One Touch of Scandal (29 page)

“In whose blood the Gift was carried,” Anisha reminded her. Rance did say what a sensible young woman you were—and that when he flirted with you, you would never give him the time of day. Perhaps you have some hint of the Gift?”

Grace smiled up at her faintly. “Oh, Anisha, I am sure I do not!” she answered. “And Rance never flirted with me at all.”

“But Grace,” Anisha said thoughtfully, “do you never find that you know things others don't—know them instinctively, I mean, in the pit of your belly?”

Grace considered it. “
Mais oui,
doesn't everyone?” she answered. “Though I did have an aunt…”

“Yes?”

Grace shook her head. “She had odd dreams, that is all,” she said. “Certainly I have never known the future, Anisha.”

“That's not what I mean,” Anisha pressed. “Mr. Sutherland and Dr. von Althausen have come to believe the Gift in some families has been watered down to nothing more than perspicacity. Not second sight so much as a sort of muted clairvoyance. They theorize, however, that with training, the sight can be—I don't know—restored, perhaps?
If
one has the propensity for it—the right blood, if you will.”

“Well, I don't know…” Grace answered. “I cannot see myself being trained for any such thing—nor would I wish to be. But Mamma did always say…”

“What?” Anisha prodded, leaning forward. “What did she say?”

Grace gave a chagrined smile. “She always said I had a gift,” she answered. “A gift for knowing people—well, men, at least. She called it uncanny, and said that Papa was the very same. That we could sum up a man in one look; that we always knew who meant us well and who was dishonest.”

“Is it true?”

Grace shrugged. “I've never been swindled, if that's what you mean. And I've turned down a few marriage proposals over the years because…well, because I just felt something was a bit off.”

“Off in what way?”

“That…they were not right for me,” she said musingly. “Or that they were not the faithful type. And then there was this one in particular…oh, but that does not bear mentioning.”

“I can bear it,” Anisha assured her. “This is fascinating.”

“Well, there once was a handsome young army major detailed to the legion,” said Grace reluctantly. “I adored him desperately from afar. Oh, Anisha, if you could have seen his shoulders! But later, when Papa brought him home to dinner…”

“Yes? Go on.”

Grace dropped her gaze to the carpet. “Well, it's just that when I looked in his eyes, chills ran down my spine,” she said quietly. “I told Papa that I had changed my mind, and he would not do—which Papa was not at all displeased to hear. Just before his return to France, he met and married the niece of the
maréchal-de-camp.
But apparently, he had a frightful temper, and within the year, he had beaten the poor girl to death in a rage.”

“Good God,” said Anisha. She pulled her knees to her chest, hugging them. “That's horrific.”

“Oh, Anisha, I just felt…so terribly
guilty.
”

“The guilt of a survivor?”

Grace's brow furrowed. “No, it was worse than that,” she murmured. “I felt as if I…I should have stopped it somehow. As if I knew what he was capable of and should have done something.”

“This evil you saw,” said Anisha intently, “did it come to you in a dream? Or in a wakeful moment?”

Grace looked at her and laughed. “Oh, Anisha, you sound so dramatic!” she said. “As I said, it was just the proverbial chill down the spine.”

Anisha relaxed into her chair. “Of course,” she an
swered, “and there is nothing to be done about that, is there?”

Again, Grace shrugged. “I don't know what I could have done, really,” she said softly. “As to me, Papa just said I was waiting for the right man, as he had waited for Mamma, and that I would know it when I found him.”

Anisha was quiet for a moment. “Grace,” she finally said, “Raju said you were an Unknowable—at least to him. Is that still the case?”

“For now,” she said carefully, “but he is much tormented.”

Anisha sighed. “His Gift is strong,” she said, “and unlike some, not easily governed. Yet he is a ruthlessly disciplined man in all other ways, so this is most difficult for him to accept. He is angry in his heart—mostly at himself.”

“I think I understand.”

