Captives of the Night

  "I merely observe your expression," Ismal said. "You had the look of one searching for something. When you were done, the look became one of dissatisfaction."

  "It's not important. It may easily have been lost. A stickpin," the marquess explained. "Altogether vulgar."

  "It does not matter," Ismal said. "What remains will bring in a good sum, I think. I am sure she could make use of the money at present, when she has no commissions."

  What did she live on? he wondered, with a twinge of guilt. He made a mental note to look into her finances.

  And Beaumont's, he reminded himself. The man had lived on the profits of Vingt-Huit, which Ismal had destroyed. If Beaumont had come to England with little money, he would surely have engaged in his specialty, blackmail, and he would have required more than one victim to maintain his costly habits.

  "I only hope Mrs. Beaumont never saw it," Avory said. He took up a copy of La Philosophic dans le boudoir, flipped it open, and scowled. "I certainly wish she hadn't seen this. I scarcely knew where to look when she brought these out. Of all writers, the Marquis de Sade." He slammed the book shut and gestured at another. "There's Justine, as well. What a filthy hypocrite Francis was. And the whole time—two years—I had no idea what he was up to. I wonder who else knew."

  "Of his liaisons with men, you mean?" Ismal shrugged. "Not many, I would think. I believe this was one of the few cases in which Beaumont exercised a degree of discretion."

  The marquess got up and began to pace the carpet, "But you knew," he said. "Others might. Which means they surely wondered about me. I was his constant companion. You must have wondered, surely."

  "I consider such matters irrelevant to our friendship," Ismal said. "Lately, all I observe is that you seem to have no interest in anyone, male or female. Except, perhaps, for a young lady I have never met."

  The marquess abruptly halted.

  "Lettice Woodleigh," Ismal said. "Lady Carroll's young sister. You have an interest there, perhaps, for when her name is mentioned, you become very attentive."

  "I wasn't—that is, how did you—but you just said, didn't you? I—I hadn't realized I was so obvious." Avory's color rose. "Well, you're right, as usual. But it's no good. That is to say, I'm not deemed suitable. No, that's putting it too mildly. The instant I showed an interest, they sent her straight to that wretched aunt of hers in Dorset. Not that one is in the least amazed," he added, bitterness edging his tones. "Lady Carroll despised Francis, and I was his boon companion, wasn't I? And shockingly as she behaves, she's exceedingly protective of her sister."

  "Indeed she must be, if she sent her away merely because you showed interest."

  "I assure you, that was all I did. I hold Miss Woodleigh in high regard. Very high regard," the marquess said, dropping his voice. "But it's hopeless, I know. And I can't, honestly, blame it entirely on Francis. Or at all, perhaps. I'm not—I'm not fit—it...it's out of the question." He turned away, his head bowed. "I am so sorry," he said.

  "The heart makes its own rules," Ismal said. "If it would only heed others' rules of what is wise and proper, it should never be broken. It should never ache at all."

  "If I had been wise two years ago...but I wasn't." Avory's glance flicked to Ismal, then quickly away. "I met Francis shortly after I'd lost a close friend. He—he'd shot himself."

  While he murmured some sympathetic reply, Ismal's mind fastened on connections: two years ago...a suicide...in Paris, for Avory had known Beaumont before the latter came to London. There were many suicides, every year, in Paris. But one young man, a patron of Vingt-Huit, had shot himself—because some government papers had been stolen from his keeping. Thanks to Beaumont.

  Consequently, Ismal was not surprised when Avory spoke of a promising diplomatic career cut tragically short and named the unfortunate man: Edmund Carstairs.

  "We were friends since our schooldays," the marquess went on. "I don't form many attachments. When I do, they seem to be very strong. I was much shaken by his death. I drank...more than I should have done. I met Francis in one of the places I'd frequented with Edmund."

  Returning to the table, he took up a snuffbox. His mouth twisted. "My father would say that Francis led me down the path of vice. But I went willingly. And I can't blame it all on grief or drink or pretend I was out of my senses for two whole years. At any rate, what I've done is done. And what I've done..." He put down the snuffbox. "Sometimes I feel I was someone else all that time. Now I'm not sure who or what I really am, or what I want. It wouldn't be fair to marry—even to court—anyone, especially..." His voice caught. "Especially someone I hold in high regard."

