“Nenemoosha. The Chippewa word for sweetheart.”

“Nenemoosha,” she repeated. Then more slowly, softer, “Nenemoosha…” with a wistful sigh.

He leaned toward her, unable to resist the word said so sweetly. “Say, metea.”

“Metea?” she asked.

“Do not say it like a question,” he instructed.

“Metea,” she repeated.

He leaned the rest of the way across the little tea table and deposited a kiss on her lips.

“Again?” he asked.

“Metea.”

Again he kissed her, deeper, fuller.

When he sat back, she smiled. Ah, she understood that the word was an invitation.

“Metea, metea, metea,” she said.

Tugging her into his arms, he took intense satisfaction in the feel of her against him. God forgive him, it did not matter if she was telling the truth. He wanted her. And that was all that mattered at this moment.

“You owe me, Mrs. Forbush,” he said against her lips. “And I want payment…!”

Praise for Gail Ranstrom

Saving Sarah

“Gail Ranstrom has written a unique story with several

twists that work within the confines of Regency

England…. If Ranstrom’s first book showed promise,

then Saving Sarah is when Ranstrom comes of age.”

—The Romance Reader

A Wild Justice

“Gail Ranstrom certainly has both writing

talent and original ideas.”

—The Romance Reader

The Missing Heir
Gail Ranstrom

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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Dedicated to The Hussies,

for their unfailing friendship,

nurturing and support.

Special thanks to Eileen G., Lisa W. and Suzi S.— the Wild Writers. Thanks for keeping me focused, writing and laughing.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Prologue

Wednesday, May 24, 1820

“B ut there was something relentlessly methodical in the way my brother was fleeced, and that is why I suspect cheating.” Miss Laura Talbot sat primly on the edge of her chair, an air of expectancy hovering about her like a storm cloud. “Can you help me?”

Grace Forbush glanced at the four other women in her parlor. Annica Sinclair, Lady Auberville, merely blinked. Charity MacGregor arched her eyebrows and tilted her head to one side. Lady Sarah Travis shook her head in sympathy, and Dianthe Lovejoy shot a worried glance back at Grace.

Grace delicately cleared her throat and set her teacup aside. “Before we undertake any case, Miss Talbot, you must understand that the Wednesday League is devoted to obtaining justice for women. Justice. You must be completely candid with us, and you must accept that, should we discover your brother’s gaming debts are honest, we can do nothing to help you. We cannot alter the truth, merely uncover it.” And Grace more than half suspected the debt was honest. Who, after having lost his entire fortune, did not cry “foul”?

“Yes, of course.” Miss Talbot nodded eagerly. “I have been candid, and though I would not like the consequences, I am willing to abide by them.”

“What are the consequences to you, Miss Talbot?” Lady Annica asked. “Aside from reduced circumstances?”

“Two and a half weeks hence, on the tenth of June, I am to wed Lord Geoffrey Morgan. You see, I was a part of my brother’s last desperate wager.”

“Lord Geoffrey Morgan?” Lady Sarah frowned and shot a glance at Grace. “He must have been desperate, indeed.”

Grace nodded. Her own experience had been remarkably similar to Miss Talbot’s, down to the blend of old and new bruises on Miss Talbot’s arms, and likely other, less exposed, places. And, like her own brother, Grace saw this as evidence that Miss Talbot’s brother delighted in the infliction of pain and complete domination. Unlike Miss Talbot, however, she had found marriage to a stranger an escape rather than an unacceptable fate.

“I gather Lord Geoffrey is not a choice you would make for yourself?” she asked.

“Heavens no!” Miss Talbot gasped. “I’ve met him only once, the day after my brother’s losing wager. He is a gambler, and when I asked my friends about him, I learned that he has a very murky reputation. The very idea of marriage to such a man is abhorrent to me.”

The Wednesday League knew Geoffrey Morgan. He had been close to Constance Bennington, a member of their group, before her death. He’d disappeared for several years after her death, and then returned under a rather dark cloud. Grace studied Miss Talbot closely. The girl was perhaps ten and seven, and very pretty in an ordinary sort of way. She had a lovely complexion, even features, wide brown eyes and a trim figure. Grace could only imagine what marriage to a man who had to gamble for a bride would do to an innocent like Laura Talbot. Well, not while she breathed! Laura would have the chance that Grace never had.

Grace leaned forward and patted Miss Talbot’s hand. “If Lord Geoffrey has been cheating, we shall discover it, my dear. Meantime, I would like you to think about simple refusal of your brother’s debt. It is his debt, after all, and not yours. I do not think the courts would look kindly on this sort of thing.”

