One Touch of Scandal (19 page)

“Grace,” he said quietly, “did you know Ethan Holding meant to break off your betrothal?”

She went absolutely still. “I…I beg your pardon?”

“The week before he returned from Liverpool.” Ruthveyn held her gaze steadily. “Holding wrote you a letter. He had changed his mind about betrothing himself to you.”

She blinked her eyes slowly. “Is this some sort of joke?” she whispered. “Who told you this?”

“Napier,” he answered.

“Well, he is mistaken. There was no letter. And Mr. Holding seemed quite the same toward me.”

“Grace, remember the note someone slid under your door that night?” Ruthveyn pressed. “The one that made no sense?”

“I shall never forget it.” She set her gloved fingertips to her mouth, her hand shaking a little. “He said he wanted to explain—no, to
apologize.
”

“And he called you Miss Gauthier,” Ruthveyn reminded her. “You said that was unusual.”

“When we were writing to one another, yes,” she said.

“But mightn't it make sense if he had broken the engagement?” Ruthveyn pressed. “Or thought he had?”

“Well, I daresay.” She dropped her hand, looking bewildered. “But Ruthveyn, he
didn't.
I would have known. And there would have been a—a sort of strain at dinner.
Wouldn't
there?”

Ruthveyn could make no sense of any of it. “You said he quarreled with Mr. Crane?”

Her brow creased. “Did I?” she murmured. “Yes, there were words. But not a quarrel. I would not have called it that.”

Ruthveyn began to pace the little patch of grass, pensively tapping his crop against his boot cuff, the opposite hand set at the small of his back. “Grace, Napier showed me the letter breaking the engagement,” he finally said. “But perhaps someone failed to give it to you? Or hid it? The only other option is outright forgery, which would suggest someone targeted you.”

But Grace was already shaking her head. “Ruthveyn, I am entirely sure a man
could
betroth himself to me and later think the better of it,” she said. “I am just telling you Holding
didn't.
”

“How can you be sure?”

She shrugged. “I just know,” she said. “I'm an extraordinarily good judge of men. But if you want an example,
très bien.
After we agreed to marry, he always came straight up to the schoolroom upon arriving home. He would kiss the girls, and then…” The words withered.

“And then what?” he urged.

“And…And then he'd make a great pretense of bending over my hand,” she said, her voice going thready. “He would kiss it, and declare that I was his queen. That the girls were his princesses. And that we were all going
to live happily ever after in a palace. All nonsense, of course, but they thought it a great joke, and we'd all fall into giggles. And that's just what he did on…on that day. The day he died.”

Ruthveyn suppressed an irrational flash of jealousy at the thought of Holding laying claim to Grace. And though he could not feel it, he could certainly hear the grief in Grace's voice. She had said she did not love him, and she'd no reason to lie, but for the first time since Melanie's death, he found himself compelled to watch every nuance of a woman's expression for some hint of what she felt.

His friend Lazonby believed that a person's every emotion showed on his face and in his gestures, that one need not
read
people so much as
observe
them. Moreover, he maintained that it was more a talent than a gift. Whatever it was, Ruthveyn suddenly wished he had it.

“Christ, this is all so hard to believe,” he muttered.

Emotions passed like scuttling clouds over her face, pain, quickly followed by anger, her entire posture stiffening. “And you do not,” she said flatly. “Believe me, I mean.”

“Grace, I didn't say that,” he answered.

Her voice was sharp. “I think you did.”

“No, I just…I don't understand.”

“It's rather simple, actually,” she replied. “You either trust someone, or you don't. There is no guarantee.”

She was right, he realized. In her world, it really was just that simple.

Ruthveyn searched for the words to explain how he felt, but Grace forged ahead, speaking more sharply than ever he'd heard. “So let me understand this,” she said. “The police have found Papa's sidearms in my trunks, ergo I must harbor violent tendencies. And someone has forged a letter in Mr. Holding's hand to give me motive for killing him.”

