Frovtunes’ Kiss Read online

  DEDICATION:

  For Benay Unger and her mother, Pauline Unger,

  whose encouragement and enthusiasm for the romance

  genre are reason enough to keep a writer writing.

  Published 2008 by Medallion Press, Inc.

  The MEDALLION PRESS LOGO

  is a registered tradmark of Medallion Press, Inc.

  If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment from this “stripped book.”

  Copyright © 2008 by Lisa Manuel

  Cover Illustration by Adam Mock

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law.

  Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Printed in the United States of America

  Typeset in Adobe Garamond Pro

  ISBN# 1933836350

  ISBN# 9781933836355

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS:

  With heartfelt appreciation for

  The untiring efforts of The Florida Romance Writers to advance the careers of its members, and for always having chocolate on hand during good times and bad.

  Special thanks to my agent, Evan Marshall, and to Helen Rosburg and the professionals of Medallion Press, whose collective vision and hard work help keep this industry exciting and innovative.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  CHAPTER

  1

  Sir Graham Foster sucked blistering air into his lungs, gave his Arabian gelding a firm pat on the neck, adjusted his feet in the stirrups, and raised his saber high above his head. Glaring sunlight arced along the steel, sending a shimmering signal to the men assembled before him.

  Boot heels dug into drought-scorched earth. A plaintive creaking arose as hemp ropes tightened and clenched. Some two dozen workers strained forward beside ten of the best camels British pounds could buy. Slowly, painstakingly, and with a screech that set Graham’s teeth on edge, the barrier to the tomb inched open.

  He prayed the ropes would hold. And that the laborers handpicked from a local tribe of nomads wouldn’t choose that moment to start an uprising or observe one of hundreds of incomprehensible religious rituals. Or simply decide it was time to return to their colorful tents on the desert.

  He gripped a handful of damp shirtfront and unstuck it from his chest. It had taken three months to find this tomb, a modest vault of stone and mud brick laid out on a rectangular slab about twenty feet below ground. It hadn’t always been subterranean, but part of the once-prosperous village of Deir el-Medina, now buried beneath centuries of blowing sand. It wasn’t a place one would expect to find the remains of a pharaoh, but rather a pharaoh’s master craftsman.

  Which suited Graham Foster fine. He wasn’t searching for a king’s treasure or anything of great historical value. Not this time. A text in the Alexandria archives had indicated this to be the burial site of a wealthy goldsmith from the second millennia BC, and Graham expected a handsome return for his pains. He only hoped the poor dead chap wouldn’t mind extending him a bit of a loan for a good cause.

  It had taken another two months to raise the money and manpower needed to excavate. An additional four weeks to successfully bribe Pasha Mohammed Ali, Egypt’s temperamental Turkish ruler, into allowing the “pesky British swine” access to the area. Of course, this excavation was merely a means to a more important end. If it proved fruitless, there would be more searching, more money to raise, more bribes to offer, and more nomads to deal with.

  “My lord! My lord!”

  Shaun Paddington, his friend, assistant, and, when necessity dictated, imposter British consul, hailed from the top of a rise some thirty yards away. Graham swore under his breath. What could be so important that Shaun would interrupt him at such a crucial moment?

  A high-pitched groan snared his attention. The workers were moving too fast, putting undue strain on both the ropes and the entrance slab. Too much tension on the stone could literally rend it to pieces and cause a cave-in.

  Graham cupped his hands around his mouth. “Slow down before it shatters!”

  The perspiration rolling down his sides had little to do with the hundred-degree heat pounding down from an unimpeded sun. He sucked another breath in preparation of a second warning when he saw the lead camel drivers signal to their snorting, spitting charges.

  Graham held the searing oxygen in his lungs. Done without the proper skill, the drivers could stop the progress altogether instead of simply slowing it. The momentum would be lost. That meant starting over.

  “My lord!” Shaun shouted again.

  Damn. From the corner of his eye, Graham saw his friend descend a sand dune at top speed. As his image undulated in the heat waves, Graham noticed something white flapping in Shaun’s outstretched hand.

  “Blazing hell, Shaun, not now.”

  But within seconds, the overseers had brought the pace under control. The whining complaint of the ropes and the slab ceased. With a whoop of mixed relief and triumph, Graham swung from the saddle.

  “Did you see that, Shaun?” he called to the panting man, whose running steps kicked up whorls of sand around his legs. “Can I pick them or what? Are these fellows not princes of their trade?”

  They weren’t completely out of danger yet, wouldn’t be until the slab cleared the tomb and was secured with more ropes and scaffolding. But already Graham felt the charge of adventure, the anticipation of entering the three-thousand-year-old grave site.

  Shaun loped to a halt a few feet away, waving what Graham now identified as a sheet of paper practically under his nose.

  “What have you got there?” Graham asked. “A grant from the same university that sent me packing ten years ago? Tell them I don’t need it.”

