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"Why was I summoned?" Ismal asked, his voice very soft.
"Mrs. Beaumont wants her husband's death looked into," Quentin answered. "I agree with her."
She hadn't wanted Ismal here, though. He could feel it: the rage gathering and pulsing within her and rippling through the quiet chamber, like a dangerous undertow in a falsely still sea. "If you've sent for me, you cannot wish it looked into openly," he said.
"That's correct," said His Lordship. "I've explained that we generally call on you when we encounter problems of some delicacy. Mrs. Beaumont had already perceived the potential for embarrassment to certain parties." He smiled ruefully. "We haven't much choice, it appears."
Madame's chin went up, and the ribbons fluttered. "I simply pointed out to Lord Quentin that my husband did not limit his debaucheries to the lower orders. He was a corrupting influence. He had a talent for attracting innocents. I am sure any number of husbands, wives, and parents wished him dead. Many of their names may be found in Debrett’s Peerage. I saw that in the course of a murder investigation mine would not be the only name dragged through the mud. I felt Lord Quentin should be alerted to the problem."
"Most perceptive," Ismal said softly. "Yet do you also perceive the futility of a covert investigation? What is to be done if we discover the so-called murderer's identity? Are we also to try and hang him—or her—secretly?"
"I did not demand a covert investigation," she said. "I know that, in trying to save my own skin, I as much as helped my husband's killer get away scot-free. I have committed a wrong. I wish to make it right. It is up to Lord Quentin how to do it." The anger she so ferociously held in check throbbed in her voice now. "I did not send for you. He did. That makes him the one to ask, I should think."
Though he knew what the answer would be, Ismal dutifully turned to Quentin. "My lord?"
"Why don't we cross that bridge when we come to it?" Quentin said, as any fool might have predicted. "Will you take the case or not?"
As though he had any choice, Ismal thought angrily, while his impassive gaze moved from one to the other. She wished him at the opposite end of the earth, and he wished he could oblige her. But the investigation could be turned over to no one else. He was the only one who would not inadvertently stumble onto the matter of Vingt-Huit. Furthermore, as Quentin well knew, no man had more to lose by betraying Madame's origins than Ismal did. If that came out, so might the other scandal, closely connected—the one in which Ismal had figured prominently, and for which he ought to have been hanged.
But it was Fate, Ismal reminded himself. Fate had begun spinning this web ten years ago.
Bridgeburton's daughter, this woman in widow's black.
Bridgeburton's daughter, this woman who made his heart beat too fast, who made chaos of reason. It was on her account Ismal had come to England, on her account he'd lingered, against wisdom and caution. She had drawn him here, to this moment...and it was upon the web of her life that he was caught.
And so, there was no choice and only one answer to give them.
"Yes," Ismal said in his sweetest, most amiable tones. "I accept the case."
Though undoubtedly displeased with Quentin's choice of investigator, Madame was obliged to accept it. When Ismal told her to expect him at her house at eight o'clock that evening, she simply nodded. Then she took her leave of the two men with a politeness so glacial that Ismal was amazed the window didn't frost over.
He stared at the door after it had closed behind her.
"Couldn't be helped," said Quentin. "I couldn't take the chance. If I put her off, she might go to someone else, and then we'd be in the soup."
"I might have put her off," Ismal said. "But you tied my hands—because you are as much plagued by curiosity as she has been by her so-English conscience."
"Maybe it's my English conscience, too. I admit I wanted Beaumont dead, but I did decide against a summary execution. Otherwise I might have hired someone a deal less expensive than you to finish the business, mightn't I?"
Ismal moved to the desk and picked up the paperweight. "Did you know, when I told you Beaumont was the man behind Vingt-Huit, who his wife was?"
"Certainly. Didn't you?"
"Do you not think I would have mentioned it?"
Quentin shrugged. "No telling what goes on in that devious mind of yours. Bit of a shock, was it?"
"I do not care for surprises."
"You handled it well enough," was the unsympathetic answer. "You always do. And you always know everything, don't you? And tell only what you choose. It was only reasonable to suppose you'd recognized her right off, back in Paris."
Ismal traced the contours of the paperweight with his fingers. "I never saw her in Venice," he said. "I knew only that there was a daughter—a child, I assumed. I left her to Risto. He gave her laudanum, and there was no trouble. The drug must have confused her mind, for her father was not murdered. When I left the house, he was drunk only. I departed before my servants did, yet I told them not to kill him." His gaze met Quentin's. "I did not kill that woman's father."
"I never said you did. Not that it makes any difference. You did enough. In the circumstances, I assumed you'd prefer to handle the present problem yourself."
