One Touch of Scandal (25 page)

“I'm sure I couldn't speculate about Lord Ruthveyn,” said Grace, “but speaking of odd behavior, I have been meaning to mention something a little peculiar that Teddy did. When he was ill Sunday night, I noticed he had drawn something strange on his arm.”

“Did he?” Anisha had resumed eating her breakfast. “Well, most everything Teddy does is strange. What did he draw? Not parts of the female anatomy, I hope? Because he and I already discussed that.”

Grace had to laugh; it sounded just like Teddy to do such a thing. “No, it was that strange symbol on Lord Ruthveyn's cravat pin,” she said. “The one with the gold cross? When I asked Teddy about it, he said his grandfather had such a mark.”

For an instant, Lady Anisha blanched. Then, “Oh, that!” she said, making a dismissive gesture with her fork. “It is just a family tradition. A tattoo. Ignore it.”

“A family tradition,” Grace echoed.

“Why?” Anisha cut a strange glance at her. “You have not, by chance, seen one elsewhere, have you? I mean, if you
have
, perhaps we might discuss it. As the mature, adult ladies we are.”

“I just thought it looked vaguely familiar,” she said quietly. “Do your brothers have them?”

Lady Anisha appraised her carefully across the dining-room table. “Why, I am not perfectly sure,” she finally said. “It is a matter of personal choice, I suppose. What do you think? If you were to hazard a guess, I mean?”

“If I were to hazard a guess,” said Grace slowly, “I would say that Ruthveyn does and that Lord Lucan does not.”

“Hmm,” said Anisha. “Interesting.”

“And if you wish to know,” Grace went on, “whether or not your brother is bedding the help, you should probably just ask him.”

At that, Lady Anisha gasped so hard she inhaled a little coffee and was compelled to hack violently into her napkin. “My, but that is plain speaking, Grace!” she said when she had recovered herself. “But to be honest, I already asked. And as usual, he'll tell me nothing.”

“Well,” said Grace calmly, “your brother is not a fool. I daresay he can tell the difference between a female who wishes merely to sink her claws into him as opposed to
one who simply appreciates him for what he is and hopes to move on with her life. At least, that would be my guess.”

“If
you were to hazard a guess,” Anisha added. “You must be quite a good guesser, Grace.”

“Yes, and a good cardplayer, too,” she said. “Unless I make the mistake of playing with Rance Welham—excuse me, Lord Lazonby—which I stopped doing years ago.”

A sly smile curved Anisha's mouth. “No, and you must on no account play charades with that rogue,” she added. “He is so good, everyone thinks he cheats. In fact, that's more or less how he got convicted of murder, I believe.”

“I'm sorry,” said Grace. “I do not follow.”

“I believe he was so good, someone decided he
was
a cheat,” said Anisha. “But since they couldn't catch him at it, they decided to simply cheat back.”

“You mean Lord Percy Peveril?” said Grace.

Anisha lifted one of her narrow shoulders and took up her coffee cup. “From all accounts, he was an idiot,” she said pensively. “No, it was someone else. Or that would be my guess, were I to hazard one.”

“We are doing a lot of guessing today,” remarked Grace. “What do you think—does Lord Lazonby have one of those marks? And if so, where?”

Anisha lifted her eyebrows at that. “Why, I suspect he does,” she went on. “As to where, I could not say.”

Grace hesitated a moment. “I could,” she said.

Then she got up, shut the door, and told the story of the lieutenant's wife.

“I was all of twenty-one, mind, and brought up in the army, which is not the most genteel of environments,” she added when Anisha's eyes nearly popped from her head. “But the lady's description was most marvelously detailed, and even then, it jogged my memory.”

“Yes?” Anisha was all ears now. “About what?”

“About that symbol,” Grace said. “When she described it, I was quite certain I had seen it somewhere.”

“But that's not very likely, is it? In North Africa?”

“Well, that depends, I think,” said Grace, “on precisely what it means.”

Lady Anisha pushed back her chair and stood. “And
I
think that I had best go get ready for our nature walk,” she said. “We may have
lots
to talk about—regarding nature, I mean.”

But at the last instant, Grace caught her arm. “Teddy told me something else, too,” she said quietly. “He told me that the servants believe Lord Ruthveyn can look into a person's eyes and tell him the time of his death.”

