One Touch of Scandal (10 page)

Somehow Grace found her strength and started toward him. “I—”

“Stay there a moment, Grace, I beg you,” he cut in, his voice still thick with emotion. “My little experiment…was a dangerous mistake.”

Knees still trembling, Grace approached him anyway
and set a hand to his spine, making him flinch like an edgy stallion. His gaze seemed transfixed by the rivulets streaming down the glass.

“You are angry with yourself,” she murmured, just loud enough to be heard over the rain. “And I am a little bit ashamed. But it was just a kiss. We must let it go, Ruthveyn. We are neither of us ourselves just now.”

His eyes closed, his nostrils flared wide. He breathed in deeply and very deliberately, then let it out again on a slow exhalation. “I fear I am very much myself, Mademoiselle Gauthier,” he finally said. “If you take nothing more from this little episode, I beg you will take that much.”

Ah, so she was indeed Mademoiselle Gauthier again…

Feeling suddenly awkward, she edged back to the door. A lifetime seemed to pass as she stood, simply watching him. Even bowed forward as they were, Ruthveyn's shoulders seemed impossibly wide, his body exuding a masculine power that gave Grace pause.

He was tall, too, well over six feet, with a narrow waist, and legs well made beneath trousers that were expensively cut. But even as her gaze ran appreciatively over him, her brain was warning her that Ruthveyn was a man of secrets—a man not to be trifled with. Grace closed her eyes at the thought, and something went shivering through her, something deep and primitive. Something shameful.

Good heavens, she didn't understand any of this. Her affianced husband was not yet cold in his grave, and already she desired another, desired him in a way she had never desired Ethan, nor ever hoped to.

It was the strain, of course. Yesterday in Lord Ruthveyn's company, Grace had begun to believe that he did indeed have the power to help her. No, it was more than that. She had believed—in a few sharp, certain moments—that he was
the only
person who could help her.

Today, of course, she knew how foolish that sounded. She had gone looking for Rance and come away with some romanticized notion of a knight in shining armor. A man with a voice like warm cognac, and a touch that left her mesmerized. Except that Lord Ruthveyn—dark and hard-boned as he was—looked more like some Barbary pirate prince than anyone's idea of Sir Galahad.

“Mademoiselle Gauthier, I beg your pardon.” At last he had turned around. “In my defense, I can only say that it has been a long time since…well, it has been a long time.”

“I should rather you apologized for scolding me like a child,” she said quietly, “rather than for something in which I was a willing participant.”

That, he ignored. “Please go home now,” he said almost wearily. “There was no reason for you to come here today.”

She pressed both hands flat to the door, leaning back against it, half of her wishing she could melt and vanish into it, and the other half wishing…well, for something else altogether. “I had to speak with Assistant Commissioner Napier,” she answered. “He came to call on me yesterday and upset my aunt. I asked him to stop.”

Ruthveyn's expression was stark, his eyes almost haunted now. “Napier won't give a damn for your aunt's sensibilities,” he answered. “And he won't give a damn for you, either. Not if he decides he can pin this murder on you.”

“But he can't,” said Grace, coming away from the door, “because I did not do it. Besides, he knows I had no motive.”

At last he looked at her—really looked at her. “Nonetheless, you remain on his list of suspects,” he said, pacing slowly toward her. “The police always look first to a man's wife—or his lover.”

“And I was neither.”

But Ruthveyn had closed the distance between them and was looking at her through eyes that were heavy-lidded and almost unnaturally calm. “I hesitate to point out, my dear,” he murmured, “that you do not precisely
kiss
like a virgin.”

Grace backed up a pace, and thudded against the door. “
Et alors,
” she snapped. “Yes, I have been courted more than a few times. None of them suited me. What of it? And what business is it of yours?”

“I just want to know—was one of them Rance?”

The question was soft, almost as if he dreaded the answer. And yet it angered her as no stolen kiss ever could. “Was it
Rance
?” she echoed, drawing back her hand. “My God. Have we come back to that again?”

But on her next breath, she wanted to laugh—for if she did not laugh, she might well cry. She let the hand drop.
Rance, indeed!
What did any of this have to do with her dreadful predicament? Was she really so desperate for distraction as to allow herself to be…what? Seduced? By a madman? And then insulted, too.

