One Touch of Scandal (31 page)

“Your carriage is ready, sir, and Brogden says—” Fricke froze on the threshold. “Oh. I do beg your pardon, sir.”

“It's quite all right, Fricke.” Adrian shrugged into his coat. “Mademoiselle Gauthier was just conveying a message from Lady Anisha. I am required in the main library. Tell Brogden to wait on the curb.”

“Certainly, sir.” Fricke stepped inside and held the door open.

Adrian paused long enough to take up his walking stick and hat from the side table

“
Mademoiselle?
” Very formally, he presented his arm.

She took it and went with him down the corridor and back to the library without exchanging another word. At the last instant, however, Grace jerked to a halt and turned to face him. “Come home tonight, Adrian,” she said, her voice husky. “Just…come home. Come to my bed. Let the rest of it sort out as it will.
Please.
”

He opened his mouth to speak, but at that moment, the library door flew open, and his sister burst out like a whirlwind. Her eyes lit up when she saw him.

“Raju, thank goodness!” she said, sounding exasper
ated. “I need that book of sketches Curran did for you. The one with the various forms the mark has taken over the years? Mr. Sutherland is trying to date the one in Grace's prayer book.”

“In Grace's prayer book?” Adrian's brow furrowed.

Anisha looked at Grace, exasperation deepening. “Good Lord, isn't that what you went to tell him?” she said. “Oh, never mind!” She returned her gaze to her brother. “Adrian, that sketchbook—can you find it?”

“Downstairs in the private study,” he said. “I'm late for a meeting at Number Four. Come quickly, and I shall get it for you.”

“Thank you,” said Anisha. “Grace, Mr. Sutherland wishes to show you some names to see if any ring a bell.”

Ruthveyn went down the steps, his sister on his arm, resisting the urge to look back over his shoulder at Grace. He could still feel the heat of her gaze boring into him. Even to himself, he could not quite explain why he was so frustrated. Perhaps because she was making it difficult to keep the distance between them. That glass wall he so desperately needed between himself and the rest of the world seemed to fall so easily before her.

And those last words!—That husky, come-take-me voice, and the way her gaze caught on his mouth—it sent shivers of unslaked desire down his spine. The truth was, he was in love with Grace Gauthier—completely, hopelessly in love—and had been almost from the day they'd met. But worse than the love was the aching need. Not the physical lust, or even the head-over-heels yearning of a new romance, but the deep and abiding cry of one soul for another, as if their roots had already entwined inexorably, like a couple wed twenty years rather than lovers for less than a fortnight. And still he did not understand how he had fallen so fast and so hard.

Beside him, however, his sister was all but vibrating with suppressed emotion. He flicked a quick look down at her. “Anisha, what is going on?” he asked quietly.

His sister cast an assessing look at him. “This moment?” she asked. “I'm wondering what you and Grace have been up to.”

“Anisha, you will kindly answer my question,” he said in a tone that brooked no opposition.

His sister sighed. “Very well. Grace found an old prayer book in her father's army trunk,” she said, hastening her pace to his. “It dates from the seventeenth century, and it has a copy of the mark of the Guardians on the frontispiece.”

He stopped on the landing and turned to face her. “
What?
”

“Raju,” Anisha said quietly, “Grace is not an Unknowable.”

He searched her face, trying to make sense of her words. “I hope to God you are wrong.”

“No, you don't understand,” Anisha whispered. “She is not an Unknowable because…well, because I think she's one of the Vateis.”

Ruthveyn went utterly still inside. Then, “You must be mad,” he said.

Anisha shook her head so hard her earbobs jangled. “I do not think so,” she went on. “She has commented to both you and to me that the mark looked familiar. Well, we found one. In her father's trunk, Raju. Inside a prayer book that belonged to her ancestor. Guess what sort of name he had?”

“I…obviously have no notion.”

“A Scots name,” said Anisha. “Sir Angus…something. And while she was out—doing whatever it was the two of you were doing—Mr. Sutherland found his name
referenced in one of the ancient manuscripts regarding initiation ceremonies. I tell you, Raju, this is the truth. She is of the Vateis. I feel this strongly. Remember, I have seen her palm.”

