by Liz Carlyle
“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!”
His hat still clutched in his hand, Ruthveyn turned to look at him. In all his arrogance and contempt, Napier could not even grasp his own naïveté. Could not wonder for even one infinitesimal moment if there mightn’t be something greater than himself and all his power at work here.
“Napier,” he snapped, “you are the one who’s mad if you think man’s every sin and secret are yours to ferret out. There are some things that are beyond man’s ordinary comprehension. You have learned nothing if you have not learned that. And by God, I do not have time to educate a fool.”
The assistant commissioner circled from behind his wide desk. His face had gone a little white. He watched Ruthveyn with a new intensity, his eyes burning bright—not with fear, precisely, but with something akin to dread.
“All right then,” he said. “Answer the question, Ruthveyn. What did you see?”
Ah, perhaps not so contemptuous after all…
Ruthveyn forced his fingers to uncurl from his hat brim. “Death, Napier,” he answered. “I saw death.”
He turned back to the door and was shocked to feel Napier seize his sleeve. Swiftly, he jerked free and wheeled around.
“Damn it, Ruthveyn,” Napier growled, “you cannot just waltz in here with that sort of pronouncement! If you suspect something, by God, say so!”
Napier could not quite bring himself to say what he meant, thought Ruthveyn, his mouth twisting with the bitterness of it. “Unlike you, I don’t suspect a damned thing,” he replied. “And I know less than that.”
“Ruthveyn.” There was a warning in his tone. “Do not leave me in the dark. This is a serious business.”
“And you think I don’t know that?” Ruthveyn looked at him incredulously.
“Then help me,” Napier demanded. “You said that was your intent. Was it?”
Regret, followed by the all-too-familiar sense of impotence, burned through him, leaving Ruthveyn angry. What could he do? What could he say that might change anything?
But Napier was still glaring at him expectantly.
Ruthveyn refused, as always, to quite hold his gaze. “I saw blood,” he rasped. “Blood glistening like rubies cast upon snow. And don’t ask me what I mean by that, for I don’t know. Just watch the sister. She might have…Christ, Napier, I don’t know! Perhaps she has stumbled across something?”
At last Napier dropped his voice. “You mean she might be in danger?”
Ruthveyn jerked the door open roughly. “Oh, for pity’s sake, Napier!” he snapped. “We are all of us in danger. All of us. All of the time.”
And the beautiful Mademoiselle Gauthier, it now appeared, was in far more danger than most. For she was Napier’s prime suspect—whether he admitted it or not.
CHAPTER 5
The Accidental Homecoming
Grace Gauthier was squirming—and for any number of reasons. Foremost was the knot of dread forming in the pit of her stomach, but a near second was the fact that she was extraordinarily uncomfortable. The plain oak chair she sat down in had a back built at an angle that seemed designed to pitch her back out again, and the curve of the seat so misshapen, she felt as if she sat upon a wad of petticoat.
The righteous indignation that had sustained Grace on her march down from Marylebone had faded in the face of these ominous, official offices that smelled of damp soot and desperation. She wriggled again to no good effect and tried not to return the surreptitious glances of the two office clerks, one of whom had very nearly tipped off his tall stool when Grace entered. No doubt few females ever entered this bastion of masculinity—certainly few of her station, low on society’s ladder though she was.
She was just settling in at last when the door to Mr. Napier’s office flew wide, as if blown open by some minor explosion. Then the explosion strode out, attired in a pair of glossy black boots, a gray waistcoat, and a coat of formfitting charcoal superfine. Even Lord Ruthveyn’s expression resembled a thundercloud.
He paid Grace no notice whatever, thank God, but instead strode past her and out of the room, leaving her alone in the antechamber with a second man whom she vaguely recognized.
Royden Napier was looking down at her, his face choleric.
Somehow, Grace managed to rise and meet his gaze unflinchingly. “Good afternoon,” she said, presenting her gloved hand. “You may recall that I am Grace Gauthier?”
“I recall it,” he snapped. “What do you want?”
Grace tilted her head inquisitively. “How very odd!” she murmured. “That is precisely the question I meant to ask you.”
His expression shifted uncertainly. And then, as if thinking better of his first notion, he turned and held open his door. “Then do come in, ma’am.”
“Thank you.” Grace swept in, chin up and shoulders back, doing her best imitation of her late mother.
Napier was a handsome man, she realized, save for the perpetual scowl that furrowed his brow and turned what might otherwise have been an amiable mouth into something far less pleasant.
“I understand you called at my aunt’s house yesterday, Mr. Napier,” she said after refusing the chair he offered. “This business has left her quite distraught. I am afraid I must ask you to refrain from calling again.”
Napier’s expression darkened. “Your pardon, Miss Gauthier, but that is not your decision.”
Grace folded her hands lightly around her reticule. “I fear it is,” she returned. “If you return, I’m afraid I will not be at home to callers.”
“Under the circum—”
“On the other hand,” she interjected, jerking the chin a notch higher, “if you send word that you wish to see me, I will be here. In your office. Before the day is out.”
Napier’s entire frame had gone rigid. “You are very high-handed, madam.”
“Perhaps. But my aunt is very fragile.”
“Fragile!” Napier grunted. “Is that another word for haughty? I met the lady, you will recall.”
“Fragile is another word for delicate,” Grace said unwaveringly. “And she has every right to be so, whatever we might think. It is more her house than mine.”
“But you are living there,” said Napier.
Grace felt her face warm. “I fear my aunt suffers my presence somewhat reluctantly,” she answered. “Just now she feels I have brought the most unseemly attention imaginable upon our family. I certainly did not mean to. And I certainly do not blame you for trying to do your job. Indeed, I wish Ethan’s killer caught quite desperately, and I shall help you any way I can. But you mustn’t call at Lady Abigail’s house again.”
