One Touch of Scandal (14 page)

“Does it matter to you?”

Grace blinked uncertainly. “Good Lord,” she said reflexively. “In regards to what?”

One corner of his mouth lifted cynically. “You said your mother married down, Mademoiselle Gauthier,” he reminded her. “Most days, I think my mother did, too.”

It took Grace a heartbeat before she burst out laughing. “I think I begin to like you better and better, Lord Ruthveyn,” she said. “Perhaps we shall deal famously together after all.”

“Then get your things.”

Her smile fell. “What?
Now?
”

“Why not now?” he asked. “What is going to change? So far as your aunt is concerned, I have offered you a position. Leave her a note. My servants will return for your trunks tonight.”

“Such haste seems unnecessary.”

Again, he shrugged, then propped one shoulder against the window frame. “Are you coming, Grace,” he murmured, “or not?”

Grace looked beyond him to see that dusk—and Ruthveyn's shadows—were fast drawing nigh. He, too, was watching. Waiting. And soon the darkness would be upon
them. But what was there, really, to fear beyond that veil?

Only herself and her own foolishness, most likely.

Nonetheless, she was going. She was going to live with Lord Ruthveyn. She was going to trust his promises and his strength. She only prayed she was making the right decision.

And for the right reason.

A
drian, how
could
you?”

Ruthveyn knew his sister was angry when she used his Christian name.

Lady Anisha was dressed tonight in a topaz gold dinner gown, the bodice cut straight across her slender shoulders and ruched with butter-colored satin, while the wide, bell-shaped skirt was gathered up in matching rosettes on either side. The whole of it looked remarkably flattering against her warm ivory skin—save for Anisha's face, which had turned the color of overpoached salmon.

“Anisha, my dear, do sit down.” Ruthveyn surveyed her from across his desk as she wore a path in his carpet. “Just tell me what you thought of her. Have you any real objection—save for my heavy-handedness?”

His sister froze, eyes blazing. “How am I to know what
my objections might be?” she retorted. “I just met the woman!”

It was in moments like this Ruthveyn realized how very much alike they were.

“At dinner, no less, where she was dropped in my lap with the dinner napkin like some freshly starched
fait accompli
!” Anisha continued. “Really, Adrian, you have put me—and your Mademoiselle Gauthier—in a most awkward position. And she knew it, too. Couldn't you see that?”

“Anisha, if you would—”

“No, I won't.” Anisha spun around and resumed her pacing. “These are my
children,
Adrian. They are the fruit of my womb. How could you possibly presume to know what they need? Indeed, you have not spent above an hour with either of them since we got here!”

Ruthveyn's temper spiked at that. “Oh, don't hold back, Anisha! Ram that sword all the way home!” He jerked from his chair and went to his sideboard. “Do you want a brandy?” he snapped. “God knows I need one.”

“No, I don't want a brandy!” Anisha followed him across the room. “I want respect! Aren't you the one who keeps telling me I should demand it? That I should make my own decisions?”

Ruthveyn sighed and yanked the stopper from the decanter with a discordant scrape. At three-and-thirty, he was half a dozen years her senior, but Anisha could madden him as if they were still children. He poured the liquor, then shoved all of it away in disgust to brace his hands wide on the mahogany top. In his present mood, alcohol would be nothing but fuel tossed on an already blazing fire; an inferno born of temper, raging lust, and the sickening realization that his sister just might be right.

Slowly he drew his breath deep into the pit of his belly,
then blew it out again in one long, carefully moderated exhalation. Once. Twice. Again. Until the blood stopped pounding in his temples.

He felt his sister hovering near his elbow.

“Anisha, you know I care for those boys,” he finally rasped, staring out into the blackness of the rear gardens. “I would lay down my life for them. But I can't…I just can't play the affectionate uncle so easily. For God's sake, I can barely look them in the eyes.”

“You have held yourself apart from people, Adrian, for so long, you no longer know what intimacy is,” his sister whispered. “You are so afraid of what you might see that it haunts you. But they are children. They do not understand.”

“Yes, Anisha, they
are
children. And for that reason, I need to see them as young, vigorous, and full of life's every promise. Don't you?”

“Even if I had the true sight, I could not see my children,” she said simply. “You know that. Moreover, they are not of the Vateis, Raju, nor will they ever be Guardians. They certainly don't have your misfortune to be both. My children were born under the wrong stars and haven't a hint of the Gift. They are…well, like Luc, thank God.”

