Frovtunes’ Kiss (42 page)

“You haven't the faintest inkling what I know.” His smile vanished, and he came at her in a rush of motion, a sudden squall blown by a dangerous wind. Even as she backed away, he reached her, gripped her shoulders, and gave a little shake.

“You've convinced yourself of what must be true. I am a blackguard, cannot be trusted, will hurt you if given the chance.” Though quiet, the words were raw, dagger-sharp. “But see here, my darling, dazzling Moira. Even when you were willing to give up, I pressed on. I'm still fighting for you. Whether you wish it or not.”

She was trembling in his grip and fighting the sting of tears whose source she didn't fully comprehend. Outrage? Fear? Of what? The storm in his features…or losing him?

The faltering approach of footsteps broke them apart, sent her scurrying to the window to dab at her eyes.

“Why, Moira, my dear, Barryman should have told me immediately that it was you calling. I'd never have kept you waiting so long had I known.”

As she turned to face Uncle Benedict, Graham stepped between them. “No, I imagine I'm the reason you weren't receiving. Our reunion is long overdue, my lord. It's a pleasure to see you again.”

“Indeed.” Uncle Benedict fingered his cravat, tied loosely around the slack skin of his neck.

An awkward silence fell as the two men regarded each other. Moira opened her reticule and found her mother's letter. “This is for you, Uncle Benedict. From Mother.”

“A letter from Estella? How delightful.” His pudgy hand gripped the missive. “Nearly as delightful as a visit from Estella herself.” He slipped a finger beneath the seal and fished a pair of spectacles from his waistcoat pocket. “A note of congratulations. Isn't she thoughtful?”

“I'd like to add my congratulations, as well.” The lightheartedness had returned to Graham's voice, underscored with a razor's edge. Moira tensed, wondering what he was about. “It will be a pleasure working with you in the House of Lords.”

“Then you've claimed the Monteith seat?” The bishop's gaze darted to Moira, then slid back to Graham.

“I intend to shortly.”

Her breath caught. Did claiming his seat mean he planned to remain in England and shoulder the responsibilities of his rank? Did he suddenly believe in duty and commitment and the principles of authority? Perhaps, but then many an English lord staked his claim only to spend the next many years abroad.

“Since we will be working toward the same ends from now on, my lord,” Graham continued, “I thought it time to let bygones be bygones. If you're amenable, that is.”

Moira felt a burst of hope. Dared she believe in the sincerity of his overture? Was that why they'd come?

For a long moment the bishop stared as if confronted by a spectacle beyond his comprehension. Then a tentative smile etched deep folds around his eyes and mouth. “Why don't we all sit down and be comfortable. I shall ring for refreshments.”

“Splendid idea.” Graham winked at Moira as he strode past, heading for a settee near an open window.

She chose an armchair opposite, where she might keep an eye on him, not that it would do her a smidgen of good. She'd held no sway over his erratic conduct thus far, and saw little chance of achieving any now.

After ringing for tea, Uncle Benedict waddled across the room, making his way to the chair beside Moira's on the other side of a small oval table.

“My lord, I've brought you something to commemorate your considerable achievements.” Though affable, Graham's tone held a baiting quality that set Moira's nape prickling. She sat rigid in her chair and waited.

“A gift?” The elderly man clapped his hands softly.

“Good heavens, lad, you needn't have.”

“Ah, but I did.” He reached into his coat pocket.

Moira gasped. In his palm lay the pendant he'd taken from around Piers Oliphant's neck. In the sunlit drawing room, the embossed image of a coiling snake flashed liquid fire.

Beside her came a wheezing breath. Uncle Benedict's face drained of color as he gaped at the ornament.

“I apologize,” Graham said mildly. “What I should have said is that I wish to
return
a gift to you. For I've given it once before, haven't I?”

“I…I have no idea what you're talking about.” The bishop's hands convulsed around the chair's armrests.

“No, I don't suppose you realized it was from me the first time. It came signed by the English consulate in Egypt, thanking you for your contribution to the King George Museum of Art and Antiquities in Cairo.” Graham swung the pendant by its chain and gave a laugh. “I must say, Shaun did a first-rate job on the signature and seal.”

