The Missing Heir

Morgan was a man of above-average height and trim build. His dark hair was threaded with stands of silver now, but he did not look old. To the contrary, the silver was premature and simply made him look distinguished—a stark contrast to his smooth, unlined skin. His features were pleasant and the grin he gave his companion was not in the least bit smug. But his best feature—at least the one that caught her attention—was his hands. Long elegant fingers caressed the deck of cards almost like a lover, riffling the edges in a confident, bored manner. Those hands were the only things about the man that spoke of his inner restlessness.

He grew still, as if he sensed her attention. In a slow deliberate manner, he glanced toward her and caught her eye. He studied her from the toes of her slippers upward to her face, and then his lips drew up in a smile. Did he remember her?

She dropped her gaze, then lifted it again in a soft, almost seductive greeting. With a little lift of her chin, she turned and walked away, feeling the heat of his gaze follow her. She stopped at the vingt-et-un table and placed a small bet, knowing he would still be watching. When she glanced over her shoulder, he grinned again and she did her level best to look worldly and as bored with the scene as he. When Barrington joined her and took her arm to lead her away, she noted a small look of irritation on Lord Geoffrey’s face.

Oh, it was good to know your enemy’s weaknesses.

Chapter Four

A dam, having left his newfound “cousin” in the care of Lord Auberville and his wife, found himself climbing the stairway at the Eagle Tavern for the second time in as many days. He hadn’t expected to see Freddie again quite so soon, but circumstances warranted. The more he learned about Grace Ellen Forbush, the more suspicious she appeared.

Privately, he asked several men about her. They all smiled regretfully, saying that, after a protracted mourning period, Grace’s name had been linked to several powerful men. Then Barrington claimed the exclusive right to escort her to various functions. It was generally accepted amongst the ton that they had been lovers for the past three years.

Adam’s mind revolted when he tried to imagine Grace’s slender, delicate frame pinned beneath a sweating, heaving Barrington. Or his uncle, for that matter. To complicate matters, the whispers of her new interest in gambling had begun to spread, and men were speculating that if she was restless, she might be looking for a new lover. Adam was hard-pressed to believe the amount of interest the topic was generating. Was every man in London queuing up to vie for that honor?

He hesitated only a moment before knocking on Freddie’s door. When it opened, a furrow-browed dandy exited, nearly running over Adam in his haste.

“Come in,” Freddie called.

Adam closed the door behind him and gave Freddie a smile. “Bad news?” he asked, nodding toward the departing dandy.

Freddie nodded. “His wife is meeting privately with his best friend. I wouldn’t want to be either of them tonight.”

Lord! Was all of London taking lovers?

Tipping his chair onto the back legs, Freddie grinned. “So, did you just miss me, Hawthorne, or do you have a use for me?”

“Could be both.”

“Are you going to help me with this one?”

“As much as my time will allow.”

“Let’s hear it. As luck would have it, I’m between jobs.”

Adam sat by the fire and sighed. “Find my uncle’s valet and housekeeper. I’d like to have a chat with them.”

Freddie nodded, studying his face. The man was trying to get a “read” on him, and Adam smiled. “And keep an eye on my dear aunt Grace. There’s something odd going on there. I’m wondering if there’s any truth to the rumors that she hastened my uncle’s death.”

“Report to you daily or weekly?”

“I’ll find you when I want to talk,” Adam said. “If you have something you need me to know sooner, you can find me.”

“And what will you be doing?”

“My best to keep an eye on the winsome widow.” He stood and moved toward the door to put his plan in action.

Freddie grinned. “Careful, Hawthorne. Bad manners, not to mention the possible risk to life and limb, to tup the hostess.”

Adam finally found Barrington’s coach waiting on a side street around the corner from the Pigeon Hole on St. James Square. Though he wasn’t a member, he slipped the doorman a guinea with the promise to speak to the proprietor about buying a subscription.

The main salon was lavishly appointed, well lit with a crystal chandelier in the central area, and darker around the edges of the room. Adam kept to these shadows as he watched waiters circulate with wineglasses and hors d’oeuvres. The proprietors, two savvy men who’d won the establishment from the original owner in a high-stakes game of whist, did not want their guests to have any reason to leave the tables. Any delicacy, any desire, was fulfilled. Deep play was encouraged, and when a man’s counters were spent, it was only a matter of a signature to acquire more. A few women dressed in scandalously low gowns circulated with glasses of wine and would occasionally disappear with a guest for short periods of time.

He caught sight of Grace’s slender form gliding from one table to another, a low buzz following in her wake. It was true, then—her presence in the gambling world was causing a sensation. And if speculation was running rampant, he would know the gist of it by morning. A small group of men stood near the hazard table, talking in muffled tones. Every few moments one or the other would turn to look in Grace’s direction. Did she quite realize how widely she was drawing attention? Or was she so accustomed to attention that she scarcely noticed?

Barrington said something to her and she turned to him and smiled. Even in profile, she stole his breath away. The sweep of her neck, the delicate hue of pink that tinted the curve of her cheek, and the demure knot of dark hair at her nape all beckoned him, and he found himself taking a few steps forward before he could check himself.

