Frovtunes’ Kiss (2 page)

Moira Hughes threw her weight against the cottage door and shoved. It stuck for an instant, then gave with an abruptness that nearly sent her headlong across the foyer floor. She clutched the doorknob and anchored her feet, managing not to fall but only just. Then she took her first glimpse of her new home. It was… Awful.

Dim. Shabby. An enormous disappointment. She stepped across the threshold.

To her left, an archway opened upon a cramped parlor. She spied, between two dust-laden windows, a diminutive fireplace that promised to smoke the very instant anyone dared ignite a blaze. To her right, a decidedly rickety staircase ambled its way to the second floor. Ahead, the foyer narrowed to a tight corridor that must surely lead to an equally oppressive kitchen. Moira could only imagine the amenities to be found there.

She sighed. Until this morning, Monteith Hall had been her home. Sprawling, elegant,
large
Monteith Hall, a mere two miles and a world away. There had been servants, gardens, fine carriages. Not that Moira and her parents had used the latter for much besides excursions to church on Sundays. They had settled, these past several years, into the uneventful routine of country life. But there had been security and a sense of peace, a dependable contentment.

That had ceased to be true some four months ago. Until then, she had been the beloved stepdaughter of Everett Foster, Baron Monteith. Then one frigid November morning, she had watched his coffin lowered into a fresh grave in the family cemetery. Influenza turned into pneumonia, the physician had informed her and her mother. Through their grief, there had at least been a sense of reassurance, of continuity, for Moira had for some months been engaged to Nigel Foster, her stepfather's nephew and heir.

But there would be no marriage now, nor had Nigel enjoyed his inheritance for long. Poor Nigel. Dearest Nigel had been thrown by his horse and laid in his grave not two months after Papa, leaving Moira and her mother alone. Quite alone. And what a great irony, for Nigel had been the most proficient of riders. Something, a rabbit perhaps, must have spooked his horse and, in a freak occurrence, Nigel had fallen and broken his neck.

At the moment of his death, Moira and her mother had lost all claim to Monteith Hall and become merely the distant stepcousins of the new baron. A baron who very much wanted—needed, his letter said—to take up immediate residence in his country estate, and would Moira and her mother please make the necessary arrangements as soon as possible.

Those arrangements had thankfully materialized in the form of this cottage, offered to them by St. Bartholomew's Parish. St. Bartholomew's had once been presided over by Moira's natural father, the Reverend Mr. John Hughes, and she found the congregation's gesture touching, indeed. Not to mention a tremendous relief. If the accommodations were somewhat inadequate, the rent at least was cheap. Needless to say, she and her mother hadn't rushed to pack their things, but this day had arrived in a dizzying blur all the same.

Uncertain footsteps picked along the path behind her. Moira backed out of the cottage, pasted on her most cheerful smile, and turned. “Oh, Mother, isn't it wonderful? Just like in a fairy tale.” Seeing her mother's brow pucker with doubt, she added, “Think how cozy we'll be here in winter. And once the furniture arrives, you'll feel right at home.”

Putting a spring in her step, she went to her mother's side and linked arms with her. “Come, let's explore.”

“Do you think your father will like it, dear?” Estella Foster raised a skeptical glance to the stone and timber facade. “It seems rather limited. You know how Papa likes to roam the house at night when he cannot sleep.”

Moira regarded the hazy confusion in her mother's eyes. A weight that had become a familiar burden these past months pressed her heart. She patted a wrinkled hand, kissed a careworn cheek.

“You know Papa is in heaven, Mother,” she said quietly, and paused to let it sink in. Again. “And yes, I do believe he would be quite pleased with our snug new home. Come, let us have a look about. We must decide where to place your settee and armoire. And the petit-point chair and footstool.”

Yes, those items had been part of Estella Foster's dowry, and so they were allowed to take them from Monteith Hall. Most of the other furnishings must stay, of course, part and parcel of the new baron's inheritance.

“And don't forget your father's chair, dear.” Estella's grip tightened on Moira's arm as they entered the cottage together. “He'll want it just so beside the hearth. Is there a window nearby? Your father is most particular about having natural light to read by during the day. You know how he disdains lighting the lamps before tea.”

Moira sighed and nodded.

Hours later, when the scant furnishings had been placed to their best advantage and Moira had tucked her bewildered mother into bed, she stole outside. Mrs. Stanhope, still at work organizing the kitchen, promised to check on Estella often.

Thank heaven for Mrs. Stanhope, something of a saint in Moira's estimation. She'd been housekeeper at Monteith since before Moira and her mother's arrival when Moira was only three years old. Favoring loyalty over her enviable position in the manor, Mrs. Stanhope had chosen to accompany them to their new home, such as it was.

Exhaustion clawed at Moira's limbs, but she trod a resolute path to the remnants of what had once been a kitchen garden. No one had lived here for years, and the cultivated rows had long gone to weeds. She would have to hoe and rake quickly in order to plant in time for the growing season. Even then the first yield would be negligible at best. There would be little money besides. The vast bulk of the fortune was entailed to the estate and belonged now to the new Lord Monteith.

Moira curved her tongue around his name: Graham Foster. She wondered who he was, what he looked like. As to the sort of man he was, she wasted no time in pondering. His nature had been made plain by his curt request that they vacate the Hall.

