But, damn it, he wanted her, and the same lack of conscience that drove him to vengeance now drove him to her bed. He didn’t care if it was wrong. He didn’t care if he couldn’t offer her a future. He only cared about burying himself inside her, feeling her heat and hearing her soft sighs as he claimed her. He’d have that much in payment for the long sleepless nights she’d caused him. She was no virginal maid, after all, but a woman in her prime, an experienced woman of the world. She had taken lovers before. Why not him?
Yes, he’d seduce Grace. He’d woo and win her. He’d see that she got, measure for measure, the pleasure she gave him, which, he warranted, was more than she’d ever gotten from Lord Barrington. And he’d do his damnedest to hide the monster he’d become from her.
Francis Renquist sat on the bench beside Grace and scattered the crumbs from his biscuit for the milling pigeons. He dusted his hands and sighed deeply. “I fear we may never get the goods on Lord Geoffrey, Mrs. Forbush. After all, if ’twere known how he cheats, he’d have been caught out by now.”
Grace nodded her understanding. She glanced around the square at the nurses strolling with babies in the brisk morning air. It was too early for the ton to be out and about, so very little risk that she’d be seen with Mr. Renquist and remarked upon. “I’ve begun to wonder about that,” she admitted. “I thought this was going to be easy, but it appears not.”
“I’ve found plenty of men who swear Lord Geoffrey cheated them. Several of them say his cunning wagers beggared them. But none know how.”
“Did the various hells cooperate in investigating the complaints?”
“Aye. Decks were checked for marked cards and dice were examined for ‘loads,’ all to no avail. There was one incident where Morgan was searched to see if he employed any devices to retain cards up his sleeve. But nothing was found. I gather he’s careful to lose enough at the various gambling establishments to satisfy them. The man’s a slippery one.”
Grace recalled Lord Geoffrey’s easy charm and could see how he could get away with so much. But there had to be a missing piece of information. Why would a man like Lord Geoffrey, who had so much to lose, risk social censure and making formidable enemies in all of London’s power circles? Surely there had to be a reason. With every major fortune he won, he made enemies—people who could wish him dead or who could ruin him socially. Were money and fortune enough to compensate Lord Geoffrey for that loss?
She turned back to Mr. Renquist. “Perhaps we have gone about this wrong, Mr. Renquist. See what you can find out about Lord Geoffrey’s background and personal life.”
“How will that help us find out how he cheats?”
“It won’t, but it could tell us why he cheats. And understanding that could help us determine how.”
Mr. Renquist nodded. “Logical, Mrs. Forbush, and nothing else is yielding results. There’s got to be a clue somewhere.” He stood and straightened the lapels of his brown jacket. “I’ll have Marie get word to you when I have news.”
Grace smiled distractedly as she stood, too.
“Uh, Mrs. Forbush? One other thing, if you please?”
She opened her reticule and removed ten pounds.
Renquist waved her hand away. “Not that, Mrs. Forbush. Just a word to the wise.” He shifted his weight and looked uncomfortable.
Her interest piqued, she said, “Go on, Mr. Renquist.”
“Someone is investigating you.”
That set her back. “Me? But why would anyone investigate me? My life is…” Well, not an open book, but certainly easily accessible to anyone with a mind to ask. “Who, Mr. Renquist?”
“Don’t know. There’s a runner asking questions about you, looking to stir up some dirt.”
“Lord Geoffrey,” she muttered. “Oh, I was afraid this would happen. He has heard that my funds are frozen and wants to find out how much I can lose. He will want to know if I am worth the trouble of cultivating as his next victim.”
“Could be,” Renquist agreed. “But could be something else. What would you like me to do about it?”
Something else? The thought of the gunman from last night flashed through her mind. But no, a runner would not be involved in something like that. “To do anything would arouse suspicions. Just let me know if you hear anything more.”
“Aye, Mrs. Forbush.” Renquist tipped his hat and turned down the path toward Hart Street.
Grace took a deep breath and strolled slowly down the path leading to her side of the square, her mind in a jumble. She would have to find some way to counteract Lord Geoffrey’s concern. He must think she had the resources to support her betting, or he would ignore her as a prospect.