He realized with an angry tweak that he was no different than those men who stood in line for her. When she’d repaired his cravat earlier, and stood so close to him that he could feel the heat of her breath against his cheek, he’d been a mere blink from pulling her into his arms. Had it not been for Dianthe’s presence, he might have done so. Was she sublimely unaware that she was a natural seductress? No, she had to know. She’d been married. She’d had numerous affairs. She would have to know the power she held over men. The banked fire in her eyes spoke what words could not. She was a woman made for love.

A burst of laughter floated from the hazard table and Grace turned to Barrington, clapping her hands with delight. A glow of excitement lit her face as she collected a small pile of counters. Perhaps it was true, then. Perhaps she craved excitement and risk.

He could think of far more interesting ways to excite and challenge his enigmatic hostess.

“La! Es-tu folle, chère?” Madame Marie asked.

Was she crazy? Grace wondered. She studied herself in the trifold looking glass in the back fitting room of La Meilleure Robe. No, she looked quite sane. She smoothed the fabric of her new icy-violet gown over her hips, delighting in the fluid sensation and drape of the fabric. The gown would move with her, not act as a cage to hide her form. She sighed with the realization that sensory perceptions were important to her. If anything was wrong with her, it was that she was far too earthy.

“No, madame, I am not crazy. It is the only solution.” She turned on the little stool as Madame Marie marked the hem and glanced over her shoulder to entreat Francis Renquist, Madame Marie’s husband and the Wednesday League’s investigator. “Tell her, Mr. Renquist.”

Renquist sat forward in the delicate chair and studied the toes of his boots, clearly wishing himself elsewhere. “I’m not certain it is the only solution, Mrs. Forbush.”

Grace was a little surprised by his reply. “If I had not suspended my Friday salons until autumn, I could ask him to tea. If you have another, please tell me. I am all ears, sir.”

“Let me put more men on the problem. If Geoffrey Morgan is a cheat, we will uncover it. Aye, we could have results twice as fast.”

Grace nodded. “By all means,” she said, making a tiny turn for madame’s marking. “Put more men on it. But can you guarantee you will have the required proof and be able to neutralize Lord Geoffrey within two weeks?”

“Well, I couldn’t actually guarantee—”

She nodded, suspecting as much. “Then surely you can understand why I am willing to risk everything, even my reputation, Mr. Renquist. Miss Talbot will be quite literally sold into marriage to a man she does not even know if we are unable to acquire evidence of his cheating. I have the resources as well as entrée to the hells Morgan frequents. Meanwhile, I would like you and your men to find other men who have lost heavily to Morgan. I want to know how many of them suspect him of trickery, and if they have any idea how he might have done it. Furthermore, I would like any information you can uncover about the man himself—who his friends are, how he spends his time when he is not gambling, where he goes—”

“It is precisely because of Lord Geoffrey’s reputation that I would urge you to distance yourself,” Renquist interrupted.

“His reputation is not my concern unless it affects Miss Talbot’s case.” She sighed, thinking of the man she had seen last night at the Pigeon Hole. When Constance had kept his company, he’d been well-mannered and polite. Geoffrey Morgan had an air of banked vitality that society women would find vaguely unsettling—the same vitality that lay beneath Adam Hawthorne’s smooth grace. She found that vigor curiously attractive in both men. What might they be like beneath the surface, if they chose to unveil themselves?

She gave herself a mental shake and made another quarter turn on the stool. “I merely mean to observe the man to determine if he is cheating, and then, if he is, to think of the best possible way to expose him, thus rendering the markers he holds null and void. Simplicity itself, Mr. Renquist. Not in the least dangerous or complicated.”

Renquist was watching her with apprehension. “My blood chills when I hear those words from the ladies of the Wednesday League,” he murmured. “Do you promise to come to me if you are in any danger, Mrs. Forbush?”

She laughed at Mr. Renquist’s needless concern and shrugged, drawing an annoyed cluck from Madame Marie. “I am not tracking a murderer, sir, but you have my oath.”

Stealing a few minutes before the dinner bell that evening, Grace slipped into the library and sat at the massive mahogany desk. Withdrawing a sheet of paper and a pen from the center drawer, she began to make a list.

The Pigeon Hole, the Two Sevens, Rupert House, Thackery’s, Belmonde’s, Fabrey’s and the Blue Moon—a new and very popular hell. Those were the establishments she knew Morgan frequented. As for the games he favored—hazard, faro, vingt-et-un, rouge-et-noir, E.O. and picquet. Though she hadn’t chosen the hell for their encounter, she picked the game. It would have to be picquet. It was one of the few games that allowed her to wager Morgan directly without the intervention of a dealer or banker and did not require a partner. The house would be due a percentage of the wager, but that should not present a problem.

She tapped the end of the pen against her cheek as she thought. Morgan was not likely to risk cheating for an inconsequential wager, so she must think of a way to make the wager worth the risk. “How much would be enough?” she mused out loud.

“The eternal question,” a deeply masculine voice answered.