Читать книгу The Missing Heir - Gail Ranstrom - Страница 11

M rs. Dewberry snapped the heavy ivory velvet drapes open, keeping up her steady stream of chatter. Grace winced as the early morning light streamed through her bedroom window and struggled to sit up.

“’E ate everything on the tray, I’ll give ’im that. Good appetite for someone so thin, that man.”

Grace rubbed her temples, picturing the lean form of Adam Hawthorne. She doubted the hollows in his cheeks were natural. He had the look of a man used to a Spartan existence and heavy physical activity.

“And I could’ve been wrong about the man,” Mrs. Dewberry admitted—a rarity for her. She placed a breakfast tray across Grace’s lap and shook out the napkin. If Grace did not take it quickly, Mrs. Dewberry was sure to tuck it beneath her chin. “’Is manners are quite lovely when ’e uses ’em. The mister says ’e inquired if ’e could stable a ’orse ’ere. Said ’e’d be glad to pay the mister, ’e would.”

“Of course he may have a horse here. And Mr. Dewberry is not to accept anything from Mr. Hawthorne. He is our guest. I shall see that there is extra in Mr. Dewberry’s envelope for the inconvenience.”

“That’s very considerate of you, Mrs. Forbush.”

Grace poured herself a cup of strong breakfast tea. Her head ached and she needed to clear the cobwebs before she dealt with her solicitor and factor. Barrington had taken her to two gaming hells last night, infamous smoke-filled places where her eyes stung and her head throbbed. But she had to admit that she’d felt an edge of excitement when she’d won a small wager playing vingt-et-un.

One more night to learn, then she’d be ready to set herself up as an easy mark. If Morgan gulled her, she’d find out how, and then she’d expose him. The Talbot name would not need to come into it at all. His debt would be void and Laura Talbot would have a second chance to make a happy match.

She was spreading butter on a muffin when Dianthe burst into the room, tying her robe at her waist. “Aunt Grace! I just saw Mr. Hawthorne leaving.”

“Oh, yes,” Mrs. Dewberry said. “’E said ’e ’ad some things to do and that ’e’d join you for dinner.” She paused at the door and smiled. “I’m ’aving Cook make a nice roast of beef and Yorkshire pudding.”

“And strawberry tarts for dessert?” Dianthe added.

“Aye, miss. I’ll tell Cook.”

Dianthe jumped on the bed and sat cross-legged. “I wish you could have heard the talk last night, Aunt Grace. It couldn’t have been midnight yet when the news began to circulate that you had gone to a gaming hell with Barrington. It was all the buzz.”

Grace laughed and shook her head. “That did not take long. What are they saying?”

“That you must be bored. Only Mrs. Thayer said that you’d bear watching lest you get yourself into some trouble.”

“Hmm.” Grace sipped her tea, beginning to feel better. “Well, by the time anyone has the least bit of concern, I shall be done. Nothing to worry about, Di. The Wednesday League has taken on much more difficult cases than this. This will be a mere stroll in the park.”

“All the same, I wish I could help you. I really do not like the idea of you going alone to such…unwholesome places. I asked Mr. Thayer about Geoffrey Morgan last night, and he said to warn you rather strongly about him.”

“Is the news out that Mr. Hawthorne has returned?”

“No. I thought that odd, but I gather he has not been out in society since his return. I will be amazed if there are not whisperings by tonight. Are you going out after dinner?”

“Barrington has agreed to take me to another hell. I’ve heard the Pigeon Hole is an amusing place.”

“Will you take Mr. Hawthorne with you?”

Grace pushed her tray aside and stood. “I think he would frighten fully half the population of London.”

“You are ashamed to be seen with him,” Dianthe accused.

Absolutely not. Yet, when she tried to imagine walking into the Auberville ballroom with a man in buckskins, she almost laughed. She could not begin to comprehend the gossip that would cause. But then she thought of where he would look at ease, and she glanced at her bedroom door. She imagined him there, late at night, holding a candle, that insouciant smile on his face, making himself as comfortable as he had in the library. Her mouth went dry and her chest constricted.

“Aunt Grace!” Dianthe exclaimed. “I have never seen you blush before. How interesting.”

She went to her dressing table and looked in the mirror. Delicate pink stained her cheeks and neck. “I must get dressed, Dianthe,” she said. “I am going to the bank and my factor’s office. The sooner Mr. Hawthorne has the resources to leave us, the better.”

Mr. Evans tapped a sheaf of papers on the surface of his desk to straighten them. Moistening his index finger, he began to leaf through the heap. Page by page, he separated the stack into two piles. “You realize this will considerably diminish your assets, do you not, Mrs. Forbush?”

