by Liz Carlyle
He managed a tight smile. “I confess, you do not look quite the type for our card room or the smoking salon.”
Agitation sketched over her lovely face. “I have come merely to see a friend,” she said. “An old and dear friend who—”
“Yes, I heard a name. Sergeant Welham.” Ruthveyn permitted himself to hold her gaze very directly, carefully assessing her eyes. “This friendship, however, is not so old and so dear as to make you aware that Sergeant Welham is now Lord Lazonby, I collect? But it little matters. He is not in Town at present.”
The insult flew past her. “Not in Town?” The lady set a hand just beneath her throat, a telling gesture. “How can he be away? How long shall he be?”
“Some weeks, I daresay,” said Ruthveyn. “He caught the train up to Westmorland two days ago.”
This seemed to send the lady reeling, and it occurred to Ruthveyn that her bravado was more than a façade. It was desperation.
Ruthveyn wondered what manner of trouble the young lady had got herself into—or what sort of trouble Rance Welham had got her into, damn him. There was a hollow, haunted look about her eyes, and the hand remained at her throat, frozen.
And despite all this—the barely suppressed anxiety, the veiled fear in her eyes, and the fact that Belkadi was going back up the wide staircase, leaving them quite alone together—Ruthveyn could not read the lady at all. He could see only with his eyes, and see only that which any neutral party might observe.
“So he is gone…” the lady whispered. “Mon Dieu!” Then her head flopped back at an odd angle, the cloak fell, and her hand came out, flailing blindly for the reception counter.
“Belkadi!” he shouted.
But it was too late. The lady’s knees were buckling. Despite his grave reluctance, Ruthveyn was obliged to touch her, scooping her up in a froth of skirts and petticoats to prevent her collapsing onto the marble floor.
“Belkadi!” he said again, cradling the woman almost gingerly.
In an instant, Belkadi was at his elbow. “Fresh air,” he said. “Follow me.”
Her gray silk skirts spilling over his arm, Ruthveyn carried her down the short flight of steps that turned and descended to the ground floor, then followed Belkadi along the corridor. Belkadi threw open the double doors that led to the club’s portico and rear garden.
Ruthveyn settled the lady on one of the wicker chaises. “Fetch Lazonby’s whisky.”
Belkadi vanished. Ruthveyn knelt to further examine the lady’s face, which was pale as milk beneath the swath of black netting that had half tumbled down again. She was not as young, he realized, as she’d first appeared. There were perhaps the faintest hints of lines about her eyes, as if she’d spent some time in the sun. But her cheekbones were high and strong, her forehead aristocratic and very English.
He wondered again at her French name, and at the faint stirring of recognition he’d felt upon seeing her ivory calling card. Already, however, the lady was coming round and muttering something in French.
Ruthveyn tore his gaze from her face, and stood. “I am going to prop up your feet, ma’am,” he said. “I beg your pardon in advance.”
“Wha…happened?” she whispered.
“I believe you swooned,” he answered, seizing a pair of pillows from a nearby chair. “It was likely Belkadi. He occasionally has that effect on females.”
The lady merely blinked her blue eyes at him in stupefaction as he lifted her ankles—her very slender, well-turned ankles—then propped her feet upon the pillows. Suddenly her gray hems slithered away to reveal her foamy undergarments and rather too much of her fine ankles. Against his better judgment, he twitched them back into place again.
Elegant ankles, thought Ruthveyn. Gorgeous eyes. Beautiful, strong cheekbones.
And still, he felt was nothing.
Nothing, that was, save good, old-fashioned lust…
CHAPTER 2
It Must Be Magic
Spirits. Again.
Did men imagine them the solution to all the world’s ills? Grace wondered, choking down another swallow.
“Merci, I am feeling quite myself again,” she lied, pushing the glass away.
But the two dark-eyed men still knelt beside her, their gazes affixed on her face. Absent the rush of panic, Grace looked at the first, the more broad-shouldered of the two. He looked almost satanic in his severe, obviously expensive attire, with eyes that burned black as night. The second—the one who had admitted her—was younger; his face less harsh and strikingly handsome.
