Captives of the Night (25 page)

Avory took it. "That does sound pleasanter than — Well,
yes
," he said flushing.
"How very good of you to offer."

The following night, Ismal was semirecumbent upon the studio sofa, watching Leila Beaumont through half-dosed eyes. She was painting, and he knew he wasn't the subject. She was challenging her skill and torturing her vision with a disorderly array of glassware. Or had been, until about an hour after his arrival. At present, she appeared to be working up to a fit of temper.

"You
made
David stay last night?" she demanded. "You made him spend the night at your house — when he was so agitated? Hadn't you got enough out of him?"

"It is your fault," he said. "You are the one who makes me feel sorry for him."

"Sorry?" she echoed. "
Sorry
?"

"He was unhappy. You would think me hardhearted if I let him return to his lonely townhouse to grieve over Lettice Woodleigh, and all his terrible sins. One of which, I remind you, may well be murder. Which means he may have poisoned my coffee or cut my throat. Yet you do not say, 'Esmond, you are very brave.' Instead it is 'Esmond, you are a villain.' "

"Esmond," she said, "you are exceedingly provoking."

The faintest of smiles — not discernible at this distance — was the only indication that he'd noticed: not "monsieur," but "Esmond," she'd said. At last.

"You are vexed because you knew nothing of Lord Avory's
tendre
for Lettice Woodleigh," he said. "You are vexed because he confided this to me, not you. But you have not spent half your waking hours in his company. You knew something troubled him, but you had no opportunity to collect dues. Also, you are not so devious and manipulative as I."

She snatched up a rag and vigorously wiped the brush handle. "Very well, I am vexed," she said. "I cannot understand why Fiona never even hinted of the matter to me — of David's interest in her sister, of her own dislike of him, purely because he was Francis' friend. I can't believe that of her."

"She never told you why her sister was sent to Dorset?" he asked.

"I didn't know Lettice was
sent
. I assumed she wished to visit."

"With a widowed aunt, many miles away from her family and friends, at Christmastime?"

"I really didn't give it much thought."

"It is interesting that so much occurred during this time," he said meditatively. "The Sherburnes' marital difficulties, Miss Woodleigh's banishment to Dorset, your husband becoming persona non grata to Sherburne and his followers." He paused briefly. "Your decision to stop painting portraits."

"That last is obvious enough, I should think," she said. "Self-preservation. When matters reached the point where Francis' enemies started taking out their frustrations on me, I made a strategic retreat."

"Indeed, matters did reach a point," he said. "Some kind of crisis, it would seem."

She took up another brush and started cleaning the daylights out of that.

"What do you think?" he asked.

Her brow knit. "I think it was a crisis," she said. "When Sherburne wrecked the painting, I knew that Francis had crossed some dangerous line. There's a ode about these things. Married ladies may indulge in discreet affairs — but
after
they've produced at least one heir to secure the line. Lady Sherburne hadn't done so yet. According to the rules, the gentlemen must consider her out of bounds. To toss that boundary is bad enough. To cross it with the wife of a highly influential friend sounds like self-destruction."

She began scraping her palette clean. Ismal vaited, curious whether she'd make more conections.

After a minute, she spoke again. "Ifs possible hat Fiona sent Lettice to Dorset to keep her out of harm's way. Francis did bear Fiona a grudge. The day he died, he ordered me to stay away from ler."

"What reason did he give?"

"Don't act stupid," she said. "He thought she vas trying to forward an affair between you and ne. Which she was. Which you know perfectly well."

"Indeed, I am exceedingly fond of her."

"She's been trying to get me to have an affair or years," she said crossly. "Just to upset Francis. But you were the only one who did upset him. Naturally, she was delighted."

"And I was delighted to accommodate her," he aid.

"Esmond."

"Madame."

"Don't be tiresome. I'm trying to
think
." She flung he palette down, and began to pace before the heavily draped windows. .

Watching her pace was far more interesting than watching Avory, Ismal reflected. To and fro she swept, skirts rustling, hairpins scattering.

"Fiona does tend to shield those she cares about," she said after a few tumultuous turns. "Including me. She never mentioned her suspicions about Francis and Lady Sherburne until a fortnight ago. Until then, I didn't know Sherburne had actually snubbed Francis publicly. But now that I think of it, she was constantly pressing me to go away to this house party or that — wherever Francis wouldn't be — and nagging me to leave him and live with her instead. At the time, I simply put it down to her dislike of him. But now it seems more likely she was worried about my living with a man who was, apparently, becoming more irrational and dangerous by the day."

"From all I have heard, this seems to have been the case," Ismal said.

"Then it makes sense she'd send Lettice away," she said. "Fiona wouldn't want her within fifty miles of Francis."

"You said he bore a grudge against Lady Carroll. You think she feared he would try to hurt her through her sister?"