  High regard, indeed, Ismal thought. Avory's interest in the girl had been clear enough. The intensity of feeling, though, came as a surprise. The marquess possessed considerable self-control, yet he was at present perilously near tears.

  "I agree that it would be unkind to attach a young woman when you are unsure," Ismal said.

  "It’s better she's away," the marquess said, more to himself than to his host. "While she was about, it was...difficult. To be sensible." He sank into the chair. "Just calf love, of course—which one ought to know better than to take seriously. Even so, if Lady Carroll had been a fraction less hostile, I might have gone ahead and made an unforgivable mistake."

  "I was unaware she disliked you," Ismal murmured.

  Avory grimaced. "I didn't find out until early last December, at a ball. I made the mistake of dancing twice with Miss Woodleigh. Lady Carroll took me aside and threatened to take a horsewhip to me if I ever went near her sister again." He opened and closed a pocket watch. "She'd do it, too. She's more like her father than any of the others—and that includes her methods—and she does rule the family. In any event, just in case I might be fool enough not to believe her, she sent her sister away."

  Not merely for the reason Avory gave, Ismal felt certain. There had to be a more compelling reason than one unacceptable suitor. Just as there must be a stronger reason for Avory's accepting rejection, when he was obviously head over ears in love. Deeply, painfully so. Though the episode had occurred some two months ago, he was still utterly wretched.

  "The young lady cannot be kept away forever," Ismal said. "I doubt Lady Carroll wishes to make a spinster of her. Miss Woodleigh is not very likely to meet an eligible parti in a small Dorset village."

  Avory's fingers tightened on the pocket watch. "No, she'll be back for the Season, I daresay." He cleared his throat. "And wed before the year is out, undoubtedly. I wasn't the only one, you know, to—to admire her. She's beautiful—and clever—and when she laughs...Well, I was taken with her. Obviously."

  Blinking hard, he set down the watch. "We might show the snuffboxes to Lord Linglay. He owns quite a collection. He's sure to find these titillating."

  "A good suggestion."

  The marquess' glance moved to the mantel clock. "It's getting late. I really ought to let you dress. One isn't asked to dine with His Majesty every day. You won't want to be late."

  "No, I must leave the grand entrance to him," Ismal said. "And you, my friend—do you dine with Sellowby?"

  "With Sellowby and a dozen other men, you mean. No, I think I'll spend a quiet night at home with a book."

  Avory's countenance was composed, his voice normal again, but his grey eyes were bleak. He would return to his lonely townhouse and brood over his lost love—and whatever else tormented him, Ismal thought. And all would grow darker and more hopeless. To rescue him were common charity—not to mention that the more comfortable the marquess felt, the more he'd be inclined to confide.

  "Spend it here, then," Ismal said. "Nick cannot come with me, and if he is occupied, impressing you with his culinary skills, he is less likely to get into mischief."

  "Stay here?" Avory's glance darted about the luxurious, cozy library. "While you're out? But I couldn't impose. I've dozens of servants, paid to—"

  "If it were an imposition, I would not offer. But this way, Nick will be happy and usefully oc
cupied, and you will be not only well fed, but even amused, perhaps, for he can be most entertaining when he is in good humor. Then, when I return, I shall burn your ears with all the gossip I hear from His Majesty."

  The King of England had a considerable affection for the Dowager Lady Norbury, Lettice Woodleigh's mother. Consequently, he took a keen interest in the family's affairs. The carrot Ismal held out, in short, was the prospect of news about Lettice.

  Avory took it. "That does sound pleasanter than—Well, yes," he said flushing. "How very good of you to offer."

  Chapter 9

  The following night, Ismal was semi-recumbent upon the studio sofa, watching Leila Beaumont through half-closed eyes. She was painting, and he knew he wasn't the subject. She was challenging her skill and torturing her vision with a disorderly array of glassware. Or had been, until about an hour after his arrival. At present, she appeared to be working up to a fit of temper.

