Captives of the Night

by Loretta Chase

  She was aware of the muscles tensing in Ismal's hand. "It's very easy to get him to talk about his adventure ten years ago," she went on. "About taking Edenmont and his new bride back to England in a mad race across the Mediterranean. Apparently, it was the most exciting thing that's ever happened to Lackliffe. He said he has a poem written by a Greek about the two handsome princes who fought for the hand of the Red Lion's daughter. One prince was a black-haired Englishman. The other was a golden-haired Albanian whose name was Ismal."

  She released the stiff hand to touch the scar. "It's an old scar," she said. "Is it ten years old?"

  He had turned away while she spoke. He was gazing steadily at the window, the telltale lines at his eyes deeper than she'd ever seen them.

  "The sun will rise in less than two hours," he said. "We have so little time. We could be making love, my heart."

  The words made her ache. "I just want to know where I stand," she said. "I know ours is just an affair. I know what I've got myself into. But I can't help being a woman, and I can't help wanting to know if you love her still—if that's why you never wed."

  "Oh, Leila." He moved closer and brushed her hair back from her face. "You have no rivals, ma belle. I was two and twenty, and I can scarcely remember what I felt. A youthful infatuation, and like other youths, I was arrogant and rash."

  "Then it's true. I guessed aright." She let out a sigh. "I wish you wouldn't make me guess and drag things out of you. I wish you'd just tell me something on your own once in a while. Like about youthful infatuations. Not but what I'll probably want to scratch her eyes out if she so much as blinks at you," she added irritably. "Lud, I am so jealous."

  "And I am truly frightened." He tilted her chin up to study her eyes. "How in the name of heaven did you connect my scar with Edenmont?"

  "Woman's intuition."

  "You said I was upset about him," he persisted, still holding her gaze. "How did you know? You must tell me, Leila. If I betray myself to you, I might to another. You do not wish me to endanger myself unwittingly, I hope."

  The words chilled her, reminding her that his life depended upon deceit, concealment. The scar was old, its cause in the past. But it was vivid testimony that he was human...that she could lose him.

  She didn't have to look at the scar, because the image of the gnarled flesh was vivid in her mind. She'd noticed it last night—and how he winced when she touched it. The scar had given her nightmares after he left. A huge brute leaping out at him from a shadowy hallway...a blade gleaming in flickering candlelight...a small, wiry man with feral eyes who dripped poison into the gash the knife had made.

  She had bolted up from her pillows in a cold sweat, and remained trembling in her lonely bed a long while after, despite the reassuring sunlight of morning. She shuddered now, recalling.

  "Your eyes," she said, touching her finger to the tiny network of lines. "When you're at ease, the lines are indiscernible. When you're upset, they become tight, sharp. I think of them as little arrows pointing out sore spots. My intuition must have connected the sore spots."

  He muttered in what she guessed was his native tongue—a series of curses, judging by the tone. Then he was off the bed and across the room to peer into the cheval glass. "Come, show me," he said. "Bring the other lamp. I cannot see by this one."

  She could see well enough: a stunning view of about six feet of leanly muscled, gleaming, naked male. They had so little time left this night, and they might be making love. Instead, they would spend the precious moments examining his eyes.

  By gad, she was a hopeless case. Utterly depraved. She dragged herself from the bed, took up the lamp, and joined him at the mirror.

  Chapter 15

  From the time she'd discovered the scar, it had taken Leila less than twenty-four hours to light upon the names associated with it. It took Ismal less than a minute to understand that Fate had just tightened the screws another painful notch.

  He was already well aware that it didn't matter whether Bridgeburton had fallen or been pushed into the canal that night long ago. If he'd been pushed, it didn't matter who'd done it—whether it had been Ismal's servants, an enemy of Bridgeburton's, or a treacherous friend. Beaumont, for instance. Those details didn't matter. What mattered was that when Ismal left that Venice palazzo, he'd set events in motion that had ruined a young girl's life. Every hour of unhappiness Leila had endured since then was a stain on his soul.

