Читать книгу The Missing Heir - Gail Ranstrom - Страница 12

A dam, having left his newfound “cousin” in the care of Lord Auberville and his wife, found himself climbing the stairway at the Eagle Tavern for the second time in as many days. He hadn’t expected to see Freddie again quite so soon, but circumstances warranted. The more he learned about Grace Ellen Forbush, the more suspicious she appeared.

Privately, he asked several men about her. They all smiled regretfully, saying that, after a protracted mourning period, Grace’s name had been linked to several powerful men. Then Barrington claimed the exclusive right to escort her to various functions. It was generally accepted amongst the ton that they had been lovers for the past three years.

Adam’s mind revolted when he tried to imagine Grace’s slender, delicate frame pinned beneath a sweating, heaving Barrington. Or his uncle, for that matter. To complicate matters, the whispers of her new interest in gambling had begun to spread, and men were speculating that if she was restless, she might be looking for a new lover. Adam was hard-pressed to believe the amount of interest the topic was generating. Was every man in London queuing up to vie for that honor?

He hesitated only a moment before knocking on Freddie’s door. When it opened, a furrow-browed dandy exited, nearly running over Adam in his haste.

“Come in,” Freddie called.

Adam closed the door behind him and gave Freddie a smile. “Bad news?” he asked, nodding toward the departing dandy.

Freddie nodded. “His wife is meeting privately with his best friend. I wouldn’t want to be either of them tonight.”

Lord! Was all of London taking lovers?

Tipping his chair onto the back legs, Freddie grinned. “So, did you just miss me, Hawthorne, or do you have a use for me?”

“Could be both.”

“Are you going to help me with this one?”

“As much as my time will allow.”

“Let’s hear it. As luck would have it, I’m between jobs.”

Adam sat by the fire and sighed. “Find my uncle’s valet and housekeeper. I’d like to have a chat with them.”

Freddie nodded, studying his face. The man was trying to get a “read” on him, and Adam smiled. “And keep an eye on my dear aunt Grace. There’s something odd going on there. I’m wondering if there’s any truth to the rumors that she hastened my uncle’s death.”

“Report to you daily or weekly?”

“I’ll find you when I want to talk,” Adam said. “If you have something you need me to know sooner, you can find me.”

“And what will you be doing?”

“My best to keep an eye on the winsome widow.” He stood and moved toward the door to put his plan in action.

Freddie grinned. “Careful, Hawthorne. Bad manners, not to mention the possible risk to life and limb, to tup the hostess.”

Adam finally found Barrington’s coach waiting on a side street around the corner from the Pigeon Hole on St. James Square. Though he wasn’t a member, he slipped the doorman a guinea with the promise to speak to the proprietor about buying a subscription.

The main salon was lavishly appointed, well lit with a crystal chandelier in the central area, and darker around the edges of the room. Adam kept to these shadows as he watched waiters circulate with wineglasses and hors d’oeuvres. The proprietors, two savvy men who’d won the establishment from the original owner in a high-stakes game of whist, did not want their guests to have any reason to leave the tables. Any delicacy, any desire, was fulfilled. Deep play was encouraged, and when a man’s counters were spent, it was only a matter of a signature to acquire more. A few women dressed in scandalously low gowns circulated with glasses of wine and would occasionally disappear with a guest for short periods of time.

He caught sight of Grace’s slender form gliding from one table to another, a low buzz following in her wake. It was true, then—her presence in the gambling world was causing a sensation. And if speculation was running rampant, he would know the gist of it by morning. A small group of men stood near the hazard table, talking in muffled tones. Every few moments one or the other would turn to look in Grace’s direction. Did she quite realize how widely she was drawing attention? Or was she so accustomed to attention that she scarcely noticed?

Barrington said something to her and she turned to him and smiled. Even in profile, she stole his breath away. The sweep of her neck, the delicate hue of pink that tinted the curve of her cheek, and the demure knot of dark hair at her nape all beckoned him, and he found himself taking a few steps forward before he could check himself.

