The Pigeon Hole, the Two Sevens, Rupert House, Thackery’s, Belmonde’s, Fabrey’s and the Blue Moon—a new and very popular hell. Those were the establishments she knew Morgan frequented. As for the games he favored—hazard, faro, vingt-et-un, rouge-et-noir, E.O. and picquet. Though she hadn’t chosen the hell for their encounter, she picked the game. It would have to be picquet. It was one of the few games that allowed her to wager Morgan directly without the intervention of a dealer or banker and did not require a partner. The house would be due a percentage of the wager, but that should not present a problem.
She tapped the end of the pen against her cheek as she thought. Morgan was not likely to risk cheating for an inconsequential wager, so she must think of a way to make the wager worth the risk. “How much would be enough?” she mused out loud.
“The eternal question,” a deeply masculine voice answered.
She looked up and found Adam standing in the doorway. He grinned and stepped into the library, closing the door behind him. Impeccably dressed, he exuded an aura of easy self-confidence as he went to the sideboard to pour himself a glass of sherry. He was obviously planning to go out for the evening and she was pleased to see that he’d found something to fit him.
With a glance in her direction, he poured a second glass. “You look as if you could use it,” he explained as he brought it to her and sat across the desk from her.
She smiled. “Oh, please won’t you come in and join me, Mr. Hawthorne? Do sit down.”
He laughed at her teasing, and the easy sound made her laugh, too. “Have I been impertinent? I forget to be formal. I practically grew up in this house and I forget that circumstances are different now.”
“You must make yourself at home,” Grace told him truthfully. “I was not aware that you’d spent so much time here. You and Mr. Forbush were close, I gather?”
“Quite. My mother—his sister—died of consumption when I was still at home with a governess. My father was killed riding to the hounds when I was at Eton. From that time forward, Uncle Basil and I were all we had of family. I came here for most holidays, and in summer we would spend a few weeks at the cottage in Devon.”
Grace nodded. Basil had told her as much. It was part of those lands in Devon that Leland had traded her for. “I’ve asked my solicitor to go over Basil’s will and determine what should have been yours. You may well be entitled to this house, and then Dianthe and I would have to prevail upon your hospitality until we could find accommodations elsewhere.”
“Which I would give as gladly as you have,” he said, raising his glass. After drinking, he regarded her through those deep hazel eyes. “Did I interrupt your calculations on ‘how much would be enough’ to settle with me?”
“No, I…” Grace stopped. Had there been a note of suspicion in Adam’s voice? “Do you think I would cheat you, Mr. Hawthorne?”
“I barely know you, Mrs. Forbush. How would I know what you might or might not do?”
She felt his suspicion like an insult. “I suppose you wouldn’t, sir.” He stood and came around the desk to look over her shoulder. She fought the instinct to cover her list, knowing that would only make him more suspicious.
“Hells and games of chance? Is that what you were calculating?”
“I…um, yes. I have not been able to determine if there is a maximum wager at any particular game. I wondered how much would be enough to make the house declare a limit.”
“Are you such a deep player that you want to wager the limit?”
“I merely wish to know what it is.” And how much it would take to tempt Lord Geoffrey into cheating.
“That would depend upon the hell.”
“I see. Well, thank you for the education, Mr. Hawthorne.”
“Why hasn’t Barrington undertaken your, er, education, Mrs. Forbush?”
She shrugged. “We are going again tonight, but he does not approve of my new interest. He barely tolerates my attendance at some of the hells. I fear he may refuse to escort me at any moment.”
Adam moved to the fireplace and rested one arm on the mantel. “I believe that may well be the best decision.”
She took a deep sip from her sherry and stood. “Because you disapprove of a woman engaged in a male pastime?”
“Because anything could happen to a lady at a hell. Men are not…at their best in such circumstances.”
“And who knows where it all would end?” she asked archly as she went to the sideboard to refill her glass. “What next, sir? Women’s clubs? Women in taverns? Unescorted to restaurants? Frequenting brothels?”
He laughed. “Aside from the last, those prospects do not alarm me in the least. But how can a man indulge his baser nature with a wife or daughter looking on?”