How very clever of the man to have hired an investigator—and she had little doubt it was Lord Geoffrey who was making inquiries. Barrington already knew everything possible for him to know. Leland would not bother—he’d simply appear on her doorstep and demand the information he wanted. And there was no one else who would care in the least—
Except, perhaps, Adam. Had that horrid, vicious rumor resurfaced that she’d had something to do with Basil’s death? If he’d heard the rumors, it would be no small wonder that he would be suspicious of her. What must he think of her?
She sighed as she crossed the street to her house, thinking of the scene in her bedroom last night. Her heart pounded against her ribs and a giddy feeling rushed through her. She could still feel his arms around her, the heat of his touch and the reckless wanton way she had nearly surrendered. If he hated her or distrusted her, would he have been so intimate? How could he put those things aside to woo her so sweetly? That wouldn’t make sense. One did not make love to the enemy.
Adam mounted his horse and turned back toward the city. Exiting the narrow lane onto Kent Street in Bermondsey, he urged the mount to a canter. It was late afternoon and he still had business in town before escorting Grace to yet more hells tonight. The task would be tedious but for Grace’s company.
He glanced back at the row of small cottages with vegetable gardens in back, half expecting to see Mrs. Humphries shaking her fist at him. His uncle’s former housekeeper had filled his head with more questions than answers. She’d berated him for abandoning his uncle to go to the “heathen wilds” and leaving poor Mr. Forbush to his wife’s indifferent nursing. She’d even hinted that Grace had been glad to have his uncle gone, saying that “the missus” had been “entertaining” Lord Barrington even before his uncle was dead. When he’d asked Mrs. Humphries point-blank if she suspected a conspiracy, her answer had been a snort and tightening of her apron strings, as if to say that Adam was naive.
Clearly, Mrs. Humphries did not like Grace Forbush. From the time Grace had arrived as a new bride, Mrs. Humphries had said she had been excluded from areas that had formerly been her exclusive domain. She found Grace to be arrogant, too particular and to have ideas above her station. She had further hinted that the marriage had not been “All that a marriage should, if you see what I’m saying, Mr. Hawthorne, him being so much older and all.”
All complaints aside, when Grace had provided a retirement for Bellows, she had provided a similar one for Mrs. Humphries. If Grace had disliked the woman, she hadn’t let it taint her sense of fairness. The problem, as Adam saw it, stemmed from the fact that Mrs. Humphries had not wanted to retire. She said she’d been pushed out and was suspicious of the reason. “Wanted me out of the way, her and his lordship did,” she’d said.
As Kent Street merged with White and Church streets, Adam glanced over his shoulder again, uneasy with the certainty that someone was following him. Traffic was heavy in all directions emptying into the intersection at St. George’s Church. It was impossible to tell if anyone was watching. Damn. He really didn’t have time for these games.
Turning his mount up Borough High Street toward London Bridge, he varied his horse’s gait to see if anyone would match his speed. Still unable to identify man or beast, he crossed the bridge and turned left. He’d had far too much experienc
e with tracking and being tracked to ignore his instincts. He had a tail, but he’d have to find a less congested street to determine who it was.
Attuned, now, to his surroundings and the sounds behind him, Adam turned another corner. He saw an inn sign and rode around to the back to leave his horse with the stable boy with instructions to keep his horse saddled and ready.
Quickly taking stock of the public room, Adam found a dark corner where he could watch the arrivals at both the front and rear entrances. He would have an advantage since his eyes would adjust to the dim interior before his tail. It did not take long. Within two minutes of Adam’s arrival, a slightly built nondescript man edged through the door near the back stairway and glanced around, blinking rapidly to focus in the gloom. The man held a cocked pistol at his side.
Adam eased the knife from his boot and edged toward the man, keeping his back against the wall. Just as his tail turned toward him, Adam pressed his blade against his jugular and slipped his arm around his chest, not giving him a chance to raise his pistol.
Keeping his voice low to avoid attention, he spoke in the man’s ear. “Turnabout, my good man.”
