With two possible suspects so intensely occupied, and no other female in the vicinity promising sufficient distraction, Ismal focused on the third man on the list: Lord Avory, the Duke of Langford's heir. Ismal noted that the marquess was tall, fair, and aristocratically handsome—and he didn't belong here.
Though he was trying to belong by flirting with a red-haired ballet dancer, Ismal was certain His Lordship's heart wasn't in it. A man bent on pleasure with an accommodating female would not have that hunted look in his eyes.
Since they'd met at Beaumont's funeral, it was easy enough for Ismal to strike up a conversation. And, since the young man didn't want to be where he was, it was even easier to detach him from the redhead and extract him from the party altogether.
A half hour later, they were sharing a bottle of wine in a private room of a club on the fringes of St. James'. Ismal's admiration of the Canaletto landscape hanging over the mantel had led to a discussion of art and so, very soon to Leila Beaumont, whose talents Avory couldn't praise highly enough.
"It isn't simply that she makes excellent representations," the marquess was saying. "It’s that the subject's character and personality truly infuse the work. One day, mark my words, her portraits will be priceless. I'd give anything to have one—of anybody."
"But surely you own one of yourself," Ismal said. "You are a good friend, after all."
Avory studied the contents of his glass. "She hadn't the time."
"I sympathize," Ismal said. "She had no time for me, either. I had almost lost hope until, at Norbury House, Lady Carroll told me that Madame had no new commissions."
"Mrs. Beaumont stopped accepting them after she finished Lady Sherburne's portrait. Near Christmas that was. She'd been working nonstop since moving to London and she wanted a good, long rest, she told me."
"I was unaware of this." Ismal wondered why neither the artist nor Lady Carroll had told him.
"All I comprehended was that there might be time for me. But she had left Norbury House, and so, in the next moment, I was in my carriage, making for London, posthaste." He smiled ruefully. "Little did I know I would be obliged to admit this to a coroner and jury. Yet I cannot regret my action. If not for my vanity and greed for a portrait, I should not have arrived at the Beaumont house when someone, clearly, was needed."
"It must have been ghastly for her." The marquess turned the wineglass in his hands. "I didn't get word until late that night. I called first thing next morning, but Lady Carroll was there by then and—Well, I could only do Mrs. Beaumont the kindness of keeping away, and urge everyone else to do likewise—as she asked. And they all obliged, though I'm sure they were dying of curiosity."
He looked up. "Odd, isn't it? Society is rarely so considerate, even of its own, and she's not—well, one of us, I suppose you'd say, though that sounds hideously snobbish."
Ismal wondered just how many had kept away out of loyalty, and how many out of fear. Beaumont knew secrets. People might worry that his wife was privy to some of them. Ismal wondered whether Avory, for instance, had heard a request or a threat.
"It was good of her friends to respect her privacy," Ismal said.
"Frankly, I was happy to keep away from the inquest. It would have made me wild to watch her being questioned." The glass turned round and round in the marquess' hands. "Father said you were one of the first to testify, and you left immediately after."
"I felt this would be wisest, in the circumstances," Ismal said. "All the men at the inquest, except for her respectable solicitor, were either elderly or plain. I was the only one of her admirers there. I wanted the jury to attend to the proceedings—not to speculate whether I was her lover. Because you and the other fine gentlemen kept away, I was too...conspicuous."
Avory reached for the wine bottle. "I should think you'd be that regardless who was there. You're rather out of the common way."
Ismal knew perfectly well he was. He was also aware the remark was a probe and wondered what exactly Avory was looking for.
He said nothing. He waited.
The marquess refilled their glasses. When this was done and still Ismal didn't speak, a muscle began to work in the younger man's jaw.
"I didn't mean any offense,” Avory said tightly. "Surely you've noticed the women swooning in your vicinity. Even if you've grown inured to that, you must have realized—" He set down the wine bottle. "Well, I am putting my foot in it. As usual."
Ismal's expression was mildly curious, no more.
