One Touch of Scandal (15 page)

The children had brought with them from India a huge, raucous parakeet named Milo, and latched slavishly onto Silk and Satin, Ruthveyn's haughty housecats, both of whom were solid silver and disdained most everyone else's advances. It took all Grace's resolve to ban the trio from the schoolroom.

What the boys lacked in formal education, they more than made up for in the areas of applied physics and chemistry; slingshots capable of shattering glass at fifty paces, and an imaginative experiment with homemade glue that left Teddy's stockings bonded to his shoes. On her third day, Grace caught them under the schoolroom
tea table after elevenses shaking a little jar of something that roiled and hissed threateningly, but turned out to be nothing more than baking soda and vinegar, and provided a quick tutorial in exothermic reactions, followed by a long lesson on how to properly clean a soiled carpet—which they did, on hands and knees.

Of Lord Ruthveyn's sister, Grace was less certain. Lady Anisha Stafford was a quiet, exotic beauty who possessed her brother's quick black eyes and his proclivity for staring straight through to one's soul. Though her skin was pale as cream, Anisha's face possessed a far more foreign cast than did Ruthveyn's. Or perhaps it was her penchant for floating through the private rooms of the house swathed in ells of brilliantly hued silk, one end thrown over her shoulder, and dripping in opulent embroidery. Once Grace even spotted her sporting a pair of baggy pantaloons and looking for all the world like a princess plucked from some mughal's harem.

For the most part, however, Lady Anisha was the perfect English hostess, and indeed, she treated Grace like a guest. She was given a bedchamber twice the size of her old room, its walls hung with paisley silk in brilliant shades of gold and green, and green velvet draperies tasseled with gold. The room was adjacent to a modern marvel; a water closet with a delft-tiled fireplace and an iron tub that could occasionally be coaxed to produce hot water from its tap. Grace had never seen the like.

She was also asked to dine with the family each evening—an ensemble that did not include Lord Ruthveyn, save for the first night. It did, however, include Ruthveyn's brother, an angelically handsome young scoundrel whose existence came as something of a surprise to Grace. As did his hand on her knee one night during the fish course. But a fish fork, Grace had learned
during her army days, made for a fine defensive weapon. Lord Lucan Forsythe took his punishment like a man—one sharp grunt, then silence—and the wound, Grace was pleased to see, did not even fester.

And that, she was quite certain, was the end of her troubles with Lord Lucan. The young man was as perceptible—and about as predictable—as ever a rogue could be. Grace set about making a friend of him, and it was easily done.

One afternoon a few days later, Grace went in search of Teddy's lost grammar book and came upon Lady Anisha stitching in the sunlit conservatory. As they did every afternoon at four, the boys had gone out for a romp with their uncle.

“
Pawwwkk!
” Milo, the parakeet, swung from his perch. “
British prisoner! Let-me-out!
”

At the sound, Lady Anisha looked up from her work with a vague smile. “Milo, hush,” she said. “Good afternoon, Mademoiselle Gauthier. Has Luc taken the boys to the park?”

“Yes, ma'am.” Grace straightened up from the palms where Teddy had last been hiding. “I must say, he is most diligent. Not many dashing young blades would have time for their nephews.”

Anisha's smile turned inward. “Oh, trust me, I have encouraged Luc to make time.”

“
Help-help-help!
” Milo chortled. “
British prisoner! Let-me-out!
”

With a wry, exasperated smile, Anisha laid aside her needlework and rose. “All right, you tyrant,” she said, going to the wicker cage. “Will you join us, Mademoiselle Gauthier? I just sent for tea.”

“Of course, thank you.”

With another loud squawk, the bird sailed onto the back
of Anisha's chair. A little ill at ease, Grace crossed the flagstone floor and took the seat Lady Anisha indicated. She wished she did not feel quite so uncomfortable with Ruthveyn's sister. So often, Grace found, men were easy to comprehend—as with Ruthveyn and his brother, one knew whom to trust—but women were far less discernible. Not that she distrusted Lady Anisha. She just wasn't sure of her welcome.

