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Ismal looked up into her smoldering tawny eyes. How he wanted her—the insolence, the scorn, the heat...passion.
"It is true," he said. "I am very sensitive. But you apologize so sweetly that I cannot resist. I forgive you, Madame."
"You relieve my mind. And I, of course, forgive you."
"I have not apologized."
She waved her hand dismissively. "I forgive you for that, too."
"You are a saint," he murmured.
"Possibly. You, regrettably, are not. But I'm prepared to overlook that, and help you. It's the Christian thing to do."
"Your generosity overwhelms me."
"I doubt anything overwhelms you." She moved away—to stand by the fire, he thought at first. Instead, she pushed a heap of canvas onto the rug, to reveal a shabby but comfortably cushioned footstool.
"If you wish to throw something at me, the bust of Michelangelo would be easier to lift," he said.
She shoved the footstool toward the sofa. “I'm not going to throw anything. I'm going to sit at your feet and humbly offer my pitiful bits of information and bask in your blinding brilliance."
Accordingly, she sat and folded her hands upon her knees. Her expression a perfect mockery of humble dutifulness, she asked, "Where should you like me to begin?"
Farther away, he thought. Her honey-gold head was just within reach. His fingers itched to tangle themselves in that tantalizing disorder.
"Wherever you wish," he said.
She nodded. "Sherburne, then. What do you know about him?"
He didn't want to know about Sherburne. Ismal wanted his hands in her hair, his mouth on hers. How was he to think about the inquiry when his head swam with her scent and his body ached to be near, enfolded with hers, as he had dreamed every curst night these last ten nights and all the nights before?
"He was a friend of your husband's," Ismal said. "Until, that is, Monsieur Beaumont offended. With Sherburne's wife, it would seem, for the friendship ceased, and the Sherburnes had some grave quarrel about the same time. I have also heard Sherburne visited you a week ago."
Her ripe mouth curled.
"You are amused that your husband debauched Lady Sherburne?" he asked.
"I am amused because this whole time you've behaved as though I didn't exist," she said. "You let me believe I couldn't be of any possible use to you—yet you've been spying on me all the while. I suppose Gaspard and Eloise provide daily reports."
"I am well aware you exist, Madame. As aware as if you were a thorn in my foot."
"I'm amazed, then, that you didn't come the instant you'd heard. Weren't you in the least curious about what I might have found out?"
"You did not send for me."
"I am not in charge of this inquiry. You are," she said. "I'm the temperamental and irrational one, remember? You must have encountered difficult informants before and managed them. If you could get David to Almacks', you could surely get me to answer a few questions."
"You know very well that I cannot manage you," he said. "You make me stupid—as you make every man who deals with you. Even your husband was stupid where you were concerned. Knowing the secret about your father, he had the power to rule you, yet he could not."
"I should be in a fine predicament had I let Francis—"
"Even Quentin, one of the most powerful and clever men in England, could not manage you. It is no surprise, then, that Avory is enslaved—"
"Enslaved! Just what are you implying?"
"And Sherburne, too. I cannot believe it is a coincidence that he went home to his wife after visiting you, and remained with her all that night and all the following day and night—and that suddenly, since then, he is always wherever she is."
Her countenance lit. "Truly? Have they made up?"
Her triumphant expression told him all he needed to know: somehow, during that short visit a week ago, she had wrapped Sherburne round her finger.
"Yes," Ismal said, frustratedly aware that he was in a similar condition...and irrationally jealous, besides.
Her smile widened. "Then you've just proved yourself wrong. He wasn't stupid at all. On the contrary, he came to his senses."
Then she told him of her meeting with Sherburne. Ismal tried to focus on the crucial aspects, but when she was done, his mind fixed on one issue, and that one ruled his tongue.
"You held his hand?" he asked tightly.
"To make him listen," she said. "It was instinctive, I suppose. Not ladylike, I'll admit. But it worked, and that’s all that matters."
