Free Captives of the Night by Loretta Chase Page B

sink in while she swept the room a haughty glance, daring these men to believe her mad or imbecilic. There wasn't one woman here. Only men. Andrew was nodding sympathetically. Near him sat David's father, the Duke of Langford, his countenance a stony blank. There were the jurors, watching her avidly… Lord Quentin, his expression unreadable… several Bow Street officers she recognized… other representatives of authority… some appearing suspicious, some doubtful. Some had the grace to look abashed. They
had
thought she was stupid, every last one of…
    Her glance shot back to a corner of the dingy room, where a particularly unkempt constable leaned against the wall. His greasy brown hair streaked with grey, he looked to be close to fifty. His grubby coat and stained waistcoat stretched over an unsightly paunch. He was studying the floor while absently scratching his head.
    It was impossible, Leila told herself. She must have imagined that glint of unearthly blue. Even if the man had looked up, she couldn't have discerned the color of his eyes at this distance. Yet she was certain she'd felt their searing penetration.
    She wrenched herself back to the moment. Whatever she'd felt or imagined, she could not afford to be distracted.
    "Your sanity and intelligence are not being called into question, Mrs. Beaumont," the coroner was saying. "We are simply attempting to reconstruct a clear picture of the events preceding your husband's death."
    "I have described them," she said. "After my husband left my studio, I did not see him alive again. I did not leave my studio at any time between his departure and my discovery of his body, when Mrs. Dempton was close behind me. I had remained in the studio, working — with the door open — until after teatime. I could not have done otherwise, as the painting must clearly demonstrate."
    This time, the coroner didn't trouble to conceal his puzzled dismay. "I beg your pardon, madam. What painting? And what has it to say to anything?"
    "Surely the Crown's officers observed the still-wet painting I had completed during those hours in the studio," she said. "Any artist could tell you that it had not been done in a state of agitation or haste. Had I interrupted my work to do away with my husband, I could not have produced that sort of technical study. It wants total concentration."
    The coroner stared at her for a long moment, while the whispering rose to a low roar. He turned to his clerk. "We had better call in an artistic expert," he said.
    Several jurors groaned. The coroner glared at them.
    The glare moved to Leila. "I only wish, madam," he said, "that you had been more forthcoming previously regarding these matters. Surely you understood their importance. You might have spared the Crown precisely the waste of resources you mentioned earlier."
    "I
thought
they were important," she said haughtily. "But no one else must have done, since I was never asked the relevant questions. While I am no expert in inquiries of this sort, I was puzzled why the focus of concern appeared to be my quarrel with Mr. Beaumont and Mrs. Dempton's hysteria. Though I did not understand why matters of hearsay took precedence over material facts, it was not my place to tell professionals how to do their business. I should not have taken the liberty of mentioning these matters today had it not appeared that they were likely to be overlooked altogether."
    "I see," he said, his voice almost a growl. "Is there anything else you wish to
mention
, Mrs. Beaumont?"

    Some time later, Ismal climbed into the carriage seat opposite Lord Quentin.
    "Well, it took long enough, but we got our verdict," said His Lordship. "Accidental death by laudanum overdose."
    "Better the inquiry was lengthy," Ismal said. "The coroner is satisfied he's done his duty thoroughly."
    He removed his greasy wig and studied it. Leila Beaumont had recognized him. Even Quentin hadn't, at first — but she had, from across a large room… while she was