Aye, he'd done enough, Ismal reflected. And he'd never be done paying for it, evidently.
Ten years ago he had plotted grand schemes of empire. Sir Gerald Brentmor, via his partner, Jonas Bridgeburton, had illegally supplied the weapons Ismal needed to overthrow Albania's ruler, Ali Pasha. But Sir Gerald had a brother, Jason, living in Albania, who was on Ali's side. Had he been his usual cautious self, Ismal would have dealt with the ensuing obstacles more wisely. But he became obsessed with Jason's daughter, and nothing—neither the daughter Esme's obvious hatred of him and clear preference for an English lord, nor Ali Pasha's wrath—could restore Ismal's reason.
Even after Lord Edenmont had taken Esme away and wed her, Ismal had persisted in mad schemes for revenge on everyone who'd thwarted him. He'd gone to Bridgeburton and forced him to betray all his partner's secrets. After that, the mad race to England...to blackmail Sir Gerald…and steal Esme…and then the bloody climax, when her family had rushed to her rescue. In the ensuing battle on a Newhaven wharf, Ismal had lost his two most devoted followers, Mehmet and Risto, and nearly been killed himself.
He had fully deserved to hang, on several counts. In the course of a few hours, he'd kidnapped a nobleman's wife, tried to kill her husband, and succeeded in killing her uncle. But the family couldn't prosecute him. A trial would have exposed Sir Gerald's crimes, and the taint of treason would have clung to his family, making them social outcasts.
For their sake, Ismal's infamies had been hushed up, and he was sent away on Captain Nolcott's ship, bound for New South Wales.
Quentin interrupted Ismal's grim recollections. "Mrs. Beaumont obviously didn't remember you."
"She could not have observed much before Risto spotted her," Ismal said. "As I recall, the hall was poorly lit, and I stood there but a few moments. The drug would have clouded her mind. And it was ten years ago. A long time." If she had remembered, he assured himself, he would have known, even if she held her tongue. He would have sensed it. All the same, he was uneasy.
"Still, she is intelligent and observant," he said. "It would be best to take no chances. The Brentmor family must be apprised of the situation. None of them knows I am here."
Except for Jason Brentmor, Ismal had not seen any of the Brentmor family since the day he'd been carried, nearly dead, onto the ship. Before he left, he'd made his peace with them all, according to the custom of his country. According to those rites, his soul was wiped clean of the shame. Yet his pride could not endure facing those who'd witnessed his humiliation.
"Lady Edenmont's expecting her fourth child any day now, so they're all at Mount Eden at present," said Quentin. "Except for Jason, who's in Turkey with his wife. I'll drive out and explain matters. I assume you prefer they keep away?"
"That woul
d be wisest. I can watch my own tongue, control my own behavior. I cannot control everyone else's every word and gesture, however. We cannot afford to awaken the smallest suspicion."
Ismal crossed to the desk and returned the paperweight to its place. "That is why I have preferred to work outside England. A short visit is not so risky—but this..." He shook his head. "I might be here for weeks, months perhaps. The longer I remain, the greater the risk that I will be recognized."
"Apart from the Edenton’s and Brantford, there's scarcely anyone left who'd remember you from a decade ago," Quentin said impatiently. "Who else saw you but the sailors—Nolcott's crew, mostly, and every last one of them drowned in the shipwreck a month later. Only three survivors—you, Nolcott, and that Albanian fellow who was guarding you. In the first place, neither is anywhere near England. In the second, they're not likely to betray the man who saved their lives."
The shipwreck had spared Ismal the degradation of New South Wales' convict settlements, and he'd aided his own cause by rescuing the two men most able to help him. Nolcott and Bajo had returned the favor by letting him escape and pretending he'd drowned with the others. But Fate had permitted Ismal only a few weeks' freedom before he collided with Quentin. Thanks to the detailed description Jason had previously provided, Quentin had recognized Ismal and promptly taken him into custody.
Ismal's smile was thin. "I only wish saving two lives had been amends enough for you, my lord."
Quentin leaned back in his chair. "Certainly not. Nothing less than a lifetime's servitude would do. For your own good, of course. Otherwise, there's no telling what sort of trouble you'd have got into by now." He smiled. "You represent a philanthropic effort, you know."
"I know well enough I was no charity case with you. Jason had told you I was clever and devious, and you saw a use for me."
"Just as you saw a use for me. Which is as it should be. Sentiment's not wise in our line of work. Still, you've done well enough with our bargain. You live like a prince and hobnob with royalty. Nothing to complain of, I hope?"
