The Missing Heir

by Ranstrom, Gail

  “Rice powder,” she sighed, her gaze dropping to the floor.

  Ah, she’d done this before. Covering abuse was not new to her. And now he understood why Grace Ellen Forbush was an enigma. How often had he seen these signs in the ballrooms and palaces of Europe? Women—forced to hide a husband’s abuse, a father’s cruelty, a brother’s brutality or a lover’s spite—compelled to bury all traces of their own individuality and to disguise their true feelings for fear of ridicule or punishment. Grace had come to her tightly controlled character as a means of survival. But the real Grace was under there somewhere—perhaps the little girl with a dark pigtail—beneath the facade, and he was determined to find her. Who had subjected her to such treatment? Surely not his uncle? “Your brother—” he began.

  Her head snapped up to look directly into his face. “He must not hear of this! Promise me, Adam!”

  Stunned at the force of her reaction, he hastened to agree. “No, of course not.”

  He released her arm, knowing she was too damaged, too raw from this latest episode, to question further. He could not even hold her, comfort her. She would resent him for imposing on her vulnerability in the morning.

  She walked slowly to the door, fatigue in every step. Her back to him, she paused with her hand on the knob but did not look back. “Thank you, Adam.”

  “For what?”

  “For not making this more difficult than it needed to be.”

  “You are quite welcome, Grace,” he whispered. He threw his jacket over a chair and went to sit by the dying fire.

  Her voice caught as she said so faintly that he scarcely heard it, “I do not wish to speak of this again.” Then the door closed quietly behind her.

  Three days—three nights—in the same house with the lovely widow, and he was still no closer to discovering what he’d come for. He suspected a good many things—that Grace was hiding a secret, that there was more to her gambling than she wanted anyone to know, that, as evidenced by the now-abandoned poker, she had the courage to stand up to forces far stronger than she and that she had experienced abuse from the men in her life. Certainly from her priggish brother. Possibly his uncle?

  He had a sinking feeling. Could that be the motive he’d been looking for? If Grace had suffered abuse at the hand of his uncle, or if his uncle had threatened to send her back to her brother, could she have ended that threat in the only way open to her? Did her willingness to use the poker hint at her willingness to use other means to rid herself of those she perceived as a threat?

  Chapter Seven

  On her way down to the library, Grace stopped to check her reflection in her mirror. Adam had been right. A cool damp cloth last night had kept the swelling of her lip to a minimum and, when Barrington’s palm print had faded, there only remained the faintest bruise high on her left cheekbone. She applied a little rice powder and was satisfied with the result.

  She straightened the long sleeves of her willow green gown as she hurried down the stairs. Within a week there would be no trace of Lord Barrington’s loss of temper, including Barrington himself. When Mrs. Dewberry had brought her morning tea earlier, she had instructed her that, should Barrington come calling, to refuse him admittance. Only one thing remained to be done to counteract the possible effects of last night.

  Taking a sheet of paper from the center drawer of her desk, Grace dipped her pen in the little inkwell and wrote.

  Dear Leland,

  I am in receipt of your recent letter and wish to thank you for your brotherly concern. My heart always warms when I realize how fond you are of me and that you always have my best interests at heart.

  As to my recent gambling, allow me to reassure you that I have been most circumspect in my behavior, ever mindful of your reputation and standing in society.

  In regard to sheltering an unmarried man, dear brother, I would remind you that he is not just any man. Mr. Hawthorne could very well be the true legal owner of the Bloomsbury Square property. I am not yet ready to pack up and abandon the premises, thus I must wait for a court determination on the issue of inheritance. I fear that to deny him shelter would anger him and make him less amenable to settlement. I was confident you would not want me to risk any property unnecessarily.

  I pray your forbearance for yet another fortnight. Should the causes of your concern not be resolved by then, I shall inform you of it.

  Grace paused and tapped the end of her pen against her cheek as she thought. If she sounded the least bit disrespectful or defiant, he would arrive at her front door with a full contingent of servants to pack her up and cart her back to Devon. How, then, to phrase the last bit of business?

