One Touch of Scandal (32 page)

Lazonby drew an unsteady breath, then dragged a hand down his face as if he might wipe away the last few minutes. “I do know it,” he said. “If ever there was a man who came handy in a hard spot, Adrian, it's you. The little bastard just rattled me, that's all. He just won't quit. He just
won't.
And I'm so bloody sick of having my past dragged through the papers. Tired of the questions. The innuendoes. Tired of him being in my face, so goddamned holier than thou. So this time I…I just snapped, I guess. I just wanted to teach him a lesson.”

“But what you have done,” said Ruthveyn quietly, “is given him grist for his mill.
If
he chooses to grind it.”

“Christ, Adrian.” Lazonby's voice was hoarse. “What am I to do? I…I'm not like that. I'm not.”

“The longer I live,” said Ruthveyn, “the more I think that we are none of us entirely one way or another—not all of the time, and not in every circumstance.”

But Lazonby seemed not to hear him. He had paced back to the window and was staring down at Quartermaine's club again, hands braced wide on the frame, as if he restrained himself from jumping.

Ruthveyn wished—suddenly and acutely—that he had listened to Grace. She had sensed something was amiss.

“
You should go find Rance,
” she had said. “
I have a bad feeling.
”

Oh, one Vates could not read another, it was true. But all of them had a certain intuition, could draw in unleashed emotion as easily as others drew in air. Was it possible Anisha's theory was right?

Lazonby fisted one hand and pounded it upon the window frame. “How the devil did I let matters get so out of hand?” he whispered. “I mean—oh, hell, I don't know what I mean! Just tell me—what am I to do if Coldwater suggests…suggests that I…”

Ruthveyn followed and placed a hand between Lazonby's shoulder blades. “I do not think he will,” he said quietly. “He looked as shaken as you. No, I think he will keep silent.”

“But if he doesn't?” Lazonby demanded. “What then?”

“Then I was there,” said Ruthveyn. “Standing in the doorway the whole time. And my sister was
not.
”

Lazonby turned around. “You mean you'd lie.”

“I mean I would do what was necessary to protect someone I care for,” said Ruthveyn calmly. “And to pro
tect the
Fraternitas.
We have work to do here, Rance, that outweighs both of us—and all our petty little lives, should it come to it.”

But Lazonby merely turned back around, his gaze focused out the window again.

“Look, I'm keeping Brogden waiting at the curb,” said Ruthveyn, patting him on the back again. “He's become testy about such things. Shall I see you across the way for dinner?”

Lazonby sighed, and at last let his shoulders relax. “Going somewhere in a rush, are you?”

“Yes, to Number Four,” he said. “Scotland Yard is on the verge of having Grace arrested.”

H
e went to her that night. He went because she had asked. And because he longed to lie with her—not just to make love to her, but simply to exist in the same sphere as she, and to draw the same breath into his lungs. To rest his head on her shoulder and seek solace in the warmth of her gaze.

Just a few weeks earlier, the depth of his need for Grace would have given him pause. But as his sister often reminded him, the
Upanishads
—the ancient Vedantic scriptures—taught that the fate of a man's soul was written, and to struggle against it was in vain. He wished now he had actually studied them, for he felt as if he had surrendered his soul to Grace, and in this act he had begun to feel peace.

All his fears, and all his sister's far-flung theories about Grace and the Gift, were rapidly ceasing to matter. He knew only that fate was taking him on a journey—just as Anisha had predicted weeks ago—and that he had yielded to it.

He slipped into her room just after midnight, without knocking, certain in the knowledge that Grace would know it was he. She rolled up onto one elbow, drowsily dragging the heavy blond hair from her eyes.

“Adrian,” she whispered, her voice flowing over him like warm honey.

He let his silk robe slip to the floor and made love to her wordlessly and slowly, telling her with his body and his sighs that what he felt for her would never end. And when at last she lay sated beneath him, he drew her fast to his side and buried his face against her throat, his lips set to the tiny heartbeat beneath her ear. He hadn't even bothered to withdraw but had filled her with his seed exultantly, and perhaps with a measure of hope.

“I have to go away tomorrow, Grace,” he finally said, whispering the words against her skin.

She stiffened in his embrace. “For how long?”

“Three days.” He brushed his lips over the turn of her jaw. “And when I come back, we need to have a long talk, you and I.”

“Hmm,” she said. Even in the gloom, he could feel her gaze roaming over him. “Can I ask where you go?”

Inwardly, he sighed. He really did not want to distress her with Napier's fears. “To Yorkshire,” he said. “To Lord Bessett's country estate. We have some unfinished business.”

“Fraternitas
business?”

“Yes, of a sort.”

She rolled onto her back and made an exasperated sound. “Why is it, Adrian, that I suspect you're being faintly disingenuous again?”

He dragged an arm over his eyes and considered his words. “Because I am,” he finally said. “And because Anisha is right—you're too perceptive by half. But Grace, do you still trust me?”

“Yes.” As always, her answer was swift.