A frightened whine was his only answer. With a grim smile, Adam pulled the man backward toward the rear door. In the small courtyard between the inn and the stables, he slammed the man against the stone wall, his knife still pressed to the terrified man’s throat. “Drop it,” he ordered.
The pistol fell to the ground with a dull thump.
“Your name?” Not that the man would tell the truth, but he had to start somewhere.
“Clark,” the man squeaked. “Eddy Clark!”
“Talk,” he ordered.
“Lemme go, gov’nor,” his tail yelped. “I ain’t done nothin’.”
Because he hadn’t had the chance. He pressed the edge of his blade a little closer, drawing a bead of blood. “Last chance,” he snarled in the man’s ear.
“Dunno!” the man squeaked. “I swear it, gov’nor! I was jus’ told to follow an’ see where you went.”
That was not what Adam wanted to hear. He pressed the blade closer and the bead turned to a trickle. “Don’t mistake me for a complete fool. You don’t need to draw a pistol to follow me. Who hired you?”
“Dunno.” The man’s voice had become a wheeze. “I talked to a short, dark bloke who ’ad me pay. ’E said ’e’d meet me at Seven Dials tonight an’ gi’ me more if I ’ad news.”
A short, dark bloke? That could have described the man who’d attacked last night. It could also describe fully a fourth of London. Several possibilities passed through Adam’s mind. First, that there must be something he didn’t know to cause someone to resort to such drastic measures. Second, that either Barrington wanted him out of Grace’s life, or wanted to prevent him from finding the name of the military attaché at Fort Garry. Third, that Grace had decided she didn’t want to share his uncle’s fortune. No matter which was true, he had a dangerous enemy and he’d best be on his guard.
Ah, but he was startled at the relief he felt when he realized that, if the attack on the street last night was connected to this incident, he was the target, and not Grace. He, at least, could deal with assassins like this little worm now dangling from his knife.
The stranger squirmed and his whimpering became more desperate. Adam realized he had increased the pressure of his blade against the man’s throat. He breathed deeply and eased back a fraction of an inch. If he frightened the man more than he was now, he’d never get answers.
“What time tonight?” he asked.
“I was to be there at eight. ’E’d come later, an’ if ’e didn’t like the way things looked, ’e’d keep goin’.”
Then there was no use in Adam going to Seven Dials tonight. The man who’d hired the tail would be watching for problems. Seven Dials was always crowded at that time of night. It would be impossible to pick someone out in the crowd. And if Eddy Clark’s employer knew Adam well enough to want him dead, he’d certainly recognize Adam before Adam could recognize him. No, he’d have to send Freddie Carter to keep an eye on Clark.
“What am I going to do with you?” he said contemplatively in the man’s ear.
“Lemme go, sir,” he gasped.
“Why should I do that?”
“I won’t never follow you again. I swear it!”
“You were going to kill me. Why should I believe you?”
“Please, sir. I won’t never do it again. It’s the first time. I swear it.”
The decision was more difficult than Adam would have liked. He’d become civilized faster than he’d thought possible. Two months ago he’d have slit the man’s throat with barely a twinge of conscience. Killers killed again. And if Adam let this one walk free, it was probable that someone else would die—perhaps him. But, damn it, he needed Clark—he was the only connection Adam had to the man who’d hired him.
“Go to that appointment tonight,” he snarled in the man’s ear. “Tell him I’m on to him. Tell him to watch his back.”
“Anything! Anything you say, gov’nor!”
“Because, if you don’t, I’ll hunt you down and finish the job.”
Adam released the man with a little push. “Don’t make me regret my generosity,” he warned as the man dashed for the street. He’d have to come back, sooner or later, for his horse. By that time, Freddie Carter would be waiting. Adam would have a report within twenty-four hours.
Bloody goddamned hell! He’d been thinking like an Englishman. Acting like an Englishman. ’Twas time to put his English scruples aside before they got him killed. He spun on his heel and headed for the stables. ’Twas time to think like a “savage.”
