Captives of the Night (40 page)

"Jason Brentmor left Constantinople three months ago," Nick said. "He's on his way home. She thought you'd want to know." He left, slamming the door behind him.

Leila was acutely conscious of the fine thread of moisture stealing down between her breasts. Fortunately, several layers of clothing concealed this fact from nearby onlookers.

At Lady Seales' soiree at present, only two onlookers stood nearby, discussing the political situation in France. One was Andrew Herriard, the picture of quiet gentlemanly elegance as he hovered protectively at her shoulder. The other, unquietly stunning in a midnight blue coat and blinding white linen, was the cause of Andrew's reversion to guardian role: the so-called Comte d'Esmond.

Her former guardian's behavior was making Leila wonder whether the spurious count was also Andrew's reason for returning to London two weeks ahead of schedule. Earlier in the day, when he'd called, Andrew had in his mild way given her to understand that he was concerned. Oh, he had approved of Gaspard and Eloise. After all, they were quiet, well-mannered, and obviously diligent — as the terrifyingly clean house practically screamed. Even in her studio, not a trace of the previous night's profligacy remained — no forgotten bit of clothing, no spilled cognac, not a strand of hair clinging to carpet or sofa pillows, not a speck of dust, a piece of lint. Just as though nothing had happened.

Only it had, and Leila had been burningly conscious of the fact throughout her previous conversation with Andrew. Her stomach had knotted with guilt, just as it had when she was a girl, listening to one of his gentle lectures. He hadn't precisely lectured today. But even while applauding her choice of staff, he had managed to drop more than one subtle hint about her finding a live-in companion. She had met those mild hints with evasive incomprehension. Luckily for her, he hadn't pressed.

Today, evasion, she thought. Tomorrow, black falsehoods, no doubt. She had failed Andrew and fallen, but she was wicked at heart and didn't care. All she cared about — like any hardened sinner — was not getting caught. She was Jonas Bridgeburton's daughter, truly.

Ismal —
Esmond
, she reminded herself — was not helping. He remained talking to Andrew as though the man were his dearest friend. He was cultivating Andrew, which the latter, being nobody's fool, must surely comprehend. Meanwhile, Leila sweated with the strain of driving away simmering recollections of the previous night.

"King Charles could do with a better advisor," Andrew was saying.

"I agree. It is not wise to antagonize the bourgeoisie. It was they who bore the costs of the Law of Indemnity. Then he alienated them further with the Law of Sacrilege. Then he dissolved the national guard. And to appoint Martignac as minister was most incautious." Esmond shook his head. "The world has changed. Even the King of France cannot turn back time to the old days. He cannot restore the
ancien regime
."

"Still, one can't altogether blame the French nobility for wanting to be restored," Andrew said. "Your family, for instance, lost a great deal. The Delavennes were believed decimated during the Terror, I understand."

Sympathetically as he'd uttered the words, Leila perceived the probe. Beyond doubt, Esmond did, too.

"To all intents and purposes, they were wiped out," he answered smoothly. "It is as though the Delavenne family was a great tree struck by lightning. Only one obscure shoot survived — like one of the sucker shoots the wise arborist normally prunes and discards. I am certain that if the king had not been so desperate to rebuild the ranks of the nobility, I should have remained in deserved obscurity."

"You couldn't have believed you deserved obscurity," said Andrew. "You did assume the title."

"I had little choice, monsieur. More than one monarch told me in no uncertain terms that it was my duty to be the Comte d'Esmond."

He was, truly, a marvelous liar, Leila reflected. Or rather, a genius at arranging truth to suit his purposes. He had not, for instance, claimed to
be
that "sucker shoot" of the Delavenne tree, merely arranged his sentences to make it seem so.

Aloud she said, "Naturally, you could not disregard Royal commands."

He sighed. "Perhaps I am a great coward, but in truth, Tsar Nicholas in particular is exceedingly difficult to disregard. As both Wellington and the Sultan have discovered."

Very neat, the way he shifted the subject, Leila silently observed.

"Certainly the tsar has placed England between the rock and the hard place," said Andrew. "Because of the atrocities against the Greeks, the British public wants an end to Turkish power. The politicians, on the other hand, aren't eager to see Russia controlling access to eastern ports. If one is coldly practical, one must prefer the weaker power in control," he explained to Leila.

"Oh, I understand," she said. "Lady Brentmor has explained the Turkish business to me. Her son, Jason, has been in Constantinople this last year, playing the thankless role of go-between — and greatly discouraged, according to his last letter, she says. According to her, the problem boils down to man's innate inability to keep his hands off what his intellect is unequipped to manage."

"I daresay she has the proper solution," said Esmond.

Leila shook her head. "Her Ladyship says there is no hope of solving anything so long as a man is involved."

Andrew smiled. "Her Ladyship is known to entertain an exceedingly low opinion of our gender."

"But she is correct," Esmond said. "Men are the inferior sex. Adam was made first, and the first effort is always the simpler and cruder one,
non
? With the second, one refines." His blue glance flickered ever so briefly to Leila — one sizzling instant's reminder — then back, all limpid innocence, to Andrew.

"An intriguing theory," said Andrew. "I collect you can account for the serpent in the Garden, then?"

