now." He smiled. "You represent a
philanthropic
effort, you know."
"I know well enough I was no charity case with you. Jason had told you I was clever and devious, and you saw a use for me."
"Just as you saw a use for me. Which is as it should be. Sentiment's not wise in our line of work. Still, you've done well enough with our bargain. You live like a prince and hobnob with royalty. Nothing to complain of, I hope?"
Only this accursed case, which would not end, whose tangled threads led back a decade to the most shameful period of his life, Ismal thought. "No, my lord, nothing to complain of," he said.
"And nothing to worry about, either. Edenmont and his in-laws are bound to cooperate. After all, they have a great deal to lose if any of the truth gets out. Jason Brentmor took some pains to make sure no one would find out his brother was involved with Bridgeburton."
"We all have much to lose," Ismal said.
"Yes, well, I count on you to handle the matter with your usual discretion." Quentin paused. "It seems Mrs. Beaumont will require considerable diplomacy. She didn't seem at all pleased about my sending for you."
"I think she wished very much to hurl your handsome paperweight at… somebody," Ismal said. "I doubt she will give me a warm welcome this evening."
"Think she'll break furniture, do you? Over your head, perhaps?"
"Luckily, my skull is very hard. If Lord Edenmont could not break it, there is a reasonable chance Madame cannot, either."
"I hope not. That head of yours is very valuable to us, you know." Quentin threw him a shrewd glance. "Take care you don't lose it, my dear
count
."
Ismal's reply was an angelic smile.
"You understand me, I think?" Quentin persisted.
"Think what you like," Ismal said. With that and one graceful bow, he left the room.
Despite Leila's fervent prayers to the contrary, the Comte d'Esmond arrived precisely at eight o'clock that evening, as he'd appointed. Well aware that he hadn't been pleased with his assignment, she supposed he'd spent some time arguing with Lord Quentin after she left — to no avail, apparently.
She didn't understand how Quentin came to have the power to give the count orders of any kind. He'd told her Esmond was an agent of some sort, and totally trustworthy, but he hadn't explained the count's exact position with His Majesty's government. Given her previous experiences with Esmond, Leila had small hope of enlightenment.
By the time Nick had shown the count into-the parlor, her nerves were wound taut as docksprings.
Nick swiftly vanished again and, after a terse exchange of greetings, she offered wine, which Esmond declined.
"Nick tells me you have not yet interviewed new servants," he said.
"I had a great deal on my mind, as you are unfortunately now aware."
His mouth tightened. He moved to the window and looked out. "It is just as well," he said. "I shall send to Paris for a proper housekeeper and manservant."
"I am perfectly capable of hiring my own staff, monsieur," she told him frigidly.
He came away from the window, and her breath caught.
The candlelight drew streaks of molten gold in his silky hair and burnished the smooth contours of his perfectly sculpted face. His flawlessly cut coat of deep blue hugged his powerful shoulders and slim waist, and turned his sapphire eyes the color of a late night sky. She wished she had her weapons — a brush in her hand and a blank canvas before her — so that she could reduce him to color and line, two dimensions, aesthetics. But she was weaponless, trapped, in a room where there was suddenly far too much of him, demanding and fixing her attention, and stirring a host of unwanted memories: the heat of a rock-hard body pressed, for an instant, to hers… the scorching intensity of a piercing blue glance… and the scent, distinctively, dangerously, his.
He was all flawless elegance and aristocratic courtesy, detached, aloof… yet he dragged at her senses, insistently, and she couldn't break the
philanthropic
effort, you know."
"I know well enough I was no charity case with you. Jason had told you I was clever and devious, and you saw a use for me."
"Just as you saw a use for me. Which is as it should be. Sentiment's not wise in our line of work. Still, you've done well enough with our bargain. You live like a prince and hobnob with royalty. Nothing to complain of, I hope?"
Only this accursed case, which would not end, whose tangled threads led back a decade to the most shameful period of his life, Ismal thought. "No, my lord, nothing to complain of," he said.
"And nothing to worry about, either. Edenmont and his in-laws are bound to cooperate. After all, they have a great deal to lose if any of the truth gets out. Jason Brentmor took some pains to make sure no one would find out his brother was involved with Bridgeburton."
"We all have much to lose," Ismal said.
"Yes, well, I count on you to handle the matter with your usual discretion." Quentin paused. "It seems Mrs. Beaumont will require considerable diplomacy. She didn't seem at all pleased about my sending for you."
"I think she wished very much to hurl your handsome paperweight at… somebody," Ismal said. "I doubt she will give me a warm welcome this evening."
"Think she'll break furniture, do you? Over your head, perhaps?"
"Luckily, my skull is very hard. If Lord Edenmont could not break it, there is a reasonable chance Madame cannot, either."
"I hope not. That head of yours is very valuable to us, you know." Quentin threw him a shrewd glance. "Take care you don't lose it, my dear
count
."
Ismal's reply was an angelic smile.
"You understand me, I think?" Quentin persisted.
"Think what you like," Ismal said. With that and one graceful bow, he left the room.
Despite Leila's fervent prayers to the contrary, the Comte d'Esmond arrived precisely at eight o'clock that evening, as he'd appointed. Well aware that he hadn't been pleased with his assignment, she supposed he'd spent some time arguing with Lord Quentin after she left — to no avail, apparently.
She didn't understand how Quentin came to have the power to give the count orders of any kind. He'd told her Esmond was an agent of some sort, and totally trustworthy, but he hadn't explained the count's exact position with His Majesty's government. Given her previous experiences with Esmond, Leila had small hope of enlightenment.
By the time Nick had shown the count into-the parlor, her nerves were wound taut as docksprings.
Nick swiftly vanished again and, after a terse exchange of greetings, she offered wine, which Esmond declined.
"Nick tells me you have not yet interviewed new servants," he said.
"I had a great deal on my mind, as you are unfortunately now aware."
His mouth tightened. He moved to the window and looked out. "It is just as well," he said. "I shall send to Paris for a proper housekeeper and manservant."
"I am perfectly capable of hiring my own staff, monsieur," she told him frigidly.
He came away from the window, and her breath caught.
The candlelight drew streaks of molten gold in his silky hair and burnished the smooth contours of his perfectly sculpted face. His flawlessly cut coat of deep blue hugged his powerful shoulders and slim waist, and turned his sapphire eyes the color of a late night sky. She wished she had her weapons — a brush in her hand and a blank canvas before her — so that she could reduce him to color and line, two dimensions, aesthetics. But she was weaponless, trapped, in a room where there was suddenly far too much of him, demanding and fixing her attention, and stirring a host of unwanted memories: the heat of a rock-hard body pressed, for an instant, to hers… the scorching intensity of a piercing blue glance… and the scent, distinctively, dangerously, his.
He was all flawless elegance and aristocratic courtesy, detached, aloof… yet he dragged at her senses, insistently, and she couldn't break the
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