Anisha hugged her knees tighter. “When Raju was a child,” she said quietly, “Mamma feared this. Before she died, she tried to teach him to control his mind through
dhâranâ
and
dhyâna,
but these are not skills one can teach a boy, as they require much discipline and long years of training. And Papa—well, he disapproved. He feared the Gift might be weakened. I don't think he ever understood the burden it was.”

Grace was confused. “And what are these skills?”

Anisha's perfectly arched eyebrows drew together. “It is hard to put in English words,” she said. “It is like disciplined thinking, but in an inward way, using
pranayama
—the retention of breath. And then
Samâdhi
—the control of the mind—the ability to mentally block unwanted distractions. One can achieve inner unity, thus gaining a better control over one's thoughts. Raju tries, but he has
not been trained—and when he fails, he turns to
charas
instead, but this brings only a false silence. A temporary peace. I could help him a little perhaps, but despite all his broad-minded words, he still sees me as his responsibility, not the other way round.”

Grace sighed. “I still don't understand. Are you saying, Anisha, that with practice, he could turn the Gift off and on at will?”

“It might take years of work and study, but yes,” she said. “That is my theory. In India, I have heard, the great holy men can cut themselves with a sharp blade and still the blood with their minds. But von Althausen, the stubborn man of science, thinks everything must be explained in a book.” Suddenly, Anisha's smile brightened. “Oh, enough of that,” she said, bounding up from the floor. “Come on, get up, Grace. Let's take that
bréviaire
or whatever one calls it down to the St. James Society.”

“Whatever for?” asked Grace, rising.

But Anisha had that mischievous look on her face again. “I should like to see if Sir Angus rings any bells with the Reverend Mr. Sutherland,” she said. “And then I mean to poke about in their rare book holdings to see if I can determine just how many bridges have collapsed in Paris.”

 

Anisha's question was to be easily answered little more than an hour later as they sat in the shadowy depths of the main library at the St. James Society.

“Precisely three that I know of,” said the Reverend Mr. Sutherland.

He presented a thick, musty tome bound in black morocco and laid it open to one of the middle pages, beam
ing at it through his silver reading glasses with the pride of possession that only a bibliophile can project.

“Three
bridges collapsed?” Grace glanced down at the miniscule print.

“Four, if one counts the Pont Royal,” the gentleman corrected. “That one burned, flooded, then collapsed—all within a span of a few years.”

“Sounds like my luck,” Grace muttered, turning the book so that she might better read it.

“What is it?” asked Lady Anisha, leaning forward in her chair. “And what does it say? My French is frightful.”

“It is an architectural history of the city of Paris.” Mr. Sutherland was still gazing at it almost lovingly. “One of Lord Bessett's favorites.”

“So the Pont Saint-Michel and the Pont Notre-Dame have also collapsed,” Grace murmured, skimming the words. “Both in the fifteenth century, rather too early for Sir Angus, given the date of his prayer book.”

“Quite so, quite so!” said Mr. Sutherland, peering down his nose. “Which leaves either the Pont Royal or—”

“—the Pont Marie,” finished Anisha triumphantly. “Just like the legend of the Guardians.”

“Indeed, Lady Anisha,” said Sutherland. “Now, let us turn our attention to this beautifully illuminated prayer book—a remarkable thing, and a costly one, in its day. Sir Angus was a wealthy man, of that we can be sure.”

“Can we?” Grace returned her attention to the book, which Sutherland had carefully laid open with two leather-cased weights so that he might better study the symbol.

He had laid aside his spectacles and was now studying it through a silver loupe. “Quite fine work. All done by hand, of course. And gold leaf on the cross, too, not gold
paint.” He removed the loupe and straightened up with a pensive expression. “A presentation piece, I think. Or possibly a gift. And the absence of the thistle is telling.”

“But you've never heard of him?” asked Anisha for the second time.

Mr. Sutherland gave a sort of wince. “Let me review my genealogical charts, my lady,” he said, rising. “Perhaps I have forgotten a name?”

Grace watched him go with mild interest. A strikingly handsome man, he was graying at the temples and wore a salt-and-pepper beard. Nonetheless, he possessed the carriage of a soldier, a ready laugh, and a mischievous twinkle in his eye.

