The Missing Heir

by Ranstrom, Gail

  “Do you gamble often, Mrs. Forbush?”

  “There are more ways to gamble than laying counters upon a table, Mr. Hawthorne, and the stakes need not be money.”

  Now this was interesting. Where else might the lovely widow gamble, and for what stakes? “I shall remember that, Mrs. Forbush. Perhaps we will have occasion to make a wager.”

  Dianthe regarded them suspiciously. “What have I missed?”

  Adam smiled at Grace and then turned to Dianthe. “I’ve been puzzling all day how to address everyone. If Mrs. Forbush is your aunt, and she is mine, would that make us cousins, Miss Lovejoy?”

  Dianthe smiled. “I suppose it would, though Grace is not actually my aunt. She was my mother’s cousin. My sister and I came to live with her only recently so that she could sponsor our coming out. Afton has married, but, alas, I have yet to find a husband.”

  He laughed at her ingenuous admission. “I would guess that has been your choice. But since we are family, we should not stand on formality. You may call me cousin or Adam, whichever suits you best.”

  “And you must call me Dianthe or Di. But I cannot imagine what to do with Aunt Grace. I know her nickname was Ellie when she was younger, but no one has called her that in ages. And every time you call her Aunt Grace, it sets me on a giggle. Mrs. Forbush sounds like an ancient governess, and I think she is far too stunning for that. Would you not agree?”

  He nodded. Far too stunning, indeed. “Ellie? Where did that come from?”

  “My father,” Grace admitted, shooting a stern look in Dianthe’s direction. “Grace Ellen York was my name before marriage. Papa thought Grace too drab a name for a young girl.”

  He tried to imagine her as a rosy-cheeked child with a long dark pigtail. He wondered if she ever wore her hair down now. “I agree with your father,” he said.

  “I left that all behind years ago, Mr. Hawthorne. You may call me Grace, but Ellie makes me feel absurdly young.”

  “Very well, Grace,” he said. Judging the time to be right for a question that had been bothering him since his arrival at Bloomsbury Square, he asked, “Do you mind telling me whatever happened to Bellows? And Mrs. Humphries?”

  “They’ve retired,” Grace said with no further explanation.

  Retired? Or gotten out of the way? Had she not wanted his uncle’s servants to be around to talk about what went on in the house? Or about any suspicions they might have had? His uncle’s widow was beginning to look very suspicious indeed.

  Grace allowed Lord Barrington to take her wrap and hand it to a footman as they entered the Pigeon Hole. After his rather mild introduction to gambling the night before, she was not prepared for the raw undercurrents running through the rooms as he led her deeper into the establishment. The air was heavy with smoke and tension. An occasional shout of laughter or collective moan punctuated the steady drone of conversation.

  “I could have taken you to some smaller private clubs, Grace. Much more suitable for a woman of your station. Why you selected this one is beyond me. ’Tis reputed that one of the owners is the abbot of a notorious nunnery. I do not like to think of you rubbing elbows with the likes of him.”

  “Could I catch something from elbow rubbing?” she asked, keeping her expression neutral. “Aside from a soiled elbow?”

  Barrington looked slightly confused and she knew he hadn’t caught her teasing. Honestly, sometimes the man was so stodgy that it amazed her. But looking back on the past several years, she could see that she’d become rather stodgy. But why should that occur to her just now? Because she had just broken that mold? Or—

  Adam Hawthorne, again. Barely a few years older than she, every line of his body, every movement, every smile, told of an energy and enthusiasm for life that she’d forfeit for safety. His strength and vitality were a stark contrast to her own blurred ennui. Heavens, she was envious of him!

  Barrington harrumphed. “Perhaps you wouldn’t catch something, Grace, but you are apt to acquire some nasty habits or bad language.”

  “I shall guard against that,” she promised.

  “Why risk it at all? Why put your reputation under scrutiny when there’s no need? I cannot fathom why—”

  She cut him off. “We’ve been over this, m’lord. I weary of discussing it. If you’d prefer not to take me, I will not beg or pout. I shall simply ask Mr. Phillips to escort me. He has often said that he’d be—”

  “Now, now. No need for that. If you’re determined to do this, I would rather be close at hand in the event that…you need assistance.”