Miss Talbot glanced down at her lap. “If this were taken to the courts, the scandal would ruin what is left of the family reputation. Regardless, my integrity and reputation would be stained. I cannot decide which I dread more at the moment, Mrs. Forbush—my brother’s wrath or Lord Geoffrey’s attentions. I suspect my brother has the capacity to make my life exceedingly more unpleasant than Lord Geoffrey. And, since I have not reached my majority, I am obligated to my brother.”

That, too, was familiar territory! But Grace had not been gambled away by her brother. She’d been arbitrarily bartered for land adjoining their estate.

Charity MacGregor stood and went to glance out the parlor window at the park across the street. “Strategically speaking, Grace, how are we to accomplish this task? We cannot march into gaming hells and demand to see betting books, nor can we cast dice or bet on the turn of a card.”

They couldn’t, it was true. But she, as an independent widow of spotless reputation and high social consequence, would have a certain immunity in these matters. Society would watch her for any misstep, but they would allow her more latitude than a spinster or married woman, believing she would soon tire of it. And she would—within two and a half weeks.

Squaring her shoulders, she said, “I shall lead the investigation. I am certain I can persuade Lord Barrington to introduce me to the appropriate persons.” She turned back to Laura Talbot and smiled. “Do not worry, Miss Talbot. I promise that I will do everything within my power to prevent your marriage to Lord Geoffrey. And I shall begin tomorrow.”

Chapter One

A dam Hawthorne turned his face upward and breathed deeply of the warm spring rain before entering the imposing graystone building at precisely ten o’clock. He turned the collar of his fringed buckskin jacket down and shook the raindrops from his hair. Such niceties as hats and greatcoats had been sadly absent in the northwest wilderness and, after four years, deuced difficult to even remember.

Barely one day back in England and he was already feeling out of place. He supposed the buckskins didn’t help. How long would it take him to think and feel like an Englishman again? A week? A month? Ever? Ah, well, at least he’d remembered to do his duty first and leave personal concerns for later.

He strode up the stairs to the second floor, down the hall to a door at the end, and announced himself to a slender young man wearing wire spectacles. “Adam Hawthorne to see Lord Barrington.”

The young man’s gaze swept Adam from head to toe and curiosity registered behind the pale blue eyes. That glance brought home to Adam just how starkly foreign he must look in a London Ministry building. He supposed he should elevate finding a tailor and a barber to the next item on his list of things to do. But that would depend on what he found out here.

“His lordship is expecting you, sir. Please go in.”

Adam rapped sharply on the frosted-glass pane of the door before opening it and stepping through. Lord Ronald Barrington glanced up from a stack of papers.

“Hawthorne! By God, ’tis good to see you.” He gestured at a leather-upholstered chair in front of his desk. “Sit down, man. When I got your message earlier, I was dumbfounded. You were reported dead four years ago.”

“So I’ve heard, my lord.”

“Why are you here, Hawthorne? You’re a diplomatic attaché, so I am not in your line of command.”

“Yes, sir, but I was attached to the military at Fort Garry. I reported to Lord Craddock the minute I got off the ship and, once he’d taken my statement, he suggested I see you as a courtesy. He thought some of the intelligence I gathered might be of interest to you.”

“Indeed?” Barrington looked intrigued as he called the clerk into his private sanctum and instructed him to take notes. “Well, give over, man. I’m always interested in what’s happening in the northwestern reaches.”

It was well into the afternoon before Lord Barrington sat back in his chair and nodded, dismissing the clerk with a wave of his hand. “Thank you, Hawthorne. Your information should prove useful. Despite the Treaty of Ghent five years ago, I do not delude myself that the French influence in Canada is over.”

Adam nodded. Now that business was out of the way, he could pursue his personal agenda—the one that had driven him for the past four years, and the real reason Lord Craddock had referred him to Barrington. “I need a piece of information from you, Lord Barrington.”

“Ask. I’m much in your debt and I’ll be pleased to answer anything.”

“I’d like the name of the military attaché at Fort Garry four years ago.” Indeed, he wanted that name more than he wanted breath and life. Finding the name of the bastard who’d given the order to decimate the Chippewa tribe he’d been lodged with was the only thing that had kept him alive through long, frigid winters huddled in wigwams, through deprivation and starvation and homelessness.

“Any particular reason you want that information, Hawthorne?”

Adam affected nonchalance. He softened his expression and offered a smile. “Just curious who reported me dead, sir.”

