Frovtunes’ Kiss (22 page)

Y
our affairs seem in good order, my lord. However, these particular accounts have been temporarily closed.” The bank clerk, a man with thinning hair and a high forehead, snapped the maroon leather portfolio closed and sniffed.

“There must be some mistake,” Graham said from his seat across the desk.

Seated in the chair beside him, Moira made a little noise in her throat and asked, “How
can
they be closed?”

Behind them, the activities of the Bank of England's main office proceeded at a brisk if subdued pace, the quiet footfalls and hushed tones more what he might have expected in a cathedral than in the country's chief financial institution.

“I'm afraid there is no mistake.” The clerk sniffed again. “Our instructions were quite clear.”

“They are not clear to me, sir. Not in the least.”

Moira's impatient comment was snatched up into the vaulted ceiling and dispersed through the room. At the next desk a few feet away, another clerk glanced up, censure evident in the ridge above his nose. Graham angled a challenging eyebrow at him, prompting the man to return his attention to the work in front of him.

“The stocks are being transferred,” their clerk continued in his businesslike manner, “to the name of the new stockholder.”

“Is that all?” Moira relaxed against the back of her chair and treated Graham to the first truly genuine smile since their indecorous activities of yesterday afternoon. She continued smiling as she turned back to the clerk. “The new stockholder sits before you now.”

“I'm afraid not.” The balding man folded his hands on the portfolio cover. Despite issuing the contradiction, his expression retained an eagerness to be of service.

Graham cleared his throat. “Am I not Everett Foster's only heir?”

“No, my lord. It would seem there is another claimant.” Clipped, professional, like everything else about this clerk: his well-fitted but unremarkable suit of clothes; his carefully trimmed, if sparse, hair; his quick, efficient hands that lay clasped before him when not in use. “We've documentation bequeathing these particular accounts to a second heir.”

“There is a codicil.” When the clerk nodded, Moira's grin became triumphant. “We've been searching for it everywhere, and here it's been all along.”

“Quite right,” the clerk said, then frowned. “However, neither of you are mentioned in it.”

“Of course not.” She positively beamed while apprehension took root in Graham's gut. “This second heir would be my mother, Estella Foster, the dowager Lady Monteith.”

“No, I'm afraid it wouldn't.”

Graham had had about enough. “So who, then?”

The clerk gazed at his hands, looking uncomfortable and suddenly not nearly as keen to be of assistance. “I can't say.”

“Can't or won't?”

“My lord, I am not permitted. Bank records are kept in strictest confidentiality. You'll understand, of course.”

“Can you at least tell us if this heir is a Foster?” Moira's gloved hands fisted on the arms of her chair until the kidskin stood out in shiny relief across her knuckles.

“No, ma'am, not a Foster.”

“And not a Hughes, either?”

“No, ma'am.” The man's eyes closed briefly beneath raised eyebrows. A show of regret, perhaps; of dismissal, undoubtedly.

With a troubled sigh, Moira started to rise. With a hand on her forearm, Graham conveyed the message that he was not ready to concede defeat.

“Wait one minute.” He mustered his most severe scowl and trained it squarely on the clerk seated across the desk. “You are well aware of who I am, and of the extent of my holdings. The barons Monteith have done business with the Bank of England since its inception.”

The man's facial muscles twitched; his eyes narrowed fractionally.

“Yes, I believe we understand each other,” Graham went on. “But to make matters perfectly clear, I will pull every last farthing out of this bloody establishment this very day unless you give me a name. Just a name, Mr.…ah…”

The man swallowed. “Bentley.”

“A name, Mr. Bentley.”

The clerk exhaled. Flipping open the portfolio, he riffled through the documents until he found what he sought.

“Michael Oliphant,” he murmured at length.

“I've never heard of him.” Moira accompanied the assertion with an indignant toss of her head. “Where does this man live?”

Mr. Bentley looked alarmed. “I couldn't possibly give out that information.”

“Come now, Bentley, stop playing games.” Graham injected the authoritative air of an aristocrat into his voice. “Where does this Mr. Oliphant reside?”

“You said just a name.”

“No good to me unless I know where to find him.” Then, more agreeably, “I promise I'll make it worth your while.”

The clerk worried his bottom lip. “I could lose my position. Can you make
that
worth my while?”

Bentley had a point. It would take quite a sum to make up for the loss of his employment. Graham decided on a fresh approach. “The information may be vital to an investigation being conducted by Mr. Miles Parker of the Bow Street Runners. An investigation of a crime that could very well be linked to Everett Foster's estate.”

The man's brows converged. “Inheritance fraud?”

“Murder, Mr. Bentley.”

The clerk swallowed again. Dipping his quill, he scratched some words across a sheet of paper, folded the page, and held it out.

“Thank you.” Graham slipped the notepaper into his coat pocket. “An associate will pay you a discreet visit soon. And now I suppose our business here is concluded.”

“Not quite yet.” Moira prevented him from standing by gripping his wrist. “Mr. Bentley, can you, or someone else here, at least tell us what manner of man this Mr. Oliphant is, generally speaking, that is?”

“I'm afraid not, Miss Hughes. The transactions were conducted through his solicitor.”

The very word sparked a note of alarm. Graham leaned forward. “And who is that?”

The clerk scanned the financial documents and tapped a page with his forefinger. “The offices of Smythe and Davis.”

The name hit Graham like a fist.

“I feel ill.” Moira pressed the heel of her hand to her brow.

Graham cupped her elbow, helped her rise, and slipped an arm around her waist. “Steady. We'll get to the bottom of this.”

