire, but warmth and ease and languor.

  All the world quieted and softened, and lulled, she was easily led, to part for him at the first light coax of his tongue and welcome him deeper. She'd tasted fire the last time, quick, fierce, and frightening enough to jolt her to reason. This time, no blaze burst through the darkness of desire. This time, the darkness was warm, rich with sweet sensation...the velvet stroke of his tongue, caressing, idly exploring, playing with her softness, stealing secrets and hinting of his own.

  Beguiled, she wordlessly told too much, and soon, she asked too much. She wanted more warmth, and pressed closer. She wanted his strength and weight, to be crushed, overpowered. She answered his idly seeking tongue with demand: More. Need me. Take me.

  And still he played, as though there were nothing else in the world, no other time but this, as though one deep, lazy kiss could go on forever. While she grew desperate, craving more, he toyed contentedly, as though he needed no more.

  Except, perhaps, to make her beg, warned a voice at the edges of consciousness.

  Then she realized what he'd done, that she'd been led, deliberately. She was still gently cradled in his arms like a child, yet somehow he'd brought her down to the carpet, and she was tangled with him, like a wanton, her body clinging to his. And she wasn't warm, but hot. Because he'd built the fire by slow, imperceptible degrees and she had never noticed until she was feverish with lust.

  Poison, Francis had warned. So sweet...just pleasure. So it had been.

  Like human laudanum, he'd said.

  And she had been drugged.

  She pulled away and, struggling against unwilling muscles, dragged herself up to a sitting position.

  Slowly, he sat up and gazed at her. All blue-eyed innocence.

  "You did...that...on purpose," she said, fighting for breath.

  "Assuredly. You could not think I kissed you by accident."

  "That's not what I mean. You wanted to make me witless."

  "Naturellement," he said with maddening calm. "I strongly doubt you would make love with me if you were in full possession of your reason."

  "Love?" she echoed. "Make love?"

  "What other possible purpose could there be?"

  "That's not what you wanted." Reminding herself that the "love" he referred to was generally called fornication, she staggered to her feet. "You wanted to—to prove something. Teach me a lesson."

  "I cannot think what I would teach you. You were wed for ten years. One assumes you know how to make love. Certainly, you are adept with the preliminaries."

  Then he smiled up at her, a boy's disarming smile. But it wasn't mischief she saw glinting in those midnight blue eyes. It was guile.

  "Not half so adept as you, obviously," she said.

  "C'est vrai. No one is, as it happens." He rose, graceful as a cat—unlike her. Even now, she felt weak and clumsy, her limbs rubbery, threatening to give way.

  "Still, your will is formidable," he went on. "Very difficult to overcome. Most vexatious—so much work for one small kiss." He gazed at her thoughtfully. "It was easier when you were angry, but then I was angry, too, and it is impossible to be comfortable when one is in a rage. Next time, perhaps I must contrive to enrage you while remaining even-tempered myself."

  Her eyes widened. The fiend was not only planning his next maneuver, but he had the audacity to describe it.

  "There isn't going to be a next time," she said, with all the icy command she could muster. But her heart was thumping anxiously all the same. What would she do if he persisted? How the devil could she stop him? She didn't understand how he did whatever it was he did.

  "There shouldn't have been a first time," she added quickly. Straightening her posture, she moved a few steps away, toward the fireplace. "It's unprofessional. And inconsiderate of me—of my wishes. In case I didn't make it plain some time ago—which I'm sure I did—I don't want an affair, with you or anybody. In simple words, the answer is no. Not maybe, or sometime. NO. Non. Absolument. Jamais."

  He nodded. "I understand. There is a great resistance."

  "Ther
e is a great refusal, confound you!"

  "Ah, yes. That is what I meant. My English is not always so precise as I would wish, yet I comprehend very well."

  She had no doubt whatsoever that he did comprehend, all too well. "I'm relieved to hear it," she said. "And now that we've settled that matter, and I've told you all I know regarding Sherburne, you'll want to be on your way."

  "Yes, that would be best. You have given me a great deal to reflect upon." He gave her a considering, head-to-toe survey that made her skin prickle.

  "Quite," she said. "Sherburne. The stickpin. You'll want to find out for sure whether it belonged to Francis."

  "Avory should be able to settle that question," he said. "I shall arrange that he comes to you in about three days' time. It would look odd if he called again sooner than that. Does this suit?"

  "My appointment calendar is not overcrowded at present," she said stiffly.

  "I have engagements tomorrow night and the next," he said. "The night after, I must dine with His Majesty. I doubt I can escape him much before dawn, especially if he is in a talkative humor. In any event, I assume you prefer I do not return until we have something to discuss. Regarding the case."

  She nodded. "Good night, then." She smoothed her skirts, to avoid giving him her hand.

  He bowed. "Au revoir, Madame. May your dreams be pleasant ones.”

  ¯¯

  As Ismal had promised, Lord Avory called on Madame three days later. And just as Ismal had predicted, the marquess came to him shortly thereafter. After a short discussion—apologetic and embarrassed on Avory's part—Nick was sent out to retrieve the box of Beaumont's belongings from the carriage. At present, the marquess was arranging the last of the items upon the library table.

  "She was wise not to throw them out," Ismal said as he put down a watch he'd been examining. "Many of these are quite old and the workmanship is fine. A valuable collection."

  Lord Avory did not seem to be listening. He was gazing at the now-empty box in puzzlement.

  "Something is missing?" Ismal asked.

  The marquess looked up in surprise. "Sometimes I do wonder if you can actually hear me thinking," he said.