The Missing Heir

by Ranstrom, Gail

  “Leland? My brother came to you?”

  Mr. Evans nodded, looking painfully embarrassed.

  She recalled that Leland had come to town for her husband’s funeral, but he had not been around the house much, making excuses about business that needed his attention and people that he needed to see. She prayed the will was real, but she had a niggling doubt that it might not be. Had Leland and Lord Barrington, in an attempt to protect her, forged the will and presented it to Basil’s solicitor as authentic?

  Good heavens! If that was the case, they were all in trouble—Mr. Ogilby and Mr. Evans for skirting the law, Barrington and Leland for committing fraud, and even she would look suspicious. Though she hadn’t known anything about it, who would believe her under the circumstances? After all, she had been the only one to benefit.

  She took a deep, bracing breath before speaking. “If the courts do not accept the new will as legitimate, will they revert to the previous will?”

  Mr. Evans frowned. “One could hope so, Mrs. Forbush. But if they decide to take up the matter of a possible forgery, there could be some…serious problems.”

  Yes, she supposed there could be. Mr. Ogilby and Mr. Evans could be brought up on criminal charges. Lord Barrington and Leland…oh! The consequences were too awful to contemplate. And she, as the beneficiary of a fraudulent will, could be named, as well.

  Her stomach twisted with anxiety. Add this suspicion to the one that Basil’s death had not been natural and she would be looking very suspicious, indeed.

  And Lord Barrington! Had his last veiled threat been an allusion to this calamity? But how could he have her disinherited if it would also result in charges against him? No, she was safe against that quarter, at least.

  “Thank you for your honesty, Mr. Evans.” She stood and fastened the man with a stern look that was meant to convey that he should have told her sooner. “Please keep me informed should there be anything further from the courts.”

  In an upstairs room in Haymarket, Adam cut a swath through the air with his foil before saluting Freddie Carter with the blade. Carter returned the salute and began circling. Adam had forgotten the degree of skill and concentration fencing required, though he was quickly regaining his proficiency. His years in the wilderness had not required grace or any particular adherence to rules of fair play. There his knife and sword had meant survival and the skills he’d needed were stealth, strength and ruthlessness. He’d learned to excel at those.

  “Zounds!” Carter exclaimed as he defended against Adam’s lunge. “I thought this was a friendly bout!”

  Adam feinted to the left. “It is friendly. I don’t intend to kill you.”

  “That’s encouraging.” Carter laughed as he lunged to put Adam on the defensive. “But I’ve got the feeling you are using me to vent some anger.”

  Adam parried, then followed with a riposte, concentrating on Carter’s blade even as his thoughts slipped back to last night at Belmonde’s. Grace’s taunt at the gaming table that she would look for excitement wherever she could find it had eaten at him like acid. He’d be damned if he’d let her search for that kind of excitement anywhere else but at his door.

  The only good thing to come out of last night was Grace’s sudden disenchantment with Lord Geoffrey. He hoped that would be enough to keep her home more often. She’d been silent on the coach ride home and had gone directly to her room when they’d arrived. Was she angry with him for his rebuff of the night before?

  The blunted point of Carter’s foil made contact with Adam’s arm and pulled him from his thoughts. He lunged, ducking under Carter’s arm and making contact with his own blade.

  “Damn! I thought I had you. What is it, Hawthorne? Taylor? He’s keeping solid food down now. Another day or two and he’ll be ready to answer your questions.”

  He nodded. “That is all I want, Carter. Just one answer, and I can put the past to rest.”

  “Why do I have the feeling that it’s more than that? What is really eating you, Hawthorne?”

  “Grace Forbush,” he admitted.

  Carter grinned. “Ah, the lovely widow. Yes, she’d be on my mind, too, for all the obvious reasons, and some not as obvious. Since we’ve contained Taylor, I’ve resumed my investigation. Did you know she’s pawned a large quantity of her jewelry?”

  Adam dropped his guard and straightened. “When?”

