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There was, unfortunately, a good deal he should have done these last few days and hadn't. Leaving Avory's servants to Nick, he'd turned his attention to Sherburne—who had, with a few jocular remarks, succeeded in riveting Ismal's mind elsewhere.
Thanks to Herriard's small fit of overprotectiveness at the soiree, most of Society seemed to be growing fiendishly curious about the Comte d'Esmond's intentions regarding Mrs. Beaumont. Being one of the Beau Monde's leaders, Sherburne had appointed himself spokesman.
Now that Mrs. Beaumont was out and about again, Sherburne had said a few nights ago, it was hoped she wouldn't remain a widow much longer. Still, it would be a great pity if London lost her altogether—to Paris, for instance, he'd added with a knowing smile.
That and a few more equally unsubtle comments had succeeded in unsettling Ismal's mind, if not his outward composure. It became very clear then that—despite Mrs. Beaumont's being widowed little more than two months and the Comte d'Esmond's being a foreigner with a reputation as a ladykiller—they were expected to wed. Soon.
If they did not—if, in fact, Ismal didn't soon start giving clear signals of honorable intentions, the current friendly rumors would turn hostile, and Leila would pay with her reputation.
The trouble was, he could not hurry her into marriage, whatever Society thought. Ismal could not stand before a man of God and utter solemn vows while his soul was stained with her unhappiness. To bind Leila to him while she remained in ignorance of the past was dishonorable. Cowardly. He needed time to prove himself, time to prepare her for the confession he should have made weeks ago.
Unfortunately, he might have already deprived himself of time. They had been lovers for a week. He had not once taken precautions, and she hadn't suggested any. She probably assumed she was barren because she hadn't borne Beaumont a child.
Ismal knew better than to make such assumptions. He knew it would be just like Fate to give the screws another twist, in the form of a babe. Then what would he do? Confess?—when it was already too late? Leave her to choose between marrying her nemesis and bearing a bastard?
He dragged his hand through his hair. "Imbecile," he muttered. "Coward. Pig."
At that moment, he noticed movement outside. He sank back against the seat. The door swung open. An instant later, Leila stepped in—then froze.
"Madame?" came Eloise's voice from behind her.
Ismal pulled Leila onto the seat beside him, told Eloise to find Nick, gave the driver a few brisk commands, and yanked the door shut. The carriage promptly jolted into motion.
"It's starting to rain," Leila said. "You will not leave her in the street." She reached for the rope, but Ismal grabbed her hand.
"Nick is watching the house from a carriage near the corner," he said. "Eloise will not melt before she reaches him. It is you I should leave in the street—and tell the driver to trample you down. I am not pleased with you, Leila."
"The feeling's mutual," she said. "In case you haven't noticed, it's broad day. What if someone sees us?"
"What difference does it make who sees us if one of us ends up dead by morning?"
As though to punctuate his prediction of doom, thunder crashed.
"There is no need to be theatrical," she said, lifting her chin. "If someone attempts murder in the dead of night, it's most likely he—or she—will have to contend with us both. Plus Gaspard and Eloise. And even though you have been utterly unreasonable—and just threatened to have me trampled—I shall do my utmost to protect you." She patted his arm. "Come, don't be cross. I think I've found something."
"You have put my stomach in knots." He frowned into her beautiful face. "You make me frantic with worry, Leila. You said you would deal with Lady Carroll. Since she is your friend, one would think you would prefer to settle that first. Instead—"
"Instead I trusted woman's intuition," she said. "Lady Brentmor was the one who called our attention to Helena, and she doesn't make idle suggestions. My instincts don't usually make idle suggestions, either. Ever since I studied that list of yours, I've had a feeling."
"A feeling." He sighed.
"A very strong one," she said. "That Helena's the key. It was the same kind of feeling I had about that scar of yours. That it connected to something important."
He knew better than to question her instincts. "The tigress has caught the scent, I perceive." He leaned back against the squabs. "I was ten times a fool to think I could stop you from hunting. Tell me, then."
She told him about her ploy with her earring. It was not the most brilliant strategy, but she had used the opportunity well. She hadn't missed the smallest change in Helena's face, posture, gestures. By Allah, she'd even taken note of the woman's temperature. And Leila had analyzed these minutiae just as Ismal would have done, and reached the same conclusions.
Beyond doubt, Helena had been deeply disturbed by the hint that she'd been with Beaumont. Yet he was dead, and all the world knew his wife had no illusions about his fidelity. If Helena was worried, it must be because she'd committed a greater crime than prostitution.