  He was prepared to devote himself to her happiness, to make up for every minute of grief his actions had caused her. But he needed time. If she discovered his infamy too soon, he might never get the chance to make amends. She would shut her heart to him just as she had to Beaumont.

  He was miserably aware that he should have told her the truth at the beginning. Then at least, whatever she thought of him, she would not think him false. He should have let her know precisely what he was and let her choose with full knowledge whether to love him. Instead, he'd won her love unfairly.

  Now he couldn't bear to lose it.

  While he stood in front of the mirror and studied the lines at his eyes—a betrayal as clear to her as Avory's twitching jaw muscle had been to him—Ismal was plotting against her, playing for time.

  She must be occupied, her mind fixed elsewhere. And so he began by fixing it on helping him overcome the involuntary reaction of the tiny facial muscles. Then he fixed it on lovemaking, so that when he left shortly before dawn, she was too exhausted to think.

  The following day he carefully prepared their work for the weeks to come, and planned how to present her time-consuming assignments.

  That night, instead of leading her straight to the bedroom, Ismal took her to the studio and sat her down at the worktable. He handed her a sheet of paper containing, among other scribblings, a column titled "Prime Suspects" under which were five names: Avory, Sherburne, Langford, Martin...and Carroll.

  She stared at the scrawled notes for a full two minutes without uttering a sound. When at last she found her voice, it was harsh. "Where did you get this?" she demanded. "This is Francis' handwriting. What the devil was he doing making notes about prime suspects and alibis?"

  Ismal opened an inkwell, took up a pen, dipped it into the ink, and wrote: Monday, 12 January. Account for whereabouts.

  She inhaled sharply. "I see. Your talents include forgery."

  "One should always be prepared for the possibility that notes or letters may fall into the wrong hands." He nodded at the list. "As Avory and his father learned, such materials may prove costly, even years later."

  "It would appear you've kept something else from me." She did not look up. "How long have you suspected Fiona of murder?"

  "Leila, neither of us is stupid or blind," he said. "We cannot go on pretending forever that we do not see what is under our noses. Lady Carroll hated your husband. For years she hated him because he behaved shamefully toward you, whom she views as a sister. Not many weeks before his death, he shamed her actual sister. The night on which the poison must have been administered, she was in London. We both recognize that her alibi is somewhat suspicious."

  He drew up a stool and sat close beside her. "Still, she is one of several to whom our attention has been drawn," he said. "Nearly everyone your husband knew could have reason to kill him. We have made ourselves dizzy with motives, and we have been distracted with Avory's romantic problems. What I propose is that we take a new tack and attempt to narrow our list. I suggest we begin by accounting for the whereabouts of these people on the night in question."

  She said nothing, only kept her eyes upon the piece of paper.

  Ismal went on explaining. Of the five prime suspects, only Lady Carroll had been in a situation requiring her to explain her whereabouts to anybody. None, including her, could be interrogated directly.

  "We must find out by devious means," he said. "It will not be easy, but I see no alternative, if we hope to solve the problem in this century."

  "I suppose you never said anything about Fio
na because you knew I'd make a much worse fuss than I ever did about David," she said at last. Her voice was low, level. "Very unprofessional of me."

  "Very silly, also." He tweaked a curl at her temple. "You know I dote upon Lady Carroll. She has been my staunchest ally. Frankly, she would be my preferred choice for murderer, because she at least would never harm you—even to save her own skin."

  She looked up at him. "It had better not come to that."

  "I shall take care it does not," he said.

  Her troubled expression eased.

  "Also, I shall understand if you do not wish to snoop behind your good friend's back," he said. "Perhaps you prefer to leave this disagreeable business to me?"

  She returned her attention to the paper, and considered. "No, I'll take Fiona." Her voice was businesslike now. "If I were you, I'd leave Langford to Lady Brentmor, since she's his wife's confidante. But you ought to take David, obviously."

  "He left with Norbury yesterday for Dorset," he said. "That may serve us well. While he is away, Nick and I—in disguise, of course—may be able to learn something from the servants."

  "That leaves Sherburne and Helena Martin." She frowned.

