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 Fiona 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.
"Also, I shall understand if you do not wish to snoop behind your good friend's back," he said. "Perhaps you prefer to leave this disagreeable business to me?"
She returned her attention to the paper, and considered. "No, I'll take Fiona." Her voice was businesslike now. "If I were you, I'd leave Langford to Lady Brentmor, since she's his wife's confidante. But you ought to take David, obviously."
"He left with Norbury yesterday for Dorset," he said. "That may serve us well. While he is away, Nick and I—in disguise, of course—may be able to learn something from the servants."
"That leaves Sherburne and Helena Martin." She frowned.
"I shall leave Sherburne to you," he said magnanimously.
"You jolly well won't," she said. "I'll take Helena."
"Most certainly not. You will have plenty to do with Sherburne and Lady Carroll."
"I'll take the women. You handle the men."
He made himself speak calmly. "This is not rational. Your friend is one matter. Helena is an altogether different problem. In the first place, you cannot cultivate the friendship of a prostitute without risking scandal. In the second, I ask you to recollect that she has dangerous friends—not to mention a past that will not bear close scrutiny. If she—"
"According to Lady Brentmor, Helena is in Malcolm Goodridge's keeping at present." Gold fire flashed in her eyes. "If you expect to be given private audiences with Helena, you'll have to make it worth her while. I greatly doubt she'll risk a comfortable berth with Goodridge merely for the privilege of gazing into your lovely blue eyes. And if you think I'll tolerate your acquiring an English harem, I strongly advise you to think again."
"Leila, it is most unprofessional to allow jealousy to supersede caution."
"Unprofessional I may be," she said. "But most certainly not incautious." She stood up. "If you begin hovering about La Martin, you'll make two deadly enemies. Malcolm Goodridge—" She smiled. "And guess who else?"
He should have realized that matters with her would never go precisely as he wished. Ismal had been prepared to let her deal with Sherburne. He was at least a gentlemen. Also, he wasn't the cleverest of men, and Leila had managed him well enough before—had him eating out of her hand, as Nick had said. Helena Martin, however, was a far more dangerous species.
"I know you have a wonderful mind," he said. "But in certain cases, that will not make up for experience. With Helena Martin, you will be out of your depth. She grew up in the thieves' kitchen, and she did not achieve her success by chance or luck."
"I lived ten years with Francis Beaumont," she said, moving away. "My father was Jonas Bridgeburton. I believe I am up to her weight." She headed for the door. "All I need is a pretext for speaking to her. Do you want to help, or do you prefer to let me stumble about in my own amateurish way?"
Five days later, Leila stood in the front hall of Helena Martin's house. She had come without Ismal's permission or knowledge. She had devised her plan without him, because he had done everything but help. Instead, over the last five days, he'd tried every way he could to distract her. He was very good at it, Leila had to admit. With a less obstinate subject, he might have succeeded.
He distracted her in bed—not to mention on the floor, in a chair, on the window seat, against the armoire, and on the garret stairs. Lest that not be sufficient to occupy her, he exerted himself to addle her in company. He sent sultry silent messages across dinner tables, drawing rooms, and ballrooms. He tried her composure and her wits with his unique brand of double entendre. It didn't matter that no one else discerned his wicked meanings. Leila did, and it took all her concentrated will not to betray herself.
She didn't waste her breath berating him afterwards, when they were alone. Obviously, if she couldn't handle a bit of teasing, he'd never believe she could handle the likes of Helena Martin. Besides, Leila couldn't pretend she objected to the imaginative locations or positions for lovemaking, any more than she could complain about his stamina. As to the teasing—she found it rather exciting to play secret games with her lover in public.
Bridgeburton's daughter, apparently, was in her true element at last. She was living a life of sin and secrets, and she was wicked enough to enjoy it.
Which wasn't to say her pleasure was unadulterated. Fiona's possible guilt cast its shadow. David was another, albeit not so heavy, shadow. And there was the nightmare, regular as clockwork.
Every morning it jerked Leila from a dead sleep. The same gloomy hallway. The same two men—one massive brute and one dark, small one with Cassius' "lean and hungry look." And trapped between them, Ismal, murmuring words in a foreign language. He would turn his head, and the light would shimmer over pale gold…then the glint of the blade...a gash, blood red, and blue poison dripping into it. Then came the buzzing...and the suffocating blackness. And at last she'd wake, shivering and sick with dread.