Considerably? “I dare hope it will not impoverish me?”

“Nothing so severe as that,” her factor said, glancing above the rim of his spectacles. “But the bulk appears to be the investments of Mr. Hawthorne’s assets. If you insist that he should reap all the benefits—despite the fact that they were your investments—then your accounts shall suffer.”

She sighed and shrugged. An honest debt was an honest debt. Her gravest concern was that the news of her reduced circumstances would affect her ability to make Morgan take her seriously as a deep player. Oh, blast the timing! She would have to hold Adam’s funds until after dealing with Morgan. Now he would have to depend on her hospitality for another fortnight. “Mr. Evans, take your time in separating the assets and attributing the interest. I would not want you to make any mistakes because I had rushed you. We need not conclude this matter for two or three weeks. Mr. Hawthorne is staying with me and his needs will be taken care of. No need for unseemly haste.”

“As you say, Mrs. Forbush.”

Grace smiled. She employed Mr. Evans to act in her best financial interests, and he was certainly doing so now. “I wish Mr. Hawthorne to have the interest. If he’d been here, he would have made his own investments.”

“If he’d been here, you’d not have had anything to invest,” Mr. Evans muttered as he continued his separation of the papers.

“I’d still have had my husband’s estate,” she corrected.

“Likely not, Mrs. Forbush.”

Grace frowned. What did the man mean? Her solicitor had made some veiled reference to the same thing earlier this morning at their appointment. She’d asked to see Basil’s will, and he had told her it was “unavailable.”

“Likely not? What do you mean, Mr. Evans? Explain yourself.”

He finished sorting the stacks and looked up at her, concern creasing his forehead. “What? Oh…I, um, meant there would not have been as much to invest, Mrs. Forbush.”

Grace sat back in her chair. She had the uneasy feeling that people were keeping things from her. “I want Mr. Hawthorne to have everything that should have been his, Mr. Evans. Mr. Forbush was always generous with me, and I can be no less with his nephew. That is what he would have wanted.”

“If you are certain.” Mr. Evans looked over the rims of his spectacles again. “Your integrity is admirable. Shall we meet a fortnight hence to sign the papers and complete the separations?”

“I shall mark my calendar, Mr. Evans.”

Adam tied his cravat for the fifth time. He’d gotten rusty in the particulars of refined dress. There were no cravats in the wigwams of the wilderness. Finally satisfied on the sixth try, he shrugged into his jacket and headed down to dinner. He’d taken several items of his better clothing to a tailor for the alterations he would need to make himself presentable in society, and had kept these few clothes out for use in the meantime. New, currently fashionable items would have to wait until his reinstatement and the pay that went with it.

When he entered the dining room, he found Grace and her niece waiting for him. “Sorry,” he said. “Had trouble with my cravat.”

Grace looked up at him and blinked. A slow smile warmed her face and her expression turned sultry. She stood and came toward him, extending her arms. When she was close enough for him to smell the delicate floral scent of her perfume, she lifted her graceful hands to tighten the knot and arrange the folds. He watched her fingers work through the fabric and felt a swift visceral reaction. How would those fingers look against his bare flesh? How would they feel closing around his—

She looked up, smoothing the fabric and meeting his gaze. “There. What do you think, Mr. Hawthorne?” Her voice was slightly breathless.

That it’s a damn good thing you don’t know what I’m thinking! He stood frozen for a moment while he gained mastery over his rioting blood. “Well done, Mrs. Forbush.”

She returned to her place at the table and even the rustle of her blue-gray gown caused him to catch his breath. He’d been too long without a woman. But his uncle’s widow was more than just any woman. She was Salome incarnate—a natural seductress.

A moment later he took the place set for him at the opposite end of the table, Miss Lovejoy between them. “Feel free to correct my manners, ladies. I’ve been so long away from utensils and china that I may forget myself and use my hands.”

Dianthe laughed. “I think you will adapt quite easily, Mr. Hawthorne. Aside from your native clothing, I’ve seen nothing of you that is unpolished. Though your barber could have cut a little closer.”

He acknowledged her compliment with a smile, but turned to Grace for confirmation, given with a single nod. “I rather think the length becomes you as it is, Mr. Hawthorne.”

They were silent as Mrs. Dewberry served dishes laden with roast beef, Yorkshire pudding, tender vegetables drowning in rich butter and what seemed like a myriad of condiments and confections after the simple fare he was accustomed to eating.

“Are you coming out tonight, Mr. Hawthorne?” Dianthe asked him at length.

