by Liz Carlyle
There was no use asking where Miriam had put Lord Ruthveyn. The only room fit for receiving such an illustrious caller was the withdrawing room, and even there, the shabby edges showed. The door stood open.
Grace hesitated on the threshold. Ruthveyn’s back was turned to her as he stood at one of the windows, his gaze seemingly fixed upon a bright yellow barouche circling Manchester Square. One hand was propped upon the gold knob of a fine ebony walking stick, while the other hand sat at his hip, brushing back his black frock coat to reveal a gray silk waistcoat and the lean turn of his waist. He looked such a vision of masculine elegance, Grace required a moment to gather her thoughts. But she was not to have it.
“Good afternoon, mademoiselle,” said the marquess without turning. “I trust I have not called at an inconvenient time?”
Grace cleared her throat sharply. “You have a disconcerting way of doing that, my lord.”
“Calling inconveniently?” He turned from the window, one harsh, black eyebrow raised.
“No, giving one the impression you have eyes in the back of your head,” she replied, making a perfunctory curtsy. “I find it unnerving.”
The marquess wafted one hand gracefully beneath his nose. “It is your scent, mademoiselle,” he murmured. “It is quite unmistakable.”
“But I don’t wear any scent.”
“That is why it is yours,” he answered. “May I sit down?”
“Mais oui.” Grace managed a smile as she pushed the door nearly shut. “I suppose I wouldn’t want a crick in my neck to go with my unnerved and disconcerted state.”
Ruthveyn accepted her invitation by folding himself gracefully into a dainty chair that, given the length of his legs, should have left him looking incongruous. Instead, he looked even more dangerous, like a falcon poised upon a cliff’s edge, scanning the lesser creatures below in search of something to tempt his jaded palate.
The memory of their first meeting came suddenly back to her; that vision of Lord Ruthveyn’s hard face hovering over hers in the sunlit garden, his thick straight hair falling forward to shadow his eyes. In her dazed state, Grace had thought him Lucifer come to life—a beautiful, sun-bronzed Lucifer, but a devil all the same. Now, she was even less sure what to make of him.
“Mademoiselle Gauthier?” His low, silky voice jerked her back to the present.
“I beg your pardon?” Grace realized she had been staring.
“I asked if you had enjoyed a pleasant morning,” he repeated.
“Merci, yes, I—” Her words fell away. “Actually, no. I didn’t. I had a frightful morning. I went to the cemetery.”
“By yourself?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry.” For the first time, Ruthveyn’s sharp eyes did not hold hers. “No one should have to do that alone.”
“You sound as if you speak from experience,” she said quietly.
Still he did not look at her. “I lost my wife when I was a young man,” he finally answered. “It was…unbearable.”
“I’m sorry,” Grace murmured. “You have my sympathy.”
He said no more for a time but instead sat quietly, one hand folded over the other, the starched edges of his cuffs brilliantly white against his bronzed hands. He put Grace in mind of a grand portrait she’d once seen for sale in a village bazaar, purported to be that of Suleiman the Magnificent upon his throne—serene, self-disciplined, and utterly regal.
And yet Ruthveyn radiated restless male energy. She thought again of how he had kissed her, his mouth taking possession of hers with a skill and a hunger Grace had not imagined possible. Did he think of that moment? Did he feel the awkwardness of it between them? Was the heat of that kiss still seared upon his mouth?
Unwittingly, Grace touched her fingertips to her lips.
Ruthveyn betrayed himself then with a glint of some barely suppressed emotion in his eyes.
Grace dropped her hand to her lap, wondering the room didn’t explode with the sudden heat. They were saved from it when Miriam came in with the tea tray. Grace busied herself by making small talk as she served, taking comfort in the fact that her hands did not shake.
Really, what was the matter with her? He was just a man. It was just tea. But there was no denying there was something otherworldly—and deeply sensual—about Lord Ruthveyn.
“This is a green gunpowder that we often served at home,” she nattered, taking up the pot. “I recall it was Sergeant Welham’s favorite. Will you take it in the traditional way? Or would you like warm milk?”
“Thank you, I shall take it as is,” he said.
