One Touch of Scandal (18 page)

Numbly, Ruthveyn glared at Napier. “You will not arrest her,” he said flatly. “If you try, I will have your job. If I fail in that, I will have your head—”

“You—why—you cannot threaten an officer of the Crown!”

“I just did,” said Ruthveyn. “You will not arrest her. You will leave this to me to be dealt with. Or you will rue the day you were born. Do you understand me, Napier?”

“Go bugger yourself!” Napier stalked toward the door, then threw it open.

Ruthveyn followed him out. “Find St. Giles,” he snapped at a passing footman. “And fetch my carriage.”

Oblivious to the craning heads that peered from the clubrooms, they argued all the way down the sweeping staircase. “You need to reexamine this case, Napier,” he said grimly. “There's something we've missed.”

“‘
We'?
” Napier bellowed. “Oh, and by the way, Ruthveyn, are you aware your paragon of virtue is toting around a brace of pistols?”

That did surprise him. “Still, that's hardly against the law, is it?”

“Neither is arsenic, but innocent women don't keep a tin of it tucked beneath their underdrawers.” The assistant commissioner paused long enough to snatch his greatcoat from the first-floor attendant and went out into the bracing air.

“Napier, don't be a fool,” Ruthveyn continued. “By your own admission, the man wrote her every day for a fortnight. Does that sound like a man who had come to his senses?”

The wind caught the door, slamming it shut behind them.

“Oh, you think you see this one clear, eh?” Napier glanced back, his lip curled with disdain. “What with
your special gifts and your superior attitude? Do you think I haven't heard the rumors about this place, Ruthveyn? By God, give me half a chance, and when I finish with this case, I'll put a period to you and your so-called St. James Society.”

People had been trying to do that for over fourteen hundred years, thought Ruthveyn. The
Fraternitas Aureae Crucis
might be bloodied, but it was not broken, and Napier would have no more luck than the others.

He reached for Napier's arm, but accidentally seized his bare wrist. “Damn it, Napier, I—”

At once, light stabbed into Ruthveyn's head, a shaft of pure pain. Napier's every emotion exploded to life like flame to dry kindling—rage and disdain, and a seething hatred that coiled like a serpent inside his brain. He tried to think, to focus. To tell himself it would be worth the agony. But nothing came. With Napier, it rarely did.

“What in hell is the matter with you?” Napier's voice came from far away.

Ruthveyn jerked back his hand and drew a deep breath, forcing down the rush of emotion. At once, the brilliance relented.

“Christ, Ruthveyn, your pupils are the size of ha'pennies,” Napier muttered. “You really do look half-mad.”

“Jus
t listen to me,
for God's sake!” His gaze locked with Napier's. “I have seen this danger. And you ignore it at your peril.”

Napier tore his eyes away and threw up a hand at an approaching hansom. “Do you know, Ruthveyn, they used to burn people like you at the stake?” he said, but there was a tremor in his voice. “Go muster your
Fraternitas
forces. You're bloody well going to need them.”

Ruthveyn watched, enraged and still reeling, as Napier
climbed into the carriage and rolled on. But the hansom passed from his view to reveal a tableau beyond it almost as unwelcome.

Jack Coldwater loitered on the opposite pavement, one heel set back against the Quartermaine Club, Pinkie Ringgold beside him, grinning and picking at his teeth.

“Ah, the curse of an open window!” Coldwater chortled. “Sounds like you and old Roughshod Roy had another mill.”

Ruthveyn stalked across St. James's Place. “Coldwater,” he said grimly. “It's about time you learned to respect your elders and betters.”

Coldwater feinted left. “My, you're about to let your infamous dispassion slip yet again, Ruthveyn,” he said. “Something to do with Lazonby? I hear you've sent him off to Edinburgh on some sort of Society skullduggery.”

“What in God's name is your problem, Coldwater?” he growled. “Did Lazonby fuck your mother in prison?”

At that, something like pure hatred chased over the young man's face. He lunged with a right hook. In an instant, Ruthveyn had Coldwater up against the wall again—this time a solid brick one—careful not to hold his gaze.

“Settle down,” he gritted.

Pinkie dropped his toothpick and thrust himself between them. “You need ter bugger off, Jack,” he said, planting a hand on each of their chests. “Now let 'im loose, my lord. Think 'ow this looks.”