“Ah, then mankind is safe, since I am neither any man’s wife or daughter.” But she was Leland’s sister, and that could be a problem unless she concluded this matter quickly.
“I daresay you would be shocked at what men do outside of female observation.”
She smiled. After all the cases the Wednesday League had taken, she doubted she was capable of shock but the notion intrigued her. “Would you even have any idea what it would take to shock me, sir?”
Adam left his glass on the mantel and came toward her, an enigmatic expression on his face. “I believe I would, madam.”
Before she was aware of him moving, he was standing mere inches away. She had to tilt her head upward to see into his eyes. Then his intent was clear. He was going to kiss her, and the small pause gave her the opportunity to escape. To her own surprise, she didn’t take it. How long had it been since she had seen a kiss coming and welcomed it? Ever?
Adam slipped his arms around her and pulled her firmly against his chest. The heat of his body seeped into hers, drawing an answering warmth from her. Heavens!
She dropped her lashes and waited, breathless, for the contact of his lips, but Adam dragged the moment out. His lips, soft and relaxed, parted slightly as he bent to her. He seemed to be in no hurry, as if he were relishing the moment, committing it to memory. She was not disappointed. The sweetness of the first touch of their lips was all the more intense for that slow, deliberate anticipation.
Softly insistent nibbles gave way to deeper, longer contact, eliciting a strong involuntary response from her—a soft sigh, a faint moan. She rose on her tiptoes to press closer and parted her lips a little, a thing she’d never done of her own accord before.
Clinging to the square set of his shoulders, she was acutely aware of Adam’s large hand splayed at the small of her back, pressing her closer as his other hand slid up her spine to caress the stretch of her neck. Chill bumps sent a delicate shiver through her and her breasts firmed in response.
Slowly, almost reluctantly, Adam lifted his head enough to look into her eyes. A lazy smile curved his mouth. He cupped her head as he lowered to her lips again. This time the kiss was subtly different, no longer asking but insisting. This time his tongue, tasting faintly of sherry, made contact with hers. The depth of intimacy in that touch shook her to her very core. She was experiencing Adam in a way that she had never experienced any other man. This intimacy felt more intense to her than all the nights of Basil’s clumsy and ineffectual fumbling or Barrington’s sporadic attempts to woo her.
It was just a kiss. Just…a kiss? How could it feel like so much more? He broke contact and she sighed in protest.
“Shh,” he whispered. “Patience.” He trailed a path of tiny kisses to a spot just beneath her ear, where he hovered for a moment, his lips barely brushing her flesh as he spoke. “I feel your heart beating,” he said, then nibbled and tugged gently at her earlobe.
She closed her eyes and her knees nearly buckled. Adam continued to give attention to the spot while the hand that had cupped her head moved downward, then around to brush her breast. Oh, how sweet a sensation that was coupled with the tingle of his kiss!
The dinner bell shattered the moment and Adam straightened, looking heavy-eyed
and exceptionally annoyed. He released her, keeping one hand at her waist to steady her.
He studied her face and gave her a teasing grin. “I…concede that I may not have shocked you, Mrs. Forbush, but I collect that I’ve managed to surprise you.”
Grace took a steadying breath, confused thoughts and emotions running riot through her muddled brain. Where had those feelings, those yearnings, come from? She glanced down at the floor and smoothed her gown, trying to cover her perplexity. “Surprise? Why, yes. You did.”
Adam turned away and went back to his sherry. With his back to her, he took a long drink and squared his shoulders before saying, “Should I say I am sorry?”
“Only if you mean it, Mr. Hawthorne.”
The silence dragged out for a moment before she realized he was not going to apologize. He was not sorry he’d kissed her. She paused, giving time and distance a chance to restore her composure. “Nevertheless,” she murmured, “if we are to keep close quarters—”
“We’d do well to guard against a reoccurrence of that sort,” Adam finished for her. He turned to face her again, looking as shaken as she felt.
She nodded, her mind in turmoil. This was an intolerable complication! Everything she held dear was at risk. She couldn’t allow herself to feel this way. She just couldn’t. It would complicate everything!
