Captives of the Night

by Loretta Chase

  He stood panting like an animal, his loins aching, and watched in furious despair while she retied the drawstring, shoved her skirts down over her long, shapely legs, yanked up her chemise, and hastily refastened her bodice.

  "On the table," she said, her voice throbbing. "You would have had me on the be-damned worktable. I wish I had been drunk. That at least would have constituted some sort of excuse. But I wasn't drunk. I wasn't flirting, making advances. My only fatal error, it seems, was trying to—Lord, how am I to explain?" She pushed herself off the worktable and gazed at him exasperatedly. "Don't you understand? I want to do something. Instead of waiting about, all the day. When we began this inquiry, you said you needed my help," she continued quickly, before he could answer. "You called me a 'partner.' But you're doing it all by yourself, and you don't even want to tell me anything. You'd never have told me about Vingt-Huit if I hadn't worked half of it out for myself—then nagged you for the rest. How was I to help when you wouldn't even tell me the basic facts about Francis? How was I to know what to look for?"

  His conscience gnawed. He had kept her in the dark about Vingt-Huit only to protect himself, because he'd feared she'd never forgive him for using her.

  "Why do you bother coming here at all, when you don't trust me?" she asked, her eyes still pleading with him. "Is it just to seduce me? Is that all I am? A challenge to your powers of seduction? An amusing problem to solve in your leisure time?"

  "You are the worst problem of my life," he said bitterly. "And it is not amusing. This night I have trusted you with more than any one other person knows. But that is not enough for you. You want everything."

  "So do you," she said. "But you don't want to give anything. You don't know how to be friends with a woman. Which shouldn't surprise me, since you don't know how to be friends with anybody. You don't know how to have a conversation that isn't manipulative, or—"

  "You were trying to manipulate me!"

  "Which is intolerable, obviously, since you took swift measures to put a stop to it." She reached up to smooth his rumpled neckcloth. "God forbid you should have to regard me as an equal, and play fair."

  Though he suspected she was manipulating now, his heart responded to the physical gesture—with its hint of forgiveness, and more important, possessiveness—and softened accordingly.

  "You are not playing fair now, Leila. You are trying to confuse my mind. I do not know what you want."

  "I'm trying to be patient," she said. "Because maybe if I'm patient and reasonable, you'll believe I can keep a cool head when need be. And maybe, in time, you'll actually let me help you."

  He smiled. "I can think of several ways you can help—"

  "With the inquiry," she said. She gazed up at him, her golden eyes lit with something startlingly like admiration. "I want to be part of it, knowingly, this time."

  Then it finally dawned on him what had happened. She thought he was a hero. "Vingt-Huit," he said dazedly. "You were not distressed at all. You were...fascinated."

  "Yes." She smiled, too. "I think it was a fascinating case, and you were brilliant. And this time, I want to be your partner."

  Chapter 11

  Though well aware Ismal had come home after three o'clock in the morning, Nick mercilessly roused him at seven-thirty.

  "Guess where the Duchess of Langford went yesterday," he said as he set the breakfast tray on Ismal's lap.

  "I am not in a humor for riddles," Ismal said.

  "Mount Eden."

  Ismal had just raised the coffee cup to his lips. He set it down. One of Nick's tasks was to cultivate the servants of all those connected with the inquiry. Among these "new friends" was the Langfords' cook.

  "She left about an hour after quarreling with Avory," Nick amplified. "It's speculated that she went to cry on the Dowager Lady Brentmor's shoulder—as I'm informed she's in the habit of doing."

  The dowager was Jason's mother. She was also grandmother of Esme, now Lady Edenmont—the young woman Ismal had tried to steal ten years ago. According to Jason, Lady Brentmor was a formidable businesswoman who struck terror into the granite hearts of London's most powerful financiers. Her own heart was about as soft as a paving stone. Ismal doubted her shoulder was any more accommodating.

  "Lady Langford's been going to her for years," Nick was saying. "Ever since she was a new bride and got into some money troubles. You said the duchess and Avory had a row about money. Maybe she's gone to Lady Brentmor because he's in deeper than he lets on."