It was humbling to be chided by Pinkie Ringgold, of all people. Ruthveyn relented. “One day, Coldwater”—he paused to give his shirt collar a good twist—“one day, I
am
going to throttle you.”

“Only if Lazonby doesn't get to me first,” said the reporter.

Pinkie elbowed Ruthveyn sharply. On one last oath, he let the fellow loose. Jack Coldwater darted down the street after Napier's hired hansom.

Ruthveyn turned to give a terse nod to Pinkie. “Thank you,” he managed, “I suppose.”

Pinkie spat onto the pavement at Ruthveyn's feet. “Don't thank me,” said the doorman. “'E's a right annoyin' little bastard, but I like 'im. In stark contrast ter some, oo's a mite too high in the instep, considering wot they are.”

Ruthveyn merely smiled. “Insulting my ancestry now, Pinkie? Or just Belkadi's?”

“Take yer pick,” said Pinkie, going back inside the hell, and slamming shut the door.

 

Fifteen minutes later, Ruthveyn's carriage drew up before his town house. He stepped down to give terse orders to Brogden, then went inside.

“Mademoiselle Gauthier?” he snapped at Higgenthorpe.

The butler took his hat and stick. “In the conservatory, my lord.”

Ruthveyn strode from the entrance hall through the house until he reached the passageway that led to the glass-walled room. Anisha sat in her favorite rattan chair, her parakeet perched behind, and in a seat adjacent was Ruthveyn's new governess.

“
Awwk!
” said the bird, arching his green wings. “
British prisoner! Help! Help!
”

“Raju!” Anisha laid aside her stitchery and hastened to meet him. “What a surprise.”

Grace rose to bob a curtsy.

“Anisha. Mademoiselle.” He bowed stiffly to each.

But Anisha was looking at the thing tucked under his arm. “Raju, what have you there?”

“Ah, this.” He had almost forgotten the jar of lemon drops. “For Tom and Teddy,” he said, thrusting it at her. “It's been rattling round in my carriage since we last spoke.”

Anisha's eyes widened. “You bought the whole
jar
? For two little boys?”

Ruthveyn set it on the tea table, feeling vaguely annoyed. He was
trying,
damn it all. “Don't children like sweets?”

His sister smiled dotingly. “Next time just ask the shopkeeper to give you a little bagful,” she suggested. “Here, I'll tuck it away, and you may give it to them later, with the understanding that I shall dole them out at my discretion.”

She was right, of course. He knew nothing at all of children. “As you wish, then,” he said tightly. He turned his attention to Grace. “Mademoiselle Gauthier, do you ride?”

“
Moi?
” Her chin jerked up, something like panic sketching over her face. “Why, yes…yes, I do.”

“I wish you to ride with me,” he said.

“Ride with you?”

“In the park,” he said curtly. “Will a quarter hour be sufficient time to change?”

She laid aside the book she'd been carrying, shot an uncertain look at Anisha, and bobbed again. “Yes, my lord. Fifteen minutes.”

“Thank you,” he said.

He turned and strode out again, feeling the heat of Anisha's eyes burning into his back.

Grace was better than her word. Ten minutes later, Ruthveyn stormed back down the stairs clad in knee boots and breeches, his whip tucked under his arm, to find her dressed in the feminine equivalent, a plain black
habit paired with a white shirt that was pleated across the bodice. Her hat was a dainty affair, with a bow of black ribbon knotted to one side of her chin and plumed with three black feathers.

Despite the storm that raged within, Ruthveyn was still a man, with a man's appreciation of feminine beauty, and Grace was surely a feast for the eyes. Moreover, she possessed that eternal French flair for simple elegance, a look that could outshine the most elaborate silks and satins.

As ordered, Brogden had sent round Ruthveyn's horse and a small bay mare from the stables. Grace seemed entirely comfortable, and vaulted smoothly into the saddle with minimal assistance. She wheeled the bay around, her eyes catching his, and set off beside him in the direction of Hyde Park.

As soon as they were out of earshot of his grooms, she leaned nearer, her eyes looking worriedly toward him. “What's wrong?”

“I wish to speak with you,” he said tersely. “Away from the house.”