All the color drained from Anisha's face, and a stillness fell across the room. “Good Lord,” she finally whispered. “We have not been here above six months. They are quick with their black tales, are they not?”

“Servants will talk,” said Grace consolingly, “but Teddy seemed more amused than anything else. As to me, I do not mean to make trouble for anyone. Certainly I shan't spread gossip—well, save for the tale about Rance's arse.”

“That
was
a good one,” Anisha admitted, grinning.

“Too good, really, not to share.” Grace grinned back. “But as to your brother, Anisha, please know that I mean him no harm. Indeed, I owe him more than I can ever repay. But I do worry about him. And if ever there was…anything that I might do—or
not
do—that you think would benefit him, I hope you will let me know? And then I could…well, not do those things.”

“Or not,” said Lady Anisha. “Not
not
do them, I mean. Because my brother knows his own mind, Grace.”

“Lovely.” Grace smiled, and drew open the door. “It seems we have struck a gentleman's agreement, then.”

 

“Is this your idea of a joke, Ruthveyn?” Royden Napier flung a piece of paper onto the breakfast table.

“Not in the least,” said Ruthveyn, waving at an empty chair as he sat back down. “This is my idea of breakfast. Try the kippers. They are very good indeed.”

Across the table, Ned Quartermaine merely stretched out his legs and steepled his long, thin fingers.

“Your gall knows no bounds, does it?” Napier snatched up the paper again. “You have dragged me down here on the pretext of—here, let me see—
breaking developments in the Holding case?”
He motioned at Quartermaine. “What ‘breaking developments'? As if you are not thought trouble enough down at Number Four already! Have you any notion what Sir George would say to my hobnobbing with a bookmaker and a turfite?”

“The mind boggles, does it not?” said Quartermaine quietly. “Perhaps next time he's by my club, I shall ask him.”

Napier went rigid, his lips whitening.

“Oh, sit down, for God's sake,” said Ruthveyn, waving an expansive hand. “We Scots must simply accept, Napier, that half of London is in hock to men like my esteemed associate here.”

“I'm a man of business, Napier,” said Quartermaine, “but I haven't all day, what with all the gentry waiting to be fleeced and Her Majesty's laws to subvert. Now, Lord Ruthveyn has somehow persuaded me it would be in my best interest to share some information with you. You may have five minutes of my inordinately valuable time. Do you wish to hear what I have to say? Or shall I hand my information to Sir George myself? And yes, I do occasionally see him.” With that, he extracted yet another fold of paper and laid it on the table.

Napier jerked out a chair and sat down. “I apologize,” he said stiffly. “But Ruthveyn here seems to think the laws of the land are his to subvert as well.”

Ruthveyn merely raised his hand, and a warm plate was brought and set down before them. “Do have one,” he suggested. “It will improve your mood.”

Napier simply glowered, but Quartermaine leaned over the plate with interest. “What the devil are they?”

“
Makrouts,
” said Ruthveyn. “A sort of a fried biscuit stuffed with fruit and dipped in honey. Belkadi had the chef specifically trained to make it—amongst other delicacies.”

“Don't mind if I do,” said Quartermaine, whose taste for fine dining was no secret.

But they reached across the table at once, their hands brushing. Ruthveyn's eyes caught Quartermaine's just an instant. He felt a blade of light cut close to his temple, then the flash of an image; a passing vignette, like something glimpsed from a carriage window.

He jerked back his hand. “Please, after you.”

Quartermaine took one, turned it this way and that, then bit in, chewing with relish. “Oh, bloody good,” he said, his eyes widening.

“Magnificent, is it not?” said Ruthveyn quietly. “Which reminds me, Quartermaine—do you know what the Berbers do to a man who tries to steal from them?”

“Haven't a clue,” said Quartermaine, biting into the pastry again.

“They chop off his hand. The one he eats with, generally.”

Quartermaine seemed to choke on the pastry.

“Are you right-handed, Quartermaine?” Ruthveyn murmured. “Ah, yes, I feared as much. I advise you to rethink your strategy.”

Quartermaine got the food down at last. “And what is it, precisely, you think I'm scheming to steal?” he demanded.

