Читать книгу The Missing Heir - Gail Ranstrom - Страница 11

F rom her quickly hidden look of astonishment, Adam gathered that she had no idea what to do with the savage in her library. Interesting, the reactions he’d gotten from people who, four years ago, would have entertained him gladly. He surmised by the manner of her dress that he’d interrupted her as she was preparing for an evening out. She was every inch as stunning as her portrait—sultry, lush, distant. Untouchable?

She blinked and a guarded look settled over her perfect features. “I fear you must have me confused with someone else.”

Ah, that was good. Very smooth. Not a single gesture betrayed anything other than a natural confusion beneath the surface. Even her voice was calm. Admiration filled him at her aplomb. He’d known many ambassadors with less self-possession.

He released her hand reluctantly. She was the first Englishwoman he’d touched in four years, and he was startled by the suppressed hunger that surged in him. “My name is Adam Hawthorne—your husband’s nephew. Perhaps he mentioned me?”

Her dusky-rose lips parted slightly, as if she were struggling to say something but couldn’t think how to put it in words. “Adam?” she finally managed to say. “I…we were told that you were killed in an Indian attack.”

“The news of my death was a bit premature.” He grinned.

“Oh, dear.” She pressed one finger to the bridge of her nose in a gesture of distress and her eyes welled with tears. “I—I do not know quite how to tell you this, Mr. Hawthorne, but your uncle…my husband…is dead.”

Her sympathy caught him by surprise and he held his own grief inside. He would deal with that later, and in private. “Would that mean that I am not welcome here?” he asked.

“Oh! Of course you are welcome. You were Mr. Forbush’s only relative. He spoke of you often.”

“Did he?” She referred to her husband as Mr. Forbush? That did not exactly tell of an intimate relationship. Had all the fondness been on his uncle’s part?

“In glowing terms. He was very proud of you.”

He held up his brandy glass and said, “I hope you do not mind that I helped myself. It has been many years since I’ve had strong drink.”

“Of course not. You must make yourself at home.”

Oh, he planned to make himself very much at home. “Thank you, Aunt Grace.” He paused to give a self-mocking grin. “I am sorry if I sound flippant, but it seems awkward to call someone obviously younger than I ‘Aunt.’”

She gestured toward the sofa in front of the fireplace. “I am afraid this whole situation is a bit awkward, Mr. Hawthorne. To say I am surprised is somewhat of an understatement.”

“No less surprised than I to find my uncle had died in my absence.”

She glanced over her shoulder at a lovely blond creature who looked to be pinned to the spot. “Mr. Hawthorne, may I present my niece, Miss Dianthe Lovejoy.”

He bowed, noting that the girl was staring at his laced buckskins. She stepped a little closer to her aunt. For protection?

Grace took a few more steps into the room. “May I prevail upon you to tell me the details of your…arrival here?”

He hadn’t the heart to go through that another time today. An abbreviated version would have to do. “Not much to tell,” he said, sitting on the edge of the sofa. He was tempted to see if his worn buckskins had stained the silk damask. “I was taken hostage by a small band of Chippewa four years ago and when I was free to leave, I found there were compelling reasons to stay. I’ve only just come to a point where returning was imperative.”

“And here you are,” she finished, taking a chair across from him.

She folded her hands in her lap and Adam used the moment to congratulate himself on his assessment from the portrait he’d seen all those years ago. His uncle’s wife was, indeed, all cool composure on the outside. Cool enough to kill his uncle? Ah, but there was something else there, something the artist had been unable to capture with brushstrokes on canvas. A hint of fire and depth was carefully banked beneath the icy exterior. It was a smoldering heat that could clearly bring a man to his knees with desire, but not many would have the courage to penetrate her intimidating demeanor. But he had seen enough of the world to know that Grace Forbush was a woman who barely held herself in check. She was hiding more than that smoldering sexuality, and he would not leave London until he discovered what it was.

“I’d have written,” he said at length, “but there was nowhere to post a letter.”