Within minutes, they reached the park and Rotten Row. Ruthveyn set a brisk pace, and they were soon well beyond the carriages and riders who had come merely to see and be seen.

As they crossed the bridge, he cut another surreptitious look in Grace's direction to see that her jaw was set hard, her face pale as milk against the black silk of her hat ribbons, as if she steeled herself. But against what? A reckoning? Or simply bad news? For the first time in his life, he wished desperately that he
could
see another's innermost thoughts.

But why did he need to read Grace when he had only to ask her the truth? He knew her character. He had made a choice in deciding to help her.

And yet, in the face of Napier's letter, Ruthveyn's analytical brain told him he must at least consider the possibility that his desire—and yes, the almost overwhelming tenderness he felt for Grace—was clouding his brain. Was it possible that, beyond his gifts, he had learned nothing of ordinary character judgment? For the first time since his marriage, Ruthveyn was not entirely certain.

Devil take it, he did not suffer self-doubt well. He didn't believe Grace a killer, but wasn't it just
possible
she was hiding something? Or that there was more to the story than she'd shared? Ruthveyn was a little troubled by how desperately he wished to know, by how much of himself he'd invested in Grace. He felt blind, just as he'd said to Anisha.

How in heaven's name did ordinary people forge relationships? How did a man trust a woman in the way he needed to trust Grace? The thought of never reading her as he did other people was as exhilarating as it was daunting. And the thought of never seeing himself through her was just…daunting.

The simple act of tempting Grace to kiss him had been a new, wildly erotic experience. In the past, with very few exceptions, whenever he'd begun pursuit of a woman, he'd known from the start that she wanted him. But Grace wakened in him the thrill of the chase—the lion claiming his lioness—and when she trembled to his touch, it sent the blood of victory thrumming, and not just to his heart.

Good Lord.

Was that what he was doing? Was he
pursuing
Grace Gauthier?

It would not do. It simply would not. This was no longer an experiment, no mere taste of temptation. If not an outright virgin, Grace was certainly inexperienced by his standards. Moreover, Ruthveyn had no intention of re
peating his mistake of marriage again. Once their intimacy deepened, that window to the soul would almost certainly come crashing open. And Grace would find herself bound to an aberration. A
freak,
Melanie had called him.

But the truth was, logic was rapidly ceasing to matter. Ruthveyn had been unable to think clearly since that ill-fated kiss in Whitehall. His already sleepless nights had become a torment of tangled sheets and pathetic self-gratification the likes of which he had not succumbed to since boyhood. He burned for Grace all the way down to his soul, or what was left of it. And while a score of willing women could have been his for the taking—or just for the night—he had not so much as considered it. He had grown tired of rutting like an animal with half his mind engaged.

There was a knot of trees up ahead, and within, a small, grassy clearing. When they reached it, Ruthveyn guided his mount off the bridle path. Grace followed, then reined her horse near.

“Ruthveyn, what is wrong?” she asked.

Ruthveyn forced his eyes from the delicate pulse point of her throat, and shut away his private thoughts. “Grace,” he said quietly, “do you own a weapon?”

She gave an almost imperceptible flinch. “What? No!” Then she hesitated. “Actually,
yes
—I have Papa's sidearms.”

“Your
father's
?”

“A brace of Mr. Colt's five-shot revolvers; an anniversary gift from
Maman
. But I haven't any ammunition, so the boys could not possibly—” Here, her brow furrowed. “Oh, dear! What has happened?”

Ruthveyn closed his eyes a moment and let the relief flow through him.
Her dead father's pistols.
And of course
she was carrying them. Everything she owned was likely kept in those three old trunks his staff had brought down from Marylebone. She was, just as she'd once claimed, a daughter of the army.

Ruthveyn swung himself out of the saddle, the leather creaking against his weight. After securing his mount, he lifted Grace down, his hands set round her waist. It felt trim—almost too trim—and he wondered mechanically if she were eating enough.

“
Merci,
” she said.

Ruthveyn did not release her waist, but instead held her near, drawing in her scent, his eyes drifting over her face. Grace's palms lingered but a moment on his shoulders, then slid away. It was a sign—one from God, most likely. He forced his hands to relax, releasing her.