“Belkadi's chef,” said Ruthveyn. “He will take it very ill. I suggest you stop meeting with the man and put an advertisement in the
Times.
”

For a moment, Quartermaine looked vaguely apoplectic. He set down the rest of his pastry and shoved the note at Royden Napier. “I'm wanted across the street,” he said. “This is what you need. Send word if you have questions.”

Napier opened it and let his eyes run down its length. “Lists? Of what?”

“Josiah Crane's unsecured gaming debts,” snapped Quartermaine. “With the name of the establishment or individual, the date of indebtedness, and whether or not they have been repaid. You will see, alas for Mr. Crane, that the vast majority are outstanding.”

“Christ Jesus,”
whispered Napier under his breath.

Quartermaine pushed away what was left of his pastry. “And
you
,” he said, turning a dark look on Ruthveyn, “you will remember, I hope, our little understanding? You are never, ever permitted at my tables.”

Ruthveyn merely smiled. “About that hand-chopping business, old chap,” he murmured. “Now that I think on it, I maybe have confused the Berbers with the Arabs. The Berbers, I believe, go straight for the throat.”

Quartermaine sneered, proposed to Ruthveyn a rather vulgar—and anatomically impossible suggestion—then stalked from the dining room. But his color had faded just a trifle. Quartermaine was far from a coward, but only a fool backstabbed Belkadi. It would have made, Ruthveyn thought, for an interesting fight.

He shrugged and picked up the last bite of Quartermaine's
makrout.
“Now a good Scot, Napier, would not
let this go to waste, would he?” he said, then popped it in his mouth.

But Napier was still staring at the list of debts. “How long have you known about this?” he asked, his voice a little hollow.

“The specifics?” said Ruthveyn, chewing round the pastry. “About three minutes.” He swallowed the last and stood. “And now I think it's time for a little jaunt across the river.”

Napier rose and followed. “What?” he said vaguely. “To where?”

“Rotherhithe,” said Ruthveyn, heading for the stairs. “To the Surrey Commercial Docks. I should very much like to make a closer acquaintance of Josiah Crane.”

Napier caught his arm on the landing. “Damn it, Ruthveyn! You are interfering in a police investigation again. I won't have it.”

Ruthveyn bit back his temper. “With all respect, Napier, you would not have an investigation—not this part of it, at any rate—were it not for me. A man like Quartermaine wouldn't talk to the police if he were hanging by his nails from Blackfriars Bridge, and you were the last chap walking past.”

“Damn you, that is not—”

“Now, I'm going down to Rotherhithe,” said Ruthveyn, speaking over him. “I am a private citizen, and I have every right. You cannot stop me. I would advise you do not try. I suggest, in fact, you come along.”

Napier's jaw hardened. “You will do anything, won't you?” he gritted. “Anything to protect and deflect attention from that woman.”

“Yes,” said Ruthveyn tightly. “Anything. Are you coming? Or not?”

“Is that an order, my lord?” Napier snapped. “If it is,
simply say so. I do not need another visit from Sir Greville Steele to tell me how to do my job—particularly when I'm already standing in the middle of the magistrate's court with my papers in order.”

“Took it that far, did you?” Ruthveyn fought down his sudden shaft of fear. “In any case, you waste your time, Napier. Mademoiselle Gauthier is innocent.”

“If you think that, Ruthveyn, then you are being a fool for a woman,” he said. “Never would I have believed it of you. I've always heard you were heartless.”

“I've heard that, too.” Ruthveyn smiled thinly. “Now, shall we go by river? Or my carriage? You will find it far better sprung than a hansom, if I do say so myself.”

Napier snatched his coat from the waiting footman. “I daresay I'd better go,” he snapped. “Lest you bollix this up beyond saving.”

Ruthveyn motioned Napier toward the door. “After you.”

They went out into the peculiar London air—a dense, yellow-white fog that reeked of burned coal, horse manure, and the effluent of the nearby river. He would never, Ruthveyn thought, grow used to this oppressive haze, which could all but burn the hair from a man's nose. And yet it was a part of London's inscrutability, the veil that cloaked a thousand sins, and gave up her secrets but reluctantly. How ironic that they were going to call upon Josiah Crane to lift the veil on a few of his.