She smiled and nodded, and a small shift of her shoulders indicated a decision. “How long will you be in town, Mr. Hawthorne?”

“Not long. I have a few business matters to conclude, and I’d like to contact some old friends, then I shall go to Devon. Or, depending upon the answers I get here, back to Canada.”

“Have you decided to make your home there?”

“No.” He glanced down into his brandy. Home. He’d traveled the world in search of it, but he’d never found “home.” Even England felt foreign now. He gave himself a mental shake and looked up again. “But there is a matter still pending.”

She looked curious but she was too well bred to ask the question. Instead she changed the subject. “Have you found comfortable accommodations in town, sir?”

He’d stayed in a flash house last night after debarking. He’d lain awake, waiting for one of the thugs who’d sized him up to steal the leather pouch with all he had left in the world. But no one had bothered him—likely because he’d slept with his knife in his hand—the deadly razor-edged knife that had become his constant companion in the last four years. “My ship docked late so I found a room near the wharves. Then, of course, there’s the money. As I’ve been reported dead, I imagine my accounts were closed?”

The lovely widow knit her brow and pressed an index finger to her forehead again. He wondered if she realized that she was betraying emotion with that gesture. “Mr. Hawthorne, you must stay here, of course.”

“Very kind of you, Mrs. Forbush, but—”

“No. I insist. You see, Mr. Forbush closed your accounts and, in the absence of another heir, absorbed your assets.”

Adam managed to look surprised. “I see. Well, that is the logical thing for him to have done.”

“Yes, but it poses a complication now. I will need to go through the accounts and separate your assets from his and attribute any interest that would have been yours had your accounts remained open. I have made some investments with the funds, and those will revert to you, of course. I am afraid the accounting will take a little time. Or, if you would prefer not to stay here, I could advance you a portion and—”

“I’d be pleased to lodge with you.” If he gave her another moment to think of alternatives, she’d probably withdraw her invitation. It suited his purposes much better to stay here. “Truth to tell, Mrs. Forbush, I shall enjoy feeling a part of the family again,” he hastened to add. That much was true. He longed for a sense of belonging, but had never found it. That emptiness had led him to the Diplomatic Corps. Perhaps he’d thought he’d find “home” in his travels. He hadn’t. Just more solitude.

Adam smiled as his hostess requested her niece’s assistance. “Dianthe, please find Mrs. Dewberry and have her prepare the guest suite for Mr. Hawthorne. And ask her to send up a bath and…and the trunk in the attic that has Mr. Hawthorne’s name on it.” She turned back to him and tilted her head to one side as Miss Dianthe hurried from the room. “Perhaps there is something there that you can wear until you have time to see a tailor, Mr. Hawthorne, but we shall have to air them out. They are likely to smell of camphor and dust. Have you had your dinner yet?”

How efficient she was. There appeared to be nothing that could shake her composure for long. She’d have made an excellent diplomat’s wife. “I’m afraid not.”

“I shall ask Mrs. Dewberry to bring you a tray.”

Was he to be banned from the table? “I wouldn’t want to be any trouble.”

“No trouble at all, sir. I regret that Dianthe and I will not be able to join you tonight. We both have previous commitments. But tomorrow we shall take some time to become better acquainted. We shall look forward to hearing tales of your adventures.”

The only tales he had to tell were not fit for civilized ears, Adam thought. But they would most definitely become better acquainted while he took the woman’s measure. Was she a fortune hunter? Might there be something odd about his uncle’s death? He intended to find out.

As their coach drew close to an infamous hell near St. James Square, Grace finally spoke. “You knew? Why did you not warn me? I was so astonished that I must have looked an utter fool.”

At least Ronald Barrington had the good sense to look shame-faced. “I had no idea he would come to see you today. I thought he’d settle in somewhere and—”

She pulled her green silk-lined pelisse closer around her and clutched her beaded reticule tighter as the dank air seeped through the coach window. “He has settled in—at my house. Not that I begrudge him hospitality for a single second, but this was hardly a good time for it.”

“’Twasn’t in my plans, either, Grace. This has caused some damned inconvenient problems for me, as well.”