  "I shall leave Sherburne to you," he said magnanimously.

  "You jolly well won't," she said. "I'll take Helena."

  "Most certainly not. You will have plenty to do with Sherburne and Lady Carroll."

  "I'll take the women. You handle the men."

  He made himself speak calmly. "This is not rational. Your friend is one matter. Helena is an altogether different problem. In the first place, you cannot cultivate the friendship of a prostitute without risking scandal. In the second, I ask you to recollect that she has dangerous friends—not to mention a past that will not bear close scrutiny. If she—"

  "According to Lady Brentmor, Helena is in Malcolm Goodridge's keeping at present." Gold fire flashed in her eyes. "If you expect to be given private audiences with Helena, you'll have to make it worth her while. I greatly doubt she'll risk a comfortable berth with Goodridge merely for the privilege of gazing into your lovely blue eyes. And if you think I'll tolerate your acquiring an English harem, I strongly advise you to think again."

  "Leila, it is most unprofessional to allow jealousy to supersede caution."

  "Unprofessional I may be," she said. "But most certainly not incautious." She stood up. "If you begin hovering about La Martin, you'll make two deadly enemies. Malcolm Goodridge—" She smiled. "And guess who else?"

  He should have realized that matters with her would never go precisely as he wished. Ismal had been prepared to let her deal with Sherburne. He was at least a gentlemen. Also, he wasn't the cleverest of men, and Leila had managed him well enough before—had him eating out of her hand, as Nick had said. Helena Martin, however, was a far more dangerous species.

  "I know you have a wonderful mind," he said. "But in certain cases, that will not make up for experience. With Helena Martin, you will be out of your depth. She grew up in the thieves' kitchen, and she did not achieve her success by chance or luck."

  "I lived ten years with Francis Beaumont," she said, moving away. "My father was Jonas Bridgeburton. I believe I am up to her weight." She headed for the door. "All I need is a pretext for speaking to her. Do you want to help, or do you prefer to let me stumble about in my own amateurish way?"

  Five days later, Leila stood in the front hall of Helena Martin's house. She had come without Ismal's permission or knowledge. She had devised her plan without him, because he had done everything but help. Instead, over the last five days, he'd tried every way he could to distract her. He was very good at it, Leila had to admit. With a less obstinate subject, he might have succeeded.

  He distracted her in bed—not to mention on the floor, in a chair, on the window seat, against the armoire, and on the garret stairs. Lest that not be sufficient to occupy her, he exerted himself to addle her in company. He sent sultry silent messages across dinner tables, drawing rooms, and ballrooms. He tried her composure and her wits with his unique brand of double entendre. It didn't matter that no one else discerned his wicked meanings. Leila did, and it took all her concentrated will not to betray herself.

  She didn't waste her breath berating him afterwards, when they were alone. Obviously, if she couldn't handle a bit of teasing, he'd never believe she could handle the likes of Helena Martin. Besides, Leila couldn't pretend she objected to the imaginative locations or positions for lovemaking, any more than she could complain about his stamina. As to the teasing—she found it rather exciting to play secret games with her lover in public.

  Bridgeburton's daughter, apparently, was in her true element at last. She was living a life of sin and secrets, and she was wicked enough to enjoy it.

  Which wasn't to say her pleasure was unadulterated. Fiona's possible guilt cast its shadow. David was another, albeit not so heavy, shadow. And there was the nightmare, regular as clockwork.

  Every morning it jerked Leila from a dead sleep. The same gloomy hallway. The same two men—one massive brute and one dark, small one with Cassius' "lean and hungry look." And trapped between them, Ismal, murmuring words in a foreign language. He would turn his head, and the light would shimmer over pale gold…then the glint of the blade...a gash, blood red, and blue poison dripping into it. Then came the buzzing...and the suffocating blackness. And at last she'd wake, shivering and sick with dread.

  Helena Martin's French maid returned to the hall, and Leila quickly jerked her mind to the present.

