Captives of the Night

  "Why was I summoned?" Ismal asked, his voice very soft.

  "Mrs. Beaumont wants her husband's death looked into," Quentin answered. "I agree with her."

  She hadn't wanted Ismal here, though. He could feel it: the rage gathering and pulsing within her and rippling through the quiet chamber, like a dangerous undertow in a falsely still sea. "If you've sent for me, you cannot wish it looked into openly," he said.

  "That's correct," said His Lordship. "I've explained that we generally call on you when we encounter problems of some delicacy. Mrs. Beaumont had already perceived the potential for embarrassment to certain parties." He smiled ruefully. "We haven't much choice, it appears."

  Madame's chin went up, and the ribbons fluttered. "I simply pointed out to Lord Quentin that my husband did not limit his debaucheries to the lower orders. He was a corrupting influence. He had a talent for attracting innocents. I am sure any number of husbands, wives, and parents wished him dead. Many of their names may be found in Debrett’s Peerage. I saw that in the course of a murder investigation mine would not be the only name dragged through the mud. I felt Lord Quentin should be alerted to the problem."

  "Most perceptive," Ismal said softly. "Yet do you also perceive the futility of a covert investigation? What is to be done if we discover the so-called murderer's identity? Are we also to try and hang him—or her—secretly?"

  "I did not demand a covert investigation," she said. "I know that, in trying to save my own skin, I as much as helped my husband's killer get away scot-free. I have committed a wrong. I wish to make it right. It is up to Lord Quentin how to do it." The anger she so ferociously held in check throbbed in her voice now. "I did not send for you. He did. That makes him the one to ask, I should think."

  Though he knew what the answer would be, Ismal dutifully turned to Quentin. "My lord?"

  "Why don't we cross that bridge when we come to it?" Quentin said, as any fool might have predicted. "Will you take the case or not?"

  As though he had any choice, Ismal thought angrily, while his impassive gaze moved from one to the other. She wished him at the opposite end of the earth, and he wished he could oblige her. But the investigation could be turned over to no one else. He was the only one who would not inadvertently stumble onto the matter of Vingt-Huit. Furthermore, as Quentin well knew, no man had more to lose by betraying Madame's origins than Ismal did. If that came out, so might the other scandal, closely connected—the one in which Ismal had figured prominently, and for which he ought to have been hanged.

  But it was Fate, Ismal reminded himself. Fate had begun spinning this web ten years ago.

  Bridgeburton's daughter, this woman in widow's black.

  Bridgeburton's daughter, this woman who made his heart beat too fast, who made chaos of reason. It was on her account Ismal had come to England, on her account he'd lingered, against wisdom and caution. She had drawn him here, to this moment...and it was upon the web of her life that he was caught.

  And so, there was no choice and only one answer to give them.

  "Yes," Ismal said in his sweetest, most amiable tones. "I accept the case."

  Though undoubtedly displeased with Quentin's choice of investigator, Madame was obliged to accept it. When Ismal told her to expect him at her house at eight o'clock that evening, she simply nodded. Then she took her leave of the two men with a politeness so glacial that Ismal was amazed the window didn't frost over.

  He stared at the door after it had closed behind her.

  "Couldn't be helped," said Quentin. "I couldn't take the chance. If I put her off, she might go to someone else, and then we'd be in the soup."

  "I might have put her off," Ismal said. "But you tied my hands—because you are as much plagued by curiosity as she has been by her so-English conscience."

  "Maybe it's my English conscience, too. I admit I wanted Beaumont dead, but I did decide against a summary execution. Otherwise I might have hired someone a deal less expensive than you to finish the business, mightn't I?"

  Ismal moved to the desk and picked up the paperweight. "Did you know, when I told you Beaumont was the man behind Vingt-Huit, who his wife was?"

  "Certainly. Didn't you?"

  "Do you not think I would have mentioned it?"

  Quentin shrugged. "No telling what goes on in that devious mind of yours. Bit of a shock, was it?"

  "I do not care for surprises."

  "You handled it well enough," was the unsympathetic answer. "You always do. And you always know everything, don't you? And tell only what you choose. It was only reasonable to suppose you'd recognized her right off, back in Paris."