She glanced sideways at her escort. In his late fifties, slightly overweight and with a florid complexion, he could still confound her with his pomposity. “What inconvenience has it caused you?”

“Ah, well, ’tis business, m’dear. No need to worry your little head about it. I only wonder what the ton will say about his presence in your house.”

“No one will gossip. I rather think there would be a greater scandal if I refused him shelter. And, despite his rather eccentric appearance, he seems to possess the requisite manners to get along in society.”

“Send him on his way, Grace. He’s older than you, you’re both unmarried and people will speculate. Do you want your friends peddling your business behind their fans?”

“My friends would never peddle my business. And I’ve done nothing improper.” Still, gossip regarding her sheltering a single man could cause a problem. If word got back to her brother…. Lord! He’d come to London and drag her back to Devon by her hair!

Barrington gave her a speculative look. “And now we are on the subject of improper, why have you suddenly taken an interest in gaming?”

Grace was prepared for the question. She disliked telling half-truths, and she loathed the necessity, but Ronald Barrington was not, and would never be, privy to Wednesday League business. That was always strictly confidential. She sighed and glanced out the coach window. “I’ve told you, sir. I am bored half to death. I crave something different. Something more exciting.”

“I could give you something more exciting, Grace,” he intoned meaningfully, leaning closer and squeezing her arm.

What in the world had gotten into Lord Barrington? He’d never pressed her thus before. They’d always been clear that theirs was a platonic friendship, though they’d allowed the ton to think otherwise. And anyway, it was completely beyond her imagination why men thought a sweaty, uncomfortable coupling in the sheets was such fun. For her, it had been—no, that was well-traveled territory. She would not go there again. She hadn’t put herself through that since Basil had died.

What was wrong with her? Why had all these ghosts risen to haunt her? Adam Hawthorne’s sudden resurrection must have upset her more than she’d thought. He’d looked almost savage in his buckskins and long hair, and something deeply disturbing inside her had answered that primal pull. The sight of his leather breeches snug over strongly muscled thighs, the jacket straining against his shoulders and chest, and the raw masculinity he exuded had stolen her wits.

She took a deep breath as she prepared to exit the coach. She needed to put thoughts of Mr. Hawthorne behind her. He was a distraction from her goal. Tonight she would learn at least two popular games and the rudiments of placing bets. She must be prepared before she took on Lord Geoffrey at his own game.

Well past midnight, ignoring the looks of suspicion and wariness from the other patrons of the Eagle Tavern, Adam stepped up to the bar and fastened the publican with a steady gaze. “Fast Freddie?” he asked.

The barkeeper gave him a long look. “Who wants t’know?”

“Hawthorne,” he answered, without any real hope that would grant him access. Adam realized his appearance was a disadvantage—anything that called attention in this part of town was a disadvantage.

The man blinked once, then nodded toward the stairs. “Upstairs,” he said.

Good God. Four years later and Freddie Carter still kept “hours” in an upstairs room of the Eagle Tavern off Red Lion Square. He could scarcely believe his luck. He climbed the stairs, his moccasins silent on the treads. He rapped twice on the solid door and stood back.

A deep voice called, “Yes?”

“I’m looking for Fast Freddie,” he answered.

“Is that Hawthorne?” the voice called from within. “Good Lord, man! I heard you were back scarce an hour ago!” The door opened wide and Freddie clapped a meaty hand on Adam’s shoulder and dragged him inside. “I heard you’d gone native, but I wouldn’t believe it until now. Aye, but you’re a sight for sore eyes.”

Adam grinned. “And I scarce dared believe you’d still be holding court in a seedy tavern. Shouldn’t you have saved the world by now?”

The man laughed and pulled him nearer the fire. “Got thrown off schedule when you left, Hawthorne, but now you’re here and we’ll get back on track.” Freddie pressed a tankard of stout into his hand and went to lock the door.

“Have I interrupted business hours?” he asked.

“Just wrapping things up for the night, Hawthorne. Anyone who had a private commission for me would have come by now. Do you have something to occupy me?”

