One Touch of Scandal (8 page)

At that very moment, however, the door hinge behind him squeaked tellingly. In a flash, the messenger boy was out of his seat and halfway to the door, shooting Ruthveyn a wary but triumphant glance as he passed.

“Mr. Cook's accounts, sir,” he piped, skidding around the portly gentleman who was attempting to exit. “'E said I was ter put him straight into yer 'ands meself.”

Then the lad yanked his forelock and darted from the room, leaving Napier holding the envelope. Ruthveyn had no idea who Mr. Cook might be, but the thunderous look that passed over Napier's face when his gaze fell upon him was familiar.

“Lord Ruthveyn,” he said stiffly. “I cannot imagine what brings you.”

Ruthveyn was fairly sure he could not. Indeed, he could scarce believe it himself.

He unfolded himself from the god-awful chair. “Mr. Napier,” he said without offering his hand. “Have you a moment? I should like to speak with you.”

Napier lifted one eyebrow. “Am I to have any choice in the matter?”

Without waiting for an answer, Napier dismissed the waiting officers. They leapt up and hastened from the room as if fleeing the gallows. Napier thrust out an arm, as if to order Ruthveyn inside.

The moment the office door closed, however, the assistant commissioner turned on him, bitterness burning in his eyes, his spine stiffening with pride.

“You have a great deal of nerve, my lord,” he said, his voice low and hard. “I won't insult you in front of my
men, though I daresay you wouldn't trouble yourself to return the courtesy. But make no mistake as to your welcome in this office.”

Ruthveyn threw up a forestalling hand. “Spare us both, Napier.”

“Spare you? If I could, sir, I'd have you thrown into the street this instant.”

The marquess flashed a muted smile. “No, you'd throw me to the wolves,” he corrected, “and watch while they tore out my entrails.”

Napier smiled bitterly, and Ruthveyn could see the acknowledgment flare behind his eyes. Enmity swirled like a cloud about Napier, though he was challenging to read. But Ruthveyn knew from experience that the man was angry—and ruthless.

“What do you want this time, Ruthveyn?” he demanded. “Spare me the indignity of having my decisions undermined by Buckingham Palace, and just tell me.”

“I am sorry,” said Ruthveyn. “I did what I had to do, Napier. You were going to hang an innocent man.”

“So you say.”

“So I
know,
” said Ruthveyn quietly. “I
know
it, Napier, though I know, too, you'll never believe me. But in this case, no one is headed to the gallows—not yet.”

“And which case might that be?”

“The death of Ethan Holding.”

“Holding?” Napier snorted derisively. “I thought your grandfather was some almighty Rajput prince, Ruthveyn—God knows you're haughty enough. I can scarce imagine you rubbing shoulders with the hoi polloi.”

“You would be surprised,” said Ruthveyn quietly, “what sort of men I rub shoulders with. But Holding was quite well-off, was he not?”

Napier shrugged and wandered to one of the windows
to stare down at the traffic below. He shoved a hand into his pocket, obviously measuring his words.

“Holding was not, perhaps, as wealthy as was commonly believed,” he finally answered, his back turned to Ruthveyn. “We are still sorting it out. But why would you care?”

Ruthveyn hesitated, hedging his words. “One of the servants approached me,” he said. “I'm not at liberty to say more.”

“A servant?” Napier turned from the window, his expression incredulous. “You are here on behalf of a suspect? And you aren't going to tell me whom?”

“Not yet.” Ruthveyn pretended to hold his gaze steadily, looking at a point just beyond his shoulder. “Not until I know what to make of it all.”

Napier's hands curled into fists. “Damn it, Ruthveyn, whose side are you on?” he demanded. “This is our country we are talking about here! Our civilization! England has laws—and we must sometimes sacrifice our personal feelings to uphold them.”

“Do not talk to me, Napier, about sacrifice for one's country,” Ruthveyn snapped. “By God, I have sacrificed all I care to. And I am done with it.”

Napier made a dismissive sound, his eyes all but rolling. And as quickly as it had come, Ruthveyn's temper faded.

Napier was right. Bullheaded, but right. And Ruthveyn felt suddenly weary from it all. He had suffered another sleepless night, and there hadn't been enough brandy or hashish or anything else sufficient to overcome it.