“But Anisha…this would mean—”

“Yes,” said his sister meaningfully. “It would.”

Ruthveyn shook his head, wishing something would clear the cobwebs from his brain. This was too much and warranted a great deal of thought—not to mention a long conversation with Grace. “I can't think about this just now,” he said, almost to himself.

“What do you mean?” said his sister indignantly. “What could be more important?”

He hitched her by the arm and set off down the stairs again, keeping his voice low. “Napier sent a missive an hour past,” he said, scarcely aware he was all but dragging Anisha. “There's been bad news.”

“Of what sort?”

“The Home Secretary is under fire,” said Ruthveyn. “Holding's wealthy neighbors have met with him to demand the Metropolitan Police do something—they seem not to care what. So Sir George has decided that arresting Grace will be the surest way to convince them they do not have a murderous cracksman running amok in Belgravia—a crime of passion, he means to play it.”

“But that's absurd!” she hissed. “They haven't enough evidence.”

“I don't think Sir George is worried about a conviction so much as a speedy trial for Grace, followed by the first mail packet to Paris,” said Ruthveyn quietly. “Just something to hush up the well-heeled populace. But good God, Anisha, a trial? Imprisonment? Even temporarily, it doesn't bear thinking of. No. I won't have Grace subjected to such horrors.”

Anisha shot him a dubious, sidelong glance as they turned down the corridor. “And Napier is warning you about this arrest?”

“Oh, not out of altruism,” said Ruthveyn grimly “The man just cannot abide the thought of a trial without a conviction. But I think, too, that a part of him is beginning to believe me when I say Grace is innocent.”

“And you believe that matters to him?” Anisha snorted. “It did not matter with Rance.”

“In this case, it seems to,” said Ruthveyn tightly. “He has written to warn me, and to tell me that if I have means at my disposal to override Sir George Grey, now is the time to do it.”

“He wants you to ask the Queen to intervene.”

“I think he may,” said Ruthveyn.

“And will you?”

“If I must, yes,” said Ruthveyn swiftly. “But she is at Balmoral just now, which will slow matters a bit. Besides, even the mere suspicion of a crime will haunt Grace all of her days. What I should rather do is offer up a better suspect to Sir George.”

“What do you mean to do?”

“Geoff can sometimes elicit information from inanimate objects,” said Ruthveyn, thinking aloud. “There are two letters—well, a note and a letter—almost certainly forged by the killer's hand.”

“But Lord Bessett is in Yorkshire,” Anisha protested. “And Napier isn't going to release Crown evidence to you.”

“No, but we could go—” Ruthveyn paused, suddenly aware of angry voices echoing farther along the passageway. “What the devil?”

Apprehension sketched over Anisha's face. “That's Rance's voice,” she said, picking up her skirts to run. “He sounds murderous.”

It was then that Ruthveyn remembered Grace's warning. “Hell and damnation,” he muttered, setting off after his sister.

Outside the study door, the tirade rose to a crescendo, though the words were unintelligible through the slab of oak. Seizing hold of the doorknob, Ruthveyn reluctantly weighed his choices. Good God, didn't he have trouble enough without Rance adding to it?

“Mamma always said it was rude to listen at doors,” Anisha urged. “So open it.”

Just then there was a heavy thud, a thump, followed by the crashing of porcelain.

On a muttered oath, Ruthveyn pushed open the door.

He wished at once he had not.

Beside him, Anisha gasped, both hands going to her mouth.

Lazonby had Jack Coldwater wedged against the back of the sofa, caught in what looked like a passionate embrace, one booted leg thrust between his quarry's legs. A porcelain bust of Aristotle lay in pieces, the marble pedestal overturned.

Ruthveyn closed the door as swiftly as he'd opened it. But there was no blocking out the image.

“
Oh, God.
” His sister's voice was a tremulous whisper.

Ruthveyn caught her arm again, more gently. “Come, Nish,” he said. “This is none of our concern.”

But a few feet along the corridor, Anisha balked. “Raju,” she whispered, jerking to a halt. “It looked as if—do you think Rance was—”

“Damn it, I don't know,” he bit out.

Behind them, a door flew open, crashing inward. In an instant, Jack Coldwater pushed past, then dashed down the stairs into the reception foyer as if the hounds of hell were at his heels.

