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dangerously. “No lady should have witnessed that.”
    Good heavens, thought Grace. One would not wish an enemy of this man. “I’m a daughter of the Frencharmy, sir, not some frail English flower,” she managed to answer. “I’ve seen men knifed to death in the bazaars of Algiers over a chess game gone wrong. I meant only that everyone on earth seems to be looking for Rance. And I wonder why.”
    His dark gaze burned into her again. “It is complicated,” he gritted. “Why? What do you know of him?”
    Grace lifted her chin. “Everything that matters.”
    â€œ Everything. ” He echoed the word dubiously. “If you believe that, then you are naïve, Mademoiselle Gauthier.”
    â€œThere are some things worse than naïveté,” she returned, drawing up her courage. “Indeed, Lord Ruthveyn, perhaps we’ve had rather enough conversation. It does truly seem as if Rance is gone, so there can be little reason for me to remain.”
    â€œJust come with me,” he said in a voice that brooked no opposition.
    She would have to be a fool to go with him anywhere, this man of whom she knew nothing and who already frightened her. The words dark and dangerous seem to have been minted just for him. But, inexplicably, Grace found herself following him up the steps and down a short passageway. Perhaps because she had no better option. Or because he professed to be Rance’s friend. Scant hope indeed, but it was all she had.
    A few steps farther on, Lord Ruthveyn pushed open a door. After a deep breath, Grace stepped inside and found herself in what appeared to be a small library or study, the walls of which were packed carpet to crown with massive, gilt-titled books, many cracked with age. The room smelled pleasantly of old leather, beeswax, and men.
    â€œThe club’s private study,” said Ruthveyn, motioning toward a pair of sofas that faced one another before the hearth. “Pray take a seat while I send for refreshments.”
    Grace did not bother to protest. “Are not all the rooms at a gentlemen’s club private?” she asked when he returned. “Mightn’t your members take exception to my being here?”
    Lord Ruthveyn settled himself on one of the leather sofas, keeping the light of the window to his back—deliberately, she thought. He stretched a taut, well-muscled arm across the ridge of the sofa, then crossed one knee languidly over the other in a posture that with any other man might have looked effeminate but on him looked faintly intimidating.
    Ruthveyn’s dark gaze again caught hers, and Grace felt suddenly as if he were trying to see straight to the depths of her soul. It was a chilling thought. And a fanciful one, too. What had she said to set him on guard so?
    â€œWhat, precisely, do you know of this house, ma’am?” he finally asked.
    Grace shrugged. “Nothing save the address, to be honest.”
    â€œIt is not, strictly speaking, a club,” he said. “It is a sort of society.”
    â€œA society?”
    â€œAn organization of men who share similar…well, let us call them intellectual pursuits.”
    â€œWhat sort of men?” she asked warily.
    â€œPeople who have traveled the world, primarily,” he said, waving a languid hand. “Adventurers. Diplomats. And yes, mercenaries, like Rance Welham.”
    â€œWhen my father’s end drew near, Rance wrote to us in France,” said Grace. “How he got a letter out of prison, I cannot say. But it was almost as if…well, as if he somehow sensed Papa was failing. And he suggested that should ever I need his help, I might call here. And that is all I know.”
    â€œSo you have not seen him?” Ruthveyn snapped out the question like a whip.
    Grace drew back. “Not since he was captured in Algiers,” she said.
    â€œYes,” said Ruthveyn tightly. “I was with him in Algiers. I