“I suspected as much. But now I owe you.”
“How so?”
“Your appearance tonight has made me quite a sum, Mrs. Forbush.” He pressed a dozen counters into her palm. “And here are your whist winnings from last night.”
She glanced down at the counters, surprised. She had not suspected they had won so much. “I shall have to think of a way to make the most of this.”
“What is your game tonight?”
“I haven’t decided yet.” She looked around the table, taking note of the players. She knew some of them by sight and others not at all. “Perhaps a hand or two of vingt-et-un and then a turn at the hazard table.”
“Whist?” he suggested with a devilish gleam in his eyes.
“Hmm. Do you think we could find company as congenial as last night?”
He laughed. “Picquet, then?”
At last, a game for two where they could wager each other directly, without the intervention of the house or partners. “I have not yet learned all the rules. Will you teach me?”
“That, and anything else you may like to learn,” he purred. “But first, vingt-et-un.”
She glanced toward Adam. It was not difficult to pick him out of a crowd, even in these dimly lit rooms. Tall, dark, tanned and elegant, he caught every female eye. He moved with a casual confidence that must have come from his vast experiences. Even in buckskins she had thought him one of the most handsome men she’d ever seen, and he’d lost none of that cachet going from buckskins to evening clothes. Her heart bumped when she recalled how compelling his lips had been, how thrilling his touch. He was conversing with a man she didn’t know, looking quite intense. From the look of them, he’d be occupied for quite some time.
“Mrs. Forbush?”
She blinked and returned her attention to Lord Geoffrey. She placed several counters on the table and nodded to the dealer. “I am in,” she said.
Adam studied Grace from across the room, scarcely hearing Freddie. He did not like the look on Morgan’s face. The man was hell-bent on seduction and Grace was far too vulnerable. Morgan, it seemed, was making his bid to be Grace’s next lover. Adam would have to put a stop to it, and soon.
“It’s the oddest thing, Hawthorne. Every time I think I have a hint of something unusual, it turns out to be nothing. But there’s even something odd about that. No one is so squeaky clean as Mrs. Forbush. The closest I can come to any scandal is the rumor that her husband’s death was not completely natural.”
“Are you certain?” Adam murmured, his attention still riveted to Grace.
“That there is something suspicious in the lack of gossip? Or that her husband’s death was not completely natural?”
“Either. Both.”
“Did you hear me? Not a breath of scandal since her husband’s death! No hint of anything shady. She cannot be paying hush money to everyone in London. Is she a saint, Hawthorne? You’ve seen enough of her to know her character.”
Yes. He had. And he still couldn’t answer that question. Grace Forbush was a woman in her prime. She was sensual and seductive. She was vulnerable but strong, social but independent, open but secretive, worldly but oddly innocent. She was a paradox and uniquely herself. And he could not sleep at night just thinking of her lying in her bed down the hall from him. He’d stood outside her door every night, one hand on the knob, knowing that, one day very soon, he would open that door.
Carter nodded. “That you cannot answer is answer enough—she cannot be what she seems.”
“What is said of her marriage?”
“That it was agreeable. That your uncle was fond of her but occasionally cross and prone to deep depressions and was heard to express concern that he could not keep her content.”
Adam sighed. Could Grace’s appetites have been more than his uncle could accommodate? Which appetites? The hell of it was that those reports could mean almost anything. He’d give a fortune for one straightforward answer to any of the questions. “What is said of Uncle Basil’s death?”
Carter looked uncomfortable. “That the onset was sudden and the end was quick,” he admitted. “From the time it was first reported to the end, perhaps a fortnight or less.”
“And?”
“And that his wife was devastated. She had started to consult a round of doctors, determined to find one that could help him. Then he went very quickly. ’Tis likely the speed of his decline that spurred the rumors of foul play.”
“Lord Barrington?”
