Captives of the Night (51 page)

"That’s what I believed," she said.

His shoulders sagged. "I just wanted to make you strong. You were so naive. You hadn't an inkling of your effect on men. I was afraid Beaumont would neglect you, leaving you prey to others like him. I wanted to put you on your guard, that was all — so that no one else would use and hurt you and destroy your self-respect. The last thing I would have wanted was to destroy it myself. I think the world of you, Leila. Always have."

As she looked up into Andrew's pale, tautly composed countenance, her conscience urged her to put herself in his place — a thirty-two-year-old bachelor confronting a despoiled adolescent girl — and ask whether she could have dealt with it any better than he had.

And looking into her own heart, she had to admit that she
had
been abominably naive, even in adulthood — about men, about love, about normal human desire, as Ismal had taught her. Perhaps she would have soon put Andrew's long-ago lecture into more rational perspective if Francis hadn't made her believe something was wrong with her. Just as he'd made David believe something was irreparably wrong with
him
.

"I believe you," she said gently. "I should have realized. It’s not your nature to be cruel or manipulative. That was Francis' talent. Just because you had the misfortune to be tangled with him doesn't mean you were like him."

"I didn't know what he was like," he said. "If I had… well, there's no point in 'if onlys.' I didn't know. Not a fraction."

She brushed a twig from the tombstone. "I didn't realize more than a fraction either, until very recently."

"With Esmond's help, apparently." He glanced back. "There he is, like some damned nemesis. And Quentin with him." With a weary shrug, he turned back to her. "I had a feeling something was wrong when I heard Lady Brentmor had taken you up. I knew that her son, Jason, had been in Venice ten years ago, on your father's trail. Then there was Esmond, in Paris a year ago. And within a month, it appears, Beaumont’s disgusting empire fell to pieces. I suppose Esmond saw to that."

"Yes."

"Yes, of course, for there he was again and again. In the house right after Beaumont died. And at the inquest, testifying. And still in London, week after week. All the same, I tried to believe these were coincidences. Just as I convinced myself all he wanted was an affair with you. I waited, telling myself he'd give up sooner or later, because you'd never consent."

"He doesn't give up," she said.

Andrew smiled bleakly. "I misjudged him. Wishful thinking, perhaps. I thought, in time, you'd turn to me, and we would wed — as we should have done ten years ago, in Paris. I wanted to take care of you. I wanted to make things right. I never meant you harm, Leila. You know that, else you wouldn't have come to me today."

She blinked back tears. She couldn't help grieving for him. He was a good man who'd had the misfortune to become tangled with the worst of villains. Her father. Francis.

"And you ought to know better than to tell me as much as you have," she said, her throat tight. "You know you needn't confess, even to me. You must be aware how little proof we have."

"It doesn't matter. You know the truth."

"That isn't evidence." They hadn't any. A bottle of prussic acid, which one might find in countless houses. A forged will, and no way to prove it was forged, because no sample of her father's handwriting existed. Esmond could explain how Andrew had gone to the house, poisoned the laudanum, and still managed to be on the Dover mail coach he was supposed to be on. But they hadn't found the coachman, and even when they did, he might not remember Andrew, especially after three months and countless passengers. Or if he did remember, he might not be willing to admit to taking up a passenger where he wasn't supposed to.

"Circumstantial evidence will do," he said. "And he's clever enough to put together a case, eventually. I'd rather not wait. I've never been hunted before. It's a horrible feeling. I don't want him hunting me. I'd rather get it over with." He cleared his throat. "You're not to worry, and your friends aren't to worry. I know how to hold my tongue. I'm a lawyer, recollect. The only public scandal will be my own."

"Oh, Andrew." Her eyes filled.

"I shouldn't have let Beaumont marry you," he said. "But I did and can't undo it. He's done enough damage. I shan't add to it." He smoothed his gloves and straightened his spine. "You'd best let them off their leashes, my dear. It’s growing late, and they'll be missing their tea."

Ismal stood at the window in Quentin's office while Mr. Herriard wrote his confession. When the solicitor was finished, he reviewed it twice, made a few minor corrections, then handed it to Quentin, who gave the pages but one quick glance before handing them to Ismal.

The circumstances of the crime were clearly described, from the moment Beaumont had accosted Herriard on the morning of 12 January. Beaumont had threatened to reveal the lawyer's part, ten years earlier, in a "criminal conspiracy involving weapons stolen from the British military." In exchange for silence, Herriard had agreed to take his former partner to the Continent and provide him with ten thousand pounds.

Just after six o'clock that evening, Herriard had arrived to collect Beaumont and found him in an advanced state of intoxication, raving that he would not leave England without his wife. Herriard dragged him upstairs and urged him to hurry with his packing. Beaumont only fell upon the bed, and continued drinking, while Herriard, concerned they'd miss the mail coach, began packing for him. Before he finished, Beaumont passed out.

Having already made up his mind to kill Beaumont at some point on the journey, Herriard altered his plans. While his victim slept, he dropped into the laudanum bottle a few grains of the prussic acid he'd brought with him, unpacked, and tidied the room. He then went downstairs, packed up the dinner Beaumont had scarcely touched, tidied up there and in the kitchen, and left by the back entrance — the same way he'd come.

