pediment.
At least Ruthveyn thought she was studying themâbut it was difficult to say with any measure of certainty given the veil. Indeed, it was as if her whole inner beingâher purpose, her persona, her emotionsâwere similarly veiled, for she radiated no sense of her inner self whatsoever. Save for what Ruthveyn could see with his two eyesâa lithe, youngish woman with impeccable taste in clothing and hair the color of honeyâshe was a mystery. How very odd.
A shaft of frustration pierced him unexpectedly. Or was it fascination? Ruthveyn wanted to get up and go down the steps to lift the veil so that he might touch her face and look into her eyes.
What madness. On his next breath, he forced himself to relax into his chair. Forced his respiration to slow and hismind to focus on the ceaseless, fluid motion of the air in and out of his lungs.
He had had a bad night. He did not need a bad day to go with it.
The lady in black bobbinet was none of his concern. Perhaps she was merely wandering St. Jamesâs and had paused to admire the strange symbols. She might be a tourist. Indeed, that was likely the case, for though her black hat and dove gray walking dress were elegant, they were not à la mode in London. And Ruthveyn should know. Heâd bought a great deal of fashionable ladiesâ clothing of late.
The thought of Mrs. Timmonds served to push the veiled lady from his mind. Ruthveyn poured another cup of tea and snapped out the Chronicle again. Out of sheer perversity, he began to read the article about Saturnâs moon, though the celestial sky was more Anishaâs forte than his. But he was scarcely halfway down the column when something of a clamor arose downstairs in the entrance hall.
Ruthveyn could hear Belkadi speaking firmlyâand rather brusquely, too, which was odd. Belkadi rarely spoke harshly to anyone; like Ruthveyn, he did not need to.
Just then a womanâs voice echoed in the corridor, sharp and faintly angry. Ruthveyn cut another glance at von Althausen. The doctor lifted one shoulder and tilted his head in the direction of the clamor. Your turn, old chap, said his eyes.
Thus appointed, Ruthveyn sighed, pushed back his teacup, and rose. The nature of the Societyâs research did bring the occasional raving lunatic to their doors. No one liked it, but there it was. One had to deal with it.
He went out and down the wide marble staircase, which poured a story and a half down into the reception foyerlike a wide, white waterfall, and was immediately taken aback to see the lady in black and gray just inside the front door. Her black wool cloak lay over her arm, and she was tugging off her gloves with short, neat jerks, as if she meant to stay.
As with the lunatics, it was rare to see a woman within the clubâs portals but not unheard of. The Society maintained scientific reading rooms and vast libraries, which were occasionally made available for the publicâs use. But she hardly looked like a bluestocking.
Just then, the lady lifted back her veil to reveal a face as elegantly classical as her attireâand an expression as ashen as Claytorâs had been earlier this morning. Ruthveyn came smoothly down the stairs, his gaze steady upon that face with its wide blue eyes and full, rather tremulous mouth. And still, despite all the emotion she radiated, there was nothing. It was dashed disorienting.
Just then the argument escalated. The lady threw up a small hand, the palm thrust into Belkadiâs face. âI thank you, sir.â Her voice was sharp, with a faint French accent. âBut really, I shanât be put off. I must see Sergeant Welham with all haste.â
âIf madam will but listen,â said Belkadi haughtily, âI shall endeavor to again explainââ
âMay I be of some help, Belkadi?â Ruthveyn interjected.
The majordomo held out a card on a salver.
Ruthveyn glanced down. âMademoiselle