"I see," he said, his voice almost a growl. "Is there anything else you wish to mention, Mrs. Beaumont?"
Some time later, Ismal climbed into the carriage seat opposite Lord Quentin.
"Well, it took long enough, but we got our verdict," said His Lordship. "Accidental death by laudanum overdose."
"Better the inquiry was lengthy," Ismal said. "The coroner is satisfied he's done his duty thoroughly."
He removed his greasy wig and studied it. Leila Beaumont had recognized him. Even Quentin hadn't, at first—but she had, from across a large room...while she was being interrogated by an irritable coroner. Surely she was the Devil's own work.
"And the public will be satisfied, too, I hope." Quentin frowned. "I'm not, but that can't be helped. We couldn't afford a murder verdict."
"We did what was necessary," Ismal said.
"Maybe I'd have liked it better if she hadn't made us look a pack of fools."
Ismal smiled faintly. "The painting business, you mean."
Sir Gregory Williams, the artistic expert, had insisted the painting could not have been completed in less than two days and refused to believe it had been done by a woman. As a result, several officers had been ordered back to Madame's house to obtain other samples of her work. An hour after uttering his misogynistic remarks, Sir Gregory had been forced to gulp them back down.
"Sir Gregory appeared rather foolish," said Ismal. "Still, he had conscience enough to admit his mistake. Yes, the lady had undoubtedly painted the glassware study, he admitted, and yes, the treatment of the subject as well as the brushwork evidenced a serene state of mind."
Ismal, too, had been obliged to admit a mistake, inwardly at least. He hadn't considered the implications of the wet painting. In the studio, all his attention had been given to the devastation she had wrought. All his interest had focused on her temper...so much passion.
He'd let emotion taint his objectivity—an unforgivable sin. He was furious with himself, and with her, the cause. Nonetheless, his expression remained one of mild amusement.
"It was that dratted ink," Quentin said. "If she didn't kill him—"
"Obviously, she did not."
"You weren't so sure before."
"I did not need to be sure. Her guilt or innocence was irrelevant to my task."
"If she didn't spill that ink to protect herself, it could have been to protect someone else," Quentin persisted. "Or do you think the ink bottle had stood upon the nightstand, where it had no business being? No diary in the drawer, no paper, not even a pen. How do you explain it?"
"Beaumont may have set it down for a moment and forgotten it." Ismal shrugged. "There are a host of explanations."
"Doesn't explain her. Quick-witted female like that." Quentin's countenance grew thoughtful. "It does make one wonder. Did she really think Beaumont's death was an accident? Did that clever woman miss what was obvious even to me?"
"Does it matter?" Ismal dropped the wig onto the seat beside him. "The matter is settled, our secrets are safe, and none of your noble friends will be troubled by an embarrassing murder investigation."
"More than likely, it was one of those noble friends who did it," Quentin said gloomily. "Even though my hands are tied and justice seems to be out of the question, I should like to know who killed him." He leaned forward, his hands on his knees. "Don't you want to know who did it? Don't you have a lengthy list of questions you'd like answered about this plaguey business?"
Yes, Ismal thought. He'd like to know how the curst woman had recognized him today. That was even more troubling than his uncharacteristic leaping to a wrong conclusion. His civilized self told him she'd penetrated his disguise because she was an artist, more keenly observant than others. The superstitious barbarian inside him believed this woman could see into a man's soul.
He told the barbarian that no human being, even he, could read minds or hearts. He discovered secrets, yes, but that was no magical power, merely a well-honed skill in observing and translating the smallest clues of voice, face, gesture. Accordingly, he never betrayed himself through such inadvertent clues. Yet she must have discerned...something. In some way, he'd betrayed himself to her, just as in the last week he'd somehow let desire undermine his intellect.
He didn't like "some ways" and "some hows" and the loss of control they implied. Once, a decade ago, a woman had weakened his will and reason, and he was still paying. He wouldn't risk destruction again. He would attend the funeral, for appearances' sake. Then, he would return to the Continent, and this time, forget her.
