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Authors: Loretta Chase
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courage. Even in death, he's a trouble to you."
His sympathy set her conscience shrieking. "I'd have been in worse trouble if he
hadn't
married me," she said. "And I should be in far worse by now if you hadn't forgiven me and stood by me and — and helped me become better."
She would never forget the day, ten years ago, when she'd had to explain why she must marry Francis Beaumont, though Andrew disapproved. She would never forget Andrew's grieved expression when she confessed she was no longer a virgin. His sorrow had been far more devastating than the anger and disgust she'd steeled herself for.
He'd gently explained that her father was a man of strong passions, which overcame his better nature because he let them rule him. When the baser passions ruled, the path from innocent pleasure to vice became treacherously steep, and it was all too easy to slip.
She had wept with shame, because she had slipped so easily, and because he was so very disappointed.
He had told her, then, that she wasn't altogether to blame, being young, with no one to protect and guide her. Francis Beaumont should not have taken advantage, but men generally did, given the smallest encouragement or opportunity.
Leila had wept the more then, aware that somehow she must have encouraged, provided the opportunity. Certainly she hadn't avoided Francis. She'd been infatuated with the handsome, sophisticated man who devoted so much time to a lonely young girl.
"Perhaps it's all for the best," Andrew had consoled her. "At least you'll have a husband to look after you. And now you've discovered how easy it is to slip, you'll be alert in the future, and take greater care."
Leila had tearfully promised she would. She knew she might have been abandoned to the streets, as other ruined girls were. Instead, Francis would wed her and Andrew had forgiven her. But she must never err again. She must prove she wouldn't follow her father's path, but would rule the wicked nature she'd inherited.
And she had.
Until now.
"It was all long ago," Andrew said, as though he saw the memory reflected in her eyes. "We shouldn't dwell upon that now — but death has a way of stirring up the past." He rose. "What we want is a piping hot pot of tea and a dose of Lady Carroll's lively conversation to lift our spirits. I shall give you proper legal advice, and she'll doubtless suggest a host of ways to shock the coroner out of his wits."
The inquiry into the death of Francis Beaumont was one of the most splendidly orchestrated in recent British history, thanks to Ismal.
He had personally selected the medical experts, analyzed their postmortem reports, reviewed the numerous depositions, and decided the order in which witnesses would be called. Though the coroner and jurors didn't know it, the inquest was over as soon as the first witness, the Comte d'Esmond, had given his testimony.
Aware that not an iota of prussic acid had been found in the corpse, Ismal had only to demolish Mrs. Dempton's credibility to set events moving inexorably to a verdict of accidental death.
That was easy enough. He'd discovered her weaknesses when he'd listened to Quentin question her. All Ismal had to do was drop a few intriguing hints during his own testimony to guide the coroner's subsequent questioning of Mrs. Dempton.
Ismal exited immediately after testifying, to return soon thereafter disguised as a shabby country constable. He was in time to hear Mrs. Dempton characterize her late master as a saint and the mistress as a tool of Satan. Closely questioned, the servant tearfully and obstinately denied what all the world — including the coroner — knew to be true: that Beaumont spent most of his hours, waking and sleeping, intoxicated; that he was a habitual user of opiates, both in raw and laudanum form; and spent most of his time in brothels, gambling hells, and opium dens.
Mr. Dempton came next, with nothing significant to add but the fact that Mrs. Beaumont had sent for her solicitor
His sympathy set her conscience shrieking. "I'd have been in worse trouble if he
hadn't
married me," she said. "And I should be in far worse by now if you hadn't forgiven me and stood by me and — and helped me become better."
She would never forget the day, ten years ago, when she'd had to explain why she must marry Francis Beaumont, though Andrew disapproved. She would never forget Andrew's grieved expression when she confessed she was no longer a virgin. His sorrow had been far more devastating than the anger and disgust she'd steeled herself for.
He'd gently explained that her father was a man of strong passions, which overcame his better nature because he let them rule him. When the baser passions ruled, the path from innocent pleasure to vice became treacherously steep, and it was all too easy to slip.
She had wept with shame, because she had slipped so easily, and because he was so very disappointed.
He had told her, then, that she wasn't altogether to blame, being young, with no one to protect and guide her. Francis Beaumont should not have taken advantage, but men generally did, given the smallest encouragement or opportunity.
Leila had wept the more then, aware that somehow she must have encouraged, provided the opportunity. Certainly she hadn't avoided Francis. She'd been infatuated with the handsome, sophisticated man who devoted so much time to a lonely young girl.
"Perhaps it's all for the best," Andrew had consoled her. "At least you'll have a husband to look after you. And now you've discovered how easy it is to slip, you'll be alert in the future, and take greater care."
Leila had tearfully promised she would. She knew she might have been abandoned to the streets, as other ruined girls were. Instead, Francis would wed her and Andrew had forgiven her. But she must never err again. She must prove she wouldn't follow her father's path, but would rule the wicked nature she'd inherited.
And she had.
Until now.
"It was all long ago," Andrew said, as though he saw the memory reflected in her eyes. "We shouldn't dwell upon that now — but death has a way of stirring up the past." He rose. "What we want is a piping hot pot of tea and a dose of Lady Carroll's lively conversation to lift our spirits. I shall give you proper legal advice, and she'll doubtless suggest a host of ways to shock the coroner out of his wits."
The inquiry into the death of Francis Beaumont was one of the most splendidly orchestrated in recent British history, thanks to Ismal.
He had personally selected the medical experts, analyzed their postmortem reports, reviewed the numerous depositions, and decided the order in which witnesses would be called. Though the coroner and jurors didn't know it, the inquest was over as soon as the first witness, the Comte d'Esmond, had given his testimony.
Aware that not an iota of prussic acid had been found in the corpse, Ismal had only to demolish Mrs. Dempton's credibility to set events moving inexorably to a verdict of accidental death.
That was easy enough. He'd discovered her weaknesses when he'd listened to Quentin question her. All Ismal had to do was drop a few intriguing hints during his own testimony to guide the coroner's subsequent questioning of Mrs. Dempton.
Ismal exited immediately after testifying, to return soon thereafter disguised as a shabby country constable. He was in time to hear Mrs. Dempton characterize her late master as a saint and the mistress as a tool of Satan. Closely questioned, the servant tearfully and obstinately denied what all the world — including the coroner — knew to be true: that Beaumont spent most of his hours, waking and sleeping, intoxicated; that he was a habitual user of opiates, both in raw and laudanum form; and spent most of his time in brothels, gambling hells, and opium dens.
Mr. Dempton came next, with nothing significant to add but the fact that Mrs. Beaumont had sent for her solicitor
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