  "You made David stay last night?" she demanded. "You made him spend the night at your house—when he was so agitated? Hadn't you got enough out of him?"

  "It is your fault," he said. "You are the one who makes me feel sorry for him."

  "Sorry?" she echoed. "Sorry?"

  "He was unhappy. You would think me hardhearted if I let him return to his lonely townhouse to grieve over Lettice Woodleigh, and all his terrible sins. One of which, I remind you, may well be murder. Which means he may have poisoned my coffee or cut my throat. Yet you do not say, 'Esmond, you are very brave.' Instead it is 'Esmond, you are a villain.'"

  "Esmond," she said, "you are exceedingly provoking."

  The faintest of smiles—not discernible at this distance—was the only indication that he'd noticed: not "monsieur," but "Esmond," she'd said. At last.

  "You are vexed because you knew nothing of Lord Avory's tendre for Lettice Woodleigh," he said. "You are vexed because he confided this to me, not you. But you have not spent half your waking hours in his company. You knew something troubled him, but you had no opportunity to collect clues. Also, you are not so devious and manipulative as I."

  She snatched up a rag and vigorously wiped the brush handle. "Very well, I am vexed," she said. "I cannot understand why Fiona never even hinted of the matter to me—of David's interest in her sister, of her own dislike of him, purely because he was Francis' friend. I can't believe that of her."

  "She never told you why her sister was sent to Dorset?" he asked.

  "I didn't know Lettice was sent. I assumed she wished to visit."

  "With a widowed aunt, many miles away from her family and friends, at Christmastime?"

  "I really didn't give it much thought."

  "It is interesting that so much occurred during this time," he said meditatively. "The Sherburnes' marital difficulties, Miss Woodleigh's banishment to Dorset, your husband becoming persona non grata to Sherburne and his followers." He paused briefly. "Your decision to stop painting portraits."

  "That last is obvious enough, I should think," she said. "Self-preservation. When matters reached the point where Francis' enemies started taking out their frustrations on me, I made a strategic retreat."

  "Indeed, matters did reach a point," he said. "Some kind of crisis, it would seem."

  She took up another brush and started cleaning the daylights out of that.

  "What do you think?" he asked.

  Her brow knit. "I think it was a crisis," she said. "When Sherburne wrecked the painting, I knew that Francis had crossed some dangerous line. There's a code about these things. Married ladies may indulge in discreet affairs—but after they've produced at least one heir to secure the line. Lady Sherburne hadn't done so yet. According to the rules, the gentlemen must consider her out of bounds. To cross that boundary is bad enough. To cross it with the wife of a highly influential friend sounds like self-destruction."

  She began scraping her palette clean. Ismal waited, curious whether she'd make more connections.

  After a minute, she spoke again. "It's possible that Fiona sent Lettice to Dorset to keep her out of harm's way. Francis did bear Fiona a grudge. The day he died, he ordered me to stay away from her."

  "What reason did he give?"

  "Don't act stupid," she said. "He thought she was trying to forward an affair between you and me. Which she was. Which you know perfectly well."

  "Indeed, I am exceedingly fond of her."

  "She's been trying to get me to have an affair for years," she said crossly. "Just to upset Francis. But you were the only one who did upset him. Naturally, she was delighted."

  "And I was delighted to accommodate her," he said.

  "Esmond."

  "Madame."

  "Don't be tiresome. I'm trying to think." She flung the palette down, and began to pace before the heavily draped windows. Watching her pace was far more interesting than watching Avory, Ismal reflected. To and fro she swept, skirts rustling, hairpins scattering.

  "Fiona does tend to shield those she cares about," she said after a few tumultuous turns. "Including me. She never mentioned her suspicions about Francis and Lady Sherburne until a fortnight ago. Until then, I didn't know Sherburne had actually snubbed Francis publicly. But now that I think of it, she was constantly pressing me to go away to this house party or that—wherever Francis wouldn't be—and nagging me to leave him and live with her instead. At the time, I simply put it down to her dislike of him. But now it seems more likely she was worried about my living with a man who was, apparently, becoming more irrational and dangerous by the day."