“Milo is beautiful,” she remarked. “And he certainly gets on with the cats.”

“
British prisoner!
” said Milo, who was indeed magnificent, with apple green plumage and a huge, hooked beak of fuchsia. “
Help-help-help!
” He toddled behind Anisha and began to nibble at her dangling earrings.

“Silk and Satin were rather taken aback when we first arrived,” Anisha admitted. “My brother treats them like pampered princesses, of course. Milo learned to bow down to them early on.”

Grace's attention, however, had wandered. “Oh, my, what are you stitching? Is that
silk
?”

“It is, yes.” Anisha laid the cloth on the tea table and smoothed the wrinkles from the dark blue fabric. “It's to be a Christmas gift for Adrian.”

“Adrian?”

At her puzzled look, Anisha laughed. “My brother,” she clarified. “Did he not tell you his name?”

Grace considered it. “I don't know,” she admitted. “He may have done. I…I was rather distraught when I first met him in St. James's. Did he tell you about it?”

Anisha shook her head. “No, but he told me of your situation,” she said. “I hope you do not mind?”

“Mais non,
I am caring for your children! You must know everything about me.” Absently, Grace touched the
embroidery. “Oh, but this needlework! Lady Anisha, it is stunning.”

Again, she laughed. Her voice, Grace thought, was like the tinkling of bells, her words tinged with the faintest hint of an accent. “My needlework is a strange muddle of East and West,” Anisha confessed. “Rajput women, you know, pride themselves on their embroidery, especially
Zari,
with this fine, metallic thread. But my wording—alas, it looks more like a schoolgirl's sampler.”

“Oh, no one could mistake this for a child's work.”

“
Pretty-pretty,
” said Milo, cocking one orange eyeball. “
Pretty-pretty.
”

Milo was right. Using silver thread, Lady Anisha had stitched onto the dark blue silk something that looked like a glimmering night sky, though Grace could identify but one or two groupings of stars. Still, they were precisely done, with a wide decorative border round the whole of it, and in the middle of the sparkling array, a verse.

“These are constellations, aren't they?” said Grace. “It is a night sky.”

“Yes, as it would have appeared on the night of Adrian's birth.”

“How remarkable,” Grace murmured. “When was he born?”

“Shortly after midnight, April 19,” said Lady Anisha. “In English, he is Aries, the Ram.”

“As in astrology?” said Grace. “I don't know much about it.”

Lady Anisha shrugged. “Ah, well, most think it nonsense anyway.”

Grace looked more closely at the lettering. It was a poem, all of it done in the fine, metallic thread, the indi
vidual stitches so delicate and tiny she could barely make them out. Lightly, her finger traced the words:

“What, exactly, is it?” Grace asked.

“A verse from a poem,” she answered. “By Adamson.”

“Yes,
The Muses Threnodie
!” Grace murmured. “I tried to read it once, but it was beyond me. Thank heaven you needn't embroider the whole thing.”

Again, Anisha laughed. “That might take the rest of my days.”

Grace crooked her head to better see it. “What does it mean?”

Anisha's expression faded. “It's a sort of ode to a departed friend.” She hesitated a heartbeat. “It's believed they were Rosicrucians—there, you see?—
the rosie cross
reference. Are you familiar?”

“They were a secret society of mystics, weren't they?” said Grace musingly. “Or still are, for all I know.”

Lady Anisha flicked a strange glance at her. “Like so many, I believe they have splintered,” she said vaguely.

“What sort of people belonged?”

Anisha lifted one delicate shoulder. “Men of science, I believe—or at least the science of their day,” she explained. “Alchemy, astrology, natural philosophy. They also studied the great Greek and Druidic mysteries, and had some connection, perhaps, to Masonry.”

“Druids?” Grace was still staring at the lettering. “Didn't they sacrifice people?”

Lady Anisha snatched up the needlework. “Ah, here is Begley with the tray!” she said. “Begley, set it here, then be so good as to fetch us another cup.”

“I shall get it.” Grace moved as if to rise.

“No.” Anisha's hand forestalled her. “Stay. I wish to talk to you. Tell me how my children go on. Are they hopelessly recalcitrant?”

