Captives of the Night (5 page)

She moved on a few paces, shaking her head. "You're a great vexation to me, David. You awaken my maternal instincts, and I've always prided myself on not having any."

"Call them 'fraternal,' then." Smiling, he rejoined her. "I'd much prefer it. Less wounding to one's manly pride, you know."

"That depends on your point of view," she said. "I've never seen Fiona, for instance, show any regard for her brothers' manly pride. She leads them all about by the nose — even Lord Norbury, the eldest — whereas their mother can do nothing with them." She shot David a reproving look. "Mine is more like the mama's case, obviously."

His smile slipped. "The Woodleighs are not an example, but the exception. Everyone knows Lady Carroll is the true head of the family."

"And you're too male to approve that state of affairs."

"Not at all." He gave a short laugh. "All I disapprove is your talking of the Woodleighs when you should be flirting with me. Here we are in a graveyard. What could be more morbidly romantic?"

He was one of the few men she would flirt with, because he was safe. Never once had she glimpsed the smallest hint of lust in that handsome young face.

"You ought to know by now that artists are the least romantic people in the world," she said. "You mustn't confuse the creators with the creations."

"I see. I must turn into a blob of paint — or better yet, a blank canvas. Then you might make anything of me you wish."

I dance with a beautiful woman who cannot distinguish a man from an easel.

She tensed, remembering: the low, insinuating voice, the force of collision, the shattering awareness of masculine strength… overpowering… the heat.

"Mrs. Beaumont?" came David's worried voice. "Are you unwell?"

She pushed the memory away. "No, no, of course not Merely cold. I hadn't realized how late it was. I had better go home."

Surrey, England, mid-January

Ismal paused in the doorway of Lord Norbury's crowded ballroom only for a moment. It was all he needed. He wanted but one swift glance to locate his prey. Leila Beaumont stood near the terrace doors.

She wore a rust-colored gown trimmed in midnight blue. Her gold-streaked hair was piled carelessly atop her head — and doubtless coming undone.

Ismal wondered if she still wore the same scent or had mixed a new one.

He wasn't sure which he would prefer. His mind was not settled about her, and this irritated him.

At least the repellent husband wasn't here. Beaumont was probably writhing in the arms of some overpainted, overperfumed trollop — or lost in opium dreams in some London sinkhole. According to recent reports, his tastes, along with his body and intellect, had rapidly deteriorated upon his removal to London.

This was just as Ismal had expected. Cut loose from his sordid little empire, Beaumont was rapidly sinking. He no longer possessed the wit or will to build another enterprise like
Vingt-Huit
. Not from scratch — which, thanks to Ismal, was the only way it could be done.

Ismal had quietly and thoroughly disassembled the Paris organization Beaumont had so hastily abandoned. The various governments were no longer troubled by that knotty problem, and Beaumont could do nothing now but rot to death.

Considering the lives Beaumont had destroyed, the suffering and fear he'd caused, Ismal considered it fitting that the swine die slowly and painfully. Also fitting that he die in the way he'd ruined so many others — of vice and its diseases, of the poisons relentlessly eroding mind and body.

The wife was another matter. Ismal hadn't expected her to leave Paris with her husband.

The marriage, after all, was merely a formality. Beaumont himself had admitted he hadn't slept with his wife in five years. She became violent, he said, if he touched her. She'd even threatened to kill him. He treated the matter as a joke, saying
that
if a man couldn't have one woman in bed, he'd only to find another.

True enough, Ismal thought, if one referred to
the
common run of women. But Leila Beaumont was… ah, well, a problem.

While he pondered the problem, Ismal let his host lead him from one group of guests to the next. After he had met what seemed like several hundred people, Ismal permitted himself another glance toward the terrace doors. He caught a glimpse of russet, but could no longer see Madame Beaumont properly. She was surrounded by men. As usual.

The only woman he'd ever seen linger at her side was Lady Carroll, and she, according to Lord Norbury, had not yet arrived from London. Leila Beaumont had come yesterday with one of Lady Carroll's cousins.

Ismal wondered whether Madame had spied him yet. But no. A great crow-haired oaf stood in the way.

Even as Ismal was wishing him to Hades, the large man turned aside to speak to a friend, and in that moment Leila Beaumont's glance drifted round the ballroom, past Ismal… and back… and her posture stiffened.

Ismal didn't smile. He couldn't have done so if his life depended on it. He was too aware of her, of the shocked recognition he could feel across half a room's length, and of the tumult that recognition stirred inside him.

He left his own group so smoothly that they scarcely noticed he was gone. He dealt with the men about her just as adroitly. He ingratiated himself without having to think about it, chatted idly with this one and that until he'd made his way to the center of the group, where Leila Beaumont stood, spine straight, chin high.

He bowed. "Madame."

She gave him a quick, furious curtsy. "Monsieur."

Her voice throbbed with suppressed emotion as she introduced him to those nearest her. Her lush bosom began to throb, too, when one by one her admirers began to drift away. She was not permitted to escape, however. Ismal held her with social inanities until at last he had her to himself.