The library doors opened and Dianthe peeked in. “Oh, here you are. Did you hear the dinner bell? I’m famished and Mrs. Dewberry has made her poached salmon and a lovely aspic.” She looked at Grace, then Adam, and smiled. “But ignore my interruption, please.”
“Quite all right, Miss Lovejoy,” Adam said, going to take her arm to escort her to the dining room. He glanced back at Grace and winked. “I am famished, as well.”
Chapter Five
Despite the gilt elegance of the main salon, there was something about the wholly masculine atmosphere of a gambling hell and the men who inhabited it that intrigued Grace—a coarseness and baseness that seemed to contradict their underlying dignity. In one corner, she watched as a man celebrated as a great naval hero, and reportedly happily married, cursed roundly as he threw his cards on the table. He pulled the young woman next to him into his arms, swearing that if he could not win at cards, he’d damned well win at love. She giggled as he led her out of the main salon and down a darkened corridor to the rooms kept for such purposes. If this was the sort of activity men preferred, it was a wonder to ever find them at an afternoon garden party.
Barrington whispered, “There, Grace. I warned you what sort of thing goes on at these places. Are you ready to throw it in?”
She thought of the bruises on Laura Talbot’s arms. No, she could not “throw it in.” “Really, my lord, do you think me so delicate that I cannot withstand a little smoke and the demimonde?” From the corner of her eye, she saw Lord Geoffrey Morgan come through the arched entry to the main salon.
“Why would you want to? That is what I’d like to know,” Barrington muttered. “Never would have suspected you’d have a taste for the low life, Grace.”
Low life? “Do you think I have sunk low just because I wish to play a few games of chance?” she asked as she watched Morgan’s cool gaze sweep the room.
“Er, no, Grace. Nothing of the sort. Just don’t think this is a suitable place for a woman of your…your social standing and exceptional reputation.”
“Perhaps it is just the place,” she said with a little shrug. “I have been thinking, lately, that I’ve become a bit stodgy.”
Morgan glanced in their direction and smiled. Grace wet her lips. He was coming toward them and, by the length of his stride, he would be upon them before Barrington noticed. When Barrington did notice his advance, it was too late.
“Barrington,” Morgan greeted him. “I haven’t seen you here in a while. Where have you been keeping yourself?”
Barrington affected a look of surprise. “Oh, Morgan. Nice to see you again. I’ve been keeping busy. Always a war somewhere, you know.”
Geoffrey Morgan laughed and Grace was struck by the sound. Though she suspected it was polite and social, it had the ring of sincerity. Was he enjoying Barrington’s discomfort?
“Well, I am glad to see you back. I’ve always said you are an excellent player.”
“Yes, well…” Barrington paused awkwardly. “I, uh, I suppose you’ve met Mrs. Forbush?”
“A lifetime ago, it seems, although I was simply Mr. Morgan then.” Morgan turned his full attention to her. “It is nice to see you again, Mrs. Forbush.”
“Lord Geoffrey.” Grace smiled in acknowledgment. “I was sorry to hear about your father’s passing.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Forbush. Are you enjoying yourself?”
“Very much.” She smiled, her excitement rising now that she’d finally made the first contact. “I had no idea such exciting entertainments were only moments away from Almack’s.”
He laughed and nodded. “And now that you’ve been here, you are not likely to be invited back to Almack’s.”
“Then, since I will have the spare time, you are certain to see more of me.” She tilted her head slightly and gave him an innocent smile.
He lowered his voice and said, “I pray that is so, Mrs. Forbush.”
Barrington cleared his throat. “Grace is just playing at gambling, Morgan. She’ll soon tire of it and—”
She patted her escort’s arm and smiled up at him. “Lord Barrington is always kind enough to indulge my whims, whether he understands them or not.”
Her escort looked down at her, momentarily confused. “Why, uh, I do my best.”
“As would I,” Morgan said, “were I fortunate enough to have the attention of so lovely a woman.”
Barrington bristled. “But Grace, er, Mrs. Forbush, wants to take more risks than she should. A little reckless, if you ask me,” he continued, just warming to the subject.