“You are about to make me forget my good breeding, Lord Ruthveyn,” she said sharply. “We should both be ashamed.”

Indeed, she
was
ashamed. Ethan was dead. Fenella had lost her only brother. Eliza and Anne were once again fatherless. And Grace, lost in a stranger's kiss, had forgotten them.

Abruptly, Ruthveyn released her gaze. “You are right. It is none of my business.” He stepped back, his mouth twisting bitterly.

She inched a little away. “I should go,” she murmured. “Aunt Abigail is expecting me…for tea.”

She had almost said
expecting me home,
but she had not lied to Ruthveyn. Her aunt's latest histrionics had brought back to her the reality that she had no home.

Perhaps when this was all over—if she found some quiet little village in France—if she sold all of her mother's jewelry, and kept only a cook or a maid; yes, perhaps then she might afford a quiet little cottage and be able to make a quiet little life to go with it. She would be far away from Aunt Abigail and Belgrave Square—and Lord Ruthveyn. The notion suddenly had great appeal.

Abruptly, Ruthveyn bent down and swept something up. It was her reticule, Grace realized. She could not recall having dropped it.

“
Merci,
” she managed, taking it.

Ruthveyn made her an almost formal bow. “May I see you safely home in my carriage, ma'am?”

Grace could imagine nothing more awkward. “Thank you, no.” She managed a rueful smile. “I fancy a brisk walk might clear my head.”

As if to acquiesce, Ruthveyn reached past her and drew open the door.

 

Lord Ruthveyn was soaked to the skin by the time he returned to his carriage, having forgotten his umbrella—having forgotten, actually, that it was raining, until he stepped immediately off the pavement and into an over-flowing ditch in an attempt to evade a careening pieman.

Blinded by the empty tray held over his head, the street vendor dashed on through the torrent. Cursing, Ruthveyn plodded back into Whitehall, both boots sopping.

Upon nearing his carriage, he saw that his driver's ire, too, was barely suppressed. Brogden had been left too long at the curb, doubtless incurring the wrath—and the
shaking fists—of those whose path he blocked. Seeing his master's sodden approach, the coachman leapt onto the box to glare defiantly down at him.

Ruthveyn didn't have the patience for it. “Home, damn it!” he bellowed, and was then surprised when the poor devil actually took him there.

For a few moments, Ruthveyn actually sat staring up at the grand, porticoed mansion on Upper Grosvenor Street, contemplating a hasty retreat back down to St. James's. After his utter loss of control with Grace Gauthier, he was in no mood for the clamor of his family. And then, through the waning drizzle, he saw that familiar, perfect oval peering down from the upstairs window, and the curtain of sleek, black hair that fell forward to frame it.

Anisha.

His sister smiled hugely, gave a little wave, then vanished.

Ah, well. There was nothing else for it. Ruthveyn shouldered open the door, nearly knocking aside the footman who had come round to set down the steps. Brogden, too, was already on the pavement—arms crossed over his chest and sporting what was swiftly becoming a bruised jaw.

Ruthveyn passed him a little shamefacedly. “The chap with the lumber, was it?”

“Aye,” said the burly coachman. “Seems 'e took orffence at me drivin'—and then me parkin,' seeing as 'ow I hogged the curb in Whitehall 'arf an hour.”

“Terribly sorry.” Ruthveyn shook some of the water out of his left boot. “Tell Higgenthorpe he's to unlock the liquor cupboard and give you a bottle of the best brandy.”

Brogden's arms remained crossed. “Just gin 'll do me.”

Ruthveyn tried to smile benevolently, but he'd little practice, so it came out more of a grimace. “Have one of
each,” he insisted just before starting up the steps, “for the pain, and so on.”

“Aye,” grunted Brogden behind him. “And so on.”

But as soon as Ruthveyn entered his house, all hell broke loose.

“Raju!” Dressed for the privacy of her suite, Anisha bounced off the last stair and hurled herself at him, the pleats of her gold silk sari crushing against his damp coat. “We did not expect you!”

“Uncle Adrian! Uncle Adrian!” Tom skidded past his mother to clasp Ruthveyn about the five. “Teddy's learning faro! And he won't let me!”

