"It doesn't matter what sort of man Francis was," she said. "No one had the right to kill him—not in cold blood, in that despicably underhand way. Worse men than he have been murdered, and the judges have pointed out that the bad character of the victim doesn't mitigate the crime. I couldn't make myself believe it mitigated even what I had done—else I should never have gone to Quentin. I-I'm sorry it took so long for me to stop being a coward. I realize that's made everything harder for you."
"To me it seems you make everything harder for yourself," he answered. "What you perceive as cowardice to me seems sensible caution. I saw that you had a great deal to lose and nothing to gain by voicing your suspicions. That is simple enough to comprehend. But when these great abstractions enter the equation—justice, good and evil, courage and cowardice, truth—ah, then, everything changes."
Having apparently studied Francis' decanters to his satisfaction, Esmond returned to the window.
Leila tried to bring her focus back to her hands, or the table nearby—on anything but him. She couldn't. His prowling the perimeter of the room made her edgy. He moved with the fluid grace of a cat, and just as noiselessly. Unless one watched, it was difficult to determine where he was and where he was going and what he would do. She was having enough trouble trying to make sense of his words and making the right replies.
"The authorities were 'sensible' and 'practical' about my father's death," she said. "Consequently, I'll never know who killed him. For all I know, I've seen his murderer, even spoken to him. It's not a pleasant idea to live with."
"I am sorry, Madame."
She wasn't looking for pity, and wished she'd chosen her words more carefully. The compassion she heard in his voice hurt. "I know the chances of that are remote," she said. "With Francis, it's different. His killer could be one of scores of people I know. Someone I've served tea, or dined with. I've tried to be sensible about it, but everyone I see stirs up the same question. It makes me frantic, wondering, Is this the one?'"
He turned his head to meet her gaze…and hold it. "It is too much, I understand, for you to live with two unsolved mysteries. To me, most of life is unsolved mysteries. But our characters are different, are they not?"
His steady gaze made a flurry within her, as though her secrets were living creatures, scurrying to hide from that probing blue light.
"I don't think my character has much to do with the problem at hand," she said. "Unless you have any lingering suspicions that I killed Francis."
"From the beginning, that did not make sense to me. For some time now, I have considered it out of the question. The only puzzle was the ink—which you have explained."
Relief washed over her, so profound that she was embarrassed. His belief in her guilt or innocence should not have loomed so large. Yet it had haunted her...because he haunted her. Still. He saw too much, and she had too many secrets. She could only pray his penetrating eyes wouldn't uncover them.
"That does simplify matters," she said briskly. "You've eliminated one suspect."
He smiled. "Now only several hundred thousand remain. Shall we cross Lord Quentin off the list?"
She nodded. "If he had done it, he'd have tried to convince me I was mad—and probably would have had me carted off to Bedlam forthwith."
"We make progress. Two suspects eliminated. And myself, Madame? Or perhaps I raced to and from Norbury House the previous night while everyone slept?"
"Don't be silly. You hadn't any mo—" She broke off, her face burning.
He came to the sofa, clasped his hands behind his back, and gazed down at her. Too close. The air grew heavier, overwarm and crackling with tension.
He let the silence lengthen, deliberately, she thought. The oppressive stillness made her all the more fiercely, inescapably aware of him.
"Desire," he said very softly.
The word whispered its wickedness in her heart, and echoed there. It seemed to echo through the entire room, a devil's whisper, taunting.
"Shall we pretend it was not so?" he asked. "Will you, so very observant, feign ignorance of the obvious?"
"It's pointless to discuss it," she said tautly. "I know perfectly well you didn't kill Francis."
"But I had so potent a motive. I had wicked designs upon his wife."
"You would never be that stupidly desperate," she said, scowling at her hands. "For anybody."
His soft chuckle made her look up. "I agree that killing your husband does not strike me as the wisest way to further my designs."
"Not to mention it's too curst direct."
His blue eyes glinted. "You would prefer I were more direct?"
"I prefer to discuss the crime," she said. "Which is what you were hired—assigned—whatever the devil it was—to do."
"I shall do so, I promise you."
"That is all I de—require."
"But of course," he amiably agreed.
"Very well, then." Her palms were damp. She pretended to smooth out a crease in her skirt. "I suppose you'd like to get started."
"Yes. In the bedroom."
Her hands stilled.
"The scene of the crime," he said. There was a tinge of amusement in his voice.
"I thought the officers had scoured every inch of the house," she said, fighting to keep her tones level. "Do you expect to find anything useful after a fortnight?"
"I am hoping you will find something for me. You lived with the victim, while I knew him only socially. It is you who can tell me most about your husband, his friends, his habits. Also, you are an artist. Your powers of observation make you a most useful partner in this enterprise."
For two weeks Leila's head had been churning with questions, speculations, theories. She had noticed a great deal, though those observations hadn't led to any satisfactory conclusions. She had prepared herself to cooperate fully and share her observations freely and frankly. She needn't be so reluctant to accompany an investigator to Francis' bedroom, she chided herself. It was business. Nothing more.
