The Missing Heir

A moment later he took the place set for him at the opposite end of the table, Miss Lovejoy between them. “Feel free to correct my manners, ladies. I’ve been so long away from utensils and china that I may forget myself and use my hands.”

Dianthe laughed. “I think you will adapt quite easily, Mr. Hawthorne. Aside from your native clothing, I’ve seen nothing of you that is unpolished. Though your barber could have cut a little closer.”

He acknowledged her compliment with a smile, but turned to Grace for confirmation, given with a single nod. “I rather think the length becomes you as it is, Mr. Hawthorne.”

They were silent as Mrs. Dewberry served dishes laden with roast beef, Yorkshire pudding, tender vegetables drowning in rich butter and what seemed like a myriad of condiments and confections after the simple fare he was accustomed to eating.

“Are you coming out tonight, Mr. Hawthorne?” Dianthe asked him at length.

The question startled him. How long had it been since anyone had cared or questioned his comings and goings? Odd, how the careless question made him feel a part of something larger. “I do not have plans, Miss Lovejoy, but I think I am ready to make an appearance in society. Must be done sooner or later and there’s no sense putting it off.”

“Marvelous,” she said with a smile. “Then you must accompany me to Charity MacGregor’s little reception. She is a delightful hostess, and all the most amusing people will be there. The Aubervilles are picking me up on the way. You could come along if you wish.”

He’d met Lord Auberville years ago when he’d been a diplomatic advisor to a military contingent suing for peace with Algiers. “I would like to pay my respects,” he mused. He looked at Grace for her consent.

“I have other plans for tonight, Mr. Hawthorne.”

“Aunt Grace is going gambling,” Dianthe volunteered.

Surprised, he looked at his hostess in a new light. He hadn’t suspected she had an adventurous side. Who was this woman with such an odd blend of innocence and experience? Everything about the woman was contradictory. “Gambling, eh? What is your game of choice?”

She shrugged and gave him a listless smile. “I think I prefer vingt-et-un, sir. Hazard and faro are diverting. I enjoy whist, but I do not like being dependent upon a partner.”

He nodded, unsure what to make of this news. “I suppose it would depend upon the partner,” he allowed.

By the quick flicker of her eyes, Adam knew that she had read the veiled meaning in his words. It would be interesting to match wits with Grace Forbush. Subtlety was her hallmark and she only gave herself away in the slight lift at the corners of her luscious mouth or the blink of an eye. She was so tightly contained that he could not help but wonder what she might do if she actually lost control. He’d like to find out.

“Do you gamble often, Mrs. Forbush?”

“There are more ways to gamble than laying counters upon a table, Mr. Hawthorne, and the stakes need not be money.”

Now this was interesting. Where else might the lovely widow gamble, and for what stakes? “I shall remember that, Mrs. Forbush. Perhaps we will have occasion to make a wager.”

Dianthe regarded them suspiciously. “What have I missed?”

Adam smiled at Grace and then turned to Dianthe. “I’ve been puzzling all day how to address everyone. If Mrs. Forbush is your aunt, and she is mine, would that make us cousins, Miss Lovejoy?”

Dianthe smiled. “I suppose it would, though Grace is not actually my aunt. She was my mother’s cousin. My sister and I came to live with her only recently so that she could sponsor our coming out. Afton has married, but, alas, I have yet to find a husband.”

He laughed at her ingenuous admission. “I would guess that has been your choice. But since we are family, we should not stand on formality. You may call me cousin or Adam, whichever suits you best.”

“And you must call me Dianthe or Di. But I cannot imagine what to do with Aunt Grace. I know her nickname was Ellie when she was younger, but no one has called her that in ages. And every time you call her Aunt Grace, it sets me on a giggle. Mrs. Forbush sounds like an ancient governess, and I think she is far too stunning for that. Would you not agree?”

He nodded. Far too stunning, indeed. “Ellie? Where did that come from?”

“My father,” Grace admitted, shooting a stern look in Dianthe’s direction. “Grace Ellen York was my name before marriage. Papa thought Grace too drab a name for a young girl.”

He tried to imagine her as a rosy-cheeked child with a long dark pigtail. He wondered if she ever wore her hair down now. “I agree with your father,” he said.

“I left that all behind years ago, Mr. Hawthorne. You may call me Grace, but Ellie makes me feel absurdly young.”

“Very well, Grace,” he said. Judging the time to be right for a question that had been bothering him since his arrival at Bloomsbury Square, he asked, “Do you mind telling me whatever happened to Bellows? And Mrs. Humphries?”

