The following night, Ismal was semi-recumbent upon the studio sofa, watching Leila Beaumont through half-closed eyes. She was painting, and he knew he wasn't the subject. She was challenging her skill and torturing her vision with a disorderly array of glassware. Or had been, until about an hour after his arrival. At present, she appeared to be working up to a fit of temper.
"You made David stay last night?" she demanded. "You made him spend the night at your house—when he was so agitated? Hadn't you got enough out of him?"
"It is your fault," he said. "You are the one who makes me feel sorry for him."
"Sorry?" she echoed. "Sorry?"
"He was unhappy. You would think me hardhearted if I let him return to his lonely townhouse to grieve over Lettice Woodleigh, and all his terrible sins. One of which, I remind you, may well be murder. Which means he may have poisoned my coffee or cut my throat. Yet you do not say, 'Esmond, you are very brave.' Instead it is 'Esmond, you are a villain.'"
"Esmond," she said, "you are exceedingly provoking."
The faintest of smiles—not discernible at this distance—was the only indication that he'd noticed: not "monsieur," but "Esmond," she'd said. At last.
"You are vexed because you knew nothing of Lord Avory's tendre for Lettice Woodleigh," he said. "You are vexed because he confided this to me, not you. But you have not spent half your waking hours in his company. You knew something troubled him, but you had no opportunity to collect clues. Also, you are not so devious and manipulative as I."
She snatched up a rag and vigorously wiped the brush handle. "Very well, I am vexed," she said. "I cannot understand why Fiona never even hinted of the matter to me—of David's interest in her sister, of her own dislike of him, purely because he was Francis' friend. I can't believe that of her."
"She never told you why her sister was sent to Dorset?" he asked.
"I didn't know Lettice was sent. I assumed she wished to visit."
"With a widowed aunt, many miles away from her family and friends, at Christmastime?"
"I really didn't give it much thought."
"It is interesting that so much occurred during this time," he said meditatively. "The Sherburnes' marital difficulties, Miss Woodleigh's banishment to Dorset, your husband becoming persona non grata to Sherburne and his followers." He paused briefly. "Your decision to stop painting portraits."
"That last is obvious enough, I should think," she said. "Self-preservation. When matters reached the point where Francis' enemies started taking out their frustrations on me, I made a strategic retreat."
"Indeed, matters did reach a point," he said. "Some kind of crisis, it would seem."
She took up another brush and started cleaning the daylights out of that.
"What do you think?" he asked.
Her brow knit. "I think it was a crisis," she said. "When Sherburne wrecked the painting, I knew that Francis had crossed some dangerous line. There's a code about these things. Married ladies may indulge in discreet affairs—but after they've produced at least one heir to secure the line. Lady Sherburne hadn't done so yet. According to the rules, the gentlemen must consider her out of bounds. To cross that boundary is bad enough. To cross it with the wife of a highly influential friend sounds like self-destruction."
She began scraping her palette clean. Ismal waited, curious whether she'd make more connections.
After a minute, she spoke again. "It's possible that Fiona sent Lettice to Dorset to keep her out of harm's way. Francis did bear Fiona a grudge. The day he died, he ordered me to stay away from her."
"What reason did he give?"
"Don't act stupid," she said. "He thought she was trying to forward an affair between you and me. Which she was. Which you know perfectly well."
"Indeed, I am exceedingly fond of her."
"She's been trying to get me to have an affair for years," she said crossly. "Just to upset Francis. But you were the only one who did upset him. Naturally, she was delighted."
"And I was delighted to accommodate her," he said.
"Esmond."
"Madame."
"Don't be tiresome. I'm trying to think." She flung the palette down, and began to pace before the heavily draped windows. Watching her pace was far more interesting than watching Avory, Ismal reflected. To and fro she swept, skirts rustling, hairpins scattering.
"Fiona does tend to shield those she cares about," she said after a few tumultuous turns. "Including me. She never mentioned her suspicions about Francis and Lady Sherburne until a fortnight ago. Until then, I didn't know Sherburne had actually snubbed Francis publicly. But now that I think of it, she was constantly pressing me to go away to this house party or that—wherever Francis wouldn't be—and nagging me to leave him and live with her instead. At the time, I simply put it down to her dislike of him. But now it seems more likely she was worried about my living with a man who was, apparently, becoming more irrational and dangerous by the day."