Esmond had moved to the door. He stood waiting.
Leila rose. "I trust no one saw you come?" Her voice was just a bit unsteady. "It wouldn't do, you know—"
"I am aware of the proprieties," he said. "With the English, appearance is everything."
She wanted to throttle him. "Appearance. She closed the distance between them in a few strides. "Is that sarcasm or innuendo? I've noticed you're very good at both. And at appearances."
She waited for him to open the door, but he only smiled down at her. "Now what appearance of mine do you take exception to, I wonder?" he asked softly. 'The one in the inquiry room, as a constable?"
She blinked. "Good grief. How did you know?”
"That is the same question I should ask you. Quentin himself did not recognize me until I spoke to him—in my own voice."
"I didn't know," she said. "I just…guessed."
"Sensed," he corrected. "There is a difference."
Her heart thudded. "I'm observant. You just said so."
"I was most disconcerted," he said.
"Well, you've returned the favor, monsieur. How in blazes did you know?"
He shrugged. "Perhaps I am a mind reader."
"There's no such thing."
"Then what was it, do you think?" His voice had dropped to a whisper.
Also, Leila belatedly noticed, he had somehow moved several inches nearer without appearing to move at all.
She reached for the door handle. "I think I am being led down a path I do not wish to follow," she muttered, jerking the door open.
She marched out and on toward the stairway.
Chapter 5
Ismal was well aware that Madame was trying very hard to believe his motives were purely professional. She wouldn't have to try so hard if he'd behaved himself, which he had more than ample reason to do.
In the first place, it was the height of folly to become entangled in any way with any participant, male or female, in an investigation.
In the
second, according to his Albanian code of honor, he owed her amends for her father's death. Even if his men hadn't killed Bridgeburton, they had rendered the Venice household defenseless, making murder easy for someone else. To protect Madame during the present murder investigation and provide justice by finding her husband's killer constituted a form of amends for the injury Ismal had thoughtlessly done her a decade ago. To use her beautiful body to slake his lust, on the other hand, was to heap insult upon injury.
Last, but most significant, she was dangerous. She'd haunted him ceaselessly after he'd left Paris and drawn him here against his better judgment. She had then stirred his feelings so intensely that he'd made not merely a mistake, but an unbelievably stupid one. Worst of all, she saw through him—not everything, not even a fraction. Nonetheless, that she glimpsed anything at all of the truth clearly proved she was a serious problem.
Yet he wanted her still, more than ever.
And so, instead of behaving himself, he had deliberately cast sexual lures, testing his powers of attraction against her fierce resistance. Which demonstrated—as if one needed more evidence—just how dangerous she was to him.
Even now, as he followed her up the stairs, it wasn't crime scenes he contemplated, but her criminally tempting body.
Black became her far too well, and this gown in particular was fiendishly well-designed. Despite the fashionably exaggerated shoulders and sleeves, her form appeared in all its tantalizing lushness. The twilled fabric hugged her full, firm breasts and wrapped itself snugly about her small waist, then swelled lazily below with the curve of her hips.
Ismal had studied countless women clothed and unclothed, and not always with detachment. He was not immune to desire nor did he wish to be, for desire was the beckoning of pleasure.
In her case, it was an invitation to disaster. Yet the invitation, he silently admitted as they reached the top of the stairs, was well nigh irresistible.
A single oil lamp stood on the hall table near the master bedroom door. The soft light caught the golden threads in her hair and lit gold sparks in her eyes, but the rest was shadow. Such was desire: an uncertain light amid the darkness of unreason.
He took up the lamp, opened the door, and let her proceed him into the room.
"You can set it on the nightstand," she said. Her voice was brittle. "Not that there's much to see. Less than you did before, I'm sure."
"Let me see with your eyes," he said. He put the lamp down and moved away to stand by the fireplace, in the shadows. He knew how to make himself invisible. With her, this would be difficult, but after a few minutes, if he was careful, she would at least partially forget he was there. "Tell me what you noticed."
She stood silent for a moment or two, looking about her—and collecting her composure, no doubt. He wondered whether it was the room, where death had been, that troubled her most, or himself.
"The oddest part was the tidiness," she said finally. "Most of the house was so orderly that I felt certain Francis had hardly been home the entire two days I was away. The trouble is, two other circumstances contradict that notion. One, his clothes didn't reek, and they weren't nearly as rumpled and stained as they usually were after a night's entertainment. Two, there were so very many wine bottles in the kitchen."
Already her voice was losing its edge, her posture easing. Ismal guessed that she had not only steeled herself to talk about this, but had organized her thoughts beforehand.
"Francis didn't like to drink alone," she explained. "All I can conclude is that whatever he did that night wasn't in character. Either he had company and didn't make a mess, or stayed home alone and didn't make a mess, or went out and behaved himself."
She strode purposefully to the foot of the bed. "I considered the possibility that he'd brought a woman home, and she may have been the sort who habitually cleans up after men. But there was no sign of that—none of the usual signs, that is. He'd brought tarts home before, when I was away. Yet he had the effrontery to complain about my refusing to share his bed."