Helena Martin's French maid returned to the hall, and Leila quickly jerked her mind to the present.
The servant apologized for keeping Madame waiting, and led her to the parlor. Eloise, who'd insisted upon coming, did not—thank heaven—insist upon following, but remained straight, silent, and coolly expressionless by the front door. Just before entering the parlor, Leila threw her bodyguard a grateful smile. Ismal had told the two servants that Madame Beaumont was not to be allowed within a mile of Helena Martin. Eloise's loyalty, however, inclined to the mistress of the house.
Leila was still smiling as the door closed behind her. She met Helena's wary gaze.
"It is rude to scold a guest," Helena said, "but really, Mrs. Beaumont, you ought to know better. If word of this gets out, your reputation will be in tatters."
"Then I shall have to return to Paris," Leila said. "Fortunately, I know the language and can work there as well as I do here. Our professional requirements, you see, are not entirely unlike."
"Shocking thing to say." Helena gestured at a richly upholstered sofa, and Leila obediently sat. Her hostess perched stiffly on a chair opposite. "Next, I suppose, you'll be offering to do my portrait."
"I should like that, very much," Leila said. "If I could think how to manage it without sending Mr. Herriard into an apoplexy. That, however, is not my present errand."
She opened her reticule and withdrew a ruby and diamond ear drop. "This is rather awkward, but the thing's been plaguing me since I found it, and I'm sure whoever it belongs to would like to have it back."
She handed it to Helena, who said nothing.
"I've begun rearranging the—my late husband's room," Leila lied. "My servant found the earring wedged in a crack under his bed. I suppose that's why the police never found it, though they tore the house apart, looking for heaven knows what. But Eloise, you see, is obsessively thorough—"
"It isn't mine, Mrs. Beaumont." Helena's face was a cool blank. "I'm partial to rubies, but this definitely isn't mine."
"I do beg your pardon." Leila let out a sigh. "It's deuced awkward but—well, I might as well be straightforward. I'm aware Francis brought women home from time to time when I was away. And I did recollect—that is, you and I have stood near each other at the theater once or twice, and I noticed your perfume. A distinctive blend, I must say. And—to blunder on—I had occasion to notice it on Francis—or in his room—I'm not sure when exactly. But not long ago, or it shouldn't have stuck in my mind. It must have been the last time I noticed such a thing before he died."
Helena's dark eyebrows rose very slightly. "Another woman's perfume. How odd."
"I have an abominably keen sense of smell," Leila explained. "Like a hound, Francis used to say. But I'm obviously not a good detective." She was aware of Helena's expression sharpening several degrees. "I'm sure you wouldn't be so missishly impractical as to deny owning such an expensive item. It's not as though I'd be shocked, and it's been years since his infidelities troubled me."
"If it were mine, I wouldn't deny it, Mrs. Beaumont. I'm certainly not missish."
"Yes, of course. Well, my deductive powers seem to have failed me this time." Leila shook her head. "How disappointing. I had hoped—that is, whoever it does belong to had to work hard enough for it, I daresay. And I strongly doubt that whatever Francis paid her would make up for the loss."
Helena looked down at the earring in her hand. "If she was careless enough to leave it behind, she deserves to lose it. It's very bad manners to leave evidence for the wife to find. I wouldn't trouble myself about this particular whore's loss if I were you, Mrs. Beaumont. She's obviously not worth your trouble."
She gave the earring back. Her fingers barely touched Leila's hand, but that fleeting contact was icy. "I've heard you've been busy with good deeds," Helena added with the smallest of smiles. "Sherburne. Avory. Patching up Beaumont's damage, people say. You are quite the talk of London. Still, correcting the mistakes of stupid little tarts is carrying it too far. Not worth the risk—to your reputation, that is—to consort with the likes of us. If the earring troubles you, I suggest you leave it in the nearest poor box, for the deserving needy."
Ismal resisted the urge to peer out the window of the hackney. The exterior of Helena Martin's house would tell him nothing, and he must not risk being observed. The sky was rapidly darkening with an approaching storm, but was not nearly dark enough. He took out his pocket watch and studied that instead.
