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She was aware of the muscles tensing in Ismal's hand. "It's very easy to get him to talk about his adventure ten years ago," she went on. "About taking Edenmont and his new bride back to England in a mad race across the Mediterranean. Apparently, it was the most exciting thing that's ever happened to Lackliffe. He said he has a poem written by a Greek about the two handsome princes who fought for the hand of the Red Lion's daughter. One prince was a black-haired Englishman. The other was a golden-haired Albanian whose name was Ismal."
She released the stiff hand to touch the scar. "It's an old scar," she said. "Is it ten years old?"
He had turned away while she spoke. He was gazing steadily at the window, the telltale lines at his eyes deeper than she'd ever seen them.
"The sun will rise in less than two hours," he said. "We have so little time. We could be making love, my heart."
The words made her ache. "I just want to know where I stand," she said. "I know ours is just an affair. I know what I've got myself into. But I can't help being a woman, and I can't help wanting to know if you love her still—if that's why you never wed."
"Oh, Leila." He moved closer and brushed her hair back from her face. "You have no rivals, ma belle. I was two and twenty, and I can scarcely remember what I felt. A youthful infatuation, and like other youths, I was arrogant and rash."
"Then it's true. I guessed aright." She let out a sigh. "I wish you wouldn't make me guess and drag things out of you. I wish you'd just tell me something on your own once in a while. Like about youthful infatuations. Not but what I'll probably want to scratch her eyes out if she so much as blinks at you," she added irritably. "Lud, I am so jealous."
"And I am truly frightened." He tilted her chin up to study her eyes. "How in the name of heaven did you connect my scar with Edenmont?"
"Woman's intuition."
"You said I was upset about him," he persisted, still holding her gaze. "How did you know? You must tell me, Leila. If I betray myself to you, I might to another. You do not wish me to endanger myself unwittingly, I hope."
The words chilled her, reminding her that his life depended upon deceit, concealment. The scar was old, its cause in the past. But it was vivid testimony that he was human...that she could lose him.
She didn't have to look at the scar, because the image of the gnarled flesh was vivid in her mind. She'd noticed it last night—and how he winced when she touched it. The scar had given her nightmares after he left. A huge brute leaping out at him from a shadowy hallway...a blade gleaming in flickering candlelight...a small, wiry man with feral eyes who dripped poison into the gash the knife had made.
She had bolted up from her pillows in a cold sweat, and remained trembling in her lonely bed a long while after, despite the reassuring sunlight of morning. She shuddered now, recalling.
"Your eyes," she said, touching her finger to the tiny network of lines. "When you're at ease, the lines are indiscernible. When you're upset, they become tight, sharp. I think of them as little arrows pointing out sore spots. My intuition must have connected the sore spots."
He muttered in what she guessed was his native tongue—a series of curses, judging by the tone. Then he was off the bed and across the room to peer into the cheval glass. "Come, show me," he said. "Bring the other lamp. I cannot see by this one."
She could see well enough: a stunning view of about six feet of leanly muscled, gleaming, naked male. They had so little time left this night, and they might be making love. Instead, they would spend the precious moments examining his eyes.
By gad, she was a hopeless case. Utterly depraved. She dragged herself from the bed, took up the lamp, and joined him at the mirror.
Chapter 15
From the time she'd discovered the scar, it had taken Leila less than twenty-four hours to light upon the names associated with it. It took Ismal less than a minute to understand that Fate had just tightened the screws another painful notch.
He was already well aware that it didn't matter whether Bridgeburton had fallen or been pushed into the canal that night long ago. If he'd been pushed, it didn't matter who'd done it—whether it had been Ismal's servants, an enemy of Bridgeburton's, or a treacherous friend. Beaumont, for instance. Those details didn't matter. What mattered was that when Ismal left that Venice palazzo, he'd set events in motion that had ruined a young girl's life. Every hour of unhappiness Leila had endured since then was a stain on his soul.
He was prepared to devote himself to her happiness, to make up for every minute of grief his actions had caused her. But he needed time. If she discovered his infamy too soon, he might never get the chance to make amends. She would shut her heart to him just as she had to Beaumont.
He was miserably aware that he should have told her the truth at the beginning. Then at least, whatever she thought of him, she would not think him false. He should have let her know precisely what he was and let her choose with full knowledge whether to love him. Instead, he'd won her love unfairly.
Now he couldn't bear to lose it.
While he stood in front of the mirror and studied the lines at his eyes—a betrayal as clear to her as Avory's twitching jaw muscle had been to him—Ismal was plotting against her, playing for time.
She must be occupied, her mind fixed elsewhere. And so he began by fixing it on helping him overcome the involuntary reaction of the tiny facial muscles. Then he fixed it on lovemaking, so that when he left shortly before dawn, she was too exhausted to think.
The following day he carefully prepared their work for the weeks to come, and planned how to present her time-consuming assignments.
That night, instead of leading her straight to the bedroom, Ismal took her to the studio and sat her down at the worktable. He handed her a sheet of paper containing, among other scribblings, a column titled "Prime Suspects" under which were five names: Avory, Sherburne, Langford, Martin...and Carroll.
She stared at the scrawled notes for a full two minutes without uttering a sound. When at last she found her voice, it was harsh. "Where did you get this?" she demanded. "This is Francis' handwriting. What the devil was he doing making notes about prime suspects and alibis?"
Ismal opened an inkwell, took up a pen, dipped it into the ink, and wrote: Monday, 12 January. Account for whereabouts.
She inhaled sharply. "I see. Your talents include forgery."
"One should always be prepared for the possibility that notes or letters may fall into the wrong hands." He nodded at the list. "As Avory and his father learned, such materials may prove costly, even years later."
"It would appear you've kept something else from me." She did not look up. "How long have you suspected Fiona of murder?"
"Leila, neither of us is stupid or blind," he said. "We cannot go on pretending forever that we do not see what is under our noses. Lady Carroll hated your husband. For years she hated him because he behaved shamefully toward you, whom she views as a sister. Not many weeks before his death, he shamed her actual sister. The night on which the poison must have been administered, she was in London. We both recognize that her alibi is somewhat suspicious."
He drew up a stool and sat close beside her. "Still, she is one of several to whom our attention has been drawn," he said. "Nearly everyone your husband knew could have reason to kill him. We have made ourselves dizzy with motives, and we have been distracted with Avory's romantic problems. What I propose is that we take a new tack and attempt to narrow our list. I suggest we begin by accounting for the whereabouts of these people on the night in question."
She said nothing, only kept her eyes upon the piece of paper.
Ismal went on explaining. Of the five prime suspects, only Lady Carroll had been in a situation requiring her to explain her whereabouts to anybody. None, including her, could be interrogated directly.
"We must find out by devious means," he said. "It will not be easy, but I see no alternative, if we hope to solve the problem in this century."
"I suppose you never said anything about Fio
na because you knew I'd make a much worse fuss than I ever did about David," she said at last. Her voice was low, level. "Very unprofessional of me."
"Very silly, also." He tweaked a curl at her temple. "You know I dote upon Lady Carroll. She has been my staunchest ally. Frankly, she would be my preferred choice for murderer, because she at least would never harm you—even to save her own skin."
She looked up at him. "It had better not come to that."
"I shall take care it does not," he said.
Her troubled expression eased.
