The Missing Heir

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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