  How diplomatic of him. She’d have sworn that he was about to say “in the event she got herself into some trouble,” but had stopped himself in time. “Thank you, my lord. I shall do my best not to impose upon your kindness.”

  He harrumphed again and guided her toward a table where vingt-et-un was being played. A footman circulating with a tray of wineglasses came by and Barrington claimed two. “Have a care not to drink too much, Grace. ’Tis one of the ways the house leads you to play deep and reckless.”

  Needless advice, but Grace nodded. She actually wanted to gain a reputation as a “high flyer.” Did she dare tip her hand to Barrington? No, she could only risk one bland question. “I was discussing my interest with Sir Lawrence this afternoon, and he said I should watch someone named Geoffrey Morgan play. He said the man was a genius at games of chance.”

  “Sir Lawrence? When did you see him?”

  “He came to see Auberville when I was calling on Lady Annica. We chatted for a few moments in passing. When I told him that I was going gambling tonight, he was all enthusiasm. Perhaps we shall run into him.” She glanced around, trying her best to look bored. “Is Lord Geoffrey here tonight?”

  Barrington peered into the hazy air, squinting through the curtain of smoke. “Don’t see him, but it’s early yet. And I don’t much fancy you making his acquaintance, Grace. He is not the sort one wishes to count among one’s friends.”

  Grace smiled patiently. “We were introduced years ago, and I was not seeking to make the man my friend. I merely wanted to watch him at the tables. Sir Lawrence said I would find it educational.”

  “Hmm,” Barrington replied noncommittally.

  For the next hour Grace placed small wagers at various tables, trying her hand at faro, picquet and rouge-et-noir. She encouraged Barrington to find his own entertainment at the hazard table. Though the other players regarded her with curiosity, they were all willing to take her money. The two other women present were vivacious females who were dressed in colorful gowns with daringly low décolletages. Grace had never seen either of them at any of the events she regularly attended and suspected they might be of the demimonde.

  “By God, Morgan! You have the devil’s own luck!” a portly man at a picquet table said.

  Grace moved closer to study the other man. So here was Lord Geoffrey Morgan. He’d changed since she’d last seen him four years ago. Still handsome, to be sure, but harder, more cynical. What had happened to him in the interim? If Lord Geoffrey was so attractive, and possessed of a fortune, why could he not find a wife in the ordinary way—courtship? Could his murky reputation include mistreatment of women?

  Morgan was a man of above-average height and trim build. His dark hair was threaded with stands of silver now, but he did not look old. To the contrary, the silver was premature and simply made him look distinguished—a stark contrast to his smooth, unlined skin. His features were pleasant and the grin he gave his companion was not in the least bit smug. But his best feature—at least the one that caught her attention—was his hands. Long elegant fingers caressed the deck of cards almost like a lover, riffling the edges in a confident, bored manner. Those hands were the only things about the man that spoke of his inner restlessness.

  He grew still, as if he sensed her attention. In a slow deliberate manner, he glanced toward her and caught her eye. He studied her from the toes of her slippers upward to her face, and then his lips drew up in a smile. Did he rem
ember her?

  She dropped her gaze, then lifted it again in a soft, almost seductive greeting. With a little lift of her chin, she turned and walked away, feeling the heat of his gaze follow her. She stopped at the vingt-et-un table and placed a small bet, knowing he would still be watching. When she glanced over her shoulder, he grinned again and she did her level best to look worldly and as bored with the scene as he. When Barrington joined her and took her arm to lead her away, she noted a small look of irritation on Lord Geoffrey’s face.

  Oh, it was good to know your enemy’s weaknesses.

  Chapter Four

  Adam, having left his newfound “cousin” in the care of Lord Auberville and his wife, found himself climbing the stairway at the Eagle Tavern for the second time in as many days. He hadn’t expected to see Freddie again quite so soon, but circumstances warranted. The more he learned about Grace Ellen Forbush, the more suspicious she appeared.

