Читать книгу The Missing Heir - Gail Ranstrom - Страница 14

D espite the gilt elegance of the main salon, there was something about the wholly masculine atmosphere of a gambling hell and the men who inhabited it that intrigued Grace—a coarseness and baseness that seemed to contradict their underlying dignity. In one corner, she watched as a man celebrated as a great naval hero, and reportedly happily married, cursed roundly as he threw his cards on the table. He pulled the young woman next to him into his arms, swearing that if he could not win at cards, he’d damned well win at love. She giggled as he led her out of the main salon and down a darkened corridor to the rooms kept for such purposes. If this was the sort of activity men preferred, it was a wonder to ever find them at an afternoon garden party.

Barrington whispered, “There, Grace. I warned you what sort of thing goes on at these places. Are you ready to throw it in?”

She thought of the bruises on Laura Talbot’s arms. No, she could not “throw it in.” “Really, my lord, do you think me so delicate that I cannot withstand a little smoke and the demimonde?” From the corner of her eye, she saw Lord Geoffrey Morgan come through the arched entry to the main salon.

“Why would you want to? That is what I’d like to know,” Barrington muttered. “Never would have suspected you’d have a taste for the low life, Grace.”

Low life? “Do you think I have sunk low just because I wish to play a few games of chance?” she asked as she watched Morgan’s cool gaze sweep the room.

“Er, no, Grace. Nothing of the sort. Just don’t think this is a suitable place for a woman of your…your social standing and exceptional reputation.”

“Perhaps it is just the place,” she said with a little shrug. “I have been thinking, lately, that I’ve become a bit stodgy.”

Morgan glanced in their direction and smiled. Grace wet her lips. He was coming toward them and, by the length of his stride, he would be upon them before Barrington noticed. When Barrington did notice his advance, it was too late.

“Barrington,” Morgan greeted him. “I haven’t seen you here in a while. Where have you been keeping yourself?”

Barrington affected a look of surprise. “Oh, Morgan. Nice to see you again. I’ve been keeping busy. Always a war somewhere, you know.”

Geoffrey Morgan laughed and Grace was struck by the sound. Though she suspected it was polite and social, it had the ring of sincerity. Was he enjoying Barrington’s discomfort?

“Well, I am glad to see you back. I’ve always said you are an excellent player.”

“Yes, well…” Barrington paused awkwardly. “I, uh, I suppose you’ve met Mrs. Forbush?”

“A lifetime ago, it seems, although I was simply Mr. Morgan then.” Morgan turned his full attention to her. “It is nice to see you again, Mrs. Forbush.”

“Lord Geoffrey.” Grace smiled in acknowledgment. “I was sorry to hear about your father’s passing.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Forbush. Are you enjoying yourself?”

“Very much.” She smiled, her excitement rising now that she’d finally made the first contact. “I had no idea such exciting entertainments were only moments away from Almack’s.”

He laughed and nodded. “And now that you’ve been here, you are not likely to be invited back to Almack’s.”

“Then, since I will have the spare time, you are certain to see more of me.” She tilted her head slightly and gave him an innocent smile.

He lowered his voice and said, “I pray that is so, Mrs. Forbush.”

Barrington cleared his throat. “Grace is just playing at gambling, Morgan. She’ll soon tire of it and—”

She patted her escort’s arm and smiled up at him. “Lord Barrington is always kind enough to indulge my whims, whether he understands them or not.”

Her escort looked down at her, momentarily confused. “Why, uh, I do my best.”

“As would I,” Morgan said, “were I fortunate enough to have the attention of so lovely a woman.”

Barrington bristled. “But Grace, er, Mrs. Forbush, wants to take more risks than she should. A little reckless, if you ask me,” he continued, just warming to the subject.

“Reckless, eh?” Morgan asked.

Grace could almost see his speculation. Was he assessing her to determine if she’d be an easy mark? Or just wondering precisely how reckless she might be? She felt the need to explain. “Lord Barrington is only out of sorts because I asked him to take me to the Blue Moon tonight.”

Now Morgan laughed outright. “The Covent Garden hells are déclassé, and well beneath your notice, I promise you. They call it the Blue Moon for a reason. Their clients only win once in a blue moon.”

Barrington nodded. “Quite right, Morgan. There, you see, Grace? I told you it wasn’t the place for you.”

She merely returned Barrington’s grin. She’d only wanted o go because she’d heard that it was one of Morgan’s favorite haunts. “Nevertheless, I should like to go there sometime.”