“Grace, I didn't say—”

“But if all this is true,” she cut in, more loudly, “why did I not simply shoot the poor man, pistol-packing murderess that I am? Why bother with a knife? Or a note under the door?” Grace's voice took on a faintly hysterical edge. “I think, frankly, that it is a very good thing I left Papa's dress sword with his brother. God only knows what they might have accused me of.”

Ruthveyn grabbed her upper arms. “Grace, they found the letter in your things,” he said. “
Hidden
in your things.”

She froze. Her eyes searched his face. “Oh God. That's…not possible.”

“It was in what Napier called a letter box,” he said. “Beneath a false bottom of some sort.”

“A false bottom?” Her voice was hollow. “What nonsense. My letter box is lined in velvet. And yes, the bottom panel came unglued—it's been loose for years—but to call it
hidden
…?”

“Grace, I—”

Her eyes caught his, wide and frightened, like those of some wild thing snared in a trap. “Oh, God,” she whispered. “Someone really wishes me blamed for this, don't they? Someone means for me to…”

She backed away, her arms wrapped round her body as if she might retch.

He followed her. “Grace, calm down,” he said softly. “We shall think this through.”

“You already have,” she answered. “And I have, too. I can see how this looks. You don't know me. You cannot know what to believe.”

He held out his hands. “Grace, I think I do know you,” he said quietly.

“You think. But you don't know.” Abruptly, she snatched
the bay's reins. “I want to go back. Take me back, Ruthveyn, please. I shall get my things.”

That was not going to happen. “Grace, don't be a fool.” He grabbed her arm and spun her around, causing the bay to shy. “I have not asked you to go.”

“Then you are a fool, too,” she whispered. “Oh, I rue the day I came back to England! And I rue the day, Ruthveyn, that I laid eyes on you.”

“Grace,” he said, catching both her arms and pulling her nearer. “What are you saying?”

“I was not ready to meet someone like you,” she said on a hitching sob. “I was not ready to believe that I might…oh, I don't know! I just want to go back to Aunt Abigail's.
Please.
”

He had hurt her. He had meant…
something
to her.

And for the first time in his life, Ruthveyn realized he had to take a chance, that two very distinct paths lay open to him, and he had to choose one. He had to
trust
Grace—blindly, and using nothing but his heart. For whatever reason, no other faculty lay within his grasp when it came to understanding her. Even now, as he held her close—close enough to kiss, with all their emotions rubbed raw—he felt nothing beyond the here and now.

“Grace.” He gripped her arms hard. “I
do
trust you. I do not think for one moment you are capable of hurting anyone. And if you tell me Holding did not break the betrothal, then I believe that, too.”

“No. You don't,” she whispered. “You want to. But you don't.”

He wanted, suddenly, to kiss her senseless again. To drug her with his touch and show her how he felt for her in ways both emotional and earthly. But he had sworn he would not touch her—not like that. He wanted—no, he
needed
—Grace to believe he spoke the truth when he
said he trusted her, and to believe with her heart, not with a mind befogged by some potent, poisonous mix of grief and lust. So he drew her firmly into his arms—dragged her, really. But in the end, she came against him with a shudder.

A little roughly, he pushed the bonnet from her head, and allowed himself the comfort of setting his lips to the top of her head. “Damn it, Grace, don't tell me what I know,” he said into her hair. “Just…don't, all right? I trust you. And I will discover who is behind this treachery, I promise you. Do you understand?”

“But you…you cannot stop Napier.”

He threaded a hand through the loose hair at her temple. “I already have,” he said, something heavy and certain bottoming out in his stomach. “You'll have to write him out a bloody confession before he dares darken our door with a warrant.”

Our door.

Yes, Grace was his now—at least in as much as she lived beneath his roof and under his protection. He set one hand to the back of her head and cradled her against his riding coat as he banded the other arm tight about her. She was his in the only way that mattered to a gentleman; be she saint or sinner, he was sworn to defend her. And for the first time in his life, he was no longer certain whether right or wrong would matter if it came to it.

A long silence fell across the clearing, broken only by the cry of distant birdsong and the soft flutter of leaves just beginning to shimmer with autumn color.

“Grace?” He set a finger beneath her chin.