"From all I have heard, this seems to have been the case," Ismal said.
"Then it makes sense she'd send Lettice away," she said. "Fiona wouldn't want her within fifty miles of Francis."
"You said he bore a grudge against Lady Carroll. You think she feared he would try to hurt her through her sister?"
"That's about the only way he could hurt Fiona."
"Then you think Miss Woodleigh's exile had nothing to do with Lord Avory's interest in her?"
She mulled over the question, pacing again. "Damn. I don't know. Fiona's fiercely protective of Lettice. And David did stick with Francis, after all the others had turned their backs, evidently. Even I have to wonder what was wrong with David. If he truly wished to wed Lettice, you'd think he'd go out of his way to earn her family's approval: drop undesirable companions, change his ways—offer some evidence of reforming, in other words."
"He seems to view his situation as hopeless," Ismal said. "Apparently, he has believed this for some time. Certainly, whatever troubles him is so distressing that he will not confide it even to me."
"But you must have some theory," she said. "Some inkling what the terrible sin might be."
"Murder is one possibility."
She stopped short and threw him an exasperated look. "Murder wouldn't have been troubling David back in early December. Unless you think he's been going about killing people for months."
"That is possible. He may be insane." Ismal arranged the pillows more comfortably under his head, and sank back. "Or maybe it is a sexual matter," he murmured.
There was a long, pulsing silence.
Then she plunked herself upon a stool and took up her sketchbook and pencil.
"What do you think?" he asked.
"If David can't bring himself to speak of that sort of thing even to you, it must be truly appalling," she said caustically. "And if you can't deduce what it is, it's obviously far beyond the bounds of my paltry expertise."
"Sometimes a man will confide to a woman what he would not to another man."
"I assure you, David and I were never on terms even approaching that degree of intimacy."
"Perhaps he confided in a mistress, then? Perhaps you know the names of them?"
"None. Not a one. Never heard a word about it."
"Nor I," he said. "Not even in Paris. Strange."
"Not strange at all," she said. "Some men are very discreet."
Not that discreet, Ismal thought, closing his eyes. Avory had gone to Helena Martin's after all. Half the Beau Monde's male population had been there, along with London's most famous courtesans. It was hardly the place to seek a discreet liaison, for these were women who sought the limelight. They were the social leaders of the demimonde.
It was far more likely that Avory attended such events to keep up appearances. But to conceal what?
"You aren't going to sleep, are you?" his hostess tartly inquired.
"I am thinking," he said. "You and Lord Avory pace. I lie quietly."
"Yes. Well. Do make yourself perfectly at home, monsieur."
"This sofa is very comfortable. You keep it here for models?"
"I haven't done a life study since I came to London. Can't have naked people lying about. It disconcerts the servants."
"For your own rest, then."
"For reading," she said. "Sometimes I do read."
"Yes, this is a good place to read and to think," he said. "Comfortable. Close to the fire. You have arranged your studio well. One area for working, by the windows, where you have the best light. And one area for relaxation."
"I'm so relieved you approve."
"Indeed, it is an intriguing topic—the way you arrange your life—but I should be thinking of the inquiry. You are distracting me," he chided gently.
There was a small flurry at the other end of the studio, then silence, but for the whisper of pencil upon paper. Though the room became quiet, it was not tranquil. The atmosphere continued to pulse for a while, like an unquiet sea, until at last she became absorbed in her work.
Ismal tried to absorb himself in his own, in puzzling out the riddle of Lord Avory. He was not doing very well. He would concentrate better at home, he knew.
But he didn't want to concentrate better. Here, he was surrounded by her, by what she was: the rows of art books, the clutter of artistic materials, their distinctive odors mixed with the occasional whiff of smoke from the fire, and now and again, the teasing hint of her own scent, carried by the mischievous draught.
