by Liz Carlyle
Claytor stood in the open door of his bedchamber, still clutching his hat, his expression colorless. “What else?” the secretary echoed. “I daresay that’s enough, isn’t it?”
“Then you are dismissed.” Ruthveyn tossed down the towel and uncoiled his lean frame from the chair. “Tell Anisha I shall hope to be home for dinner. I’ll look in on Teddy then.”
“Very well.” Claytor seemed to wring his hat brim. “B-But the bailiff came round yesterday afternoon, sir. And today is…well, today.”
The marquess stripped off his dressing gown. Naked to the waist, the fall of his trousers but half–done up, he stretched across the bed for the fresh shirt Fricke had just laid out. He knew what the man was getting at, and it would not do.
“Have you a point, Claytor?” he finally asked.
The secretary’s eyes widened. “I’ve done what I can, sir. I told Ballard to call the glazier, and little Teddy’s stitched up, but what ever am I to do, sir, about the other? About Lord Lucan?”
“Let him rot,” Ruthveyn suggested, dragging the shirt over his head.
“B-But in a sponging house?” sputtered Claytor.
“Every young man must learn to live within his income,” said the marquess, adjusting his collar and cuffs. “I merely prefer that my brother should do it sooner rather than later.”
“But sir, your sister was quite beside herself! Indeed, Lady Anisha was in tears! You cannot think what it was like, sir! You weren’t there.”
You weren’t there.
The phrase hung in the air but a moment, laced ever so lightly with accusation—but it was only a hint. Claytor knew better. Ruthveyn paid well—very, very well—and his black moods were notorious. And yes, he was almost always away from home nowadays.
“The boy got himself into debt, Claytor,” Ruthveyn answered. “He can bloody well get himself out again.”
But it would not, of course, be easy. Lord Lucan Forsythe received a quarterly allowance from the estate, with the next payment due at Michaelmas—which would be just long enough, Ruthveyn hoped, to learn a lesson. But not so long as to contract blood poisoning from bedbugs, keel over dead from dysentery, or worse, fall in with an even lower class of associates than those he’d already befriended since arriving in Town. Ruthveyn sensed none of this would happen, but even he could be wrong—and sponging houses were vile, iniquitous places.
A little ruthlessly, the marquess stabbed in his starched shirttails, then hitched up the rest of his buttons. Perhaps he should have watched Lucan more carefully, but Ruthveyn had believed what was to come inevitable. And as Claytor pointed out, for the last six months, Ruthveyn had made his home, more often than not, here in an upstairs suite at his private club, fetching down from Mayfair his valet and his secretary and whatever and whomever he wished—and whenever he wished it. Ruthveyn did not much care to be inconvenienced, even in exile.
Claytor conceded defeat. “For dinner, then, my lord,” he murmured, stiffly inclining his head. “I shall tell Lady Anisha to expect you.”
The secretary turned to go just as Fricke thrust out Ruthveyn’s cravat. Ruthveyn snatched it and relented. “Look here, Claytor,” he said over his shoulder. “I’m sorry, but I’ve a morning head and an ill temper. Still, no young man ever died of a fortnight spent in a sponging house. Indeed, I daresay it will do my brother a world of good.”
“But do you mean ever to get him out?” asked Claytor a little bitterly. “Or do you mean to grease his skids straight into debtors’ prison?”
At that, Ruthveyn whirled about. “Careful, old boy.” His voice was deathly quiet. “Do not mistake an explanation as a license to make free with your opinion.”
Claytor dropped his gaze. “I beg your pardon,” he replied. “But I can tell you, sir, what will happen. After another four or five days—after the bailiff has come round again with his demands, and a few more duns have piled up, Lady Anisha will go down to Houndsditch and start selling off her jewels. That, sir, is what will happen.”
The galling thing was, Claytor might be right. But that had to be Anisha’s choice.
“My sister will not be made a prisoner in my home,” said Ruthveyn quietly. “Her jewels—and her life—are now hers to do with as she pleases. I only hope and pray that she means to raise Tom and Teddy a little more strictly than our stepmother raised Lucan.”