  Privately, he asked several men about her. They all smiled regretfully, saying that, after a protracted mourning period, Grace’s name had been linked to several powerful men. Then Barrington claimed the exclusive right to escort her to various functions. It was generally accepted amongst the ton that they had been lovers for the past three years.

  Adam’s mind revolted when he tried to imagine Grace’s slender, delicate frame pinned beneath a sweating, heaving Barrington. Or his uncle, for that matter. To complicate matters, the whispers of her new interest in gambling had begun to spread, and men were speculating that if she was restless, she might be looking for a new lover. Adam was hard-pressed to believe the amount of interest the topic was generating. Was every man in London queuing up to vie for that honor?

  He hesitated only a moment before knocking on Freddie’s door. When it opened, a furrow-browed dandy exited, nearly running over Adam in his haste.

  “Come in,” Freddie called.

  Adam closed the door behind him and gave Freddie a smile. “Bad news?” he asked, nodding toward the departing dandy.

  Freddie nodded. “His wife is meeting privately with his best friend. I wouldn’t want to be either of them tonight.”

  Lord! Was all of London taking lovers?

  Tipping his chair onto the back legs, Freddie grinned. “So, did you just miss me, Hawthorne, or do you have a use for me?”

  “Could be both.”

  “Are you going to help me with this one?”

  “As much as my time will allow.”

  “Let’s hear it. As luck would have it, I’m between jobs.”

  Adam sat by the fire and sighed. “Find my uncle’s valet and housekeeper. I’d like to have a chat with them.”

  Freddie nodded, studying his face. The man was trying to get a “read” on him, and Adam smiled. “And keep an eye on my dear aunt Grace. There’s something odd going on there. I’m wondering if there’s any truth to the rumors that she hastened my uncle’s death.”

  “Report to you daily or weekly?”

  “I’ll find you when I want to talk,” Adam said. “If you have something you need me to know sooner, you can find me.”

  “And what will you be doing?”

  “My best to keep an eye on the winsome widow.” He stood and moved toward the door to put his plan in action.

  Freddie grinned. “Careful, Hawthorne. Bad manners, not to mention the possible risk to life and limb, to tup the hostess.”

  Adam finally found Barrington’s coach waiting on a side street around the corner from the Pigeon Hole on St. James Square. Though he wasn’t a member, he slipped the doorman a guinea with the promise to speak to the proprietor about buying a subscription.

  The main salon was lavishly appointed, well lit with a crystal chandelier in the central area, and darker around the edges of the room. Adam kept to these shadows as he watched waiters circulate with wineglasses and hors d’oeuvres. The proprietors, two savvy men who’d won the establishment from the original owner in a high-stakes game of whist, did not want their guests to have any reason to leave the tables. Any delicacy, any desire, was fulfilled. Deep play was encouraged, and when a man’s counters were spent, it was only a matter of a signature to acquire more. A few women dressed in scandalously low gowns circulated with glasses of wine and would occasionally disappear with a guest for short periods of time.

  He caught sight of Grace’s slender form gliding from one table to another, a low buzz following in her wake. It was true, then—her presence in the gambling world was causing a sensation. And if speculation was running rampant, he would know the gist of it by morning. A small group of men stood near the hazard table, talking in muffled tones. Every few moments one or the other would turn to look in Grace’s direction. Did she quite realize how widely she was drawing attention? Or was she so accustomed to attention that she scarcely noticed?

  Barrington said something to her and she turned to him and smiled. Even in profile, she stole his breath away. The sweep of her neck, the delicate hue of pink that tinted the curve of her cheek, and the demure knot of dark hair at her nape all beckoned him, and he found himself taking a few steps forward before he could check himself.