Here, Ismal could listen to—and feel—her working, making her magic with such humble implements: pencil, brush, paint, canvas, paper. He possessed many gifts, but this had been denied him. Her talent intrigued and excited him—the mind, the hands...those beautiful, restless hands.
They were working now, making their mysterious artist's love to pencil and paper.
He wondered if he'd become her subject again. He hoped so. He wanted her to attend only to him, and fix on him...and come to him. He wanted her to come and caress him with the honey of her eyes…and with her passionate artist's hands…and bring her mouth to his as she had done the other night.
She'd done so against her will, because it could not withstand his. This time, however, Ismal knew he must work harder. This time, she must believe it was all her own doing. And so, once more he concentrated his will upon her, but with more dangerous cunning, for he let his breathing become steady and even, as in sleep.
Leila glanced at the clock. He had lain there more than an hour without moving a muscle. He must be asleep. She looked down at the sketch she'd made. She drew what she saw, and this was a body in repose, a face of almost childlike innocence. So the adult countenance often appeared, in sleep.
It was past two o'clock in the morning. She had to wake him. And send him home.
She shouldn't have to. He had no business falling asleep on her sofa. If he wanted to think—or sleep—he should do it in his own house. Really, his audacity was beyond anything. He was beyond anything.
Her glance flicked from the drawing to the subject and back again.
He was very strange, even for a Frenchman.
One should not generalize, she knew...but that countenance was not French. Somewhere in that noble bloodline some past Delavenne had mixed his blood with something...exotic.
She advanced a few steps, her head tilted to one side. But he did not look exotic—not in the dark, mysterious way one associated with the Orient, for instance. Perhaps not so far east, then. Perhaps no farther east than one of the Italian states. Certainly Botticelli had found his like centuries ago in Florence.
At the moment, the count seemed even more fragile than a Botticelli creation. But he often gave that impression even when awake, she thought as she neared the sofa. She knew he was about as delicate as a jungle cat. And just as dangerous. She'd seen them in menageries. They looked like big versions of house cats, some of them like kittens. They would look up at you with those big sleepy eyes, and you'd want to stroke them. Until they moved. Until you watched them prowl their cages, muscles rippling under the sleek coats.
Her face grew very warm, recalling: a dance, when she had stumbled...that moment, at Francis' door, when she'd fallen apart...strong arms wrapped around her...the confusion and the dangerous warmth. And the other night...I need you, he'd said. And in an instant he'd made her need him, desperately.
Though she had reached the sofa, she only stood there, gazing at his hands. His left arm lay across his flat stomach. His right, angled upon the pillows, partly framed his head, and the hand—that poor broken and mended hand—was curled as though it lightly clasped some invisible object.
She wanted to slide her fingers into the beckoning curve.
Into danger.
Her gaze slid lower, to the pale gold hair, slightly tousled now.
She wanted to slide her fingers into that silken disorder and muss it more.
Two silken strands had fallen over his eyebrow. She ached to smooth them back. Ached unbearably.
Don't, she told herself, even as her hand lifted to his face.
She brushed the hair from his forehead...and his eyes opened, and before she could snatch her hand away, his long fingers closed round her wrist.
"No," she gasped.
"Please."
He simply held her, exerting no pressure at all. She might have withdrawn, knew she ought, but she couldn't. It was as though the blue depths into which she gazed were some vast sea, and she were caught in the undertow. Heart hammering, she brought her mouth to his.
She met a too familiar tenderness and a sigh like welcome. He slid his fingers into her hair—to hold her, but so gently, as though he'd lured a bird into deep into her mouth. Then his arms lashed about her, and in one surging movement he pulled her off balance and onto the narrow sofa. His powerful body closed about her, a human trap of steely muscle, weight, and heat. The languorous pleasure vanished like any dream. In its place throbbed the reality of six feet of potent male animal, stirring now, restless…and dangerous.
She told herself to break away—now, before the restlessness blazed to masculine impatience. But already his hands were dragging over her, searing her flesh through layers of bombazine, cambric, and silk. She knew how to fight—she'd done it often enough—but she didn't know how to fight herself and him at the same time. She didn't know how not to want him—his scent, his heat, his hard, powerful body.