Leila had been inside twenty minutes at least. He'd arrived too late to prevent her—which was his own fault. He should have suspected trouble the instant she stopped plaguing him about Helena.
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."
Taking her into his arms was a fatal error. Once he held her, it was very difficult to let go. It was very difficult not to bring his mouth to hers again. Then it was impossible to make do with one quick, chaste kiss.
He lingered. The kiss deepened. The warmth swirled through him, and the sweetness. He'd just brought his hands to her cloak fastenings when the carriage door swung open. Wet wind gusted in, and a large umbrella appeared at the door.
"If you don't hurry, Leila," called a feminine voice, "this curst gale will blow me to kingdom come."
Ismal jerked his hands away from the cloak, just as Lady Carroll poked her head through the door.
In the midst of the storm, as in the eye of a hurricane, there was a short, sharp silence.
"My lady," Ismal said politely. "What a delightful surprise."
"Monsieur," said Lady Carroll, green eyes gleaming. "My sentiments exactly."
Some hours later, Leila sat at the dinner table, watching Ismal crack nuts while she tried to formulate a tactful response to the issue he'd just raised with her. This would have been difficult in any case. It was rendered doubly so by the complication he'd added: in the course of escorting Fiona home, he'd let her know just where he'd met up with Leila. He had also given Fiona the same explanation for Leila's being at Helena Martin's that Leila had planned to give Langford.
She decided to deal with the complication first and hope he'd forget the other issue...for about a year.
"It never occurred to me to explain our encounter that way," Leila said carefully. "That was clever of you. And as usual, it was at least partly true. I certainly didn't plan to meet you there."
He dropped a nutmeat onto her plate. "That is not why I told her. You had spoken of connections and timing. I think there are more connections than we have perceived. I believe this may be why we have fixed on these five people, of all the hundreds who might wish to kill your husband. Our instincts tell us something, but we do not yet understand what it is."
He glanced down at her plate. She shook her head. "I've had enough. I want to hear about our instincts."
"Today you told me you had a feeling Helena Martin was the key," he said. "That gave me some ideas. So I tried your technique with Lady Carroll. I mentioned Helena as a test and watched the reaction. She is not so hardened a character as Helena. Her Ladyship was most disturbed, then quickly tried to cover her discomposure by putting me on the defensive. She knows very well there is no preventing your doing whatever you set your obstinate mind to. Yet she insisted to me that you would not be getting yourself into scrapes if I were not so lackadaisical about courting you."
So much for hoping he'd forget about that issue.
"She was talking utter rot," Leila said. "One doesn't even consider courting a widow until she's out of full mourning."
He cracked another nut and popped the meat into his mouth.
"A year," she explained. "Fiona knows that perfectly well."
"A year," he said. "That is a very long time."
"I think it's one of the few sensible rules," she said, squirming inwardly. "It would be very easy for a woman to make a great mistake when her mind is disordered by grief."
After a moment's sober consideration, he nodded. "Even if she is not grief-stricken, she might be lonely, and so, vulnerable. It would be unfair to exploit her feelings during this time. There is the matter of freedom to consider as well. A widow is permitted more latitude than a maiden, and she does not answer to a husband. It does not seem unreasonable to grant a woman at least twelve months of such freedom."
"All of which Fiona ought to understand," Leila said, frowning down at her plate. "She's certainly been in no hurry to give up her freedom. She's had six years."
"I agree she was unreasonable. But she was alarmed, as I said. Still, I am glad we have discussed this. If she presses the matter, I shall explain that you and I have discussed it, and I shall repeat what you have told me. So I will inform everyone who questions me about my intentions."
She looked up, her heart thudding. "Everyone? Who else would—"
"Better ask who else has already questioned me. In addition to Nick, Eloise, and Gaspard, there is Sherburne—who speaks for multitudes, apparently. Next it will be Langford, I think." He rose. "Unless I miss my guess, he will have heard from two women by tomorrow: Helena Martin and Lady Carroll."
She stared dumbly at him, unable to collect her thoughts. They darted from Sherburne to Fiona, from Intentions to Connections.
"It is complicated," he said as he drew her up from the chair. "But we can sort it out more comfortably upstairs. Tonight we shall have plenty of time for conversation." He smiled. "Also, I believe there was some mention earlier of perversions.