  Ismal traced the contours of the paperweight with his fingers. "I never saw her in Venice," he said. "I knew only that there was a daughter—a child, I assumed. I left her to Risto. He gave her laudanum, and there was no trouble. The drug must have confused her mind, for her father was not murdered. When I left the house, he was drunk only. I departed before my servants did, yet I told them not to kill him." His gaze met Quentin's. "I did not kill that woman's father."

  "I never said you did. Not that it makes any difference. You did enough. In the circumstances, I assumed you'd prefer to handle the present problem yourself."

  Aye, he'd done enough, Ismal reflected. And he'd never be done paying for it, evidently.

  Ten years ago he had plotted grand schemes of empire. Sir Gerald Brentmor, via his partner, Jonas Bridgeburton, had illegally supplied the weapons Ismal needed to overthrow Albania's ruler, Ali Pasha. But Sir Gerald had a brother, Jason, living in Albania, who was on Ali's side. Had he been his usual cautious self, Ismal would have dealt with the ensuing obstacles more wisely. But he became obsessed with Jason's daughter, and nothing—neither the daughter Esme's obvious hatred of him and clear preference for an English lord, nor Ali Pasha's wrath—could restore Ismal's reason.

  Even after Lord Edenmont had taken Esme away and wed her, Ismal had persisted in mad schemes for revenge on everyone who'd thwarted him. He'd gone to Bridgeburton and forced him to betray all his partner's secrets. After that, the mad race to England...to blackmail Sir Gerald…and steal Esme…and then the bloody climax, when her family had rushed to her rescue. In the ensuing battle on a Newhaven wharf, Ismal had lost his two most devoted followers, Mehmet and Risto, and nearly been killed himself.

  He had fully deserved to hang, on several counts. In the course of a few hours, he'd kidnapped a nobleman's wife, tried to kill her husband, and succeeded in killing her uncle. But the family couldn't prosecute him. A trial would have exposed Sir Gerald's crimes, and the taint of treason would have clung to his family, making them social outcasts.

  For their sake, Ismal's infamies had been hushed up, and he was sent away on Captain Nolcott's ship, bound for New South Wales.

  Quentin interrupted Ismal's grim recollections. "Mrs. Beaumont obviously didn't remember you."

  "She could not have observed much before Risto spotted her," Ismal said. "As I recall, the hall was poorly lit, and I stood there but a few moments. The drug would have clouded her mind. And it was ten years ago. A long time." If she had remembered, he assured himself, he would have known, even if she held her tongue. He would have sensed it. All the same, he was uneasy.

  "Still, she is intelligent and observant," he said. "It would be best to take no chances. The Brentmor family must be apprised of the situation. None of them knows I am here."

  Except for Jason Brentmor, Ismal had not seen any of the Brentmor family since the day he'd been carried, nearly dead, onto the ship. Before he left, he'd made his peace with them all, according to the custom of his country. According to those rites, his soul was wiped clean of the shame. Yet his pride could not endure facing those who'd witnessed his humiliation.

  "Lady Edenmont's expecting her fourth child any day now, so they're all at Mount Eden at present," said Quentin. "Except for Jason, who's in Turkey with his wife. I'll drive out and explain matters. I assume you prefer they keep away?"

  "That woul
d be wisest. I can watch my own tongue, control my own behavior. I cannot control everyone else's every word and gesture, however. We cannot afford to awaken the smallest suspicion."

  Ismal crossed to the desk and returned the paperweight to its place. "That is why I have preferred to work outside England. A short visit is not so risky—but this..." He shook his head. "I might be here for weeks, months perhaps. The longer I remain, the greater the risk that I will be recognized."

  "Apart from the Edenton’s and Brantford, there's scarcely anyone left who'd remember you from a decade ago," Quentin said impatiently. "Who else saw you but the sailors—Nolcott's crew, mostly, and every last one of them drowned in the shipwreck a month later. Only three survivors—you, Nolcott, and that Albanian fellow who was guarding you. In the first place, neither is anywhere near England. In the second, they're not likely to betray the man who saved their lives."