  “A few days ago. She went to Rundell and Bridges, jewelers who are well-known for paying for quality pieces to gamblers in need of ready cash.”

  Then Grace’s lust for excitement was worse than he’d thought. She’d been losing steadily, but it had not seemed to be in great amounts. When he’d requested the hearing on his uncle’s will to stem the outward flow of cash, he hadn’t anticipated this development. Grace was more determined than he’d thought. She still had a few pieces left, though. The image of her in her amethyst pendant and white garters rose to his mind. And the jet earrings she’d worn last night and left with Lord Geoffrey. Were those all that was left?

  How could he contain her before she lost everything? And, by God, Lord Geoffrey was the wrong man to be gambling with. His unforgiving and remorseless attitude was proof of that. He would fleece Grace without a second thought and take whatever else she had in the bargain.

  He removed his fencing gloves and tucked them under one arm as he walked to the side of the room to make way for waiting fencers. “Is there anything else I should know?” he asked.

  “Those rumors? The ones about your uncle? They are beginning to surface again in certain circles.”

  “What circles?”

  “Legal circles.”

  “What is being said?”

  “The inquiry into your uncle’s will has turned up some irregularities. And that has given rise to hard questions.”

  Adam clenched his jaw and kept his face impassive. “What sort of irregularities?”

  “The possibility of forgery. But I cannot think a woman of Mrs. Forbush’s reputation could forge her husband’s will and then murder him.”

  A woman of Mrs. Forbush’s reputation? Who was in a better position than he to understand the complete myth of that reputation? Where was the multitude of lovers? How could she still have been virgin after all these years? What had become of the painfully correct and circumspect widow so admired by the ton? How many had she deceived, and for how long? And if she’d deceived them, then she could have deceived him.

  Adam needed a drink. And some answers. Tonight.

  Grace was more agitated than she could ever remember being. When Dianthe had departed for a few days in the country with the Thayers, she had waved goodbye with a sense of relief. A few days away was just the remedy for Dianthe’s brooding on Mr. Lucas’s death. And if the scandal regarding the will became public, at least Dianthe would be out of the way of the worst of it.

  She paced the library, wondering what had become of Adam, and wondering if she should simply go to the hells without him. The clock had just struck nine, and he was not usually late. She went to stand at the side of the window and peek out at the darkened street and park. Was her watcher still there? Could she risk going anywhere alone if she was being followed?

  She heard the library door open and spun around, feeling a guilty flush creep up her cheeks. Adam strolled in, an enigmatic smile on his face. He paused to look her up and down and then grinned. There was something faintly different about him tonight, as if he’d changed in some way.

  “Adam! I had begun to think you did not want to accompany me tonight.”

  “Did you?” he asked. He went to the sideboard and poured himself a glass of sherry. “Why?”

  She glanced at the clock again. “I…thought you would have been down sooner if you—”

  “Well, I am here now. But you are right. I had a long afternoon, and would rather stay in.”

  She nodded, glancing at the window again. “Certainly.” She went to the bellpull by the door and tugged. “I shall have Mr. Dewberry bring the coa
ch around and I’ll be off. I am sorry for relying upon you so heavily. I had no right. I’m certain there are things you’d rather be doing. Visiting friends and so forth.” She began to feel awkward as Adam just watched her over the rim of his glass.

  “I’ll…just fetch my shawl,” she said, going to the library door.

  “Wait,” Adam called. He hesitated until she turned to face him before he continued. “Let’s make a personal wager, Mrs. Forbush. If I win, you will have to spend a quiet evening at home. If you should win, I will accompany you tonight.”

  A prickle of anticipation traveled up her spine and made her shiver. “What do you have in mind?”

  “Mrs. Dewberry will answer the bell. I say she will cluck her tongue at some point while she is in the room. What do you say?”

  Mrs. Dewberry only clucked her tongue when she was perturbed. Grace glanced around the room. Everything was in place. The odds were heavily in her favor. “I say she won’t.”

  “Done,” Adam said, and leaned back against the sideboard to wait.