"I thought you realized you were the exception," Avory went on doggedly. "That is to say, Francis had never been jealous of anyone. He'd never worried about Mrs. Beaumont at all…until you came along. I thought you knew."
The marquess was mightily curious about Beaumont's jealousy. Perhaps Beaumont had dropped some hint of the true reason. He might have done, if he and Avory had been very intimate. That was a reasonable assumption, given Beaumont's attraction to both sexes and the marquess' apparent discomfort with courtesans. It would explain, too, his devotion to a man so much older, and so far beneath him in every way.
There was an easy way to find out.
"Beaumont was tiresome, and most unkind," Ismal said. "I should not say this of your friend, but in truth, he vexed me greatly."
"He could be…vexatious."
"Because he made such a show of jealousy, I could scarcely speak to his wife without stirring scandal," Ismal said. "This was not only inconsiderate of her reputation, but also unfair."
"He wasn't always…considerate."
"I am a reasonable man, I hope," Ismal went on. "If she does not wish the liaison, I must accede to her wishes and make do with whatever small privilege she bestows—a dance, conversation, flirtation. I contented myself accordingly. Why could he not do the same?"
"With Mrs. Beaumont, you mean? I'm afraid I don't—"
"Non, non," Ismal said impatiently. "With me. Never before did I have this problem with another man. I was tactful, I thought. I told him I had no interest in him—in any man—in that way. I—"
"Good God." Avory sprang up from his chair, spilling wine in the process. He quickly—and shakily—set the glass upon the mantel.
One question answered. The marquess hadn't even suspected Beaumont was infatuated with the Comte d'Esmond.
Ismal promptly assumed a deeply chagrined expression. "I beg you will excuse my indelicacy," he said. "In my vexation, I forgot myself and where I was. Such matters are not spoken of openly in your country."
"Not generally." The marquess raked his fingers through his hair. "At least not on such short acquaintance."
"Please forget I mentioned this thing," Ismal said contritely. "I would not dream of offending you—but you are too easy to talk to, and I let my thoughts go straight from my brain to my tongue without reflection."
"Oh, no, I'm not—well, not offended. It’s flattering that you find me easy company." Avory tugged at his neckcloth. "I was just...startled. That is, I knew you upset him. It never occurred to me that he was jealous in—in that way. Well."
He collected his wineglass and returned to his seat. "You'd think, after two years, I'd know better than to be shocked at anything to do with him. Yet he never—I hadn't an inkling."
"Ah, well, I am older—and French."
"I can hardly take it in." Avory drummed his fingers on the chair arm. "He—he mocked them, you see—men of that sort. He called them…'mollying dogs' and—and Tnim boys'—and—well, I daresay you've heard the names."
Beyond doubt, the marquess couldn't have been Beaumont's lover. Why, then, the unsuitable friendship? Was it by choice, or because Beaumont knew something about him? That Avory was another man's lover, then? Unaware that Beaumont was guilty of the same so-called crime, Avory would have been vulnerable to blackmail. That was a good motive for murder, though by no means the only possible scenario.
Which was just as well, Ismal told himself. Pursuing the possibilities would keep his mind busy. Off Madame. For a while at least. "I k
now many names," he said amiably. "In twelve languages."
His companion snatched at the conversational escape route. "Twelve? Indeed. I'm impressed. And are you as fluent in the rest as you are in English?"
Though he hadn't mentioned a time, Leila had assumed Esmond would appear at eight o'clock the following evening. Instead he turned up an hour earlier, unannounced, at her studio door—while she was bent over her sketchbook, wearing the same grubby gown and smock she'd donned after luncheon.
It could have been worse, she told herself. She might have been spattered with paint and stinking of oils and varnish. Not that that would have mattered, either. A man who intended to spend several hours a night plaguing an artist—and who, moreover, appeared without invitation or notice—had no right to expect fashionable perfection.
"I trust you sneaked in the back way," she said, snapping her sketchbook shut.
