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followed him back here.”
    â€œOh,” said Grace softly. “We were frightfully worried for him. But Papa soon fell ill, and I took him to Paris. I have been in London less than a year myself.”
    â€œWhy?” he asked. “If not to see Welham, why did you come?”
    â€œTo take employment.” She was growing weary of his high-handed questions and hard, glittering eyes. “Really, my lord, what did you imagine? That I followed him? That there was something between us?”
    It was his turn to look away. “You are a beautiful woman, Mademoiselle Gauthier,” said Ruthveyn. “And Lazonby was never able to resist…well, much of anything he desired.”
    â€œBut I have always been able to resist a rogue,” she said waspishly. “And that’s precisely what Rance is—a fine soldier and a good friend, yes—but a rogue all the same.”
    â€œI merely wished to be certain,” said Ruthveyn.
    â€œWhy?” she demanded.
    He looked at her and crooked one impossibly black eyebrow. “Let it go, Mademoiselle Gauthier.” Again, he waved a languid, graceful hand. “Querulousness becomes neither of us. Now, what sort of employment, ma’am? Did Gauthier not provide for you?”
    Grace drew herself up an inch. “That’s hardly your business, either,” she said testily. “But yes, my father did provide for me. I am not wealthy—barely comfortable, I daresay, by your standards—but nor do I believe in idleness. It pleases me to work, and I have been the last several months in the employ of Mr. Ethan Holding of Crane and Holding Shipbuilders.”
    Ruthveyn seemed to stiffen. “Crane and Holding,” he murmured. “The largest shipbuilder to the British Navy. They’ve yards in Liverpool and Rotherhithe.”
    â€œAnd Chatham,” Grace added. “Ethan—Mr. Holding—recently forced out a competitor.” She dropped her chin and stared at the floor. “I am—or was—governess to his stepdaughters, Eliza and Anne. Their mother died in a tragic accident last year.”
    A long silence held sway over the room, and through the row of open windows, Grace could hear the clatter of carriages and carts in distant St. James’s Street. In the lane below, someone was sweeping a doorstep, and farther along, a doorman was calling out to a passing hansom. And all the while, Ruthveyn was looking at her with his cold black gaze.
    â€œThe Morning Chronicle reported Holding’s death this morning,” he finally said. “It was suggested someone slit his throat.”
    And just like that, Grace felt the loss well up anew, choking off her breath. Suggested? There had been nothing so vague about it. Ethan’s death had been swift and horrid and real, and his throat most definitely slit.
    She fell forward a little, one arm wrapping round her abdomen. She felt suddenly clammy with nausea, the whole of that night rushing back to the forefront of her memory. Good God, had it only been little more than a day ago? She could still see Ethan there, gurgling upon the floor, his fingers clawing into the carpet as if he might drag himself away.
    She needed to go. This man—this peer of the realm—could not help her find Rance. He was gone. There was no help for her here. Worse, she had not missed the uniformed policemen posted at either end of the square this morning, nor the fact that one of them had followed her all the way down to St. James’s. And suddenly it occurred to her—how ever was she to explain her presence here? And she would have to. It would not take the police long to retrace her connection to the notorious murderer, Rance Welham. That thought was becoming acutely clear to her now.
    What a fool she was! Grace dug her fingers into the arms of her chair and attempted to rise, but even the ability to command her muscles had seemingly abandoned her.
    â€œMademoiselle