by Liz Carlyle
“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.
He doubted Miss Effinger missed the ache in Grace’s voice as she went on. “And the girls are well?” she asked. “They are sleeping? And back at their studies?”
“They are very well indeed,” said Miss Effinger. “I believe the country air has done them good.”
“That’s where the pony is!” Anne piped. “We have a big courtyard, mademoiselle! And our very own fountain! And we drive round it in the cart—but Eliza is not allowed the reins. Only I am.”
“So you are just visiting in Belgrave Square?” Grace asked, stroking Anne’s hair.
“Yes, to see how Miss Crane goes on,” said Miss Effinger coolly, “and to pack up a few things from the schoolroom. Mrs. Lester thought it best to take the girls out whilst that was done.”
“Very wise,” said Grace. She smiled again at the girls and stepped back,
but Ruthveyn could see what it cost her. “I am sure you will come to adore Anne and Eliza as I have done.”
“I already have.” Then, with a tight smile, Miss Effinger took the basket from Ruthveyn, the blanket now tucked inside it. “Thank you, my lord. I am much obliged.”
The trio turned to go, the two girls looking back almost forlornly. The taller girl threw up her hand to wave, her face wistful. “Good-bye, Mademoiselle Gauthier!”
For an instant, he could feel Grace hesitating. “Miss Effinger?” she finally called after them.
She turned. “Yes?”
“Might I write?” Grace asked. “To the girls, I mean?”
The woman bobbed faintly. “How very kind of you,” she said. “But perhaps be so good as to write to Mrs. Lester first?”
It was as gentle a rebuke as could have been made, but Ruthveyn cringed for Grace nonetheless.
They stood on the slight rise above the water’s edge, watching as the three circled round the wide end of the Serpentine, then down toward Hyde Park Corner. Below, a large town coach waited, two well-dressed ladies standing to one side.
“Look, it’s Fenella!” Grace whispered. “And Mrs. Lester.”
The younger lady’s red hair was indeed unmistakable. Grace lifted a hand as if to wave. But the pair looked quite deliberately away, one of them opening the door as if to climb back in. Ruthveyn edged nearer and slipped his hand around Grace’s to squeeze her fingers.
It was a tender, reflexive gesture, one that, with almost any other person, he would have avoided as unconsciously as another man might blink. But with Grace, physical contact—any sort of physical contact—came naturally to him. It would have been a deeply disconcerting realization had he allowed himself to ponder it.
But he did not, for in that moment, his only concern was for Grace, and for the heart he could all but hear breaking. Oftentimes, he well knew, the worst sort of pain was the silent kind, the kind inflicted not by a slash of an assailant’s knife but by a thousand little cuts made up of thoughtless comments, cold restraint, and condescending eyes. And Ruthveyn wished to God he could have spared her.
Grace had not harmed Ethan Holding, he realized. It simply was not possible—if for no other reason than she would not have done such a thing to his children, children whom she looked at with such love. He was ashamed he had ever doubted her.
They stood thus in the first edge of dusk, watching until the girls were halfway down the hill. Then Eliza slipped one hand into Anne’s, and the other into Miss Effinger’s, and skipped the rest of the way down.
He heard the faint sob catch in the back of Grace’s throat. “They do look happy,” she said. “They are, aren’t they? I want above all things that they should be happy.”
“I think the girls are fine,” he said quietly. “And perhaps the family will come round. Just give it a little time.”
“It isn’t going to matter, Ruthveyn, and you know it. They are gone from my life.” Grace had frozen to the grass with something that looked like fear, and perhaps even horror. “Mon Dieu, do you think they will hear anything?” Her voice was a hollow whisper. “Children will listen to gossip, you know. They cannot help themselves.”
Ruthveyn did not pretend to misunderstand her. “I am sure no one has laid any open accusations against you, Grace,” he said, praying he spoke the truth. “They would not dare. And certainly not in front of children. Come, let’s go home. The air grows cold.”
A moment later, the coach rattled away. Grace turned to him with a watery smile. “Was that what the English call the cut direct?”
“It is possible the ladies could not make you out,” he suggested.
“I think we both know that is unlikely,” she murmured. “But I thank you.”
Ruthveyn helped Grace mount, and they continued from the park in silence. Grace looked, for the first time, as if she had lost hope. As if her heart had been ripped from her breast. She had loved the children very much, he realized. It had quite likely been the whole of her reason for marrying Holding. And how sad that would have been for her.
And yet, what did he have to offer? What did he even wish to offer?
Nothing. And all of his reasons for that decision came flooding back tenfold as they rode home through Mayfair in silence.
But upon their arrival, they soon discovered yet another surprise lay in store.
CHAPTER 9
A Soldier of Fortune
Sergeant Welham?”
Grace froze in disbelief just beyond the conservatory doors.
“Gracie?” Rance Welham unfolded himself from the rattan chair beside Lady Anisha. “Grace Gauthier, as I live and breathe! And ever more beautiful!”