Ruthveyn turned back to his sister and softened his tone. “I don't think either of them saw us,” he said. “Anisha, I think we must tell ourselves that it wasn't quite what it looked like.”

But his sister's eyes were still wide as saucers, her skin deathly pale. “W-What do you think it looked like?” she asked, her voice tremulous. “Tell me, Raju.”

Ruthveyn shut his eyes and cursed beneath his breath. Anisha was not naïve. Despite his words to her, there was no mistaking such a compromising position.
Was there?

Oh, Lazonby had not been precisely kissing the young man. Lust and rage had been thick in the air. But Lazonby, of all people?

It made no sense. Oh, he was as dissolute as they came, certainly, and Ruthveyn little better. They had both of them done things in the heat of lust and intoxicants that they'd as soon as not be reminded of in the harsh light of day. But this—stone-cold sober, and in a moderately respectable house—went beyond the pale.

“I'm going to talk to him,” he said abruptly, releasing Anisha's arm. “I want you to go back upstairs to Grace. Tell her you wish to go home. All right?”

Anisha was staring at the floor.

“All right, Nish?” He tipped up her chin with one finger.

“Yes.” She managed a smile. “All right.”

He kissed her lightly on the forehead. “I'll take the book up to Sutherland,” he said. “Now go, before Lazonby comes out.”

Anisha nodded and dashed up the steps. Ruthveyn watched her go, his emotions torn. Grace was still in the forefront of his mind. Grace, and the implications of Anisha's strange story about the prayer book. How unfair it seemed that he might harbor some faint hope of having
all he'd ever dreamt of, while his sister had just had her dreams dashed to pieces.

Oh, never would he have permitted Anisha to marry Lazonby. But he had hoped her infatuation might die a natural death. This was not natural. Indeed, some would say it was most
unnatural
—not to mention depraved. Ruthveyn wouldn't have gone that far, but he meant to have some hard words with Lazonby.

The door to the private library still stood open. Lazonby had gone to the windows and was looking down at the street, his arms ramrod stiff, his hands fisted. Even without the Gift, Ruthveyn could have felt the rage inside the room.

“Well,” he said, softly closing the door. “Sometimes, old friend, you can still surprise me.”

Lazonby turned from the window, his color draining. “I beg your pardon?”

Ruthveyn made a vague gesture toward the sofa, and the broken bust. “It's not my place to judge a man's taste in such matters,” he said. “But you should know that when I cracked the door three minutes ago, Anisha was with me. Next time, for God's sake, lock it.”

As Lazonby gaped at him, guilt struck Ruthveyn hard. Not a quarter hour past, he, too, had been fool enough to leave a door unlocked and a reputation at risk—not that he hadn't had a solution in mind, or perhaps even harbored an unconscious wish to
be
caught. But Grace was right; a man ought never leave such decisions to chance. He ought never risk hurting—or ruining—another.

“You…saw?” Lazonby finally rasped.

“I fear so,” he said quietly.

Lazonby's face reddened furiously. “Damn it, it's not what it looked like.”

“Then what was it?”

“It's none of your damned business what it was.”

Ruthveyn strolled farther into the room, his hands clasped behind his back as he resisted the urge to plant Lazonby a facer. “Quite so. It is not,” he finally said. “But I have my sister's tender feelings to worry about. She fancies herself half in love with you, you know.”

“Anisha?” Lazonby looked at him incredulously. “Surely you jest?”

“Surely,” said Ruthveyn quietly, “I do not.”

This seemed to pain Lazonby. “I'm more than fond of your sister, Adrian,” he said, wincing, “but she…well, she's not quite my type.”

So it would appear,
thought Ruthveyn. But what he said was, “Just have a care for your reputation, my friend—and a care for the good name of this Society, and the important work we must do. Beyond that, regardless of what you do in private, you
are
my friend.”

“B-But it wasn't…it wasn't anything,” Lazonby protested.

Ruthveyn cocked one eyebrow. “Oh, it most assuredly was something,” he replied. “And I think you need to decide
what
—then get a choke hold on it. I'll stand by you, Rance. You should know that by now.”