Frovtunes’ Kiss (11 page)

“Are the two of you in financial straits?”

“Why, no, not at all.” She seemed taken aback by the notion, a little insulted. She stopped fussing with the books. “Mother and I will do well enough, I daresay, Mr. Foster.”

“Graham.”

She let out a sigh. “Mother and I deserve our fair share of my stepfather's legacy. I fully believe he set aside funds for us, a sum not entailed with the estate. This being the case, why shouldn't I see his intentions come to fruition?”

“Surely Mr. Smythe—”

She flicked her wrist. “Mr. Smythe was of no help when I visited him.” Her lashes fell, shadowing another rise of color. Obviously she remembered, as he certainly did, their first encounter at Smythe's office. “He couldn't be rid of me soon enough. It was most suspicious. I'm convinced he knows more than he's willing to say.”

“Perhaps you and I should visit him together. He's my solicitor now, and if he wishes to remain in my employ, he won't dare put me off.”

Her lack of reaction surprised him. He had expected some small show of gratitude. A sincere thank you, a warm handshake. A kiss would have been nice, but he knew better than to hope for that. Instead, those endless sable eyes narrowed once again, glittering inside lashes nearly as dark. “Why are you so willing to become involved?”

Graham circled the desk. Opening the top drawer, he offered his arm to Isis. Moira shuddered but craned her neck to watch the spider saunter to his shoulder.

“My dear, this is what I do,” he said, enjoying the way she cringed when Isis burrowed against his neck. “I decipher clues and hunt treasure. In a city as boring as London, how can I possibly resist coming to your aid?”

That much was true. He needn't add that unlocking the mysteries of Moira Hughes presented an even greater challenge, one he couldn't ignore.

Her eyebrows shot up, though whether because his reply surprised her or because Isis had just scurried beneath his chin, he couldn't say.

“I don't like London, either,” she said. “Much too dreary.”

He grinned. “I've a hunch the city's about to take on a whole palette of new colors.”

       7      

L
ater that evening, Moira swept along the upper gallery of her former London home and wondered if perhaps she hadn't taken leave of her senses. She should have returned to her lodging house hours ago to plan her next strategy, but somehow Graham Foster had ceased being her enemy and become an essential element of that strategy.

Now she was his guest for the evening, and on her way to supper wearing a gown borrowed from his sister. The notion rather made her feet drag. She and Letitia had hardly started off on cordial terms. Would the young lady accuse Moira of plundering her wardrobe?

Halfway along the gallery, she came to a halt. Something felt not quite right, an odd sensation she'd experienced earlier but hadn't paused to consider. Now she examined her surroundings. The carpet, the wall sconces, and the three crystal chandeliers were as she remembered.

An irksome feeling of being spied upon made her skin prickle. She peered to her right, and understanding struck her in one indignant wave.

Good heavens. Great-step-grandfather Elijah Foster's portrait was no longer hanging in the space it had occupied for the past seventy years. In its place hovered the image of a man with sea-blue eyes and golden brown hair. A dimple in his right cheek lent a merry aspect to an otherwise serious expression, and as Moira stared up at him, she could have sworn he winked at her.

How very like Graham Foster. Yet not quite, for the artist's rendering placed the man securely within his fourth or fifth decade of life. Graham Foster's father, perhaps?

Undoubtedly.

She strode another several paces. Aunt Patricia and Great-uncle Darnsworth were missing, as well. From their erstwhile perches stared faces she had never seen before.

She continued to the staircase and turned to view the hall. Well, at least the portrait of her stepfather sitting beside his favorite hunting hound still occupied its usual spot, but who were those rather dour-faced ladies to the left of him?

Members of the new baron's lineage, to be sure.

With a harrumph, she pivoted to descend the stairs but pulled up short, her breath catching in a gasp she immediately regretted.

Graham Foster stood a few steps below her, leaning against the banister with a careless slouch and a quizzical smile. Black evening attire, cut to display every broad, masculine line of him, lent an all-too-engaging contrast to his sun-warmed hair and skin, and to the brilliance of eyes that, like his father's, couldn't quite decide whether to be blue or green.

Oh, do stop staring, Moira. It'll swell his head
.

“Good evening,” she said, attempting to mix cordiality with a good dose of indifference. “You look rather nice tonight.”

“Good evening. And may I return the compliment, but with a good deal more enthusiasm. You are a vision.” He had the audacity to wink with the same impudence she had detected in his father's portrait. He climbed the remaining steps and stood beside her. “Ready for supper?”

She held out the rose silk skirts of her borrowed gown, hastily nipped here and let out there by a vastly relieved Mrs. Higgensworth, who was smiling again now that Moira's charade had reached its conclusion. “Do you think your sister will mind very much?”

“I fear Letty will burn with fury when she sees what that dress does on you.” He tipped a bow and extended the crook of his elbow. “Shall we?”

She hesitated. “I'd like to set some things straight first, Mr. Foster.”

“Graham.” He lowered his arm to his side.

“Yes, in fact, that's the first matter—”

“It's Graham or nothing. I won't answer to anything else.”

“We haven't known each other nearly long enough.”

“Nonsense. We're cousins.”

“Hardly. We are stepcousins several times removed.”

“True, and I'm glad about it.” He leaned closer, all but trapping her between his broad chest and the stair rail. “Glad we aren't too closely related, Moira.”