  "From all I have heard, this seems to have been the case," Ismal said.

  "Then it makes sense she'd send Lettice away," she said. "Fiona wouldn't want her within fifty miles of Francis."

  "You said he bore a grudge against Lady Carroll. You think she feared he would try to hurt her through her sister?"

  "That's about the only way he could hurt Fiona."

  "Then you think Miss Woodleigh's exile had nothing to do with Lord Avory's interest in her?"

  She mulled over the question, pacing again. "Damn. I don't know. Fiona's fiercely protective of Lettice. And David did stick with Francis, after all the others had turned their backs, evidently. Even I have to wonder what was wrong with David. If he truly wished to wed Lettice, you'd think he'd go out of his way to earn her family's approval: drop undesirable companions, change his ways—offer some evidence of reforming, in other words."

  "He seems to view his situation as hopeless," Ismal said. "Apparently, he has believed this for some time. Certainly, whatever troubles him is so distressing that he will not confide it even to me."

  "But you must have some theory," she said. "Some inkling what the terrible sin might be."

  "Murder is one possibility."

  She stopped short and threw him an exasperated look. "Murder wouldn't have been troubling David back in early December. Unless you think he's been going about killing people for months."

  "That is possible. He may be insane." Ismal arranged the pillows more comfortably under his head, and sank back. "Or maybe it is a sexual matter," he murmured.

  There was a long, pulsing silence.

  Then she plunked herself upon a stool and took up her sketchbook and pencil.

  "What do you think?" he asked.

  "If David can't bring himself to speak of that sort of thing even to you, it must be truly appalling," she said caustically. "And if you can't deduce what it is, it's obviously far beyond the bounds of my paltry expertise."

  "Sometimes a man will confide to a woman what he would not to another man."

  "I assure you, David and I were never on terms even approaching that degree of intimacy."

  "Perhaps he confided in a mistress, then? Perhaps you know the names of them?"

  "None. Not a one. Never heard a word about it."

  "Nor I," he said. "Not even in Paris. Strange."

  "Not strange at all," she said. "Some men are very discreet."

  Not that discreet, Ismal thought, closing his e
yes. Avory had gone to Helena Martin's after all. Half the Beau Monde's male population had been there, along with London's most famous courtesans. It was hardly the place to seek a discreet liaison, for these were women who sought the limelight. They were the social leaders of the demimonde.

  It was far more likely that Avory attended such events to keep up appearances. But to conceal what?

  "You aren't going to sleep, are you?" his hostess tartly inquired.

  "I am thinking," he said. "You and Lord Avory pace. I lie quietly."

  "Yes. Well. Do make yourself perfectly at home, monsieur."

  "This sofa is very comfortable. You keep it here for models?"

  "I haven't done a life study since I came to London. Can't have naked people lying about. It disconcerts the servants."

  "For your own rest, then."

  "For reading," she said. "Sometimes I do read."

  "Yes, this is a good place to read and to think," he said. "Comfortable. Close to the fire. You have arranged your studio well. One area for working, by the windows, where you have the best light. And one area for relaxation."

  "I'm so relieved you approve."

  "Indeed, it is an intriguing topic—the way you arrange your life—but I should be thinking of the inquiry. You are distracting me," he chided gently.

  There was a small flurry at the other end of the studio, then silence, but for the whisper of pencil upon paper. Though the room became quiet, it was not tranquil. The atmosphere continued to pulse for a while, like an unquiet sea, until at last she became absorbed in her work.

  Ismal tried to absorb himself in his own, in puzzling out the riddle of Lord Avory. He was not doing very well. He would concentrate better at home, he knew.

  But he didn't want to concentrate better. Here, he was surrounded by her, by what she was: the rows of art books, the clutter of artistic materials, their distinctive odors mixed with the occasional whiff of smoke from the fire, and now and again, the teasing hint of her own scent, carried by the mischievous draught.