“Oh, dear. Perhaps Miss Hughes would care for some brandy,” Mr. Bentley offered, his helpful demeanor once more in place. “There's some in the private office.”

“No amount of brandy can cure what ails me, Mr. Bentley.” Pivoting out of Graham's embrace, she set off at a crisp march that raised an irreverent echo through the building.

He hurried after her. “Moira, wait. It isn't over. We'll get to the bottom—”

“Don't. And I'm perfectly capable of walking unassisted,” she added when he again attempted to hold her about the waist. Her eyes sparked dangerously. “All that money, given to a stranger.”

“Not a stranger, apparently. At least not to your stepfather.”

Her expression blackened even as her pace quickened. People darted out of her path; a porter hurried to open the street door for her.

“Why?” she demanded to the wind rushing down Threadneedle Street. “Why would Papa do this? He promised me…”

“He was ill at the time—”

“He wasn't raving, blast it.” A passerby jostled her elbow. Graham steered her toward the waiting carriage. “And all along, Smythe knew. Knew the truth and flat out lied to me. I can't believe it. I simply cannot.”

“Perhaps there were debts. Perhaps Everett meant his family wouldn't have to worry because he'd settled those debts with this Mr. Oliphant. He expected you to marry Nigel—”

“Nigel.” The carriage door stood open. Graham waited, one hand extended to help her inside. But in the next instant, she whirled and set off down the foot pavement toward the Romanesque structure that housed the Royal Exchange.

“Now where are you going?” He trotted to catch up.

“Nigel. Mr. Smythe.” She went still, panting into the gusts racing between the buildings. “Dead. Both of them. The burglary. Now this Mr. Oliphant turns up.”

“You suspect a connection between Smythe's and Nigel's deaths and Michael Oliphant?”

Both her features and her voice became deadly calm. “Don't you?”

He gave a reluctant nod, unable to deny her suspicions. There was something more going on here than a misplaced codicil, something elusive and sinister. Perhaps he might have connected the pieces sooner, if not for a stubborn inclination to ignore certain facts.

Nigel
. The very name festered on his conscience like an open blister. He'd tried ignoring Nigel's ghost and pretending this one rival for Moira's affections had never existed. But in so doing, had he silenced a vital message from the grave?

He seized her forearms. “How can Nigel have been involved in any of this? His death was an accident.”

“Was it?” She shook her head, glaring over his shoulder across the square at the pillared entrance to the Exchange. “Nigel was an expert rider. I'd seen him urge his horse over hedgerows in the driving rain with nary a misstep. He could gallop his mount blindfolded with both hands tied round his back. Tell me…how does such a man fall and break his neck on a main thoroughfare in fine weather?”

“Where was he going when it happened?”

“Home. From London. He'd come to secure his interests as the new Baron Monteith.”

“Good God.” He gave her a shake that imparted merely a fraction of the panic squeezing his chest. Passing pedestrians stared. He forced his voice to calm, his grip to lighten. “Why didn't you tell me this sooner?”

“I would have, but I didn't realize its significance until today.” Her face filled with dismay. He felt her trembling beneath his palms, and he instantly regretted his curtness.

“I'm sorry. Come. Let's get you home.” Gently he placed a hand at the small of her back and turned her toward the carriage.

“Yes, home. Not Brook Street, but Shelbourne.” She climbed into the carriage before he could offer assistance. “I should never have left my mother alone. She could be in danger, as well.”

“Let's not jump to conclusions.” He summoned what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “However, while I understand why you don't wish to move her again, I insist we do just that. You'll both be safer at Monteith Hall. I shan't take no for an answer.” He rapped on the ceiling. The carriage lurched forward.

“What of Michael Oliphant?”

“I'll deal with him the moment I return to London.”

She faced him levelly, or as levelly as the swaying carriage allowed. “You'll do no such thing. One and possibly two men may have died because of that man.”

“You needn't worry. I'll go straight to Bow Street and enlist the assistance of Miles Parker.”

“Let's go see him now. He'll want to know what we've discovered today, especially Smythe's connection to the stock accounts.” She leaned back against the squabs, and he resisted the temptation to gather her into his arms, at least in her present mood. “My suspicions concerning Nigel may also be of interest to him.”

“We'll make a brief stop, then, to convey our news to Mr. Parker. I suppose he'd best search out Michael Oliphant as soon as possible. Meanwhile, I'm not letting you out of my sight until you're safely installed at Monteith Hall.”

She nodded, but a pensive look clouded her eyes. It was a look he didn't trust, not on the doggedly headstrong Moira Hughes. The sooner he got her away from London, the better.

“Moira, darling, you're back.”

“I am, Mother. I'm here at last.” Hurrying to her mother's chair in the cottage's cramped parlor, Moira sank to her knees in a billow of skirts.

Her heart thudded, both with happiness at the reunion, and with anxiety about how her mother had got on in her absence. And yet, Estella had hardly blinked moments ago when Mrs. Stanhope announced her and Graham's arrival.

“I'm frightfully sorry to have been away so long, Mother. Are you quite well? Did you miss me terribly?”

“Yes to the first, and very much indeed to the second.” Estella stroked Moira's cheek. “I told Mrs. Stanhope to hold tea, but now that you're back from your walk, I shall ring for her.”

A weight like yesterday's dumplings descended in Moira's stomach. She flicked a glance at Graham and winced at the pity in his eyes.

“I see you've brought Nigel with you.” Pleasure filled her mother's voice. “How splendid. It's been a long while since we've visited with Nigel, hasn't it, my dear?”

Laying her cheek in her mother's lap, Moira reached her arms around a waist gone noticeably thinner in her absence. “Mother, this isn't—”