He realized with an angry tweak that he was no different than those men who stood in line for her. When she’d repaired his cravat earlier, and stood so close to him that he could feel the heat of her breath against his cheek, he’d been a mere blink from pulling her into his arms. Had it not been for Dianthe’s presence, he might have done so. Was she sublimely unaware that she was a natural seductress? No, she had to know. She’d been married. She’d had numerous affairs. She would have to know the power she held over men. The banked fire in her eyes spoke what words could not. She was a woman made for love.

A burst of laughter floated from the hazard table and Grace turned to Barrington, clapping her hands with delight. A glow of excitement lit her face as she collected a small pile of counters. Perhaps it was true, then. Perhaps she craved excitement and risk.

He could think of far more interesting ways to excite and challenge his enigmatic hostess.

“La! Es-tu folle, chère?” Madame Marie asked.

Was she crazy? Grace wondered. She studied herself in the trifold looking glass in the back fitting room of La Meilleure Robe. No, she looked quite sane. She smoothed the fabric of her new icy-violet gown over her hips, delighting in the fluid sensation and drape of the fabric. The gown would move with her, not act as a cage to hide her form. She sighed with the realization that sensory perceptions were important to her. If anything was wrong with her, it was that she was far too earthy.

“No, madame, I am not crazy. It is the only solution.” She turned on the little stool as Madame Marie marked the hem and glanced over her shoulder to entreat Francis Renquist, Madame Marie’s husband and the Wednesday League’s investigator. “Tell her, Mr. Renquist.”

Renquist sat forward in the delicate chair and studied the toes of his boots, clearly wishing himself elsewhere. “I’m not certain it is the only solution, Mrs. Forbush.”

Grace was a little surprised by his reply. “If I had not suspended my Friday salons until autumn, I could ask him to tea. If you have another, please tell me. I am all ears, sir.”

“Let me put more men on the problem. If Geoffrey Morgan is a cheat, we will uncover it. Aye, we could have results twice as fast.”

Grace nodded. “By all means,” she said, making a tiny turn for madame’s marking. “Put more men on it. But can you guarantee you will have the required proof and be able to neutralize Lord Geoffrey within two weeks?”

“Well, I couldn’t actually guarantee—”

She nodded, suspecting as much. “Then surely you can understand why I am willing to risk everything, even my reputation, Mr. Renquist. Miss Talbot will be quite literally sold into marriage to a man she does not even know if we are unable to acquire evidence of his cheating. I have the resources as well as entrée to the hells Morgan frequents. Meanwhile, I would like you and your men to find other men who have lost heavily to Morgan. I want to know how many of them suspect him of trickery, and if they have any idea how he might have done it. Furthermore, I would like any information you can uncover about the man himself—who his friends are, how he spends his time when he is not gambling, where he goes—”

“It is precisely because of Lord Geoffrey’s reputation that I would urge you to distance yourself,” Renquist interrupted.

“His reputation is not my concern unless it affects Miss Talbot’s case.” She sighed, thinking of the man she had seen last night at the Pigeon Hole. When Constance had kept his company, he’d been well-mannered and polite. Geoffrey Morgan had an air of banked vitality that society women would find vaguely unsettling—the same vitality that lay beneath Adam Hawthorne’s smooth grace. She found that vigor curiously attractive in both men. What might they be like beneath the surface, if they chose to unveil themselves?

She gave herself a mental shake and made another quarter turn on the stool. “I merely mean to observe the man to determine if he is cheating, and then, if he is, to think of the best possible way to expose him, thus rendering the markers he holds null and void. Simplicity itself, Mr. Renquist. Not in the least dangerous or complicated.”

Renquist was watching her with apprehension. “My blood chills when I hear those words from the ladies of the Wednesday League,” he murmured. “Do you promise to come to me if you are in any danger, Mrs. Forbush?”

She laughed at Mr. Renquist’s needless concern and shrugged, drawing an annoyed cluck from Madame Marie. “I am not tracking a murderer, sir, but you have my oath.”

Stealing a few minutes before the dinner bell that evening, Grace slipped into the library and sat at the massive mahogany desk. Withdrawing a sheet of paper and a pen from the center drawer, she began to make a list.

