One Touch of Scandal Read Online Free Page B

Gauthier?” he said, reading aloud the vaguely familiar name. “How may the St. James Society be of service to you?”
    â€œIn no way whatsoever,” she said tartly. “And in any case, if this is the St. James Society, why does the pediment say F.A.C.?”
    Ruthveyn lifted both brows in his most arrogant gesture. “Some obscure Latin phrase, I believe, ma’am,” heanswered. “Might I ask what brings you? One of our rare book collections, perhaps?”
    â€œA rare book?” she echoed incredulously.
    He managed a tight smile. “I confess, you do not look quite the type for our card room or the smoking salon.”
    Agitation sketched over her lovely face. “I have come merely to see a friend,” she said. “An old and dear friend who—”
    â€œYes, I heard a name. Sergeant Welham.” Ruthveyn permitted himself to hold her gaze very directly, carefully assessing her eyes. “This friendship, however, is not so old and so dear as to make you aware that Sergeant Welham is now Lord Lazonby, I collect? But it little matters. He is not in Town at present.”
    The insult flew past her. “Not in Town?” The lady set a hand just beneath her throat, a telling gesture. “How can he be away? How long shall he be?”
    â€œSome weeks, I daresay,” said Ruthveyn. “He caught the train up to Westmorland two days ago.”
    This seemed to send the lady reeling, and it occurred to Ruthveyn that her bravado was more than a façade. It was desperation.
    Ruthveyn wondered what manner of trouble the young lady had got herself into—or what sort of trouble Rance Welham had got her into, damn him. There was a hollow, haunted look about her eyes, and the hand remained at her throat, frozen.
    And despite all this—the barely suppressed anxiety, the veiled fear in her eyes, and the fact that Belkadi was going back up the wide staircase, leaving them quite alone together—Ruthveyn could not read the lady at all. He could see only with his eyes, and see only that which any neutral party might observe.
    â€œ So he is gone…” the lady whispered. “ Mon Dieu! ”Then her head flopped back at an odd angle, the cloak fell, and her hand came out, flailing blindly for the reception counter.
    â€œBelkadi!” he shouted.
    But it was too late. The lady’s knees were buckling. Despite his grave reluctance, Ruthveyn was obliged to touch her, scooping her up in a froth of skirts and petticoats to prevent her collapsing onto the marble floor.
    â€œBelkadi!” he said again, cradling the woman almost gingerly.
    In an instant, Belkadi was at his elbow. “Fresh air,” he said. “Follow me.”
    Her gray silk skirts spilling over his arm, Ruthveyn carried her down the short flight of steps that turned and descended to the ground floor, then followed Belkadi along the corridor. Belkadi threw open the double doors that led to the club’s portico and rear garden.
    Ruthveyn settled the lady on one of the wicker chaises. “Fetch Lazonby’s whisky.”
    Belkadi vanished. Ruthveyn knelt to further examine the lady’s face, which was pale as milk beneath the swath of black netting that had half tumbled down again. She was not as young, he realized, as she’d first appeared. There were perhaps the faintest hints of lines about her eyes, as if she’d spent some time in the sun. But her cheekbones were high and strong, her forehead aristocratic and very English.
    He wondered again at her French name, and at the faint stirring of recognition he’d felt upon seeing her ivory calling card. Already, however, the lady was coming round and muttering something in French.
    Ruthveyn tore his gaze from her face, and stood. “I am going to prop up your feet, ma’am,” he said. “I beg your pardon in advance.”
    â€œ Wha…happened? ” she whispered.
    â€œI believe you