His hand, too sure, too knowing, closed over her breast in brazen possession, and she couldn't raise her own hand to push him away. Her aching flesh strained against the confining fabric, and her fingers itched to rip the cloth and bare herself to him. And while she fought not to betray herself, he was ravishing her mouth with slow, sensuous strokes. It was a sinful promise, a bold mimicry of the act of love, yet it ravished her needy heart, and made her ache to be loved, sin or no. To be his, however he wanted. Even to be wanted, for this moment, was enough. She was burning. She couldn't bear to burn alone. And so she urged him on, sinking into the hot liquor of his kiss, while she gave her body over to the simmering command of his hands.
She heard the low moan, deep in his throat, felt the shudder that ran through his frame and left it taut with tension. If sense or reason or will had remained to her, she would have fled then, in that his hands and the touch were meant only to quiet and reassure, not to imprison. He'd held her so the other night, and still she didn't know how to resist. She could no more fight the light clasp than she could the tender claim of his mouth.
This time, she'd come of her own volition, drawn not by guile or art, but by her own wicked desire...for more of what he'd given her before, though she knew it was a lure to ruin. He'd made no secret of his intentions. Now, he'd know that her rejection had been a lie. But right now, she didn't care. All she wanted was his lazily tender kiss, the caress of his fingers, trailing over her scalp so languidly that he might have been asleep still.
For this moment, she could almost pretend he was asleep, and she was in his dream. She gave herself up to the dream, and to the intoxication of his kiss, and the churning emotion inside her eased and curled into simple pleasure.
So the hand he still so lightly clasped curled in pleasure against the slippery fabric of the pillow. So, by slow degrees, did her taut muscles ease. The sensuous touch upon her scalp seeped under the skin and made slow trails of warmth through her neck and shoulders and on to the very ends of her fingers. In the same way, his lazily tender kiss sent shimmering trails of sweetness through her, to steal deep into her troubled, wanton heart.
She knew he wasn't asleep, that intent and calculation informed his idlest caress. She knew this was seduction, a beguiling prelude to her undoing. But the awareness was Reason's voice. Faint and far away, it warned in vain, because she was lost in him, beyond heeding anything but his coaxing mouth and tongue, his sinfully seductive hands.
He drew her down, and she went without a struggle...and tasted the first spark of fire as he drove last remaining moment before his control slipped. But she wanted him to ache and shudder and grow savage...for her.
He raked his hands down and, roughly cupping her hips, dragged her against his groin. He pushed against her, and through the frustrating barriers of silk and wool she felt the thrust of hot male arousal. He could have had her then, in a moment. He had only to drag up her skirts and tear away the flimsy garments beneath and drive into her. She was ready, hot and damp. But his devilish control wouldn't break. He held her where he wanted her, his fingers kneading the ripe curves he'd captured, while slowly, rhythmically, he moved against her, a tormenting promise that turned her mind black with lust.
She wanted sin. She wanted to rip away the curst garments and touch that throbbing heat, and make it hers, make him hers. She wanted him inside her, driving deep, overpowering, possessing. She wanted to drown in the hot, drunken rapture he promised.
Wanted. Wanted. Wanted.
So very eager...insatiable...
She saw then, and couldn't drive the image away...herself, writhing in Francis' arms...his laughter…her helplessness…and after…sick and ashamed.
A sob caught in her throat, and she wrenched away, and scrambled up from the sofa.
She was fighting for breath and her limbs were like India rubber, unwilling to support her. All the same, she made herself move—and not look back. She couldn't look him in the eye and see her shame reflected there.
It was her shame. She couldn't blame anyone but herself. She was fully aware of the demoralizing effect her harlot's body had on men, and Esmond had told her plainly enough he wanted that body. She knew he was treacherous. She knew she should have kept away.
Instead, she'd let beauty lure her, and pleasure hold her, then slipped almost instantly to wanting sin, thinking sin. She pressed her fist to her temples and wished she could tear her brain out.
She heard his voice, and knocked the stool aside. It crashed to the floor, drowning him out.
She swept her arm over the worktable. Brushes, charcoal, paints, pencils, jars, sketchbooks, clattered to the floor.