A tingling sensation raised the hairs on her arms. “Do step away, Mr.—”

“Uh-uh…” He waggled a finger in front of her face.

“Oh, all
right
. Graham. There. Are you quite happy now?”

“Very happy, Moira. Did I mention how lovely you look?”

Oh, impossible rapscallion of a man.

He caught her hand and bowed over it, heating her skin with a touch of his lips. “At long last, I meet the true Moira Hughes. I must say, I approve of her wholeheartedly.”

“You know nothing about me,” she said, uncertain whether to laugh or scold at his impertinence.

A murmur of laughter rumbled in his chest. “Then learning you shall be all the more intriguing.”

Her knees went a little watery.
Learn
her? As if he might hold all of her in his hand, turn her this way and that, explore all her parts, and…oh, dear. Her stomach dropped, contracted, then simply melted at the thought. Feeling rather dizzy, she let him tuck her hand into the bend of his elbow. They started down the stairs.

“So then…” His fingers caressed her knuckles. “What is it you wish to set straight?”

“Set straight? Ah…oh, yes.” A cool drink was what she presently wished, to clear her head and moisten a mouth gone dry. “It's, em, about what you said to the magistrate earlier. I don't need looking after. I am quite capable of taking care of myself, thank you.”

“Are you, indeed?”

“I most certainly am, Mr.—”

“Graham.”

Oh, how did he manage to beguile and infuriate her all at the same time? “Graham. Yes. Your assistance is greatly appreciated, of course. But intrusion into my private affairs—”

“Won't be tolerated?” At the bottom of the stairs he stopped, turned her to face him, and gazed directly—brazenly—into her eyes. His own gleamed with challenge. “So, as I assist you, I am to keep my distance and mind my business, sweet cousin Moira?”

She didn't voice the retort that leapt to mind, didn't dare. No matter what she said, Graham Foster somehow twisted her words, giving them double meaning and using them to his own devious advantage.

His dimples flashed. “Shall we join the others?”

If the amber tones of the Gold Saloon were familiar and reassuring, its occupants were not. These Fosters were practically strangers, mere acquaintances made under the worst of circumstances. Embarrassment over her earlier fiasco rose to sting her cheeks and scorch the tips of her ears. She found herself, much to her chagrin, clinging to the relative comfort of Graham's solid arm.

His brother, Frederick Foster, stood by a window overlooking the garden; he spared them nary a glance as they entered the room. Letitia Foster, her back also to them, hovered before the pianoforte, absently picking out odd notes with her forefinger. The Fosters' houseguest stood at her elbow, offering compliments on the lady's musical acumen. She acknowledged each with a shrug.

“Good evening, everyone,” Graham said. “I trust you've all recovered from this afternoon's excitement.”

Letitia turned at the sound of his voice, and as her gaze lighted on Moira, her face flushed several shades of crimson. “Why, that's
my
gown—”

Oddly, her complaint went unfinished. Or perhaps not so oddly. Glancing at Graham's profile, Moira saw the clear and quite stern warning he sent his sister.

“Is Miss Hughes borrowing a gown of yours, Miss Foster?” Mr. Paddington's voice rose in an obvious effort to diffuse the tension. “Allow me to compliment you on your excellent taste.”

The young lady spared him a sidelong glance. “Kind of you to say, Mr. Paddington.”

Her halfhearted acknowledgment raised a flush to the man's face, cooled an instant later when Letitia swept from his side and plunked into an overstuffed chair. Chin propped in her hand, she continued eyeing Moira with a sullen expression until footsteps clattering down the corridor announced the arrival of the one family member Moira had yet to properly meet.

“Greetings, everyone, so sorry to be late. I do hope I haven't held up supper.”

“No, Mama,” Letitia murmured in a tone that suggested her mother often hurried in for supper at the last moment. “We've only just got here ourselves.”

Like her daughter, Mrs. Foster was tall and fine-boned, her features delicate almost to sharpness. But where Letitia often spared little affability for anyone, Mrs. Foster was all smiles and eager, if slightly breathless, cordiality.

“My goodness, what an afternoon. I quite intended to be home ages ago,” the woman rambled, “but the Mastersons insisted I join them for tea. Oh, Letitia, you really should have come along. Edmond Masterson came by unexpectedly. I'm told he has six thousand a year, and he's still highly eligible, you know.” Her darting gaze lighted on Moira, and her eyebrows shot up. “Have we company tonight? How charming.”

“Edmond Masterson's a toad,” Letitia mumbled into her palm.

Her mother ignored the comment. “Do introduce our guest, Monteith.”

“Mother, this is…” Graham began, but the appearance of Mrs. Higgensworth in the doorway cut him short.

“Dinner is served.”

“Ah, lovely.” Mrs. Foster turned to lead the way into the adjoining dining room. “Oh, do forgive me, Monteith, you were introducing our guest.” Mrs. Foster paused and held Moira in her gaze. “Dear me, but you seem so familiar. Have we met?”

Frederick Foster held her chair for her, and before Moira could answer, the woman sat and gazed up at her younger son. “Where on earth have you been since last night?”

“Here and there.”

“Oh, such insolence.” But with an indulgent smile, she watched Frederick shuffle to his seat. Obviously distracted from her initial question, the woman turned her attention on her elder son. “Monteith, you'll be pleased to know your artifacts have been displayed to their very best advantage. It made me so proud seeing your name on all those placards.”