One Touch of Scandal by Liz Carlyle Page B

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    He paid Grace no notice whatever, thank God, but instead strode past her and out of the room, leaving her alone in the antechamber with a second man whom she vaguely recognized.
    Royden Napier was looking down at her, his face choleric.
    Somehow, Grace managed to rise and meet his gaze unflinchingly. “Good afternoon,” she said, presenting her gloved hand. “You may recall that I am Grace Gauthier?”
    â€œI recall it,” he snapped. “What do you want?”
    Grace tilted her head inquisitively. “How very odd!” she murmured. “That is precisely the question I meant to ask you.”
    His expression shifted uncertainly. And then, as if thinking better of his first notion, he turned and held open his door. “Then do come in, ma’am.”
    â€œThank you.” Grace swept in, chin up and shoulders back, doing her best imitation of her late mother.
    Napier was a handsome man, she realized, save for the perpetual scowl that furrowed his brow and turned what might otherwise have been an amiable mouth into something far less pleasant.
    â€œI understand you called at my aunt’s house yesterday,Mr. Napier,” she said after refusing the chair he offered. “This business has left her quite distraught. I am afraid I must ask you to refrain from calling again.”
    Napier’s expression darkened. “Your pardon, Miss Gauthier, but that is not your decision.”
    Grace folded her hands lightly around her reticule. “I fear it is,” she returned. “If you return, I’m afraid I will not be at home to callers.”
    â€œUnder the circum—”
    â€œOn the other hand,” she interjected, jerking the chin a notch higher, “if you send word that you wish to see me, I will be here. In your office. Before the day is out.”
    Napier’s entire frame had gone rigid. “You are very high-handed, madam.”
    â€œPerhaps. But my aunt is very fragile.”
    â€œFragile!” Napier grunted. “Is that another word for haughty? I met the lady, you will recall.”
    â€œ Fragile is another word for delicate,” Grace said unwaveringly. “And she has every right to be so, whatever we might think. It is more her house than mine.”
    â€œBut you are living there,” said Napier.
    Grace felt her face warm. “I fear my aunt suffers my presence somewhat reluctantly,” she answered. “Just now she feels I have brought the most unseemly attention imaginable upon our family. I certainly did not mean to. And I certainly do not blame you for trying to do your job. Indeed, I wish Ethan’s killer caught quite desperately, and I shall help you any way I can. But you mustn’t call at Lady Abigail’s house again.”
    Napier said nothing but merely crooked one eyebrow impossibly high.
    Grace drew a deep breath. “You will instead send for me. And I will come at once. I promise.” She extended her hand. “Have we a deal, Mr. Napier?”
    He shook his head. “I do not make deals, Miss Gauthier.”
    Grace dropped her hand. “I did not kill Mr. Holding,” she said quietly. “Indeed, I had every reason not to. He had offered me a home of my own and the chance at contentment; perhaps even happiness.”
    â€œI am aware of that,” he growled.
    Again, she tilted her head slightly. “You are aware of it, yes,” she murmured, “but can you have any idea what that means to a woman like me? A woman of modest means; one who has lived all her life in far-flung army outposts, with no real home of her own? I am twenty-six years old, Mr. Napier, and I want a family quite desperately. Ethan offered me that—to be my family. To try to love me, and to share his daughters with me. Perhaps even to give me children of my own. I would have done anything to preserve that. Can you possibly understand, I wonder?”
    To her shock, Napier looked away.