"Madame."
No. She wouldn't look, wouldn't listen. She grabbed the easel and flung it down, and knocked over the glassware. Then she fled the room, slamming the door behind her.
Ismal gazed about him at the wreckage and waited for his heart to slow down. Then he left the studio and headed up the stairs to her bedroom. He knocked on the door.
"Madame," he said.
"Go away. Go to the Devil."
He tried the handle. It wouldn't move. "Madame, please unlock the door."
"Go away\"
It took mere seconds to locate a stray hairpin near the head of the stairs. He bent it and returned to the door.
"This lock is worthless," he said, inserting the pin. "A child can pick it."
"You are not to—Esmond—Don't you even think of—"
The door shuddered as she hurled her weight against it. But he'd already released the lock. He pushed the door open, and she backed away.
"You bastard."
"Yes, I know you are vexed," he said. "I am not so tranquil myself." Gently he shut the door behind him. "That is a very bad lock. I will tell Gaspard to install a better one."
"If you don't leave this instant, I shall tell Gaspard to throw you out." She snatched up a poker. "I'm warning you, Esmond."
"I advise you not to strike me with the poker," he said. "There will be much blood, and it will make you sick. Also, if you kill me, there will be no one to help you deal with the police. There will be another inquest, more disagreeable than the last one."
He approached, extracted the poker from her stiff fingers, and returned it to the stand.
"I cannot believe you have the effrontery to come in here—to break into my room," she said in a choked voice. "I don't want to talk to you. I don't even want to look at you. I cannot believe you can be so—so insensitive."
"I am not insensitive," he said. "I have feelings, and you have hurt them. What did I do that you thrust me from you, as though I were some filthy dog?"
"That's not what I did. I left."
"In a rage. What did I do that was so abominable?"
"It wasn't you!" She retreated, pressing her hands to her temples. "It's—I'm sorry. I know I gave you every reason to believe—Gad."
She stared at the carpet, her face crimson. "I know I behaved in a—I made an advance. I know it wasn't you. I'd told you no—and then I...succumbed. As they all do. Crawling over you like—like the rest of them. Just as he said. Like maggots. Just like every other wh-whore." Her voice broke.
"You are so crazy." He scooped her up in his arms and swiftly deposited her upon the bed. While she was still trying to catch her breath, he propped up the pillows behind her and nudged her back against them.
"You are not spending the night," she said shakily.
"That has become obvious," he said. "I am here because I wish to know how I distressed you. I do not know what I have done—whether I alarmed you or disgusted you—or how I did this."
She rubbed her eyes. "It has nothing to do with your curst technique."
"So I am discovering." He gave her his handkerchief. “This appears to be a question of character."
"And morals. Mine, that is. Since you haven't any."
He seated himself on the bed near her feet, and leaned against the bedpost. "I do have rules, though," he told her. "One of them is not to become romantically entangled during a delicate investigation. It is distracting, and distraction at best impedes efficiency. At worst, it is dangerous. The trouble, in your case, is that the effort to resist becomes a worse distraction."
She pushed her hair out of her face. "To resist? You've shown no signs of resisting. On the contrary—"
"Yes, I leave it to you and, worse, I try to make resisting as difficult for you as I can." He smiled. "I know. But I cannot resist, you see?"
She scowled down at the handkerchief. "It hardly matters what you resist or don't. I started it—and took my damned time about ending it."
"That does not make you a whore. And certainly not a maggot—'crawling' over me, you said."
"Well, I did throw myself at you, didn't I?"
"'Crawling...like maggots...just as he said.' Those were your words a moment ago. Just as who said? Your husband?"
She began to fold the handkerchief. "In Paris, before we left, Francis told me the tarts swarmed over you like maggots on a ripe cheese."
"A vivid image." He considered. "Calculated, very likely. It is an image you would find especially repellent, non? And one which I should have the greatest difficulty eradicating. It appears he made it so that any attraction you might feel for me would give you great self-disgust, for you would see yourself as another maggot. Very clever," he added softly, "the way in which he poisoned your mind against me." He wondered what other kinds of poison Beaumont had fed her, and whether it was simply the one revolting image which had driven her away.