And so, aloud he said, "No, I am not curious. It is done, our problems are over, and I am content."
Chapter 4
Francis' funeral took place the day after the inquest. The Comte d'Esmond attended the services and came with the others to the house after. He expressed his condolences and courteously offered to let Nick remain with Leila until she'd found replacements for the Demptons.
She politely declined—to Esmond's relief, she was unhappily certain. His speech and manner were all that was correct—neither a degree too cool nor overwarm. But she could sense the chill in him as palpably as if a wall of ice stood between them.
Unfortunately, when she went on to explain that one of Mr. Herriard's staff would fill in temporarily, both David and Fiona insisted she borrow from their staffs instead. Fiona was growing rather sharp with David when the Duke of Langford, who'd been standing nearby talking to Quentin, took it upon himself to render a judgment.
"Esmond's servant has had a week to familiarize himself with your requirements," said His Grace. "His remaining would produce less disruption, on all sides. I should think you've had disruption enough, Mrs. Beaumont."
"Quite right," said Quentin. "Simplest solution, I should think."
Leila glimpsed a flash of something—rage, or perhaps disgust—in Esmond's eyes, but before she could respond, he did.
"Certainement," he murmured. "I return to Paris soon, in any case, and so there is not the smallest inconvenience. Nick can follow me after your household affairs are settled."
She glanced at Andrew, who nodded agreement, naturally. One didn't contradict the Duke of Langford. David had turned away. Even Fiona, who habitually contradicted everybody, held her tongue.
Leila lifted her chin as she met Esmond's enigmatic blue gaze. "I seem to be outnumbered," she said. "All the same, I regret trespassing further on your generosity."
He responded with some chivalrous, typically Gallic nonsense and shortly thereafter took his leave.
He left the chill behind, and something terribly like despair. Not since that night long ago in Venice had Leila felt so bitterly, wretchedly alone.
By now she knew how much Esmond had helped her. After Andrew had provided a detailed report of the inquest, she'd perceived how very unpleasantly matters could have gone for her had anyone but Quentin supervised the case.
She'd meant to express her gratitude to Esmond. She'd even rehearsed a brief but neatly worded speech. The trouble was, the wall of ice had cut her off before she could begin. Now she suspected that he'd merely acted gallantly, as his nationality—and, no doubt, some sort of noblesse oblige—required. Having obliged, however, he refused to be further associated with her.
She should not be surprised, and she had no business feeling angry or hurt, she told herself.
Langford was definitely no friendlier. It was clear he didn't want his son or Fiona—daughter of one of his dearest friends—associated with a bourgeois female artist whose poor taste in husbands and lack of breeding had resulted in scandal. He'd made it clear that even their servants were too good for the likes of Leila Beaumont—let the foreigner's menial look after her.
The irony was, Langford couldn't know how richly she deserved his censure. He couldn't know, either, the high price she was paying already. Frantic to save herself and shield Andrew, she'd never truly contemplated the consequences of concealing murder: the total isolation, the need to guard every word, gesture, expr
ession, lest something slip—very possibly to the killer himself—and worst of all, the bitter pangs of conscience.
She couldn't look her friends in the eye, and she couldn't look at others without suspecting them. She couldn't wait for her visitors to leave, yet she dreaded being alone with her guilt and fears.
Her visitors did leave at last, and exhaustion got her through that first night. She was too tired even to dream.
But in the days after that, she knew no peace. She lost her appetite. She couldn't work, couldn't bear to take up a drawing pencil. Every time the door knocker sounded, every time a carriage clattered into the square, she thought it was Quentin, coming to arrest her, or the killer, coming to silence her forever.
She diagnosed herself as hysterical, yet the hysteria continued, exacerbated by nightmares that made her dread falling asleep.
Finally, a week after the inquest, she told Nick she was going to church—St. George the Martyr was but a few steps from the house—and set out for a brisk walk. She ended, as she had so many times before, in the burial ground.