“They’ve retired,” Grace said with no further explanation.

Retired? Or gotten out of the way? Had she not wanted his uncle’s servants to be around to talk about what went on in the house? Or about any suspicions they might have had? His uncle’s widow was beginning to look very suspicious indeed.

Grace allowed Lord Barrington to take her wrap and hand it to a footman as they entered the Pigeon Hole. After his rather mild introduction to gambling the night before, she was not prepared for the raw undercurrents running through the rooms as he led her deeper into the establishment. The air was heavy with smoke and tension. An occasional shout of laughter or collective moan punctuated the steady drone of conversation.

“I could have taken you to some smaller private clubs, Grace. Much more suitable for a woman of your station. Why you selected this one is beyond me. ’Tis reputed that one of the owners is the abbot of a notorious nunnery. I do not like to think of you rubbing elbows with the likes of him.”

“Could I catch something from elbow rubbing?” she asked, keeping her expression neutral. “Aside from a soiled elbow?”

Barrington looked slightly confused and she knew he hadn’t caught her teasing. Honestly, sometimes the man was so stodgy that it amazed her. But looking back on the past several years, she could see that she’d become rather stodgy. But why should that occur to her just now? Because she had just broken that mold? Or—

Adam Hawthorne, again. Barely a few years older than she, every line of his body, every movement, every smile, told of an energy and enthusiasm for life that she’d forfeit for safety. His strength and vitality were a stark contrast to her own blurred ennui. Heavens, she was envious of him!

Barrington harrumphed. “Perhaps you wouldn’t catch something, Grace, but you are apt to acquire some nasty habits or bad language.”

“I shall guard against that,” she promised.

“Why risk it at all? Why put your reputation under scrutiny when there’s no need? I cannot fathom why—”

She cut him off. “We’ve been over this, m’lord. I weary of discussing it. If you’d prefer not to take me, I will not beg or pout. I shall simply ask Mr. Phillips to escort me. He has often said that he’d be—”

“Now, now. No need for that. If you’re determined to do this, I would rather be close at hand in the event that…you need assistance.”

How diplomatic of him. She’d have sworn that he was about to say “in the event she got herself into some trouble,” but had stopped himself in time. “Thank you, my lord. I shall do my best not to impose upon your kindness.”

He harrumphed again and guided her toward a table where vingt-et-un was being played. A footman circulating with a tray of wineglasses came by and Barrington claimed two. “Have a care not to drink too much, Grace. ’Tis one of the ways the house leads you to play deep and reckless.”

Needless advice, but Grace nodded. She actually wanted to gain a reputation as a “high flyer.” Did she dare tip her hand to Barrington? No, she could only risk one bland question. “I was discussing my interest with Sir Lawrence this afternoon, and he said I should watch someone named Geoffrey Morgan play. He said the man was a genius at games of chance.”

“Sir Lawrence? When did you see him?”

“He came to see Auberville when I was calling on Lady Annica. We chatted for a few moments in passing. When I told him that I was going gambling tonight, he was all enthusiasm. Perhaps we shall run into him.” She glanced around, trying her best to look bored. “Is Lord Geoffrey here tonight?”

Barrington peered into the hazy air, squinting through the curtain of smoke. “Don’t see him, but it’s early yet. And I don’t much fancy you making his acquaintance, Grace. He is not the sort one wishes to count among one’s friends.”

Grace smiled patiently. “We were introduced years ago, and I was not seeking to make the man my friend. I merely wanted to watch him at the tables. Sir Lawrence said I would find it educational.”

“Hmm,” Barrington replied noncommittally.

For the next hour Grace placed small wagers at various tables, trying her hand at faro, picquet and rouge-et-noir. She encouraged Barrington to find his own entertainment at the hazard table. Though the other players regarded her with curiosity, they were all willing to take her money. The two other women present were vivacious females who were dressed in colorful gowns with daringly low décolletages. Grace had never seen either of them at any of the events she regularly attended and suspected they might be of the demimonde.

“By God, Morgan! You have the devil’s own luck!” a portly man at a picquet table said.

Grace moved closer to study the other man. So here was Lord Geoffrey Morgan. He’d changed since she’d last seen him four years ago. Still handsome, to be sure, but harder, more cynical. What had happened to him in the interim? If Lord Geoffrey was so attractive, and possessed of a fortune, why could he not find a wife in the ordinary way—courtship? Could his murky reputation include mistreatment of women?