One Touch of Scandal (6 page)

“Mademoiselle Gauthier, I am sorry,” said Ruthveyn.
“But I do not think it would have mattered. Tell me, what did you do once you found Holding?”

“I screamed!” she declared. “And then I…I tried to help him. But there was no helping him. And then some of the servants came. Someone went to fetch a constable. After that…well, I do not quite recall the order of things. But there were a great many people and questions. They kept all of us apart from one another. And now I think…yes, I think from the very first they suspected me.”

“Most regrettable,” Ruthveyn remarked. “Were any locks broken? Any windows?”

Slowly, she shook her head. “No one mentioned any,” she whispered. “But there
must
have been. Mustn't there? Trenton—the butler—locks everything up without fail. The house is a fortress—to keep the children safe, Ethan always said.”

“And the note that was slipped under your door?”

Again, Grace shook her head. “I must have dropped it in Ethan's study,” she admitted. “I daresay the police have it now.”

“I daresay they do,” said Ruthveyn dryly. “And you were not allowed free in the house again?”

“Almost no one was,” said Grace. “Even Fenella went home with Mrs. Lester. She said she couldn't bear to stay there until the killer was caught.”

“And who, pray, is Mrs. Lester?”

“Ethan's first wife's sister,” said Grace. “She lives not far from Rotherhithe—which is where Eliza and Anne have gone.” It was taking all her will not to burst into tears again. “And I daresay…well, I daresay that is where they shall stay now, isn't it? That is what Mrs. Lester has always wished.”

“You do not like her?”

Grace hesitated. “I do not know her well,” she con
fessed. “She quite dotes on the girls. But it was her late sister's wish the girls remain with Ethan, in the only home they had ever known. Mrs. Lester has five boys of her own, so perhaps it was thought they would be rambunctious? I do not know. I know only that Ethan had a good father, so he took such duties seriously.”

“Miss Crane will not keep the children?”

She shook her head. “An unmarried woman with no real blood claim?” Grace mused. “No, I imagine the girls will go to their mother's side now. Mr. Lester is very rich—the family owns timber warehouses, I think—and he spoils his wife something frightful. Fenella will wish to keep the peace. And as to what I think”—here her voice broke wretchedly—“well, that no longer matters, does it?”

Ruthveyn set his head to one side in that assessing way of his. “You are thinking that Mr. Holding's death has taken the children away from you forever,” he said, “when you were just growing accustomed to the notion of being a mother. Indeed, your whole life has turned upside down.”

Grace managed a watery smile. “I loved the girls, you know,” she said. “But Mrs. Lester does, too. She has a houseful of servants and toys, and has always yearned for daughters. Once this is over…well, I shall ask permission to visit. I shall hope for the best.”

For the first time, his dark eyes seemed to soften. “I had a stepmother myself,” he said solemnly, “though I was nearly grown. But Pamela was kind—too kind, really—and much loved. You have my sympathy.”

“Thank you.”

He turned, then hesitated for a moment, his hand upon the doorknob. “Where may I find you, Mademoiselle Gauthier, after today?”

“Find me?” she asked. “Find me for what?”

The softness in his eyes had vanished. “Should something come up.”

For an instant, Grace hesitated. But hesitating would make matters no better. For now, she was stuck. “I am at my aunt's house in Manchester Square,” she answered. “Lady Abigail Hythe.”

“You look none too happy about that.”

Grace's mouth twisted wryly. “One must be grateful for a roof over one's head—or so I am often told.”

“Ah, like that, is it?”

She shrugged and let it go.

Lord Ruthveyn pulled open the door and offered his arm. “So you were followed here by one of Metropolitan's finest, were you?”

Grace managed a weak laugh. “Yes, and by now he must be wondering what's become of me.”

Lord Ruthveyn glanced down at her. “Let's keep him wondering, shall we?” he murmured, starting down the wide, white staircase. “Do you know Spenser House? There is a narrow little passageway just round the corner from it that gives onto Green Park.”

“A
secret
passageway?” Grace smiled.

Ruthveyn shrugged. “An often-overlooked passageway,” he clarified. “Let me take you through the gardens and show you the back way out. Perhaps you can enjoy a leisurely stroll home in solitude.”

They had reached the bottom of the wide staircase. The dark young man still stood at the tall counter, running a finely manicured finger down one page of an open ledger.

“Belkadi,” said Ruthveyn.

“Yes?” The man lifted his eyes.

“Have you seen Pinkie Ringgold?”

“Across the street,” he answered absently. “Playing doorman for Quartermaine's hell.”