“I believe it was a party from the local fort. They rode out on patrol and came back with the news that everyone, to the last woman and child, had been murdered in warfare by a rival tribe.”

Idiots! Bloody damned idiots! Had they even investigated the attack? Likely not. It had only been made to look like tribal warfare. Was Barrington covering the truth, or was he foolish enough to believe that neighboring tribes simply attacked each other without reason or provocation? He couldn’t be that naive. But with Barrington’s help or not, someone would eventually talk—even if it was at the point of Adam’s knife.

His long years in the Diplomatic Corps came to his aid. Slipping into his English skin, he buried his anger and gave Barrington a bland smile. “I’d like to tell him in person that there were a few survivors. I’d think that would ease his mind.”

“Yes, but how did you survive? The word we received said that not a single living thing was left. Given the savagery of the attack, it was believed no prisoners were taken.”

Adam nodded. “None were, my lord. I’d gone out with a small hunting party the day before the attack. There were eight of us, and when we returned to the village and found…well, believing the English were responsible, and rather than kill me, my hosts took me hostage and we rode south to…to a place the Indians call Chick’a gami. You’ve heard the rest, sir.”

“Aye. Well, I’ll have to search through the records for his name. It may take some time. Will you be in town?”

Tension drained from Adam’s shoulders. He stood and smiled. “Yes, sir. I still have some business here. Lord Craddock said he would have me reinstated and secure my back pay. I’ll need it to repair and stock my cottage and lands in Devon. Since I was reported dead, I imagine the stock was sold off, but I pray the cottage is still in the family.”

“Family,” Barrington repeated. He looked thoughtful.

“Well, only Uncle Basil and I remain, unless that young wife of his has given him heirs.”

“You’ve not gone there?”

Adam recalled the expansive home on Bloomsbury Square and smiled. “I wanted my business finished so that I could relax and enjoy the reunion. I’ve never met my new aunt, you know. Uncle Basil said he met her while selling a parcel of land to her brother. She was in the country when I was last in London on my way to Ghent, but I saw the portrait of her in Uncle Basil’s study.”

And what a portrait it had been! It had kept his blood humming for weeks afterward, and many long winter nights since. Dark, sultry eyes gazed out of a face of sheer perfection. Her expression had been self-possessed and confident, and Adam found himself envious of his aging uncle for the first time. He’d suspected the wife was a fortune hunter, since a woman like that could have married someone considerably higher in station. And considerably younger. He wondered if there’d still be fire in those dark eyes.

Barrington heaved a deep sigh and wouldn’t meet Adam’s gaze. “Damn it all, Hawthorne. Craddock should have told you. I’m afraid I’ve got bad news. Your uncle expired immediately after we’d had word of your death. Everyone said it was the grief, but it went beyond that.”

Adam sat again, trying to comprehend this last in a chain of bitter disappointments. “How….”

“He hadn’t been well. He did his best to hide it from you on your last visit. Didn’t want to worry you, he said. When we got the news of your death, the spirit went out of him. I helped his widow make the final arrangements and put his business in order. The last thing he did was change his will to leave everything to her.”

Adam nodded, registering the logic in that. He had already discovered through his earlier visit to his bank that his uncle had closed his bank accounts and taken his assets, but he had been confident they would be returned to him. Ah, but now everything was in the possession of his widow, and it was anyone’s guess what she would do. “Well, there appears to be some matters we will have to sort out. Did she and my uncle have heirs?”

“No,” Barrington admitted.

“Has she remarried?”

“She seems quite content to be a widow.”

A niggling suspicion grew from his hunch that she’d been a fortune hunter. Had she sped her husband’s demise once the competition for his money was gone? No. Barrington just said his uncle had been ill even before his last visit.

“She lives quietly,” Barrington continued. “Her reputation is of the highest order. Not a breath of scandal.”

“Discreet, then,” he concluded.

“There is nothing to be discreet about. She’s blameless.”

Adam glanced up at Lord Barrington. His reaction to the implied criticism was telling. All the signs were there. Damned if Barrington wasn’t in love with his widowed aunt! He cleared his throat and stood. “Good to know,” he said, heading for the door. “You’ll let me know when you find the name of the military advisor at Fort Garry?”

“Where shall I send word?”

He smiled, an idea taking root. There was only one way to get to the bottom of his uncle’s death. “I’ll let you know when I’m settled, sir.”

