Читать книгу The Missing Heir - Gail Ranstrom - Страница 10

A dam Hawthorne turned his face upward and breathed deeply of the warm spring rain before entering the imposing graystone building at precisely ten o’clock. He turned the collar of his fringed buckskin jacket down and shook the raindrops from his hair. Such niceties as hats and greatcoats had been sadly absent in the northwest wilderness and, after four years, deuced difficult to even remember.

Barely one day back in England and he was already feeling out of place. He supposed the buckskins didn’t help. How long would it take him to think and feel like an Englishman again? A week? A month? Ever? Ah, well, at least he’d remembered to do his duty first and leave personal concerns for later.

He strode up the stairs to the second floor, down the hall to a door at the end, and announced himself to a slender young man wearing wire spectacles. “Adam Hawthorne to see Lord Barrington.”

The young man’s gaze swept Adam from head to toe and curiosity registered behind the pale blue eyes. That glance brought home to Adam just how starkly foreign he must look in a London Ministry building. He supposed he should elevate finding a tailor and a barber to the next item on his list of things to do. But that would depend on what he found out here.

“His lordship is expecting you, sir. Please go in.”

Adam rapped sharply on the frosted-glass pane of the door before opening it and stepping through. Lord Ronald Barrington glanced up from a stack of papers.

“Hawthorne! By God, ’tis good to see you.” He gestured at a leather-upholstered chair in front of his desk. “Sit down, man. When I got your message earlier, I was dumbfounded. You were reported dead four years ago.”

“So I’ve heard, my lord.”

“Why are you here, Hawthorne? You’re a diplomatic attaché, so I am not in your line of command.”

“Yes, sir, but I was attached to the military at Fort Garry. I reported to Lord Craddock the minute I got off the ship and, once he’d taken my statement, he suggested I see you as a courtesy. He thought some of the intelligence I gathered might be of interest to you.”

“Indeed?” Barrington looked intrigued as he called the clerk into his private sanctum and instructed him to take notes. “Well, give over, man. I’m always interested in what’s happening in the northwestern reaches.”

It was well into the afternoon before Lord Barrington sat back in his chair and nodded, dismissing the clerk with a wave of his hand. “Thank you, Hawthorne. Your information should prove useful. Despite the Treaty of Ghent five years ago, I do not delude myself that the French influence in Canada is over.”

Adam nodded. Now that business was out of the way, he could pursue his personal agenda—the one that had driven him for the past four years, and the real reason Lord Craddock had referred him to Barrington. “I need a piece of information from you, Lord Barrington.”

“Ask. I’m much in your debt and I’ll be pleased to answer anything.”

“I’d like the name of the military attaché at Fort Garry four years ago.” Indeed, he wanted that name more than he wanted breath and life. Finding the name of the bastard who’d given the order to decimate the Chippewa tribe he’d been lodged with was the only thing that had kept him alive through long, frigid winters huddled in wigwams, through deprivation and starvation and homelessness.

“Any particular reason you want that information, Hawthorne?”

Adam affected nonchalance. He softened his expression and offered a smile. “Just curious who reported me dead, sir.”

“I believe it was a party from the local fort. They rode out on patrol and came back with the news that everyone, to the last woman and child, had been murdered in warfare by a rival tribe.”

Idiots! Bloody damned idiots! Had they even investigated the attack? Likely not. It had only been made to look like tribal warfare. Was Barrington covering the truth, or was he foolish enough to believe that neighboring tribes simply attacked each other without reason or provocation? He couldn’t be that naive. But with Barrington’s help or not, someone would eventually talk—even if it was at the point of Adam’s knife.

His long years in the Diplomatic Corps came to his aid. Slipping into his English skin, he buried his anger and gave Barrington a bland smile. “I’d like to tell him in person that there were a few survivors. I’d think that would ease his mind.”

“Yes, but how did you survive? The word we received said that not a single living thing was left. Given the savagery of the attack, it was believed no prisoners were taken.”

Adam nodded. “None were, my lord. I’d gone out with a small hunting party the day before the attack. There were eight of us, and when we returned to the village and found…well, believing the English were responsible, and rather than kill me, my hosts took me hostage and we rode south to…to a place the Indians call Chick’a gami. You’ve heard the rest, sir.”

“Aye. Well, I’ll have to search through the records for his name. It may take some time. Will you be in town?”

Tension drained from Adam’s shoulders. He stood and smiled. “Yes, sir. I still have some business here. Lord Craddock said he would have me reinstated and secure my back pay. I’ll need it to repair and stock my cottage and lands in Devon. Since I was reported dead, I imagine the stock was sold off, but I pray the cottage is still in the family.”