He strode through the conservatory, his bootheels ringing on the flagstone. To Grace’s shock, he caught her at the waist and lifted her to twirl her madly about. “My God, girl, you’ve wasted away to nothing.”
Grace felt her face flame. “Sergeant, I am fine. Set me down, if you please.”
With a laugh, he did so, then turned to Ruthveyn. “And you, old man—” Here, he paused to embrace Ruthveyn, but it came out as more of a hearty, double-handed back-slap. “Grace, this dog is not fit to shine your shoes, and I hear you are his governess?”
“And very pleased to be,” she said.
Lady Anisha had wandered from the conservatory. “A marvel, is it not?” she said to her brother. “He turned up an hour past, skulking round the windows like Satin when she’s been caught filching tidbits from the kitchen.”
“Oh, ho, skulking, was I, Nish?” Rance turned round and laid a smacking kiss on Lady Anisha’s cheek. “I thought I was just taking the lay of things. Old soldiers never die, you know.”
“And I thought you would be away for weeks.” Ruthveyn’s voice was cool. “Mademoiselle Gauthier will imagine I’ve lied to her.”
Rance winked at Grace. “Looking for me, were you?” he said. “Of course I hurried back. I needed to be sure my girl was being looked after properly.”
“I can assure you,” said Ruthveyn, “your haste was unwarranted.”
At that, Rance threw back his head and laughed again. “Yes, as usual, Adrian, you’ve stolen a march on me,” he said. “Isn’t it just my luck to be off on some adventure when the prettiest girl in all North Africa comes by?”
Lady Anisha rolled her eyes. “I must go down and see Mrs. Henshaw about dinner,” she said. “Rance, will you stay?”
“No, no, I thank you,” he answered. “Bessett and I have laid some plans for the evening.”
“Ah,” said Anisha knowingly as she started for the stairs. “I wonder if they involve a certain set of leggy young dancers from—”
“Anisha!” Ruthveyn chided. He returned his attention to his visitor. “If I may ask, Lazonby, what are you here for, if not a free meal?”
Rance scratched his stubbled jaw pensively. “I’d like a word with Grace, to be honest,” he said. “Do you mind?”
For an instant, Ruthveyn hesitated. Then, “Not in the least,” he said smoothly. He turned to her with a tight half bow. “Thank you, mademoiselle, for the pleasure of your company. Lazonby, I trust you can let yourself out?”
“Grace,” said Rance when they were settled in the conservatory chairs, “why didn’t you tell me you were living in London?”
“I meant to, as soon as I heard you had got out of prison again,” she said, her gaze falling to her lap. “But Aunt Abigail said such things weren’t done. That unmarried ladies mustn’t seek out the company of gentlemen to whom they are not related.”
“But they do seek out the company of their friends,” Rance said.
“It was awkward,” she said honestly. “I did not want to go to your club unless…well, unless it was an emergency.”
Rance smiled, his brilliant blue eyes lighting up. “Well, I am oddly certain that you do not need me now,” he said. “You could not be in better hands than Ruthveyn’s.”
Grace was very much afraid that was precisely
where she was—in Ruthveyn’s hands, and in more ways than one. Moreover, she had forgotten just how charming Rance could be—and how handsome he was, if so rugged a man could indeed be called handsome.
“I believe,” Ruthveyn had once said, “I can safely claim to be his best friend in all the world.”
How odd that it should be so. Lord Ruthveyn was all lean, predatory grace clothed in elegance and civility, and handsome as sin. Rance was like some charming highwayman—filled with restless energy, always smelling of leather, with a few fine lines about his merry, ice blue eyes.
Suddenly, he slapped both hands on his thighs. “Well, Grace, my girl,” he said, those merry eyes twinkling now. “We’ve seen a lot of water flow under the bridge since we left El-Bahdja, haven’t we?”
“Yes, you have lost your father,” she murmured. “I was so sorry to hear it.”
“And you have lost yours, Grace.” His expressive face fell. “I owed him my life, three times over. Henri Gauthier was a brave man.”
“And a good father,” said Grace. “And yours—oh, Rance, he fought the good fight for you. Never did he falter. How sad that he is gone.”
“I think he lived for that fight,” Rance admitted, falling back into the deep rattan chair. “I think it kept him breathing, that determination to see me avenged and out of prison.”
“And now you are.”
Rance shrugged. “Well, I am out of prison, thanks to Father’s tenacity, and Ruthveyn’s influence,” he said darkly. “But the vengeance—now that, it appears, will take some time.”
He sounded so very like Ruthveyn when he spoke of revenge. Coldly certain. Ruthlessly determined. And suddenly Grace began to understand just what it was they shared.
“Tell me,” she said quietly, “did Papa know from the first you were a wanted man?”
Rance laughed and set his broad hands on his thighs again. “Gracie, love, every soldier in the legion is a wanted man,” he said, leaning toward her. “You know that. It’s nothing but a place for rascals on the run. We are a rough bunch, us legionnaires. That’s why your father so rarely befriended his men—to keep the riffraff away from you.”