“Reckless, eh?” Morgan asked.
Grace could almost see his speculation. Was he assessing her to determine if she’d be an easy mark? Or just wondering precisely how reckless she might be? She felt the need to explain. “Lord Barrington is only out of sorts because I asked him to take me to the Blue Moon tonight.”
Now Morgan laughed outright. “The Covent Garden hells are déclassé, and well beneath your notice, I promise you. They call it the Blue Moon for a reason. Their clients only win once in a blue moon.”
Barrington nodded. “Quite right, Morgan. There, you see, Grace? I told you it wasn’t the place for you.”
She merely returned Barrington’s grin. She’d only wanted o go because she’d heard that it was one of Morgan’s favorite haunts. “Nevertheless, I should like to go there sometime.”
“Perhaps you will be able to persuade someone to take you,” Morgan said. “But come. Have you learned faro, Mrs. Forbush? Allow me to teach you if Barrington has neglected that part of your education.”
“I tried my hand last night, Lord Geoffrey, but I do not seem to have a grasp of the game. I lost miserably.”
He took her arm and led her toward the faro table with Barrington at her other side. Whatever the man was, he was not lacking in social graces.
The afternoon sun was still high when Adam checked the slip of paper that had arrived by messenger that morning from Freddie. He glanced at the gray ivy-covered cottage again. Yes, the St. Albans address was correct if a bit surprising. Retired valets and household servants most often shared quarters in retirement, if not entered a home for the infirm. This small cottage was set back from the street, had a vegetable garden and was well kept and in good repair. He knocked twice, wondering if Freddie had gotten the address wrong.
A balding man opened the door and blinked rheumy gray eyes in surprise. “Mr. Hawthorne! I…we….”
“Thought I was dead,” Adam finished for the speechless valet. He was startled at how much the man had aged since he’d last seen him. He would not have recognized Bellows on the street. “But, as you can see, I’m hale and hardy.”
“Come in, sir. Come in.” The man stood aside to allow Adam to pass. “What a pleasure to see you, sir.”
The main room had a low ceiling and was small but comfortable. Surprised, Adam recognized a few nice pieces from his uncle’s house mingled with other good but worn furniture. He removed his hat and shook Bellows’s hand. “I heard you’d retired, Bellows, so I came to pay my respects.”
The man flushed with pleasure. “Please sit down. May I offer you a cup of tea?”
Adam took one of the chairs by the fireplace and shook his head. “No, thank you, Bellows. I can’t stay long. I just wanted to reassure myself that you are well and happy.”
“Very kind of you, sir.” Bellows sat opposite him and smiled. “Quite a shock, finding you alive all these years, sir. If I was rude, I apologize.”
“Not at all,” Adam assured him. “But you cannot have been more shocked than I to learn that you’d retired. I somehow thought you’d work until you were senile.”
Bellows laughed and rubbed his bald head. “And I would have, too, if Mrs. Forbush had not insisted. But once your uncle was gone, there didn’t seem much point in staying on. He’d already begun to fail but after we had the news about you, well, the end came quickly. He did not suffer, sir.”
Adam nodded and said nothing. Barrington had said Uncle Basil had been ill since before Adam’s last visit. According to Grace, he began a decline after the report of Adam’s death. Now Bellows reported he’d been ill only shortly before the report of Adam’s death. Which was the truth?
“Aye, sir. And when our mourning was done, Mrs. Forbush asked my help in putting Mr. Forbush’s things away. We had nice long chats while we worked, and ’twas when I mentioned that I’d worked for Mr. Forbush for forty-five years that Mrs. Forbush insisted I should retire. Said I done more than faithful service and deserved a rest. I was that shocked, I was.”
“I hope you are not suffering financially.”
“Nothing of the sort, sir.” Bellows straightened in his chair and smiled. “I’ve been pensioned off. First of every month, I get an envelope from the missus. More than enough to pay my expenses, sir. In fact, the ladies in the village think I’m quite a catch. I can tell you, Mr. Hawthorne, that I do not lack for companionship.”
The Missing Heir Page 5