“He was your uncle’s friend of long-standing, and called frequently during his last days. Afterward, he…well, he helped your aunt with business matters. Rumor has it that ’twas then that he and Mrs. Forbush became acquainted. A year later, when she was out of mourning, they began keeping company. For a short period, her name was linked to several other powerful men, as well, but soon only Barrington was left.”
So Barrington had hung around and outlasted the others? But what had Grace seen in him? Adam glanced at the tableau at the vingt-et-un table again. Morgan was laughing and Grace turned to him, a smile curving those luscious, full lips—lips he could still taste. His body betrayed him in the most basic way as he watched her lay her hand on Morgan’s sleeve and say something that made the man laugh again.
Bloody hell! He needed the truth before it was too late to extricate himself from her life. “Did she kill my uncle?”
The man shook his head regretfully. “Impossible to know at this stage.”
“Keep digging,” Adam said.
Chapter Eight
Grace stretched and yawned luxuriously as the coach lurched into motion. Her cloak fell open to reveal a wide expanse of creamy flesh above the lace trim of her neckline. Adam couldn’t keep his gaze from the way the aqua fabric of her gown tightened against her breasts, causing them to swell above the lace, and the way the chill night air firmed the little buds beneath the light fabric. Pray God, she didn’t notice his fascination. Or the effect it was having on him.
He cleared his throat and repositioned himself against the leather squabs to ease the aching in his groin. “Did you enjoy yourself tonight, Grace?” he asked, seeking any diversion from his rising fantasies.
She turned to him and smiled. “I think we were quite successful in squelching the gossip. I did not even hear anyone speculate about why you should accompany me. I believe you are fitting in nicely. Yes, all told, a good night’s work.”
That comment surprised him. Had Grace been concerned about him? Or was she commenting on his new position as her escort? Before he could ask, she leaned toward him, took his hand and squeezed it. “Thank you, Adam. You have made what could have been a very uncomfortable evening into an enjoyable one. You cannot know how much I appreciate it.”
Her touch raced through him like a shock of electricity. Could he believe her? Could he risk his unexpected feelings for her to cloud his judgment? But caution, as well as restraint, was damned hard to practice when he looked at Grace.
And, when the coach rounded a corner and Grace fell against him, his need surged upward, straining against the boundaries of his self-control. Those treacherous unprincipled needs. They had no conscience.
They had begun to run riot, from the most basic need to couple to the more complex need to find his place in society. He had sublimated those needs for the past four years to the needs of the tribe. His hunger for family had been delayed for tribal justice. He had denied his desire for home and belonging to find the savage murderers who had decimated the Indian village. And his longing for a meaningful future had been subjugated to the uncertainty that he would even have a future at the end of that bloody journey.
Finally back in England, he’d been all too ready to fill the void left by his uncle. Grace and Dianthe had become his family. Their smiles filled his empty soul, their lives twined inextricably through his. And this made him vulnerable to deception. He’d believe anything because he wanted to believe.
More than that. He needed to believe in Grace,
to believe she could not be guilty of anything devious or underhanded. He needed to believe that a woman so beautiful in every way, a woman whose portrait had captured his imagination even before he’d met her, was not capable of what she’d been accused of in whispers and rumors. Of an act that would make Grace unredeemable.
He’d already begun to care for her more than he should. Those flashes of quickly hidden vulnerability she’d revealed hinted at the deep passion and buried hurts that lay beneath her cool exterior. He wanted to see and to feel that passion more than he’d ever wanted anything.
She turned and smiled up at him, and his lust rose again, full and demanding. He said the first thing that came to his mind. “I’d be happy to escort you whenever you’d like to go gambling.”
She leaned toward him in confidentiality, her shoulder pressing against his. “You make a wonderful accomplice, Adam. Did you win or lose tonight?”
He gave her a veiled smile. “Won.”
“Lord Geoffrey attempted to teach me piquet. I fear the rules are fairly complex. I shall have to buy a copy of Hoyle’s Rules and study them. I lost.” She laughed. “Heavily.”
He regarded her somberly. Why would losing make her giddy? “You do not mind losing?”