“Then may we leave it at that for now?” he asked gently. “Will you just simply put your faith in me and trust that I'm doing what is right?”

She acquiesced with surprising ease, rolling back against him and curling one leg over his. “Done,” she murmured, kissing him lightly on the temple. “There, you see? I actually do trust you. But something else is troubling you, isn't it? Something besides us, I mean.”

He gave a harsh laugh. “Aye, too perceptive by half,” he said again. “I wish, Grace, I had listened to you this afternoon. About Rance, I mean.”

“There was trouble, wasn't there?”

“I—” His words broke off, and he felt frustration sketch across his face. “I saw Rance with Coldwater. In a compromising position.”

“I don't understand,” Grace murmured.

He let his head fall fully back against the pillow. “I saw Rance almost kissing Jack Coldwater—or that's what it looked like.”

“
Ça alors!
” Grace sat up straight in bed. “Surely you were mistaken.”

Again, he shook his head, his hair scrubbing the pillow. “I hope so,” he whispered. “But
something
was going on.”

“But not that, surely,” she muttered.

“Afterward, Coldwater bolted like a startled hare,” he
went on. “But I had Anisha with me and had to drag her away.”

Grace seemed to ponder it for a moment. “Long years in the legion sometimes do strange things to men,” she finally whispered. “It is a hard life. But
Rance
? He was the worst sort of womanizer imaginable. Now I see why Anisha wanted to leave in such a rush.”

“I was struck sideways by it, I can tell you,” said Adrian. “I have lived like a brother with the man, and never knew that he…well, that he could feel…oh, hell, I don't know.”

Grace rolled over him and laid her bare breasts against his chest, settling her cheek on his shoulder. “I hear a hesitation in your voice.”

“No, not…a hesitation.”

But the truth was, he
had
occasionally wondered at Lazonby's attachment to Belkadi. Belkadi and his sister Safiyah had spent their youth as ragtag camp orphans, as best Ruthveyn could gather, and Belkadi had ended up a sort of batman to Lazonby. After his capture, Lazonby had given strict instructions they be brought out of Algeria, and Ruthveyn had done it. Not that Belkadi felt an ounce of gratitude, mind. It was all very odd.

“What are you thinking?” Grace murmured, tucking a lock of hair behind his ear.

He rolled with her to one side. “That I wish I wasn't leaving you,” he answered, his eyes searching her face. “Grace, do you think it's possible? Is there any chance? This mad notion of Anisha's, I mean?”

She knew at once what he meant. “I didn't at first,” she confessed. “But I do believe I'm descended from Sir Angus Muirhead, and that he went to France and nearly died in a bridge collapse. It would certainly appear he
had an association with the
Fraternitas Aureae Crucis.
”

“Sutherland is convinced,” Ruthveyn replied.

Grace sighed and flopped onto her back to stare up at the ceiling. “But do I believe I have some sort of gift?” she went on. “No. I am what I've always been.”

Propped on one elbow, Ruthveyn laid the flat of his hand against the faint swell of her belly. “Grace,” he said, “I put my seed in you tonight. And I did it…I did it half-hoping. Because I love you, Grace, and I think we—”

“Stop,” she said gently, covering his hand with her smaller, warmer one. “Just…stop, Adrian. You
want
to love me, perhaps. But right now, it's just possible you're in love with hope, and nothing more.”

“Damn it, Grace, don't tell me—”

“No, let me speak,” she gently insisted. “Right now, Adrian, you hope I am—oh, I don't know—one of the Vaties, I suppose? It sounds mad even to say it. I'm just
not.
And what you feel is predicated on my being something I'm not. That is my fear. Can't you see how I might think that?”

Ruthveyn cupped his hand round her face, holding her gaze to his. “I love you, Grace,” he said firmly. “Don't tell me what I feel. I love you. I need you, and sometimes I ache for you so badly I feel as if my heart will be torn from my chest if I lose you.
That
is my fear, Grace. So don't tell me what I feel. Tell me you love me. Tell me you'll marry me.”

“You cannot be serious,” she whispered. “Not now.”

“Very serious,” he rasped. “I have never been more serious.”

When she shifted her gaze away, he turned her face back to his. “All right,” he continued, his voice softer still. “Tell me
you
don't love
me.
Look me in the eyes, Grace, and say it.”

In the gloom, she made the faintest little sound. A sort of mewling, as if she might burst into tears. “Of course I love you,” she said on half a sob.

He felt instantly like a cad. “Oh, Grace,” he whispered, gathering her to him. “Oh, Grace, don't. I'm sorry. Just…don't.”

“Of
course
I love you,” she said again. “But I don't want you to want me just because you think you can't read me, or because you think I might be carrying your child. I meant what I said today, Adrian. Love that is love only when things are right and easy, and everything tumbles into place is just not enough for me. And when you think on it, you'll know it isn't enough for you, either.”

“So you think I've decided I love you merely because of my sister's wild theory,” he said.

“I think that a few hours ago you were dreading our future,” she whispered. “You wouldn't even bed me properly—and I begged you.”