“Perhaps you will be able to persuade someone to take you,” Morgan said. “But come. Have you learned faro, Mrs. Forbush? Allow me to teach you if Barrington has neglected that part of your education.”

“I tried my hand last night, Lord Geoffrey, but I do not seem to have a grasp of the game. I lost miserably.”

He took her arm and led her toward the faro table with Barrington at her other side. Whatever the man was, he was not lacking in social graces.

The afternoon sun was still high when Adam checked the slip of paper that had arrived by messenger that morning from Freddie. He glanced at the gray ivy-covered cottage again. Yes, the St. Albans address was correct if a bit surprising. Retired valets and household servants most often shared quarters in retirement, if not entered a home for the infirm. This small cottage was set back from the street, had a vegetable garden and was well kept and in good repair. He knocked twice, wondering if Freddie had gotten the address wrong.

A balding man opened the door and blinked rheumy gray eyes in surprise. “Mr. Hawthorne! I…we….”

“Thought I was dead,” Adam finished for the speechless valet. He was startled at how much the man had aged since he’d last seen him. He would not have recognized Bellows on the street. “But, as you can see, I’m hale and hardy.”

“Come in, sir. Come in.” The man stood aside to allow Adam to pass. “What a pleasure to see you, sir.”

The main room had a low ceiling and was small but comfortable. Surprised, Adam recognized a few nice pieces from his uncle’s house mingled with other good but worn furniture. He removed his hat and shook Bellows’s hand. “I heard you’d retired, Bellows, so I came to pay my respects.”

The man flushed with pleasure. “Please sit down. May I offer you a cup of tea?”

Adam took one of the chairs by the fireplace and shook his head. “No, thank you, Bellows. I can’t stay long. I just wanted to reassure myself that you are well and happy.”

“Very kind of you, sir.” Bellows sat opposite him and smiled. “Quite a shock, finding you alive all these years, sir. If I was rude, I apologize.”

“Not at all,” Adam assured him. “But you cannot have been more shocked than I to learn that you’d retired. I somehow thought you’d work until you were senile.”

Bellows laughed and rubbed his bald head. “And I would have, too, if Mrs. Forbush had not insisted. But once your uncle was gone, there didn’t seem much point in staying on. He’d already begun to fail but after we had the news about you, well, the end came quickly. He did not suffer, sir.”

Adam nodded and said nothing. Barrington had said Uncle Basil had been ill since before Adam’s last visit. According to Grace, he began a decline after the report of Adam’s death. Now Bellows reported he’d been ill only shortly before the report of Adam’s death. Which was the truth?

“Aye, sir. And when our mourning was done, Mrs. Forbush asked my help in putting Mr. Forbush’s things away. We had nice long chats while we worked, and ’twas when I mentioned that I’d worked for Mr. Forbush for forty-five years that Mrs. Forbush insisted I should retire. Said I done more than faithful service and deserved a rest. I was that shocked, I was.”

“I hope you are not suffering financially.”

“Nothing of the sort, sir.” Bellows straightened in his chair and smiled. “I’ve been pensioned off. First of every month, I get an envelope from the missus. More than enough to pay my expenses, sir. In fact, the ladies in the village think I’m quite a catch. I can tell you, Mr. Hawthorne, that I do not lack for companionship.”

Was the pension a bribe for not talking? Adam wondered. If his uncle’s end had come quickly, perhaps it had been assisted. “Tell me, Bellows, was my uncle ill when I was here last and just neglected to mention it?”

“That was just before you went to the colonies, was it not? No. He’d been fit as a fiddle. He did not decline until just before the news of your death came. Then, of a sudden, he went very quickly, sir.”

“Did you think that odd, Bellows?”

“Odd? No, sir. After all, he was near sixty and five.”

“Then I gather it was not his heart that gave out?”

“No, sir. A quick wasting illness of some sort. The doctor couldn’t quite put his finger on it. He thought it might be the grief of losing you, sir. Wouldn’t eat, and then purged when he did. No Forbushes left now, but for the missus.”

Adam puzzled this out. Why had Uncle Basil given up—especially when he had a woman like Grace Ellen York to share his life? That didn’t make sense. “Apart from the report of my death, was my uncle happy, Bellows?”

“Yes, sir. His business was doing well and the missus always brought a smile to his face. She was a blessing to him. Real gentle, she was, even though he was sometimes short with her and said hurtful things. Told her she was a burden and had been a bad bargain. He said he had expected more of her, but I cannot imagine what, Mr. Hawthorne. The missus was diligent and did more than most wives. You know how mean-spirited he could be sometimes. But she took good care of him at the last. Wouldn’t leave his side. I feared we’d lose her if she didn’t rest. Heart-wrenching, it was.”

