There was, unfortunately, a good deal he should have done these last few days and hadn't. Leaving Avory's servants to Nick, he'd turned his attention to Sherburne—who had, with a few jocular remarks, succeeded in riveting Ismal's mind elsewhere.
Thanks to Herriard's small fit of overprotectiveness at the soiree, most of Society seemed to be growing fiendishly curious about the Comte d'Esmond's intentions regarding Mrs. Beaumont. Being one of the Beau Monde's leaders, Sherburne had appointed himself spokesman.
Now that Mrs. Beaumont was out and about again, Sherburne had said a few nights ago, it was hoped she wouldn't remain a widow much longer. Still, it would be a great pity if London lost her altogether—to Paris, for instance, he'd added with a knowing smile.
That and a few more equally unsubtle comments had succeeded in unsettling Ismal's mind, if not his outward composure. It became very clear then that—despite Mrs. Beaumont's being widowed little more than two months and the Comte d'Esmond's being a foreigner with a reputation as a ladykiller—they were expected to wed. Soon.
If they did not—if, in fact, Ismal didn't soon start giving clear signals of honorable intentions, the current friendly rumors would turn hostile, and Leila would pay with her reputation.
The trouble was, he could not hurry her into marriage, whatever Society thought. Ismal could not stand before a man of God and utter solemn vows while his soul was stained with her unhappiness. To bind Leila to him while she remained in ignorance of the past was dishonorable. Cowardly. He needed time to prove himself, time to prepare her for the confession he should have made weeks ago.
Unfortunately, he might have already deprived himself of time. They had been lovers for a week. He had not once taken precautions, and she hadn't suggested any. She probably assumed she was barren because she hadn't borne Beaumont a child.
Ismal knew better than to make such assumptions. He knew it would be just like Fate to give the screws another twist, in the form of a babe. Then what would he do? Confess?—when it was already too late? Leave her to choose between marrying her nemesis and bearing a bastard?
He dragged his hand through his hair. "Imbecile," he muttered. "Coward. Pig."
At that moment, he noticed movement outside. He sank back against the seat. The door swung open. An instant later, Leila stepped in—then froze.
"Madame?" came Eloise's voice from behind her.
Ismal pulled Leila onto the seat beside him, told Eloise to find Nick, gave the driver a few brisk commands, and yanked the door shut. The carriage promptly jolted into motion.
"It's starting to rain," Leila said. "You will not leave her in the street." She reached for the rope, but Ismal grabbed her hand.
"Nick is watching the house from a carriage near the corner," he said. "Eloise will not melt before she reaches him. It is you I should leave in the street—and tell the driver to trample you down. I am not pleased with you, Leila."
"The feeling's mutual," she said. "In case you haven't noticed, it's broad day. What if someone sees us?"
"What difference does it make who sees us if one of us ends up dead by morning?"
As though to punctuate his prediction of doom, thunder crashed.
"There is no need to be theatrical," she said, lifting her chin. "If someone attempts murder in the dead of night, it's most likely he—or she—will have to contend with us both. Plus Gaspard and Eloise. And even though you have been utterly unreasonable—and just threatened to have me trampled—I shall do my utmost to protect you." She patted his arm. "Come, don't be cross. I think I've found something."
"You have put my stomach in knots." He frowned into her beautiful face. "You make me frantic with worry, Leila. You said you would deal with Lady Carroll. Since she is your friend, one would think you would prefer to settle that first. Instead—"
"Instead I trusted woman's intuition," she said. "Lady Brentmor was the one who called our attention to Helena, and she doesn't make idle suggestions. My instincts don't usually make idle suggestions, either. Ever since I studied that list of yours, I've had a feeling."
"A feeling." He sighed.
"A very strong one," she said. "That Helena's the key. It was the same kind of feeling I had about that scar of yours. That it connected to something important."
He knew better than to question her instincts. "The tigress has caught the scent, I perceive." He leaned back against the squabs. "I was ten times a fool to think I could stop you from hunting. Tell me, then."