Grace lifted the battered old pot and poured it high, causing the tea to foam up to the top of each cup. “The sugar is already in it,” she warned.
Lord Ruthveyn sipped at it pensively. “And the mint,” he said, smiling faintly. “It is bitter, strong, and delicious. Mademoiselle Gauthier, I commend you. I could almost imagine myself back in the Kasbah.”
“Could you?” she murmured, pouring for herself. “Did you spend much time there?”
Ruthveyn crooked one eyebrow. “With Rance Welham as my boon companion?” he asked. “I should rather not say.”
“Sergeant Welham had some unfortunate habits, my lord.” Grace put the pot down with a bit of a clatter. “And he lived too hard. I hope he did not corrupt you.”
Ruthveyn sipped at his tea as if stalling for time. “Perhaps it was more the other way round,” he finally said. “But none of it is appropriate for a lady’s ears. I called today to tell you what I’ve managed to learn about Scotland Yard’s investigation into your fiancé’s death.”
“Almost-fiancé.” She smiled weakly. “That is what I’ve decided to call Mr. Holding. It…makes it all somehow more bearable. I daresay that makes no sense to you.”
“It makes a great deal of sense to me,” he said quietly.
Grace dropped her gaze to her tea. “You once asked me, Lord Ruthveyn, if I had loved Mr. Holding,” she replied. “Would it make sense to you if I now said that I wished quite desperately I had done?”
Fleetingly, his voice softened. “Actually, it would.”
She could feel her lower lip tremble ominously. “I…I cannot seem to grieve for him,” she whispered. “Not as the loss of a husband. I wish now I’d never agreed to marry him. What once seemed eminently practical now seems simply wrong.”
“Grief is sometimes better expressed by helping find justice for a death, Mademoiselle Gauthier,” said Ruthveyn. “Regret is useless—whilst revenge, I often find, can be rather a comfort.”
Despite its ruthlessness, the remark oddly steadied her. “I would not wish to make an enemy of you, Lord Ruthveyn.”
Something that might have been a smile toyed with his mouth. “Shall I bring you up to date on what I know?” he asked. “Perhaps if I do, you will be more comfortable leaving this in my hands from here out. And if there is revenge to be had, I’ll see to it.”
“We shall see,” she replied. “Of course, I should be most grateful for anything you can tell me.”
Ruthveyn’s jaw twitched tellingly. “Yes, we shall see,” he echoed. “Firstly, Mr. Napier has been called away—a family matter of some sort. In his absence, the Metropolitan Police have released the house. Were your things returned?”
“A van came on Saturday with my trunks. I suppose everything is there.”
“Good,” Ruthveyn murmured. “I understand Miss Crane has returned home, Mr. Crane has reopened the offices, and as you suspected, Mr. Holding’s stepchildren are to remain with their mother’s sister.”
Grace’s heart sank a little. “I had resigned myself to it, of course,” she said softly. “At least they shall be well provided for.”
“Indeed,” said Ruthveyn. “The will was read yesterday. Holding left each girl a tidy trust to live on and a dowry of thirty thousand pounds.”
“Good heavens,” said Grace.
“Holding also left annuities to the senior servants and a few charitable bequests, with
the balance of the estate going to his sister.”
“That makes sense,” said Grace. “It was, after all, their father’s firm that created the family’s wealth. Was nothing left to Josiah Crane?”
“No, but since he is already part owner, I would not have expected it,” said Ruthveyn. “Might I ask, mademoiselle, if there had been any tension between Holding and his partner?”
Grace shook her head. “None I saw. Why?”
The marquess watched her quietly for a moment. “I have it on good authority that Crane was in debt,” he finally said. “It seems he had developed something of a taste for gambling.”
Grace’s eyes widened. “Mon Dieu, the Crane Curse?” she murmured. “Or so Fenella called it. That’s how Josiah’s father lost his half of the business. Tell me, was he in deep?”
Ruthveyn lifted one shoulder. “No worse than most men of fashion,” he admitted. “Nothing he could not afford to repay—in time. But his name was being bandied about by the local sharps as something of a mark.”