Chapter Eleven
Belmonde’s. Again. Grace sighed as she moved from table to table looking for something to interest her. Only one and a half more weeks remained before Laura Talbot would be wed to Lord Geoffrey or happily entrenched at home—until the next time her brother played too deep and lost her in a wager. And why did Lord Geoffrey even want a wife? From what she’d been able to tell, he was rarely at home, if he had one.
She glanced toward the rouge-et-noir table where Lord Geoffrey was placing a bet. A pretty woman dressed in the most scandalous gown Grace had ever seen smiled and leaned toward Lord Geoffrey in a move that was certain to give him a glimpse of what little remained to his imagination. He grinned and raised his glass to the woman. In gratitude? He certainly did not act like a man about to marry. Of course, not many men won their brides in a game of chance. Perhaps Lord Geoffrey was a libertine as well as a cheat.
The woman, certainly of the demimonde, placed her index finger on one of Lord Geoffrey’s counters and slid it toward her with a coquettishly charming smile. Lord Geoffrey merely nodded. Had they just struck a bargain? Ah, Lord Geoffrey, it seemed, was a man with varied tastes. Grace smiled. That would be a good thing for her to remember.
He looked up and caught her smile. He said something to his companion and she turned to give Grace an appraising sweep from head to toe. With a lift of her chin, she dropped Lord Geoffrey’s counter down her cleavage and strolled away. Thus unencumbered, he left the table and came toward her.
“Mrs. Forbush. I am pleased to see you again. I missed you last night.”
“How kind of you to think of me. Mr. Hawthorne and I went to The Two Sevens.”
“I heard about the unfortunate incident,” he said. “And how are you and your…uh, nephew?”
Grace smiled at his attempt at delicacy. “We are quite well, sir, though it was a near thing.”
“Have the police found the villain?”
“We did not bother to report it, Lord Geoffrey.”
He nodded. “Likely just some bold street thug who’d thought to relieve you and Mr. Hawthorne of any winnings.”
Now why hadn’t she or Adam thought of such an innocent possibility? Perhaps a guilty conscience had got in the way. She knew what she was hiding, but what about Adam? “Do street thugs often lurk near gaming hells?” she
asked.
He offered her his arm and led her toward the room where the vingt-et-un tables were, knowing her preferences by now. “All manner of unsavory sorts lurk in and around gaming hells, Mrs. Forbush. Have you not noticed?”
She laughed at his self-mockery. “To the contrary, I have found the company to be unexpectedly charming.”
“I had not until recently.”
Was he flirting? Or merely being charming? Thinking it safer to change the subject, she asked, “Now that we are on the subject, Lord Geoffrey, perhaps you can answer a question. I have begun to wonder why these establishments are called ‘hells’?”
“After Virgil’s rather infamous observation, I believe. Facilis descensus Averni. The descent to hell is easy.”
“Ah.” She chuckled as they arrived at the side room. “Easy, indeed. All one must do is step through the door.”
“Shall we?” he asked, sweeping one arm toward the open door.
It took Adam an hour and a half to separate himself from a small group of his old acquaintances and to move toward the shadows at the edge of the main salon where he could watch Grace. He leaned one shoulder against the wall and struck a casual pose. She appeared to be blissfully unaware that Morgan was circling her like a shark in bloody waters. Oh, Grace looked to be a tasty, tender morsel, but Adam knew from his own maddening experience that she was not a light-skirt or an easy mark. There was, in fact, nothing easy about Grace Forbush.
If it weren’t for her marriage and subsequent long-standing relationship with Lord Barrington, he’d swear she was celibate. Never had he known a woman to have a more coveted reputation as a desirable lover with so little evidence to support it. And to all appearances, Morgan was determined to be her next lover. That thought alternately intrigued and infuriated him. How could a rake like Morgan think a woman like Grace would entertain an offer from him?
She and Morgan stood and strolled away from the vingt-et-un table and took a seat at a table across from one another. Morgan motioned a room attendant for a deck of cards. Were they going to play piquet? Adam did not much like that idea. The stakes could go higher in a private game than in a house game. Surely, Grace would not make any foolish wagers. Her lack of ready funds should see to that.
The Missing Heir Page 12
