The Missing Heir

by Ranstrom, Gail

  “Who is he, Miss Talbot? Give me his name and I shall make your circumstances known to him. He would not wish to lose you.”

  “No!” the girl gasped. “He would be angry if he thought I had been discussing our love with anyone else.”

  Defeated, Grace waved her hand in dismissal. “I shall do anything—everything—humanly possible, Miss Talbot.”

  Adam climbed the back stairs of the White Bear Inn. Today he would have his answers from Taylor whether the man was recovered or not. For better or worse, he would put an end to the blood feud that had given his life meaning for the past four years. And if he was still alive afterward, he would solve the enigma of Grace Ellen Forbush. Paragon? Liar? Murderess? None of that mattered now. He loved her, and he’d have to find a way to handle her past, whatever it was.

  For the moment he knew all he needed to know—that she was vulnerable, kind, sensual and that the very thought of her could make his blood sing as never before. And, in a lifetime of loss and separations, she was the only thing he’d ever found that made him feel whole and think of a future.

  The odor of boiling cabbage and meat carried to him from the kitchen below and the low hum of voices filtered from the courtyard in back. Ordinary. Normal. But an uneasy feeling swept through him as he reached the landing and walked silently down the empty corridor to Taylor’s room.

  Where was the guard? He raised his hand to knock and found the door was slightly ajar. He slowly pushed the panel open with his index finger. The creak of the hinges sent a chill up his back. Something was wrong.

  The odor hit him first—whiskey, vomit, urine and something else. Something metallic and very familiar. He stood stock-still while his eyes adjusted to the dim light from the curtained window. An overturned chair, an unmade bed, a cold hearth, not even a lit candle by the nightstand. Adam took a step into the room and his boot crunched on broken glass.

  The hair on the back of his neck stood on end as he realized what the metallic smell was. How could he have forgotten, even for a second? As he moved further into the room, a leg became visible from the opposite side of the table. And there was the source of the metallic smell. A pool of blood. And George Taylor, facedown. Bloody hell! He’d never get an answer from the man now!

  He knelt beside Taylor’s body and touched the man’s shoulder. Cold. He tried to lift Taylor’s hand to search for a pulse, but death rigor had settled in. He glanced around, his eyes accustomed to the dim light now. There was no sign of the guard, but from this side of the door he could see splintered wood around the doorjamb. What the hell had happened here?

  Turning to the small trunk that would contain Taylor’s possessions, Adam lifted the lid and began to sort through the items. Clothing, boots, discharge papers, letters of commendation—

  “Christ’s blood!” Freddie Carter stepped through the door and closed it firmly. “What have you done, Hawthorne?”

  Adam glanced back at Taylor’s body. “I didn’t do this.”

  “Where’s Shelton?”

  “Who?”

  “Shelton. The guard. Where is he?”

  “Gone when I got here,” Adam said. He knew how guilty he looked, and that he’d sworn to kill Taylor, but he wouldn’t make any excuses. If his word did not suffice, then he’d pray that Carter did not try to stop him from leaving.

  When Carter bent over the body, he turned back to the trunk. The letter of commendation was the only official document there and Adam folded the envelope and slipped it into his jacket. Carter, he knew, would want things left as they found them and all his personal effects turned over to his family. There would be an investigation. Taylor had not been a nameless drunk from the streets, he’d been from a good family and had served his country as an officer in the Royal Army.

  “He’s been dead several hours. I’d say sometime before dawn. That lets you out. It wouldn’t take you hours to do a search of this hovel.”

  Dawn. When he’d been stirring, hard and aching, Grace’s scent still clinging to his skin, the taste of her still on his tongue.

  “Give me a hand here,” Carter asked. “I want to turn him over and see what killed him.”

  Adam helped him roll the body over. He shivered at what he saw. He couldn’t muster any grief for the man who’d killed Nokomis and the others, but he wouldn’t have wished this sort of death on him. His eyes were wide and his mouth was open in a silent scream. Something had sliced through his shirt and there was a gaping hole in his chest. Sickened, Adam wondered if the man had been alive when his heart had been removed.