  "I do not like this," Ismal said.

  "Well, you can't keep everyone confined to quarters." Nick moved away to open the drapes. "Can't stop them from going out, can't control who sees them and who doesn't. Can't arrange everyone's household to suit your convenience."

  "I assume there is some point to these not so subtle remarks," Ismal said coldly. "You find fault with my methods?"

  "I wouldn't dream of questioning your methods," Nick said. "But then, no one would, would they? Even Quentin must assume you're seriously trying to solve Beaumont's murder with your usual coldblooded efficiency. So I couldn't possibly wonder why, considering her talents, you don't encourage Mrs. Beaumont to interact with as many people as possible. She practically had Sherburne eating out of her hand, you said."

  "I do not want murder suspects eating out of her hand," Ismal said sharply. "She is not a professional. It is too dangerous."

  Nick stared at him for a moment. "Oh. Yes, certainly. Shall I let Quentin know about the Duchess of Langford?" he asked in more mollifying tones. "He may want to go to Mount Eden and find out what that was all about."

  "Yes. Go tell him. Now."

  Having experienced difficulty running Quentin to ground, Nick didn't return until two hours later.

  By then, Ismal had washed, shaved, and dressed, and retired to the library to brood upon the sofa.

  At eleven o'clock, Nick entered the library to inform his master that the Dowager Lady Brentmor was standing in the vestibule, insisting she knew perfectly well that the Comte d'Esmond was at home, and she had no intention of leaving until she'd spoken to him.

  "She won't go away," Nick said. "I don't know what to do—short of picking her up and chucking her out the door."

  Ismal was already on his feet, shrugging into his coat. He'd heard the noise, and all his instincts were on the alert. Now the old scar in his side twinged as well. Though he'd never met the woman, he'd heard enough about her from Jason to understand that being thrown bodily from the house wouldn't daunt her in the least.

  "Send her up," he said.

  Moments later, the door swung open and a small, fierce old lady marched into the room. She was scowling like a thunderhead and thumping a cane which must be intended primarily for use as a weapon, for she was in no need of its support. In her other hand she carried a purse nearly as big as she was.

  Ismal had already arranged his countenance into a politely smiling welcome. Now he bowed—though he rather expected she'd take the opportunity to rap the cane upon his skull—and murmured that this was an unexpected and most pleasurable surprise.

  "Unexpected it may be," she said with a sniff. "The pleasure I strongly doubt, but you was born a liar, I collect."

  She stalked about the room, punctuating her steps with thumps of the cane.

  "Read, do you?" she asked, eyeing the bookshelves.

  "Yes, my lady. I can write as well."

  Shrewd hazel eyes fixed on him. "I know that well enough. You're a dab hand with a pen, as I recall. Brilliant forgery that was, of Mrs. Stockwell-Hume's hand."

  Ismal winced inwardly. Ten years ago he'd forged a provoking letter in Mrs. Stockwell-Hume's hand to lure the dowager and her granddaughter to London. "Your memory is excellent," he said, betraying not a glimmer of uneasiness.

  "I didn't come to reminisce about old times," she said. "I come to have a look at you." She did so, eyeing him up and down, not once but three times.

  "Handsome is as handsome does," she grumbled. Selecting
the hardest chair in the room, she sat. "The question is, what've you been doing?"

  "I believe Lord Quentin told you of my present task."

  "Don't be tiresome. Sit down," she ordered. "I'd rather look a man in the eye without getting a crick in my neck."

  Ismal drew up the next hardest chair and perched upon it.

  She opened the immense purse and took out a document. "Lady Langford come to see me yesterday," she said, handing it over. "In a fever about that, among other things."

  Ismal quickly perused the paper. "In December, Lord Avory bought one thousand pounds worth of shares in Fenderhill Imports," he said. "An unwise investment, you think?"

  "Depends on your point of view," she replied. "Fenderhill Imports don't exist. Never did."

  "Then he was deceived."

  "What he was, was blackmailed." She scrutinized his face. "You ain't surprised. I know you've come across this sort of thing before."