“Grace, in the club?” he choked. “I was expecting Fricke, for God's sake. He practically walked in on us as it was. And I told you then that I would never leave you.”

“And that you hoped I had sense enough to leave you,” she finished.

He cursed under his breath—and using a word no gentleman used in a lady's presence, let alone in her bed.

A long moment of silence followed as they lay together, the weight of his body over hers, her arm wrapped round his waist. She was partly right, he realized. He had let Anisha's wild notions propel him toward something that, though inevitable so far as he was concerned, had not been well thought out.

Oh, he loved Grace—and he was determined to marry her. He needed to spend whatever days fate allotted him by her side, even if those days were no more than a fortnight,
and even if he knew them numbered to the very hour. For even a fleeting moment in her presence brought him a joy and a peace he had never imagined possible, and a moment without her was…well, not worth living, perhaps.

Eventually, he would convince her of all this. But it was, perhaps, unreasonable to expect her to suddenly fall into raptures just now.

“Very well,” he said softly. “Have it your way, Grace. Just…stay with me. Don't give up. Don't run back to France. Give me time to convince you of the rightness of
us.
”

She turned her face into his and kissed him. “Make love to me again,” she whispered. “Slowly, as we did once before. Share my breath and my soul, Adrian, with our bodies joined as one. And just for a few hours, live only in the present. With me. Don't think about the future.”

And as he stared, losing himself in the deep blue infinity of her gaze, Adrian decided it was the best suggestion he'd heard in days.

 

Grace awoke the following morning to a house that felt empty and soulless. Adrian had left her bed before dawn—and left her frightfully short of sleep after two hours of his slow, exquisitely torturous lovemaking. He had kissed her hard, then whispered something about the first train out of Euston Station. Already she felt his absence like an ache in her bones.

Throwing back the drapes, she saw that the haze of fog and smoke had lifted to reveal the remnants of a fine drizzle running down the windows, the cobbles beyond yellow and glassy in the muted gaslight. A milk cart rumbled past in the gloom, the driver hunched forward, his hat brim sagging.

Oddly restive, Grace breakfasted alone, the food like ashes in her mouth, then spent the following two hours drilling multiplication tables into Teddy while his brother tried to set his trouser hems on fire and Milo flapped and squawked, “
Help, help! British prisoner!
”

“I think I'm the British prisoner,” Teddy finally declared, shoving his slate away. “This stuff's worse than the Black Hole of Calcutta.”

Grace sighed. “Over a hundred of England's bravest were suffocated in the Black Hole,” she reminded him.

“Well, the old
nawab
should have made 'em do multiplications,” he returned, “and the rest would have died of boredom.”

Perched on the punishment stool in the corner, Tom turned round. “Can I get down?” he asked hopefully. “I think I've learnt my lesson now.”

“Yes,” Grace snapped. “Get down and go ask Higgenthorpe if the maids have finished cleaning the conservatory. Milo must go back, else Cook will be serving parakeet for dinner.”

“
Awwkk!
” Milo protested, flapping his wings. “
Pretty-pretty! Pretty-pretty!
”

“It's far too late for flattery, old boy,” said Grace grimly.

“What, ho!” said a silky voice from the doorway. “Sounds as if I'm just in the nick!”

Grace turned to see Lord Lucan saunter into the room. “
Alors,
one rascal after another,” she said with a muted smile. “Here to defend poor Milo, are you?”

“No, no, to recommend a madeira sauce,” said Lord Lucan. “Or a velouté, perhaps, and a chilled Viognier, if you mean to sauté him?”

“Aww, she ain't really going to eat him, Uncle Luc,” said Tom. “She's just worn to a frizzle because Teddy
don't know times-nine from times-eight, and because I struck a match to his trouser leg.”

“
Isn't, doesn't,
and I believe I said I was worn to a
frazzle,
” Grace corrected.

“Frizzle, frazzle,” said Lord Lucan, beaming a mouthful of white teeth at Grace. “My dear girl, you're going to crease that lovely brow. Look, the sun has finally peeped out. What say I grab a cricket bat and take the lads to the park to burn off a little mischief?”

Grace tossed a knowing look at the young man. “And would that be your sort of mischief, Lord Lucan,” she asked sotto voce, “or theirs?”

The teeth shone brighter, if such a thing were possible. “Oh, just theirs, ma'am,” he replied. “My sort is resilient—and shameless.”

“Just the word I was thinking of.” Grace snapped shut Teddy's arithmetic primer. “Thank you, nonetheless. I accept your kind offer, and will debit your sister's account accordingly.”

“Ah, there it is again!” Lucan's smile broadened as she rose. “The razor's edge of a most tempting tongue.”

“Better than a fork, I daresay,” murmured Grace, shoving the primer back onto the shelf.

“Aye, but with either implement, ma'am, you are going to keep some poor devil on the straight and narrow.” Lord Lucan snatched the bat and ball from its basket by the door. “Come, lads! Fetch your coats.”