"It was not instinct," he told her. "Yours are disciplined hands." He nodded at them. "You exert your will through them, communicate. And I think you are conscious of their power. I hope you are," he added testily. "Otherwise, you were abominably incautious."
"Power?" she repeated, studying them, apparently oblivious to his irritation. Then her attention transferred to his right hand, resting upon the purple pillow. "You can do it too, can't you?" she said. "Exert your will. Communicate. Only you know what it is you're doing to the other person." She looked up. "Do you ever do anything without calculation?"
"Describe the stickpin," he said.
She stared at him for a moment. Then she bowed her head in a mockery of downcast humility. "Yes, sir. Certainly, sir."
He wanted to drag her off the footstool, onto the carpet. He leaned back and shut his eyes and made himself listen to her cool, concise description.
It was a man's stickpin, she told him, but Sherburne had not been wearing it. The one in his neckcloth was set with an emerald. The one with which he'd destroyed the painting had been plain gold, in some form she hadn't been near enough to distinguish precisely. She thought it was some sort of leaf or flower, but she wasn't sure. For all she knew, it might have been a face or a figure.
Ismal forced his unwilling mind to analyze. After a few minutes' reflection he asked, "What made you believe that all Lady Sherburne needed was forgiveness and affection?"
"She was obviously very much in love with her husband," she said. "He not only neglected her, but had flaunted his affairs. I'm sure she intended no more than a flirtation with Francis, doubtless in hopes of making Sherburne jealous or at least getting his attention. I doubt she had any idea what Francis was really like. Few women did. For some reason, they saw only what he wanted them to see—until it was too late."
"And so she was seduced, and discovered her mistake too late, you think."
"If she was seduced," she said. "Rather difficult to seduce a strictly reared, upper-class young lady who's desperately in love with her husband, don't you think? Not to mention Francis was forty, and looked sixty by then. Hardly an Adonis."
"What, then? What do you suspect?"
Her eyes darkened. "He got me drunk, you know. After the first time I rejected his advances. It worked. Once. Never again. But with Lady Sherburne, he would have needed only the once."
So that was why Madame drank so little, Ismal thought.
He said, "If this is the case, it is possible her husband found her intoxicated, in circumstances showing clearly that she had been with another man."
"Sherburne knew it was Francis, but I strongly doubt she told him." She considered. "I can only conclude the stickpin belonged to Francis...and he left it behind...and it was distinctive enough for Sherburne to know whose it was."
Ismal recollected a shop in Paris and an erotic pendant that had enchanted Beaumont. "I can make a guess why he recognized it," he said. "Your husband evidenced a taste for certain curiosities."
"There's no need to be delicate," she said. "I'm aware of his tastes. The oriental fertility deities in the curio cabinet are the mildest example. He also owned a set of lewd watches—and a collection of naughty snuffboxes. And the usual dirty books. Those items, unlike the oriental gods and goddesses, were not on public display. He kept them for his private amusement. And for selected friends, of course."
"I should like to examine them."
"You're more than welcome to th
em," she said. "I was tempted to throw them out, but some of the pieces probably belong in a museum—not that I can imagine what museum would wish to display them. They're still in his room. Shall I fetch them?"
Ismal shook his head. "I want you to give them to Lord Avory," he said. "I shall encourage him to visit again soon. When he does, you will ask him to take charge of these objects for you. He will do so to oblige you, though he will be most embarrassed. Then he will come to me for advice. While I examine them, perhaps he will reveal something useful."
"How clever," she said. "How calculating."
"I calculate upon Lord Avory's affection for you," he said.
"And his dependence upon your infallible wisdom," she returned.
He smiled. "I think you are jealous. I think you wish me to spend all my time with you instead."
"Clever, calculating, and conceited," she said.
"It is your own fault. If you had sent for me sooner, you should not have missed me so very much."
She lifted her chin. "You came promptly enough. Maybe you missed me."
"Yes," he said softly. "Very much."