  As if reading his thoughts, Carter pointed to Taylor’s groin. “Femoral artery. Same as Clark. But why the heart?”

  “It is an obscure Indian custom in extreme circumstances to take the heart.”

  “Indian custom?”

  Adam nodded. “I am being set up to take the blame for this.”

  Carter sat back on his heels. “Method,” he said, shaking his head. “Taylor died from blood loss before his heart was removed. It was the same assassin who killed Clark, and likely attacked you in front of the Two Sevens. I think it’s a warning to you to leave this alone. Stop asking questions or the same could happen to you. You know the sort of thing.”

  Adam balked. “There’s something wrong with that theory.”

  “Well, it doesn’t matter now. It is over.”

  “Over?” Adam laughed. “It’s far from over, Carter. Taylor may be dead, but the man who gave him the orders, the man who hired the assassin, is still alive. Until I find him—”

  Carter groaned.

  “Until I find him, this cannot be over.” The attacks on Grace had probably been warnings, as well. If anything happened to her because of his investigation, he knew he’d never be sane again. “I am not safe, nor is anyone I love, until that person has been exposed.”

  “Go,” Carter ordered, waving toward the door. “I’ll take care of this. I don’t want you anywhere close when the new police arrive.”

  “I’ll find you later. There are some people I need to talk to. Some favors I’m calling in.” Adam went to the door and paused. “Carter?” he asked over his shoulder. “You will let me know if you hear from Taylor’s guard? Shelton, is it?”

  “Aye. I’ll let you know.”

  Grace assumed an air of sublime confidence as she allowed the footman at the Two Sevens to take her wrap. He looked as if he would question her about her lack of an escort, but she merely waved one gloved hand. “Mr. Hawthorne is with the coach. He shall be along in a moment.” She could not risk being turned away because she wasn’t with an escort.

  The truth was, Adam had not come home since leaving this morning, a fact that that had her alternately concerned and annoyed. He could have sent word. He would likely not realize that she had waited past ten o’clock for him before deciding to come alone. There was no time to waste if Miss Talbot was to be redeemed.

  She plucked a glass of champagne from a footman’s tray and began a circuit of the main salon. If Lord Geoffrey was not here, as he had not been at Belmonde’s, she would have the footman summon Mr. Dewberry and go on to 77 Jermyn Street. And she’d keep going until she found him. No time left for coyness or subtlety.

  But luck was with her. Lord Geoffrey turned from conversation with a group of men. She thought it interesting that Lord Geoffrey could be friends with eminently respectable men such as Lord Reginald Hunter and his brothers, and still deemed unacceptable in polite society. Was it women who needed to fear him? Perhaps it was time she found out.

  He saw her and gave her a polite nod. He was probably wondering if she was still upset with him over his indifference to Lady Grayson’s plight. She smiled and nodded back, knowing that would reassure him. He excused himself from his companions and came toward her.

  “Mrs. Forbush, how nice to see you.”

  “And you, Lord Geoffrey. I thought you were always at Belmonde’s.”

  He shook his head. “Just of late. Where is your shadow?”

 
She wondered if Adam would find that amusing. “I really do not know. He did not accompany me.”

  His eyebrows went up. “Are you alone tonight?”

  “Not at the moment,” she said, smiling up at him. She took his arm as he led her toward a low banquette set just inside a curtained alcove.

  The barest flicker of his eyes told her he had not missed the insinuation. “Are you…auditioning again, Mrs. Forbush?”

  She gave a low, throaty laugh. “Are you, Lord Geoffrey?” She sat on the velvet cushions and patted a place beside her. She was playing a dangerous game, but she took comfort from the fact that she was in a public place.

  “I admit to a certain curiosity,” he said, his gaze sweeping her from head to toe. “Have you and Hawthorne come at odds?”

  Mindful that Lord Geoffrey had said that he owed Adam his life, Grace knew that he would not do anything that might anger Adam. “I had not thought so, but he simply did not turn up to escort me tonight. Perhaps he has tired of me.”