The question startled him. How long had it been since anyone had cared or questioned his comings and goings? Odd, how the careless question made him feel a part of something larger. “I do not have plans, Miss Lovejoy, but I think I am ready to make an appearance in society. Must be done sooner or later and there’s no sense putting it off.”

“Marvelous,” she said with a smile. “Then you must accompany me to Charity MacGregor’s little reception. She is a delightful hostess, and all the most amusing people will be there. The Aubervilles are picking me up on the way. You could come along if you wish.”

He’d met Lord Auberville years ago when he’d been a diplomatic advisor to a military contingent suing for peace with Algiers. “I would like to pay my respects,” he mused. He looked at Grace for her consent.

“I have other plans for tonight, Mr. Hawthorne.”

“Aunt Grace is going gambling,” Dianthe volunteered.

Surprised, he looked at his hostess in a new light. He hadn’t suspected she had an adventurous side. Who was this woman with such an odd blend of innocence and experience? Everything about the woman was contradictory. “Gambling, eh? What is your game of choice?”

She shrugged and gave him a listless smile. “I think I prefer vingt-et-un, sir. Hazard and faro are diverting. I enjoy whist, but I do not like being dependent upon a partner.”

He nodded, unsure what to make of this news. “I suppose it would depend upon the partner,” he allowed.

By the quick flicker of her eyes, Adam knew that she had read the veiled meaning in his words. It would be interesting to match wits with Grace Forbush. Subtlety was her hallmark and she only gave herself away in the slight lift at the corners of her luscious mouth or the blink of an eye. She was so tightly contained that he could not help but wonder what she might do if she actually lost control. He’d like to find out.

“Do you gamble often, Mrs. Forbush?”

“There are more ways to gamble than laying counters upon a table, Mr. Hawthorne, and the stakes need not be money.”

Now this was interesting. Where else might the lovely widow gamble, and for what stakes? “I shall remember that, Mrs. Forbush. Perhaps we will have occasion to make a wager.”

Dianthe regarded them suspiciously. “What have I missed?”

Adam smiled at Grace and then turned to Dianthe. “I’ve been puzzling all day how to address everyone. If Mrs. Forbush is your aunt, and she is mine, would that make us cousins, Miss Lovejoy?”

Dianthe smiled. “I suppose it would, though Grace is not actually my aunt. She was my mother’s cousin. My sister and I came to live with her only recently so that she could sponsor our coming out. Afton has married, but, alas, I have yet to find a husband.”

He laughed at her ingenuous admission. “I would guess that has been your choice. But since we are family, we should not stand on formality. You may call me cousin or Adam, whichever suits you best.”

“And you must call me Dianthe or Di. But I cannot imagine what to do with Aunt Grace. I know her nickname was Ellie when she was younger, but no one has called her that in ages. And every time you call her Aunt Grace, it sets me on a giggle. Mrs. Forbush sounds like an ancient governess, and I think she is far too stunning for that. Would you not agree?”

He nodded. Far too stunning, indeed. “Ellie? Where did that come from?”

“My father,” Grace admitted, shooting a stern look in Dianthe’s direction. “Grace Ellen York was my name before marriage. Papa thought Grace too drab a name for a young girl.”

He tried to imagine her as a rosy-cheeked child with a long dark pigtail. He wondered if she ever wore her hair down now. “I agree with your father,” he said.

“I left that all behind years ago, Mr. Hawthorne. You may call me Grace, but Ellie makes me feel absurdly young.”

“Very well, Grace,” he said. Judging the time to be right for a question that had been bothering him since his arrival at Bloomsbury Square, he asked, “Do you mind telling me whatever happened to Bellows? And Mrs. Humphries?”

“They’ve retired,” Grace said with no further explanation.

Retired? Or gotten out of the way? Had she not wanted his uncle’s servants to be around to talk about what went on in the house? Or about any suspicions they might have had? His uncle’s widow was beginning to look very suspicious indeed.

Grace allowed Lord Barrington to take her wrap and hand it to a footman as they entered the Pigeon Hole. After his rather mild introduction to gambling the night before, she was not prepared for the raw undercurrents running through the rooms as he led her deeper into the establishment. The air was heavy with smoke and tension. An occasional shout of laughter or collective moan punctuated the steady drone of conversation.

“I could have taken you to some smaller private clubs, Grace. Much more suitable for a woman of your station. Why you selected this one is beyond me. ’Tis reputed that one of the owners is the abbot of a notorious nunnery. I do not like to think of you rubbing elbows with the likes of him.”

“Could I catch something from elbow rubbing?” she asked, keeping her expression neutral. “Aside from a soiled elbow?”

