Edenmont had taken Esme away and wed her, Ismal had persisted in mad schemes for revenge on everyone who'd thwarted him. He'd gone to Bridgeburton and forced him to betray all his partner's secrets. After that, the mad race to England… to blackmail Sir Gerald… and steal Esme… and then the bloody climax, when her family had rushed to her rescue. In the ensuing battle on a Newhaven wharf, Ismal had lost his two most devoted followers, Mehmet and Risto, and nearly been killed himself.
He had fully deserved to hang, on several counts. In the course of a few hours, he'd kidnapped a nobleman's wife, tried to kill her husband, and succeeded in killing her uncle. But the family couldn't prosecute him. A trial would have exposed Sir Gerald's crimes, and the taint of treason would have clung to his family, making them social outcasts.
For their sake, Ismal's infamies had been hushed up, and he was sent away on Captain Nolcott's ship, bound for New South Wales.
Quentin interrupted Ismal's grim recollections. "Mrs. Beaumont obviously didn't remember you."
"She could not have observed much before Risto spotted her," Ismal said. "As I recall, the hall was poorly lit, and I stood there but a few moments. The drug would have clouded her mind. And it was ten years ago. A long time." If she had remembered, he assured himself, he would have known, even if she held her tongue. He would have sensed it. All the same, he was uneasy.
"Still, she is intelligent and observant," he said. "It would be best to take no chances. The Brentmor family must be apprised of the situation. None of them knows I am here."
Except for Jason Brentmor, Ismal had not seen any of the Brentmor family since the day he'd been carried, nearly dead, onto the ship. Before he left, he'd made his peace with them all, according to the custom of his country. According to those rites, his soul was wiped clean of the shame. Yet his pride could not endure facing those who'd witnessed his humiliation.
"Lady Edenmont's expecting her fourth child any day now, so they're all at Mount Eden at present," said Quentin. "Except for Jason, who's in Turkey with his wife. I'll drive out and explain matters. I assume you prefer they keep away?"
"That would be wisest. I can watch my own tongue, control my own behavior. I cannot control everyone else's every word and gesture, however. We cannot afford to awaken the smallest suspicion."
Ismal crossed to the desk and returned the paperweight to its place. "That is why I have preferred to work outside England. A short visit is not so risky — but this…" He shook his head. "I might be here for weeks, months perhaps. The longer I remain, the greater the risk that I will be recognized."
"Apart from the Edenmonts and Brentmors, there's scarcely anyone left who'd remember you from a decade ago," Quentin said impatiently. "Who else saw you but the sailors — Nolcotts crew, mostly, and every last one of them drowned in the shipwreck a month later. Only three survivors — you, Nolcott, and that Albanian fellow who was guarding you. In the first place, neither's anywhere near England. In the second, they're not likely to betray the man who saved their lives."
The shipwreck had spared Ismal the degradation of New South Wales' convict settlements, and he'd aided his own cause by rescuing the two men most able to help him. Nolcott and Bajo had returned the favor by letting him escape and pretending he'd drowned with the others. But Fate had permitted Ismal only a few weeks' freedom before he collided with Quentin. Thanks to the detailed description Jason had previously provided, Quentin had recognized Ismal and promptly taken him into custody.
Ismal's smile was thin. "I only wish saving two lives had been amends enough for you, my lord."
Quentin leaned back in his chair. "Certainly not. Nothing less than a lifetime's servitude would do. For your own good, of course. Otherwise, there's no telling what sort of trouble you'd have got into by
He had fully deserved to hang, on several counts. In the course of a few hours, he'd kidnapped a nobleman's wife, tried to kill her husband, and succeeded in killing her uncle. But the family couldn't prosecute him. A trial would have exposed Sir Gerald's crimes, and the taint of treason would have clung to his family, making them social outcasts.
For their sake, Ismal's infamies had been hushed up, and he was sent away on Captain Nolcott's ship, bound for New South Wales.
Quentin interrupted Ismal's grim recollections. "Mrs. Beaumont obviously didn't remember you."
"She could not have observed much before Risto spotted her," Ismal said. "As I recall, the hall was poorly lit, and I stood there but a few moments. The drug would have clouded her mind. And it was ten years ago. A long time." If she had remembered, he assured himself, he would have known, even if she held her tongue. He would have sensed it. All the same, he was uneasy.
"Still, she is intelligent and observant," he said. "It would be best to take no chances. The Brentmor family must be apprised of the situation. None of them knows I am here."
Except for Jason Brentmor, Ismal had not seen any of the Brentmor family since the day he'd been carried, nearly dead, onto the ship. Before he left, he'd made his peace with them all, according to the custom of his country. According to those rites, his soul was wiped clean of the shame. Yet his pride could not endure facing those who'd witnessed his humiliation.
"Lady Edenmont's expecting her fourth child any day now, so they're all at Mount Eden at present," said Quentin. "Except for Jason, who's in Turkey with his wife. I'll drive out and explain matters. I assume you prefer they keep away?"
"That would be wisest. I can watch my own tongue, control my own behavior. I cannot control everyone else's every word and gesture, however. We cannot afford to awaken the smallest suspicion."
Ismal crossed to the desk and returned the paperweight to its place. "That is why I have preferred to work outside England. A short visit is not so risky — but this…" He shook his head. "I might be here for weeks, months perhaps. The longer I remain, the greater the risk that I will be recognized."
"Apart from the Edenmonts and Brentmors, there's scarcely anyone left who'd remember you from a decade ago," Quentin said impatiently. "Who else saw you but the sailors — Nolcotts crew, mostly, and every last one of them drowned in the shipwreck a month later. Only three survivors — you, Nolcott, and that Albanian fellow who was guarding you. In the first place, neither's anywhere near England. In the second, they're not likely to betray the man who saved their lives."
The shipwreck had spared Ismal the degradation of New South Wales' convict settlements, and he'd aided his own cause by rescuing the two men most able to help him. Nolcott and Bajo had returned the favor by letting him escape and pretending he'd drowned with the others. But Fate had permitted Ismal only a few weeks' freedom before he collided with Quentin. Thanks to the detailed description Jason had previously provided, Quentin had recognized Ismal and promptly taken him into custody.
Ismal's smile was thin. "I only wish saving two lives had been amends enough for you, my lord."
Quentin leaned back in his chair. "Certainly not. Nothing less than a lifetime's servitude would do. For your own good, of course. Otherwise, there's no telling what sort of trouble you'd have got into by
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