She told him about her ploy with her earring. It was not the most brilliant strategy, but she had used the opportunity well. She hadn't missed the smallest change in Helena's face, posture, gestures. By Allah, she'd even taken note of the woman's temperature. And Leila had analyzed these minutiae just as Ismal would have done, and reached the same conclusions.
Beyond doubt, Helena had been deeply disturbed by the hint that she'd been with Beaumont. Yet he was dead, and all the world knew his wife had no illusions about his fidelity. If Helena was worried, it must be because she'd committed a greater crime than prostitution.
"I knew I'd struck a nerve with that business I made up about its being the last time I noticed perfume," Leila was saying. "But her reaction made me remember something connected. On New Year's Eve, I spent the night with Fiona at her brother Philip's house. I came home to the usual disorder, the usual signs that Francis had entertained at home."
She took Ismal's hand and squeezed it. "Now isn't the timing interesting?" she said. "If Helena was with him that night, she had a perfect opportunity to scout the house. Then, the next time I was away—not two weeks later—she could make a very quick, neat job of whatever she had to do: find and steal the letters for Langford, and maybe poison Francis' laudanum for her own satisfaction."
"Yes, Madame, it is very interesting." Ismal closed his eyes. "If your theory is correct, you have just given Helena Martin an excellent reason to kill you. She has only to report your visit to Langford, and there will be two people wishing to kill you. Perhaps I shall kill you and spare them the trouble—and myself a painful period of suspense."
"I'm counting on her reporting my visit to Langford," she said. "If all goes as I hope, I expect he'll call on me soon. Then, I think, we'll get some clues, if not answers."
He cocked one eye open. She was watching him with ill-concealed excitement. "I am listening," he said.
"Lady Brentmor told me this morning that the Langfords received a note from Dorset," she said. "David and Lettice are betrothed. Langford is tickled to death. Recollect, Lettice's father was his dearest friend. Also, thanks to Lady Brentmor and Fiona, the Duke of Langford thinks he owes it all to me."
Ismal had both eyes open now. "It is true. You instigated everything, ordered everyone about."
"The point is, my alleged good deed may just about balance my poking my nose into certain delicate matters," she said. "Langford won't be so quick to crush me. When he calls, he'll probably just try to pick my brains. And I'll let him, because I've got a lovely explanation."
"But of course."
"It is lovely," she said. "I shall tell him I found out Francis had some damaging documents, which I fear have fallen into the wrong hands."
"Helena's, for instance."
She nodded. "I shall ask for Langford's help. And he'll believe me, because half of London has this notion I've been doing good deeds. Even Helena had heard about David and Sherburne. She claims people are saying I was patching up Francis' damage. So this will fit the pattern. Don't you see? This is the perfect time, while Langford's prepared to think kindly of me."
Ismal didn't answer. Her words were beginning to take hold in his mind. Timing. Patterns. And inconsistencies.
Both Avory and his father had paid blackmail money in December. The garter episode had occurred early in the same month. Sherburne had evidently known about the garters, yet he'd said nothing to Avory. Shortly thereafter, Beaumont had debauched Lady Sherburne, and all the husband had done was destroy a portrait.
/> Sherburne and Avory were definite problems. Neither man possessed the character for weeks of cool, patient plotting—especially for a crime so underhand as poisoning. The timing and crime might fit Lady Carroll's character, but she was no Helena Martin. How could she—without help—have entered, unnoticed, an empty, locked house? And if it weren't empty, would she have been brazen enough to enter while Francis Beaumont was there alone? Was it possible she had swallowed her revulsion and gone to bed with him just for a chance to poison his laudanum? Would she have left so much to chance?
And suppose she had. What, then, of the missing letters? Admittedly, there may have been no more letters after the ones Beaumont sold to Avory and his father. But all Ismal's instincts told him there had been more, that it was as Leila had surmised: Helena had been at the house twice because Langford had hired her to steal.