  “No, it’s…a letter…from your…solicitor.” Puffing, Shaun bent full over, resting a hand on his knee in an effort to recapture his breath.

  “I don’t have a solicitor.”

  His friend maintained his bent posture and continued gasping. Finally, hand pressed to his chest in a manner that would have worried Graham if he wasn’t familiar with the man’s dramatics, he straightened. “You do now. And it seems you’re needed at home.”

  “The devil I am. Bad joke, old man.” An oddity struck him. How had Shaun hailed him? With cries of my lord?

  He’d been Sir Graham Foster since his twenty-fourth birthday, after presenting His Majesty, King George, with assorted artifacts from various digs. Tanis had yielded a gilded ebony statue of the god Osiris; from Karnak came a bejeweled pectoral pendant featuring the eye of Horus; and from Akhenaten, an ela
borate burial mask. Baubles that had granted him a solid footing on England’s social ladder.

  But a lordship?

  “Shaun, my friend,” he said with a laugh and a swat to the other man’s broad shoulder, “you’ve been baking in this sun too long. Go back to your tent. Have a little nip. It’ll restore perspective to that addled mind of yours.”

  Shaun shook his head and the paper at the same time. “There’s nothing wrong with me, my lord. Your cousin twice removed and then some,” he jabbed at the information with his forefinger, “Everett Foster, has died and—”

  “Who?”

  “Your second cousin twice removed. Or is it thrice? Here, it lists the lineage tracing you to him.”

  Scowling, Graham peered at the page. “Oh. Old Man Monteith. Only met him a couple of times, and that was years ago. But this is absurd. He has a nephew.”

  “Dead, as well, within weeks of his uncle.” Shaun squinted down at the page. “Says here you’re the great-great-grandson of the first Baron Monteith’s younger brother.” He dropped the paper to his side and met Graham’s gaze with a mixture of disbelief and amazement. “It would appear you’ve been the new Baron Monteith for quite some time now, my lord.”

  “Call me that again, and I’ll knock you a facer. Now tell me how I can avoid this calamity.”

  Shaun stared back, lips compressed. A hot gust nearly ripped the letter from his hand, but he whisked it tight against his chest. Then he said, “There’s more.”

  “Out with it.”

  “Your solicitor sends his apologies for having allowed your family access to your new London town house. He didn’t think it would be a problem. They are your family, after all.” Shaun paused to swallow. “But it seems they’ve amassed some debts.”

  Gritty sweat trickled into the corner of Graham’s eye. He swiped at it with his sleeve. “Blazing hell.”

  Moira Hughes threw her weight against the cottage door and shoved. It stuck for an instant, then gave with an abruptness that nearly sent her headlong across the foyer floor. She clutched the doorknob and anchored her feet, managing not to fall but only just. Then she took her first glimpse of her new home. It was… Awful.

  Dim. Shabby. An enormous disappointment. She stepped across the threshold.

  To her left, an archway opened upon a cramped parlor. She spied, between two dust-laden windows, a diminutive fireplace that promised to smoke the very instant anyone dared ignite a blaze. To her right, a decidedly rickety staircase ambled its way to the second floor. Ahead, the foyer narrowed to a tight corridor that must surely lead to an equally oppressive kitchen. Moira could only imagine the amenities to be found there.

  She sighed. Until this morning, Monteith Hall had been her home. Sprawling, elegant, large Monteith Hall, a mere two miles and a world away. There had been servants, gardens, fine carriages. Not that Moira and her parents had used the latter for much besides excursions to church on Sundays. They had settled, these past several years, into the uneventful routine of country life. But there had been security and a sense of peace, a dependable contentment.

  That had ceased to be true some four months ago. Until then, she had been the beloved stepdaughter of Everett Foster, Baron Monteith. Then one frigid November morning, she had watched his coffin lowered into a fresh grave in the family cemetery. Influenza turned into pneumonia, the physician had informed her and her mother. Through their grief, there had at least been a sense of reassurance, of continuity, for Moira had for some months been engaged to Nigel Foster, her stepfather’s nephew and heir.

  But there would be no marriage now, nor had Nigel enjoyed his inheritance for long. Poor Nigel. Dearest Nigel had been thrown by his horse and laid in his grave not two months after Papa, leaving Moira and her mother alone. Quite alone. And what a great irony, for Nigel had been the most proficient of riders. Something, a rabbit perhaps, must have spooked his horse and, in a freak occurrence, Nigel had fallen and broken his neck.

  At the moment of his death, Moira and her mother had lost all claim to Monteith Hall and become merely the distant stepcousins of the new baron. A baron who very much wanted—needed, his letter said—to take up immediate residence in his country estate, and would Moira and her mother please make the necessary arrangements as soon as possible.