The sound of a bell downstairs announced a visitor. A quick glance at the little enameled clock on her bedside table urged Grace to haste. Ronald Barrington must have come early. He was not supposed to pick her up for another hour. Mrs. Dewberry, her housekeeper, would put him in the library with a glass of port, but she did not like to leave him alone so long. He had a propensity to snoop through her private correspondence.

Glaring in her mirror, she fussed with a few stubborn strands of hair. She always wore the dark mass smoothed back and contained in a tidy chignon due to its unruly tendencies and she never felt completely groomed until it was perfect.

“Really, Aunt Grace, I think you should snip half of it off and leave the rest in curls.” Dianthe shook her own blond ringlets and laughed. “I’ve never seen hair so long you could sit on before. And I think you’d look younger with it down.”

Yes, that was half the problem. Grace did not want to look younger. Though less than ten years older than Dianthe, she had learned to act twenty years her senior. She smiled. “If I cut it, I’ll never gain control of it again.”

Grace met Dianthe’s gaze in the mirror. She was lying across the bed and resting her chin on the heel of her hand. It was generally acknowledged that Dianthe was one of the reigning beauties of the Season. With her pale blond hair and petite figure, she drew admiring glances wherever she went. What an observant young woman she was! Perhaps that was why she was so adept at maneuvering through complicated courtships and unwanted entanglements—she saw them coming and avoided them, much as Grace had done since Basil’s death.

“Yes, I suppose it is,” she finally admitted.

“Why have you never considered Barrington as a potential husband?”

Should she give her niece the easiest answer, or the truth? Heavens, not the truth! That was too humiliating to admit. “It is not that I think he would be cruel or unkind, but he occasionally smothers me with his condescension and his attempts to mold me into his ideal. And I do not love him the way a wife should love a husband.” There. That much was true.

Dianthe’s china-blue eyes twinkled. “You mean, like my sister loves the McHugh?”

“Yes. Like that,” Grace said. “McHugh’s passions are very close to the surface. One look at him and Afton and there can be no doubt that they are made for each other.”

“That kind of love is very rare.” She sighed and pushed herself into a sitting position. “I am certain I would not be comfortable with something so fierce. Better a man I can manage. And you can manage Lord Barrington quite nicely, Aunt Grace. That should be an advantage.”

Oh, if Dianthe only knew! She fastened a crystal-studded snood over her chignon and stood. She smoothed her gown, a deep burgundy satin that lent her an air of mature elegance—an image she was constantly striving to achieve. If anyone should guess what lay beneath the surface, she would be finished in society.

“Enough about me, Dianthe. Shall we discuss you instead? What are you doing tonight?”

“Nothing so interesting as you. Are you certain I cannot come with you and Lord Barrington?”

Grace laughed. “Positive.”

“Hmm. Then I suppose I shall have to go to Hortense and Harriet Thayer’s dinner party with Lady Sarah and her husband. Not nearly as much fun as you will have, I wager.”

“Wager? Very amusing, Dianthe. This is but the first step. I doubt I will do much wagering tonight. I only intend to accustom myself to the atmosphere and the customs—perhaps learn a game or two before I pit myself against Lord Geoffrey so that I will not look like a complete novice.”

“Has dear Ronnie asked you about your sudden interest in gambling?”

“He did indeed. It required a little more persuasion than I had anticipated to elicit his help. I simply told him that I wanted to do something new.”

Dianthe laughed. “I think he consented just to keep you from asking one of your other admirers to escort you. Still, it must have sent him into a tizzy.”

More like a rage!

Grace’s bedroom door flew open and Mrs. Dewberry stood there, looking for all the world as if the sky had fallen.

“Oh, Mrs. Forbush! There’s a man downstairs—a Red Indian! He wants in. I’ve tried to send him away, but he will not go.”

Dianthe stood and glanced toward the corridor, her eyes round with excitement. “A Red Indian? How very intriguing. I wonder what he could want.”

“I cannot imagine.” The last thing Grace wanted to deal with at the moment was a confused foreigner. Well, she’d simply have to give him directions and send him on his way. “Where did you leave him, Mrs. Dewberry?”

“In the library, Mrs. Forbush. Couldn’t very well leave him on the stoop, could I? What if the neighbors saw?”

Grace sighed. She was less concerned about what the neighbors would say than she was with the stranger himself. A Red Indian could be dangerous. What if she could not make him understand her, as Mrs. Dewberry had been unable to do? She composed herself and hurried down the stairs. She wanted to be rid of the man before Lord Barrington arrived.

Dianthe followed close on her heels. “I’ve never seen a Red Indian before,” she whispered. “I wonder if they are as fierce as I’ve heard. Should I fetch a pistol?”