Where Francis lay now.
The stone she'd ordered wasn't yet in place. There was only the newly dug earth, lightly dusted with snow, and a simple marker to show the place.
She couldn't mourn for him. That hypocrisy, at least, was beyond her. Grief wasn't what had drawn her here.
She stared down resentfully at the mound of earth. Alive, he'd tormented her as much as she'd let him; dead, he contrived to torment her still. If not for him, she wouldn't be guilty and anxious and so miserably alone.
"Who was it," she demanded, under her breath. "Who was it had enough of you, Francis? He's going to get away with it, you know. Because I was so...oh, so damnably clever. A bit of ink, you see, to mask the…scent."
It was then she remembered.
Esmond...nearly a year ago...at the party, the unveiling of Madame Vraisses' portrait...the merest dab of perfume, put on hours before and all but evaporated...yet he'd accurately identified the ingredients.
Then she understood why the wall of ice had come between them.
"He smelled the poison," she murmured. "Not just the ink solution, but the poison, too, and he must have thought—" She looked about her. Heaven help her, she was reduced to this: talking to herself—in a graveyard.
What next, the ravings of a madwoman?
Was that what Esmond believed? That she was mad, a temperamental artiste who'd killed her husband in a demented rage?
But Esmond had helped her, and she had thought…
No, she hadn't thought at all. She had collapsed in his arms and stopped thinking altogether.
Because he'd come, as she'd wanted, from the moment she left Norbury House. She'd fled, yes, and that was right, but her heart couldn't be made entirely right. The wicked part of her had wanted what was wrong. She'd wanted him to pursue her and destroy her will and…take her away with him.
She shuddered. Vile weakness, that's what it had been. In a moment of distress and confusion—and yes, relief at his coming—her control had crumbled, along with her reason.
Esmond, so acutely perceptive, would have had no trouble sensing her guilt and terror—and must have promptly concluded she'd done murder. He hadn't sent for Quentin as a favor to her, but most likely because, being a foreigner, Esmond didn't know anyone else connected with the Home Office. He hadn't been trying to help her at all.
Good God, how stupid she'd been. Yet it was hardly surprising she'd mistaken Esmond's motives, she reflected bitterly. She'd deluded herself from the start. In a mad panic, she'd concealed the worst of crimes to save her own skin. Not even that—to save her precious career. And as to nobly shielding Andrew—she knew justice was far more important to him than badges or titles.
In short, she had proved that Francis had been right: like papa, like daughter.
Ten years after that first shameful sin with Francis, she'd slipped again. Disastrously. And because she was weak by nature, she would continue to sink...to worse, and still worse—to the very depths of degradation.
That, she found, was more terrifying than the gallows.
And so, she hurried from the burying ground out to the street, where she hailed a hackney and ordered the driver to take her to Whitehall.
"Be quick about it," she snapped—and added, under her breath, "before I weaken."
When he entered Lord Quentin's office, Ismal's countenance was angelically serene. His gut, meanwhile, was twisting itself into knots. It was his own fault, he told himself, for dawdling in London another week. Had he left immediately after the inquest, he wouldn't have been forced today to race to Quentin's office in response to the terse note: "Mrs. Beaumont is here. You'd better come immediately."
Ismal bowed to Madame and politely greeted His Lordship. When they were done with the usual courtesies, Quentin waved Ismal to the chair next to her. Ismal moved to the window instead. Whatever was coming was going to be unpleasant. Every instinct told him so. The air about her hummed almost audibly with tension.
"I'm sorry to put you through this again, Mrs. Beaumont," said Quentin, "but it's best that Esmond hear the story from you." He looked to Ismal. "I've already explained to Mrs. Beaumont that you've assisted us on occasion and might be trusted implicitly."
The knots inside tightened. Ismal merely nodded.
Madame stared at a large green glass paperweight on Quentin's desk. "My husband was murdered," she said levelly. "And I've done something very wrong. I interfered with the evidence."
