by Liz Carlyle
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.”
“Just 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 m
arriage, 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 repeating 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.
“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.”