Napier said nothing but merely crooked one eyebrow impossibly high.
Grace drew a deep breath. “You will instead send for me. And I will come at once. I promise.” She extended her hand. “Have we a deal, Mr. Napier?”
He shook his head. “I do not make deals, Miss Gauthier.”
Grace dropped her hand. “I did not kill Mr. Holding,” she said quietly. “Indeed, I had every reason not to. He had offered me a home of my own and the chance at contentment; perhaps even happiness.”
“I am aware of that,” he growled.
Again, she tilted her head slightly. “You are aware of it, yes,” she murmured, “but can you have any idea what that means to a woman like me? A woman of modest means; one who has lived all her life in far-flung army outposts, with no real home of her own? I am twenty-six years old, Mr. Napier, and I want a family quite desperately. Ethan offered me that—to be my family. To try to love me, and to share his daughters with me. Perhaps even to give me children of my own. I would have done anything to preserve that. Can you possibly understand, I wonder?”
To her shock, Napier looked away. “I understand desperation, Miss Gauthier,” he said quietly. “I see it every day—in all its myriad forms. And I see what it drives people to do.”
“Then you must know I would never have hurt him,” Grace whispered.
But it was as if Napier no longer listened to her. His gaze was focused out the window, at a point far beyond the rain, which had ratcheted back up again, and now struck at the glass like hailstones.
“Mr. Napier, I respected Ethan Holding,” she said again. “Believe me when I say that I want you to find out who killed him.”
Napier spoke without looking at her. “I hope you mean that, Miss Gauthier. Because I will find out. You may depend upon it.”
“Then I thank you, sir, for your diligence.”
But inwardly, Grace sighed. There would be no promise extracted today. Perhaps, however, she had made her point. She turned and drew open the door, but Napier did not look back.
She left as she had come, going through the antechamber, past the gaping clerks, and down the wide flight of stairs. But as she turned the first landing, she was seized from behind, a strong hand catching her arm and spinning her half around.
“What in hell,” gritted the Marquess of Ruthveyn, “do you think you are doing?”
Grace widened her eyes and opened her mouth, but he did not wait.
“Come with me,” he said gruffly. He dragged her down to the next floor and into the dimly lit passageway.
“I didn’t think you’d seen me,” she admitted.
“Don’t be a fool,” he growled. “I did not need to see you.”
“Stop pulling. You are hurting my hand.”
He ignored her, and after counting off a number of doors, shouldered one open and dragged Grace inside. It was a storage room of sorts, lit by a bank of narrow, undraped windows and smelling of dust and old leather. It was crammed with cabinets and bookcases, the latter filled near to bursting.
“Lord Ruthveyn, kindly unhand me,” she protested.
He turned and set Grace’s spine to the door.
“What did I tell you?” he demanded, his face dark with rage. “What did I tell you, Grace? Did I not say you were to go home and remain there? That you were to do nothing—say nothing—until you had heard from me?”
Grace’s stomach bottomed out oddly. “But I wanted Napier to stop—”
“Grace, listen to me!” His grip on her arms was unrelenting. “I am trying to help you. Don’t interfere. Go home. This is a dangerous business.”
She grappled for words. “I—I don’t think you understand.”
“What?” he barked. “What is it you think I don’t understand? That a man has been murdered? Or that there is more evil yet to come? Because there will be, Grace. Napier isn’t even the worst of it. Trust me.”
“No, that I”—Grace swallowed hard and stiffened her spine—“that I no longer have a home to go to. Nor did I ask for your help.”
If anything, the frustration on his face deepened, then just as quickly shifted to something else. His eyes glittering, Ruthveyn
backed her up another inch. “Too late,” he returned. “You’ve got my help.”
Grace felt her pulse ratchet up. “Oh, I beg your pardon!” she managed to reply. “So you expected me merely to lie upon the sofa, weeping and waving my vinaigrette? Perhaps I might as easily demand to know what you are doing here?”
“Trying to keep you safe,” he rasped. “Trying to figure out what Napier suspects. Damn it, Grace. You just…you shouldn’t be here. For any number of reasons.”
“Lord Ruthveyn,” she answered, “did I give you leave to use my Christian name?”
A mocking smile lifted one corner of his mouth. “No,” he whispered, still gripping her arms. “You did not, Grace. Shall I stop?”
She should have said yes. She should have been angry. Dash it, she was angry. But he wasn’t just talking about the use of her name, and she knew it.
In the thick, stagnant air of the room, the temperature seemed suddenly too hot, and Lord Ruthveyn too close. Her eyes fell to his cravat and its elaborate gold pin, its design oddly familiar. She could smell the starched linen, the scent of expensive shaving soap rising with the heat of his anger, and beneath it all, a sweet, smoky fragrance—something exotic and forbidden that made her think longingly of the press and heat of the Kasbah; of the seductive wail of music carrying over the walls, and of the secrets hidden within.
His husky voice recalled her to the present. “Is that what you want, Grace?” he murmured, his voice stirring the hair at her temple. “For me to stop all this? Because I’m not sure that’s an option now.”
Was it what she wanted? Grace’s head was spinning just a little. He towered over her, a beautiful, untamed beast of a man, and something deep and treacherous began to twist in the pit of her belly.
But one did not tease a barely tethered tiger with impunity.
Grace tried to pull away. He softened his grip, but his gaze was still drifting over her face. “What madness,” he murmured as if to himself. “A fine, rare madness, aye—but insanity all the same.”
“Ruthveyn,” she whispered, “what are you talking about?”