“You mean by Mr. Quartermaine and his ilk,” said Grace.
Both his dark brows lifted at that. “Have you some passing acquaintance with our neighborhood hell?” he replied. “No, I meant the cardsharps who frequent such places. Quartermaine is an honest man—more or less.”
“Which means?”
Ruthveyn’s mouth quirked. “Which means he is honest most of the time,” he answered. “He is also full of useful information if one can pry it out of him.”
“And you can?” Grace eyed him over her teacup.
“I can be persuasive,” said Ruthveyn.
“Doubtless it is your charm,” Grace dryly remarked. “I noticed it straightaway.”
He flicked a quick, diamond-hard look at her. “Mademoiselle Gauthier, I begin to think you have a little more spine than I first suspected—and I never thought you lacking.”
“Thank you,” said Grace. “I do pride myself on it. What else have you learned?”
“That the competitor Holding forced out of business last month is ruined.” Ruthveyn paused to sip his tea. “And that Crane was unhappy with the deal. Apparently, the maneuver left Crane and Holding overextended—not an ideal position for a gambler who has passed his vowels all over Town.”
Grace stiffened. “The company is not at risk, I hope?”
“I doubt it,” he said. “It will depend who comes aboard to steer the ship in Holding’s place. Perhaps Miss Crane will wish to have a voice in that. One could argue she has some right.”
Grace frowned. “I can’t think she would bother.”
“Few women would,” Ruthveyn agreed. “She showed no interest in the business?”
Grace shrugged. “Fenella merely served as Mr. Holding’s social hostess,” she replied. “She answered his invitations or the occasional letter, and organized dinner parties if business required it. But I think she loathed that sort of thing. She used to laugh and say their mother had often told her she had no talent for it. As to money, Mr. Holding always gave her carte blanche. She lacked for nothing material.”
Ruthveyn sighed and put his cup down. “Then I daresay Josiah Crane is destined to get another visit from our friend Napier when he learns of those gaming debts,” he said, “which will perhaps deflect attention from you. Tell me, are you sure Crane left the house after dinner that night?”
“Quite sure. I walked him out myself. He had the book of poetry in his carriage.”
Ruthveyn pondered it. “Dare I hope he had a key to the house?”
Grace’s eyes widened. “He may have done,” she answered. “He occasionally brought post and papers by early in the morning—things he wished Mr. Holding to read over breakfast. They kept different hours, you see. When Mr. Holding traveled, he often sent our letters inside Mr. Crane’s daily dispatch. I would find them on the hall table when I came down.”
“I see.” Ruthveyn set both hands on his thighs as if to rise. “Well, that is something, I suppose.”
“But really, Lord Ruthveyn, I am quite sure Mr. Crane did not kill his cousin.”
The marquess’s face was emotionless. “That is not my concern,” he answered. “My concern is you.”
“Why?” Grace’s voice was sharp.
He hesitated. “Because I have had a telegraph from Rance—Lord Lazonby, I should say—telling me so.”
“He wishes you to help me?”
“He wishes me to take charge of this business,” Ruthveyn clarified, “and to protect you from harm or scandal in whatever way necessary. If that means throwing Crane to the wolves, I’ll do it.”
“That shan’t be necessary,” she replied a little tartly.
At that, Ruthveyn’s hard expression seemed to relent. His hands slid from his thighs, and he settled back into the dainty chair, and it was as if he fell into deep thought for a time.
“Mademoiselle Gauthier, might I trouble you for another cup of tea?” he finally said.
Grace was surprised. She had been sure he was on the verge of leaving. Indeed, she wished he would leave. Didn’t she?
“I beg your pardon,” she said, taking up the pot. “I should have offered.”
“Your aunt is not at home today, I collect,” said Ruthveyn, his gaze focused on the stream of tea. “I hope my visit here will not distress her.”
Grace shrugged. “I’m not sure there’s any pleasing Aunt Abigail,” she answered. “Especially where I’m concerned. I am, after all, my mother’s daughter. We are a disappointing lot, I fear.”
“Are you indeed?” he murmured. “I would never have guessed.”
