pull for all her will. All she could do was fight to hold her ground, and so she clung to her anger as though it were a life rope.
Esmond met her icy stare with a small smile. "Madame, if we quarrel over every minor matter, we shall make the progress of snails. I am aware that you are vexed with Lord Quentin's choice of investigator."
"I'm aware you're vexed with it, too," she said.
His smile remained in place. "A fortnight has passed since your husband's death. Whatever trail might have existed is cold. No evidence of prussic acid was found anywhere — in your husband's body or in the house. Except for the ink, that is. But we now know the ink was not in the room until you put it there. There was no sign of forced entry or burglary. Our murderer did not leave behind so much as a piece of lint. No one saw anyone — including your husband — leave or enter the house during the previous evening. We cannot ask direct questions of anybody, lest the wrath of the English nobility fall upon us and crush us. In the circumstances, it seems next to impossible that we shall ever discover who killed Monsieur Beaumont. I shall spend the remainder of my life upon this case. Naturally, I am delighted."
If she'd had a fraction less control, she would have slapped him. As it was, she was so angry and mortified that tears stung her eyes. She blinked them back.
"If the task is too much for you," she choked out, "then tell Lord Quentin to find someone else. I didn't ask for you."
"There is no one else," he said. "The matter is exceedingly delicate, as you well know. I am the only one of Lord Quentin's associates who possesses the necessary discretion. I am also the only one who possesses the necessary patience. I have enough of that for both of us — which is fortunate, for I suspect you have very little. I have just pointed out only one small necessity — trustworthy servants — and already you wish to strike me."
Leila felt heat rising in her neck. Stiffly she turned away, moved to the sofa, sat down, and folded her hands in her lap. "Very well. Send for the damned servants," she said.
'It is for your protection." He walked to the fireplace and studied the grate. "It is also for discretion's sake. Since we have so little that is concrete, we must talk and reflect. I shall be forced to ask you endless questions, some of them impertinent."
"I'm prepared for that," she said. She wasn't. She could never be prepared for
him
.
"Based on what I learn from you, I shall go out and seek further enlightenment," he continued. "Then I must return again and again to ask more questions." He glanced over his shoulder at her. "Do you understand? It is a long process. Sometimes I may be here for hours. Since no one must know I am investigating the matter, my visits could arouse disagreeable gossip. If you do not wish such gossip, I must visit in secret, which means after dark. I must come and go unnoticed. Thus the necessity for servants of unquestionable discretion and loyalty."
Weeks, she thought. Weeks of his coming and going by night. Asking questions. Probing. Why oh why had she gone to Quentin?
Because the alternative was worse even than this, she reminded herself.
She stared at her folded hands. "I can't risk gossip. I shouldn't be allowed into respectable households to do portraits if people thought me… immoral."
"But of course. A woman of uncertain reputation is not permitted in many great houses. The English appear to believe that women's frailties are contagious, while men's are not." He wandered to the curio cabinet and studied the collection of oriental objects behind the glass. "This is why you never took lovers and why you continued to live with your husband."
In spite of her inner turmoil, she'd almost smiled at his apt assessment of the English double standard. The last sentence wiped her amusement away. "That's not the
only
reason," she indignantly told his back. "I do have morals — not that it’s any of your
Esmond met her icy stare with a small smile. "Madame, if we quarrel over every minor matter, we shall make the progress of snails. I am aware that you are vexed with Lord Quentin's choice of investigator."
"I'm aware you're vexed with it, too," she said.
His smile remained in place. "A fortnight has passed since your husband's death. Whatever trail might have existed is cold. No evidence of prussic acid was found anywhere — in your husband's body or in the house. Except for the ink, that is. But we now know the ink was not in the room until you put it there. There was no sign of forced entry or burglary. Our murderer did not leave behind so much as a piece of lint. No one saw anyone — including your husband — leave or enter the house during the previous evening. We cannot ask direct questions of anybody, lest the wrath of the English nobility fall upon us and crush us. In the circumstances, it seems next to impossible that we shall ever discover who killed Monsieur Beaumont. I shall spend the remainder of my life upon this case. Naturally, I am delighted."
If she'd had a fraction less control, she would have slapped him. As it was, she was so angry and mortified that tears stung her eyes. She blinked them back.
"If the task is too much for you," she choked out, "then tell Lord Quentin to find someone else. I didn't ask for you."
"There is no one else," he said. "The matter is exceedingly delicate, as you well know. I am the only one of Lord Quentin's associates who possesses the necessary discretion. I am also the only one who possesses the necessary patience. I have enough of that for both of us — which is fortunate, for I suspect you have very little. I have just pointed out only one small necessity — trustworthy servants — and already you wish to strike me."
Leila felt heat rising in her neck. Stiffly she turned away, moved to the sofa, sat down, and folded her hands in her lap. "Very well. Send for the damned servants," she said.
'It is for your protection." He walked to the fireplace and studied the grate. "It is also for discretion's sake. Since we have so little that is concrete, we must talk and reflect. I shall be forced to ask you endless questions, some of them impertinent."
"I'm prepared for that," she said. She wasn't. She could never be prepared for
him
.
"Based on what I learn from you, I shall go out and seek further enlightenment," he continued. "Then I must return again and again to ask more questions." He glanced over his shoulder at her. "Do you understand? It is a long process. Sometimes I may be here for hours. Since no one must know I am investigating the matter, my visits could arouse disagreeable gossip. If you do not wish such gossip, I must visit in secret, which means after dark. I must come and go unnoticed. Thus the necessity for servants of unquestionable discretion and loyalty."
Weeks, she thought. Weeks of his coming and going by night. Asking questions. Probing. Why oh why had she gone to Quentin?
Because the alternative was worse even than this, she reminded herself.
She stared at her folded hands. "I can't risk gossip. I shouldn't be allowed into respectable households to do portraits if people thought me… immoral."
"But of course. A woman of uncertain reputation is not permitted in many great houses. The English appear to believe that women's frailties are contagious, while men's are not." He wandered to the curio cabinet and studied the collection of oriental objects behind the glass. "This is why you never took lovers and why you continued to live with your husband."
In spite of her inner turmoil, she'd almost smiled at his apt assessment of the English double standard. The last sentence wiped her amusement away. "That's not the
only
reason," she indignantly told his back. "I do have morals — not that it’s any of your
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