“Good afternoon, Tom.” Ruthveyn looked down, praying the lad didn't clamber up his damp trouser leg.

Anisha bent at once, peeling the boy away. “Thomas,” she chided, “your uncle's just got home. Do not pester him.”

“But it's not fair, Mamma!” Tom's little hands fisted stubbornly.

Ruthveyn relented and knelt to look the lad almost in the eye, though he did not give in to the urge to tousle his hair. “I will teach you to play faro, Tom,” he offered, “when you are old enough. I promise.”

“What, that you, Adrian?” A blithe but masculine voice drifted from the front parlor. “Quick, Higgenthorpe! Kill the fatted calf!”

Ruthveyn stood to see his brother strolling out, his glass held aloft as if to toast him. Luc was wearing what looked like a new silk waistcoat, his riot of gold curls pomaded into submission.

“If it is the prodigal son to whom you refer, Lucan,” said Ruthveyn quietly, “I fancy that would be you, not I. When did you get home?”

“You mean when did I escape my captors?” Luc drained
the glass, then flashed Anisha a conspiratorial grin. “That would have been yesterday, old man. Did prosy old Claytor not tell you?”

“Strangely,” said Ruthveyn, “he did not.”

Just then, eight-year-old Teddy peeked round the parlor door, the stitched wound on his forehead now turning a bilious shade of yellow. “Hullo, Uncle.”

“Good afternoon, Teddy,” said Ruthveyn before returning his gaze to Luc. “Tell me,” he quietly added, “that you are not teaching that child to gamble.”

Luc lifted one shoulder. “Lad's got to learn sometime, Adrian. Might as well learn from the best.”

Ruthveyn clenched his teeth so hard his jaw twitched. Sometimes he wondered if he simply couldn't read Luc well, or if there was little in Luc
to
read. The boy possessed the equanimity of a shallow pond; toss in a stone, and the water might ripple for a time, but there was no depth to him, and soon enough the water would still again.

But Anisha was looking back and forth between them worriedly. “Come, Raju, you are soaked,” she said, taking his arm. “You must get out of those clothes.” She paused to catch the attention of a passing servant. “Find Fricke,” she directed, “and tell him his master's boots want drying.”

Ruthveyn went with her, for if he did not, he was going to turn Luc over his knee for a thrashing—which would have made both of them look ridiculous, given that Luc was now eighteen and apt to put up one hell of a fight.

As they went up the stairs arm in arm, his sister continued to chatter in her soothing, faintly accented voice. Unlike Ruthveyn, who had been educated at St. Andrews and brought up to be a civil servant and nabob like his father, his sister had been raised by their mother and her extended female relations. A great beauty, Anisha had been trained from birth to be noble and gracious; to epitomize
traditional Anglo-Indian elegance. Indeed, she had been trained to be a wealthy Englishman's wife—even as such mixed marriages were becoming increasingly more rare.

“You are stalling, Anisha,” he murmured, cutting through her chatter as they went up the stairs.

Anisha just tugged on his arm. “We are going to your room,” she ordered. “I am going to draw you a hot bath.”

He fell silent for only a minute. His suite of rooms commanded half the first floor, and at the entrance to his private study, he pushed wide the door, which was already cracked, and went through into his bedchamber. Silk and Satin, his cats, rose from their dimples on the bed to plop down and pad across the carpet, pausing to stretch their hinds legs as they came.

Ruthveyn took a moment to scratch their cheeks, then picked up Satin and turned to Anisha. “All right, the game is up, my girl,” he warned, settling the cat on his shoulder. “Out with it.”

But his sister had pushed open the door to his bathroom and gone to the tub to turn the tap. “I hope there is hot water left in the boiler,” she said, kneeling to cork the drain. “I caught Tom and Teddy playing in the scullery after—”

He caught her arm and hauled her up. “Stop it, Anisha,” he said firmly.

“St-Stop what?” she said, as Satin leapt down in a huff.

“I am not your husband,” said Ruthveyn tightly. “He is dead. And I have a whole houseful of servants to draw my water. I do not need my sister to wait on me hand and foot.”

Her face coloring furiously, Anisha dropped her gaze. “I wish only to make myself useful.”

“No, you wish to avoid my questions,” he answered. “Now who got Lucan out of the sponging house?”