“Of course not,” Grace said, bracing to open the library door. “But if he begins to make trouble, fetch Mr. Dewberry. I believe he is in the coach house.” She lifted her chin and opened the door silently.

A man, tall and lean, stood at the side table with his back to her, holding a brandy bottle and a glass. He was dressed in buckskin leather breeches, a jacket with fringed arms and yoke, and moccasins that extended to his knees and, above that, a long, lethal-looking knife strapped to his right thigh. His hair, long and bound back with a leather thong, was a medium brown with glints of light playing through it from the firelight. The set of his shoulders shifted almost imperceptibly and Grace knew he was aware of her presence.

Behind her, Dianthe drew in a soft breath and touched Grace’s arm as if she would pull her back. Grace shook her head to warn Dianthe to silence. She sensed that she could show no weakness or uncertainty.

Taking two steps into the library, she affected what she hoped would pass for a pleasant but firm countenance. “Good evening, sir. Is there something I can do to assist you?”

He turned to her and she nearly gasped. He was definitely not an Indian. He appeared to be perhaps four or five years older than she, his skin was deeply tanned but his eyes were a greenish hazel. He had a strong, straight nose—an aristocratic nose—and full sensual lips. A shadow of whiskers darkened his jaw and, when he moved toward her, the brandy in his glass scarcely shifted for the smoothness and grace of his gait. He moved like an animal, silent and steady. His chest, bare beneath the loose laces of his jacket, was strongly muscled and Grace found her gaze riveted there. She wanted to look away, but she just couldn’t. She was mesmerized.

He smiled and the flash of white teeth completely disarmed her. Her heart pounded wildly and her breathing deepened. He extended one large hand to take hers and bowed over it. His lips were firm and cool, and the contact made her head swim. Heavens! What was wrong with her?

When he straightened, he flashed another of those startling smiles. “Hello, Aunt Grace.”

Chapter Two

F rom her quickly hidden look of astonishment, Adam gathered that she had no idea what to do with the savage in her library. Interesting, the reactions he’d gotten from people who, four years ago, would have entertained him gladly. He surmised by the manner of her dress that he’d interrupted her as she was preparing for an evening out. She was every inch as stunning as her portrait—sultry, lush, distant. Untouchable?

She blinked and a guarded look settled over her perfect features. “I fear you must have me confused with someone else.”

Ah, that was good. Very smooth. Not a single gesture betrayed anything other than a natural confusion beneath the surface. Even her voice was calm. Admiration filled him at her aplomb. He’d known many ambassadors with less self-possession.

He released her hand reluctantly. She was the first Englishwoman he’d touched in four years, and he was startled by the suppressed hunger that surged in him. “My name is Adam Hawthorne—your husband’s nephew. Perhaps he mentioned me?”

Her dusky-rose lips parted slightly, as if she were struggling to say something but couldn’t think how to put it in words. “Adam?” she finally managed to say. “I…we were told that you were killed in an Indian attack.”

“The news of my death was a bit premature.” He grinned.

“Oh, dear.” She pressed one finger to the bridge of her nose in a gesture of distress and her eyes welled with tears. “I—I do not know quite how to tell you this, Mr. Hawthorne, but your uncle…my husband…is dead.”

Her sympathy caught him by surprise and he held his own grief inside. He would deal with that later, and in private. “Would that mean that I am not welcome here?” he asked.

“Oh! Of course you are welcome. You were Mr. Forbush’s only relative. He spoke of you often.”

“Did he?” She referred to her husband as Mr. Forbush? That did not exactly tell of an intimate relationship. Had all the fondness been on his uncle’s part?

“In glowing terms. He was very proud of you.”

He held up his brandy glass and said, “I hope you do not mind that I helped myself. It has been many years since I’ve had strong drink.”

“Of course not. You must make yourself at home.”

Oh, he planned to make himself very much at home. “Thank you, Aunt Grace.” He paused to give a self-mocking grin. “I am sorry if I sound flippant, but it seems awkward to call someone obviously younger than I ‘Aunt.’”

She gestured toward the sofa in front of the fireplace. “I am afraid this whole situation is a bit awkward, Mr. Hawthorne. To say I am surprised is somewhat of an understatement.”

“No less surprised than I to find my uncle had died in my absence.”

She glanced over her shoulder at a lovely blond creature who looked to be pinned to the spot. “Mr. Hawthorne, may I present my niece, Miss Dianthe Lovejoy.”