“Belkadi,” she muttered, recognition dawning. “A Kabyle name.”
“It can be.”
As if he found her words intrusive, the man’s face shuttered, and he rose to go.
The second man stood as well, but instead of leaving, drew a rattan footstool to the foot of her chaise, its legs rumbling over the flagstone terrace. Grace looked about, not at all sure where she was. The man settled himself on the stool, set his knees wide, then propped his elbows upon them.
“Now,” he said, his voice quiet but commanding, “tell me who you are and why you are here.”
Grace looked about, blinking against the sun. “Wh-Where is here, precisely?”
A look of frustration passed over his face.
“I mean, is this still Sergeant Welham’s club?” she clarified. “Indeed, I very much fear you had to carry me out here.”
“Quite so. On both counts.”
Grace felt her cheeks flush. “I did not know gentlemen’s clubs had gardens,” she said inanely. “And I never swoon. How mortifying.”
The man smiled faintly, but it did little to soften his face. “How long has it been, ma’am, since you slept?” he asked. “Or ate?”
“I had dinner.” She tried to think. “But that was yesterday, I suppose. And last night…non, I did not sleep.”
The faint smile turned inward, then melted. “I know the feeling.”
“I beg your pardon.” Grace extended a less-than-steady hand. “I am Grace Gauthier. Thank you for your help.”
After an instant’s hesitation, he took it but instead of shaking it, bowed his head and lifted it almost to his lips. “Ruthveyn,” he said, his voice low and a little raspy. “At your service.”
“Thank you,” she managed. “Tell me, do you know Sergeant Welham?”
“Very well,” said the dark man. “I believe I can safely claim to be his best friend in all the world.”
Grace lifted her eyebrows at that. “Can you indeed?”
“How long has it been, ma’am, since you last saw him?” the man asked. “My esteem of him not withstanding, Rance—Lord Lazonby—is not the sort of man gently bred ladies ordinarily claim to know.”
Grace lowered her gaze. “You mean because he was once in prison.”
“Amongst other reasons, yes.”
“I never believed him guilty,” she said hotly. “I never did. Nor did my father. Sergeant Welham was a gentleman through and through.”
“Ah!” said the dark man.
Grace looked up to see recognition dawning in his eyes.
“Your father was Commandant Henri Gauthier of the French Foreign Legion in Algiers,” said the man. “That is why you recognized Belkadi’s name.”
Grace wriggled up a little straighter on the chaise. “Yes, I lived there for many years. But you…you are not Algerian.”
“I am not.”
The man—Ruthveyn—seemed disinclined to say more, and Grace resisted the impulse to ask anything. Save for his thick raven hair, sun-bronzed skin, and a nose that was perhaps a tad too strong, he could perhaps have been an Englishman—or Satan in a pair of Bond Street boots.
But wherever his fine clothing had come from, he was no ordinary Englishman; she sensed it. There was an air of otherworldliness about him that defied description, and an almost chilling sense of dispassion, as if he observed but gave up nothing of himself. He did not radiate evil, precisely, but something far more complex.
Or perhaps she had fractu
red her skull on the marble foyer.
Really, how fanciful she had become. Her mission was far too pressing to allow for silly speculation. Besides, for all his claim to be Rance’s friend, Grace was not at ease with the man.
She pulled her gaze away and stared into the depths of the small, symmetrical garden beyond the elegant portico. “Sergeant Welham served under my father for many years,” she managed. “They were very close. Indeed, he once pledged Papa a debt of honor. I…I need to collect that debt. I need to see him quite urgently. But now you say…”
“That he is away,” the man finished.
He rose unexpectedly, unfolding himself from the footstool like some lithe black bird of prey. He was very tall, Grace realized as she sat up. Very tall, and very dark—and in a way that had nothing to do with his coloring. He wore an elaborate gold ring set with a cabochon ruby that must have cost a king’s ransom. It glinted in the afternoon sun as he extended a dark, long-fingered hand down to her.
“If you have quite recovered yourself, mademoiselle,” he said, “I believe the rest of our conversation might best be had in private. And you should perhaps eat a little something.”