  “So you came out alone?”

  He seemed bent on verifying that fact. Grace conceded the point. “Yes, Lord Geoffrey. I came out alone.”

  That seemed to answer some question and Lord Geoffrey half turned to face her. “I had thought you would not speak to me again, Mrs. Forbush. I collect you were quite upset with me for refusing to return Lord Grayson’s fortune.”

  “You were within your rights. I would not presume to tell you how to conduct yourself or your affairs, Lord Geoffrey.”

  He reached into his vest pocket and removed her jet earrings. “I believe these are yours, Mrs. Forbush. We did not play the game.”

  She took them and dropped them in the reticule dangling from her wrist. “Thank you,” she said. “I may yet need them for currency tonight.”

  “So you really intend to find a game tonight?”

  “Of course.”

  “I do not think Hawthorne will like that.”

  “Mr. Hawthorne does not make my decisions,” she said, letting an edge of her anger show.

  Lord Geoffrey looked as if he’d been slapped. He signaled a footman and asked for a table and a deck of cards. Grace barely had time to wonder what was afoot before there was a small table placed between them and a deck of cards in the center. He held out his hand and Grace removed the earrings from her reticule and placed them on the table.

  “There are other things to wager than your belongings, Mrs. Forbush,” he said.

  “I am a little short of the ready, Lord Geoffrey.”

  “Then shall we say ‘favors’?”

  A sense of foreboding invaded Grace’s vitals. “Please define ‘favors.’”

  He gave her a suggestive grin. “Can you not guess?”

  The silence stretched out at she studied him. He was not going to give an inch. Perhaps now was the time to ask the question that had been bothering her since meeting Lord Geoffrey. “I have heard that you are betrothed.”

  “Where did you hear that?”

  “Gossip,” she demurred. “I believe you won your bride in a game of cards with a man by the name of Talbot?”

  “That is true. But that has nothing to do with this.”

  “You have not even said your vows, and you are already planning a liaison? That does not bode well for the marriage.”

  “The liaison will be over before the vows are said.”

  “Is it your intention to be a faithful husband?”

  “That remains to be seen, Mrs. Forbush. How can I know what temptations I may face?”

  “Why?”

  He blinked. “Why, what?”

  “Why did you agree to marry a girl barely out of the schoolroom and whom you had never met?”

  His lips quirked in a derisive smile. “In case you hadn’t noticed, Mrs. Forbush, marriage is a sham under the best of circumstances. A man buys a brood mare with more success than he weds a woman. At least with a mare, he knows what he’s getting.”

  Grace could not recall hearing a more cynical opinion of marriage. “Then why marry at all, sir?”

  “At a certain point, it is expected.” He picked up the deck of cards and began shuffling. “Even rakes and reprobates have an urge to see their progeny inhabit the earth.”

  “But a wife, Lord Geoffrey? What on earth would you do with a wife?”

  “The usual. Impregnate her.”

  He was trying to shock her, but she wouldn’t rise to his bait. “And then?”

  “Leave her to the raising of my heirs.”

  “And give her nothing in return?”

  “Nothing?” he scoffed. “She will have the better end of the bargain, I warrant. Servants, gowns, a house, anything she wishes. And all she need do in return is to lie still and spread her legs on occasion and subsequently push out a brat.”

  She was glad to see, at least, that she’d been fairly accurate in what she’d told Miss Talbot. “What accounts for your poor opinion of marriage, sir?”

  Lord Geoffrey gestured broadly to the room. “Would there be any need for hells and brothels if marriage was such bliss? They’d all be home, wouldn’t they? Instead they are seeking excitement—something to spice their dull lives. And you, Mrs. Forbush? If marriage is so desirable, why have you not entered that state again?”

  “Do not think to change the subject. I asked why you gambled for a bride.”

  “Because I win at gambling. Courting is a different matter. I do not meet the sort of women I would wish to marry in gaming hells. Decent women do not come here.” He paused and grinned. “Present company excepted, of course.”

