Lord of Scoundrels - Loretta Chase [15]
"Your countrymen have odd notions of charm," Dain said as he filled a glass for the count and handed it to him. "All I noted was a razortongued, supercilious bluestocking of a spinster."
"I like clever women," said Esmond. "So stimulating. Mais chacun à son goût. It delights me that you find her disagreeable, my lord Dain. Already there is too much competition."
Beaumont laughed. "Dain doesn't compete. He barters. And there's only one type he barters for, as we all know."
"I pay a whore a few coins," said Dain. "She gives me exactly what I require. And when it's done, it's done. Since the world seems to be in no danger of running out of whores, why should I go to what we all know is excessive bother for the other sort?"
"There is love," said Esmond.
His listeners broke into loud guffaws.
When the noise subsided, Dain said, "There seems to be a language gap, gentlemen. Wasn't love what I was talking about?"
"I thought you were speaking of fornication," Esmond said.
"Same thing, in Dain's Dictionary," said Beaumont. He rose. "I think I'll toddle downstairs to throw a few francs into that rathole called Rouge et Noir. Anyone else?"
Vawtry and Goodridge followed him to the door.
"Esmond?" Beaumont asked.
"Perhaps," said the count. "I will decide later, after I finish my wine." He took the seat beside Dain that Vawtry had vacated.
After the others were out of earshot, Dain said, "It's nothing to me either way, Esmond, but I am curious. Why don't you simply tell Beaumont he's barking up the wrong tree?"
Esmond smiled. "It would make no difference, I promise you. With me, he has the same problem, I think, he has with his wife."
Beaumont rutted with just about anything he could get his hands on. His disgusted wife had decided, some years ago, that he was to keep his hands off her. All the same, she still had her hooks in him. Beaumont was furiously possessive, and Esmond's interest in his wife was driving him demented with jealousy. It was pathetic, Dain thought. And ludicrous.
"One of these days, maybe I'll understand why you waste your time on her," Dain said. "You could have something very like Leila Beaumont, you know, for a few francs. And this is the right place to find precisely what one likes, isn't it?"
Esmond finished his wine. "I think, perhaps, I shall not come to this place again. It gives me…a bad feeling." He stood up. "I think, tonight, I prefer to visit the Boulevard des Italiens."
He invited Dain to join him, but Dain declined. It was nearly a quarter to one, and he had a one-o'clock appointment upstairs with an Amazonian blonde named Chloe.
* * *
Perhaps Esmond's "bad feeling" had put Dain's instincts on the alert, or perhaps he'd drunk less wine than usual. Whatever the reason, the marquess took careful note of his surroundings when Chloe welcomed him into the crimson-draped room.
He discerned the peephole as he was about to pull off his coat. It was several inches below his own eye level in the middle of the wall to the left of the bed.
He took Chloe's hand and led her to a spot directly in front of the peephole. He told her to strip, very slowly.
Then he moved, very quickly— out the door and into the hall, where he yanked open the door of what appeared to be a linen closet, and kicked open the door behind that. The chamber beyond was very dark, but it was also very small, and he hadn't far to reach when he heard the man move— toward another door, apparently. But not quickly enough.
Dain yanked him back, swung him round, and, grabbing the knot of his neckcloth, shoved him back against the wall.
"I don't need to see you," Dain said, his voice dangerously low. "I can smell you, Beaumont."
It was not hard to recognize Beaumont at close quarters. His clothes