скачать книгу бесплатно
“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.
Chapter Six
T he scene with Adam had Grace on edge and impatient when Lord Barrington arrived to escort her to Belmonde’s in Pickering Place. By the time they were inside and Grace had purchased her counters, Barrington was wearing on her nerves to a high degree. He had done nothing but complain about her “ridiculous new diversion” and the “insane chances” she was taking with her reputation during the entire drive. It was eerily like listening to her brother.
The main salon of Belmonde’s was decorated in shades of deep green and gold, the lighting was dim, and the tone was more sedate and the crowd of a higher social class than at the Two Sevens. A low hum of voices played against a background of a single pianist. Feeling quite comfortable in this venue, Grace seized the first opportunity to divert him to happier matters. “My lord, I see Mr. Elwood by the vingt-et-un table. I think it would be an excellent idea for you to congratulate him on the arrival of his heir. I understand the birth went well. The baby is the picture of health and everyone is completely over the top about it.”
Barrington looked toward the group across the room. “Yes? Well, if you think I should…”
“Oh, I do,” she sighed, anxious for any respite from his complaints. “Take your time. I shall find a nice little game and settle in.”
“I dislike leaving you on your own, Grace. You’re bound to encounter trouble.”
“I swear I will find you if I should need the least little thing,” she said, straightening his cravat and sending him off with a little push in the direction of the vingt-et-un table.
She hoped to find a game of hazard. She wanted to learn it quickly, but she really must remember to ask Miss Talbot the game her brother had been playing when he lost his fortune. If she could watch Morgan at that, she might be able to determine whether he cheated or not. Though men of experience had been unable to catch him, she expected to have better luck. Morgan would not be so cautious in dealing with her, since she was a mere woman. And, she smiled to herself, she had always been of the opinion that women had the superior intellect.
Holding her wineglass in one gloved hand and her counters in the other, she circulated, watching the activity at one table and then another. She was engrossed in studying the intricacies of betting at hazard when she felt someone leaning close to her left ear.
“I wouldn’t advise it, Mrs. Forbush. The odds are heavily in favor of the house.”
She turned and smiled at Geoffrey Morgan. Had he done that deliberately? “From what I’ve been able to determine, sir, the odds are heavily in favor of the house no matter the game.”
“Precisely why I prefer to play games that pit my skills against other players instead of the house.”
Now this was interesting. Grace sighed and gave him a sidelong glance. “Few men will allow a woman at their table, Lord Geoffrey. What would you suggest I do?”
“Play with me,” he said in a low, husky voice.
Grace smiled and dropped her gaze to the silver embroidery at the hem of her gown. “Do you recommend a particular game?”
“Whist. Do you know it?”
“Quite well,” she admitted. She had learned it at a country house party many years ago where the ladies had played for pins, and she had played it frequently since. “Are you asking me to be your partner, Lord Geoffrey?”
“I’ve come looking for one. If I bring you to the table, Mrs. Forbush, no one will say you nay.”
“I am surprised that you are willing to link your fortunes to my skill when you really haven’t the slightest idea what my proficiency might be. My misjudgments could cost you dearly.”
He laughed and took her by the arm to lead her away from the main salon. “All of life is a risk, Mrs. Forbush. The greater the risk, the keener the excitement.”
She tilted her head to look up at him again and found a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. She laughed. “Then you should be very excited right now, Lord Geoffrey.”
He returned her smile. “You have no idea, Mrs. Forbush.”
Grace had a momentary flash of fear. She took a deep breath at the suggestiveness in that comment and hoped things had not just slipped out of her control. “Who are our opponents?”
“Reginald Hunter and Adam Hawthorne.”
Heavens! This had not been in her plans. Adam! Even in the midst of all these men, she could only think of that extraordinary kiss in the library and how she wished it could happen again, despite what she’d told him. She willed her breathing to even and her heartbeat to slow. There was nothing for it but to brazen it out. “Lead on, sir,” she said.
Laughter trailed off and conversation stilled as Lord Geoffrey led her into a small side room. Just the appearance of a woman could, evidently, make men feel awkward. She was entering a male domain—one that few women ever saw. It would take all her resources to ignore the fact that she wasn’t wanted here.
Lord Geoffrey led her to one of the three tables in the room and announced, “Mrs. Forbush, may I present—”
“Mrs. Forbush, how are you?” Reginald said, rising, extending his hand and smiling widely.
“I’m well, thank you, Lord Reginald.” She turned to Adam, standing, too, and appraising her with a speculative gleam in his deep hazel eyes. “I see you are fitting quite comfortably back into society, Mr. Hawthorne.”
Adam bowed and when he straightened he gave her a crooked smile coupled with one raised eyebrow. “Parts of it,” he said laconically.
He was the polar opposite of the man in buckskins she had met for the first time—now elegantly attired in sober black with a deep green waistcoat over an impeccably tied cravat. He had evidently not needed assistance with that tonight. How would she ever be able to sit across the table from him and keep from watching the way his eyes sparkled in a jest or thinking of how those lips felt on hers?
Lord Reginald, looking puzzled a moment before, began to laugh. “Ah, yes. Now I recall. Mrs. Forbush, you and Hawthorne are somehow related, are you not?”
Lord Geoffrey turned to her in surprise. “How so, Mrs. Forbush?”
“Through marriage. My late husband was Mr. Hawthorne’s uncle.”
He glanced from her to Adam and back again. “Life never ceases to amaze and delight me,” he said. He held a chair for her before taking his own across from her. “May I assume you are not in league with Mr. Hawthorne to relieve me of my ready?”
Adam leaned back in his chair and gave an easy smile but did not rise to the bait. Grace could not tell if he was insulted or amused by the gibe.
She merely laughed and turned to Reginald. “Forgive me Lord Reginald, but may I assume that you and Mr. Hawthorne are not in league to take advantage of a novice?”
“Touché, Mrs. Forbush,” Lord Geoffrey acknowledged.
With a glance and nod in the direction of a house monitor whose duty it was to observe the activities at each table, Lord Geoffrey began to shuffle the deck. Grace noted how nimble he was, how adept at handling the cards. And how quick. He slid the deck to his right and Adam cut them before Lord Geoffrey began the deal. The last card, dealt face up, was a heart, declaring the trump suit.
When Grace opened her hand and sorted her cards, she was pleased to find seven hearts. She looked up at her partner, wondering if he had somehow known and manipulated the cards. But how could he? Even if he’d known the bottom card was a heart, how could he have dealt her hearts from the middle of the deck? He was studying his hand with rapt concentration and nothing in his expression or bearing indicated that cheating was afoot. Her hand must be a happy coincidence.
Lord Reginald led and the play began. At one point she glanced up to find Morgan studying her over his hand. He raised his eyebrows as if asking a question. She smiled, realizing he was flirting with her. Rather effectively, too.
When she took the last trick for a total of ten, Lord Geoffrey smiled. “Well done, partner,” he said.
“Well dealt,” she answered.