She flashed a faintly bitter smile. “My mother married down, Lord Ruthveyn,” she explained. “She was the daughter of an English lord, but she had the temerity to elope with an impoverished French army officer.”
Ruthveyn’s black eyes hardened again. “Is that marrying down?”
“That’s what her family thought,” Grace answered. “Doubtless it is what you think.”
“With all respect, Mademoiselle Gauthier, you have no idea what I think.”
Grace dropped her gaze. “I’m sorry,” she said. “You are quite right. I do not.”
“But all was forgiven?” Ruthveyn smoothly resumed. “Your mother was reconciled to her family?”
Lightly, she shrugged. “My mother was much loved, and much doted on,” she admitted. “As a child, I visited here from time to time, and was encouraged by my grandparents to think of this house as my home. But I—” Here, her voice broke wistfully, “—I still think of Algeria as home, even though it isn’t. Still, it is the place we were last happy together; Mamma, Papa, and I.”
It was as if Ruthveyn read her mind. “You cannot leave London, Mademoiselle Gauthier,” he said quietly. “That is what you were thinking, was it not?”
“It was, actually,” she admitted.
“Your situation with Lady Abigail is intolerable?”
Grace’s mouth twisted. “Few things are truly intolerable, my lord,” she answered. “It is uncomfortable. My aunt lives in the past, and it is a bitter one.”
“How so?”
Grace drew a deep breath. “My mother was a great beauty who was expected to marry well,” she answered, “and drag the family fortunes from the brink of ruin. When she chose instead to marry selfishly—my aunt’s words, not mine—she wasted her only asset.”
“And that ruined your aunt’s life…how, precisely?”
“Aunt Abigail never married,” said Grace. “She claims there wasn’t any money for a dowry, or even a season. That everything had been spent on Mamma, and she had embarrassed the family. So Aunt has remained here all these years, steeping in her acrimony and, since my grandfather died, living off the present earl’s charity—what little of it he can afford.”
Ruthveyn’s lip curled with scorn. “What craven self-indulgence.”
“Perhaps.” Grace sighed. “But I need bear it only until Napier’s work is done.”
“And then?”
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p; “And then I go back to France.” Grace folded her hands carefully in her lap. “Moreover, I’ve made up my mind that I am going to like it. I am. I shall take a little cottage and make a quiet life for myself. I mean to find a measure of peace, if not happiness.”
“Peace and happiness.” His tone was cynical as he set down his tea, untouched. “In that, my dear, I wish you well.”
Then abruptly, Ruthveyn jerked from his chair and paced back to the window where he’d been standing earlier.
“My lord?” Confused, Grace pushed from her chair and followed him. “I beg your pardon. Have I given some offence?”
“No,” he said without looking at her. The cynicism had fallen from his tone. “No, of course not.”
She crooked her head to look at his strong, stark profile. “Then what is it, pray?”
He dragged a hand through his mane of inky hair, a telling, almost boyish gesture. Grace wondered again at his age. Despite possessing the tall, hard-muscled physique of a virile man in his prime, Ruthveyn seemed both oddly ageless and yet old beyond his years.
But he had been married once. He had buried a wife. Perhaps he even had children?
Good heavens.
Idiot that she was, Grace had never considered such a thing. Which drove home the painful reality that she really knew nothing of him. She was still pondering it when he spoke again, in a voice so soft she scarcely recognized it.
“Do you see those shadows, Grace?” He was staring at the row of houses beyond the glass. “They come creeping relentlessly across the street, every day, without fail, ever destined to shroud us as the sun sets. That is what fate feels like to me. Like an impending shadow that cannot be evaded. And we know that it is coming. Sometimes, just before the veil falls, we can even glimpse what lies within. And sometimes what we see is but a chimera—or the reflection of our fears.”
Grace saw only the Beesons’ nurse from down the street, pushing a pram along the pavement. But Ruthveyn seemed to be speaking quite literally. Grace thought again of all the dark energy and strength within him and wondered, fleetingly, what it would be like were he to unleash it. She snatched back her stilled hand, which had been but an inch from settling on his arm, in what would doubtless have been a futile attempt at comfort.