“I'm not sure the latter is to be bragged about, my dear.” His voice fell to a weary, more conciliatory tone. “But you are right about the other. I should have done this thing properly. I should have asked you about hiring a governess. I just…”

“Just what?” Sympathy had crept into her tone.

“I just need her to be here,” he finally managed. “And I feared she wouldn't just
come
—that it would require some pretext on my part—so I thought of the boys. She worships children. One can hear it in her voice.”

Anisha's delicate brow furrowed. “But why here, Raju? What is she to you?”

His mouth twisted with a bitter smile. “Not what you are thinking,” he answered. “The truth is, she's a friend of Lazonby's who's run into a spot of trouble. He asked me to keep her safe.”

“To keep her safe?” Anisha echoed, her hand coming out to touch his arm. “Then what is she to him? A lover?”

“Just a friend, Anisha.” He straightened up and took a sip of his brandy. “The daughter of his old commanding officer. But don't let your heart wander in that direction. Promise me. Lazonby is not for you.”

Anisha's jaw hardened. “And you know best?”

“In this, yes.” Ruthveyn took her firmly by the upper arms. “Trust me, Nish, I have debauched my way through every whorehouse and opium den from Casablanca to Edinburgh with that man. I know his predilections and habits, and vile as they are, I still love him like a brother. But you do not want him—and even if you did, I would forbid it.”

Her long, black lashes swept down. “You can't forbid it,” she said softly. “But you are right. I must think of the boys. I don't want to marry again, ever. And as to the other—perhaps loneliness is the better option.”

“Well, I am only warning you off Lazonby. What about Bessett? Or Curran? They are fine young men and…ah, but this is none of my business, is it?” Ruthveyn gave her arms a reassuring squeeze, then let go. “Look, don't fret about Mademoiselle Gauthier. I shall tell her in the morning you had already made other arrangements. I'll find another way of keeping her here—at least until her situation is settled.”

Anisha cleared her throat. “That might be awkward.”

“I know,” he answered. “But there's nothing else to be
done. I can't take her up to one of the Scottish estates. Napier will think she's run.”

Unease sketched across Anisha's delicate features. “Raju, what is it?” she asked, touching him lightly. “What do you see? What sort of danger surrounds her?”

“I don't—” Here, he stopped, and threw up his hands impotently. “I
don't know
, Anisha. I don't sense anything. I don't see anything. That is the very essence of my dilemma.”

“Ah, yes, your Unknowable!” His sister's furrowed brow relented. “So
she
is the one.”

Hands again braced on the sideboard, Ruthveyn dropped his head. “Yes,” he said quietly. “She is the one.”

“You are quite sure?”

He swiveled his head to look at her. “As sure as I likely can be,” he answered, “without thoroughly compromising a lady's virtue. And pray do not suggest that again.”

Anisha blushed faintly. “But she is so very beautiful with that blond hair and oval face,” she murmured. “Ah, Raju, perhaps I, too, have been hasty. What did you say the lady's background was?”

He took up his brandy and motioned her toward the pair of worn leather armchairs that flanked the dying fire. “She was governess for a shipbuilder named Holding who lived in Belgravia,” he said wearily. “Two girls, about the age of Tom and Teddy.”

“That sounds familiar.” Anisha twitched her skirts into place, then her head jerked up. “Wait, isn't he the one who was murdered?”

“Yes. He was.” Ruthveyn sat and drank deep of the brandy, feeling the burn as it rolled down his throat. He needed another drink. Hell, he wanted more than a drink.

“And you fear that next this madman might come after her?”

“Not while she is under my protection,” he vowed. “I think it more likely Napier will try to arrest her.”

“Napier!” Anisha spat, sitting forward in her chair. “Hasn't he ruined enough lives? He persecuted Rance! He convicted an innocent man.”

“Actually, that was Napier's father,” Ruthveyn corrected. “Not that the son hasn't done his part since the old man died.”

Anisha clutched her hands in her lap, looking a little shamefaced. “I have been too hasty in all this,” she said. “I have had rather a bad day, Raju, and my temper is not at its best. If Mademoiselle Gauthier is Rance's friend, and if she has experience with children…”

Ruthveyn studied his sister for a moment. “What sort of a bad day, Anisha?” he said quietly. “Is your irritation about something other than Grace?”

“Hmm,” said Anisha. “Already she is
Grace
to you.” But she did not look at him.

“My dear, what is wrong?”