“Family,” Barrington repeated. He looked thoughtful.

“Well, only Uncle Basil and I remain, unless that young wife of his has given him heirs.”

“You’ve not gone there?”

Adam recalled the expansive home on Bloomsbury Square and smiled. “I wanted my business finished so that I could relax and enjoy the reunion. I’ve never met my new aunt, you know. Uncle Basil said he met her while selling a parcel of land to her brother. She was in the country when I was last in London on my way to Ghent, but I saw the portrait of her in Uncle Basil’s study.”

And what a portrait it had been! It had kept his blood humming for weeks afterward, and many long winter nights since. Dark, sultry eyes gazed out of a face of sheer perfection. Her expression had been self-possessed and confident, and Adam found himself envious of his aging uncle for the first time. He’d suspected the wife was a fortune hunter, since a woman like that could have married someone considerably higher in station. And considerably younger. He wondered if there’d still be fire in those dark eyes.

Barrington heaved a deep sigh and wouldn’t meet Adam’s gaze. “Damn it all, Hawthorne. Craddock should have told you. I’m afraid I’ve got bad news. Your uncle expired immediately after we’d had word of your death. Everyone said it was the grief, but it went beyond that.”

Adam sat again, trying to comprehend this last in a chain of bitter disappointments. “How….”

“He hadn’t been well. He did his best to hide it from you on your last visit. Didn’t want to worry you, he said. When we got the news of your death, the spirit went out of him. I helped his widow make the final arrangements and put his business in order. The last thing he did was change his will to leave everything to her.”

Adam nodded, registering the logic in that. He had already discovered through his earlier visit to his bank that his uncle had closed his bank accounts and taken his assets, but he had been confident they would be returned to him. Ah, but now everything was in the possession of his widow, and it was anyone’s guess what she would do. “Well, there appears to be some matters we will have to sort out. Did she and my uncle have heirs?”

“No,” Barrington admitted.

“Has she remarried?”

“She seems quite content to be a widow.”

A niggling suspicion grew from his hunch that she’d been a fortune hunter. Had she sped her husband’s demise once the competition for his money was gone? No. Barrington just said his uncle had been ill even before his last visit.

“She lives quietly,” Barrington continued. “Her reputation is of the highest order. Not a breath of scandal.”

“Discreet, then,” he concluded.

“There is nothing to be discreet about. She’s blameless.”

Adam glanced up at Lord Barrington. His reaction to the implied criticism was telling. All the signs were there. Damned if Barrington wasn’t in love with his widowed aunt! He cleared his throat and stood. “Good to know,” he said, heading for the door. “You’ll let me know when you find the name of the military advisor at Fort Garry?”

“Where shall I send word?”

He smiled, an idea taking root. There was only one way to get to the bottom of his uncle’s death. “I’ll let you know when I’m settled, sir.”

The sound of a bell downstairs announced a visitor. A quick glance at the little enameled clock on her bedside table urged Grace to haste. Ronald Barrington must have come early. He was not supposed to pick her up for another hour. Mrs. Dewberry, her housekeeper, would put him in the library with a glass of port, but she did not like to leave him alone so long. He had a propensity to snoop through her private correspondence.

Glaring in her mirror, she fussed with a few stubborn strands of hair. She always wore the dark mass smoothed back and contained in a tidy chignon due to its unruly tendencies and she never felt completely groomed until it was perfect.

“Really, Aunt Grace, I think you should snip half of it off and leave the rest in curls.” Dianthe shook her own blond ringlets and laughed. “I’ve never seen hair so long you could sit on before. And I think you’d look younger with it down.”

Yes, that was half the problem. Grace did not want to look younger. Though less than ten years older than Dianthe, she had learned to act twenty years her senior. She smiled. “If I cut it, I’ll never gain control of it again.”

Grace met Dianthe’s gaze in the mirror. She was lying across the bed and resting her chin on the heel of her hand. It was generally acknowledged that Dianthe was one of the reigning beauties of the Season. With her pale blond hair and petite figure, she drew admiring glances wherever she went. What an observant young woman she was! Perhaps that was why she was so adept at maneuvering through complicated courtships and unwanted entanglements—she saw them coming and avoided them, much as Grace had done since Basil’s death.

“Yes, I suppose it is,” she finally admitted.

“Why have you never considered Barrington as a potential husband?”

Should she give her niece the easiest answer, or the truth? Heavens, not the truth! That was too humiliating to admit. “It is not that I think he would be cruel or unkind, but he occasionally smothers me with his condescension and his attempts to mold me into his ideal. And I do not love him the way a wife should love a husband.” There. That much was true.

Dianthe’s china-blue eyes twinkled. “You mean, like my sister loves the McHugh?”