  The shipwreck had spared Ismal the degradation of New South Wales' convict settlements, and he'd aided his own cause by rescuing the two men most able to help him. Nolcott and Bajo had returned the favor by letting him escape and pretending he'd drowned with the others. But Fate had permitted Ismal only a few weeks' freedom before he collided with Quentin. Thanks to the detailed description Jason had previously provided, Quentin had recognized Ismal and promptly taken him into custody.

  Ismal's smile was thin. "I only wish saving two lives had been amends enough for you, my lord."

  Quentin leaned back in his chair. "Certainly not. Nothing less than a lifetime's servitude would do. For your own good, of course. Otherwise, there's no telling what sort of trouble you'd have got into by now." He smiled. "You represent a philanthropic effort, you know."

  "I know well enough I was no charity case with you. Jason had told you I was clever and devious, and you saw a use for me."

  "Just as you saw a use for me. Which is as it should be. Sentiment's not wise in our line of work. Still, you've done well enough with our bargain. You live like a prince and hobnob with royalty. Nothing to complain of, I hope?"

  Only this accursed case, which would not end, whose tangled threads led back a decade to the most shameful period of his life, Ismal thought. "No, my lord, nothing to complain of," he said.

  "And nothing to worry about, either. Edenmont and his in-laws are bound to cooperate. After all, they have a great deal to lose if any of the truth gets out. Jason Brentmor took some pains to make sure no one would find out his brother was involved with Bridgeburton."

  "We all have much to lose," Ismal said.

  "Yes, well, I count on you to handle the matter with your usual discretion." Quentin paused. "It seems Mrs. Beaumont will require considerable diplomacy. She didn't seem at all pleased about my sending for you."

  "I think she wished very much to hurl your handsome paperweight at...somebody," Ismal said. "I doubt she will give me a warm welcome this evening."

  "Think she'll break furniture, do you? Over your head, perhaps?"

  "Luckily, my skull is very hard. If Lord Edenmont could not break it, there is a reasonable chance Madame cannot, either."

  "I hope not. That head of yours is very valuable to us, you know." Quentin threw him a shrewd glance. "Take care you don't lose it, my dear count."

  Ismal's reply was an angelic smile.

  "You understand me, I think?" Quentin persisted.

  "Think what you like," Ismal said. With that and one graceful bow, he left the room.

  ¯¯

  Despite Leila's fervent prayers to the contrary, the Comte d'Esmond arrived precisely at eight o'clock that evening, as he'd appointed. Well aware that he hadn't been pleased with his assignment, she supposed he'd spent some time arguing with Lord Quentin after she left—to no avail, apparently.

  She didn't understand how Quentin came to have the power to give the count orders of any kind. He'd told her Esmond was an agent of some sort, and totally trustworthy, but he hadn't explained the count's exact position with His Majesty's government. Given her previous experiences with Esmond, Leila had small hope of enlightenment.

  By the time Nick had shown the count into the parlor, her nerves were wound taut as clock springs. Nick swiftly vanished again and, after a terse exchange of greetings, she offered wine, which Esmond declined.

  "Nick tells me you have not yet interviewed new servants," he said.

  "I had a great deal on my mind, as you are unfortunately now aware."

  His mouth tightened. He moved to the window and looked out. "It is just as well," he said. "I shall send to Paris for a proper housekeeper and manservant."

  "I am perfectly capable of hiring my own staff, Monsieur," she told him frigidly.

  He came away from the window, and her breath caught.

  The candlelight drew streaks of molten gold in his silky hair and burnished the smooth contours of his perfectly sculpted face. His flawlessly cut coat of deep blue hugged his powerful shoulders and slim waist, and turned his sapphire eyes the color of a late night sky. She wished she had her weapons—a brush in her hand and a blank canvas before her—so that she could reduce him to color and line, two dimensions, aesthetics. But she was weaponless, trapped, in a room where there was suddenly far too much of him, demanding and fixing her attention, and stirring a host of unwanted memories: the heat of a rock-hard body pressed, for an instant, to hers...the scorching intensity of a piercing blue glance...and the scent, distinctively, dangerously, his.

