One Touch of Scandal by Liz Carlyle Page B

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’sname—perhaps even his reputation—was doubtless well-known to him. He was shown up the 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