Unable to contemplate food, Grace glanced about to see that at least thirty windows overlooked the garden from the back side of one tall building or another, most of them open to the cool September breeze. He was right. There was no privacy here.
Left with little alternative, she took his arm, which felt warm and thick with muscle beneath his black coat.
“Do you feel steady enough to walk, mademoiselle?” His voice was low and solicitous.
“Yes, quite,” said Grace. “And I am just a miss. Miss Gauthier. It will do.”
He gave an acknowledging tilt of his head, then Ruthveyn led her back inside, through the house, and up half a flight of stairs. Grace could see the front door at the first turn, and already she could hear the man called Belkadi barking orders to someone above them.
“Welham wouldn’t give you the time of day, even if he were here.” The steely tone carried down the stairwell. “Now kindly take yourself off before Ruthveyn or Bessett catch you, and give you a proper thrashing.”
Grace’s escort suddenly stiffened. Then, on a soft curse, he pulled away and hastened up the stairs. “Out!” he ordered, turning the next corner. “Out of this house, sir!
Grace turned across the landing to see Belkadi standing by the tall reception desk, and Ruthveyn stalking across the foyer area.
“You’ve been warned, Coldwater!” Ruthveyn stabbed his index finger in the face of a young man dressed in a dull-colored mackintosh clasping a tattered folio under one arm. “Leave now—or this time, I’ll hurl you headfirst into the street.”
“Namaste, Lord Ruthveyn,” said the young man, setting his hands prayerfully together and giving a mocking bow. “How do you do? I was hoping Welham might care to comment upon his ascension to the family earldom. Our readers do so love to follow the intricate twists and turns of his life.”
Lord Ruthveyn?
Lord Ruthveyn. Lord Lazonby. Grace’s head was beginning to spin from it all, and she felt rather as if she’d been dropped into some bizarre theatrical production. In the last two days, her predictable life had turned into a nightmare, and now she was beginning to fear tripping over yet another corpse as she fled the stage, for Ruthveyn had seized the young man and was frog-marching him toward the door, a look of unadulterated malice etched upon his face. The lad was doomed—and he had come here for the same reason as Grace.
“Mon Dieu, is everyone in London looking for Welham?”
Grace scarcely realized she’d muttered the words aloud until the young man twisted round to shoot her a look over his shoulder. “Jack Coldwater, ma’am, with the Morning Chronicle,” he said, his eyes aglitter. “Know Welham, do you? Care to comment? Answer a few questions?”
Ruthveyn jerked to a halt, then set his lips very near the young man’s ear. “You begin to try our collective patience, sir,” he said in a voice as still as death. “Go quietly, and let it be the end. For your sake.”
The young man appeared undaunted. “All I’m saying, Ruthveyn, is that it is quite a coincidence Welham gets released from prison, and but a few months later, his father is dead. Wanted to ask him about it, that’s all. Does he blame the Government? Or himself? Or you? The timing, you must admit, is poignant.”
Suddenly, Ruthveyn seemed to explode—but in a cold, controlled sort of way. In an instant, he had slammed Coldwater around, fisted his hand in his coat, shoved him against the door, and hefted him six inches off the floor. And still the top of his head did not reach Ruthveyn’s.
“Poignant?” Ruthveyn’s voice was dangerously soft. “I’ll give you poignant. I’ll throttle you here where you stand, you little shi—”
“B-But I’m n-not standing,” the young man gargled, toes dangling. “Have done, Ruthveyn! I’m just doing my job.”
“And your job is to hound an innocent man?” Ruthveyn returned. “To turn up every rock and stone in London to see what manner of filth slithers out, then print it?” He gave the man a sharp jerk. “Is that your job, Coldwater?”
“My job—” Here, the young man paused to swallow, “—is to ask hard questions.”
“Then expect hard answers,” snarled Ruthveyn. “Let’s start with the answering side of my fist.”
Grace must have made a sound. Ruthven cut a glance over his shoulder, then relented and let the man slither back down the door and onto his feet. Then he turned abruptly to seize Grace’s arm.