“Uncle Benedict, is this true?” Moira swallowed against a sensation akin to hands gripping her throat. “Does the piece belong to you?”

“Shaun will certainly attest to my having sent it,” Graham answered for him.

“Now that you mention it, I vaguely remember receiving such a gift.” The elderly man shifted his weight in his chair. “Years ago. I barely recall the circumstances. Such an outlandish trinket. I put it away and never gave it another thought.”

“But you do recall your donation to the museum?” Graham spoke with deceptive calm, as though trading pleasant reminiscences with an infirm but esteemed acquaintance. “Ironic, isn't it, both of us supporting the same institution after you very nearly destroyed my future in the field of antiquities. But who knew the events at Oxford would lead me to acclaim and fortune? The way things have turned out, I'm more than willing to forgive you for the past.”

“
You
forgive
me?”
The bishop's face darkened to a worrisome scarlet. “Of all the gall.”

Moira had no wish to become entangled in the old feud, but she nonetheless burned to understand a very immediate puzzle. “Uncle Benedict, how on earth did Piers Oliphant come to possess that pendant?”

“I couldn't say. I'm acquainted with no such man.”

“Oh, but you are, Uncle.” Understanding his mistake, she reached to press a reassuring hand over his. “He worked for Mr. Smythe under an assumed name. Oliver Pierson.”

“Ah, yes, Pierson. The clerk.” His hands relaxed on the chair's arms. “That explains it, doesn't it? The man had access to my home on more than one occasion. He obviously came upon the pendant and stole it.”

“Are you always in the habit of leaving your jewelry lying about the public rooms of the house?” Graham made an exaggerated show of glancing at nearby tabletops. “I don't see any now, although for a man bent on thievery, that gilded snuffbox would serve nicely.”

“I haven't an inkling where or how he found it.”

“No? I certainly understand his reasons for wanting this pendant. Melted down, the gold would bring him more than he'd earn in months. But then why was he wearing it? Why hadn't he sold it?” Graham shook his head, smiling faintly. “My guess is, he didn't steal it at all. He had no reason to steal it because you gave it to him.”

“For what possible reason?” The bishop's words were measured, quietly challenging.

“To seal a bargain, perhaps?” Graham rose from the settee and drifted to the open window.

Moira suddenly felt like a spectator at an exceedingly tense tennis match and uncertain whom she wished to prevail. The bishop had been an uncle to her nearly all her life. But Graham… Despite his abominable behavior, she hoped—believed in her bones—his reasons for doing this were admirable ones. Surely his intentions were worthy, even if his judgment showed a want of prudence.

“I've had business dealings with Smythe and Davis for a good twenty years,” Uncle Benedict asserted, “but I've never spoken more than a dozen words to their clerk.”

Graham turned from his perusal of the gardens. “What can you tell us about his sister, Susan Oliphant?”

“I've never met any such woman.”

Moira winced at the abruptness of the reply.

“Really?” Graham smoothed his fingers along a billowing edge of curtain. “I'm told she worked here.”

Moira lurched forward in her chair. “Susan Oliphant worked here? How long have you known this? Why didn't you tell me?” Her gaze darted to Uncle Benedict. “If Susan worked here, then surely you must have known her brother's identity.”

Her uncle held out his hands. “How would I know the name of every maid who ever worked here? Perhaps my steward can help you. He does the hiring. But what difference does any of this make?”

“It makes a bloody great deal of difference.” Graham sauntered to the back of the settee and leaned his hands on its mahogany frame. “I keep asking myself why a man would commit murder over an inheritance rightfully belonging to his nephew. It doesn't follow. But if the inheritance were wrongfully bestowed upon the nephew…” He raised a hand, forefinger aimed at Uncle Benedict. “There's the motive. Inheritance fraud might certainly drive a man to kill, especially if his nasty secret was in danger of being discovered.”

“Surely you're not suggesting Uncle Benedict had anything to do with—”

“I'll explain everything, Moira, if you think you can bear one more disappointment in your life.”