“Thank you, Ruthveyn.” Her watery gaze flicked up at him. “Just…thank you.”

But she was still shaking.

He released her and stepped away, remembering what
he had promised her. And himself. He snatched his mount's reins from the branch where he'd knotted them. “Come on,” he rasped. “Let's walk, Grace, before I forget myself again. Walk with me, and tell me everything you know about every person who lived in Belgrave Square. Can you do that?”

“Yes, all right.” She managed a tremulous smile, then caught the bay's reins.

They fell into step alongside one another, the horses clopping along behind. “Now let us begin,” said Ruthveyn, “with the butler. Isn't it always the butler who did it?”

Finally, she laughed. “Not poor Trenton! I adore him.”

“Seriously, Grace, we are going to make a list,” he said. “I shall have Belkadi turn their lives inside out and shake loose the dust. I'll meet with each one of them if I must.”

“But to what purpose?” she asked. “What will they tell you that they won't tell Mr. Napier?”

A vast deal, perhaps
, thought Ruthveyn. And already, he dreaded it.

They walked, their heads bent in conversation, almost the length of the park, dipping south to follow the turn of the Serpentine Pond as Grace went one by one through the staff, none of whom sounded the least bit remarkable—or, regrettably, the least bit homicidal.

Nearer Park Lane, the crowd began to thicken. A few riders and carriages were still tooling toward Rotten Row, but in the grassy areas and along the paths, the nannies and their perambulators reigned supreme. Mr. Holding's unremarkable staff aside, by the time they had nearly reached the Grosvenor Gate, Grace was feeling perhaps a little better, he thought.

It was not, however, to last.

Near the end of the Serpentine, a short, blond lady was watching two little girls toss bread into the grass in an
attempt to entice a trio of ducks from the water. Behind them lay a blanket and a basket, and what looked like the remains of a small picnic.

Just then, one of the ducks darted between the girls. Both turned, shrieking with delight, the taller of the two chasing it across the blanket. The duck flapped its wings, honked disapprovingly, and circled back to the water.

But the young girl was no longer watching the duck. “Mademoiselle!” she cried, running toward Grace. “Oh, Mademoiselle! Wait!”

“Anne!” Eyes suddenly alight, Grace dropped her reins and knelt to sweep the girl into her arms. “Oh, Anne! How very pretty you look. Oh, how I've missed you!”

The child drew back, quivering with excitement. “Mademoiselle, I have a pony now!” she said on a rush. “And a little cart, too. Aunt lets me drive it.”

Grace's expression faltered but an instant before breaking into a smile. “Have you indeed?” she said as the smaller girl drew up. “And Eliza! Come, let me see those marvelous braids. How elegant!”

The girl beamed up to reveal a missing tooth. “Miss Effinger made them.”

“Can you come to see us?” Anne's words spilled out. “
Please?
I could show you the pony. I could let you drive him.”

“And he's brown,” Eliza squeaked. “We named him Cocoa.”

But the blond lady was sweeping across the grass toward them, her face fixed with consternation. “Anne! Eliza!” she said. “Calm yourselves.” Her accent was crisp, and faintly Continental.

Grace set the child away and rose. “I do beg your pardon,” she said at once. “I am—or
was
—their governess, Grace Gauthier.” She extended a hand.

The blond lady took the hand and smiled, but there was little warmth in it. “Good afternoon,” she said. “I am Miss Effinger.”

“I am so pleased to meet you,” said Grace. “Mrs. Lester sings your praises.”

“She is too kind.”

Ruthveyn stepped nearer, his crop hand tucked behind his back. “Lord Ruthveyn, at your service, ma'am,” he said, bowing. “I am a friend of Mademoiselle Gauthier's.”

Grace blushed profusely. “Yes, how rude of me.”

Miss Effinger could scarcely conceal her surprise, but she made a perfunctory curtsy. “A pleasure, my lord,” she murmured. “But if you will excuse us, we have a carriage waiting near the corner.”

“Allow me to fold your blanket, then.” Ruthveyn passed both reins to Grace.