The Missing Heir

“With my aunt, Grace Forbush. Bloomsbury Square.”

Freddie’s laughter followed him down the stairs. “Watch your back, Hawthorne.”

Chapter Three

M rs. Dewberry snapped the heavy ivory velvet drapes open, keeping up her steady stream of chatter. Grace winced as the early morning light streamed through her bedroom window and struggled to sit up.

“’E ate everything on the tray, I’ll give ’im that. Good appetite for someone so thin, that man.”

Grace rubbed her temples, picturing the lean form of Adam Hawthorne. She doubted the hollows in his cheeks were natural. He had the look of a man used to a Spartan existence and heavy physical activity.

“And I could’ve been wrong about the man,” Mrs. Dewberry admitted—a rarity for her. She placed a breakfast tray across Grace’s lap and shook out the napkin. If Grace did not take it quickly, Mrs. Dewberry was sure to tuck it beneath her chin. “’Is manners are quite lovely when ’e uses ’em. The mister says ’e inquired if ’e could stable a ’orse ’ere. Said ’e’d be glad to pay the mister, ’e would.”

“Of course he may have a horse here. And Mr. Dewberry is not to accept anything from Mr. Hawthorne. He is our guest. I shall see that there is extra in Mr. Dewberry’s envelope for the inconvenience.”

“That’s very considerate of you, Mrs. Forbush.”

Grace poured herself a cup of strong breakfast tea. Her head ached and she needed to clear the cobwebs before she dealt with her solicitor and factor. Barrington had taken her to two gaming hells last night, infamous smoke-filled places where her eyes stung and her head throbbed. But she had to admit that she’d felt an edge of excitement when she’d won a small wager playing vingt-et-un.

One more night to learn, then she’d be ready to set herself up as an easy mark. If Morgan gulled her, she’d find out how, and then she’d expose him. The Talbot name would not need to come into it at all. His debt would be void and Laura Talbot would have a second chance to make a happy match.

She was spreading butter on a muffin when Dianthe burst into the room, tying her robe at her waist. “Aunt Grace! I just saw Mr. Hawthorne leaving.”

“Oh, yes,” Mrs. Dewberry said. “’E said ’e ’ad some things to do and that ’e’d join you for dinner.” She paused at the door and smiled. “I’m ’aving Cook make a nice roast of beef and Yorkshire pudding.”

“And strawberry tarts for dessert?” Dianthe added.

“Aye, miss. I’ll tell Cook.”

Dianthe jumped on the bed and sat cross-legged. “I wish you could have heard the talk last night, Aunt Grace. It couldn’t have been midnight yet when the news began to circulate that you had gone to a gaming hell with Barrington. It was all the buzz.”

Grace laughed and shook her head. “That did not take long. What are they saying?”

“That you must be bored. Only Mrs. Thayer said that you’d bear watching lest you get yourself into some trouble.”

“Hmm.” Grace sipped her tea, beginning to feel better. “Well, by the time anyone has the least bit of concern, I shall be done. Nothing to worry about, Di. The Wednesday League has taken on much more difficult cases than this. This will be a mere stroll in the park.”

“All the same, I wish I could help you. I really do not like the idea of you going alone to such…unwholesome places. I asked Mr. Thayer about Geoffrey Morgan last night, and he said to warn you rather strongly about him.”

“Is the news out that Mr. Hawthorne has returned?”

“No. I thought that odd, but I gather he has not been out in society since his return. I will be amazed if there are not whisperings by tonight. Are you going out after dinner?”

“Barrington has agreed to take me to another hell. I’ve heard the Pigeon Hole is an amusing place.”

“Will you take Mr. Hawthorne with you?”

Grace pushed her tray aside and stood. “I think he would frighten fully half the population of London.”

“You are ashamed to be seen with him,” Dianthe accused.

Absolutely not. Yet, when she tried to imagine walking into the Auberville ballroom with a man in buckskins, she almost laughed. She could not begin to comprehend the gossip that would cause. But then she thought of where he would look at ease, and she glanced at her bedroom door. She imagined him there, late at night, holding a candle, that insouciant smile on his face, making himself as comfortable as he had in the library. Her mouth went dry and her chest constricted.