His words chilled her; she made no reply.

He held her gaze steadily, relentlessly. “Once I realized what questions to ask, and where to ask them, the facts began falling into place.” He offered a grim smile, one that barely raised his dimples. “Shaun gave me some advice he learned from you. Question the servants.” The smile vanished and he shot pure, naked contempt at the bishop. “Aren't you wondering why the maid hasn't come yet with the refreshments?”

With an agitated twitch, Uncle Benedict twisted around to view the drawing room's vacant entrance.

“Miss Briggs no longer works for you. She and I both knew you'd dismiss her if she told the truth, so I saw no choice but to offer her employment in my home.” He again regarded Moira, his disdain melting to concern and regret. “I learned from Miss Briggs that Susan worked here as a maid for more than a year. Piers served as Benedict's secretary during that time, until his sister very suddenly left. Then Piers moved on as well, though he didn't go far, as we know.”

“A brother and sister worked in my home for a short time.” Defiance shaped the bishop's otherwise indistinct chin. “What of it?”

“Stuart Davis, of Smythe and Davis, Legal Consultants, told me yesterday that he hired Oliver Pierson on your recommendation. Moreover, he can conceive of no reason why Pierson might have visited your home last week. He maintains there were no documents that needed signing or delivering.”

“I sent for Pierson. I needed to convey a legal matter to Smythe. But then he died.”

“Yes. Conveniently.”

“Are you insinuating that I conspired to have him killed?” He turned wide-eyed indignation on Moira. “You know the kind of life I've led. Surely you can't believe these accusations.”

Did she? She had known the bishop most of her life. He'd been her stepfather's closest friend. She had never, ever found reason to distrust him. And yet…

The silence stretched as her focus settled on Graham and saw him—truly saw him—for the first time that day, without her own disappointments or sheer exasperation coloring her perceptions.

His earlier activities, whatever they were, had left him looking disheveled and wind-tossed, his gold-tipped hair tousled and his clothing rumpled. How beautiful he was, how spontaneous and dashing and cavalier. How easily she could imagine him riding the deck of a ship at full sail, slicing over brisk ocean waves. That was his life and where he belonged, heading for exotic, sun-drenched locales she would never see, and from which he might never return.

“Please don't continue with this,” she said, the words raw and stinging. She spoke without looking at Graham, afraid to. Afraid to acknowledge that he was everything she could love in a man, and everything she was afraid of loving. She clung to the meager world she had known before he entered it. “Uncle Benedict is a man of God and a peer. Your accusations make no sense.”

“There is sense, Moira, I promise. Miss Briggs provided me with the final detail that brought order to chaos. It concerns an incident that occurred last summer, when your stepfather spent a night here as the bishop's guest.”

Benedict emitted a snort. “Am I to be branded for my hospitality?”

“Let me finish. According to Miss Briggs, Everett passed out at the table, and it took two footmen to convey him to a guest room. Moira, was your stepfather in the habit of overindulging?”

“No. Not once have I ever seen him inebriated.”

“I thought not. Yet that night he became so deep in his cups he lost consciousness. And shortly after, Susan Oliphant left her position here, very much with child.”

“Everett didn't know what he was doing that night.” Defensiveness lent a tremor to Uncle Benedict's voice. “Forgive me for saying it, Moira, but he obviously took Miss Oliphant into his bed.”

“While he was so deep in his cups, he landed face first in his supper plate?” Graham tsked. “It would have been rather difficult to perform, if you'll forgive me for being blunt. And let us consider the dates of these occurrences.”

He came around the settee and paced the carpet as he ticked off the facts on his fingers, reminding Moira of Inspector Parker's brisk manner. “Miss Briggs told me the night in question occurred in early summer. She remembers clearly because Everett had a weakness for gooseberry pie, and she'd been able to find fresh gooseberries at market that day for the first time that season. As you know, the first crop isn't available until June. Now, according to Mrs. Higgensworth, Michael was born in January.” He came to a halt. “That makes seven months. Doesn't add up, does it?”

Benedict shrugged. “Many a child comes early.”