“They were in love, then?”

Bellows sat back in his chair and frowned. “Well, sir, when she first came to London as his bride, I assumed she was a part of his business dealings with her brother. But, as time went on, I saw a certain fondness grow.” He paused and lowered his voice confidentially. “You know how these things are, sir—older husband wants an heir and gets himself a young bride? Then a year or so later, the wife quietly takes lovers? Never happened with Mrs. Forbush. She was devoted to the mister, though I cannot say if it was the kind of love you mean, sir. More like friendship. She cried for weeks after he passed, and quarreled fearsome with her brother when he came to take her home. Said she wouldn’t leave the only peace she’d ever known. Lord Barrington had to intercede for her.”

Adam tried to picture the serenely self-possessed Grace crying for weeks. Or calling upon anyone for help. There was something quite odd about this account. “Well, I gather that since she’s still here, she won her way.”

“With conditions, sir,” Bellows said.

“What conditions?”

Bellows blinked. An indiscreet servant was the bane of an employer’s existence. Had he realized he’d said too much? “Oh, uh, I wouldn’t know about that, sir. That happened behind closed doors.”

Blast! He should have been more circuitous in his questioning. Certainly less obvious. If he pressed now, Bellows was sure to deny everything. He stood and clapped the valet on his shoulder. “I should be going. I just wanted to stop in and make certain that all was well, Bellows. My uncle was always fond of you.”

Bellows nodded again as he walked Adam to the door. “I’m a lucky man,” he said. “Most valets do not retire in the style Mrs. Forbush has provided. And Mrs. Humphries, too.”

Adam paused. “Ah, yes, Mrs. Humphries. Could I trouble you for her address? I’d like to assure myself of her good situation, as well.”

Grace stared at the envelope on the silver tray for a several minutes while she weighed the consequences of burning the contents unread against the consequences of reading it. The letter, from Leland, had arrived an hour ago. When her brother took the time to write a letter, it could not be anything good.

She glanced at the clock on the fireplace mantel. She should be preparing for another evening at the hells instead of dawdling in the library. Would the letter wait until morning?

No. The dread of it would taint her entire evening and she was certain not to sleep. She’d best have it over with and know what was afoot. First, though, she went to the sideboard and poured herself a draft of sherry. She suspected she’d need the fortification.

She sat at her desk, took a sip, and slipped her silver letter opener beneath the flap. She took one deep, bracing breath, and then unfolded the single sheet and began reading.

Mrs. Forbush,

I am distressed to hear that you are engaging in unsavory pastimes and have made some ill-advised decisions, thus exposing yourself and your family to scandal. My name and reputation as your brother and only remaining male relative could be affected, thus it is my duty to recall you to your senses.

You will recollect that our agreement in the wake of your husband’s death permitted your continued residency in London, provided that you did nothing to invite scandal. Alas, I do not consider sheltering an unmarried man who could be the instrument of your destruction and cavorting at gaming hells and wagering your inheritance to be acceptable behavior.

Grace gasped. It was not as if Leland’s behavior had always been completely circumspect. He’d had his fair share of scandals, not the least of which was the way he treated his sister and his wife. Pricilla, though, never complained because she was too frightened or did not know any better. Instead she would take to her bed pleading a headache or some other malady.

Either you cease your activities at once, or you will compel me to come to London and remove you to Devon—forcibly if need be. Do not think you can refuse me, sister, since I know and will use your disgraceful secret to ensure your compliance.

I remain,

Yr. Brother, Leland York

Grace dropped the letter on the tray. How did Leland find these things out so quickly? And why did his demands and threats still devastate and infuriate her so? All she had to lose was…everything. And the worst that could happen was that she would end up back at her childhood home under her brother’s heavy hand. Unacceptable. Completely unacceptable.

But even more unacceptable was abandoning Miss Talbot to a similar fate. It was too late for Grace, but there was yet time to save Miss Talbot. Despite Leland’s threats, she had to go on. Striking a decisive blow for Miss Talbot had taken on the proportions of striking a blow against Leland’s abuse. She would continue because she had a moral obligation to help anyone who shared her fate, and anyone without the strength to stand on her own. “Damn him,” she muttered when tears welled in her eyes. She picked up her glass and lifted it to her lips.

Passing the library on his way upstairs, Adam heard a muffled, “Damn him!” He peeked in to see Grace looking quite distressed, her attention fastened to an open letter. How unlike the unflappable Mrs. Forbush to curse. He didn’t want to interrupt her, but neither did he want to leave her in distress. He leaned one shoulder against the doorjamb and waited for her to finish.

