One Touch of Scandal (26 page)

“The river, I think, would be most unwise,” he remarked, peering across the street in a futile attempt to see Quartermaine's front door.

Napier grunted his agreement, and Ruthveyn waved for his carriage. They waited patiently on the curb, the silence between them deepening even as they climbed into the conveyance.

“I just want to know one thing,” said Napier, as they swung round the corner into St. James's Street.

Ruthveyn lifted both eyebrows.

“How did you know?” Napier turned to glower out the window. “How did you know Quartermaine was trying to steal Belkadi's chef?”

But Ruthveyn merely settled back against the banquette and said no more.

 

In the Surrey Commercial Docks, maritime London surged and shouted with life, from the deal porters who darted from the fog with their towering shoulder-loads of lumber, to the lightermen plying back and forth from ship to shore. Brogden deftly edged Ruthveyn's carriage along busy Rotherhithe Street, squeezing past a dray laden with sacks of grain and a pile of staves that had spilled out into the cobbles.

According to Grace, the offices of Crane and Holding were located at Thirty-five Swan Lane, just above Albion Yard and the main dock, but in the wretched brume, Brogden very nearly drove past, then turned at the last instant, tossing Napier against the side of the carriage. He cursed beneath his breath, then shot Ruthveyn another black look as if holding him personally responsible.

So far as Ruthveyn could make out in the fog, the offices looked like every other establishment in this part of London, which was to say weathered and practical in construction.

Inside the small antechamber, several callers waited, one carrying a roll of drawings under his arm, the other two in warm work clothes—yard foremen, Ruthveyn guessed.

Beyond a narrow counter, a pimpled young man sat at a tall desk, ticking off what looked like receipts in a green
baize ledger. Ruthveyn stepped up and cleared his throat, but he was soon to learn his journey was in vain.

“M-May I h-help you?” The lad slid off his perch, his face reddening.

Ruthveyn smiled and extended his thick ivory calling card across the counter. “I should like to speak with Josiah Crane,” he said. “This is my associate, Mr. Napier.”

To Ruthveyn's exasperation, however, the lad would not lift his gaze nor even take the card from Ruthveyn's hand. “V-Very s-sorry, milord, but Mr. Crane is out, and n-not expected back today.”

The little speech had the ring of recitation about it, and Ruthveyn wondered vaguely if the lad was compelled to give it often. Just then, a door behind the counter opened, and a lady in black swished her skirts through sideways. She carried a basket over one arm and a light cloak tossed over her shoulders.

“I believe I shall take the ledger up, Jim,” she asked before turning, “and the post.”

It was Fenella Crane, dressed for the out of doors in a light cloak and her usual black veil.

“Good morning, Miss Crane,” said Ruthveyn.

Her head turned toward the counter. “I beg your pardon. I did not see you there. Lord Ruthveyn, is it?”

Ruthveyn tucked his hat beneath his arm and bowed. “It is indeed. How lovely to see you again.” He stepped to one side. “Have you met my acquaintance, Mr. Napier?”

“Who? Oh, yes. How do you do, sir?” She seemed to wither a little, and Ruthveyn felt instantly like a cad. Of course she'd met Napier—on the night of her brother's death and probably many times since.

The shy lad with the stutter closed the ledger and handed it off as she passed. Her color, Ruthveyn noted,
was high, and she looked vaguely unwell. It was the strain, no doubt.

“Is there a place we might speak privately, Miss Crane?” Ruthveyn asked quietly, when she approached.

“Why, certainly.” She tucked the ledger under one arm and shot a little bolt under the counter. “Just lift that, if you please, and do come through.”

They followed her into what looked like a small, unused office, the few furnishings layered with dust and the shades drawn.

Ruthveyn opened himself to the emotion of the room, fleetingly closing his eyes, but he felt nothing save that thrumming urgency he'd felt before. There was not, thank God, any flash of dead rabbits or bloody snow. He wondered again if his vision had been an anomaly of some sort.
Was
Miss Crane in danger? And if so, from whom?

Miss Crane did not sit, nor offer them chairs, but her face turned to Napier's as soon as the door was shut. “Has something happened?” Her voice was low and breathless. “Has Ethan's killer been caught?”

Napier shook his head. “Not yet, but—”

“But we had hoped, actually, to speak to Mr. Crane about it,” Ruthveyn interjected. “We had a question about the business finances. I collect he is out?”

As Napier glowered at him, Miss Crane turned to Ruthveyn. “Yes, he is ill,” she said, turning to set her basket down on the desk. “My poor cousin suffers from—
eeekk
!”

