One Touch of Scandal (20 page)

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.

S
ergeant 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.”

“Oh, Papa trusted my judgment when it came to rogues
and rascals.” Grace flashed a muted smile. “After all, he befriended you.”

“And some things last beyond the grave,” said Rance solemnly. “I swore I would always look after you—and I will, should Ruthveyn fail. Which he won't, trust me. And yes, Grace, I told Henri precisely who and what I was. He always knew.”

“But why do the papers keep hounding you?” she asked. “And asking questions about your father? There's been a reporter around. A man by the name of Coldwater.”

A dark expression passed over Rance's face. “Coldwater, eh?” he said. “I'll have to deal with the bounder eventually, I suppose. He and half of London are obsessed with my release.”

“Because the witness against you made a suspicious deathbed recantation?” said Grace. “I read about it in the
Chronicle
. Who was this man they say you killed?”

Rance's expression had sobered. “Oh, I've killed many men, love,” he said quietly. “That's a soldier's burden to bear. But the one I didn't kill—Lord Percy Peveril—was heir apparent to an earldom. His uncle was a member of the Privy Council, and had the old King's ear. Alas, I chose my enemies poorly.”

“And was he your enemy?”

Rance's smile twisted. “Peveril was just an overbred fop who cheated me at cards,” he answered. “Back when I was young and rash, and didn't understand I'd no business at the table. A dozen people watched him cheat, too. But like El-Bahdja, Gracie, that's water gone by. Tell me, what do you think of my friend Ruthveyn?”

Grace hesitated. “I think he is very kind.”

At that, Rance laughed uproariously. “Oh, damn him with faint praise, Grace! No one thinks Ruthveyn
kind.
Now, be honest with me. You always knew how to sum up a man's character better than any woman I knew.”

It was true. Her father had often remarked upon her good sense, especially where men were concerned. But with Lord Ruthveyn, she was oddly uncertain. What she felt for him seemed to come only from her foolish heart—and when he kissed her, from a few other places as well. And then there was that extraordinary, mesmerizing heat in his touch…

“Grace?” Rance prompted.

Grace let her gaze wander to the window. “All right,” she said, staring blindly out. “I think he is a little frightening. His eyes—they look right through me. They make me feel—”

Safe. Breathless. Frightened. Of myself, and of him.

But those words she would not say aloud. Grace closed her eyes. “—I don't know how he makes me feel,” she finally finished.

Rance leaned forward and caught her hand. “Grace, he is a good man.” His voice was low and, for once, serious. “He's enigmatic, yes. Even a little…otherworldly, perhaps. But just
trust
him. Trust him to take care of you. And what you feel for him—well, trust yourself, my girl. Your father was right. You have uncommon good sense about men. And good taste, too.”

Grace's eyes opened wide with embarrassment. She opened her mouth to speak, to rebuke him, perhaps. But to what end? Rance had always spoken his mind—and possessed an almost uncanny knack for knowing everyone else's.

She exhaled sharply. “I just buried my fiancé, Rance,” she said, “or would have done, had I been able to go to the funeral.”

Rance gave a bemused smile. “Is that meant to chide me for my blunt tongue?” he asked. “Or yourself for falling in love? Either would be a waste of time, Grace. It is what it is.”

“Rance,
arrête
!” Abruptly, she jerked to her feet. “What it is is
quite enough,
thank you.”

He laughed again and caught her hand. “By God, you are Henri's girl through and through,” he said, tugging her back down. “All right. I overstepped. Now listen, and let me be serious a moment.”

She glowered at him warningly. “
Oui,
” she said. “Please do.”

Rance dropped her hand. “Whatever you do, Grace, do not tell Royden Napier we are friends,” he warned. “He harbors a great hatred of me.”

“Why? Have you given
him
advice for the lovelorn?” When Rance scowled back at her, she relented. “All right. I'm sorry. Why would he hate you?”

“Seeing me convicted and sentenced to the gallows was his father's last great gasp of bureaucratic glory,” said Rance. “His final and finest effort at social justice, or so he pretended. But in truth, I was just a bone to be tossed to the madding throng of radicals and Chartists—a sop meant to show even a highborn gentleman could be called to account for breaking the law.”

Grace's eyes widened in horror. “You were made an example of?” she whispered. “And it cost you
eight years
in the legion? That is a long time, Rance, to walk in the desert.”

They both knew she was not referring to the geography of Algeria. He shrugged. “Royden Napier took no pleasure in seeing my conviction overturned and his father's motivations impugned after the old man was dead.” He
paused, flashed a bemused smile, then jerked to his feet. “Ah, well! More of that water—”

“—under the bridge,” Grace finished, rising.

Swiftly, he snatched her hand and planted a kiss on the back of her glove. “I will not see you again, Grace, until your situation is resolved,” he said. “Not unless you need me. If you do, you have only to send word to the St. James Society. I've been staying there until I find a place to settle down.”

“Rance,” she said quietly, “you will never settle down.”

He laughed as they strolled to the door. “Ah, you are likely right, Gracie girl! And you—well, you will not need me. You are in the best possible hands—and they are far more influential than mine.”

“Am I?” she asked softly.

Rance's smile fell. “Oh, Napier will not touch him,” he said certainly. “Not without a mighty long sword—and a sure one, too, for he'll get but one pass at Ruthveyn's throat. And he
knows
it.”

Just then, heavy, measured steps sounded down the stairs. Lord Ruthveyn appeared, freshly dressed in a severely formal coat of jet black, his impossibly thick hair drawn back off his face, damp as if from the bath. With his waistcoat of cream brocade silk and the large cabochon ruby glittering on the last finger of his right hand, he looked every inch a Rajput prince—or at least what Grace imagined one might look like.

“Ah, Adrian, there you are!” said Rance amiably. “I forgot to say—I have some bad news for you.”

Lord Ruthveyn lifted both of his slashing black eyebrows in that condescending way of his. “Do go on, Lazonby.”

“Belkadi has evicted you from the guest suite,” he said.
“We've a village padre visiting from Lincolnshire—one of Sutherland's old cronies. And I—well, alas, old friend—I have taken the other.”

Ruthveyn's gaze flitted from Rance to Grace and back again. “Remarkable timing,” he said tightly. “Simply…remarkable.”

 

That evening, Ruthveyn joined his family for dinner for the first time since the night of Grace's arrival in Upper Grosvenor Street. Save for Lord Lucan, who spoke excitedly of a boxing match he meant to attend in Southwark the following day, they made for a quiet table. Lord Lazonby's arrival seemed to have cast some sort of pall over Anisha and her brother, and Grace could not make it out.

That evening she retired to her room to write Fenella in some faint hope that whatever breach had opened between them might be mended. She said how happy she was to have seen Anne and Eliza in Hyde Park, and of her hope for their happiness in their new home. Then, on second thought, she tore the letter to bits and tossed it onto the smoldering coal. Her friendship with Fenella was obviously over unless Ethan's killer was caught—and in part, she blamed Royden Napier. He had obviously spread his poison far and wide.

The awful truth was, not one person from Belgrave Square—not even the cook or the housekeeper—had written her so much as a note of sympathy, or even good-bye, and she had been exceedingly fond of them all. Perhaps everyone had leapt to the same conclusion without Napier's help. She had been betrothed—
almost
betrothed—to Holding, and he had been murdered. Now there was a letter indicating he had jilted her. The police had likely warned the entire staff against her—which was
understandable, since someone had clearly gone to great lengths to lay the blame at her door.