by Liz Carlyle
Ruthveyn rather doubted a man became the financial success Ethan Holding had been by being beloved by all, but he refrained from saying so. “You have excellent servants, then?” he asked. “You trust them?”
“They are like family to me,” said Miss Crane.
“I am pleased to hear it,” Ruthveyn remarked.
“I can’t think why,” said Miss Crane with a wan smile, “when we just met.”
“One of your staff has been referred to me as a possible employee,” he explained. “A Miss Grace Gauthier who, I believe, was in your family’s employ until quite recently?”
“Grace?” Miss Crane’s voice softened, her eyebrows drawing into a fretful knot. “Oh, dear. I never thought…”
“That she might be leaving you?” he supplied. “I have two nephews, you see—hellions, the both of them—and I need someone quite competent.”
Miss Crane hesitated, the air thrumming with uncertainty. “Well, she is excellent,” the lady finally said. “The girls adore her. And Ethan respected her greatly.”
“One of my servants had heard that the children might be removing to the country?”
“Yes,” said Miss Crane. “Their late mother’s sister, Mrs. Lester, wants them quite desperately, for she has only boys. Indeed, we are all staying there at present.”
Ruthveyn did not like her use of the word desperate. Desperate people did desperate things. “Has Mrs. Lester a governess?” he asked.
“Oh, the very best,” said Miss Crane. “A girl from Berne. I am told Swiss governesses are all the rage, if a little dear. But Mr. Lester always insists his wife have everything she desires.”
Ruthveyn managed a rueful smile. “I should settle for a merely competent governess.” He paused to scrub a hand pensively around his chin. “But one really does hate to use an agency. One can never be quite sure…”
Miss Crane took the bait. “Oh, quite so,” she agreed. “One cannot know what one might end up with.”
“So there is no question of Mademoiselle Gauthier’s returning to your family’s service?” Ruthveyn pressed.
Miss Crane looked sad. “I think it unlikely,” she replied. “Though I shall miss them all dreadfully, Grace included.”
“If it does not seem presumptuous, ma’am, would you give me Mademoiselle Gauthier’s direction?”
“But of course.” Miss Crane went at once to a small mahogany bureau and dropped the front. “Grace is staying with her aunt in Marylebone,” she continued, extracting a sheet of letter paper and scratching something on it. “I shall just give you a note of introduction.”
“How thoughtful,” he said.
In a trice the note was written, fanned in the air, and folded. Deftly, Ruthveyn took it from Miss Crane’s fingers with his left hand, careful not to touch her.
“Thank you,” he said.
Then, recalling his true objective, he drew a deep breath and offered his right hand.
As was entirely natural, Miss Crane laid her fingers in his. Ruthveyn forced himself to hold them and to gaze into her eyes; wide, blue and unblinking behind the veil that hid nothing now. Despite the thin glove that separated them, he felt an abrupt jolt of consciousness, as if he had just been jerked from a deep and languorous sleep, to a white cold reality. It was the sudden, sickening sensation of having looked too long at something horrific. The edges of his vision darkened, then became painfully bright again, warning of what was to come.
As a young man making his way through the northern reaches of Hindustan, he had once glanced across a narrow mountain pass just as a snow leopard pounced to tear a rabbit to bits, spattering brilliant ruby drops across the snow, chilling in its beauty. The horror came to him again now. Not just the spattered blood against the blinding white but a tangled fan of dark red. Shredded black bombazine. A feminine hand splayed bloodless and limp.
Good God.
Ruthveyn dragged in a deep breath and resisted the urge to shut his eyes to the horror, for he knew it would do no good. He did not see with his eyes.
“Lord Ruthveyn?” Miss Crane’s voice came from a distance. “Are you perfectly all right?”
Somehow, he found the presence of mind to bow elegantly over her hand. “Yes, and you have been too kind, ma’am,” he forced himself to say. “I have intruded upon your grief too long.”
He took his leave from the lady in haste, pausing only to introduce himself to Josiah Crane, who appeared to be a reserved, withdrawn sort of man. Crane muttered his thanks, but did not offer his hand, nor did Ruthveyn solicit it. He instead hastened down the front stairs and back to his waiting carriage almost numbly, the ruse of Miss Crane’s note crumpled tightly in his fist.
Had the vision been real? Or merely symbolic? Good God, he was dashed glad she’d kept her gloves on.
Still, a part of him wanted to go back. To warn her.