"I hope I have not driven your friends away," he said, looking about him in feigned surprise. "Sometimes I may offend without intending to do so. It is my deplorable English, perhaps."

"Is it?"

His gaze shot back to her. She was studying his face with a penetrating, painterly concentration.

He grew uneasy, which irritated him. He should not allow himself to feel so, but she had been irritating him for so long that his mind was raw from it. He returned the examination with a simmering one of his own.

A faint thread of pink appeared in her cheeks.

"Monsieur Beaumont is well, I trust?" he asked.

"Yes."

"And your work goes well, I hope?"

"Very well."

"You have accommodated yourself to London?"

"Yes."

The short, fierce syllables announced that he'd driven painting altogether from her mind. That was enough, he told himself. He smiled. "You wish me at the Devil, perhaps?"

The pink deepened. "Certainly not."

His glance trailed down to her gloved hands. The thumb of her right hand moved restlessly over the back of her left wrist.

She followed his gaze. Her hand instantly stilled.

"I think you have wished me at the Devil since our first encounter," he said. "I even wondered whether it was on my account you fled Paris."

"We didn't
flee
," she said.

"Yet I offended somehow, I am sure. You left without word — not even the simple adieu."

"There wasn't time to take leave of everybody. Francis was in a great — " Her eyes grew wary. "He had made up his mind to go, and when he makes up his mind, he can't bear delay."

"You had promised me a portrait," Ismal said softly. "My disappointment was great."

"I should think you'd have recovered by now."

He took a step nearer. She didn't move. He clasped his hands behind his back and bowed his head.

He was just close enough to detect her scent. It was the same. There was as well the same tension between them that he remembered: the pull… and the resistance.

"Yet the portrait is reason enough to come to England, I think," he said. "In any case, this is what I told your charming friend, Lady Carroll. And she took pity on me, as you see. Not only did she invite me to join her family and guests in this picturesque town, but she ordered one of her brothers to accompany me, lest I lose my way."

He raised his head. In her tawny eyes he saw a turmoil of emotion — anger, anxiety, doubt… and something else, not so easy to read.

"Yes. Well. It would appear that Fiona has lost hers. She should have been here hours ago."

"Indeed it is a pity, for she will miss the dancing. Already the music begins." He looked about. "I have expected to discover some English gentleman bearing down upon us, seeking his partner for the first dance. But no one comes this way." He turned back to her. "Surely someone has asked you?"

"I know my limits. If I begin now, I shan't last the evening. I've reserved four dances only."

"Five," he said, holding out his hand.

She stared at it. "Later… perhaps."

"Later you will put me off," he said. "Your feet will hurt. You will be fatigued. Also, I may become fatigued as well, and so I may… misstep. I did this once, I recall — and never danced with you again." He lowered his voice. "You will not make me coax, I hope?"

She took his hand.

"This morning?" Fiona repeated. "You can't be serious. You've been here hardly two days. And I've only just come."

"You should have come sooner." Leila shoved her russet gown into the valise.

They were in her assigned bedroom. It was only eight o'clock in the morning, and the party hadn't ended until nearly dawn, but Leila was well rested. She'd slept like the dead. That wasn't surprising. She had gone to bed feeling as though she'd just spent five years at hard labor — with Esmond as the ruthless overseer. The entire evening had been a battle. Actually, she would have preferred open warfare, with real weapons. How did one fight shadow, innuendo, hint? How could he seem to behave so properly yet make one feel so hotly improper?

Fiona sat on the bed. "You're running away from Esmond, aren't you?"

"As a matter of fact, yes."

"You're a fool."

"I cannot deal with him, Fiona. He is beyond me. He's beyond anything. Francis was quite right."

"Francis is a sodden degenerate."

Leila took up a petticoat, rolled it into a ball, and stuffed it into a corner of the valise. "He isn't stupid, especially about people."

"He's jealous because Esmond is everything he's not — or what Francis may have been once, but won't be ever again. That cur doesn't deserve you, never did. He certainly deserves no loyalty. You should have taken a lover long ago."

Leila shot her friend a look. "Have
you
?"

"No, but only because I haven't found just the right one. It's not on account of some idiotic
principle
."

"I won't be anybody's whore."

" 'Whore' is a man's word," Fiona said. "Reserved for women. A man is a rake, a libertine. How dashing it sounds. But a woman who behaves the same way is a whore, a tart, a trollop — gad, the list is endless. I counted up once. Do you know, English contains about ten times as many disagreeable terms for a pleasure-loving woman as it does for her male counterpart? It makes one think."

"I don't need to think about it. I don't wish to think about it. I don't care what the words are. I will not sink to Francis' level."

Fiona let out a sigh. "You haven't even got to the point of flirting with your lovely count," she said patiently. "And he's not going to drag you to bed forcibly, my dear. I assure you, my brother does run a respectable household, and you may stay out your week without the least fear of being sold into white slavery."