On a shriek, she leapt away from the desk, just as something darted from beneath it and ran over Napier's shoe.

“What the devil?” Napier leapt back.

“Oh!” Miss Crane set a hand to her heart.

“Merely a rat, I believe,” said Ruthveyn, kneeling down
to see where the creature had gone, but there was nothing.

“I shall never get used to that,” said Miss Crane. “The hazards of working in the dockyards, I daresay.” She dropped her hand from her chest and kicked a rectangular white tin under the desk. “Josiah tells Jim he
must
keep the poison put out, and have the rat catcher in once a month, but I wonder if he listens?”

“Perhaps a cat?” Ruthveyn suggested. “I find them indispensable, myself. In any case, you were saying?”

“Oh, yes, about Josiah,” said Miss Crane. “He suffers terribly with a bilious liver, but really, he has not been himself since…well, since so much additional responsibility fell upon his shoulders. Perhaps you might call again in a day or two? I shall tell him to expect you.”

Ruthveyn glanced at the basket. A glass jar of what looked like beef tea was nestled between a rolled newspaper and a great lump wrapped in cheesecloth—fresh bread, from the smell of it.

“You are going to visit him?” said Ruthveyn.

“He asked if I would,” she said, “so I thought I might take up his post, and perhaps the monthly ledger, in case he felt up to…to whatever it is he does with it.” Here, she made an airy gesture with her hand.

“Is that safe, ma'am?” asked Napier.

She turned to look at him. “I beg your pardon?”

Napier exchanged a wary glance with Ruthveyn. “Perhaps, until this is all settled…”

“Surely, sir, you do not suggest my cousin had anything to do with this dreadful business?”

“We have eliminated no one from suspicion,” said Napier.

“What nonsense!” Miss Crane seemed to quiver with outrage. “My cousin doesn't have it in him, sir. Really, did you come all this way with such preposterous drivel?”

“We understand he disapproved of Ethan Holding driving a competitor out of business by underbidding contracts,” Ruthveyn suggested. “Perhaps that was the cause of their quarrel on the night of Holding's death?”

“A
quarrel
?” said Miss Crane with asperity. “They had words, perhaps, but no more. What, precisely, are you two suggesting?”

Ruthveyn and Napier exchanged glances.

“Oh, wait, I see the way of things.” Miss Crane's voice arched. “You have hired
that woman,
haven't you? I suppose she has turned your head, too. Really, I cannot think this is any of your business!” Then she wheeled on Napier. “And
you
—you are the one who suggested to Mrs. Lester and to me that she was the killer! My God, have you seen the article in today's
Chronicle
? Perhaps Ethan did a foolish thing, but you are doing
nothing
. At least our losses will be made up eventually.”

But not, perhaps, before Crane suffers a personal bankruptcy,
thought Ruthveyn.

“We understand Mr. Crane has some outstanding gambling debts,” Napier snapped, apparently having given up all efforts at diplomacy. “That suggests, ma'am, a certain amount of financial desperation.”

At that, she fell fleetingly silent. “Josiah has weaknesses,” she finally agreed. “What man does not? But he will be fine now. I shall take care of him. Ethan never quite knew how to manage such things.”

“The business could simply be sold,” Napier suggested, “and Crane's creditors paid off.”

Ruthveyn did not need an unobscured view of Miss Crane's face to feel her bristle. “Josiah would never agree to that!” she said. “Our grandfather died building this business. It is a family treasure.”

But the truth was, Josiah Crane would have had little
say in the matter. Fenella Crane now owned the controlling interest. Was she so naïve, Ruthveyn wondered, that she did not realize that?

But the lady had picked up her basket and was sweeping toward the door. “Now, I bid you both good day,” she said over one shoulder. “Kindly do not come back, Mr. Napier, until you can talk sense to me.”

It was on the tip of Ruthveyn's tongue to insist they would take her up in his carriage and call upon Crane with her, but she would obviously have refused. They went back out into the sharp autumn air, both of them a little deflated.

As soon as the door was closed, Napier turned to him. “
Really,
” he said, cleverly mimicking Miss Crane's voice, “
I cannot think this is any of your business!
”

“You could not resist, could you, Napier?” In the thinning fog, Ruthveyn lifted a hand to signal Brogden. “Yes, I have fallen under the sway of a regular she-devil, I collect. Perhaps Mademoiselle Gauthier will stab me in my sleep after all and make your dreams come true.”