It was very doubtful he had hired her to kill as well. It was one thing to take back his son's letters, which rightfully belonged to the family. Even the courts must agree, though the law might nitpick about the methods employed. But to conspire murder with a prostitute who, if caught, would assuredly incriminate him was foolish beyond permission.
Nor could Ismal believe Helena would be so reckless as to commit the greater crime while employed by Langford to commit the lesser, and relatively safe one. Yet if she'd committed only the one, safe crime, why had she been so worried?
"Ismal." Madame shook his arm. "We're home. If you want to talk about this, I can cancel my engagement for tonight. It's just a gathering of Lady Brentmor's gossipy friends. They won't miss me."
He studied her animated countenance. She was very pleased with herself. Perhaps she was entitled. He knew to his own cost that her hunter instincts were excellent. Perhaps she was closing in on her quarry. Whatever happened, he had better be in on the kill.
"I am not sure I wish to speak to you," he said. "You have been very disobedient."
"I'll make it up to you." She tugged at his neckcloth, bringing his face close to hers. "We can have dinner together. I'll tell Eloise to make your favorites. And then..." She lightly brushed her lips against his. "You can practice your favorite perversions on me."
"Aye, you think you can wrap me about your finger," he said. "With food and lovemaking. As though I were an animal. As though I had no higher, spiritual needs." He wrapped his arms about her. "You are not altogether correct. But close enough. I shall come after nightfall."
Taking her into his arms was a fatal error. Once he held her, it was very difficult to let go. It was very difficult not to bring his mouth to hers again. Then it was impossible to make do with one quick, chaste kiss.
He lingered. The kiss deepened. The warmth swirled through him, and the sweetness. He'd just brought his hands to her cloak fastenings when the carriage door swung open. Wet wind gusted in, and a large umbrella appeared at the door.
"If you don't hurry, Leila," called a feminine voice, "this curst gale will blow me to kingdom come."
Ismal jerked his hands away from the cloak, just as Lady Carroll poked her head through the door.
In the midst of the storm, as in the eye of a hurricane, there was a short, sharp silence.
"My lady," Ismal said politely. "What a delightful surprise."
"Monsieur," said Lady Carroll, green eyes gleaming. "My sentiments exactly."
Some hours later, Leila sat at the dinner table, watching Ismal crack nuts while she tried to formulate a tactful response to the issue he'd just raised with her. This would have been difficult in any case. It was rendered doubly so by the complication he'd added: in the course of escorting Fiona home, he'd let her know just where he'd met up with Leila. He had also given Fiona the same explanation for Leila's being at Helena Martin's that Leila had planned to give Langford.
She decided to deal with the complication first and hope he'd forget the other issue...for about a year.
"It never occurred to me to explain our encounter that way," Leila said carefully. "That was clever of you. And as usual, it was at least partly true. I certainly didn't plan to meet you there."
He dropped a nutmeat onto her plate. "That is not why I told her. You had spoken of connections and timing. I think there are more connections than we have perceived. I believe this may be why we have fixed on these five people, of all the hundreds who might wish to kill your husband. Our instincts tell us something, but we do not yet understand what it is."
He glanced down at her plate. She shook her head. "I've had enough. I want to hear about our instincts."
"Today you told me you had a feeling Helena Martin was the key," he said. "That gave me some ideas. So I tried your technique with Lady Carroll. I mentioned Helena as a test and watched the reaction. She is not so hardened a character as Helena. Her Ladyship was most disturbed, then quickly tried to cover her discomposure by putting me on the defensive. She knows very well there is no preventing your doing whatever you set your obstinate mind to. Yet she insisted to me that you would not be getting yourself into scrapes if I were not so lackadaisical about courting you."
So much for hoping he'd forget about that issue.
"She was talking utter rot," Leila said. "One doesn't even consider courting a widow until she's out of full mourning."
He cracked another nut and popped the meat into his mouth.
"A year," she explained. "Fiona knows that perfectly well."
"A year," he said. "That is a very long time."
"I think it's one of the few sensible rules," she said, squirming inwardly. "It would be very easy for a woman to make a great mistake when her mind is disordered by grief."
