Frovtunes’ Kiss (41 page)

Using nonsense words to distract him, she gently unclenched his tiny yet determined fingers one by one, a task that proved more difficult than she had imagined. Letty groaned while angling her head to relieve the pressure of the child's grasp.

“If you don't want him tugging your hair, dear, you should wear it up as I have today. I learned my lesson on the carriage ride home yesterday.” Ignoring Letty's pout, Moira bit her lip to hide a grin. “Oh, and your earbobs. He's sure to find them as tempting as your curls. There now, you're free as a bird.”

“Here, you take him while I finish my breakfast.” Letty lifted the boy into Moira's arms. “He's a positive
danger
to civilized society. Besides, I believe he needs changing.”

“He seems dry to me.”

“I believe I detected a whiff of…the
other.”
Letty wrinkled her nose.

Moira sniffed at the air. “Oh, I believe you're right. Come along, then, little one.” She paused in the doorway. “Do you want to come? To learn how, I mean.”

“Whatever for?”

“Someday you'll have children of your own. What do you intend to do then?”

“Why, instruct their nurse to do it, of
course
.”

Graham arrived home to find Moira below stairs in the scullery. She had Michael lying on a linen towel on the work counter beside the washbasin, and was just then securing a fresh changing cloth around him. She sat the baby up and slipped a gown over his head.

“Letty told me I'd find you here,” he said, leaning in the archway and enjoying the sight of Moira fussing over the boy, smoothing the gown's embroidered front and straightening the gathered sleeves. Michael, meanwhile, found entertainment in trying to snatch the silver bracelet dangling from her wrist.

“You're back sooner than expected.” She lifted Michael from the counter and settled him on her hip.

Graham merely nodded, disinclined to reveal the reason why and hoping she wouldn't press for an explanation. To change the subject, he said, “Teaching Michael to wash pots and pans?”

She acknowledged the jest with a small shrug. “The scullery is the easiest and quickest place to change and bathe him. I don't like asking the servants to haul bathwater upstairs each time.”

“I daresay you remember all too well what it was like hauling heavy burdens up and down those stairs.”

A blush rose at this reference to her masquerade as a servant. He strode closer, boots loud on the wide board flooring. Michael babbled in greeting, thrusting a little hand toward him. Graham offered a forefinger, experiencing a tug in his chest when fingers nearly as delicate as Isis's legs closed around his.

“Your mother said both you and Freddy wore this gown,” Moira said. She used her free hand to gather up the linen towel and crumple it into a ball. With a faint smile she regarded Graham from head to toe. “Difficult to imagine.”

“Difficult to imagine me this small or compliant enough to endure such ridiculous frills?”

“Both.”

He grinned. Some impulse prompted him to reach for Michael. Perhaps it was the effect the child had on Moira, the way she glowed from the inside out whenever she held him. Would he experience the same transformation?

Or would Michael squall and twist and push away? One never knew with babies. But as Moira held him out, Michael leaned forward and went willingly, one might even say happily, into Graham's arms. He even slid an arm around Graham's neck.

Such a slender arm, so slight and helpless. Indeed, it didn't spread a glow through him at all. It frightened him, made him feel huge and oafish and dangerously powerful in comparison.

What a perplexing challenge it presented, holding a baby securely but gently enough not to hurt him. And yet women—Moira, certainly—accomplished the feat with no apparent effort.

With a few awkward shifts, he managed to tuck Michael snugly against him. The lad made gurgling noises and fisted his free hand in Graham's neck cloth. His air passages constricted.

“He's certainly a playful fellow,” he rasped, trying in vain to coax Michael's hand away from his cravat.

“Yes. I find myself wondering why he doesn't cry.” She combed her fingers through wisps of wheat blond hair. “Doesn't he miss his mother? Shouldn't he raise a fuss to be surrounded by so many strangers?”

“Perhaps he's too young to understand the difference.” Michael finally released his grip, and Graham filled his lungs.

“Or perhaps he doesn't miss his home because it hadn't been a happy one. I laid awake last night for the longest time while fretting over the trials of his short life.”

You might have awakened me, Moira. I‘d have sat up worrying with you, if you had let me.

“He seems much thinner than a baby should be,” she went on, oblivious to his broodings. “And that awful flat they lived in. Oh, Graham, the walls were nearly black with soot and damp. I hope it hasn't affected his health.”

She leaned in closer to press a kiss to Michael's forehead, and Graham found himself immersed in her warm, sensual scent. It trigged a maelstrom of sensations merely days old, yet powerful enough to fill him with a painful yearning to kiss her, to gather her to his chest along with Michael and create…blazing hell…a family. A wholly new one where none had existed before.

But she wouldn't have him. Wouldn't take the risk.