He bowed, noting that the girl was staring at his laced buckskins. She stepped a little closer to her aunt. For protection?

Grace took a few more steps into the room. “May I prevail upon you to tell me the details of your…arrival here?”

He hadn’t the heart to go through that another time today. An abbreviated version would have to do. “Not much to tell,” he said, sitting on the edge of the sofa. He was tempted to see if his worn buckskins had stained the silk damask. “I was taken hostage by a small band of Chippewa four years ago and when I was free to leave, I found there were compelling reasons to stay. I’ve only just come to a point where returning was imperative.”

“And here you are,” she finished, taking a chair across from him.

She folded her hands in her lap and Adam used the moment to congratulate himself on his assessment from the portrait he’d seen all those years ago. His uncle’s wife was, indeed, all cool composure on the outside. Cool enough to kill his uncle? Ah, but there was something else there, something the artist had been unable to capture with brushstrokes on canvas. A hint of fire and depth was carefully banked beneath the icy exterior. It was a smoldering heat that could clearly bring a man to his knees with desire, but not many would have the courage to penetrate her intimidating demeanor. But he had seen enough of the world to know that Grace Forbush was a woman who barely held herself in check. She was hiding more than that smoldering sexuality, and he would not leave London until he discovered what it was.

“I’d have written,” he said at length, “but there was nowhere to post a letter.”

She smiled and nodded, and a small shift of her shoulders indicated a decision. “How long will you be in town, Mr. Hawthorne?”

“Not long. I have a few business matters to conclude, and I’d like to contact some old friends, then I shall go to Devon. Or, depending upon the answers I get here, back to Canada.”

“Have you decided to make your home there?”

“No.” He glanced down into his brandy. Home. He’d traveled the world in search of it, but he’d never found “home.” Even England felt foreign now. He gave himself a mental shake and looked up again. “But there is a matter still pending.”

She looked curious but she was too well bred to ask the question. Instead she changed the subject. “Have you found comfortable accommodations in town, sir?”

He’d stayed in a flash house last night after debarking. He’d lain awake, waiting for one of the thugs who’d sized him up to steal the leather pouch with all he had left in the world. But no one had bothered him—likely because he’d slept with his knife in his hand—the deadly razor-edged knife that had become his constant companion in the last four years. “My ship docked late so I found a room near the wharves. Then, of course, there’s the money. As I’ve been reported dead, I imagine my accounts were closed?”

The lovely widow knit her brow and pressed an index finger to her forehead again. He wondered if she realized that she was betraying emotion with that gesture. “Mr. Hawthorne, you must stay here, of course.”

“Very kind of you, Mrs. Forbush, but—”

“No. I insist. You see, Mr. Forbush closed your accounts and, in the absence of another heir, absorbed your assets.”

Adam managed to look surprised. “I see. Well, that is the logical thing for him to have done.”

“Yes, but it poses a complication now. I will need to go through the accounts and separate your assets from his and attribute any interest that would have been yours had your accounts remained open. I have made some investments with the funds, and those will revert to you, of course. I am afraid the accounting will take a little time. Or, if you would prefer not to stay here, I could advance you a portion and—”

“I’d be pleased to lodge with you.” If he gave her another moment to think of alternatives, she’d probably withdraw her invitation. It suited his purposes much better to stay here. “Truth to tell, Mrs. Forbush, I shall enjoy feeling a part of the family again,” he hastened to add. That much was true. He longed for a sense of belonging, but had never found it. That emptiness had led him to the Diplomatic Corps. Perhaps he’d thought he’d find “home” in his travels. He hadn’t. Just more solitude.

Adam smiled as his hostess requested her niece’s assistance. “Dianthe, please find Mrs. Dewberry and have her prepare the guest suite for Mr. Hawthorne. And ask her to send up a bath and…and the trunk in the attic that has Mr. Hawthorne’s name on it.” She turned back to him and tilted her head to one side as Miss Dianthe hurried from the room. “Perhaps there is something there that you can wear until you have time to see a tailor, Mr. Hawthorne, but we shall have to air them out. They are likely to smell of camphor and dust. Have you had your dinner yet?”

How efficient she was. There appeared to be nothing that could shake her composure for long. She’d have made an excellent diplomat’s wife. “I’m afraid not.”

“I shall ask Mrs. Dewberry to bring you a tray.”

Was he to be banned from the table? “I wouldn’t want to be any trouble.”

“No trouble at all, sir. I regret that Dianthe and I will not be able to join you tonight. We both have previous commitments. But tomorrow we shall take some time to become better acquainted. We shall look forward to hearing tales of your adventures.”