“But, my lord, it cannot have been so very—”
“You cannot know what it was like, Claytor,” Ruthveyn cut in. “You weren’t there.”
But turn poor Claytor’s words against him as he might, the truth was, Ruthveyn hadn’t been there either. Not very often, at least. He had been in the early years of his diplomatic career, and, like his father before him, haring about Hindustan risking life and limb in service to Her Majesty’s government and its well-shod bootheel, the East India Company. Then, as now, he had avoided his family. He had avoided intimacy. And he was not fool enough to confuse intimacy with sex or even with love.
He did love them—even Lucan, cocky young fool that he was. He loved them more than life itself. But their coming out from Calcutta some six months past had taken the life he’d tried so desperately to hold together and rattled it at its very foundation.
But Anisha was now a widow with two little hellions to raise. As to their half brother…well, Lucan simply needed a father. Pity he did not have one.
“Which coat, sir?” Fricke enquired as the door closed behind Claytor. “I brought down the dark blue superfine and last year’s black.”
“The black,” said Ruthveyn, stripping off the half-tied cravat. “And I want a black stock to go with it.”
“Indeed,” murmured Fricke, carrying away the offending linen. “We’re in a black mood, I collect.”
“It was a black night,” said Ruthveyn.
There was no need to say more. The detritus of a difficult evening lay cast about the room: an empty decanter of cognac, a corkless apothecary’s vial, filthy ashtrays, and the sharp scent of spiced tobacco and charas still hanging in the air.
Fricke finished dressing him in silence, touching his master as little as possible. Ruthveyn’s odd quirks in this regard were made plain early on to anyone employed to serve him, and the marquess was beyond caring what was thought of it.
His toilet thus complete, Ruthveyn gave one last neatening tug on his cuffs, then went downstairs to order a freshly pressed copy of the Morning Chronicle and a pot of the particularly strong tea always kept on hand for him.
He found the club’s coffee room empty, save for Dr. von Althausen and Lord Bessett. The latter was leaned over one of von Althausen’s specimen boxes, studying it through the doctor’s gold monocle. Ruthveyn nodded at Bessett as he passed, and Bessett motioned him nearer.
“We had word from Lazonby last night,” he said quietly. “His father’s affairs have been put in order. He’s taking the child to his mother’s people. She will be safe there.”
“An excellent plan,” said Ruthveyn. “Good morning, Doctor. What have you there?”
“A rare African tumbu fly,” said von Althausen, now peering at it. “Have a look. The larvae, you see, burrow under one’s skin, and the resultant oozing boils are—”
“God spare me,” Ruthveyn interjected, wincing. “I haven’t had my breakfast.”
“If that does not pique your interest, old chap, he’ll repeating his experiments in galvanism this afternoon,” Bessett suggested. “The electromagnetic generator has been repaired.”
“Thank you, but I am not sticking my finger in that contraption,” said Ruthveyn. “I believe I shall leave the mysteries of my brain precisely that.”
“One must occasionally sacrifice in the name of science, Adrian,” von Althausen grumbled. “Especially you. After all, if the brain of the Electrophorus electricus can generate an electrical field outside its body, then just imagine what—”
“No,” the marquess firmly interjected. “I am not an eel. Thank you. Gentlemen, carry on.”
&nbs
p; Von Althausen waved him away distractedly, and the gentlemen returned to their examinations.
Ruthveyn took up his usual position—alone at a table in the centermost bow window—and sipped at his tea while absently perusing the paper. The tea was hot, the opulent clubroom comfortable, and the day ahead as rich with possibility as any wealthy, titled nabob might wish. Yet the night still chafed at him.
He was going to have to dispense with Mrs. Timmonds.
It was a shame, really, when his mistress was so very beautiful. But Ruthveyn was beginning to feel the stirrings of an attachment to her. Worse still, the lady had begun to ask too many pointed questions. She had not heeded his initial warnings, and warnings they had assuredly been. And now…well, he was simply too fond of her to give her the backhanded emotional slap he reserved for those who disobeyed him.