When she lifted her wineglass to drink, she noticed him for the first time. He was surprised to see tears welling in her eyes. He’d stake his life that she was not the sort to cry without a reason. “Bad news?” he asked.

She blinked to clear those dark sultry eyes and glanced away as if embarrassed to have been caught in a genuine emotion instead of the carefully constructed impression she fought to maintain. Her shoulders squared and the social mask fell into place, shutting him out as effectively as a snub.

“A letter from my brother.” Her voice was tight, and she looked down.

He crossed the library and stood across the desk from her, not knowing what to do. There was something indefinable in her expression, something touchingly vulnerable. She frowned and pressed a spot in the center of her forehead, as she’d done the day he arrived. He’d learned it was a thoughtful gesture. One she used when puzzling a problem or fighting a headache.

“I-is there something you needed, Mr. Hawthorne?”

Her words were a reproach—a dismissal at the very least—and he bristled. “No,” he admitted. “You looked as if you needed a friend.”

She glanced up at him again, little creases forming between her eyes. “I did not mean to be short with you, Mr. Hawthorne. You surprised me. I hadn’t realized you were standing there.”

“I heard a sound when I was passing,” he explained. Their stilted conversation was awkward and he turned to go.

“Mr. Hawthorne, please wait.” She stood and came around the desk to face him. “I apologize if I made you feel uncomfortable. I fear I am so used to keeping my own counsel that I have become unfit company. Forgive me?”

“Of course.” He’d have forgiven her anything when she looked at him so earnestly. She was close enough that she had to look up to meet his gaze, and he found himself leaning toward her, drawn almost against his will. “Does your brother often affect you in this way?”

“Always, I fear.” She sighed. “He knows just what to say to bring me to a boil.”

He laughed, relaxing. “I gather that is ordinary for brothers.”

“I wouldn’t know, sir. I only have the one, and we have ever been at odds. He thought Papa favored me and has always found ways to make me pay for it.”

“And he has found another way?” Before he could think better of it, he reached out and touched her shoulder. She flinched and then caught her breath on a sob, as if the human touch had been more than she could bear. He’d only meant to comfort her, not devastate her.

She turned her face away and murmured, “I…I am sorry, Mr. Hawthorne. I don’t know what has gotten into me.”

Selfishly, because he wanted to feel her against him, he tugged her into his arms and held her tightly, half expecting her to pull away. Instead she fit against him perfectly. The tension drained from her shoulders and she gave a shaky sigh.

There was something shy and uncertain in her surrender. Grace, for all her composure, was human, after all. He regretted his suspicions. She could not possibly be guilty of murder. “How long has it been, Grace, since someone offered you comfort?” he asked.

“Since…since Mr. Forbush,” she whispered.

“Mr. Forbush,” he repeated. “Did you always call him that? Was he never ‘Basil’?”

She sniffled. “He always called me Mrs. Forbush, and so I returned his courtesy. I believe he preferred it that way.”

Adam struggled with that for a moment. Could his uncle have been blind? How could he not have invited—even welcomed—informality between himself and his lovely wife? Unforgivably, but needing to know, he asked, “Even when…intimate?”

He felt her stiffen and pull away. “Really, Mr. Hawthorne, I do not wish to discuss such things.”

“I’ve offended you.”

“I…it is not appropriate for you…for us, to have a conversation regarding my…your uncle’s…at all,” she finished, more at a loss than he’d ever seen her.

The calm mask that drove him insane fell into place again and she moved toward the door. “I would appreciate it, Mr. Hawthorne, if we could avoid a repeat of this scene. I find it disturbingly inappropriate considering our…connection.”

“We have no connection, Grace. You might have been married to my uncle, but you were never my aunt.”

She paused at the door, her back to him. “Nevertheless.”

“Nevertheless,” he agreed.

When the door closed behind her, he lifted the forgotten letter on the desk and scanned the lines. Though he was not a snoop by nature, if there was anything here that would help him solve his uncle’s death, he’d better know it now.

The first disturbing item came early on. Her brother evidently wanted Grace to tell Adam to leave the house. And what the hell had he meant that he could be the instrument of Grace’s destruction? He read on, appalled at the arrogance of Leland York.

Good God! Who was this prig? Even more disturbing than the order for Grace to evict Adam was the veiled threat. York knew Grace’s secret and would use it to blackmail her? What secret? Adam could only think of one thing dire enough to warrant such a threat and connect him as the “instrument of her destruction.” That she’d had a hand in his uncle’s death and that he might discover and expose her.