It made her think, strangely, of Adrian, of the man he could have been, perhaps, had life not burdened him with great gifts and great responsibilities.

“Anisha,” she said quietly, “tell me again what the Guardians do.”

Anisha looked up from the prayer book. “They guard the Gift, in a universal sense,” she replied. “Anyone possessing the Gift is believed a treasure—and a weapon.”

“A weapon?”

“Throughout history, prophets have been exploited by evil,” Anisha went on, “so the Vateis must be kept safe from those who crave power—especially the women and children. Indeed, no child who possesses the Gift is ever left without a Guardian or his delegate—a blood relation, almost always. That, you see, is where Rance went. His father was a Guardian to a grandchild who is believed to have the Gift, but she is young. Now that his father is gone, the duty passes to Rance.”

Grace wrapped her arms over her chest. “And does one simply volunteer?”

Anisha shook her head. “No, it must fall to you by
birth,” she said. “The ancient manuscripts say that a Guardian must be born between the thirteenth and the twentieth of April.”

“Why so specific?”

“Who knows?” Anisha lifted one slender shoulder. “But the dates coincide, interestingly enough, very near the sign of the Ram in both
Jyotish
and Western astrology.”

“The Ram?”

“The sign of fire and war,” Anisha explained. “In
Jyotish
astrology, it is called
Mesha,
and in the west, Aries.”

“Like the constellation,” murmured Grace.

“Just so,” said Anisha. “The Ram possesses great stamina, both mentally
and
physically—a fine skill to have, I think you will discover.”

“Anisha—!”

“Oh, very well.” Anisha grinned. “But you should also remember that the Ram is capable of bending others to his will. Rams are born leaders, aggressive and clear of thought, but also stubborn and tactless. Does that sound like anyone you know?”

Grace gave a withering laugh.

Anisha smiled her serene, knowing smile, and returned to the
bréviaire.
While she studied the colorful drawings, Grace got up to roam restlessly about the room. It was long and narrow, rather like a gallery, spanning the width of the building, with a row of deep windows overlooking St. James's Place. The room boasted a thick Turkish carpet that ran its length and heavy bottle green draperies that swept the polished floors. As with the rest of the St. James Society, no expense had been spared here.

This was but one of four libraries, Anisha had explained, that the Society maintained, and one of two that could be opened to the public. The other two were the small pri
vate study that Grace had seen upon her first visit, and the Artifacts Room, which contained rare manuscripts of religious and historical significance, many of them illuminated, and none less than two hundred years old.

They had arrived at the Society shortly after tea and found the library only after having passed by the dining room, the coffee room, the smoking room, and, at the end of one corridor, the ubiquitous card room, with its massive, six-decanter mahogany tantalus open on the sideboard—the Society's members might have been templar knights after a fashion, but not a one of them was a saint, so far as Grace could see. Indeed, Ruthveyn was about as far from sainthood as a man could get—in any number of ways.

Smiling inwardly at the thought, Grace roamed to the windows and looked down at the quiet street below. There, however, her gaze fell upon someone familiar. Near the small portico across the street, a young man lounged upon the pavement, one hand thrust in the pocket of a dull-colored mackintosh, chatting idly with a fellow who appeared to be manning Quartermaine's door.

It was the newspaper reporter, Jack Coldwater. And turning the corner from St. James's Street was Rance. She would have recognized his confident, loose-limbed gait anywhere. Her hand went to the window as if to warn him, but it was an impotent gesture. The glass shimmered coldly between them, and already the hound and the hunted had espied one another.

Coldwater sauntered into the middle of St. James's Place, his ever-present folio shoved under one arm. Grace watched as they exchanged words. The reporter's stance was cocky, his chin up. Rance held himself loosely, unconcerned, then threw back his head and laughed. Coldwater returned with something, and in a flash, Rance had
him by the arm and was dragging him toward the steps. Coldwater hadn't a chance.

“Anisha,” she said sharply, “where is your brother? Is he here?”