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"He was on your list," said Esmond. "Yet you have some objection."
"Certainly not," she said. "One must assume you know what you're about."
"But you do not like it." He put down the pencil and strolled away to the sofa. Frowning, he sat down and appeared to give the shabby rug his deepest consideration. "Your countenance is all disapproval."
She hoped that was all he saw, though she hadn't any right to disapprove of his amusements. Her feelings about David, on the other hand, she needn't conceal from anybody.
"Oh, very well then," she said. She took up the pencil he'd handled and quickly set it down again. "I don't like it. I didn't like putting David on the list—but you said all of Francis' friends, and I could scarcely leave David off, when he was with Francis so often. But the idea of David as a murderer is ludicrous. Can you actually picture him sneaking poison into Francis' laudanum?"
"Mine is a lively imagination, Madame. You would be surprised at what I can picture."
She was sitting on the opposite side of the room from the fire, and the draught from the windows behind her was a brisk one for early February. The warmth stealing over her face, therefore, could not be ascribed to climatic conditions. Certainly not to his words, either.
It was the cursedly hinting tone, the voice that could make "How do you do?" sound like a double entendre.
Or maybe it couldn't.
More likely the trouble was her own damnably active imagination.
"Very well," she said. "If you want to waste your time, that's your concern—or whoever's paying you. The government, I suppose."
"You are fond of Lord Avory, it would seem."
"He's an intelligent and agreeable young man."
"Not Monsieur Beaumont's customary type of companion."
"Not the average rogue, if that’s what you mean," she said. "But it wasn't at all unusual for Francis to take up with younger and less experienced people."
"And lead them astray?"
"Francis was hardly the sort to lead them in the opposite direction. Most of them came fresh from a Grand Tour of the Continent. He gave them a Grand Tour of the demimonde."
"Young men must sow their wild oats."
"Yes."
"But you wish this young man had not done so."
Really, what use was it to try to keep anything from him? And what was the point? Esmond was investigating a murder. He needed to know everything. He'd warned her yesterday: endless questions, some impertinent.
"I wish David had never met my husband," she said. "He's not like the others, not the typical idle aristocrat. And he does have the most dreadful parents. They haven't the least idea how to manage him. He was never meant to be the heir. I'm not sure he was ever meant to be born. There's a considerable gap between him and Anne, the next youngest," she explained.
"His birth came as a surprise to the parents, perhaps."
She nodded. "There are two more older sisters—I don't remember their names. I never met them. Francis had met the older brother, Charles, ages ago."
"An older brother? Avory did not mention this."
"Charles died about three years ago," Leila said. "A hunting accident. Broke his neck. His mother still wears black."
"She does not accept her loss."
"The Duchess of Langford doesn't seem to accept or understand anything," Leila said. "The duke is even worse. A dukedom is a sizable burden, even for a young man reared to bear it. But his parents haven't helped David at all. They simply expected him to become Charles—adopt all of Charles' interests, friends, likes, and dislikes. Naturally, David rebelled. And, understandably, in the process of asserting his individuality, he went to extremes."
"Madame, you are most enlightening." Esmond rose. "You open some interesting avenues of speculation. The reasons for certain friendships, for example. Not always what they seem. How I wish I could remain to pursue this…and other matters. But I have promised to dine with the marquess, and I must not be late."
And afterward, will you go to a whore? Leila wanted to demand. Your mistress? For all she knew, he had one. It was none of her affair, she reminded herself. "Does that mean we're done for tonight?" she asked.
He crossed the room to her. "I could return afterward. But that, I think, would be most...unwise."
Leila told herself she heard no innuendo. "Undoubtedly," she said. "You and David won't be done much before dawn, I suppose."
"It is impossible to say."
"In any event, you'll be the worse for drink."
"It would appear that you also possess a lively imagination,” he said.
The laughter she heard in his voice made her look up. Yet he wasn't smiling, and his unreadable blue eyes were focused on her hair. "A pin near your ear is falling," he said.
She reached up instantly—and an instant too late. He was already pushing the pin back into place. "Your hair is always so clean," he murmured, without withdrawing his hand.
She could have drawn back or pushed his hand away or protested in some way. But that would let him know how very much he disturbed her—ammunition he'd surely use.
"I couldn't abide it otherwise," she said.
"I wonder, sometimes, how long it is." His gaze slid to hers. "I want to see."
"I don't think—"
"It will be a week before I see you again. The question will plague me."
"I can tell you how long it—A week?" she asked, distracted.
"After Eloise and Gaspard arrive. Until they are here, my coming and going is fraught with in
convenience. Best to keep away meanwhile."
And while he spoke, he pulled out the pin he'd just pushed in, and drew a lock of her hair out between his fingers…and smiled. "Ah, to your waist."
"I could have told you," she said, her heart thudding.
"I wanted to see for myself." He toyed with the thick, tawny strand, his eyes still holding hers. "I like your hair. It is so wonderfully disorderly."
Francis, too, liked her mussed, she could have told him. But she couldn't keep Francis and his taunts in her mind. Esmond's soft voice and light touch drove everything else out.
"I-I couldn't abide to have servants fussing with me," she said. "I can't even sit still for a coiffeuse."
"You arrange your own hair and dress yourself." He glanced down. "That is why all your frocks fasten in front."
It took all her self-control to keep her hands from her bodice. It would be a futile gesture, anyhow, to shield garments he'd already analyzed in detail. She wondered if he'd surmised that her corset fastened in front as well. He'd probably worked out how many inches apart the hooks were, for all she knew. "How very observant," she said.
His smile widened. "The inquiring mind. That is one of the reasons I am so very good at what I do."
A lazy smile it was, sweet and utterly disarming. She fought to keep her guard up. "Perhaps you've forgotten that I'm not a suspect," she said.
"I cannot seem to forget that you are a woman." He was absently twisting the lock of hair round his finger.
"Which means you have to flirt, I see," she said, trying to keep her tone light. "That's not very considerate of David. A while ago—rather a long while—you were worried about being late for dinner with him."
He released a sigh, and the captive tress as well, and took up his hat. "Ah, yes, the tiresome suspects. I comfort myself that at least Lord Avory is interesting company. Too many of your husband's friends, I have noticed, are not shining lights of intellect. They can talk of nothing but sport and women—and women, to them, are merely sport, so it is all the same. But I must cultivate them all, if I hope to learn anything. With Avory as my guide, I shall meet them in their natural habitat and observe them when they are most themselves."