“I would not want to lose all the time, but the game itself is so exhilarating that I do not mind.”
“So you really are seeking excitement?” he asked, realizing for the first time that he had never believed that excuse.
Her smile faded and she turned introspective. “Oh, dear. I believe I am.”
Did she even half realize how enchanting she was? Drawn to her, unable to resist the pull, he leaned toward her and lowered his lips to hers. Her lashes fell to veil her eyes and she surrendered with a little sigh, her soft full lips parting to receive him. He lost himself for a time, unaware of anything but the heat of her mouth, the taste of her lips, the shy way she melted into his arms. When he left her lips to savor the exposed column of her neck beneath her ear, she moaned in protest, turning her head to catch his earlobe gently between her teeth.
“Come back to me,” she whispered, her breath a hot tickle in his ear.
Chill bumps rose on his arms. “Patience,” he counseled. “I’ll be there in a moment.” He slid his hand upward to catch the coil of hair at the back of her head. His intention to unwind that tight chignon was forgotten when she moaned again, and he could do nothing but return to her lips. Her sighs inspired him. Her moans commanded him. She kissed like a virgin—innocent and hungry at the same time. The shy heat of her tongue touching his was almost experimental. Had she never kissed like this before? How had his uncle neglected such sweet instruction?
When she relinquished his mouth with a little sigh, he moved lower. She arched as he found the heated spot at the base of her throat. Her pulse beat against his lips in a wildly erratic rhythm. God! She had ignited like parched tinder. Her fingers tightened on his arms, biting into the fabric of his coat, and her breathing deepened. She was so responsive that he was driven to take her as far as she’d let him.
He slid her cloak off her shoulders to bare the creamy expanse of skin. Nibbling and kissing a path from her throat downward, he nudged her décolletage lower to free one breast. Her gasp was his reward as he closed his mouth over the firmed peak. She arched to him, cupping his head, tangling her slender fingers through his hair to hold him closer.
“Adam…” she moaned as he eased her down on the seat.
He’d been right. She was a woman made for love. With his other hand, he reached downward to sweep up her skirts. He was hard and aching for her, and she would know that. Aye, as a woman of experience, Grace would know full well what her responses were doing to him, and she would know that her encouragement was an invitation in itself. Pray she was not just caught up in a moment of passion. Pray she would feel this way tomorrow in the harsh light of day.
He skimmed his hand up one shapely leg, past her stockings and garter. When he reached bare skin, he moved his hand to the heat of her inner thigh.
She sucked in a deep gasp and shuddered. “Stop!” She fought for breath, a note of panic in her voice.
Reluctantly, confused and disoriented, he released her. Was she playing coy? How could she be so responsive one moment and panicked the next? “Easy, Grace,” he said calmly. He smoothed her skirts down over her legs and edged away from her as she struggled to sit upright again.
She seemed embarrassed by her outburst. “I…we should be home soon,” she explained in a breathless whisper, as if afraid Mr. Dewberry would hear her from his position outside in the driver’s box.
“Of course,” he said.
She busied herself putting her clothing to rights, tugging at her neckline and pulling the cloak back over her shoulders. When he moved to assist her, she shrank away from him, as if she were afraid he would hurt her in some way.
As he watched her, his anger rose. From what he’d learned of her so far, it was no wonder that she did not trust men. Whatever her previous lovers had done to her, he was paying the price. Or perhaps it was simply too soon after Lord Barrington for her to take another lover.
The coach pulled up at their door in Bloomsbury Square and Mr. Dewberry climbed down from the box to open the coach door. “’Ere we are, all safe an’ sound,” he proclaimed.
Grace took Dewberry’s hand, stepped down and hurried into the house, leaving Adam and Mr. Dewberry standing at the curb.
“’Ard night, sir?” Mr. Dewberry asked.
Adam gave him a mirthless laugh. “You could say that.” Very hard, indeed, and still was.
Late the next morning, John Ogilby, a balding, paunchy man of middle years, sat back in his chair at his office in Holburn and studied Adam through narrowed lids. “Are you accusing Mrs. Forbush of something, Mr. Hawthorne? Or me?”