They could only mean Ned Quartermaine, thought Grace. Everyone knew of him; he ran the wickedest, most exclusive—and the most discreet—gaming salon in all London. It was so discreet, Grace had apparently walked right past it, unaware.

“Go over there,” said Ruthveyn, “and start a row with Pinkie.”

Belkadi shut the ledger. “Very well,” he said. “Do you wish anything broken? Bleeding?”

“No, we've a constable dawdling about,” said Ruthveyn. “Just put the fear of God in him and create a distraction while I show Mademoiselle Gauthier out the back.”

Belkadi bowed and started for the door.

“And drag Pinkie's carcass over here when you're done,” Ruthveyn added as they turned down the narrow back stairs. “I'll fetch Bessett. I should like the four of us to have a word.”

Eyes wide as saucers, Grace glanced over her shoulder as Belkadi vanished out the front door.

Ruthveyn patted her hand where it lay lightly on his coat sleeve. “There, Mademoiselle Gauthier, you see? Belkadi will feign a little danger to distract the police.”

Grace cut a dubious glance up at him. The only danger in St. James's, she had begun to suspect, had her fingers wrapped round his arm.

And quite possibly, her life in his hands.

W
omen,
thought Lord Ruthveyn,
have ever been the bane of my existence.

And one needed no gift of foresight to know that this one would be no different.

Try as he might to avoid the fairer sex—avoid them, that was to say, even more assiduously than he avoided the rest of the human race—he was nonetheless a man, with a man's appetites. And, apparently, a man's wish for intrigue. Perhaps there were even a few shreds of chivalry left in him.

Whatever it was that drove him, it took Ruthveyn all of three minutes to drag his friend Bessett from the coffee room and brief him regarding his curious encounter with Mademoiselle Gauthier. It took another five, however, to justify his decision.

They stood near the top of the marble staircase, Lord Bessett scrubbing a pensive hand round his chin. His eyes, as usual, were wary. “You feel strongly we should take this on, I collect,” he mused. “I confess, I cannot see why the
Fraternitas
has any business in it. Even if she did know Lazonby in Algiers, the woman is not one of us.”

“You don't know that.”

A knowing smile tugged at Bessett's mouth. “Oh, but you do,” he said. “And if she were, you would have said so already.”

Ruthveyn's expression tightened. “I'm not sure of anything here.”

“How much does she know about Lazonby?” Bessett dropped his voice. “Did you tell her where he was?”

“Don't be absurd,” he replied. “I told her he had been called home, which, insofar as it goes, is perfectly true. Now do you mean to help me or not? Until we hear from Lazonby, this is what I mean to do.”

Lord Bessett threw his arms over his chest, and appraised Ruthveyn through narrow eyes. “Now why is it, old chap, I get the feeling the lady is comely?” he murmured. “Then again, feminine pulchritude never held much sway with you, did it? You were always drawn to inner beauty.”

Suddenly, there was the sound of the downstairs door crashing inward, followed by a shuddering thump, a couple of thuds, then a string of curses that colored the air blue.

“That will be old Pinkie Ring,” said Ruthveyn on a sigh. He jerked open the door to the coffee room. “What's it to be, Geoff?”

Bessett inclined his head almost regally. “It is to be exactly as you wish, Lord Baphomet. Are you not our Prince of Darkness? And we your lowly Templar masons?”

Ruthveyn jerked his head at the door he held wide. “You've been reading too much medieval rubbish again,” he snapped. “Get in, and try to keep those two from killing one another.”

It was no easy task.

In the end, they were compelled to put a large table between Belkadi and his quarry, then send for a bottle of strong sherry, though the afternoon was but barely upon them.

“I didn't say noffik, you bleedin' savage!” Pinkie Ringgold swore, lunging across the table at Belkadi.

“Whoa!” Bessett leapt up, grabbed Pinkie, and hauled him back toward his chair.

“Fucking
Moorish bastard!” Pinkie jerked against Bessett's grip, his visage swollen red with rage.

Belkadi sat, unmoved. “Terribly sorry, old boy,” he said with an air of utter boredom. “I could have sworn you insulted the cut of my coat.”

“The cut of your coat, eh?” Lord Bessett let his gaze drift over Pinkie's rumpled brown affair with its mismatched buttons. “A misunderstanding, I daresay. Gentlemen, we are neighbors—occasionally even business associates. Let this one go, shall we?”

“But of course,” said Belkadi.

Pinkie shrugged off Bessett's grip, rolled his shoulders restlessly, then sat, snatching up the slab of raw beef one of Belkadi's minions had just set down.

Belkadi regarded him dispassionately as Pinkie slapped the beefsteak to his right eye. “Send me the bill, Ringgold, for your ruined cravat,” he said.

