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Gauthier?” Lord Ruthveyn’s voice came as if from a distance.
    â€œMademoiselle?” The voice was sharper this time.
    â€œ Oui? ” Grace managed to release her death grip on the chair. “Yes, I beg your pardon.”
    â€œWhat is your involvement in Mr. Holding’s death?”
    Somehow she forced her gaze to his. “My…involvement?”
    â€œIs Holding’s murder the reason for your visit here today?” His eyes flashed like black diamonds. “Were you there? Have you been questioned? Are you a suspect?”
    â€œYes,” she cried, finally jerking from her seat. “And yes, and yes, and yes to all your vile questions! I very much fear I am a suspect. I do not know. No one will tell me. I have been shut out of the house. Forbidden the children. A policeman is following me, for God’s sake. So yes, my lord. I think we can safely say I’m up to my neck in it.”
    Panic surging, Grace lifted her skirts and rushed for the door. But Ruthveyn was so fast, she never saw him move. Grace slammed against him, chest to chest, and felt something inside her give way. He caught her shoulders surely in his elegant hands, and Grace sagged intohim, all her strength and will dissolving on a single, choking sob.
    Then Ruthveyn did the strangest thing. He enveloped her in his arms, gingerly at first, as if he’d never held another human being. As if she were blown from spun glass and might shatter at the merest touch. For an instant, he held her thus, then suddenly his arms went fully around her, warm and incredibly solid, holding her with all his strength.
    â€œMy dear girl,” he murmured, his breath warm against her temple. “All cannot quite be lost.”
    Such tenderness—and from a man who looked anything but tender—was almost too much for Grace. She bit back another sob, knowing that the deluge was but barely subdued. “Oh, sir, you cannot know what I have lost,” she managed. “But you…you are kind. And I thank you for that.”
    â€œ Kind ,” the marquess echoed, as if the word had never before been applied to him.
    Somehow, Grace set the heels of her hands to his shoulders and pushed herself away. He let her go, his face still unreadable. But the loss of his warmth was almost painful, like the stripping away of something as emotional as it was physical.
    The timing, however, was fortuitous, for just then the door flew open, and a manservant appeared, rolling in a mahogany cart that held a tea service and three small platters. She turned to face the window, blinking back tears as the tea was set out.
    â€œYou must stay, Mademoiselle Gauthier,” Ruthveyn ordered amidst the clacking of porcelain and silver. “I insist you eat, and tell me what, precisely, you wanted of Sergeant Welham—or Lord Lazonby, I should say.”
    Five minutes later, Grace found herself urged backinto her seat, her bloodless hands warmed by a cup of tea strong enough to peel paint. She lifted it, sipping almost gratefully, as Lord Ruthveyn filled her plate with bits of food she would never eat. It was a ridiculously early hour for tea, but he did not look like a man who much cared about convention.
    The china, Grace noticed dispassionately, was of the thinnest porcelain imaginable, while the tea service was of heavy chased silver that bore the same odd crest she’d seen etched into the house’s pediment. Indeed, the house and its every appointment spoke of quiet, well-heeled masculinity. Whatever the St. James Society was, its members apparently wanted for nothing. Grace found it hard to reconcile such opulence with the gruff, hard-bitten soldier she’d known as Rance Welham.
    Lord Ruthveyn flicked an appraising gaze up at her, severing Grace’s musings.
    â€œWe have got off to a rather curious start, have we not, mademoiselle ?” he murmured as he pushed a lemon biscuit onto her plate with a pair of elaborate