“Not at the moment.”

“Something to do with your travels, I warrant.” Freddie leaned back in his wooden chair, tipping it onto the back legs.

Adam grinned but said nothing. Fredrick Carter had always been perceptive. That was his gift, and it was what made him one of the best investigators in England.

When they’d been in their final term at Eton, Freddie’s father had been killed by street thugs for his watch and wedding ring. Adam had gone on to Cambridge, but Freddie had been forced to support himself, his mother and his three brothers. He’d devoted himself to bringing his father’s murderer to justice, he’d collected the reward and his course was set. Now he craved the excitement and danger of being a thief taker. Couldn’t live without it, he’d told Adam. He’d even persuaded Adam to work with him on a few cases before Adam was posted to Toronto.

“Come then,” Freddie said as he took a deep swallow from his tankard, “and tell me about your adventures. What did you do to get yourself reported dead?”

Adam emptied his tankard, savoring the dark earthy flavor of the stout. He launched into the story he’d already told Craddock and Barrington but added detail he’d only share with a friend. Freddie’s eyes widened as he concluded. “Then, when they realized I could not be guilty of the massacre, I’d become so mired in tribal warfare and retribution that I couldn’t leave.”

“Four years with Indians,” Freddie mused. “There’s even more to the story than you’ve told, Hawthorne. Does it have anything to do with that thing on your arm?”

Adam glanced down at the intricately beaded band on his left wrist. “Everything,” he admitted.

“A gift?”

“From Nokomis, a beautiful Indian maid. I found her gutted and scalped when we returned to the village.”

“You loved her,” Freddie said softly.

Nokomis, Daughter of the Moon, had been infinitely sweet and funny, and she’d owned his heart completely. “Nokomis was eight, the chief’s daughter, and like a daughter to me. I’ve seen war before, Freddie, but this…this was different.”

“So it took you four years to find the sons of bitches? Time well spent, I’d say.”

“We hunted the warriors down one by one, but we never found the one the Indians called Long Knife, for the sword he wore. That man, Freddie, was an Englishman and British soldier. I’d wager my soul he was the one in command of that attack.”

Freddie whistled softly as he tipped his chair forward and went to stir the fire. “So that’s what brought you back. Can’t say as I blame you. Only promise you will not gut an English soldier on a London street. I’d hate to have to bring you in.”

Adam stared into the glowing embers, remembering how Nokomis had thrown her arms around his neck and begged him to wait for her until she’d grown up. So sweet, so innocent, she’d sworn she would marry no one but him.

When he’d found her in the mass of putrid bodies, she bore cuts that could only have come from an English blade. Adam prayed he had retained enough of a grip on his decidedly English values to restrain himself from killing the man who’d done that. It would be a near thing, though, in view of the fact that he hadn’t exercised much of that restraint lately. “I think I can safely promise you that I will not gut the man, Freddie.”

“Good. Meantime, what are your plans?”

Adam ran his fingers through his long hair. “Find a barber and a tailor. I’ve reported to my superiors and, until I am officially declared alive, I’m on my own. Craddock said I’d be reinstated, but I wonder if that’s a good idea. Another assignment like the last could end me.”

“Do you not have property in Wiltshire or Devonshire?”

He nodded. “Devonshire. But since I’ve been declared dead, there are a few complications.”

“Ah. But it will all be yours anyway, now that your uncle is dead.”

“Barrington said he’d left everything to his widow.”

“Bloody hell,” Freddie murmured. “I gather that’s the complication?”

Adam nodded. “My uncle’s widow has claimed his fortune and mine. She’s young, beautiful and, now, very rich. There were no children. I’m wondering if she could have…”

Freddie sighed. “Greed makes people do strange things, Hawthorne. I won’t lie to you—there were whispers to that effect. But the gossip died and suspicion was dropped. Where can I reach you? Where are you staying?”

“With my aunt, Grace Forbush. Bloomsbury Square.”

Freddie’s laughter followed him down the stairs. “Watch your back, Hawthorne.”