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Sickened, she left the house and took a walk, down Great Ormond Street, onto Conduit Street, and on past the Foundling Hospital. Behind its large garden two burial grounds lay side by side, allotted respectively to the parishes of St. George the Martyr and St. George, Bloomsbury. She knew not a soul interred in either. That was why she came. These London residents couldn't disturb her, even with a memory. She'd escaped here many times in recent months.
She had wandered restlessly among the tombstones for an hour or more when David found her. David Ives, Marquess of Avory, was the Duke of Langford's heir. David was four and twenty, handsome, wealthy, intelligent and, to her exasperation, one of Francis' most devoted followers.
"I hope you don't mind," he said after they'd exchanged polite greetings. "When Francis said you'd gone for a walk, I guessed you'd come here. It was you I wanted to see." His grey gaze shifted away. "To apologize. I'd promised to go to Philip Woodleigh's, I know."
She knew she'd been a fool to believe the worthless promise, to hope he'd start the New Year fresh, among decent people…perhaps meet a suitable young lady, or at least less dissolute male friends.
"I wasn't surprised you failed to appear," she said stiffly. "The entertainment was tame, by your standards."
"I was…unwell," he said. "I spent the evening at home."
She told herself not to waste sympathy on an idle young fool bent on self-destruction, but her heart softened anyhow, and with it, her manner.
"I'm sorry you were ill," she said. "On the other hand, I did get my wish: for once, at least, you didn't spend the night with Francis."
"You'd rather I were ill more often, then. I must speak to my cook and insist upon indigestible meals."
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 1829
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 over-painted, over-perfumed 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 C
arroll'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.