"Unobserved, I promise." He laid his hat on the empty stool opposite her. "Nonetheless, that task will be much easier when Eloise and Gaspard arrive."
"You mean the Parisian servants, I collect. The 'loyal and trustworthy' ones."
He moved a step nearer. "You have been working," he said, nodding at her sketchbook.
"Not really. Just sketching. Keeping myself busy." She set the sketchbook on top of another and neatly aligned the edges. "I shouldn't do even that during early mourning. It’s disrespectful of the dear departed. On the other hand, Francis would find it hilarious that I kept idle out of grief for him."
"Lord Avory tells me that you ceased accepting portrait commissions more than a month ago. I did not know this was your own decision—that offers were made, but you rejected them."
"I wanted a rest," she said.
"So Lord Avory explained last night."
"Last night?" she echoed, a bit too shrilly. "You saw David last night? But I thought you were going to study my list."
"I did." He took up a pencil and studied it. "Then I went out, and happened to meet the marquess."
She had nothing to be dismayed about, Leila told herself. One could hardly expect the Comte d'Esmond to be innocently tucked into his bed before midnight. She wondered where he'd met David in the middle of the night. At a gambling hall, probably. Or a whorehouse. She shouldn't waste energy feeling disappointed in David. As to Esmond, a night's dissipation was in keeping with his character. Yet an image filled her mind of his devil's hands caressing...someone else...and her temples began to throb.
"He was on your list," said Esmond. "Yet you have some objection."
"Certainly not," she said. "One must assume you know what you're about."
"But you do not like it." He put down the pencil and strolled away to the sofa. Frowning, he sat down and appeared to give the shabby rug his deepest consideration. "Your countenance is all disapproval."
She hoped that was all he saw, though she hadn't any right to disapprove of his amusements. Her feelings about David, on the other hand, she needn't conceal from anybody.
"Oh, very well then," she said. She took up the pencil he'd handled and quickly set it down again. "I don't like it. I didn't like putting David on the list—but you said all of Francis' friends, and I could scarcely leave David off, when he was with Francis so often. But the idea of David as a murderer is ludicrous. Can you actually picture him sneaking poison into Francis' laudanum?"
"Mine is a lively imagination, Madame. You would be surprised at what I can picture."
She was sitting on the opposite side of the room from the fire, and the draught from the windows behind her was a brisk one for early February. The warmth stealing over her face, therefore, could not be ascribed to climatic conditions. Certainly not to his words, either.
It was the cursedly hinting tone, the voice that could make "How do you do?" sound like a double entendre.
Or maybe it couldn't.
More likely the trouble was her own damnably active imagination.
"Very well," she said. "If you want to waste your time, that's your concern—or whoever's paying you. The government, I suppose."
"You are fond of Lord Avory, it would seem."
"He's an intelligent and agreeable young man."
"Not Monsieur Beaumont's customary type of companion."
"Not the average rogue, if that’s what you mean," she said. "But it wasn't at all unusual for Francis to take up with younger and less experienced people."
"And lead them astray?"
"Francis was hardly the sort to lead them in the opposite direction. Most of them came fresh from a Grand Tour of the Continent. He gave them a Grand Tour of the demimonde."
"Young men must sow their wild oats."
"Yes."
"But you wish this young man had not done so."
Really, what use was it to try to keep anything from him? And what was the point? Esmond was investigating a murder. He needed to know everything. He'd warned her yesterday: endless questions, some impertinent.
"I wish David had never met my husband," she said. "He's not like the others, not the typical idle aristocrat. And he does have the most dreadful parents. They haven't the least idea how to manage him. He was never meant to be the heir. I'm not sure he was ever meant to be born. There's a considerable gap between him and Anne, the next youngest," she explained.
"His birth came as a surprise to the parents, perhaps."
She nodded. "There are two more older sisters—I don't remember their names. I never met them. Francis had met the older brother, Charles, ages ago."
"An older brother? Avory did not mention this."