  “You should release Miss Talbot from the debt,” she blurted, and was immediately mortified. Had she just ruined any chance to cozen Lord Geoffrey?

  He just stared at her, the corners of his mouth twitching, as if he were trying to decide whether to laugh or to sneer. “Thank you for your opinion, Mrs. Forbush. Picquet or briscola?”

  “What…would it take to convince you to release Miss Talbot?” she asked softly.

  “Replace her.”

  Grace stopped breathing. There it was—the price to redeem Miss Talbot was to damn herself. All she had to do was to marry Lord Geoffrey. Unthinkable. Slowly she gathered her wits. “Briscola,” she whispered.

  “And the stakes?”

  “My earrings.” Had he really expected her to say Miss Talbot?

  He smiled as if he’d already won.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Where the hell was she? Adam glanced around the main salon of the Two Sevens, trying to bring his anger under control. When he’d arrived home and was told that Grace had gone out unescorted, he’d been infuriated. Whether she knew it or not, because of him, she could be in grave danger.

  After he’d left Carter with Taylor’s body, he’d gone in search of Reginald Hunter, then Auberville, for names. They had been loosely involved with the War Ministry and he hoped they would either have the answers he needed or would know where to look for them. It had taken him hours to run them down, and then both had denied any knowledge but had agreed to look into the matter. It had been an altogether unsatisfactory day.

  Now frustration mingled with anger, edging him perilously close to unreasonableness. He’d been to Belmonde’s, the Pigeon Hole, A Club House and 77 Jermyn Street all without luck. The Two Sevens was his last stop before heading to the Covent Garden hells. If he found her at the Blue Moon, he’d throttle her. Had she no care for her reputation? Her safety?

  He stopped a footman and asked for a whiskey. He needed something strong and raw to calm his ragged nerves. Grace was not at the rouge-et-noir, hazard or vingt-et-un tables in the grand salon, so he continued down a corridor to the smaller private rooms where more intense card games were in progress. Nodding to occasional acquaintances, he kept going, alternately cursing and praying he’d find her soon. Most disturbing of all, he’d been unable to find Geoffrey Morgan. Could they be together?

  “Ah! Here you are, Hawthorne. When I saw Mrs. Forbush, I knew you could not
be far behind.”

  Adam turned to find Ronald Barrington watching him. He nodded, giving nothing away. “Where did you see her?”

  “Grand salon,” Barrington said curtly. “In an alcove with Morgan. If I were you, I would not let her wager with that devil.”

  Adam nodded and turned to go, anxious to find Grace before she left or made some reckless wager.

  “Are you lovers?”

  He stopped. The hair on the back of his neck prickled. How dare Barrington ask that question? “Are you jealous, Barrington? Does it anger you that I might have had what you never did?”

  “Did she tell you that?” Barrington snorted. “She lied. I did. Long and often. She did things to me that a whore wouldn’t do. She can make your toes curl, can’t she, Hawthorne?”

  My God! Apart from the fact that he was a colossal liar, did he want to die? Adam stepped forward, seized Barrington by his cravat and twisted, constricting the man’s windpipe. “Another word,” he snarled in a low voice, “just one, and I’ll be having your heart for breakfast. Do you understand?”

  “Unhand me you insolent wretch,” Barrington wheezed.

  Adam released him with a little push that bounced him off the opposite wall. He waited for Barrington’s challenge, but it didn’t come. Just as well. Such a thing would cause talk and he didn’t need any more enemies in the War Department. He wheeled around and headed back down the corridor to the grand salon. The footman approached him with his whiskey on a silver tray. He lifted the glass, tossed the god-sent liquid fire down and continued without missing a step.

  In the grand salon, he noted one alcove with the curtain half drawn. He’d passed it when he’d come in, thinking it vacant. As he approached, the conversation carried to him.

  “Now your earrings are mine, Mrs. Forbush. Anything else you’d care to wager?”

  Adam did not like the hesitation before Grace’s reply. “I shall have to take inventory of my assets. I shall let you know if I come up with anything I think you’d like.”