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With two possible suspects so intensely occupied, and no other female in the vicinity promising sufficient distraction, Ismal focused on the third man on the list: Lord Avory, the Duke of Langford's heir. Ismal noted that the marquess was tall, fair, and aristocratically handsome—and he didn't belong here.
Though he was trying to belong by flirting with a red-haired ballet dancer, Ismal was certain His Lordship's heart wasn't in it. A man bent on pleasure with an accommodating female would not have that hunted look in his eyes.
Since they'd met at Beaumont's funeral, it was easy enough for Ismal to strike up a conversation. And, since the young man didn't want to be where he was, it was even easier to detach him from the redhead and extract him from the party altogether.
A half hour later, they were sharing a bottle of wine in a private room of a club on the fringes of St. James'. Ismal's admiration of the Canaletto landscape hanging over the mantel had led to a discussion of art and so, very soon to Leila Beaumont, whose talents Avory couldn't praise highly enough.
"It isn't simply that she makes excellent representations," the marquess was saying. "It’s that the subject's character and personality truly infuse the work. One day, mark my words, her portraits will be priceless. I'd give anything to have one—of anybody."
"But surely you own one of yourself," Ismal said. "You are a good friend, after all."
Avory studied the contents of his glass. "She hadn't the time."
"I sympathize," Ismal said. "She had no time for me, either. I had almost lost hope until, at Norbury House, Lady Carroll told me that Madame had no new commissions."
"Mrs. Beaumont stopped accepting them after she finished Lady Sherburne's portrait. Near Christmas that was. She'd been working nonstop since moving to London and she wanted a good, long rest, she told me."
"I was unaware of this." Ismal wondered why neither the artist nor Lady Carroll had told him.
"All I comprehended was that there might be time for me. But she had left Norbury House, and so, in the next moment, I was in my carriage, making for London, posthaste." He smiled ruefully. "Little did I know I would be obliged to admit this to a coroner and jury. Yet I cannot regret my action. If not for my vanity and greed for a portrait, I should not have arrived at the Beaumont house when someone, clearly, was needed."
"It must have been ghastly for her." The marquess turned the wineglass in his hands. "I didn't get word until late that night. I called first thing next morning, but Lady Carroll was there by then and—Well, I could only do Mrs. Beaumont the kindness of keeping away, and urge everyone else to do likewise—as she asked. And they all obliged, though I'm sure they were dying of curiosity."
He looked up. "Odd, isn't it? Society is rarely so considerate, even of its own, and she's not—well, one of us, I suppose you'd say, though that sounds hideously snobbish."
Ismal wondered just how many had kept away out of loyalty, and how many out of fear. Beaumont knew secrets. People might worry that his wife was privy to some of them. Ismal wondered whether Avory, for instance, had heard a request or a threat.
"It was good of her friends to respect her privacy," Ismal said.
"Frankly, I was happy to keep away from the inquest. It would have made me wild to watch her being questioned." The glass turned round and round in the marquess' hands. "Father said you were one of the first to testify, and you left immediately after."
"I felt this would be wisest, in the circumstances," Ismal said. "All the men at the inquest, except for her respectable solicitor, were either elderly or plain. I was the only one of her admirers there. I wanted the jury to attend to the proceedings—not to speculate whether I was her lover. Because you and the other fine gentlemen kept away, I was too...conspicuous."
Avory reached for the wine bottle. "I should think you'd be that regardless who was there. You're rather out of the common way."
Ismal knew perfectly well he was. He was also aware the remark was a probe and wondered what exactly Avory was looking for.
He said nothing. He waited.
The marquess refilled their glasses. When this was done and still Ismal didn't speak, a muscle began to work in the younger man's jaw.
"I didn't mean any offense,” Avory said tightly. "Surely you've noticed the women swooning in your vicinity. Even if you've grown inured to that, you must have realized—" He set down the wine bottle. "Well, I am putting my foot in it. As usual."
Ismal's expression was mildly curious, no more.
"I thought you realized you were the exception," Avory went on doggedly. "That is to say, Francis had never been jealous of anyone. He'd never worried about Mrs. Beaumont at all…until you came along. I thought you knew."
The marquess was mightily curious about Beaumont's jealousy. Perhaps Beaumont had dropped some hint of the true reason. He might have done, if he and Avory had been very intimate. That was a reasonable assumption, given Beaumont's attraction to both sexes and the marquess' apparent discomfort with courtesans. It would explain, too, his devotion to a man so much older, and so far beneath him in every way.
There was an easy way to find out.
"Beaumont was tiresome, and most unkind," Ismal said. "I should not say this of your friend, but in truth, he vexed me greatly."