  "I first discovered the technique ten years ago," he said. "Bridgeburton provided similar 'receipts' to his blackmail victims, to help them account for the loss of large sums of money. He told me your son, Sir Gerald, had taught him the method."

  "So he did," she said, not in the least disconcerted by the mention of her blackguard son. "And you come across the same sort of thing in that Vingt-Huit business Quentin told me about. So I guess it ain't hard to figure out who was blackmailing Avory."

  'This would appear to be Francis Beaumont’s handiwork," Ismal cautiously agreed. "I trust you did not tell Lady Langford so?"

  She snorted. "What sort of halfwit do you take me for? I told her Avory bought worthless stock, and he ain't the first and won't be the last, and she should thank her lucky stars it was only a thousand quid. She spends as much on a Season's bonnets. It weren't the money that put her in such a taking, anyhow, but his impertinence, she claimed. Impertinence, my foot! He's a grown man, and it ain't any of her business what he does with his allowance, so long as he keeps within it and don't pester his ma and pa for more. Which he don't. Which ought to settle it, I should think." She thumped the cane impatiently. "Now, what's this she tells me about Avory being besotted with Leila Beaumont?"

  "It is absurd," he said coldly. "What do you think—that scarcely is Madame Beaumont's husband buried before she begins hunting for a rich and titled replacement?"

  "No need to get your innards in an uproar," she said. "I'm only passing on what his mama told me. Thought you ought to know she ain't happy about his calling on Beaumont's widow twice in one week—and staying far too long for propriety. I won't ask how long you been staying," she added scornfully. "I've met her. It don't take a genius to figure out why you're still dawdling about London on this plaguey business."

  "Beaumont has been dead not even six weeks." Ismal kept his voice level. "Most of my investigations take months. Some, years. Surely you understand the delicacy and complexity of the problem. One does not assault it with a battering ram. That, apparently, is your technique. It is not mine."

  "It certainly ain't my technique to confuse my breeding organs with my thinking one," she retorted. "I'll wager you ain't even looked into Beaumont's finances—though you know he come back to England next to bankrupt—and all the world knows he couldn't get a farthing of his wife's funds, not with Herriard minding 'em. Or do you think the finances of a man who lived on blackmail money ain't important? Not as important as sniffing about his widow's skirts, certainly."

  Reining in his temper, Ismal pointed out that the man's wife was a crucial source of information. He explained about Sherburne and the stickpin—and how he'd learned more about Lord Avory's problems while trying to find out more about the stickpin. "And it was with Avory, I admit, that I became preoccupied," he said. "The marquess has some problems I am not at liberty to discuss. They are of a nature which would make him vulnerable to blackmail, which you have just confirmed."

  Her shrewd gaze sharpened. "You sure Avory paid Beaumont to keep quiet about his own problem—or someone else's?" she asked.

  Ismal knew this woman was no fool. If she asked the question, she had good reason. He thought it over. There was small advantage in publicizing another man's impotence. Coming from a drunkard and opium addict, the news was likely to be disregarded. Even if believed, it would be more likely to elicit pity than to cause disgrace.

  "What 'someone else' do you have in mind?" he asked.

  "Mebbe you didn't know that Avory's brother, Charles, didn't fancy women," she said. "Mebbe you didn't know it was Charles got that Carstairs boy the diplomatic post. That is to say, Charles talked his pa into using his influence. Not that I'd expect you to know. Lady Langford tells me a good deal she don't tell anybody else. And she didn't tell me about what Charles liked better than gels because she don't know, or don't want to. I figured that matter out for myself. I see a lot more than some people—mebbe because I ain't afraid to look."

  Leaning toward him, she lowered her grating voice a fraction. "If I was you, I'd find out what Avory bought for his thousand quid. I'll wager you fifty it weren't Beaumont’s worthless promise to keep quiet about his problem."

  If what she said was true, Charles must have been romantically involved with Edmund Carstairs. Who had killed himself. Why? Ismal wondered, not for the first time. Why not simply resign? Unless something else had happened. Perhaps more than government documents had been stolen. Carstairs must have agreed and planned for that, and must have been prepared to deal with the consequences. Something else must have been taken, then, which he hadn't been prepared for.