For now.

Carefully he hugged Michael closer and forced his voice past a wretched constriction that had nothing to do with his neck cloth. “It was a happy day for this child when you entered his life.”

That radiant light flared again in her eyes before her gaze dipped. “He looks tired. Time for his nap.”

She took the baby from his arms and started past, leaving a cold and hollow sensation where the child had been. But that empty chill helped clear his mind and restore his focus. He had business to tend to, business that involved Moira.

He trailed her across the scullery and through the kitchen. “While he's sleeping, we have an errand.”

She turned, looking startled and not a little puzzled.

“Mr. Parker requested we meet him at his office this afternoon. I suppose he has a few more questions for us before wrapping up the case.” With raised eyebrows he affected innocence and hoped she'd forgive this small white lie. They
would
be meeting Parker, just not on Bow Street or for the reason he told her.

“I fear there will be no ‘wrapping up' of this case.” She gave a sad shake of her head. They started up the stairs, the rhythm of their steps echoed by an enthusiastic
bah, mah, gah, mah!
from Michael. Moira bounced him in her arms and sighed. “We'll never know the truth, not with Piers Oliphant and his sister gone.”

Of its own volition, and whether she wished it or no, Graham's arm snaked round her waist. “You mustn't give up hope. Who can say what might turn up?”

       23      

T
he bishop is not receiving at present.”

“Then please inform him that we'll call again at a more convenient time.” But when Moira turned to descend the steps and return to the coach, Graham simultaneously caught her hand and shoved a foot in the threshold, preventing the bishop's footman from shutting the door.

“Tell him it's urgent.”

“Graham,
please
. Uncle Benedict isn't expecting us. It's rude to keep insisting.” Moira tried to tug him away.

His features stony, he showed no signs of yielding.

“He cannot be disturbed, sir.” The footman maintained an outward show of patience, much more than Moira presently felt.

“Tell him it's a life-and-death matter.”

“Graham, you know perfectly well—”

“Just tell him that.” He pulled to his full and quite considerable height, towering over the footman's shorter, slighter frame.

“What in the world are you doing?” she hissed after the servant reluctantly ushered them into the sparsely and uncomfortably furnished waiting room off the foyer. “Have you the faintest notion how ill-mannered you're being?”

“Your mother asked you to deliver her letter, didn't she? And I know you've been carrying it around in your purse since we left Monteith. I glimpsed it in there just this morning.”

“Graham Foster, I don't for one moment believe this has anything whatsoever to do with Mother's letter. We're supposed to be meeting Miles Parker on Bow Street. Why are we here? I want the truth. And don't you dare flash those dimples at me.”

“You like my dimples, don't you, Moira? I never did particularly, until I noticed that little shivery thing you do whenever you see them.”

“Oh, of all the…” Her heels raised a loud clacking on the marble floor as she retreated across the room, which suddenly felt much too small for the two of them. She turned and faced him, wishing she could put more space between them, yet realizing the futility of doing so. No distance could diminish the vigor that sped her pulse, the passion that left her aching and weak-kneed. The quivery sensation he'd spoken of hid behind a decidedly forced show of bravado. “What are you up to?”

“Moira, Moira.” He tilted his head and regarded her through half-closed lids, a leisurely perusal that left her senses tingling. “I must entreat your patience for the next, oh…” He consulted his pocket watch. “Thirty-odd minutes.”

His mood had changed considerably since leaving home. He'd been so sweet and clumsy with Michael, hardly the brash cavalier she'd come to know. But that devil-may-care arrogance had since resurfaced, and it set her on her guard. “And what in return for my thirty minutes? Sarcasm? Evasiveness?”

“Dimples?” She glared at him, and his expression sobered. “Moira, trust me. I promise this will all—”

“The bishop will see you now,” the footman announced from the doorway.

Graham flashed a triumphant grin and yes, his deeply entrenched dimples, before following the servant into the hall. At the foot of the stairs, however, he balked.

The servant cast a curious glance over his shoulder. “His lordship is upstairs in his study, sir.”

“We'd prefer to meet with him in his drawing room.”

“I'm afraid I don't understand, sir.”

“Now what on earth are you doing?” In her astonishment she didn't even bother whispering.

“In the drawing room,” Graham repeated, and strode across the hall. “Explain to the bishop that the sooner he meets with us in his drawing room, the sooner we shall leave him to his private pursuits.”

With a scowl of utter bafflement, the footman climbed the stairs. Her own features taut with a similar emotion, Moira hurried to follow Graham and tell him precisely what she thought of his behavior.

“You are impossible, incorrigible, intractable—”

“Yes, Moira, it's what you love about me.”

Oh, he made her so angry she couldn't help stomping her foot. “Why must you always tease when you know—”