“I shall see to that.” Ruthveyn spoke for the first time. He extracted his purse and peeled off a pile of banknotes, then pushed them across the table to Pinkie. “Here. This should take care of it.”

Pinkie's left eye narrowed to a squint. “Oh, aye, you rich bastards fink you can buy ol' Pinkie orf anytime yer please,” he said. “That pile'd fetch threescore o' fine cambric stranglers. What d' ye really want, Ruthveyn?”

Ruthveyn smiled faintly. “Let me be blunt, then.”

“Yer ain't never been known for yer pretty conversation,” Pinkie returned.

Ruthveyn and Bessett exchanged glances. “There was a murder done Wednesday night in Belgravia,” said Ruthveyn, tapping the tip of one finger pensively on the tabletop. “I want to know the word round Town.”

Still gripping the beef, Pinkie grunted. “Cove by name o' Holding,” he said, eyeing Ruthveyn warily. “And 'e's dead, ain't 'e? I'd say that's the word.”

Ruthveyn peeled off another banknote. “I want to know if it was robbery,” he said, tossing it onto the pile with two fingers. “I want to know if a window or door was damaged. I want to know if anything was stolen. And I want the fence's name. In short, Pinkie, I want to know
everything
the underworld knows. Do I make myself plain?”

The doorman licked his lips, hesitated, then gave half a head shake. “Don't waste the rest o' yer blunt, gov,” he said, plucking a banknote from the pile. “This tenner'll do for me trouble today.”

“What are you suggesting?” Ruthveyn's voice was dangerously soft.

Pinkie's squint narrowed. “That it weren't no cracksman wot done Holding. That's Johnnie Rucker's turf. 'E'd know if somefink got pinched. 'E'd make it 'is business ter know—an' 'e'd tell
me.
”

“And he did not?”

“Said 'e didn't know noffink about it,” Pinkie said confidently. “Besides, Johnnie don't tol'rate that sort o' violence. Rumor is one o' the servants did 'im in.”

“Which
one of the servants?” Bessett interjected.

Pinkie shrugged. “The governess, per'aps,” he said. “Fancied 'erself in love wiv Holding—an' a Frog, too, for all that.” Here he eyed Belkadi nastily. “Temperamental creatures, them Frogs, I always 'eard.”

Belkadi merely smiled. “Pick a slur, Ringgold, and stick to it, won't you?”

Ruthveyn ignored him and pushed the pile of banknotes back at Pinkie. “Make sure of all this,” he gritted. “Talk to Quartermaine, and see what he can discover. Talk to Rucker again. Spread the word to every fence in London. Whatever was stolen, I'll pay twice what it is worth, no questions asked.”

“Weren't noffink stole,” Pinkie warned.

“So you say.”

After a moment's hesitation, Pinkie slapped the beefsteak back on the plate with a clatter, then swept up the money. “It's your blunt, gov'nor,” he said, rising.

Ruthveyn extracted his pocket watch. “I'll be at Quartermaine's tonight round eleven,” he said, checking it. “You'll have a report for me then.” It was not a request.

“Ha!” said Pinkie dubiously. “Come have a toss wiv us, will yer? Quartermaine won't like that a bit.”

Ruthveyn flicked a dark gaze up at him. “I do not gamble,” he said softly. “Not with money. Tell me, Pinkie, who's been assigned this business down at the Yard?”

At this, Pinkie grinned, peeling back his lips to reveal a set of yellowing canines that would have done a wolf proud. “Now that'd be yer good friend Royden,” he said. “Royden Napier. So good luck to you, Ruthveyn.”

Then Pinkie stuffed the wad of banknotes into his coat pocket and waddled off toward the door.

Ruthveyn uttered a curse beneath his breath.
Napier.
He might have guessed the murder of a Crown favorite
would draw attention from the top. No lowly police sergeant could possibly do justice to the corpse of Ethan Holding.

“Most interesting,” murmured Bessett, watching Pinkie go.

Belkadi, too, stood. “If there is nothing else?” he enquired.

“There is something else,” said Ruthveyn. “The lady who just left us—Mademoiselle Gauthier. She is the daughter of Commandant Henri Gauthier.”

At last, Belkadi looked surprised, a rare occurrence. “Is she indeed?”

A wry smile twisted Ruthveyn's mouth. “So she claims,” he confessed. “And she is apparently English on her mother's side.”

“Le commandant
did have an English wife, long dead,” Belkadi acknowledged. “And a daughter, who was said to be beautiful.”

“Mademoiselle Gauthier is certainly that,” Ruthveyn remarked. “She claims to make her home with an aunt by the name of Hythe in Manchester Square.”

