One Touch of Scandal Read Online Free PDF

was Commandant Henri Gauthier of the French Foreign Legion in Algiers,” said the man. “That is why you recognized Belkadi’s name.”
    Grace wriggled up a little straighter on the chaise. “Yes, I lived there for many years. But you…you are not Algerian.”
    â€œI am not.”
    The man—Ruthveyn—seemed disinclined to say more, and Grace resisted the impulse to ask anything. Save for his thick raven hair, sun-bronzed skin, and a nose that was perhaps a tad too strong, he could perhaps have been an Englishman—or Satan in a pair of Bond Street boots.
    But wherever his fine clothing had come from, he was no ordinary Englishman; she sensed it. There was an air of otherworldliness about him that defied description, and an almost chilling sense of dispassion, as if he observedbut gave up nothing of himself. He did not radiate evil, precisely, but something far more complex.
    Or perhaps she had fractured her skull on the marble foyer.
    Really, how fanciful she had become. Her mission was far too pressing to allow for silly speculation. Besides, for all his claim to be Rance’s friend, Grace was not at ease with the man.
    She pulled her gaze away and stared into the depths of the small, symmetrical garden beyond the elegant portico. “Sergeant Welham served under my father for many years,” she managed. “They were very close. Indeed, he once pledged Papa a debt of honor. I…I need to collect that debt. I need to see him quite urgently. But now you say…”
    â€œThat he is away,” the man finished.
    He rose unexpectedly, unfolding himself from the footstool like some lithe black bird of prey. He was very tall, Grace realized as she sat up. Very tall, and very dark—and in a way that had nothing to do with his coloring. He wore an elaborate gold ring set with a cabochon ruby that must have cost a king’s ransom. It glinted in the afternoon sun as he extended a dark, long-fingered hand down to her.
    â€œIf you have quite recovered yourself, mademoiselle,” he said, “I believe the rest of our conversation might best be had in private. And you should perhaps eat a little something.”
    Unable to contemplate food, Grace glanced about to see that at least thirty windows overlooked the garden from the back side of one tall building or another, most of them open to the cool September breeze. He was right. There was no privacy here.
    Left with little alternative, she took his arm, which felt warm and thick with muscle beneath his black coat.
    â€œDo you feel steady enough to walk, mademoiselle?” His voice was low and solicitous.
    â€œYes, quite,” said Grace. “And I am just a miss. Miss Gauthier. It will do.”
    He gave an acknowledging tilt of his head, then Ruthveyn led her back inside, through the house, and up half a flight of stairs. Grace could see the front door at the first turn, and already she could hear the man called Belkadi barking orders to someone above them.
    â€œWelham wouldn’t give you the time of day, even if he were here.” The steely tone carried down the stairwell. “Now kindly take yourself off before Ruthveyn or Bessett catch you, and give you a proper thrashing.”
    Grace’s escort suddenly stiffened. Then, on a soft curse, he pulled away and hastened up the stairs. “Out!” he ordered, turning the next corner. “Out of this house, sir!
    Grace turned across the landing to see Belkadi standing by the tall reception desk, and Ruthveyn stalking across the foyer area.
    â€œYou’ve been warned, Coldwater!” Ruthveyn stabbed his index finger in the face of a young man dressed in a dull-colored mackintosh clasping a tattered folio under one arm. “Leave now—or this time, I’ll hurl you headfirst into the street.”
    â€œ Namaste, Lord Ruthveyn,” said the young man, setting his hands prayerfully together and giving a mocking bow. “How do