But he was angry—at her, a little, but most of all, at himself. How long had he imagined he could perform the intricate steps of this dance, which time and again had tripped him up? A mere six months, and he’d begun to feel the tug. That seductive wish to throw caution to the wind and look past the chasm he’d placed quite deliberately between them. Not because he’d fallen in love—of that, he was not capable—but because, as with Anisha and Luc and the boys, he wanted to take care of Angela Timmonds. To make her happy.
But he had never in his life made a woman happy. Not for long.
On impulse, he snatched up the little bell that sat in the center of the table. One of the footmen instantly materialized, his expression emotionless. “May I freshen your tea, my lord?”
“No. Fetch me Belkadi.”
The footman inclined his head. “He is with the vintner at present, sir, but I shall tell him.”
The decision made, Ruthveyn scanned the front page of his paper, reading but not really absorbing the words as he burned with impatience. God’s truth but he did not need another night like his last. He did not need to touch a woman and have himself torn apart in the aftermath. Or to coolly walk out on her as if she were no more than a discarded rag. To leave her sobbing alone in the darkness.
Even he was not so heartless as that. And yet it was precisely what he had done.
On that thought, Ruthveyn flung aside the newspaper, rigid with suppressed emotion, until at last Belkadi deigned to appear. The club’s majordomo gave a slight bow, his black suit immaculately pressed, his black hair drawn severely back in an old-fashioned queue.
“You wished to see me?”
Belkadi never said sir—not unless it was laced with sarcasm—so Ruthveyn did not expect it of the arrogant devil. “Sit down,” he said, gesturing at a chair. “Have a cup of Assam.”
“Von Althausen’s hybrid?” he replied in his faintly accented English. “Thank you, no. I should prefer to keep the lining of my intestines.” But Belkadi sat, all the same.
Ruthveyn pushed his paper a little away. “So tell me, old chap, have you ordered your vintner to cease sending us that red rubbish he calls claret?” he asked. “Or did you simply behead the poor bastard?”
“I think you did not call me here to discuss the cellars,” said Belkadi.
Ruthveyn smiled faintly but did not quite hold the man’s gaze. “I did not,” he agreed. “I wish to dispense with Mrs. Timmonds. Will you arrange it?”
Belkadi’s surprise was betrayed by the merest lift of one eyebrow. “Why do you wish this?”
“Why?” Ruthveyn echoed. “What business is it of yours? Perhaps I have grown tired of the lady. Perhaps my interests are otherwise engaged. Whatever my reasons, you brokered this arrangement. Now un-broker it.”
A dark look passed behind Belkadi’s eyes. He rose smoothly to his feet, and bowed. “But of course, sir.”
Ruthveyn watched the man turn to go, his spine rigid. “And Belkadi,” he said, “one last thing.”
The majordomo turned back.
“Offer her the use of the Marylebone house for her lifetime,” Ruthveyn added. “And an annuity of whatever amount you think fair. Tell Claytor to make it so.”
Again, Belkadi gave his stiff bow, his black gaze revealing nothing now. “I shall extend your generous offer,” he said, “but Mrs. Timmonds is not without pride.”
Or suitors, Ruthveyn silently added.
The lady would not long grieve his absence, he was sure. Indeed, in a week’s time, she’d be glad to be shut of him. He ruthlessly pushed the vision away and somehow forced his attention to the newspaper, radical rag though it was. A wise man knew his enemies. He read in silence for a time until, on page three, a name caught his eye, and his mouth twisted sourly.
He looked over his shoulder at von Althausen. “It would appear our favorite reporter has run out of salacious drivel to print and resorted to astronomy,” he said. “He claims Lassell has found another moon round Saturn.”
“Hmph!” said the good doctor. “I shall send William my congratulations on his discovery. But as to the whelp, I should have assigned him the obituaries.”
Ruthveyn gave a grunt of agreement, then turned back to his table and his window. It was at that instant he chanced to see her: a tall woman dressed in black and gray turning purposefully into St. James’s Place from the main thoroughfare.