"That’s about the only way he
could
hurt Fiona."

"Then you think Miss Woodleigh's exile had nothing to do with Lord Avory's interest in her?"

She mulled over the question, pacing again. "Damn. I don't know. Fiona's fiercely protective of Lettice. And David did stick with Francis, after all the others had turned their backs, evidently. Even I have to wonder what was wrong with David. If he truly wished to wed Lettice, you'd think he'd go out of his way to earn her family's approval: drop undesirable companions, change his ways — offer some evidence of reforming, in other words."

"He seems to view his situation as hopeless," Ismal said. "Apparently, he has believed this for some time. Certainly, whatever troubles him is so distressing that he will not confide it even to me."

"But you must have some theory," she said. "Some inkling what the terrible sin might be."

"Murder is one possibility."

She stopped short and threw him an exasperated look. "Murder wouldn't have been troubling David back in early December. Unless you think he's been going about killing people for months."

"That is possible. He may be insane." Ismal arranged the pillows more comfortably under his head, and sank back. "Or maybe it is a sexual matter," he murmured.

There was a long, pulsing silence.

Then she plunked herself upon a stool and took up her sketchbook and pencil.

"What do you think?" he asked.

"If David can't bring himself to speak of that sort of thing even to you, it must be truly appalling," she said caustically. "And if
you
can't deduce what it is, it's obviously far beyond the bounds of my paltry expertise."

"Sometimes a man will confide to a woman what he would not to another man."

"I assure you, David and I were never on terms even approaching that degree of intimacy."

"Perhaps he confided in a mistress, then? Perhaps you know the names of them?"

"None. Not a one. Never heard a word about it."

"Nor I," he said. "Not even in Paris. Strange."

"Not strange at all," she said. "Some men are very discreet."

Not
that
discreet, Ismal thought, closing his eyes. Avory had gone to Helena Martin's after all. Half the Beau Monde's male population had been there, along with London's most famous courtesans. It was hardly the place to seek a
discreet
liaison, for these were women who sought the limelight. They were the social leaders of the demimonde.

It was far more likely that Avory attended such events to keep up appearances. But to conceal what?

"You aren't going to sleep, are you?" his hostess tartly inquired.

"I am thinking," he said. "You and Lord Avory pace. I lie quietly."

"Yes. Well.
Do
make yourself perfectly at home, monsieur."

"This sofa is very comfortable. You keep it here for models?"

"I haven't done a life study since I came to London. Can't have naked people lying about. It disconcerts the servants."

"For your own rest, then."

"For reading," she said. "Sometimes I do read."

"Yes, this is a good place to read and to think," he said. "Comfortable. Close to the fire. You have arranged your studio well. One area for working, by the windows, where you have the best light. And one area for relaxation."

"I'm so relieved you approve."

"Indeed, it is an intriguing topic — the way you arrange your life — but I should be thinking of the inquiry. You are distracting me," he chided gently.

There was a small flurry at the other end of the studio, then silence, but for the whisper of pencil upon paper. Though the room became quiet, it was not tranquil. The atmosphere continued to pulse for a while, like an unquiet sea, until at last she became absorbed in her work.

Ismal tried to absorb himself in his own, in puzzling out the riddle of Lord Avory. He was not doing very well. He would concentrate better at home, he knew.

But he didn't want to concentrate better. Here, he was surrounded by her, by what she was: the rows of art books, the clutter of artistic materials, their distinctive odors mixed with the occasional whiff of smoke from the fire, and now and again, the teasing hint of her own scent, carried by the mischievous draught.

Here, Ismal could listen to — and feel — her working, making her magic with such humble implements: pencil, brush, paint, canvas, paper. He possessed many gifts, but this had been denied him. Her talent intrigued and excited him — the mind, the hands… those beautiful, restless hands.

They were working now, making their mysterious artist's love to pencil and paper.

He wondered if he'd become her subject again. He hoped so. He wanted her to attend only to him, and fix on him… and come to him. He wanted her to come and caress him with the honey of her eyes… and with her passionate artist's hands… and bring her mouth to his as she had done the other night.

She'd done so against her will, because it could not withstand his. This time, however, Ismal knew he must work harder. This time, she must believe it was all her own doing. And so, once more he concentrated his will upon her, but with more dangerous cunning, for he let his breathing become steady and even, as in sleep.

Leila glanced at the clock. He had lain there more than an hour without moving a muscle. He must be asleep. She looked down at the sketch she'd made.

She drew what she saw, and this was a body in repose, a face of almost childlike innocence. So the adult countenance often appeared, in sleep.

It was past two o'clock in the morning. She had to wake him. And send him home.

She shouldn't have to. He had no business falling asleep on her sofa. If he wanted to think — or sleep — he should do it in his own house. Really, his audacity was beyond anything.
He
was beyond anything.