But warn her of what? And to what end? From past experience, Ruthveyn knew the hopelessness of it. His own failings followed him through life, weighing him down even as he lifted his hand and ordered his driver to roll on.
“Whitehall Place, Brogden,” he rasped. “And make haste.”
The route was both short and familiar, for this was hardly Ruthveyn’s first visit to the administrative offices of the Metropolitan Police. The fog had nearly lifted, but the oppressive damp had not. As his carriage rumbled slowly through Westminster, impeded by the press of traffic, Ruthveyn watched the world beyond his window; the world that went about its everyday business in blithe ignorance of all but the present.
Perhaps he would be wise to learn to emulate that greater world—or perhaps simply retire to some cliffside cottage in Cornwall and avoid it entirely. Or go home to his mother’s people and disappear into the mountains to study the ancient philosophies—and in that way, his sister Anisha often suggested, perhaps learn some method of controlling the Gift.
Indeed, he sometimes found himself wondering whether the Fraternitas—or the St. James Society, if one preferred its public face—served any real purpose at all with all their research and reading and dabbling in world affairs. Guardians, indeed! More and more, it seemed to Ruthveyn that only the troubles of the here and now were truly within anyone’s control.
He thought again of Grace Gauthier, and strangely, of Anisha, both of whom seemed outwardly so strong. Yet each possessed an air of frailty Ruthveyn was not sure everyone could see. Only Grace, however, had accepted his offer of assistance, albeit reluctantly.
But at least her needs—her immediate needs—were clear-cut. Something a man could understand, and perhaps even make right. Anisha’s were far less definable. Worse, the pallor of widowhood still clung to his sister, damping down what had once been her youthful vivacity. It saddened him—and his inability to help her was frustrating.
The carriage lurched suddenly into Whitehall, Brogden wedging them a little tactlessly between a dray laden with lumber and an ancient hansom cab. The dray’s driver shook his fist, cursing Ruthveyn’s coachman to the devil. And as if his temper had willed it, the low, gray skies that hung over London began to spill rain the size of robin’s eggs, sending civil servants and cabinet ministers alike hastening from the pavements into archways and alleys. Then the spill turned to a roar, hammering down upon his brougham like a score of mad cobblers.
At the Admiralty, Ruthveyn pounded the roof hard enough to be heard beyond the torrent. His driver drew up before the Pay Office, and Ruthveyn yanked an umbrella from beneath his seat. This business in Scotland Yard would be quickly settled, he vowed, and he had no wish to then find himself stuck in a side street with every man Jack and farm cart vying for space in the thoroughfares.
With London’s air fleetingly relieved of its sharp, sulfurous tang, Ruthveyn set a brisk pace along the pavement. At Number Four, he shoved his umbrella into the weathered oak rack by the door, then presented his card to the duty officer, who snapped to attention. Ruthveyn’s name—perhaps even his reputation—was doubtless well-known to him. He was shown up t
he stairs and offered the last empty seat in the antechamber of the assistant commissioner’s office, where a pair of thin clerks in black frock coats perched like crows on fence posts at their tall desks, eyes glued to some mundane government task.
Impatiently, Ruthveyn sat. He could have demanded immediate attention, he considered. Indeed, he could probably have yanked open the heavy oaken door and ordered whoever was inside simply to leave. But his lordly disdain would be of little use to Mademoiselle Gauthier. While his influence, on the other hand, might be—though why he was troubling himself so thoroughly on her behalf was still unclear.
Perhaps because it seemed easier.
Easier than facing his own problems. Or Anisha’s. Or even Luc’s.
Good God.
Was it that simple? Was the beautiful Mademoiselle Gauthier nothing more than a distraction? With that question nagging at him, Ruthveyn settled into the stiff wooden chair, which sat squarely against the wall to the left of Napier’s door. It was not the seat he would have chosen, for it was miserably designed, and Napier was not a man one wisely turned one’s back on.
Ruthveyn settled in to observe the steady stream of officers, civil servants, and general human misery that tromped up and down the staircase and along the passageway. Few came to Scotland Yard of their own volition. After a time, his gaze fell upon his fellow supplicants: a ragged messenger boy with a hole in the toe of one boot who clutched an envelope as wide as his chest, and a pair of funereal-faced, blue-coated sergeants who looked as if they expected Napier to give them a proper hiding with his riding crop.
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 Ho
lding 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.”