  He realized with an angry tweak that he was no different than those men who stood in line for her. When she’d repaired his cravat earlier, and stood so close to him that he could feel the heat of her breath against his cheek, he’d been a mere blink from pulling her into his arms. Had it not been for Dianthe’s presence, he might have done so. Was she sublimely unaware that she was a natural seductress? No, she had to know. She’d been married. She’d had numerous affairs. She would have to know the power she held over men. The banked fire in her eyes spoke what words could not. She was a woman made for love.

  A burst of laughter floated from the hazard table and Grace turned to Barrington, clapping her hands with delight. A glow of excitement lit her face as she collected a small pile of counters. Perhaps it was true, then. Perhaps she craved excitement and risk.

  He could think of far more interesting ways to excite and challenge his enigmatic hostess.

  “La! Es-tu folle, chère?” Madame Marie asked.

  Was she crazy? Grace wondered. She studied herself in the trifold looking glass in the back fitting room of La Meilleure Robe. No, she looked quite sane. She smoothed the fabric of her new icy-violet gown over her hips, delighting in the fluid sensation and drape of the fabric. The gown would move with her, not act as a cage to hide her form. She sighed with the realization that sensory perceptions were important to her. If anything was wrong with her, it was that she was far too earthy.

  “No, madame, I am not crazy. It is the only solution.” She turned on the little stool as Madame Marie marked the hem and glanced over her shoulder to entreat Francis Renquist, Madame Marie’s husband and the Wednesday League’s investigator. “Tell her, Mr. Renquist.”

  Renquist sat forward in the delicate chair and studied the toes of his boots, clearly wishing himself elsewhere. “I’m not certain it is the only solution, Mrs. Forbush.”

  Grace was a little surprised by his reply. “If I had not suspended my Friday salons until autumn, I could ask him to tea. If you have another, please tell me. I am all ears, sir.”

  “Let me put more men on the problem. If Geoffrey Morgan is a cheat, we will uncover it. Aye, we could have results twice as fast.”

  Grace nodded. “By all means,” she said, making a tiny turn for madame’s marking. “Put more men on it. But can you guarantee you will have the required proof and be able to neutralize Lord Geoffrey within two weeks?”

  “Well, I couldn’t actually guarantee—”

  She nodded, suspecting as much. “Then surely you can understand why I am willing to risk everything, even my reputation, Mr. Renquist. Miss Talbot will be quite literally sold into marriage to a man she does not even know if we are unable to acquire evidence of his cheating. I have the resources as well as entrée to the hells Morgan frequents. Meanwhile, I would like you and your men to find other men who have lost heavily to Morgan. I w
ant to know how many of them suspect him of trickery, and if they have any idea how he might have done it. Furthermore, I would like any information you can uncover about the man himself—who his friends are, how he spends his time when he is not gambling, where he goes—”

  “It is precisely because of Lord Geoffrey’s reputation that I would urge you to distance yourself,” Renquist interrupted.

  “His reputation is not my concern unless it affects Miss Talbot’s case.” She sighed, thinking of the man she had seen last night at the Pigeon Hole. When Constance had kept his company, he’d been well-mannered and polite. Geoffrey Morgan had an air of banked vitality that society women would find vaguely unsettling—the same vitality that lay beneath Adam Hawthorne’s smooth grace. She found that vigor curiously attractive in both men. What might they be like beneath the surface, if they chose to unveil themselves?

  She gave herself a mental shake and made another quarter turn on the stool. “I merely mean to observe the man to determine if he is cheating, and then, if he is, to think of the best possible way to expose him, thus rendering the markers he holds null and void. Simplicity itself, Mr. Renquist. Not in the least dangerous or complicated.”

  Renquist was watching her with apprehension. “My blood chills when I hear those words from the ladies of the Wednesday League,” he murmured. “Do you promise to come to me if you are in any danger, Mrs. Forbush?”

  She laughed at Mr. Renquist’s needless concern and shrugged, drawing an annoyed cluck from Madame Marie. “I am not tracking a murderer, sir, but you have my oath.”

  Stealing a few minutes before the dinner bell that evening, Grace slipped into the library and sat at the massive mahogany desk. Withdrawing a sheet of paper and a pen from the center drawer, she began to make a list.