“It really is too much to be hoped for,” said Napier. But his voice was morose, and for the first time, Ruthveyn sensed that he was rethinking his position with regard to Grace.

“Perhaps Miss Crane could be persuaded to do the job for you instead?” Ruthveyn suggested, opening the carriage door. “She seems to have taken a strong dislike to me.”

“Awfully fond of her cousin, though, isn't she?” Napier remarked, as they climbed back in.

“Perhaps he has taken pains lately to make himself agreeable,” Ruthveyn murmured. Then he told Napier the story of how Holding had once hoped for a marriage between the pair.

Napier's gaze had narrowed considerably by the time Ruthveyn was done. “Rum!” he said pensively. “Never thought of that. And if they were to wed, ownership of the company would be…”

“You begin to see my point, I collect,” said Ruthveyn.

“But there's no proof Josiah Crane was in the house,” Napier mused, as the carriage lurched into motion. “And your notion about his having a key came to naught, according to Holding's butler. Still, one does get the feeling Crane was simply avoiding us today. After all, she took us into an empty office—and she seems naïve enough to protect him.”

“I think it far more likely the man is avoiding his creditors,” said Ruthveyn. “And a sickbed is the best place for that.”

Napier slumped against the seat as Brogden lurched the carriage forward. “You are likely right, of course,” he said on a sigh.

“Ah,” said Ruthveyn softly. “Music to my ears!”

J
ust a few nights after his strange trip to Rotherhithe, Ruthveyn dreamed again of the Jagdalak Pass, and of the brutal slaughter in the snow. Then the snow became the endless sand of the desert, and somehow it was all tangled up with rabbits, and with the corpse of Fenella Crane lying in a field of white poppies. The poppies undulated as if caught by the wind, and it was no longer Miss Crane, but Grace. She lay deathly still among the flowers, a bloody knife in her hand, her eyes open but unseeing.

He awoke in a sweat, flailing across the mattress in an attempt to find her.

Nothing.

He jerked upright in bed, gasping for breath.

She was not there.
She was not there because he had
convinced himself it was unwise—for both of them. But what if by not being with her, he had doomed her to a worse fate? Was that what the dream meant? He could still hear his heart thundering in his ears. He could taste the fear in his throat.

Bloody hell.
This was insane.

He dragged a hand down his face, and then, by sheer force of will, stilled his breathing, drawing it deep and slow until his body relaxed, and his fist let go the wad of counterpane he'd been clutching. Then he drew up his knees and breathed some more, until his mind cleared and became one with the air flowing in and out of his lungs, and all the rational reasons why Grace was not in his bed came back to him.

Still, in that dark and uncertain moment of awakening, her absence had felt intuitively wrong, and the fear had been real. But it had been a
dream,
he reminded himself, not a vision, and unlike his friend Alexander, never had his dreams been prophetic. Horrific, yes, but portending nothing save a miserable night.

At least he had slept for a time—had been sleeping, really, for the last several nights. It likely would not last. Always the sleeplessness returned, and with it the scraps of horrors remembered, edging round his memory like assassins in the night. Before, he had stilled them by any means at his disposal—opium, alcohol, gratuitous sex. His list of sins was long.

Absently, Ruthveyn picked up Satin, who slept curled at his feet with her sister, and set her fur to his cheek. She began to hum happily. He was oddly glad to be in his own home, in his own bed, with his own cats. And yet he felt incomplete.

As if to soothe him, Satin rumbled drowsily for a time, but after a while, her feline patience was exhausted.

“Leaving me, old girl?” he murmured, just as she slipped free and slunk round him to snuggle in the warm hollow on his pillow.

It was a sign, perhaps. Or perhaps his infamous self-discipline was failing him.
Heartless,
Napier had called him. But now, in the gloom, he slipped from the sheets, then padded naked across the floor to snatch his robe from the chair. Drawing it on as he went, he strode out through his study into the corridor.

He missed Grace, missed her with an ache that was unfathomable given how short a time they had known one another. He had made love to her twice—in the same night, no less—and already he knew the rhythm of her breathing when she slept. The scent of her skin. The way she wriggled into the middle of the bed to tuck herself against him.

Upstairs, he did not hesitate, but instead, driven by a force he did not understand, opened the door to Grace's room. The light underdrapes were closed, but the velvet curtains were drawn wide, allowing a nearly full moon to cast the room with a faint sheen. Grace lay in the middle of her bed, one fist thrown back into the pillow, her face turned toward the milky light.