  I have always been most appreciative of your sensitivity to my secret—although, why Basil had told him, she couldn’t imagine—but I pray you will not use it against me. If that knowledge should become public, I fear it would cause you embarrassment and require me to take strong action to restore my reputation.

  Nothing was more important to Leland than his reputation. The wrath of God could be descending upon him, and as long as he appeared important and respectable, he would not care in the least. But would he be sensible enough to read between the lines and understand that, once her secret was known, he would have no further weapon to hold her hostage? That his authority as her brother might not end, but that any reason she might have to obey him would be gone? Pray so, else there was trouble ahead. She dipped her pen again.

  Please give my best to Pricilla, along with my prayers for the restoration of her health.

  I remain your devoted sister,

  Grace

  Actually there was nothing wrong with Pricilla’s health that a divorce would not cure, but Grace could not resist the subtle gibe. She blew on the ink to speed the drying, folded the parchment, addressed an envelope and placed it on the silver tray by the door for Mr. Dewberry to post later.

  She had done everything she could to head off her brother and to mitigate the damage done by last night’s scene at Belmonde’s. She would have to go to that establishment again tonight, however, to put as good a face as possible on the fiasco. If she were seen whole and happy immediately after the fray, gossip would die a natural death. The ton, though still watching her carefully, would think it was all a tempest in a teapot. The rest was simply out of her hands.

  Famished now that the unpleasant duties were done, she went to the morning room. Dianthe and Adam had already served themselves from the sideboard and were enjoying a lively discussion of Lord Elgin’s marble artifacts. The scene was so comfortable and natural that she smiled to herself, wondering if this was what a normal family was like.

  “Thievery!” Dianthe exclaimed. “Nothing less. Robbing the Greeks of their heritage. They should be returned at once.”

  “Preservation,” Adam disagreed. “That future generations will have the benefit of learning and seeing firsthand the wonders and history of bygone ages.”

  “British generations,” Dianthe exclaimed, waving her butter knife. “And how will that benefit the Greeks?”

  “The Greeks had thousands of years to preserve their history. We have done a service to them and mankind.”

  “Peace!” Grace laughed at their congenial high-spirited disagreement. “It is too early in the day for such philosophy.”

  “Aunt Grace!” Dianthe exclaimed. “Adam told me you were very tired and would likely sleep late.”

  Grace poured herself a cup of tea and buttered a muffin before she dared to look at Adam. She suspected she could trust his discretion, but she prayed she would not see pity in his eyes. She could bear anything but pity. “I was exhausted, but I slept very soundly. Thank you for thinking of me, Mr.—Adam.”

  “No thanks necessary,” he said, his voice steady and firm.

  When she met his gaze, he gave her a smile of encouragement and a little nod of approval. Oh, dear. That was almost worse than pity. It was support, and she was not used to that. If she was not careful, she could end up needing him. She was alr
eady alarmed by the ease with which she’d grown accustomed to having him around. And how she looked forward to seeing his handsome face at her table.

  “What tired you so, Aunt Grace? A grueling time at the tables?”

  Grace applied a dollop of strawberry preserves to the spongy surface of the muffin. She would have to tell Dianthe something, and the sooner the better. She’d best just come out with it. “Lord Barrington and I quarreled, Dianthe. I regret to say that he will not be calling in the future.”

  Dianthe put her cup on the saucer and tilted her head to one side, studying Grace’s face. Her clear blue eyes narrowed and she sat back in her chair. “You regret to say?”

  “It is always difficult to end a long friendship, Dianthe, but sometimes necessary.”

  “Did he end it? Or you?”

  “I believe it was mutual.” Grace sighed. “I think he has had quite enough of me.”

  “I doubt that,” Dianthe returned, “but what shall we do if he calls?”

  “He will not.”

  “Hmm,” Dianthe said, suspicion written on her face. She glanced at Adam. “Do you know something about this, Adam?”