She paused but an instant, and her voice was cool when she continued. "There's no point pretending all the world doesn't know it, or that I minded his telling people. I had rather be deemed a callous wife than a loose-moraled one. As we've discussed, the latter reputation would injure my career. And I didn't object to his tarts, either. Better them than me, I felt."
"But it was not always so, was it?" Ismal asked. He'd meant to hold his tongue, but he needed to know. Her cool, cynical speech drove his mind back to Venice and the girl he'd left defenseless. She'd been married nearly ten years, which meant she'd wed soon after her father's death. In the intervening years, life had taught her to be cynical. Though this happened to everyone to some extent, he was troubled.
"No, of course it wasn't always that way," she said. "I was seventeen when I married Francis, and thoroughly infatuated. I do believe he was faithful for a time. I was twenty, the first time I noticed the perfume and rouge on his clothes. Even after that, it was a while before I comprehended the extent of his infidelities."
She turned to face him. "It's a question of degree. One is prepared for the occasional affair, the mistress. But Francis was a tomcat. It was just like the drink, and later, the opium. He did nothing in moderation. There are limits—at least for me. Martyrdom isn't in my style."
"I have no patience with martyrs," he said.
This elicited a faint smile. "Nor do I. Still, some women haven't much choice. He never beat me, you know. I'm not sure what I would have done if he were that sort. But he wasn't. In any case, once I opened my eyes, it wasn't so very difficult to manage matters."
"Also, you had your work."
"Yes, which few other men would have tolerated, let alone encouraged. Francis had his good points, you see. But that's my view of him. I had certain...compensations. I daresay you'll get rather different portraits of him from others."
Ismal understood the portrait she drew well enough—but it was the portrait of her that intrigued and disturbed him. She'd given him insight, not so much into Beaumont's alleged "good points," as into the resourcefulness and resilience she'd needed to endure her marriage. Beaumont could have destroyed her, but she had not allowed it to happen. She'd even found a way to view the man with a degree of charity and mild affection he couldn't possibly deserve.
But then, she weighed and measured upon her own scales of justice. She even believed the bad character of the victim didn't mitigate the crime. Ismal thought it did, in this case—but she didn't seem to know just how evil Beaumont had been. Next to him Ali Pasha appeared almost saintly.
"But you must have been aware of his good points," she said. "You spent a great deal of time with him."
Ismal recognized a probe when he heard one. His instincts went on the alert. "A few weeks," he said carelessly. "He was an entertaining companion."
“I expect so. He did know Paris better than many Parisians did. I'm sure he could find every last brothel or opium den blindfolded."
"I believe he could. I hope the same cannot be said of London," Ismal added. "I shall be obliged to visit every single place he patronized, in hopes of obtaining information. However, I shall leave that task for later. Perhaps your help will lead me upon a different trail."
"I shouldn't think you'd mind that sort of job."
He smiled, though she couldn't see it. "But now it will be a job. I must observe everything objectively, ask the right questions, keep my wits about me at all times. There is a great difference, you see, between visiting a brothel to lose oneself in pleasure and going there to work. As any prostitute can tell you."
"I shall have to take your word for that." Her voice was crisp. "Though Francis brought his tarts home from time to time, we were never introduced, let alone on speaking terms."
"Certainly you would not know such women, and it was ill-mannered of me to mention the subject at all."
"Don't be ridiculous. I've just been talking about them, haven't I?"
There wa
s a rustle of skirts as she moved to the other side of the bed, farther from the light. It was only a few steps, yet she stirred the air, making the lamplight tremble. Hers was not a quiet grace, but insolent, tempestuous. A passionate soul in a lavish body.
Ismal suppressed a sigh. The Devil had made her on purpose to test and torment him. It was impossible to be fully objective. It was close to impossible to think straight.
Leaving the safety of the shadows, he took up the lamp. "It may prove necessary to discuss these women later," he said. "For now, however, we shall deal with the friends with whom you were acquainted. If you are not too weary, perhaps you will help me make a list."
"We're done in here, then?"
"For the present."
"I didn't tell you much." She headed for the door.
"More than I had hoped. Very little is clear, but now at least there is one thing." He reached the door an instant too late to open it for her, but his words made her pause just over the threshold.
"I gave you a clue?" she asked.
"Oh, yes. The tidiness. The behavior not in character. Someone influenced that behavior, do you not think? Either the murderer or an innocent companion. But an innocent companion—then another to administer poison?" Ismal shook his head. "That seems far-fetched. For the time being, I must give strong consideration to those able to influence his behavior."
She eyed him with some puzzlement. "That’s a clue, is it? You must have patience indeed, to begin with something as small and vague as that."
"It is enough," he said. "The piece of lint. One must begin somewhere."
"I suppose." There was a dissatisfied note in her voice. "Where next, then?"
"It does not matter. At present, we need only begin our list of possible suspects. The studio, perhaps?"
She gave a small start. "Are you serious? Ifs a terrible clutter even on my best days, and it smells of turps and oils and—"
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