He locked the door behind and settled himself on the edge of the bed. Apprehension drained away the moment he set his hand to her cheek. All was well. His dream had been just a dream, such as any man might have.

She stirred and rolled fully onto her back, turning her face against his hand to nuzzle his palm.

“Grace?” he whispered.

Her eyes flared wide. “
Adrian?
” Grace rolled up onto her elbows, her heavy blond hair spilling over one shoulder. “Adrian, what—? The boys?”

“No, I just…I had a strange dream.” He felt suddenly foolish.

The eyes relented, softened, and a drowsy smile curved her mouth. “Was it a good dream?”

“No, a bad dream,” he said.

She waited, still propped on her elbows, but her gaze had drifted down to his mouth.

“I have been thinking, Grace,” he said, feeling awkward as a schoolboy.

“Well, you
are
in my bedchamber,” she remarked, her eyes trailing up again. “I should hope you gave that some thought.”

“Dashed little,” he muttered. But beyond that, he had no words.

“Hmm,
” she said. “Have you been thinking, I wonder, about that question I asked you?”

He set his hand round the turn of her cheek. He knew what she meant. “Grace, where are you going when all this is over?”

“To Paris,” she said quietly. “I had a letter from my uncle yesterday. He thinks he has found a cottage for me.”

“To Paris,” he echoed, dropping his hand. It was what he had expected, of course.

She struggled up to a sitting position, her cotton nightgown tied at the throat, her eyes wide and a little anguished in the gloom. “Adrian, I have been thinking,” she whispered. “I think perhaps I should go soon. I can't bear just waiting here in England with Napier's sword hanging over my head. If he has grounds, let him arrest me at the ferry.”

“Grace, why go?”

She looked away. “The boys need a proper tutor, and I…well, I do not have a life here.”

But you could have,
he wanted to say.

He could marry her, of course. If he were honest, however, about who and what he was, she would likely think him insane, or—if she believed it—she would not want him. But driven by something—he told himself it was the urge to protect her—he opened his mouth.

“Grace, don't go,” he whispered. “I could give you a life here. I could m—”

Her hand came up, her fingertips going to his lips. “Don't,” she whispered. “Oh,
don't,
Adrian. Please.”

He lifted her hand away. “Why?” he said. “Grace, the protection of my name would—”

“No.
” She cut him off, her voice low and hollow. “If nothing else, think how that would look to the police. My second wealthy employer, my second betrothal? And the truth is—” Here, she looked at him plaintively, “—the truth is, Adrian, I do not know you. You hold a part of yourself away from me. Will you deny it?”

It was his turn to look away. “No.”

“And perhaps you do not know me,” she softly added. She laid a hand on his thigh, but there was nothing save comfort in her touch. “In a different time, and a different place, perhaps things could have been otherwise between us. But the
here
is all we have now. And I do desire you. I do admire you, and I am grateful to you. I believe we must content ourselves with that.”

“That part about desire does soothe the sting.” He managed a sideways smile.

But more and more he realized that he was falling in love with her, with her quiet grace and her kindness.

So often when she was not looking, he watched her with the boys, sometimes as she read to them in the late afternoons, or as they romped in the gardens after luncheon. But as with most of life, he watched through that ever-
present pane of glass—sometimes literally. And it was in those moments, with his hand pressed almost longingly to the window, that he realized what a lucky man Ethan Holding had been to have had even a hope of a happy marriage with her.

He did not have that hope. But he did have tonight.

“I want you so much, Grace,” he whispered. “Even now, stone-cold sober, I still want you. Whatever I am, whatever I was in the past, in that little piece of
here
that we have
now,
I burn for you.”

Grace tossed back one corner of the covers and slid over. She was asking him, Ruthveyn knew, to make love to her—in the here and now, with no expectation of a tomorrow. Because she admired him, and desired him, and because he needed, with her, to step beyond that pane of glass. He was going to accept her offer and be grateful. So he slipped into bed beside her and eased one arm beneath her, drawing her fully against him.

She set her cheek against his shoulder and brushed a light kiss over the turn of his jaw. “Did you lock the door?” she whispered.

“Yes. Might the boys come in?”

“Tom did once,” she said.

He threaded one hand through her hair. “Ah, then it will be the wardrobe for me, will it not, my Grace?”

She gave a quiet laugh. “With those shoulders? I think you'd best try the draperies.”

Burning with sudden impatience, he sat up against the pillows, scooped her into his arms, and dragged her across his lap. He kissed her once, lightly, then drew away, sliding his hand into the loose, warm hair at her temple, turning her face to the moonlight. Grace looked back at him, her expression honest, her eyes warm with the stirring of desire.