  “I? Oh, no.” He laughed, raising his hands in protest. “You are not going to put me in the middle.”

  “I will explain later, Dianthe,” Grace said.

  Mrs. Dewberry hurried into the room carrying a kettle and with a parcel tucked under one arm. “This just came for you, Mrs. Forbush.” She placed the parcel on the table and went to fill the teapot from her kettle.

  Grace could not find a return address. The parcel was small, wrapped in brown paper and twine, and had evidently been delivered by messenger. She was suddenly afraid to open it.

  Adam produced a wicked looking knife from somewhere under the table. She suspected he carried it strapped to his leg or in his boot, a habit shared by many military men. He sliced through the twine as if it were thread, and gave her a nod of encouragement.

  The paper peeled away to reveal a dark blue velvet box and she realized what was afoot. She put it aside, intending to send it back unopened.

  “You are such a tease, Aunt Grace.” Dianthe smiled. “Open it, for heaven’s sake. The curiosity will be the end of me.”

  Adam raised one eyebrow. “Can’t have that, can we?”

  Even Mrs. Dewberry looked on eagerly.

  Reluctantly, Grace lifted the lid. Nestled in the blue velvet was a necklace of small diamonds with a large baroque pearl dangling at its center. The piece was stunning in its beauty and complexity. Beneath the necklace was an envelope with her name in a spidery script.

  “Read the note, Aunt Grace. I warrant ’tis Lord Barrington wanting to change his mind.”

  Knowing it could be nothing good, she unfolded the paper and read silently.

  Beloved Grace,

  Please forgive me. I cannot say how deeply ashamed I am of my vile temper. The only thing I can offer in my defense is that when I saw you with those men, all of them competing for your attention, I was insanely jealous. I did not realize until that moment how my feelings for you had changed and how empty my life would be without you.

  Honor me by accepting this paltry trinket as a token of my regret and sincere hope that you will accept my apology and allow me to call upon you again.

  Your humble servant,

  Lord Ronald Barrington

  How could he think he could play upon her emotions so easily? She knew from bitter experience that once a barrier had been breeched, the second time was easier, and the third easier still. It was always like this—the argument, the abuse, the effusive apology afterward coupled with gifts, bribes and promises that it would never happen again. But it always did, sooner or later. No, if she did not want to replace Leland with Barrington, and if she wanted to live free of fear and intimidation, she must stand firm.

  She ripped the note into shreds, dropped the pieces in the box, replaced the lid, and handed it to Mrs. Dewberry. “Please ask Mr. Dewberry to return this to Lord Barrington at once.”

  Mrs. Dewberry looked doubtful but took the box and hurried from the room.

  “Thank heavens,” Dianthe murmured.

  Surprised, Grace asked, “Whatever do you mean?”

  “I was always half afraid Lord Barrington might be mistreating you and that you were afraid to leave him. I could think of no other reason for you to remain with him.”

  Dear heaven! If Dianthe had seen, how many others might have thought the same? “Why would you suspect he was mistreating me?”

  “He reminds me of Squire Samuels, back in Little Upton. The squire was always jovial and charming, and everyone in the village thought that he was ever so agreeable, but he often spoke condescendingly to his wife, and she always bore the strangest bruises. Of course, no one ever thinks a child notices such things, but it was as plain as the nose on your face what was going on.”

  “And you thought Barrington was…”

  Dianthe smiled and leaned forward to pat her hand. “’Twas the way he would talk to you sometimes—so condescending and superior. I never saw any bruises, but thank heavens it never came to that, Aunt Grace. If I thought it had…well, I just don’t know what I might have done. Or the ladies.”

  “The ladies?” Adam repeated.

  “Aunt Grace’s bluestocking society. The Wednesday League. They are all the best of friends.” Dianthe smiled proudly. “They have made me a member.”

  Adam finished his coffee and gave Grace a nod as he stood. “I’m off to renew acquaintances, ladies. Please excuse me.”

  “Will you be home for dinner?” Dianthe asked.

