Captives of the Night Read Online Free PDF Page B

followers.
    "I hope you don't mind," he said after they'd exchanged polite greetings. "When Francis said you'd gone for a walk, I guessed you'd come here. It was you I wanted to see." His grey gaze shifted away. "To apologize. I'd promised to go to Philip Woodleigh's, I know."
    She knew she'd been a fool to believe the worthless promise, to hope he'd start the New Year fresh, among decent people… perhaps meet a suitable young lady, or at least less dissolute male friends.
    "I wasn't surprised you failed to appear," she said stiffly. "The entertainment was tame, by your standards."
    "I was… unwell," he said. "I spent the evening at home."
    She told herself not to waste sympathy on an idle young fool bent on self-destruction, but her heart softened anyhow, and with it, her manner.
    "I'm sorry you were ill," she said. "On the other hand, I did get my wish: for once, at least, you didn't spend the night with Francis."
    "You'd rather I were ill more often, then. I must speak to my cook and insist upon indigestible meals."
    She moved on a few paces, shaking her head. "You're a great vexation to me, David. You awaken my maternal instincts, and I've always prided myself on not having any."
    "Call them 'fraternal,' then." Smiling, he rejoined her. "I'd much prefer it. Less wounding to one's manly pride, you know."
    "That depends on your point of view," she said. "I've never seen Fiona, for instance, show any regard for her brothers' manly pride. She leads them all about by the nose — even Lord Norbury, the eldest — whereas their mother can do nothing with them." She shot David a reproving look. "Mine is more like the mama's case, obviously."
    His smile slipped. "The Woodleighs are not an example, but the exception. Everyone knows Lady Carroll is the true head of the family."
    "And you're too male to approve that state of affairs."
    "Not at all." He gave a short laugh. "All I disapprove is your talking of the Woodleighs when you should be flirting with me. Here we are in a graveyard. What could be more morbidly romantic?"
    He was one of the few men she would flirt with, because he was safe. Never once had she glimpsed the smallest hint of lust in that handsome young face.
    "You ought to know by now that artists are the least romantic people in the world," she said. "You mustn't confuse the creators with the creations."
    "I see. I must turn into a blob of paint — or better yet, a blank canvas. Then you might make anything of me you wish."
    I dance with a beautiful woman who cannot distinguish a man from an easel.
    She tensed, remembering: the low, insinuating voice, the force of collision, the shattering awareness of masculine strength… overpowering… the heat.
    "Mrs. Beaumont?" came David's worried voice. "Are you unwell?"
    She pushed the memory away. "No, no, of course not Merely cold. I hadn't realized how late it was. I had better go home."
    Surrey, England, mid-January
    Ismal paused in the doorway of Lord Norbury's crowded ballroom only for a moment. It was all he needed. He wanted but one swift glance to locate his prey. Leila Beaumont stood near the terrace doors.
    She wore a rust-colored gown trimmed in midnight blue. Her gold-streaked hair was piled carelessly atop her head — and doubtless coming undone.
    Ismal wondered if she still wore the same scent or had mixed a new one.
    He wasn't sure which he would prefer. His mind was not settled about her, and this irritated him.
    At least the repellent husband wasn't here. Beaumont was probably writhing in the arms of some overpainted, overperfumed trollop — or lost in opium dreams in some London sinkhole. According to recent reports, his tastes, along with his body and intellect, had rapidly deteriorated upon his removal to London.
    This was just as Ismal had expected. Cut loose from his sordid little empire, Beaumont was rapidly sinking. He no longer possessed the wit or will to build another enterprise like
Vingt-Huit
. Not from scratch — which, thanks to Ismal,