The only tales he had to tell were not fit for civilized ears, Adam thought. But they would most definitely become better acquainted while he took the woman’s measure. Was she a fortune hunter? Might there be something odd about his uncle’s death? He intended to find out.

As their coach drew close to an infamous hell near St. James Square, Grace finally spoke. “You knew? Why did you not warn me? I was so astonished that I must have looked an utter fool.”

At least Ronald Barrington had the good sense to look shame-faced. “I had no idea he would come to see you today. I thought he’d settle in somewhere and—”

She pulled her green silk-lined pelisse closer around her and clutched her beaded reticule tighter as the dank air seeped through the coach window. “He has settled in—at my house. Not that I begrudge him hospitality for a single second, but this was hardly a good time for it.”

“’Twasn’t in my plans, either, Grace. This has caused some damned inconvenient problems for me, as well.”

She glanced sideways at her escort. In his late fifties, slightly overweight and with a florid complexion, he could still confound her with his pomposity. “What inconvenience has it caused you?”

“Ah, well, ’tis business, m’dear. No need to worry your little head about it. I only wonder what the ton will say about his presence in your house.”

“No one will gossip. I rather think there would be a greater scandal if I refused him shelter. And, despite his rather eccentric appearance, he seems to possess the requisite manners to get along in society.”

“Send him on his way, Grace. He’s older than you, you’re both unmarried and people will speculate. Do you want your friends peddling your business behind their fans?”

“My friends would never peddle my business. And I’ve done nothing improper.” Still, gossip regarding her sheltering a single man could cause a problem. If word got back to her brother…. Lord! He’d come to London and drag her back to Devon by her hair!

Barrington gave her a speculative look. “And now we are on the subject of improper, why have you suddenly taken an interest in gaming?”

Grace was prepared for the question. She disliked telling half-truths, and she loathed the necessity, but Ronald Barrington was not, and would never be, privy to Wednesday League business. That was always strictly confidential. She sighed and glanced out the coach window. “I’ve told you, sir. I am bored half to death. I crave something different. Something more exciting.”

“I could give you something more exciting, Grace,” he intoned meaningfully, leaning closer and squeezing her arm.

What in the world had gotten into Lord Barrington? He’d never pressed her thus before. They’d always been clear that theirs was a platonic friendship, though they’d allowed the ton to think otherwise. And anyway, it was completely beyond her imagination why men thought a sweaty, uncomfortable coupling in the sheets was such fun. For her, it had been—no, that was well-traveled territory. She would not go there again. She hadn’t put herself through that since Basil had died.

What was wrong with her? Why had all these ghosts risen to haunt her? Adam Hawthorne’s sudden resurrection must have upset her more than she’d thought. He’d looked almost savage in his buckskins and long hair, and something deeply disturbing inside her had answered that primal pull. The sight of his leather breeches snug over strongly muscled thighs, the jacket straining against his shoulders and chest, and the raw masculinity he exuded had stolen her wits.

She took a deep breath as she prepared to exit the coach. She needed to put thoughts of Mr. Hawthorne behind her. He was a distraction from her goal. Tonight she would learn at least two popular games and the rudiments of placing bets. She must be prepared before she took on Lord Geoffrey at his own game.

Well past midnight, ignoring the looks of suspicion and wariness from the other patrons of the Eagle Tavern, Adam stepped up to the bar and fastened the publican with a steady gaze. “Fast Freddie?” he asked.

The barkeeper gave him a long look. “Who wants t’know?”

“Hawthorne,” he answered, without any real hope that would grant him access. Adam realized his appearance was a disadvantage—anything that called attention in this part of town was a disadvantage.

The man blinked once, then nodded toward the stairs. “Upstairs,” he said.

Good God. Four years later and Freddie Carter still kept “hours” in an upstairs room of the Eagle Tavern off Red Lion Square. He could scarcely believe his luck. He climbed the stairs, his moccasins silent on the treads. He rapped twice on the solid door and stood back.

A deep voice called, “Yes?”

“I’m looking for Fast Freddie,” he answered.

“Is that Hawthorne?” the voice called from within. “Good Lord, man! I heard you were back scarce an hour ago!” The door opened wide and Freddie clapped a meaty hand on Adam’s shoulder and dragged him inside. “I heard you’d gone native, but I wouldn’t believe it until now. Aye, but you’re a sight for sore eyes.”

Adam grinned. “And I scarce dared believe you’d still be holding court in a seedy tavern. Shouldn’t you have saved the world by now?”