“Throw him down the steps, Belkadi,” snapped Ruthveyn, practically hauling her up the wide marble staircase. “And don’t ever let him in again.”
“Certainly.” Belkadi stepped briskly round the desk as if he’d been asked to dispense with a piece of baggage.
“Good heavens,” said Grace, hastening to keep up with Ruthveyn.
“I beg your pardon,” he said tightly. “I am not accustomed to a lady’s presence.”
“No, I meant—” Here, she cut a glance over the banister as Belkadi quite literally pitched Coldwater out—and rather effortlessly, for the fellow likely wouldn’t have weighed ten stone tarred and feathered and looked scarcely old enough to shave. Coldwater landed on his arse somewhere near the third step, his notebook flying, then staggered to his feet just as the door thumped shut behind him.
Ruthveyn jerked her to a halt on the next step. “I beg your pardon,” he said again, his eyes still flashing dangerously. “No lady should have witnessed that.”
Good heavens, thought Grace. One would not wish an enemy of this man. “I’m a daughter of the French army, sir, not some frail English flower,” she managed to answer. “I’ve seen men knifed to death in the bazaars of Algiers over a chess game gone wrong. I meant only that everyone on earth seems to be looking for Rance. And I wonder why.”
His dark gaze burned into her again. “It is complicated,” he gritted. “Why? What do you know of him?”
Grace lifted her chin. “Everything that matters.”
“Everything.” He echoed the word dubiously. “If you believe that, then you are naïve, Mademoiselle Gauthier.”
“There are some things worse than naïveté,” she returned, drawing up her courage. “Indeed, Lord Ruthveyn, perhaps we’ve had rather enough conversation. It does truly seem as if Rance is gone, so there can be little reason for me to remain.”
“Just come with me,” he said in a voice that brooked no opposition.
She would have to be a fool to go with him anywhere, this man of whom she knew nothing and who already frightened her. The words dark and dangerous seem to have been minted just for him. But, inexplicably, Grace found herself following him up the steps and down a short passageway. Perhaps because she had no better option. Or because he professed to be Rance’s friend. Scant hope indeed, but it was all she had.
A few steps farther on, Lord Ruthveyn pushed open a door. After a deep breath, Grace stepped inside and found herself in
what appeared to be a small library or study, the walls of which were packed carpet to crown with massive, gilt-titled books, many cracked with age. The room smelled pleasantly of old leather, beeswax, and men.
“The club’s private study,” said Ruthveyn, motioning toward a pair of sofas that faced one another before the hearth. “Pray take a seat while I send for refreshments.”
Grace did not bother to protest. “Are not all the rooms at a gentlemen’s club private?” she asked when he returned. “Mightn’t your members take exception to my being here?”
Lord Ruthveyn settled himself on one of the leather sofas, keeping the light of the window to his back—deliberately, she thought. He stretched a taut, well-muscled arm across the ridge of the sofa, then crossed one knee languidly over the other in a posture that with any other man might have looked effeminate but on him looked faintly intimidating.
Ruthveyn’s dark gaze again caught hers, and Grace felt suddenly as if he were trying to see straight to the depths of her soul. It was a chilling thought. And a fanciful one, too. What had she said to set him on guard so?
“What, precisely, do you know of this house, ma’am?” he finally asked.
Grace shrugged. “Nothing save the address, to be honest.”
“It is not, strictly speaking, a club,” he said. “It is a sort of society.”
“A society?”
“An organization of men who share similar…well, let us call them intellectual pursuits.”
“What sort of men?” she asked warily.
“People who have traveled the world, primarily,” he said, waving a languid hand. “Adventurers. Diplomats. And yes, mercenaries, like Rance Welham.”
“When my father’s end drew near, Rance wrote to us in France,” said Grace. “How he got a letter out of prison, I cannot say. But it was almost as if…well, as if he somehow sensed Papa was failing. And he suggested that should ever I need his help, I might call here. And that is all I know.”
“So you have not seen him?” Ruthveyn snapped out the question like a whip.
Grace drew back. “Not since he was captured in Algiers,” she said.