"Charles died about three years ago," Leila said. "A hunting accident. Broke his neck. His mother still wears black."
"She does not accept her loss."
"The Duchess of Langford doesn't seem to accept or understand anything," Leila said. "The duke is even worse. A dukedom is a sizable burden, even for a young man reared to bear it. But his parents haven't helped David at all. They simply expected him to become Charles—adopt all of Charles' interests, friends, likes, and dislikes. Naturally, David rebelled. And, understandably, in the process of asserting his individuality, he went to extremes."
"Madame, you are most enlightening." Esmond rose. "You open some interesting avenues of speculation. The reasons for certain friendships, for example. Not always what they seem. How I wish I could remain to pursue this…and other matters. But I have promised to dine with the marquess, and I must not be late."
And afterward, will you go to a whore? Leila wanted to demand. Your mistress? For all she knew, he had one. It was none of her affair, she reminded herself. "Does that mean we're done for tonight?" she asked.
He crossed the room to her. "I could return afterward. But that, I think, would be most...unwise."
Leila told herself she heard no innuendo. "Undoubtedly," she said. "You and David won't be done much before dawn, I suppose."
"It is impossible to say."
"In any event, you'll be the worse for drink."
"It would appear that you also possess a lively imagination,” he said.
The laughter she heard in his voice made her look up. Yet he wasn't smiling, and his unreadable blue eyes were focused on her hair. "A pin near your ear is falling," he said.
She reached up instantly—and an instant too late. He was already pushing the pin back into place. "Your hair is always so clean," he murmured, without withdrawing his hand.
She could have drawn back or pushed his hand away or protested in some way. But that would let him know how very much he disturbed her—ammunition he'd surely use.
"I couldn't abide it otherwise," she said.
"I wonder, sometimes, how long it is." His gaze slid to hers. "I want to see."
"I don't think—"
"It will be a week before I see you again. The question will plague me."
"I can tell you how long it—A week?" she asked, distracted.
"After Eloise and Gaspard arrive. Until they are here, my coming and going is fraught with in
convenience. Best to keep away meanwhile."
And while he spoke, he pulled out the pin he'd just pushed in, and drew a lock of her hair out between his fingers…and smiled. "Ah, to your waist."
"I could have told you," she said, her heart thudding.
"I wanted to see for myself." He toyed with the thick, tawny strand, his eyes still holding hers. "I like your hair. It is so wonderfully disorderly."
Francis, too, liked her mussed, she could have told him. But she couldn't keep Francis and his taunts in her mind. Esmond's soft voice and light touch drove everything else out.
"I-I couldn't abide to have servants fussing with me," she said. "I can't even sit still for a coiffeuse."
"You arrange your own hair and dress yourself." He glanced down. "That is why all your frocks fasten in front."
It took all her self-control to keep her hands from her bodice. It would be a futile gesture, anyhow, to shield garments he'd already analyzed in detail. She wondered if he'd surmised that her corset fastened in front as well. He'd probably worked out how many inches apart the hooks were, for all she knew. "How very observant," she said.
His smile widened. "The inquiring mind. That is one of the reasons I am so very good at what I do."
A lazy smile it was, sweet and utterly disarming. She fought to keep her guard up. "Perhaps you've forgotten that I'm not a suspect," she said.
"I cannot seem to forget that you are a woman." He was absently twisting the lock of hair round his finger.
"Which means you have to flirt, I see," she said, trying to keep her tone light. "That's not very considerate of David. A while ago—rather a long while—you were worried about being late for dinner with him."
He released a sigh, and the captive tress as well, and took up his hat. "Ah, yes, the tiresome suspects. I comfort myself that at least Lord Avory is interesting company. Too many of your husband's friends, I have noticed, are not shining lights of intellect. They can talk of nothing but sport and women—and women, to them, are merely sport, so it is all the same. But I must cultivate them all, if I hope to learn anything. With Avory as my guide, I shall meet them in their natural habitat and observe them when they are most themselves."