He wished to God he could speak to Lazonby, and find out what, if anything, he owed Mademoiselle Gauthier. He wished he understood why he felt so compelled to help her. Geoff had been right, perhaps, in warning him away.

Ruthveyn felt as if he were flying blind, trying to understand the fears and the motivations of a woman whom he knew nothing about. A woman he could not read—not to any degree whatsoever—a rare occurrence indeed. And one which, in this case, he found deeply frustrating.

He felt challenged by Grace somehow. And yes, drawn to her. Perhaps, despite Geoff's comment, Ruthveyn was not incapable of being deceived by a woman's beauty after all. What made Grace Gauthier any less a suspect than the next person caught up in this tragedy? People killed for all manner of hard-to-comprehend reasons. And he did not envy Royden Napier the job of sorting it all out.

He dragged a hand through his hair, a boyish gesture he'd long tried to conquer. “Look here, Napier, might I sit down?” he asked. “Must we go on like this? Always at one another's throats?”

“Ah, you want a truce now, do you?” said the assistant commissioner snidely. But he jerked his head toward a seat, then went to his desk, sitting down and drawing up his chair with a harsh scrape.

He gave something of a weary sigh. “I shall tell you what I can, Ruthveyn,” he said, his voice only marginally more conciliatory. “Holding's throat was cut from behind by someone who was right-handed—and hesitant, for the job was badly done. Holding tried to crawl away, but he bled to death beside his desk. We are looking at everyone who had access to the house as a possible suspect.”

“You are sure, then, that the killer came from inside?” Ruthveyn pressed. “There was no sign of burglary?”

Napier shook his head. “A robbery gone wrong is rather easier to stomach,” he replied. “No, someone Holding knew killed him—and you shan't convince me otherwise.” This last was said in a warning tone.

No shattered windows, then. No locks pried free.
Something inside Ruthveyn fell a little. “Whom do you suspect?”

Again, the assistant commissioner shrugged. “The business partner?” he suggested. “Or the footman who, the butler thought, might have been nicking bits of silver? And then there is the governess, a Frenchwoman. She'd managed to get herself betrothed to Holding. But we can find no motive for her—
yet.
”

His tone sent a chill down Ruthveyn's spine, no easy feat. “You have finished searching the house?”

“Almost,” he said grudgingly. “But we've carted out a lot of ledgers and correspondence we've yet to review. And I've got a man down at Crane and Holding looking at the company accounts.”

“What makes you think it was the governess?” Ruthveyn pressed. “I understand she found him, and that there might have been a note involved?”

Napier stiffened. “There might have been.”

“Was it recovered?” he asked hopefully. “I should like to see it.”

Napier's expression darkened. “You have no right to it,” he replied. “You are not an officer of the court or anything remotely near it.”

Ruthveyn hesitated. “I mean you no ill, Napier,” he finally answered. “Murder is a sin, and whoever did it should hang. If I discover the killer—and I don't expect to—then I shall help you tie the noose, and gladly.”

Napier still looked wary. “Just what is going on here, Ruthveyn? What is it you know that I do not?”

The marquess shrugged. “Nothing,” he admitted. “Nonetheless, I mean to follow the case to its conclusion. It would be best for all of us if you accepted that.”

At that, something like resignation sketched across Napier's hard features. He extracted a little key from
his waistcoat pocket and unlocked a drawer. “You are a plague upon this house, Ruthveyn,” he muttered, thumbing through a file. “I know what you mean to do. You know something, and you will hide it from me. And then you will twist and distort the facts of this case until they fit whatever theory it is you hope to prove.”

“You are wrong,” said Ruthveyn just as Napier extracted a folded paper and thrust it at him.

Ruthveyn took it gingerly, without touching Napier. For a time, he simply held it, rubbing the thick, cream-colored stock between two fingers. One corner had turned rusty. It was dried blood, he realized. It was just as Mademoiselle Gauthier had said, then. She had dropped it. And still he felt nothing. But nor had he expected to.

He released his grip and looked more closely. Nothing was written on the exterior. He flipped it open to find it worded just as Mademoiselle Gauthier had remembered; stiffly, and a little formally. He returned it to Napier.