  She stepped away from the door to allow Mrs. Dewberry’s entrance. A moment later the woman bustled in and glanced at Adam, then at her. “Aye, Missus?”

  “Will you please have Mr. Dewberry bring the coach around?”

  “Aye, Missus.”

  Just as she was turning to leave, Adam dropped his glass. Mrs. Dewberry spun around and looked at the puddle of sherry and broken shards of glass on the wooden floor. Clucking her tongue, she hurried to the puddle, removed her apron, kneeled down and began cleaning the spill.

  Without moving an inch, Adam met her gaze and smiled his wickedly amused smile.

  Defeated, as Mrs. Dewberry stood with the glass shards wrapped in her soiled apron, Grace said, “Never mind, Mrs. Dewberry. I shan’t be going out tonight after all.”

  “Are you sure, Missus?”

  She nodded. “You and Mr. Dewberry may as well retire.”

  “Well, thank you, Missus. We’ll make an early night of it then.”

  The door closed softly behind the housekeeper and Grace tilted her head to one side. “You cheated.”

  He grinned. “A simple accident.”

  She couldn’t prove her charge, and wasn’t certain she wanted to. She went back to her desk and asked, “A nightcap?”

  “Nightcap?” he scoffed. “I was just getting started.”

  “Then perhaps I should retire,” she said uncertainly.

  “Not a chance.” He brought the sherry bottle to her and poured more in her glass before taking another glass from the tray and sitting in one of the comfortable chairs in front of the fire. “Come join me, Mrs. Forbush. You’ve said you enjoy gambling, and I can think of dozens of wagers.”

  She should run while she still could. Every instinct told her so. But curiosity won. She took her glass to the chair facing his. The deck of cards still sat on the table, ready for a game. Adam nodded at the deck, indicating that she should deal.

  “Briscola?” she asked.

  He nodded.

  “And the stakes?”

  “If I win, I shall require you to fill my glass before it empties.”

  She smiled. “And if I should win, we shall go to the Two Sevens.”

  “What of Mr. Dewberry? He likely has his nightshirt on by now.”

  “Of course. Well, then, I shall require…” She frowned as she finished dealing and turned the trump card up. When Adam reached out to gather his cards, she saw a quick flash of the intriguing wristband he always wore. “I shall require you to tell me about your bracelet.”

  A muscle jumped along Adam’s jaw and she thought he would refuse, but after a moment he nodded.

  They played quickly and silently, with Adam winning handily. Grace fetched the sherry bottle from the desk while he dealt the next game.

  “I still want to know about that bracelet. What stakes will you name?” she asked.

  “Tell me about my uncle’s last days. The last week should do.”

  A cold feeling settled in her stomach. “Adam—”

  “No, Mrs. Forbush. I think I have a right to know what happened.”

  The thought occurred to her that he had not called her by her first name since coming down to the library. The formality seemed out of place for them now. But he was right. He had a right to know. “Very well. I shall do my best, but those days are a blur to me.”

  He opened his hand without comment and she began the play. Again, the game progressed silently and when the deck was spent and the points counted, she won. Keeping her bargain, she filled Adam’s glass and sat back in her chair, waiting.

  He took a sip of his sherry and looked as if he were composing himself. He cleared his throat and pulled his jacket sleeve up to expose the band before he began. “It was made as a gift for me by an Indian maid. Her name was Nokomis, Daughter of the Moon. She was the chief’s daughter and though young, Nokomis was the most skilled at beading of all the maidens in the village. To receive a gift from her was a high honor.”

  “And you honor her still,” Grace murmured. She almost wished she hadn’t asked. Nokomis. Did Adam love her? Had they been intimate, as she and Adam had been? Ah, but he hadn’t turned cold to her, as he had to Grace.

  “I am trying, but it hasn’t been easy.”

  Though the remark was cryptic, his expression was so dark that Grace feared to question him further. She gathered the cards and shuffled, trying to diffuse the tension. “Nokomis, Daughter of the Moon. It is lyrical, is it not? Was it difficult to learn the Indian language?”