Barrington looked slightly confused and she knew he hadn’t caught her teasing. Honestly, sometimes the man was so stodgy that it amazed her. But looking back on the past several years, she could see that she’d become rather stodgy. But why should that occur to her just now? Because she had just broken that mold? Or—

Adam Hawthorne, again. Barely a few years older than she, every line of his body, every movement, every smile, told of an energy and enthusiasm for life that she’d forfeit for safety. His strength and vitality were a stark contrast to her own blurred ennui. Heavens, she was envious of him!

Barrington harrumphed. “Perhaps you wouldn’t catch something, Grace, but you are apt to acquire some nasty habits or bad language.”

“I shall guard against that,” she promised.

“Why risk it at all? Why put your reputation under scrutiny when there’s no need? I cannot fathom why—”

She cut him off. “We’ve been over this, m’lord. I weary of discussing it. If you’d prefer not to take me, I will not beg or pout. I shall simply ask Mr. Phillips to escort me. He has often said that he’d be—”

“Now, now. No need for that. If you’re determined to do this, I would rather be close at hand in the event that…you need assistance.”

How diplomatic of him. She’d have sworn that he was about to say “in the event she got herself into some trouble,” but had stopped himself in time. “Thank you, my lord. I shall do my best not to impose upon your kindness.”

He harrumphed again and guided her toward a table where vingt-et-un was being played. A footman circulating with a tray of wineglasses came by and Barrington claimed two. “Have a care not to drink too much, Grace. ’Tis one of the ways the house leads you to play deep and reckless.”

Needless advice, but Grace nodded. She actually wanted to gain a reputation as a “high flyer.” Did she dare tip her hand to Barrington? No, she could only risk one bland question. “I was discussing my interest with Sir Lawrence this afternoon, and he said I should watch someone named Geoffrey Morgan play. He said the man was a genius at games of chance.”

“Sir Lawrence? When did you see him?”

“He came to see Auberville when I was calling on Lady Annica. We chatted for a few moments in passing. When I told him that I was going gambling tonight, he was all enthusiasm. Perhaps we shall run into him.” She glanced around, trying her best to look bored. “Is Lord Geoffrey here tonight?”

Barrington peered into the hazy air, squinting through the curtain of smoke. “Don’t see him, but it’s early yet. And I don’t much fancy you making his acquaintance, Grace. He is not the sort one wishes to count among one’s friends.”

Grace smiled patiently. “We were introduced years ago, and I was not seeking to make the man my friend. I merely wanted to watch him at the tables. Sir Lawrence said I would find it educational.”

“Hmm,” Barrington replied noncommittally.

For the next hour Grace placed small wagers at various tables, trying her hand at faro, picquet and rouge-et-noir. She encouraged Barrington to find his own entertainment at the hazard table. Though the other players regarded her with curiosity, they were all willing to take her money. The two other women present were vivacious females who were dressed in colorful gowns with daringly low décolletages. Grace had never seen either of them at any of the events she regularly attended and suspected they might be of the demimonde.

“By God, Morgan! You have the devil’s own luck!” a portly man at a picquet table said.

Grace moved closer to study the other man. So here was Lord Geoffrey Morgan. He’d changed since she’d last seen him four years ago. Still handsome, to be sure, but harder, more cynical. What had happened to him in the interim? If Lord Geoffrey was so attractive, and possessed of a fortune, why could he not find a wife in the ordinary way—courtship? Could his murky reputation include mistreatment of women?

Morgan was a man of above-average height and trim build. His dark hair was threaded with stands of silver now, but he did not look old. To the contrary, the silver was premature and simply made him look distinguished—a stark contrast to his smooth, unlined skin. His features were pleasant and the grin he gave his companion was not in the least bit smug. But his best feature—at least the one that caught her attention—was his hands. Long elegant fingers caressed the deck of cards almost like a lover, riffling the edges in a confident, bored manner. Those hands were the only things about the man that spoke of his inner restlessness.

He grew still, as if he sensed her attention. In a slow deliberate manner, he glanced toward her and caught her eye. He studied her from the toes of her slippers upward to her face, and then his lips drew up in a smile. Did he remember her?

She dropped her gaze, then lifted it again in a soft, almost seductive greeting. With a little lift of her chin, she turned and walked away, feeling the heat of his gaze follow her. She stopped at the vingt-et-un table and placed a small bet, knowing he would still be watching. When she glanced over her shoulder, he grinned again and she did her level best to look worldly and as bored with the scene as he. When Barrington joined her and took her arm to lead her away, she noted a small look of irritation on Lord Geoffrey’s face.

Oh, it was good to know your enemy’s weaknesses.