"He could be…vexatious."
"Because he made such a show of jealousy, I could scarcely speak to his wife without stirring scandal," Ismal said. "This was not only inconsiderate of her reputation, but also unfair."
"He wasn't always…considerate."
"I am a reasonable man, I hope," Ismal went on. "If she does not wish the liaison, I must accede to her wishes and make do with whatever small privilege she bestows—a dance, conversation, flirtation. I contented myself accordingly. Why could he not do the same?"
"With Mrs. Beaumont, you mean? I'm afraid I don't—"
"Non, non," Ismal said impatiently. "With me. Never before did I have this problem with another man. I was tactful, I thought. I told him I had no interest in him—in any man—in that way. I—"
"Good God." Avory sprang up from his chair, spilling wine in the process. He quickly—and shakily—set the glass upon the mantel.
One question answered. The marquess hadn't even suspected Beaumont was infatuated with the Comte d'Esmond.
Ismal promptly assumed a deeply chagrined expression. "I beg you will excuse my indelicacy," he said. "In my vexation, I forgot myself and where I was. Such matters are not spoken of openly in your country."
"Not generally." The marquess raked his fingers through his hair. "At least not on such short acquaintance."
"Please forget I mentioned this thing," Ismal said contritely. "I would not dream of offending you—but you are too easy to talk to, and I let my thoughts go straight from my brain to my tongue without reflection."
"Oh, no, I'm not—well, not offended. It’s flattering that you find me easy company." Avory tugged at his neckcloth. "I was just...startled. That is, I knew you upset him. It never occurred to me that he was jealous in—in that way. Well."
He collected his wineglass and returned to his seat. "You'd think, after two years, I'd know better than to be shocked at anything to do with him. Yet he never—I hadn't an inkling."
"Ah, well, I am older—and French."
"I can hardly take it in." Avory drummed his fingers on the chair arm. "He—he mocked them, you see—men of that sort. He called them…'mollying dogs' and—and Tnim boys'—and—well, I daresay you've heard the names."
Beyond doubt, the marquess couldn't have been Beaumont's lover. Why, then, the unsuitable friendship? Was it by choice, or because Beaumont knew something about him? That Avory was another man's lover, then? Unaware that Beaumont was guilty of the same so-called crime, Avory would have been vulnerable to blackmail. That was a good motive for murder, though by no means the only possible scenario.
Which was just as well, Ismal told himself. Pursuing the possibilities would keep his mind busy. Off Madame. For a while at least. "I k
now many names," he said amiably. "In twelve languages."
His companion snatched at the conversational escape route. "Twelve? Indeed. I'm impressed. And are you as fluent in the rest as you are in English?"
Though he hadn't mentioned a time, Leila had assumed Esmond would appear at eight o'clock the following evening. Instead he turned up an hour earlier, unannounced, at her studio door—while she was bent over her sketchbook, wearing the same grubby gown and smock she'd donned after luncheon.
It could have been worse, she told herself. She might have been spattered with paint and stinking of oils and varnish. Not that that would have mattered, either. A man who intended to spend several hours a night plaguing an artist—and who, moreover, appeared without invitation or notice—had no right to expect fashionable perfection.
"I trust you sneaked in the back way," she said, snapping her sketchbook shut.
"Unobserved, I promise." He laid his hat on the empty stool opposite her. "Nonetheless, that task will be much easier when Eloise and Gaspard arrive."
"You mean the Parisian servants, I collect. The 'loyal and trustworthy' ones."
He moved a step nearer. "You have been working," he said, nodding at her sketchbook.
"Not really. Just sketching. Keeping myself busy." She set the sketchbook on top of another and neatly aligned the edges. "I shouldn't do even that during early mourning. It’s disrespectful of the dear departed. On the other hand, Francis would find it hilarious that I kept idle out of grief for him."
"Lord Avory tells me that you ceased accepting portrait commissions more than a month ago. I did not know this was your own decision—that offers were made, but you rejected them."
"I wanted a rest," she said.
"So Lord Avory explained last night."
"Last night?" she echoed, a bit too shrilly. "You saw David last night? But I thought you were going to study my list."
"I did." He took up a pencil and studied it. "Then I went out, and happened to meet the marquess."
She had nothing to be dismayed about, Leila told herself. One could hardly expect the Comte d'Esmond to be innocently tucked into his bed before midnight. She wondered where he'd met David in the middle of the night. At a gambling hall, probably. Or a whorehouse. She shouldn't waste energy feeling disappointed in David. As to Esmond, a night's dissipation was in keeping with his character. Yet an image filled her mind of his devil's hands caressing...someone else...and her temples began to throb.