After a moment's sober consideration, he nodded. "Even if she is not grief-stricken, she might be lonely, and so, vulnerable. It would be unfair to exploit her feelings during this time. There is the matter of freedom to consider as well. A widow is permitted more latitude than a maiden, and she does not answer to a husband. It does not seem unreasonable to grant a woman at least twelve months of such freedom."
"All of which Fiona ought to understand," Leila said, frowning down at her plate. "She's certainly been in no hurry to give up her freedom. She's had six years."
"I agree she was unreasonable. But she was alarmed, as I said. Still, I am glad we have discussed this. If she presses the matter, I shall explain that you and I have discussed it, and I shall repeat what you have told me. So I will inform everyone who questions me about my intentions."
She looked up, her heart thudding. "Everyone? Who else would—"
"Better ask who else has already questioned me. In addition to Nick, Eloise, and Gaspard, there is Sherburne—who speaks for multitudes, apparently. Next it will be Langford, I think." He rose. "Unless I miss my guess, he will have heard from two women by tomorrow: Helena Martin and Lady Carroll."
She stared dumbly at him, unable to collect her thoughts. They darted from Sherburne to Fiona, from Intentions to Connections.
"It is complicated," he said as he drew her up from the chair. "But we can sort it out more comfortably upstairs. Tonight we shall have plenty of time for conversation." He smiled. "Also, I believe there was some mention earlier of perversions.
Chapter 16
While he trailed Leila up the stairs, Ismal was pondering perversions. He wondered whether Beaumont had deliberately denied his wife pleasure or had simply been incapable of satisfying her. Whatever the man's motives, it was clear by now that Beaumont had restricted his marital intimacies to a few basic acts and satisfied his less prosaic tastes elsewhere.
Ismal wondered what service, for instance, Helena Martin had been obliged to provide Beaumont. The images conjured up drew his gaze to the master bedroom door. He paused, his hand on the banister.
"Ismal?"
He frowned. "There are no secret compartments in this house," he said, moving to the door. "No false drawers or hiding places in the furnishings. Quentin's men are very thorough and know what to look for. I also looked." He opened the door and entered the dark room. "But t
he papers must have been in the house, and that must have been why Helena came. Assuredly she did not need your husband as a customer. She had richer and more attractive ones with simpler tastes. But she would not have come only to kill him, for she could have arranged to do this elsewhere, without having to bed him."
While he talked, he found a candle and lit it.
"Shall I fetch a lamp?" Leila's voice came from the doorway.
"No, no. She would not have had more light than this. Less, perhaps. I—" He looked round and gave her an abashed smile. "Forgive me."
"That's all right. You've got an idea." Ismal recognized her "investigative" voice, crisp and businesslike.
"A riddle," he said. "How and where did she find the letters, if there were letters?"
"You want to see with her eyes, is that it?" She advanced into the room. "I can tell you that Francis generally conducted our marital relations in near darkness. He may have been different with others, but I doubt it. He was subject to headaches."
He nodded. 'That is what I thought. Since he drank and used opiates to excess, his eyes would be sensitive."
"What else were you thinking?"
"That your giving Helena the earring did not trouble her nearly so much as the mention of your keen sense of smell." He sat on the edge of the bed. "You said you noticed the usual disorder when you returned on New Year's Day. Did you come into this room?"
"Yes. Francis was shouting for Mrs. Dempton and storming about. I had to remind him she'd taken the holiday."
Ismal patted the mattress. Obediently, she sat beside him.
"Close your eyes," he said. "Make a picture in your mind. What did you observe?"
She told him where various garments had been strewn. She described the disorder of the dressing table...the drawers of the wardrobe, which had been partly open…resh wine stains on the rug...his neckcloth, tied to the bedpost…
Her eyes flew open. "And the curtain there was torn—pulled right off the rod." She got up and moved to the foot of the bed. Drawing the hanging out, she showed the place where Mrs. Dempton had mended it. "A large tear," she said. "You'd have to yank hard to do that."
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