On instinct, Ruthveyn bent to catch her gaze, but it was of limited use. The Vateis could rarely read one another—and Anisha was likely one of them, whether she admitted it or not. Growing up with her had been Ruthveyn's salvation, perhaps, for it had forced him to learn to read and understand people as ordinary human beings did. And just now, he could see chagrin and unhappiness in her face.

“Is Luc in trouble again?” he pressed. “You'd best fess up, old thing.”

Her eyes fell to the Turkish carpet, and she shook her head. “No, it's just that I had another message from Dr. von Althausen,” she confessed. “The man is going to bedevil me until I run back to Calcutta to get away from him.”

“Anisha.” He flashed an encouraging smile. “You might just consider…”

Her eyes flashed. “But I am not a Guardian, Raju.”

“No, because you are a woman,” he conceded. “People such as you are the very reason the Guardians exist.”

“I do not want your protection,” she bit out. “Or Rance's or Curran's! And I don't want to spend one minute in that drafty old cellar of his being poked or electrified or whatever it is he does. Besides, I don't even have the Gift. The wisdom of
Jyotish
guides me. I have studied hard to hone my skills. Do not demean them.”

Ruthveyn picked up his empty glass and began to turn it round to reflect the firelight. “So you think all you do is read stars and palms, hmm?” he mused, watching the cut crystal spark with light. “You are a lot like Lazonby, Nish. Always trying to deny the obvious. Von Althausen can learn from you, and help you hone your abilities.”

“One does not hone one's executioner's blade for him!” she hotly replied, coming halfway out of her chair. “I just want to study the stars, Raju. They are not subject to interpretation.”

“Actually, my dear, they are,” he answered. “They just don't look that way to you.”

“But you will not work with von Althausen,” she challenged. “Why should I?”

Slowly, Ruthveyn exhaled. She was perfectly correct. Ruthveyn was devoted to the Guardians and their greater purpose, yes. But unlike some, he had no wish to strengthen or even to understand his abilities. He wanted them to
go away
—and would literally have sold his soul to the devil to make it happen.

But he could not. His soul had been sold long ago, for the visions had plagued him since his earliest memory. As a child, he had been called freakish. Unnatural. No
one save his mother could hold him, or even hold his gaze beyond a passing glance. Not until Anisha had come along. Even his father, in whose blood the Gift ran strong, had thought him beyond strange.

There had been a reason Ruthveyn's mother had remained unmarried until the age of thirty, Ruthveyn's father had belatedly learned. She had been a
rishika—
a mystic of such power her own people had feared her. Her wealthy family had thought it a coup to marry their beautiful princess to a titled Englishman, and to ally themselves politically with England. But the union had produced a potent mixing of the blood, and Ruthveyn—the freakish, introspective, unloving child—had been the result.

It had taken all of his willpower and all of his courage to learn to hide what he was behind a façade of unwavering formality and distance. Only in Hindustan, land of distance and formality, could he have succeeded in the guise of a diplomat. But his father's ruthlessness and his mother's grace had combined to stand him in good stead. He had survived.

And now he wanted his sister to do what he was unwilling to do?

Ruthveyn set his empty glass down with a heavy
clunk.
“Fair enough, Anisha,” he said. “I will tell von Althausen you will not be coming. I will tell him to stop asking.”

“Dhanyavaad
, Raju.” Her hands relaxed on the chair arms.

He looked at her appraisingly. “And you will consider giving Grace a chance?” he asked. “You will at least try, I hope, to be her friend? If not for me, then perhaps for dear old Rance?”

Her eyes flashed for an instant, then Anisha relented. “Very well, brother,” she conceded. “As usual, you know
just the right words to strike your bargain—but first,
you
will do something for
me.
”

He did not like the resolve in her tone. “Go on.”

She settled back into her chair. “You will tell me everything,” she said. “Everything you suspect—and everything you've
seen
—regarding Mademoiselle Gauthier's involvement in this murder business.”

“Now
that,
” he said quietly, picking up his empty glass, “is going to require another brandy.”

 

Grace settled into Lord Ruthveyn's vast Mayfair mansion with a measure of unease. The house itself was quietly elegant without the ostentation Grace had grown accustomed to in Belgravia, with touches of Eastern influence in the fabrics and objets d'art that made the house feel welcoming.

The two boys, Teddy and Tom, were filled with devilry, but after three days spent sequestered with them in the schoolroom, Grace did not wholly despair. The little imps were intelligent—almost too much so—and eager to learn so long as the teaching was creative and allowed some outlet for their monkeylike energy.