Over the years she had heard rumors about him, mostly from Nigel. Tossed out of Oxford for cheating, Sir Graham Foster had become something of an adventurer, an explorer who dug up ancient treasures in Egypt and claimed them for England. He'd won the king's favor for his efforts. Now he was coming home to claim the only security Moira and her mother knew.

She bit her trembling lip and vowed not to shed a single tear. She'd shed plenty for dearest Nigel. Many more for Papa.

Of her natural father she retained no memories, for John Hughes had died before her second birthday. She had always thought of Everett Foster as her father with no other word attached, just as he used to sit her on his knee and declare her his bonnie little daughter. He'd called her
his
child for the last time as he lay dying, and whispered of a recent change in his will that would ensure his family's welfare.

Where had that money gone? Mr. Smythe, their solicitor in London, had written to say he knew of no funds other than those entailed to the estate, except for the small sum her mother had brought to the marriage. Hardly enough to see them through the coming months. Although the rent was paid for a full year, they'd need food, fuel, and clothing, and Moira couldn't expect Mrs. Stanhope to stay on for free.

Something was very wrong, and it now fell upon her shoulders to discover what that something was. The thought of leaving her mother, even temporarily, brought on waves of numbing doubt, but she knew Mrs. Stanhope would die before she allowed any harm to touch her mistress.

She and her mother would never again have a home such as the one they'd left. They would never again enjoy the privileges so recently stripped from them. But the other things—security, contentment, a feeling of home—those Moira believed—hoped—she could provide. She must first go to London and press for their rights. She must summon every ounce of her courage, barge into Mr. Smythe's office, and demand to see her stepfather's financial records. Somewhere a codicil to his will existed, and she intended to find it.

In the fading twilight, she scanned the surrounding countryside, the gentle hills and meadows of Shelbourne. Deeply she inhaled the piney-sharp scent of the village's evening fires. From a quarter mile away, the church bell struck a single peal, ringing in the half hour.

The very thought of leaving produced an ache so sharp it nearly cut off her breath. Although the family had many acquaintances in London, in truth she could count none as close friends. Certainly no one in whom she felt an inclination to confide. She could not have borne the pitying looks, nor the whispered gossip about how low poor Estella Foster and her daughter had sunk.

So then, where would she stay? Not in the family's Mayfair town house. That belonged to Graham Foster now. There was Uncle Benedict, but the letter she had sent him nearly a month ago had brought no reply; he must be traveling at present. No, she would be on her own, and on such limited funds she despaired of eating more than one meal a day. But what other choice?

With no man to champion her cause, she must act as head of the family, no matter how inappropriate, how frowned upon. For there was nothing genteel about poverty. Nothing to be gained from an empty stomach. No, indeed. She must plant the garden and see her mother settled into a pleasant routine with Mrs. Stanhope. Then she would pack her bags and set out for London.

       2      

I
‘m afraid you can't go in there, Miss…ah…”

“It's Miss Hughes, and well you know it by now, sir.” Moira made it as far as the inner door that led into the private offices of
Smythe and Davis, Legal Consultants
before the secretary barred her way. He was a new employee, someone Moira had never met before this week. Wedging himself between her outstretched hand and the doorknob, he regarded her defiantly.

“Mr. Smythe is presently engaged with a client and must not be disturbed.”

“Mr. Pierson, I've called three times this week, and each time I've been turned away with promises that Mr. Smythe would schedule an appointment at his next possible convenience. He has failed to do so, and my patience has quite run out.”

She drew a breath she hoped showed no trace of the turmoil pitching inside her. She loathed forcing her way into a man's world and issuing demands with feigned bravado. If only Nigel were here. Ah, but if Nigel were here, she wouldn't be in this predicament.

She became uncomfortably aware of the person sitting in the waiting area, a well-dressed man with a thatch of black hair whose face must no doubt be turned in her direction.

The secretary sniffed. “Mr. Smythe's appointment calendar is quite full, Miss Hughes. He has had urgent business—”

“No more urgent than mine, I assure you, Mr. Pierson.” She stopped a tad short of becoming shrill. Both the secretary and the blasted door stood like stone walls between her and the sole reason she'd traveled to London. Her stomach clenched around a clawing sensation that never left her, a hollow ache only partly due to hunger, more to sinking desperation. She couldn't give up now, simply wouldn't turn away in defeat—

The door abruptly opened.

“Is there a problem out here, Pierson?”

Moira surged forward, nearly knocking the secretary out of her way. “Mr. Smythe,
finally
. “

The solicitor stared at her a long moment, his obvious irritation tinged with an impatient curiosity. “Miss Hughes?”

He said it as though he hadn't spared her a thought in months; as if he hadn't received multiple messages from her these past several days.

“Yes, Mr. Smythe, and if you have but a few moments—”

“I'm afraid I haven't, not at present. I've a very important client in my office.” He began retreating through the door.

A surge of panic sent Moira's hand clutching at his coat sleeve. He regarded her with no small amount of consternation, but didn't pull away.

“Mr. Smythe, my stepfather was a very important client of this firm for many years. Please speak with me.” She held her breath.