“Aunt Grace!” Dianthe exclaimed. “I have never seen you blush before. How interesting.”

She went to her dressing table and looked in the mirror. Delicate pink stained her cheeks and neck. “I must get dressed, Dianthe,” she said. “I am going to the bank and my factor’s office. The sooner Mr. Hawthorne has the resources to leave us, the better.”

Mr. Evans tapped a sheaf of papers on the surface of his desk to straighten them. Moistening his index finger, he began to leaf through the heap. Page by page, he separated the stack into two piles. “You realize this will considerably diminish your assets, do you not, Mrs. Forbush?”

Considerably? “I dare hope it will not impoverish me?”

“Nothing so severe as that,” her factor said, glancing above the rim of his spectacles. “But the bulk appears to be the investments of Mr. Hawthorne’s assets. If you insist that he should reap all the benefits—despite the fact that they were your investments—then your accounts shall suffer.”

She sighed and shrugged. An honest debt was an honest debt. Her gravest concern was that the news of her reduced circumstances would affect her ability to make Morgan take her seriously as a deep player. Oh, blast the timing! She would have to hold Adam’s funds until after dealing with Morgan. Now he would have to depend on her hospitality for another fortnight. “Mr. Evans, take your time in separating the assets and attributing the interest. I would not want you to make any mistakes because I had rushed you. We need not conclude this matter for two or three weeks. Mr. Hawthorne is staying with me and his needs will be taken care of. No need for unseemly haste.”

“As you say, Mrs. Forbush.”

Grace smiled. She employed Mr. Evans to act in her best financial interests, and he was certainly doing so now. “I wish Mr. Hawthorne to have the interest. If he’d been here, he would have made his own investments.”

“If he’d been here, you’d not have had anything to invest,” Mr. Evans muttered as he continued his separation of the papers.

“I’d still have had my husband’s estate,” she corrected.

“Likely not, Mrs. Forbush.”

Grace frowned. What did the man mean? Her solicitor had made some veiled reference to the same thing earlier this morning at their appointment. She’d asked to see Basil’s will, and he had told her it was “unavailable.”

“Likely not? What do you mean, Mr. Evans? Explain yourself.”

He finished sorting the stacks and looked up at her, concern creasing his forehead. “What? Oh…I, um, meant there would not have been as much to invest, Mrs. Forbush.”

Grace sat back in her chair. She had the uneasy feeling that people were keeping things from her. “I want Mr. Hawthorne to have everything that should have been his, Mr. Evans. Mr. Forbush was always generous with me, and I can be no less with his nephew. That is what he would have wanted.”

“If you are certain.” Mr. Evans looked over the rims of his spectacles again. “Your integrity is admirable. Shall we meet a fortnight hence to sign the papers and complete the separations?”

“I shall mark my calendar, Mr. Evans.”

Adam tied his cravat for the fifth time. He’d gotten rusty in the particulars of refined dress. There were no cravats in the wigwams of the wilderness. Finally satisfied on the sixth try, he shrugged into his jacket and headed down to dinner. He’d taken several items of his better clothing to a tailor for the alterations he would need to make himself presentable in society, and had kept these few clothes out for use in the meantime. New, currently fashionable items would have to wait until his reinstatement and the pay that went with it.

When he entered the dining room, he found Grace and her niece waiting for him. “Sorry,” he said. “Had trouble with my cravat.”

Grace looked up at him and blinked. A slow smile warmed her face and her expression turned sultry. She stood and came toward him, extending her arms. When she was close enough for him to smell the delicate floral scent of her perfume, she lifted her graceful hands to tighten the knot and arrange the folds. He watched her fingers work through the fabric and felt a swift visceral reaction. How would those fingers look against his bare flesh? How would they feel closing around his—

She looked up, smoothing the fabric and meeting his gaze. “There. What do you think, Mr. Hawthorne?” Her voice was slightly breathless.

That it’s a damn good thing you don’t know what I’m thinking! He stood frozen for a moment while he gained mastery over his rioting blood. “Well done, Mrs. Forbush.”

She returned to her place at the table and even the rustle of her blue-gray gown caused him to catch his breath. He’d been too long without a woman. But his uncle’s widow was more than just any woman. She was Salome incarnate—a natural seductress.