“But you do not believe her,” said the majordomo pointedly. “And you wish me to confirm what she has said.”

“Bloody hell, Adrian!” Bessett jerked to his feet. “Do you mean to suggest that you just put us through our paces for a woman whom you do not even trust?”

Ruthveyn lifted both shoulders. “For once, gentlemen, I do not know what to believe,” he answered. “It is a novel experience, to be sure. I daresay the lady is precisely what she claims, but I haven't the time to verify it—so Belkadi will.”

On a soft curse, Bessett threw up his hands and walked away. Belkadi gave one of his tight, mocking bows, and followed suit.

Ruthveyn was once more alone at the table.

Just the way he liked it.

 

“Grace! Grace, is that you?”

The petulant voice rang out as soon as Grace cracked the front door of her aunt's modest Marylebone town house.

“Good afternoon, Aunt Abigail,” Grace called.

“To you, perhaps!” came the affected cry. “Not to me!”

Grace shrugged off her cloak and wished fleetingly that she had prolonged her walk home even further and savored her freedom while she had it. But there were only so many shop windows to stroll past and too much weighing on her mind to enjoy them.

Miriam, the second housemaid, hastened in, caught Grace's gaze, and rolled her eyes.

“Police been here,” she mouthed, taking Grace's cloak. “Left not ten minutes past. Then her ladyship took a spell.”

A spell
was servant-speak for one of Aunt Abigail's self-indulgent tirades.

“Oh, dear.” Grace tucked her key into her reticule. “Has she had her draught, then?”

Miriam pursed her lips. “Aye, and I mixed it stout, too.”

“Good girl.” Drawing in a steadying breath, Grace checked her hair and her face in the looking glass over the console, then tucked up a wayward curl. “Here, Miriam, will I do?”

“As well as anything,” said the maid evenly. “Nothing's apt to please her today.”

The warning was wholly unnecessary. Grace flashed Miriam a brave smile, then hastened down the passageway into the back parlor.

Lady Abigail Hythe lay reclined in all her faded glory
upon her favorite fainting couch, a befeathered fan waving lethargically in the air, her vinaigrette and her ever-present glass of cordial on the little rosewood table beside her.

“Aunt Abigail, are you all right?” Grace hastened to her side.

“Oh, Grace, you
cannot
imagine!” cried Lady Abigail, fanning more frantically. “What a frightful morning we have had! After having murder done practically in your face! Whatever
were
you thinking, to take a place with
such people
?”

She had been thinking,
Grace muttered inwardly,
that she was not wanted here.

Indeed, she had thought to escape. She had had no wish to be a burden to a woman who so clearly preferred her fantasy of grandeur past and her dreams of what might have been over life's sadly shopworn reality. But now Grace was back again, and life with her aunt was more intolerable than ever.

She looked about the lofty chamber with its faded, almost tattered draperies, and furnishings that had been fashionable a hundred years ago. The smell of old money long spent was as heavy in the air as the moldering dust motes that rose from the sagging brocade settee by the windows, and Grace suddenly understood just why her mother had felt compelled to escape it all so long ago.

“Aunt Abigail, they really were quite nice people,” she said gently. “And I am sure Mr. Holding had no inkling his murder was imminent, or he would never have inconvenienced you with even the vaguest connection to his household.”

At that, Lady Abigail's head twisted toward her. “Oh, you callous, callous girl,” she whispered, trembling with outrage. “Go on. Make a mockery of my distress. But you
will not think it so amusing when I tell you that we have had the police here today.”

Grace clutched her hands in her lap. “I am very sorry, aunt.”

“Yes,
the police
!” Lady Abigail spoke over her. “And that spiteful cat Mrs. Pickling saw them from across the street! By now everyone in Manchester Square will know that we have been involved in this vile business. Oh, the indignity of it! And I blame you, Grace. I truly do. And I blame your mother for…”

For taking that long-ago trip to Paris. For falling in love with an impecunious Frenchman. For bringing low our entire family. For living in tents and consorting with Spaniards and Arabs and God only knows what else. For dying too young, and suffering not nearly enough…

Oh, this last, perhaps, Aunt Abigail never actually said aloud.

She did not need to. And Grace had no need to listen to what she
did
say, so often had she heard her aunt's tirade. So she simply shut her ears to it, stroked Aunt Abigail's withered hand, and reminded herself that her aunt was her mother's only living sibling. That she was old. That she did not really mean what she said.

Grace only hoped that was the case.

“Aunt Abigail, tell me what the police wanted,” Grace suggested when the harangue faded away.