  “There are many Indian languages. Chippewa is complex, but not impossible. I learned to make myself understood well enough.” His eyes darkened.

  “Then that is our next wager. Teach me some Chippewa words. And what stakes will you ask?”

  “My uncle’s last days.”

  She nodded and the play began. The scoring was close, but Adam won by a narrow margin. He took the sherry bottle and poured more for her—a small recognition that this might be difficult for her.

  “I was in a fog most of the time,” she began. “I cannot recall much beyond the purging and delirium. When his illness first became apparent to me, I sent for the doctor. He asked how long Mr. Forbush had been ill, and I told him just a few days. But Lord Barrington said it had been going on for quite a while, and that Mr. Forbush had not wanted me to know. Wanted to spare me, I believe is the way Lord Barrington put it.” She paused for a moment, struck by the number of times Barrington’s name had come up in recent conversations. He and Basil had been friends and had met for a drink at their club every evening. She had always accepted his presence, but was there more to it than that? She cleared her throat and continued. “We looked to his diet but could find nothing to cause such symptoms.” She paused to take a deep breath. Her voice had begun to rise and she deliberately slowed down before she resumed. “The doctor gave him soothing powders and an elixir that should have worked, but didn’t.”

  She placed her glass on the table when she noticed that her hand was trembling. The horror of those days came back to her with painful clarity. “When it became apparent that the medicines were not working, I went to another doctor, then another. I—I cannot recall how many I consulted. They all agreed that he was probably afflicted with a cancer of the stomach. Such a malady can be present for a long time and then advance quickly, I was told, and…and that would explain so many other things.”

  “What?” Adam asked, leaning toward her.

  “His inability to…that is, that he could not…” She couldn’t tell him that! He was already looking at her as if she had grown another head.

  Tears sprang to her eyes. “But he was in such agony that I could scarcely bear to watch. By the end…I was almost relieved, because it meant an end to his suffering. And then I felt so guilty to be relieved.”

  “You mentioned delirium?”

  She nodded. “Mostly he rambled about his youth or about you. You were all he had, he said. The report of your d
eath was blamed for his decline. I tried desperately hard, but I was never enough for—” She stopped, unwilling to discuss her relationship with his uncle.

  “Anything else?” he asked.

  “The funeral was large and well attended.” She sighed, groping for anything that would give him reassurance or comfort. “Mr. Forbush disdained the social whirl, and so we hadn’t been much in society. I hadn’t realized he was so fondly regarded until so many of his friends called to pay their respects. Truly, Adam, I had no idea he had so many friends.”

  He picked up the deck of cards. “Do you still want to learn Indian words?”

  She blinked her welling tears away and nodded.

  “And I want you to do my bidding.” He began dealing.

  “I do not like that wager,” she said. “It could mean anything.”

  “Do you not trust me?”

  Had there been a challenge in his question? “Very well,” she conceded, not wanting to look like a coward and wondering what his bidding might be.

  And she promptly lost.

  Adam sat back in his chair and took pity on her. Not enough to recant, of course, but enough to soften the blow. The stricken look on her face told more about her state of mind than anything else could have. “Nenemoosha,” he said.

  She blinked. “What?”

  “Nenemoosha. The Chippewa word for sweetheart.”

  “Nenemoosha,” she repeated. Then slower, softer, “Nenemoosha…” in a wistful sigh.

  He leaned toward her, unable to resist those words said so sweetly. “Say, metea.”

  “Metea?” she asked.

  “Do not say it like a question,” he instructed.

  “Metea,” she repeated.

  He leaned the rest of the way across the little tea table and deposited a kiss on her lips. “Again?” he asked.

  “Metea.”

  Again he kissed her, deeper, fuller.

  When he sat back, she smiled. Ah, she understood that the word was an invitation. “Metea, metea, metea,” she said.

  He stood and took her hand, pulling her to her feet. Tugging her into his arms, he took intense satisfaction in the feel of her against him. God forgive him, it did not matter if she was telling the truth. He wanted her. And that was all that mattered at this moment.