Grace gave her view that the boys were bright but resisted structure. When that went over well enough, she told the tale about the baking soda.

Anisha's lips pursed. “Imps!” she said. “They did not get it from me. Like Adrian, I was a good, solemn child.”

That raised a question Grace wished to ask, for Lord Ruthveyn had deposited her in such haste, she knew next to nothing of the boys' history. Still, she hesitated. The extra cup came, and she watched Anisha pour.

“Is that an Indian tea?” she asked.

Anisha set the pot down. “Just Chinese from Oxford Street,” she said. “Parts of India have begun to grow tea as an export crop, but rarely to drink. Occasionally it is boiled strong and spiced—
chai masala,
we call it—but you would not sleep for a week, I daresay, were you to drink it. By the way, did you meet Dr. von Althausen?”

“No,” she said, taking the cup Anisha passed.

“He is a scientist of sorts at the St. James Society.” Anisha shuddered. “A mad scientist, like in that frightful novel.”

“What is the St. James Society, anyway?” asked Grace. “I know it isn't quite like a gentleman's club.”

“Oh, mostly just a group of adventurers and mercenaries, to be honest.” Anisha gave a sheepish smile. “Men who have a natural curiosity about the world—like von Althausen and the tea.”

“The tea?”

“He was a friend of my father's,” Anisha went on. “Now he and my brother have hy—hybreed—what is the word?”

“Hybridized?” Grace suggested.

“Yes, that—von Althausen went to India and made some special teas for Adrian to grow, but I know nothing of them. Still, Lucan says they are going to make us rich—that is to say,
richer.
But there—! In England, I am told, one never talks of money.”

Faintly, Grace smiled. “Not unless one has some to talk about,” she said. “Otherwise, everyone would rather pretend it's too vulgar.”

Lady Anisha laughed her delightful laugh again, and it was as if the wall between them shattered. “Adrian said you were half-English,” she said, “but you sound like a practical Scot to me. Many of the Company men are, you know—like my father.”

Grace was surprised. “I hardly know enough of names to tell the difference,” she confessed. “But I
did
have a Scottish ancestor somewhere in the family tree—strangely, though, on my French side.”

“I do not know much of France,” said Anisha. “Is it lovely?”

Grace smiled. “I've seen little of it myself,” she confessed. “I grew up in North Africa. My father was a soldier.”

Anisha's gaze fell to the teacup she now balanced on her knee. “Ah, like my husband.”

Grace seized the moment. “Might I ask, Lady Anisha, how long Tom and Teddy have been without their father?”

She looked up and sighed. “All their lives.”

“I beg your pardon,” said Grace softly. “I must have misunderstood.”

“Oh, I am not long widowed, but my husband was never home,” Anisha went on. “John was a captain in the Bengal Horse Artillery. He was cut down at Sobraon.”

“Against the Sikhs in the Punjab?” Grace murmured. “That was a controversial war, was it not?”

Lady Anisha shrugged. “Not to the East India Company.”

“Well, I am sorry for your loss, Lady Anisha,” said Grace. “I am sure it has been hard, too, on your children.”

She smiled wanly. “They do run a bit wild,” she conceded, “but I believe they are not quite so bad as Raju believes.”

“Raju?”

“Yes, another name!” Lady Anisha laughed. “Adrian is his Christian name. But in his youth, we called him by his pet name, Raju.”

“Raju,” Grace echoed, trying to mimic Lady Anisha. “What does it mean?”

“Pampered little prince, more or less,” said Anisha on another laugh.

“And was he?”

Lady Anisha rolled her eyes. “Oh, yes! My mother doted on him.”

“Your parents—was it a love match?” Grace immediately felt her face turn red. “I'm sorry. I beg your pardon. I ought not have asked such a thing.”

“It is perfectly all right,” she replied. “No, it was a political marriage. My grandfather actually
was
a prince, or something like it, in the Rajputana. But such mixed marriages are frowned upon nowadays—and unnecessary, too, for there are a great many Englishwomen in India now.”