Ruthveyn lowered his mouth to take her lips and felt her tremble. He kissed her slowly, gradually stoking the passion in her as he plumbed and thrust and tasted her thoroughly. It was the greatest of luxuries to him, this ability to open his mind, and even a part of his heart, as normal men did.

Yes, he was going to make love to Grace one more time and take what was not his. With his mind clear, he was going to kiss her and thrust himself inside her until he was blinded by the sweet rush of his release, and the blessed letting go that only Grace could give him. He was going to leave himself with something—heartbreak, most likely—to remember her by when all this was over, and she was gone. And he was going to give to her a part of him to take away. He would give her what was left of his heart.

He had spent the last three days trying to convince himself that never to touch her again was the wisest course for both of them. But fate, again unseen, had played him false. Fate had led him here, and now he wanted Grace with a fire and a desperation that shut away all logic. Like a starving man, he kissed her, driving her head back against the crook of his elbow as his other arm bound her tight.

Grace returned his kisses with equal fervor, the girlish uncertainty of her touch gone. She entwined her tongue with his, her hand skimming lightly down his ribs. Ruthveyn wanted to touch her until he drowned in the wanting, thrilling to her body, which was obviously naked beneath the cotton nightgown.

So often as he had watched her, he had imagined touching her like this, peeling away the somber half-mourning, the crinolines and petticoats. Unfastening the stays that bound her breasts. His fantasies were endless. Yet now
he held her all but undressed in his arms, and she was returning his kisses stroke for stroke.

He lifted his lips and looked down. Grace's chest was rising visibly, her breath already fast and shallow, her nipples hard beneath the fabric. Lust coursing through him, Ruthveyn bent his head and captured one sweet nub between his lips, making her gasp into the night. Through the nightgown he suckled heedlessly until the wet fabric clung.

He ran his tongue round her dark areola one last time, then turned his attention to the other breast. Grace's hand speared into his hair. “
Mon dieu,
” she whispered, the words catching in her throat.

Impatience ratcheting up, he swiftly unfastened the ties, catching one nearly into a knot.

“Here,” she said, her clever fingers making short work of it.

The nightgown sagged off her shoulder, and Ruthveyn returned his mouth to her breast, laving and suckling until she writhed a little in his embrace. Her derriere rubbed against his cock, now swollen hard, and lust shot through him like a living thing, seizing at his bollocks. A little roughly, he drew her left nipple into his mouth and bit until she gasped. Then he soothed it lightly with the tip of his tongue until she began to beg him with soft whispers to lay her down and take her.

Too much, too fast,
his conscience warned. She was all but a virgin. And yet Grace seemed as caught up in the passion as he. He eased her onto the bed, her nightgown gaping open. Unable to resist, he leaned across the night table and lit the lamp, turning the wick low, then he sat back and willed himself to slow.

In the flickering lamplight, he let his hungry gaze sweep over her, taking in her swollen lips, her taut, pink nipples
still wet from his mouth, and her just-tumbled hair. Good Lord he wanted to spend himself inside her this instant—wasn't even sure, truth be told, he'd last that long. It was a humbling thought.

But lighting the lamp had been, perhaps, a mistake. Grace's face was warming with embarrassment. Leaning over her, he kissed her again. “Don't be uneasy, Grace,” he murmured, lightly lifting his lips. “You are a passionate creature.”

Her laugh was thready. “I feel…so naked,” she whispered. “So hungry for you, and yet…so wicked, I suppose, is the word.”

He let his hand slide down to cup her feminine heat through the nightgown. “I should have said you're not nearly naked enough.”

Impatiently, he stood, unfastened the tie of his robe, and let the silk slither to the floor. His manhood sprang free, and he watched her eyes widen. “It's all right, love,” he crooned, setting one knee to the bed.

Tentatively, she touched him, stroking her warm fingers down his length, causing his breath to catch. Her gaze flicked up at him. “Adrian?”

“Enough of that, perhaps,” he rasped, drawing back. His eyes went to the hem of her nightgown, which was now gathered about her knees to reveal a pair of perfect calves and dainty feet. “Take it off, Grace,” he whispered. “Let me see you.”

Obediently, she rose onto her knees, caught the hem, and drew the garment slowly up and over her narrow shoulders. The lamplight bathed her in warm light as her breasts rose with the effort, her nipples still hard and sheened with damp.