“Not in the least,” Adam appeased. He glanced around the well-appointed office. Rich paneling and lush fabric told a story of wealthy clients and high fees. His uncle must have paid a pretty price to have Ogilby handle his affairs—a price Ogilby would be loathe to give up—and that could work to Adam’s advantage. He smiled, deciding on his strategy. “In fact, I intend to continue my uncle’s relationship with your firm once the settlements are finalized. I am only concerned that Mrs. Forbush may be living a little…recklessly. From all I’ve been told, her interest in gambling is a recent development.”
Adam could see the wheels clicking in Ogilby’s brain. “Hmm, yes, well, I see what you mean.”
“I regret that my return has caused her undue stress, but there is nothing I can do about that. She has said that she instructed her factor to separate my estate from my uncle’s, but that it would take a little time.”
“Yes.” Ogilby nodded. “I’ve been in contact with Mr. Evans, her factor. We are in the process of reconstructing the Forbush finances prior to the acquisition of your assets. We should be finished in another few weeks.”
“That’s just the point, sir. At the rate Mrs. Forbush is gambling, the assets may be gone by then.” Adam squirmed with the gross exaggeration, but he needed to find a way to check Grace’s descent into gambling ignominy until they’d had a chance to sort through their mess. And, in all honesty, perhaps this was a bit of petty revenge for the sleepless night she had just caused him. If she was forced to stay at home more, perhaps she’d see a little less of men like Lord Geoffrey Morgan and Lord Reginald Hunter. And more of him.
“Very well, sir. I see your point. I fear all we can do is freeze her assets until the settlements have been agreed upon and finalized in the courts.”
“But for her living expenses, of course,” Adam prompted.
“Of course.”
The second part of his business was going to take more finesse. “I gather my uncle’s will was current when he died?”
The solicitor glanced down at a sheaf of papers and rearranged some of the sheets. “Quite. He changed it after we had the news of your death.”
Adam nodded and sat
back in his chair, waiting.
“Ah, until that point, he’d left all to you, with the exception of an annuity and dower rights to his widow.” Ogilby shifted his weight in his chair and shuffled a few more papers. “I do not know what you might wish to do about that, Mr. Hawthorne. If you’d like, we can petition the Chancellery court for a hearing on the validity of a will made in response to erroneous information. It is possible that they would reinstate the original will, and you would inherit the bulk. It is not an inconsiderable sum, sir—somewhere in the range of 250,000 pounds.”
Actually, Adam did not care in the least how his uncle Basil had bequeathed his property. He wanted what was his returned to him, but the rest was of little concern. Ah, but freezing Grace’s funds pending a court hearing would certainly slow her down at the vingt-et-un table.
What neither Grace nor Mr. Ogilby knew was that, as of noon today, Adam would be officially reinstated with the Diplomatic Corps, including four years of retroactive pay and the thanks of a grateful nation, whatever that meant. He’d asked Lord Craddock to keep this news quiet for a few weeks.
“I am afraid I am at my aunt’s mercy at the moment, Mr. Ogilby. If I made a request of that nature, I believe the atmosphere at home would become quite uncomfortable.”
Ogilby literally twitched, confirming Adam’s suspicion that something was not quite right with the settlements. He let the silence stretch out, leaving Ogilby no choice but to make the offer.
“I, er, could file the petition in my own name as the solicitor of record. The request would not have to come from you directly, sir, nor from your…Mrs. Forbush.”
Adam smiled. “Thank you, sir. I think that would be best. I am indebted to you.”
Ogilby nodded but did not look happy. “I shall prepare the papers at once. I shall also inform Mrs. Forbush as soon as the court impounds her accounts. Since her situation is urgent, that could be as early as this afternoon.”
Adam was not looking forward to her reaction to that news.
Grace read the letter from her solicitor for the third time. “I cannot believe this,” she breathed.
The Missing Heir Page 9