"I knew I'd struck a nerve with that business I made up about its being the last time I noticed perfume," Leila was saying. "But her reaction made me remember something connected. On New Year's Eve, I spent the night with Fiona at her brother Philip's house. I came home to the usual disorder, the usual signs that Francis had entertained at home."
She took Ismal's hand and squeezed it. "Now isn't the timing interesting?" she said. "If Helena was with him that night, she had a perfect opportunity to scout the house. Then, the next time I was away—not two weeks later—she could make a very quick, neat job of whatever she had to do: find and steal the letters for Langford, and maybe poison Francis' laudanum for her own satisfaction."
"Yes, Madame, it is very interesting." Ismal closed his eyes. "If your theory is correct, you have just given Helena Martin an excellent reason to kill you. She has only to report your visit to Langford, and there will be two people wishing to kill you. Perhaps I shall kill you and spare them the trouble—and myself a painful period of suspense."
"I'm counting on her reporting my visit to Langford," she said. "If all goes as I hope, I expect he'll call on me soon. Then, I think, we'll get some clues, if not answers."
He cocked one eye open. She was watching him with ill-concealed excitement. "I am listening," he said.
"Lady Brentmor told me this morning that the Langfords received a note from Dorset," she said. "David and Lettice are betrothed. Langford is tickled to death. Recollect, Lettice's father was his dearest friend. Also, thanks to Lady Brentmor and Fiona, the Duke of Langford thinks he owes it all to me."
Ismal had both eyes open now. "It is true. You instigated everything, ordered everyone about."
"The point is, my alleged good deed may just about balance my poking my nose into certain delicate matters," she said. "Langford won't be so quick to crush me. When he calls, he'll probably just try to pick my brains. And I'll let him, because I've got a lovely explanation."
"But of course."
"It is lovely," she said. "I shall tell him I found out Francis had some damaging documents, which I fear have fallen into the wrong hands."
"Helena's, for instance."
She nodded. "I shall ask for Langford's help. And he'll believe me, because half of London has this notion I've been doing good deeds. Even Helena had heard about David and Sherburne. She claims people are saying I was patching up Francis' damage. So this will fit the pattern. Don't you see? This is the perfect time, while Langford's prepared to think kindly of me."
Ismal didn't answer. Her words were beginning to take hold in his mind. Timing. Patterns. And inconsistencies.
Both Avory and his father had paid blackmail money in December. The garter episode had occurred early in the same month. Sherburne had evidently known about the garters, yet he'd said nothing to Avory. Shortly thereafter, Beaumont had debauched Lady Sherburne, and all the husband had done was destroy a portrait.
/> Sherburne and Avory were definite problems. Neither man possessed the character for weeks of cool, patient plotting—especially for a crime so underhand as poisoning. The timing and crime might fit Lady Carroll's character, but she was no Helena Martin. How could she—without help—have entered, unnoticed, an empty, locked house? And if it weren't empty, would she have been brazen enough to enter while Francis Beaumont was there alone? Was it possible she had swallowed her revulsion and gone to bed with him just for a chance to poison his laudanum? Would she have left so much to chance?
And suppose she had. What, then, of the missing letters? Admittedly, there may have been no more letters after the ones Beaumont sold to Avory and his father. But all Ismal's instincts told him there had been more, that it was as Leila had surmised: Helena had been at the house twice because Langford had hired her to steal.
It was very doubtful he had hired her to kill as well. It was one thing to take back his son's letters, which rightfully belonged to the family. Even the courts must agree, though the law might nitpick about the methods employed. But to conspire murder with a prostitute who, if caught, would assuredly incriminate him was foolish beyond permission.
Nor could Ismal believe Helena would be so reckless as to commit the greater crime while employed by Langford to commit the lesser, and relatively safe one. Yet if she'd committed only the one, safe crime, why had she been so worried?
"Ismal." Madame shook his arm. "We're home. If you want to talk about this, I can cancel my engagement for tonight. It's just a gathering of Lady Brentmor's gossipy friends. They won't miss me."
He studied her animated countenance. She was very pleased with herself. Perhaps she was entitled. He knew to his own cost that her hunter instincts were excellent. Perhaps she was closing in on her quarry. Whatever happened, he had better be in on the kill.
"I am not sure I wish to speak to you," he said. "You have been very disobedient."
"I'll make it up to you." She tugged at his neckcloth, bringing his face close to hers. "We can have dinner together. I'll tell Eloise to make your favorites. And then..." She lightly brushed her lips against his. "You can practice your favorite perversions on me."
"Aye, you think you can wrap me about your finger," he said. "With food and lovemaking. As though I were an animal. As though I had no higher, spiritual needs." He wrapped his arms about her. "You are not altogether correct. But close enough. I shall come after nightfall."