Ruthveyn could not have said why she caught his eye; he so rarely looked at anyone. Perhaps it was the veil of black bobbinet, which covered all but the tip of her chin and lent her an air of mystery. Whatever it was, once he’d begun to observe her, he was loath to turn away. Her neat, quick steps carried her closer and closer until, at the point just opposite the half dozen steps that led to club’s entrance, she paused to look up as if studying the symbols etched into the pediment.
At least Ruthveyn thought she was studying them—but it was difficult to say with any measure of certainty given the veil. Indeed, it was as if her whole inner being—her purpose, her persona, her emotions—were similarly veiled, for she radiated no sense of her inner self whatsoever. Save for what Ruthveyn could see with his two eyes—a lithe, youngish woman with impeccable taste in clothing and hair the color of honey—she was a mystery. How very odd.
A shaft of frustration pierced him unexpectedly. Or was it fascination? Ruthveyn wanted to get up and go down the steps to lift the veil so that he might touch her face and look into her eyes.
What madness. On his next breath, he forced himself to relax into his chair. Forced his respiration to slow and his mind to focus on the ceaseless, fluid motion of the air in and out of his lungs.
He had had a bad night. He did not need a bad day to go with it.
The lady in black bobbinet was none of his concern. Perhaps she was merely wandering St. James’s and had paused to admire the strange symbols. She might be a tourist. Indeed, that was likely the case, for though her black hat and dove gray walking dress were elegant, they were not à la mode in London. And Ruthveyn should know. He’d bought a great deal of fashionable ladies’ clothing of late.
The thought of Mrs. Timmonds served to push the veiled lady from his mind. Ruthveyn poured another cup of tea and snapped out the Chronicle again. Out of sheer perversity, he began to read the article about Saturn’s moon, though the celestial sky was more Anisha’s forte than his. But he was scarcely halfway down the column when something of a clamor arose downstairs in the entrance hall.
Ruthveyn could hear Belkadi speaking firmly—and rather brusquely, too, which was odd. Belkadi rarely spoke harshly to anyone; like Ruthveyn, he did not need to.
Just then a woman’s voice echoed in the corridor, sharp and faintly angry. Ruthveyn cut another glance at von Althausen. The doctor lifted one shoulder and tilted his head in the direction of the clamor. Your turn, old chap, said his eyes.
Thus appointed, Ruthveyn sighed, pushed back his teacup, and rose. The nature of the Society’s research did bring the occasional raving lunatic to their doors. No one liked it, but there it was. One had to deal with it.
He went out and down the wide marble staircase, which poured a story and a half down into th
e reception foyer like a wide, white waterfall, and was immediately taken aback to see the lady in black and gray just inside the front door. Her black wool cloak lay over her arm, and she was tugging off her gloves with short, neat jerks, as if she meant to stay.
As with the lunatics, it was rare to see a woman within the club’s portals but not unheard of. The Society maintained scientific reading rooms and vast libraries, which were occasionally made available for the public’s use. But she hardly looked like a bluestocking.
Just then, the lady lifted back her veil to reveal a face as elegantly classical as her attire—and an expression as ashen as Claytor’s had been earlier this morning. Ruthveyn came smoothly down the stairs, his gaze steady upon that face with its wide blue eyes and full, rather tremulous mouth. And still, despite all the emotion she radiated, there was nothing. It was dashed disorienting.
Just then the argument escalated. The lady threw up a small hand, the palm thrust into Belkadi’s face. “I thank you, sir.” Her voice was sharp, with a faint French accent. “But really, I shan’t be put off. I must see Sergeant Welham with all haste.”
“If madam will but listen,” said Belkadi haughtily, “I shall endeavor to again explain—”
“May I be of some help, Belkadi?” Ruthveyn interjected.
The majordomo held out a card on a salver.
Ruthveyn glanced down. “Mademoiselle Gauthier?” he said, reading aloud the vaguely familiar name. “How may the St. James Society be of service to you?”
“In no way whatsoever,” she said tartly. “And in any case, if this is the St. James Society, why does the pediment say F.A.C.?”
Ruthveyn lifted both brows in his most arrogant gesture. “Some obscure Latin phrase, I believe, ma’am,” he answered. “Might I ask what brings you? One of our rare book collections, perhaps?”
“A rare book?” she echoed incredulously.
