Frovtunes’ Kiss (14 page)

If only he hadn't come along, he might have spared her this humiliation. He couldn't change that, but he could take pains not to increase her discomfiture.

“If you can manage packing on your own, Moira, there is a small matter I might attend to. Would you mind very much?”

She brightened a tiny bit. “Not at all. I don't wish to keep you from more pressing business.”

“Would an hour be sufficient?”

“I believe that would do.” Her look of genuine relief tugged at his heart and made him glad he'd posed the suggestion.

“Don't carry your bags down by yourself. I'll send my driver up when we return.”

A quarter hour later, Graham alighted from the coach, burning to smash something. Standing outside the offices of Smythe and Davis, Legal Consultants, he struggled to remain calm while at the same time attempting to estimate the force of a slam necessary to reduce the door's etched window to a glittering shower of glass. It wouldn't solve a single one of Moira's problems, but it would bring him a certain satisfaction.

Hands fisted, he drew breath in and out, steadying his nerves and reining in his anger. Shaun had discovered the whereabouts of Moira's lodging house from Mr. Pierson, Smythe's secretary. That meant Smythe also must have known. Devil take the solicitor for his incompetence. The man should have interceded, should have made arrangements more suitable for a lady.

Graham regarded the doorknob, a polished brass ball of reflected sunlight. One more deep breath enabled him to grasp and turn it, even if setting his shoulder to the door and ramming it down better suited his mood.

The jangle of a bell above his head nearly undid his tenuous composure. Seated at the paneled oak desk, Smythe's secretary squinted up at him from over a sheaf of papers.

“Your lordship.” He lowered the documents and pushed his spectacles higher on his nose. “We weren't expecting you.”

“No, you weren't.” Graham forged a path to the door leading to the inner offices. “Is Smythe in?”

“Yes, sir.” Pierson stood, gathering his coat closed with an air of impending urgency. “If you'll have a seat, I'll inform him your lordship is here.”

“Don't bother. I know the way.” Graham breezed past him.

“But, my lord…” Throwing down his pen with a thwack, Pierson tried to head him off. “If you'd be patient, sir—”

Graham moved faster, reaching the door first and capturing the knob in his fist. “I'll announce myself, thank you.”

“This is highly irregular, my lord.”

“Irregular?” He stooped and shoved his face close to the clerk's. “The matter I've come about is downright disgraceful, not to mention dishonorable. Believe me, Mr. Pierson, the responsible party shall rue the day I discover him.”

He silenced any further protests with a look meant to intimidate the younger, shorter man. Pierson was only doing his job, he knew, but right now the secretary stood between Graham and his quest of attaining a measure of justice for Moira.

A muscle worked in Pierson's jaw, and a convulsive tightening of his throat pushed his Adam's apple against his collar. A shimmer of gold winked from inside the starched linen, catching Graham's attention for an instant before disappearing.

Smythe must pay his man exceedingly well, for him to be able to afford gold jewelry. So, why such paltry attention to Moira's welfare?

With a cough, Pierson retreated to his desk. Graham pushed through the door.

“Tell me why, Smythe.” Inside the solicitor's private office, he all but charged the desk and hunched to grip its edge. “Why the devil is Moira Hughes living in a slum?”

“Lord Monteith.” Smythe pushed back in his chair until it struck the wall behind him. “What can I do for—”

“You can answer my question, damn your eyes.” At Smythe's hesitation, anger zinged through Graham like a buzzing wasp, furious and ready to sting. He canted farther across the desk, feeling no compunction about using his size to intimidate.

“A slum, you say?” The solicitor cowered in his chair, his knuckles white against the padded arms. “I had no idea.”

“Don't act the idiot with me. What's happened to the funds her stepfather left for her and her mother?”

“But, my lord, surely you don't believe that story.” Relaxing a degree, Smythe dismissed Moira's claim with a tsk that raised Graham's wrath another notch.

And yet the question struck home.
Did
he believe in this supposed codicil's existence? Was it merely wishful thinking on Moira's part, or perhaps the ravings of a dying man?

He straightened, tapping one fist against his thigh lest Smythe think his anger had abated. “I want to see everything—and I do mean everything—connected with Everett Foster's estate and will. I'll give you a day to prepare. When I return with Miss Hughes tomorrow afternoon, I'll expect every document ready to be examined with a fine-tooth comb.”

“Tomorrow? I don't think—”

“Mr. Smythe, if you value my continued business with this firm, you will do as I say.”

Smythe blinked up at him and swallowed. “Of course, my lord. It will be my pleasure.”

Graham stalked out of the office, pushing past Smythe's startled-looking partner, Mr. Davis, who had been watching wide-eyed from the corridor.

       9      

A
s the coach made its way out of Southwark, Moira didn't dare steal a glance at Graham. What must he be thinking of her former living quarters?