  He was all flawless elegance and aristocratic courtesy, detached, aloof...yet he dragged at her senses, insistently, and she couldn't break the pull for all her will. All she could do was fight to hold her ground, and so she clung to her anger as though it were a life rope.

  Esmond met her icy stare with a small smile. "Madame, if we quarrel over every minor matter, we shall make the progress of snails. I am aware that you are vexed with Lord Quentin's choice of investigator."

  "I'm aware you're vexed with it, too," she said.

  His smile remained in place. "A fortnight has passed since your husband's death. Whatever trail might have existed is cold. No evidence of prussic acid was found anywhere—in your husband's body or in the house. Except for the ink, that is. But we now know the ink was not in the room until you put it there. There was no sign of forced entry or burglary. Our murderer did not leave behind so much as a piece of lint. No one saw anyone—including your husband—leave or enter the house during the previous evening. We cannot ask direct questions of anybody, lest the wrath of the English nobility fall upon us and crush us. In the circumstances, it seems next to impossible that we shall ever discover who killed Monsieur Beaumont. I shall spend the remainder of my life upon this case. Naturally, I am delighted."

  If she'd had a fraction less control, she would have slapped him. As it was, she was so angry and mortified that tears stung her eyes. She blinked them back.

  "If the task is too much for you," she choked out, "then tell Lord Quentin to find someone else. I didn't ask for you."

  "There is no one else," he said. "The matter is exceedingly delicate, as you well know. I am the only one of Lord Quentin's associates who possesses the necessary discretion. I am also the only one who possesses the necessary patience. I have enough of that for both of us—which is fortunate, for I suspect you have very little. I have just pointed out only one small necessity—trustworthy servants—and already you wish to strike me."

  Leila felt heat rising in her neck. Stiffly she turned away, moved to the sofa, sat down, and folded her hands in her lap. "Very well. Send for the damned servants," she said.

  "It is for your protection." He walked to the fireplace and studied the grate. "It is also for discretion's sake. Since we have so little that is concrete, we must talk and reflect. I shall be forced to ask you endless questions, some of them impertinent."

  "I'm prepared for that," she said. She wasn't. She could never be prepared for him.

  "Based on what I learn from you, I shall go out and seek further enlightenment," he continued. "Th
en I must return again and again to ask more questions." He glanced over his shoulder at her. "Do you understand? It is a long process. Sometimes I may be here for hours. Since no one must know I am investigating the matter, my visits could arouse disagreeable gossip. If you do not wish such gossip,

  I must visit in secret, which means after dark. I must come and go unnoticed. Thus the necessity for servants of unquestionable discretion and loyalty."

  Weeks, she thought. Weeks of his coming and going by night. Asking questions. Probing. Why oh why had she gone to Quentin?

  Because the alternative was worse even than this, she reminded herself.

  She stared at her folded hands. "I can't risk gossip. I shouldn't be allowed into respectable households to do portraits if people thought me...immoral."

  "But of course. A woman of uncertain reputation is not permitted in many great houses. The English appear to believe that women's frailties are contagious, while men's are not." He wandered to the curio cabinet and studied the collection of oriental objects behind the glass. "This is why you never took lovers and why you continued to live with your husband."

  In spite of her inner turmoil, she'd almost smiled at his apt assessment of the English double standard. The last sentence wiped her amusement away. "That's not the only reason," she indignantly told his back. "I do have morals—not that it's any of your affair."

  "English morals," he said.

  "Since I happen to be English, I don't see what other sort I ought to have."

  "You might have the practical sort," he said. "But you possess the so-English conscience. Your husband is dead. This is inconvenient, for it makes you a solitary woman who must step even more carefully to keep her reputation white. The practical course is to find a companion to see you through your interminable English mourning period, then acquire another husband."

  Leila stifled a gasp.

  "Instead," he went on, "you seek revenge—for a man who shamed and betrayed you repeatedly."

  She could not believe her ears. She stared at him—or rather his back, for he'd moved on to the ornate table that bore a tray of decanters. This wasn't what she had expected, not of the man who'd withdrawn so coldly, believing her a murderess. But she should have known better than to expect anything. Esmond defied logic. She would not, however, let him put her on the defensive.