The Pigeon Hole, the Two Sevens, Rupert House, Thackery’s, Belmonde’s, Fabrey’s and the Blue Moon—a new and very popular hell. Those were the establishments she knew Morgan frequented. As for the games he favored—hazard, faro, vingt-et-un, rouge-et-noir, E.O. and picquet. Though she hadn’t chosen the hell for their encounter, she picked the game. It would have to be picquet. It was one of the few games that allowed her to wager Morgan directly without the intervention of a dealer or banker and did not require a partner. The house would be due a percentage of the wager, but that should not present a problem.

She tapped the end of the pen against her cheek as she thought. Morgan was not likely to risk cheating for an inconsequential wager, so she must think of a way to make the wager worth the risk. “How much would be enough?” she mused out loud.

“The eternal question,” a deeply masculine voice answered.

She looked up and found Adam standing in the doorway. He grinned and stepped into the library, closing the door behind him. Impeccably dressed, he exuded an aura of easy self-confidence as he went to the sideboard to pour himself a glass of sherry. He was obviously planning to go out for the evening and she was pleased to see that he’d found something to fit him.

With a glance in her direction, he poured a second glass. “You look as if you could use it,” he explained as he brought it to her and sat across the desk from her.

She smiled. “Oh, please won’t you come in and join me, Mr. Hawthorne? Do sit down.”

He laughed at her teasing, and the easy sound made her laugh, too. “Have I been impertinent? I forget to be formal. I practically grew up in this house and I forget that circumstances are different now.”

“You must make yourself at home,” Grace told him truthfully. “I was not aware that you’d spent so much time here. You and Mr. Forbush were close, I gather?”

“Quite. My mother—his sister—died of consumption when I was still at home with a governess. My father was killed riding to the hounds when I was at Eton. From that time forward, Uncle Basil and I were all we had of family. I came here for most holidays, and in summer we would spend a few weeks at the cottage in Devon.”

Grace nodded. Basil had told her as much. It was part of those lands in Devon that Leland had traded her for. “I’ve asked my solicitor to go over Basil’s will and determine what should have been yours. You may well be entitled to this house, and then Dianthe and I would have to prevail upon your hospitality until we could find accommodations elsewhere.”

“Which I would give as gladly as you have,” he said, raising his glass. After drinking, he regarded her through those deep hazel eyes. “Did I interrupt your calculations on ‘how much would be enough’ to settle with me?”

“No, I…” Grace stopped. Had there been a note of suspicion in Adam’s voice? “Do you think I would cheat you, Mr. Hawthorne?”

“I barely know you, Mrs. Forbush. How would I know what you might or might not do?”

She felt his suspicion like an insult. “I suppose you wouldn’t, sir.” He stood and came around the desk to look over her shoulder. She fought the instinct to cover her list, knowing that would only make him more suspicious.

“Hells and games of chance? Is that what you were calculating?”

“I…um, yes. I have not been able to determine if there is a maximum wager at any particular game. I wondered how much would be enough to make the house declare a limit.”

“Are you such a deep player that you want to wager the limit?”

“I merely wish to know what it is.” And how much it would take to tempt Lord Geoffrey into cheating.

“That would depend upon the hell.”

“I see. Well, thank you for the education, Mr. Hawthorne.”

“Why hasn’t Barrington undertaken your, er, education, Mrs. Forbush?”

She shrugged. “We are going again tonight, but he does not approve of my new interest. He barely tolerates my attendance at some of the hells. I fear he may refuse to escort me at any moment.”

Adam moved to the fireplace and rested one arm on the mantel. “I believe that may well be the best decision.”

She took a deep sip from her sherry and stood. “Because you disapprove of a woman engaged in a male pastime?”

“Because anything could happen to a lady at a hell. Men are not…at their best in such circumstances.”

“And who knows where it all would end?” she asked archly as she went to the sideboard to refill her glass. “What next, sir? Women’s clubs? Women in taverns? Unescorted to restaurants? Frequenting brothels?”

He laughed. “Aside from the last, those prospects do not alarm me in the least. But how can a man indulge his baser nature with a wife or daughter looking on?”

“Ah, then mankind is safe, since I am neither any man’s wife or daughter.” But she was Leland’s sister, and that could be a problem unless she concluded this matter quickly.

“I daresay you would be shocked at what men do outside of female observation.”

She smiled. After all the cases the Wednesday League had taken, she doubted she was capable of shock but the notion intrigued her. “Would you even have any idea what it would take to shock me, sir?”