"But of course. Temptation. To make life interesting,
n'est-ce pas’"

"Of course, we must keep in mind that the story of Creation was written down by
men
," Leila put in.

"That sounds like more of Lady Brentmor," Andrew said. "A most extraordinary woman. But then, the entire family is. Fascinating character studies, Leila."

"As painting subjects, you mean."

"Yes — if you can get any of them to sit still long enough. The Brentmors, that is. Edenmont is another matter. He's always struck me as the serene island in the midst of a seething sea. Are you acquainted with him, monsieur?"

"We have met." Esmond's gaze strayed past Andrew. "Ah, Lady Brentmor comes — to scold us, no doubt, for monopolizing her charge."

Leila had an instant to wonder why the lines at Esmond's eyes had tightened. Then the dowager was upon them.

She cast a baleful glance over the trio. "I was beginning to wonder if you was putting down roots."

"Actually, we were having a fascinating discussion about islands," Leila said smoothly. "Andrew views Lord Edenmont as a serene one."

"He's lazy enough, if that’s what you mean."

"With all due respect, my lady," said Andrew, "he is most diligent in his Parliamentary duties. I daresay we shall see him back in London soon. I realize Lady Edenmont may not be up to the Season's exertions at present, but London is within reasonable riding distance for His Lordship."

"Far as I can see, it won't be any time soon. Mebbe not this century," the dowager grumbled, half to herself.

The lines at Esmond's eyes grew tauter. "Sometimes, the duties to the estate and family must come first. That is our loss. I am sure they will be much missed. I hope you will convey my good wishes, my lady.
Maintenant, I
must excuse myself. I shall be late for an engagement."

He took Leila's hand and barely touched his lips to her knuckles. An erratic current skittered through her nerve endings. "
Enchante, madame
," he murmured. With a courtly bow for Lady Brentmor and a friendly nod to Andrew, he walked away.

"To be sure, he's a pretty enough rascal," the dowager said, watching him go. "You could do worse, Leila."

Leila hastily collected her composure and manufactured an indulgent smile. "Lady Brentmor can be shocking at times," she told Andrew. "She provides a detailed assessment of every man who looks my way."

"Don't see what's so shocking about it. Beaumont's dead. You ain't, as Esmond can see plain enough. And the man wouldn't back off for all Herriard's clucking over you like a hen with a new-hatched chick. Am I right or ain't I, Herriard?" the dowager demanded.

Andrew colored a bit, but managed a smile. "I had hoped I wasn't so obvious as that."

"Well, you was, and you ought to know better. People see
you
making such a fuss, they're bound to talk."

Leila wished she knew what the old lady was about. "Andrew was not fussing," she said. "He and the count were discussing politics, and it was most interesting."

He patted her shoulder. "No, my dear, Lady Brentmor has the right of it. I
was
fussing and it was very bad of me. Your position is delicate enough — "

"It ain't," the dowager declared. "If mine ain't, hers ain't."

"I do beg your pardon," Andrew said. "I did not mean to insult you, my lady. It's just that Leila is — well, she was my ward, once, and old habits are hard to break."

In other words, he doubted her ability to resist Esmond — the personification of Temptation. But it was too late for Andrew to help her. She didn't want to be protected from herself or Esmond and, in any case, Andrew's hovering about her would prove inconvenient to the inquiry. That must be what Lady Brentmor had decided. One could only hope she'd chosen the right tactics. Nonetheless, it was very difficult for Leila to stifle a nagging sense of guilt.

"It's your generous habit to be kind," she told Andrew. "You're both very kind to me. I'm exceedingly fortunate in my friends."

"You'd be more fortunate if they'd keep to what they know best," the dowager retorted. "See here, Herriard. This is just the sort of thing where a man's bound to do harm for all he means to do good. You leave her beaux to me, my lad, and you tend to her business affairs."

"I beg you will not give Andrew the notion that I'm collecting beaux, Lady Brentmor."

"I don't need to give him notions. He gets 'em all by himself." The dowager fastened her shrewd gaze upon Andrew. "I collect you checked on him in Paris."

"In light of certain rumors, I believed it my duty," he said stiffly.

"Oh, Andrew — "

"Well, it was, wasn't it?" said the dowager. "To make sure Esmond wasn't out at pocket or had a wife tucked away somewhere."

Leila stiffened. "I suppose it's no use reminding either of you that you're putting the cart before the horse — and I've been widowed only two months — "

"My dear, no one is accusing you of behaving improperly," Andrew said soothingly. "It's simply that the count showed a marked interest in you in Paris, and he did admit — to a jury, no less — that he'd sought you out — and he does linger in London. While I cannot be certain he remains solely on your account, I felt it was best to err on the side of caution. I do regret, however, that this night I behaved, apparently, with far less discretion than Esmond. Lady Brentmor was correct to set me down, and I am much obliged." He quirked a smile at the dowager. "If a trifle abashed."

Her ladyship nodded. "There, I knew you was a reasonable fellow, Herriard. And you may be sure that when it comes to the marriage settlements, I'll leave the field to you." She and Andrew exchanged conspiratorial smiles.

Swallowing an oath, Leila looked from one to the other in disbelief. "You are shocking, both of you," she said.

They laughed at her.

Ismal was waiting at the top of the stairs when Leila returned. She scowled up at him when she reached the landing.