  "Letters," Ismal guessed. "Avory paid to get back his late brother's letters to Edmund Carstairs."

  The dowager gave a disdainful sniff. "It appears you do have a brain, after all—so long as it ain't a buxom young widow you're talking to."

  Ismal summoned his patience. "I am grateful for this valuable information, my lady. You have answered a question which has vexed Madame Beaumont and me very much. For, whether you wish to believe it or not, she and I talk of little else but the case. In truth, she cannot take her mind off it. She is like a dog, worrying a bone."

  "What do you expect?" she demanded. "It ain't as though she's got much else to think about. From what I've heard, she's scarcely set foot out of the house in weeks."

  "I do not keep her under lock and key," Ismal said, wondering if there was some sort of conspiracy afoot. First Leila, then Nick, now this old witch. "She is free to come and go as she pleases."

  "Where the devil's she to go when she ain't asked?" the old witch demanded. "Why ain't you using your influence to get her out where she can do some good? If she's as quick and noticing and clever as you say—"

  "It is dangerous."

  "Then look out for her."

  He stared at her. "I beg your pardon?"

  "You heard me. You're good at not getting killed, ain't you? At not being dead when any normal person would be. According to Jason, you been poisoned, bashed in the head, shot at, drowned, stabbed, and Lord only knows what else. Watching out for a mere female should be child's play."

  "I cannot be with her every moment," Ismal pointed out irritably. "Even if I could, it would look very strange. People would talk."

  "Don't be such a sapskull," she said. "Not every moment. I'll look after her while she's with me."

  A feeling of cold dread settled into Ismal's gut. "But you are returning to Mount Eden."

  "No, I ain't."

  "But Lady Edenmont is expecting her babe any day, Quentin told me."

  "Had it last night. A gel. Finally."

  "You will want to be with her."

  "No, I won't. I aim to be in London—since it's obvious you ain't getting anywhere on your own." She left the chair to yank upon the bell pull. "Might as well have that black-eyed rogue of yours bring us something fit to drink. You got the same look on your face Jason gets when he don't want to see reason."

  ¯¯

  At nine o'clock that evening, Leila stood before her easel, pretending to paint
while she wondered whether infatuation was playing tricks on her reason. Or at least her hearing.

  Last night, Esmond had responded to her request by trying every way he could to change the subject. When that had failed, he'd pleaded exhaustion and decamped. Now, if her ears weren't deceiving her, he had actually just announced that he wanted her out sleuthing among Francis' enemies. Not only wanted it, but had arranged this very day to make it happen.

  One of the upper class' most formidable women, the Dowager Lady Brentmor, was coming tomorrow to begin the process of getting Leila established in London Society.

  According to Esmond, the old lady was even now telling her friends that her primary reason for coming to London was to visit Mrs. Beaumont and congratulate her on her triumphant handling of the Home Office imbeciles.

  Leila was well aware that Lady Brentmor was notorious for her low opinion of men in general and her contempt for those in authority in particular. The dowager was also quick to defend women who, like herself, made their own way in the world despite the masculine forces arrayed against them.

  It was, therefore, as Esmond explained, perfectly in character for Lady Brentmor to take under her wing a woman who had shown the authorities for what they were: a "lot of bullying ignoramuses." Those, according to him, were the dowager's exact words. Having met her months before, Leila was certain these were among the mildest of the old lady's choice stock of descriptives. She could make even Fiona blush.

  It was also perfectly in character, Leila thought, for Esmond to choose a sponsor whom few in Society would dare contradict.

  "If Lady Brentmor told the prime minister to jump off a bridge," Fiona had once remarked, "Wellington would meekly ask, 'Which one?'"

  Leila had no doubt that Esmond had found the ideal chaperon. She couldn't help wondering about his abrupt change of mind, however. He'd just said that her talents were being wasted, that she would be of greater use out in the world gathering information—all of which was very flattering, and precisely what she wanted, desperately. Yet he didn't behave as though he was happy about it. Though she had kept on trying to paint while he talked, she could hardly fail to notice his restlessness.