Adam left his glass on the mantel and came toward her, an enigmatic expression on his face. “I believe I would, madam.”

Before she was aware of him moving, he was standing mere inches away. She had to tilt her head upward to see into his eyes. Then his intent was clear. He was going to kiss her, and the small pause gave her the opportunity to escape. To her own surprise, she didn’t take it. How long had it been since she had seen a kiss coming and welcomed it? Ever?

Adam slipped his arms around her and pulled her firmly against his chest. The heat of his body seeped into hers, drawing an answering warmth from her. Heavens!

She dropped her lashes and waited, breathless, for the contact of his lips, but Adam dragged the moment out. His lips, soft and relaxed, parted slightly as he bent to her. He seemed to be in no hurry, as if he were relishing the moment, committing it to memory. She was not disappointed. The sweetness of the first touch of their lips was all the more intense for that slow, deliberate anticipation.

Softly insistent nibbles gave way to deeper, longer contact, eliciting a strong involuntary response from her—a soft sigh, a faint moan. She rose on her tiptoes to press closer and parted her lips a little, a thing she’d never done of her own accord before.

Clinging to the square set of his shoulders, she was acutely aware of Adam’s large hand splayed at the small of her back, pressing her closer as his other hand slid up her spine to caress the stretch of her neck. Chill bumps sent a delicate shiver through her and her breasts firmed in response.

Slowly, almost reluctantly, Adam lifted his head enough to look into her eyes. A lazy smile curved his mouth. He cupped her head as he lowered to her lips again. This time the kiss was subtly different, no longer asking but insisting. This time his tongue, tasting faintly of sherry, made contact with hers. The depth of intimacy in that touch shook her to her very core. She was experiencing Adam in a way that she had never experienced any other man. This intimacy felt more intense to her than all the nights of Basil’s clumsy and ineffectual fumbling or Barrington’s sporadic attempts to woo her.

It was just a kiss. Just…a kiss? How could it feel like so much more? He broke contact and she sighed in protest.

“Shh,” he whispered. “Patience.” He trailed a path of tiny kisses to a spot just beneath her ear, where he hovered for a moment, his lips barely brushing her flesh as he spoke. “I feel your heart beating,” he said, then nibbled and tugged gently at her earlobe.

She closed her eyes and her knees nearly buckled. Adam continued to give attention to the spot while the hand that had cupped her head moved downward, then around to brush her breast. Oh, how sweet a sensation that was coupled with the tingle of his kiss!

The dinner bell shattered the moment and Adam straightened, looking heavy-eyed and exceptionally annoyed. He released her, keeping one hand at her waist to steady her.

He studied her face and gave her a teasing grin. “I…concede that I may not have shocked you, Mrs. Forbush, but I collect that I’ve managed to surprise you.”

Grace took a steadying breath, confused thoughts and emotions running riot through her muddled brain. Where had those feelings, those yearnings, come from? She glanced down at the floor and smoothed her gown, trying to cover her perplexity. “Surprise? Why, yes. You did.”

Adam turned away and went back to his sherry. With his back to her, he took a long drink and squared his shoulders before saying, “Should I say I am sorry?”

“Only if you mean it, Mr. Hawthorne.”

The silence dragged out for a moment before she realized he was not going to apologize. He was not sorry he’d kissed her. She paused, giving time and distance a chance to restore her composure. “Nevertheless,” she murmured, “if we are to keep close quarters—”

“We’d do well to guard against a reoccurrence of that sort,” Adam finished for her. He turned to face her again, looking as shaken as she felt.

She nodded, her mind in turmoil. This was an intolerable complication! Everything she held dear was at risk. She couldn’t allow herself to feel this way. She just couldn’t. It would complicate everything!

The library doors opened and Dianthe peeked in. “Oh, here you are. Did you hear the dinner bell? I’m famished and Mrs. Dewberry has made her poached salmon and a lovely aspic.” She looked at Grace, then Adam, and smiled. “But ignore my interruption, please.”

“Quite all right, Miss Lovejoy,” Adam said, going to take her arm to escort her to the dining room. He glanced back at Grace and winked. “I am famished, as well.”