“Perhaps the governess is opportunistic,” he agreed. “But why would she kill him?”

Napier's expression shuttered. “Women are emotional creatures,” he answered. “Though admittedly, it was a love match by no one's account—not even hers—but Holding had been keeping a high-flyer up in Soho. Perhaps she got wind of it.”

Ruthveyn grunted. “Doesn't sound like a man who meant to marry.”

“He broke it off a fortnight past,” Napier added. “Told his mistress his betrothal was imminent—motive, perhaps. But she was not in the house.”

“Not so far as you know,” Ruthveyn murmured, his gaze catching Napier's.

Despite the man's dire suspicions, some tightly coiled spring inside Ruthveyn had been gradually relaxing, and
at last it finally gave way. Until now, he realized, he had not even been entirely convinced of Mademoiselle Gauthier's betrothal story. Impoverished females had been known to indulge in greater fantasies. Which begged another question.

“Was there anyone else?” he asked Napier. “Any other woman scorned? Servants warming the master's bed? Anything of that sort?”

The assistant commissioner exhaled slowly. “There was a housemaid who once fancied herself Holding's favorite,” he said quietly. “Like his mistress, she pretended her nose was not out of joint, but…”

“What about the dead wife's family?”

Napier shrugged dismissively. “Just a sister,” he said, “but she and the deceased were on cordial good terms. They had occasional words, I collect, about what was best for the children—the dead wife's daughters—but it never amounted to much.”

“So you still suspect the governess. Why? What is your theory?”

Napier's expression shuttered. “I have no theory. And I suspect everyone.”

“Liar,” said Ruthveyn softly.

The assistant commissioner's eyes glittered dangerously. “I may have to tell you what I know, Ruthveyn,” he returned, “for I don't fancy being jerked up to the Home Office and run through with the blade of Sir George's tongue again. But my thoughts are my own. Even the Queen herself does not own those. Not yet, at any rate.”

At that, a bitter smile twisted Ruthveyn's mouth. “Then account yourself fortunate, old chap. They used to own mine.”

But Napier scarcely paused for breath. “As to what I
know,
” he went on, “I know the Frenchwoman was the
last to see him alive. I know she ran from the room spattered with his blood. And I know she was half-incoherent a good two hours afterward.”

Ruthveyn merely lifted one brow. “Well, I daresay finding one's betrothed covered in blood and breathing his last would send any of us—”

Just then, the door squeaked again. One of the black-coated clerks slid silently into the room to drop a paper on Napier's desk, disappearing as wordlessly as he'd come. Ruthveyn glanced at the page, which appeared to be some sort of list.

Napier uttered a soft curse, then lifted his eyes from the paper to Ruthveyn. “Devil take it,” he gritted. “You called upon
Holding's sister
?”

Ruthveyn simply shrugged.

“Why?” Napier demanded. “It's interference, and you bloody well know it.”

Ruthveyn said nothing. He was not perfectly sure why he had done it. He knew only that he had wanted to see the place in which Mademoiselle Gauthier had lived and worked; that he had hoped something within the house might somehow speak to him. He supposed it had.

Tossing the paper aside, Napier jerked to his feet. “Do not overestimate, Ruthveyn, the power of your influence in this case,” he growled, planting both hands to lean across the desk. “I know you have the Queen's ear—the tongue-lashing I got in the Welham case made that much rather plain—but do not dare to interfere with this investigation. Do you hear me? It has nothing to do with you, or with your
Fraternitas
or whatever you call your damned coven. And I bloody well will not have it. Now
get out
—before I decide to go digging around to find out precisely what it is you people are doing in St. James's and put a stop to it.”

Ruthveyn jerked to his feet. “You are a fool, Napier.” He, too, leaned over the desk, snatching up his hat. “I did not go to Belgrave Square to interfere with anything you are doing.”

“Then why?” he demanded again.

Ruthveyn turned away and set his hand to the doorknob. “Not that it is any of your business,” he said tightly, “but I went…to see.”

“Ah, yes! Mad Ruthveyn!” Napier's voice was laced with disdain. “Then tell me, what did you spae for us this time, eh? Wee folk? Goblins? The Ghost of Christmas Past?
Fraternitas,
my arse!”