  Adam smiled. “I would not miss the meals for anything. I have not eaten so well in years.” He turned when he reached the door, a thoughtful look on his face. “Do you ladies have any plans for the evening?”

  “I agreed to accompany Miss Talbot to a musicale tonight. If I do not go, she will only have her brother, and you know what a dull lot they can be.”

  Laura Talbot? Ah, Dianthe was doing her part to keep Miss Talbot safe. Her brother could not harm her if she was to be seen in society, and with her wedding to Lord Geoffrey so close.

  “Miss Talbot has a brother?” Adam asked. He smiled again, winking slyly at Dianthe. “Is he handsome, Di?”

  She grimaced in horror. “Me and Mr. Talbot? What a ghastly thought!”

  Adam laughed and turned to look at Grace. “And you, Grace? Are you going out this evening?”

  She nodded. “Belmonde’s.” Now that she was well-known in several hells, she knew she would not be denied entry, but going alone would make her quite vulnerable. Perhaps she should take additional funds in case she was required to buy a subscription.

  He regarded her for a long moment and Grace prepared herself for an argument. He would, no doubt, list all the excellent reasons why that would be a bad idea, not the least of which that it was Sunday. Men always thought they knew best but sometimes they could not see the subtle nuances of social protocol.

  “Do you have an escort?” he asked.

  “I…no.”

  “You do now. After dinner?”

  Surprised, she nodded again, a soft warmth stealing through her. Oh, this was not a good sign.

  Adam took Grace’s cloak in the foyer of Belmonde’s and handed it to a footman. By the way she was dressed, he judged her state of mind to be worse than he’d thought. She wore a light aqua confection with a scandalously low décolletage edged in transparent white lace. The sleeves were long and loose, covering her bruises. A braiding of aqua and white silk ribbons tied beneath her breasts trailed enticingly to the floor where a small puddle of fabric in back made a train. An aqua ribbon was woven through the coil of dark hair at her nape and a necklace of tiny pearls with an aqua stone in the center called attention to the lush curve of her breasts. Grace had dressed to enchant any man with blood running through his veins. And Adam had as much blood as the next man, though it had all just rushed to one part of his body.

  They pur
chased counters before they strolled into the main salon. There were fewer people here tonight than last night, and the conversation hushed as their entry was noted—testimony to the fact that at least some of them had been discussing the events of the previous night. He felt Grace’s step falter, but she quickly regained her composure. He glanced down at her and saw the little lift of her chin. Determination? Pride? Undoubtedly courage.

  Adam realized just how right she’d been in her decision to return to Belmonde’s tonight. Any rumors or speculation would be stilled by her appearance—hale, hardy and unbowed.

  He leaned close to Grace’s ear and whispered, “I am awed by your strategy, Mrs. Forbush. There isn’t a man here who isn’t impressed with your presence.”

  She smiled up at him, those dark, fathomless eyes swallowing him completely. “Thank you, Mr. Hawthorne. I had begun to doubt the wisdom of coming, but the sooner any gossip ends, the better I will like it. I think I should circulate.”

  He saw Freddie Carter in one corner of the main salon and acknowledged him with a nod. Had the man found something of interest and come looking for him? “I’d like to say hello to an old friend, but I’ll catch up to you in a bit.”

  Grace looked relieved, her attention on the vingt-et-un table. “Take your time, Mr. Hawthorne. I will not be far.”

  Lord Geoffrey Morgan turned toward her from his place at the table as she approached. A slow smile lit his face as he moved aside slightly to make a place for her. “Ah, Mrs. Forbush! I am pleased to see you tonight. You have not abandoned your quest for excitement?”

  She gave him her best carefree smile. “Not in the least, Lord Geoffrey. I fear I have become quite hopelessly addicted.”

  Lord Geoffrey took her hand and bowed gallantly. “I knew you would be back. I had money on it,” he admitted.

  “Indeed? My return tonight was made the subject of wagers? La! ’Twas never in doubt.”