  Those arrangements had thankfully materialized in the form of this cottage, offered to them by St. Bartholomew’s Parish. St. Bartholomew’s had once been presided over by Moira’s natural father, the Reverend Mr. John Hughes, and she found the congregation’s gesture touching, indeed. Not to mention a tremendous relief. If the accommodations were somewhat inadequate, the rent at least was cheap. Needless to say, she and her mother hadn’t rushed to pack their things, but this day had arrived in a dizzying blur all the same.

  Uncertain footsteps picked along the path behind her. Moira backed out of the cottage, pasted on her most cheerful smile, and turned. “Oh, Mother, isn’t it wonderful? Just like in a fairy tale.” Seeing her mother’s brow pucker with doubt, she added, “Think how cozy we’ll be here in winter. And once the furniture arrives, you’ll feel right at home.”

  Putting a spring in her step, she went to her mother’s side and linked arms with her. “Come, let’s explore.”

  “Do you think your father will like it, dear?” Estella Foster raised a skeptical glance to the stone and timber facade. “It seems rather limited. You know how Papa likes to roam the house at night when he cannot sleep.”

  Moira regarded the hazy confusion in her mother’s eyes. A weight that had become a familiar burden these past months pressed her heart. She patted a wrinkled hand, kissed a careworn cheek.

  “You know Papa is in heaven, Mother,” she said quietly, and paused to let it sink in. Again. “And yes, I do believe he would be quite pleased with our snug new home. Come, let us have a look about. We must decide where to place your settee and armoire. And the petit-point chair and footstool.”

  Yes, those items had been part of Estella Foster’s dowry, and so they were allowed to take them from Monteith Hall. Most of the other furnishings must stay, of course, part and parcel of the new baron’s inheritance.

  “And don’t forget your father’s chair, dear.” Estella’s grip tightened on Moira’s arm as they entered the cottage together. “He’ll want it just so beside the hearth. Is there a window nearby? Your father is most particular about having natural light to read by during the day. You know how he disdains lighting the lamps before tea.”

  Moira sighed and nodded.

  Hours later, when the scant furnishings had been placed to their best advantage and Moira had tucked her bewildered mother into bed, she stole outside. Mrs. Stanhope, still at work organizing the kitchen, promised to check on Estella often.

  Thank heaven for Mrs. Stanhope, something of a saint in Moira’s estimation. She’d been housekeeper at Monteith since before Moira and her mother’s arrival when Moira was only three years old. Favoring loyalty over her enviable position in the manor, Mrs. Stanhope had chosen to accompany them to their new home, such as it was.

  Exhaustion clawed at Moira’s limbs, but she trod a resolute path to the remnants of what had once been a kitchen garden. No one had lived here for years, and the cultivated rows had long gone to weeds. She would have to hoe and rake quickly in order to plant in time for the growing season. Even then the first yield would be negligible at best. There would be little money besides. The vast bulk of the fortune was entailed to the estate and belonged now to the new Lord Monteith.

  Moira curved her tongue around his name: Graham Foster. She wondered who he was, what he looked like. As to the sort of man he was, she wasted no time in pondering. His nature had been made plain by his curt request that they vacate the Hall.

  Over the years she had heard rumors about him, mostly from Nigel. Tossed out of Oxford for cheating, Sir Graham Foster had become something of an adventurer, an explorer who dug up ancient treasures in Egypt and claimed them for England. He’d won the king’s favor for his ef
forts. Now he was coming home to claim the only security Moira and her mother knew.

  She bit her trembling lip and vowed not to shed a single tear. She’d shed plenty for dearest Nigel. Many more for Papa.

  Of her natural father she retained no memories, for John Hughes had died before her second birthday. She had always thought of Everett Foster as her father with no other word attached, just as he used to sit her on his knee and declare her his bonnie little daughter. He’d called her his child for the last time as he lay dying, and whispered of a recent change in his will that would ensure his family’s welfare.

  Where had that money gone? Mr. Smythe, their solicitor in London, had written to say he knew of no funds other than those entailed to the estate, except for the small sum her mother had brought to the marriage. Hardly enough to see them through the coming months. Although the rent was paid for a full year, they’d need food, fuel, and clothing, and Moira couldn’t expect Mrs. Stanhope to stay on for free.

  Something was very wrong, and it now fell upon her shoulders to discover what that something was. The thought of leaving her mother, even temporarily, brought on waves of numbing doubt, but she knew Mrs. Stanhope would die before she allowed any harm to touch her mistress.

  She and her mother would never again have a home such as the one they’d left. They would never again enjoy the privileges so recently stripped from them. But the other things—security, contentment, a feeling of home—those Moira believed—hoped—she could provide. She must first go to London and press for their rights. She must summon every ounce of her courage, barge into Mr. Smythe’s office, and demand to see her stepfather’s financial records. Somewhere a codicil to his will existed, and she intended to find it.