As long as she could remember, she had been a wealthy baron's daughter. Loved, cared for, indulged. Only now was she beginning to appreciate how much she had taken for granted, and with what unthinking ease she'd donned each new party frock and savored every lavish meal. Oh, the waste of it, especially when lost on the cheerful disregard of a child.

Really, she hadn't minded Southwark so very much. It had saved her a considerable amount in rent money, and she was perfectly willing to forego small comforts for the good cause of seeing her mother comfortably and securely settled. Yes, she might have continued enduring that lodging house, if only it had remained her little secret.

Well, never mind what Graham thought of the place. Necessity had brought her there. No use complaining, no sense regretting it. She was, of course, glad to be leaving. Except…

She caught her lip between her teeth as she remembered how Graham had admonished his mother at supper the previous evening.

Moira had been raised on certain principles. The head of a family should treat all those in his care with the utmost kindness and compassion. As Papa had done. Even at her naughtiest, she had never received anything more severe than a gentle reprimand. Firm, but never stern. Never angry. And neither had she ever heard Everett Foster speak an unkind word to her mother.

Graham Foster was a man who took liberties, who acted on instinct and made few apologies. A man who didn't stop to consider the right or wrong of his actions, or their effect on the people around him.

His effect on her. Far too often, he left her feeling breathless, turned about, a little out of control. She was not someone who enjoyed feeling out of control. Nor did she relish the idea of being dependent upon such a man.

The interior of the coach felt hot and airless. He insisted on sitting too close, on touching her and pretending he hadn't meant to. No matter her prods, exasperated sighs, or pointed glares. He returned each with a wide-eyed nonchalance that denied all knowledge of how unsettled he made her.

Then again, perhaps he didn't know. How could he? Only she could feel that odd twist in her stomach, the jump in her pulse, the nearly irresistible urge to press her face to his skin and breathe him in. And give in to his teasing.

No, surely he couldn't know any of that.

Their present direction restored a sense of, oh, safety, she supposed. A comfortable sensation spread through her as they turned onto Queen's Square in Westminster and a familiar brick mansion came into view. She knew this dwelling nearly as well as Monteith Hall and the Brook Street town house.

The carriage was admitted through the gate and traveled the short sweep of drive to the front steps. Graham peered out the window. “Where are we?”

“Trewsbury House. I'm hoping the bishop can shed light on Papa's last trip to London.”

“The bishop?”

She nodded as she craned her neck to see around him. “I do hope he's returned. He's almost always in town during the Season, but last week when I stopped by, he was away on church business. Do you think he'll mind terribly that we've come unannounced?”

Graham shrugged. “Not knowing the man, I couldn't say.”

She stared at him blankly. “Of course, you know him, silly. He's your cousin as much as he was Papa's.”

“A cousin of mine?” He looked puzzled, then wary. His voice dropped to a monotone that warned of impending anger. “What is his name, Moira?”

“Benedict Ramsey, the bishop of Trewsbury, of course,” she replied, and watched his face transform in ways that made her breath catch.

Could a man be likened to an ocean storm? A black fury of cloud and wind and wave that takes sailors by surprise and only by the smallest margin leaves them with their lives? If so, that was Graham Foster for the briefest instant. Then he gave a visible shake that brought the tempest under control.

“Benedict Ramsey…a bishop? Blazing hell. I suppose I might have known he'd wangle his way to the top.”

Taken aback, she frowned. “He's a respected clergyman.”

Graham's simmering animosity could have burned a hole in the seat facing them. “I cannot accompany you inside, Moira.”

“But…why ever not?”

“Because I would not be welcome, nor would I wish to be.” He drew a sharp breath. “You would do well to beware of him.”

“Nonsense. Besides being a relative, Benedict Ramsey was Papa's oldest and dearest friend.”

“He's no friend of mine, I assure you.”

“The bishop is an elderly man and half-blind. What could he have done to make you so bitter toward him?”

“He wasn't always so elderly, or so blind, Moira. Once he was a deacon in his prime, wanting very much to rise in the ranks of the clergy. Ambition consumed him. So much so, he was willing to sacrifice a member of his own family.”

Misgiving sank like sodden bread in her stomach. “You?”

He nodded, lips compressed. “Do you understand why I left England years ago?”

She hesitated. Beneath his exaggerated calm, rage pulsated, making her afraid to answer, afraid not to. “The…incident at Oxford?”

“Yes, my expulsion. My disgrace. Are you aware of how the bishop took sides against me in order to win the favor of a wealthy nobleman?”

Where were the dimples? The mockery? The flirtation? As much as she had wished them gone previously, she longed for them now. Preferred them to this sense of having committed some unpardonable sin beyond her comprehension.