Some blocks from the house he hailed a hackney and ordered the driver to take him post haste to the coaching inn in Piccadilly. They'd arrived seconds before the Dover mail coach was to depart. Fortunately, Herriard's place hadn't been taken. He ate Beaumont’s dinner en route.

His confession contained nothing about Leila's father, no hint of what Beaumont had told him about the five people who'd taken their carefully planned revenge, and no mention of
Vingt-Huit
. It dealt only with the murder, with means, motive, and opportunity. It was neatly and concisely explained, every "i" dotted, every "t" crossed. The confession was guaranteed to result in a speedy trial and prompt condemnation to the gallows.

"I am sorry, Monsieur Herriard, but we cannot hang you," said Ismal. "If you force us to go to trial, you will assuredly be condemned, and we shall be obliged to seek the Crown's mercy. Madame will insist upon a pardon, and I cannot get one without explaining the mitigating circumstances. Several people will be obliged to support my petition: Lord Quentin, the Duke of Langford, Lord Avory, Lord Sherburne, Lady Carroll — and Madame Beaumont, of course. All that we have tried to keep quiet will be revealed, along with all that Quentin and I had previously tried to suppress."

"That
Vingt-Huit
business, you mean," said Herriard. "But there is no need — "

"I worked very hard to keep Beaumont’s crimes from being known, you see, because the exposure would hurt his victims. I should have killed him, but I have an unconquerable aversion to assassination. If I had it to do over, I still would not kill him. Yet I would have managed matters differently. I fear I erred in letting him return to England. The consequences of that error fell upon you. For this reason, I feel some responsibility. If not for me, you would not have been placed in so distressing a predicament."

"My predicament was a consequence of what I did ten years ago," said Herriard.

"Madame believes you have made amends for that," Ismal said. 'For ten years, as all the world knows, you have served your clients conscientiously, often above and beyond duty. You care for them as though they were your children. Never, since Jonas Bridgeburton betrayed your trust, have you allowed any other to betray the trust of those in your charge. That, to me, seems very like amends."

"I wasn't looking for her pity," said Herriard. "I only wanted her to understand I wasn't like Beaumont, that I wasn't his partner in crime all these years."

"She understands. Her heart is generous, monsieur. And just. She said that because of you, she became as good as she was capable of being. She told me how your lectures, your care, your unwavering support made her strong. Because of you, she strove to achieve great things. And because of you, she had both the means and the courage to prevent her husband's making a victim of her."

Ismal came away from the window and held the confession out to Herriard. "I know it relieved your heart to write this, monsieur. I ask you, for her sake, to destroy it."

White-lipped, Herriard stared at the page. "You hunted me. You had a score of men there to take me up. Isn't this what you wanted?"

"We took you into custody as a precaution," said Quentin. "No telling what your state of mind was."

The lawyer met Ismal's gaze. "You thought I'd hurt her."

"She is dear to me," Ismal said. "I, too, prefer to err on the side of caution."

"Dear to you. I see." Herriard took the confession then and, his face rigidly composed, tore the sheets into neat halves. Then he halved them again, and once again. He laid the pieces on the desk.

"What am I to do now?" he asked. "I can't — you can't expect me to take up my life as it was."

"I believe Lord Quentin has some ideas," said Ismal. "He has dealt with such thorny problems before." He stepped away from the desk. "Now, gentlemen, if you will excuse me, I have some private matters to attend."

He found Leila in the studio trying to occupy her mind by occupying her hands. She was tacking canvas to a stretcher. She set the hammer down when he entered.

"Is it all right?" she asked.

"Did you not tell me to make it right?" he returned. "Do I not obey your smallest command? Am I not your slave?"

She threw herself into his arms. "You are a
wonderful
man," she said. "You are the most understanding, wise, clever, compassionate — "

"Slave," he said. "I am your slave. It is very, very sad."

"It isn't. You know it was the right thing to do. You knew just how Andrew felt. He'd paid for ten years, tried to make up for what he'd done, clear his conscience. Then to have Francis threaten to destroy everything he'd worked for and built — it wasn't
fair
. It would be criminal to hang him for what he did. It would be the most horrible kind of justice. A hideously cruel joke — another of Francis' cruel jokes."

"Do not upset yourself." He held her close, stroking her hair. "Quentin will find some way to make Herriard useful. He will make a new life, as I did, and cleanse his soul with disgusting work. Who knows? Perhaps the Almighty will show mercy to him as well and lead him to a brave and loving woman. Who will make him her slave."

"I shall pray for that," she said. "I never understood why he didn't wed. There were lots of women who would have jumped at the chance. But he said it today. One of them had to marry me. I suppose staying unwed was part of Andrew's 'amends' — so he could be there for me if anything happened to Francis."

"Now you have me, and no Herriard to fall back upon," he said. "You had better take very good care of me."

She drew back a bit. "I'm not very good at taking care of husbands. An artist is not the most attentive sort of wife."

"Fortunately, I do not require very much attention. I am well able to amuse myself." He glanced at the stretcher. "Perhaps I shall learn some new skills."

"You want to be a
painter
?"

"Nay. One in the family is enough. But you must show me all your secret arts and preparations, and I shall exert my mind to devise improvements. Also, I can cultivate clients. Perhaps, in time, you will receive Royal commissions. Now that I am retiring from Quentin's employment — "

"You're not serious." Her tawny eyes widened. "You'll be bored to distraction."