The man laughed and pulled him nearer the fire. “Got thrown off schedule when you left, Hawthorne, but now you’re here and we’ll get back on track.” Freddie pressed a tankard of stout into his hand and went to lock the door.

“Have I interrupted business hours?” he asked.

“Just wrapping things up for the night, Hawthorne. Anyone who had a private commission for me would have come by now. Do you have something to occupy me?”

“Not at the moment.”

“Something to do with your travels, I warrant.” Freddie leaned back in his wooden chair, tipping it onto the back legs.

Adam grinned but said nothing. Fredrick Carter had always been perceptive. That was his gift, and it was what made him one of the best investigators in England.

When they’d been in their final term at Eton, Freddie’s father had been killed by street thugs for his watch and wedding ring. Adam had gone on to Cambridge, but Freddie had been forced to support himself, his mother and his three brothers. He’d devoted himself to bringing his father’s murderer to justice, he’d collected the reward and his course was set. Now he craved the excitement and danger of being a thief taker. Couldn’t live without it, he’d told Adam. He’d even persuaded Adam to work with him on a few cases before Adam was posted to Toronto.

“Come then,” Freddie said as he took a deep swallow from his tankard, “and tell me about your adventures. What did you do to get yourself reported dead?”

Adam emptied his tankard, savoring the dark earthy flavor of the stout. He launched into the story he’d already told Craddock and Barrington but added detail he’d only share with a friend. Freddie’s eyes widened as he concluded. “Then, when they realized I could not be guilty of the massacre, I’d become so mired in tribal warfare and retribution that I couldn’t leave.”

“Four years with Indians,” Freddie mused. “There’s even more to the story than you’ve told, Hawthorne. Does it have anything to do with that thing on your arm?”

Adam glanced down at the intricately beaded band on his left wrist. “Everything,” he admitted.

“A gift?”

“From Nokomis, a beautiful Indian maid. I found her gutted and scalped when we returned to the village.”

“You loved her,” Freddie said softly.

Nokomis, Daughter of the Moon, had been infinitely sweet and funny, and she’d owned his heart completely. “Nokomis was eight, the chief’s daughter, and like a daughter to me. I’ve seen war before, Freddie, but this…this was different.”

“So it took you four years to find the sons of bitches? Time well spent, I’d say.”

“We hunted the warriors down one by one, but we never found the one the Indians called Long Knife, for the sword he wore. That man, Freddie, was an Englishman and British soldier. I’d wager my soul he was the one in command of that attack.”

Freddie whistled softly as he tipped his chair forward and went to stir the fire. “So that’s what brought you back. Can’t say as I blame you. Only promise you will not gut an English soldier on a London street. I’d hate to have to bring you in.”

Adam stared into the glowing embers, remembering how Nokomis had thrown her arms around his neck and begged him to wait for her until she’d grown up. So sweet, so innocent, she’d sworn she would marry no one but him.

When he’d found her in the mass of putrid bodies, she bore cuts that could only have come from an English blade. Adam prayed he had retained enough of a grip on his decidedly English values to restrain himself from killing the man who’d done that. It would be a near thing, though, in view of the fact that he hadn’t exercised much of that restraint lately. “I think I can safely promise you that I will not gut the man, Freddie.”

“Good. Meantime, what are your plans?”

Adam ran his fingers through his long hair. “Find a barber and a tailor. I’ve reported to my superiors and, until I am officially declared alive, I’m on my own. Craddock said I’d be reinstated, but I wonder if that’s a good idea. Another assignment like the last could end me.”

“Do you not have property in Wiltshire or Devonshire?”

He nodded. “Devonshire. But since I’ve been declared dead, there are a few complications.”

“Ah. But it will all be yours anyway, now that your uncle is dead.”

“Barrington said he’d left everything to his widow.”

“Bloody hell,” Freddie murmured. “I gather that’s the complication?”

Adam nodded. “My uncle’s widow has claimed his fortune and mine. She’s young, beautiful and, now, very rich. There were no children. I’m wondering if she could have…”

Freddie sighed. “Greed makes people do strange things, Hawthorne. I won’t lie to you—there were whispers to that effect. But the gossip died and suspicion was dropped. Where can I reach you? Where are you staying?”

“With my aunt, Grace Forbush. Bloomsbury Square.”

Freddie’s laughter followed him down the stairs. “Watch your back, Hawthorne.”

Chapter Three

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.

Chapter Four

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.”

Chapter Five

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.

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