“Yes. Like that,” Grace said. “McHugh’s passions are very close to the surface. One look at him and Afton and there can be no doubt that they are made for each other.”

“That kind of love is very rare.” She sighed and pushed herself into a sitting position. “I am certain I would not be comfortable with something so fierce. Better a man I can manage. And you can manage Lord Barrington quite nicely, Aunt Grace. That should be an advantage.”

Oh, if Dianthe only knew! She fastened a crystal-studded snood over her chignon and stood. She smoothed her gown, a deep burgundy satin that lent her an air of mature elegance—an image she was constantly striving to achieve. If anyone should guess what lay beneath the surface, she would be finished in society.

“Enough about me, Dianthe. Shall we discuss you instead? What are you doing tonight?”

“Nothing so interesting as you. Are you certain I cannot come with you and Lord Barrington?”

Grace laughed. “Positive.”

“Hmm. Then I suppose I shall have to go to Hortense and Harriet Thayer’s dinner party with Lady Sarah and her husband. Not nearly as much fun as you will have, I wager.”

“Wager? Very amusing, Dianthe. This is but the first step. I doubt I will do much wagering tonight. I only intend to accustom myself to the atmosphere and the customs—perhaps learn a game or two before I pit myself against Lord Geoffrey so that I will not look like a complete novice.”

“Has dear Ronnie asked you about your sudden interest in gambling?”

“He did indeed. It required a little more persuasion than I had anticipated to elicit his help. I simply told him that I wanted to do something new.”

Dianthe laughed. “I think he consented just to keep you from asking one of your other admirers to escort you. Still, it must have sent him into a tizzy.”

More like a rage!

Grace’s bedroom door flew open and Mrs. Dewberry stood there, looking for all the world as if the sky had fallen.

“Oh, Mrs. Forbush! There’s a man downstairs—a Red Indian! He wants in. I’ve tried to send him away, but he will not go.”

Dianthe stood and glanced toward the corridor, her eyes round with excitement. “A Red Indian? How very intriguing. I wonder what he could want.”

“I cannot imagine.” The last thing Grace wanted to deal with at the moment was a confused foreigner. Well, she’d simply have to give him directions and send him on his way. “Where did you leave him, Mrs. Dewberry?”

“In the library, Mrs. Forbush. Couldn’t very well leave him on the stoop, could I? What if the neighbors saw?”

Grace sighed. She was less concerned about what the neighbors would say than she was with the stranger himself. A Red Indian could be dangerous. What if she could not make him understand her, as Mrs. Dewberry had been unable to do? She composed herself and hurried down the stairs. She wanted to be rid of the man before Lord Barrington arrived.

Dianthe followed close on her heels. “I’ve never seen a Red Indian before,” she whispered. “I wonder if they are as fierce as I’ve heard. Should I fetch a pistol?”

“Of course not,” Grace said, bracing to open the library door. “But if he begins to make trouble, fetch Mr. Dewberry. I believe he is in the coach house.” She lifted her chin and opened the door silently.

A man, tall and lean, stood at the side table with his back to her, holding a brandy bottle and a glass. He was dressed in buckskin leather breeches, a jacket with fringed arms and yoke, and moccasins that extended to his knees and, above that, a long, lethal-looking knife strapped to his right thigh. His hair, long and bound back with a leather thong, was a medium brown with glints of light playing through it from the firelight. The set of his shoulders shifted almost imperceptibly and Grace knew he was aware of her presence.

Behind her, Dianthe drew in a soft breath and touched Grace’s arm as if she would pull her back. Grace shook her head to warn Dianthe to silence. She sensed that she could show no weakness or uncertainty.

Taking two steps into the library, she affected what she hoped would pass for a pleasant but firm countenance. “Good evening, sir. Is there something I can do to assist you?”

He turned to her and she nearly gasped. He was definitely not an Indian. He appeared to be perhaps four or five years older than she, his skin was deeply tanned but his eyes were a greenish hazel. He had a strong, straight nose—an aristocratic nose—and full sensual lips. A shadow of whiskers darkened his jaw and, when he moved toward her, the brandy in his glass scarcely shifted for the smoothness and grace of his gait. He moved like an animal, silent and steady. His chest, bare beneath the loose laces of his jacket, was strongly muscled and Grace found her gaze riveted there. She wanted to look away, but she just couldn’t. She was mesmerized.

He smiled and the flash of white teeth completely disarmed her. Her heart pounded wildly and her breathing deepened. He extended one large hand to take hers and bowed over it. His lips were firm and cool, and the contact made her head swim. Heavens! What was wrong with her?

When he straightened, he flashed another of those startling smiles. “Hello, Aunt Grace.”