  The servant apologized for keeping Madame waiting, and led her to the parlor. Eloise, who'd insisted upon coming, did not—thank heaven—insist upon following, but remained straight, silent, and coolly expressionless by the front door. Just before entering the parlor, Leila threw her bodyguard a grateful smile. Ismal had told the two servants that Madame Beaumont was not to be allowed within a mile of Helena Martin. Eloise's loyalty, however, inclined to the mistress of the house.

  Leila was still smiling as the door closed behind her. She met Helena's wary gaze.

  "It is rude to scold a guest," Helena said, "but really, Mrs. Beaumont, you ought to know better. If word of this gets out, your reputation will be in tatters."

  "Then I shall have to return to Paris," Leila said. "Fortunately, I know the language and can work there as well as I do here. Our professional requirements, you see, are not entirely unlike."

  "Shocking thing to say." Helena gestured at a richly upholstered sofa, and Leila obediently sat. Her hostess perched stiffly on a chair opposite. "Next, I suppose, you'll be offering to do my portrait."

  "I should like that, very much," Leila said. "If I could think how to manage it without sending Mr. Herriard into an apoplexy. That, however, is not my present errand."

  She opened her reticule and withdrew a ruby and diamond ear drop. "This is rather awkward, but the thing's been plaguing me since I found it, and I'm sure whoever it belongs to would like to have it back."

  She handed it to Helena, who said nothing.

  "I've begun rearranging the—my late husband's room," Leila lied. "My servant found the earring wedged in a crack under his bed. I suppose that's why the police never found it, though they tore the house apart, looking for heaven knows what. But Eloise, you see, is obsessively thorough—"

  "It isn't mine, Mrs. Beaumont." Helena's face was a cool blank. "I'm partial to rubies, but this definitely isn't mine."

  "I do beg your pardon." Leila let out a sigh. "It's deuced awkward but—well, I might as well be straightforward. I'm aware Francis brought women home from time to time when I was away. And I did recollect—that is, you and I have stood near each other at the theater once or twice, and I noticed your perfume. A distinctive blend, I must say. And—to blunder on—I had occasion to notice it on Francis—or in his room—I'm not sure when exactly. But not long ago, or it shouldn't have stuck in my mind. It must have been the last time I noticed such a thing before he died."

  Helena's dark eyebrows rose very
slightly. "Another woman's perfume. How odd."

  "I have an abominably keen sense of smell," Leila explained. "Like a hound, Francis used to say. But I'm obviously not a good detective." She was aware of Helena's expression sharpening several degrees. "I'm sure you wouldn't be so missishly impractical as to deny owning such an expensive item. It's not as though I'd be shocked, and it's been years since his infidelities troubled me."

  "If it were mine, I wouldn't deny it, Mrs. Beaumont. I'm certainly not missish."

  "Yes, of course. Well, my deductive powers seem to have failed me this time." Leila shook her head. "How disappointing. I had hoped—that is, whoever it does belong to had to work hard enough for it, I daresay. And I strongly doubt that whatever Francis paid her would make up for the loss."

  Helena looked down at the earring in her hand. "If she was careless enough to leave it behind, she deserves to lose it. It's very bad manners to leave evidence for the wife to find. I wouldn't trouble myself about this particular whore's loss if I were you, Mrs. Beaumont. She's obviously not worth your trouble."

  She gave the earring back. Her fingers barely touched Leila's hand, but that fleeting contact was icy. "I've heard you've been busy with good deeds," Helena added with the smallest of smiles. "Sherburne. Avory. Patching up Beaumont's damage, people say. You are quite the talk of London. Still, correcting the mistakes of stupid little tarts is carrying it too far. Not worth the risk—to your reputation, that is—to consort with the likes of us. If the earring troubles you, I suggest you leave it in the nearest poor box, for the deserving needy."

  Ismal resisted the urge to peer out the window of the hackney. The exterior of Helena Martin's house would tell him nothing, and he must not risk being observed. The sky was rapidly darkening with an approaching storm, but was not nearly dark enough. He took out his pocket watch and studied that instead.

  Leila had been inside twenty minutes at least. He'd arrived too late to prevent her—which was his own fault. He should have suspected trouble the instant she stopped plaguing him about Helena.