"Was it poison?" she asked without looking up. She was folding the handkerchief into smaller and smaller squares. "Was he lying?"
"When could he have observed such a thing?" he returned. "At orgies, perhaps? Is that how you imagine I spend my time? Lying in some brothel or opium den, with naked females by the dozens, writhing in lust about me?"
Her rising color told him he'd guessed accurately.
"Why not?" she said. "I've certainly noted the debilitating effect you have on apparently respectable women at reputable gatherings."
"I have noticed you have a similar effect on men," he said. "Yet I do not imagine hosts of them crawling over your beautiful body. Only one. Me. And the image does not repel in any way. Au contraire," he said softly. "I find it most appealing."
She looked up. "Because you're a man. You've nothing to lose. As long as you keep within certain very wide boundaries, every conquest is marked to your credit."
By heaven, could she think nothing but ill of him? But this wasn't her fault, Ismal reminded himself. Her husband had poisoned her mind.
"Only if I flaunt them," he said, striving for patience. "And as to conquest—that is a matter of perspective. I told you my rules. And so, in our case, who has conquered whom, do you think?"
"I never cast lures!" she cried. "Even tonight. I only came to wake you up. And then..." She pressed the heel of her hand to her temple.
Just as she had done earlier, Ismal recalled. She'd made the same gesture a moment before she'd had the tantrum. Warily, he came off the bed. "Your head aches?" he asked.
Her eyes ominously bright with unshed tears, she turned away.
And Ismal cursed himself for what he'd done, whatever it was. Many people had such vulnerable spots, he knew: places where all forms of trouble—shock, grief, guilt, fear—settled and became a chronic physical ailment. His own troubles sometimes settled upon the scar in his side. Though the wound had healed years ago, it could throb as though freshly opened.
So her head must throb, because he'd opened a wound, made trouble. Because he was trouble to her, he amended unhappily. Years before, he'd opened the door that let Beaumont into her life, to wound and scar her, and now Ismal, the cause, reaped the results. A fitting punishment, he thought as he moved to the head of the bed.
"I can make it go away," he said gently.
"Don't touch me."
The words hurt more than he could have imagined. He wanted to take her in his arms, kiss and caress, and drive all the trouble away with sweet pleasure. He wanted to hold her, shield her from all that caused her pain. Yet he knew shame hurt her most at this moment, and he was the cause. The only way to ease her pain was to tell the truth.
"It was not your doing," he said. "I was a villain to let you think so. I pretended to be asleep, so that you would come to wake me."
Still she wouldn't look at him. "I didn't have to touch you."
The self-loathing he heard in her voice twisted like a blade in his heart.
"I invited it," he said. "I know very well how to invite—in ways you cannot begin to imagine. And whether you had touched me or not, it would have made no difference. All I needed was to have you within reach. The rest was...seduction. For which I have no small talent. And, since you are strongly opposed to being seduced, I exerted this talent to the utmost."
She turned a wary golden gaze upon him. "Talent," she said. "You're telling me it was all guile—planned, from the start?"
"I could not help it," he said. "I want you very much. I have wanted you...for a very long time. I do not know how to make it stop. It is unmanageable, this desire. And so, I am unmanageable. I cannot even apologize. I am not sorry, except that I have distressed you. But even that is selfish. The truth is, I am sorry because you were distressed enough to leave my arms." He paused. "The truth is, I came to lure you back."
"To soften my heart," she said.
"Yes." He stepped back from the bed. "And in another moment, I shall be on my knees, begging you to take pity. I am abominable. A great problem."
"Yes," she said. "Yes, you are. Go away, Esmond. Now."
He went promptly because, though he'd spoken as truthfully as he could—more truthfully than he'd done in years—he could not overcome the habits of a lifetime. He had missed nothing—the way her eyes softened while he spoke, the way her posture eased and her body shifted ever so slightly, inclining toward him—and every instinct had urged him to take advantage. He would have fallen to his knees and begged, conscienceless beast that he was. Because he hadn't lied. He didn't know how to stop wanting her. And so nothing—honor, wisdom, caution, even pride—could keep him from trying.