Ismal looked at Quentin. His Lordship nodded.
"Madame refers to the ink, I believe," Ismal said.
She didn't even blink, but remained fixed on the paperweight. "You knew all along," she said. "Yet you never said a word."
"Most persons do not keep bottles of ink upon the nightstand, but upon a desk," Ismal said. "Still, your husband might have been the exception."
"You knew I brought it there," she said. "And so you thought—" She broke off, flushing. "It doesn't matter. I brought the ink there." She bit off each word, and the ribbons of her black bonnet trembled with the emphasis. "To mask the odor. Of prussic acid. I knew he hadn't died of an overdose."
After a pause, she went on. "I know it was wrong, but I had to make Francis' death look like an accident. I didn't kill him. Yet I also couldn't see how anyone would believe that, once it was known he'd been murdered."
"You did not realize at the time that Mrs. Dempton was mentally unbalanced," said Ismal.
"She was the least of my problems," Madame answered impatiently. "I know the difference between an inquiry into a suspicious death and a full-fledged murder investigation. The Crown must look into everything, and I couldn't afford to let that happen."
She turned her gaze full upon him then. Against the unnatural pallor of her face, her golden eyes burned fever-bright.
"My maiden name is not Dupont," she said. "It was changed years ago. My father was Jonas Bridgeburton."
Those five words tore across the space between them with the force of a rifle shot. The room reeled about him, but Ismal didn't move. His face didn't change.
The girl. This was the girl Risto had spied upon the stairs that night so long ago. Ten years it had been, yet Ismal remembered.
He'd gone to Bridgeburton seeking revenge on another man. After that visit, Ismal had gone from one mad act to the next, to the very brink of death. The scar in his side bore testimony to that. It twinged now and then, when something occurred to remind him of those dark days.
Bridgeburton he'd scarcely thought of at all. The man had been merely a means to an end—a brief visit, a prompt departure, and it was over. But it wasn't. Nothing ever was.
Fate, Ismal thought. He said nothing. His body and countenance he could control. He was not sure he could trust his voice.
Unaware of the enormity of what she'd just revealed, Madame continued in the same bitingly precise tones. "You may not have heard of him. He was murdered ten years ago this week. His en
emies spared the Crown the expense of trying and hanging him. He was a criminal, you see. He stole military supplies from his own government and sold them to the highest bidder. I was informed that the government had compiled a long list of his crimes. Blackmail and slave trading, as I recall, were just a few of his many other activities." Her gaze reverted to the paperweight.
"A rather large dossier was compiled," Quentin amplified, apparently for Ismal's benefit, though His Lordship knew perfectly well this wasn't news. "Our men, in conjunction with the Venetian police, were in the process of investigating Bridgeburton when he met with a fatal accident."
"They claimed it was an accident, but it was murder," she said. "The authorities must have agreed they were well rid of him. Doubtless they thought it a waste of time and money to find his killers."
Just as certain other authorities had seen no point in finding Francis Beaumont's killer, Ismal reflected. Yet according to the report, Bridgeburton had fallen into a canal, drunk on absinthe and wine. Surely he hadn't been murdered. Ismal had told Risto and Mehmet the man was not to be killed...though that didn't mean they'd followed orders, curse them.
"At any rate," she continued, "how Papa died isn't the issue, but what he was. I knew that if people learned my father was a criminal, I should be ruined—even if Francis hadn't been killed. As it was, I could hardly expect anyone to believe Jonas Bridgeburton's daughter hadn't followed in his footsteps."
Beyond doubt, in normal circumstances, she would have been ruined, if not hanged, Ismal reflected. The sins of the fathers all too often were visited upon the children, even in this enlightened country.
Yet she had come to Quentin and confessed all this damning truth. And Quentin—who had as much reason as she to support the accidental death verdict—hadn't tried to convince her she was mistaken about her husband's demise. On the contrary, Quentin had sent for his top agent.