One Touch of Scandal by Liz Carlyle Page A

Desperate people did desperate things. “Has Mrs. Lester a governess?” he asked.
    â€œOh, 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.”
    â€œSo 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.”
    â€œIf it does not seem presumptuous, ma’am, would you give me Mademoiselle Gauthier’s direction?”
    â€œBut 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.”
    â€œHow 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.
    â€œThank 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.
    â€œLord 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 Ruthveynsolicit 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.
    â€œWhitehall Place, Brogden,” he rasped. “And make