Frovtunes’ Kiss Page 12

  She hesitated with a look of uncertainty. Her gaze traveled over Shaun, rested on his features, and turned thoughtful. Then she gave an infinitesimal shake of her head and swept past him, out the door. With a sigh, their mother followed.

  Graham’s insides clenched. He wanted to sprint after Letty, shake her, and shout that she’d be damned bloody lucky to have a man as fine as Shaun. But to what purpose? During his absence from England, his sister had grown into the young woman she was. He couldn’t dismiss his own culpability here.

  Shaun stared into the vacant place where she had been, his brow furrowed, expression wistful, as if he might make her reappear simply by wishing it. Then a corner of his mouth pulled, and he blinked. In that instant Graham witnessed the dismissal of a man’s hope. He felt miserable.

  Shaun met his gaze and shrugged. “Ah, well, offering seemed the gentlemanly thing to do. Shall we go on down?”

  CHAPTER

  11

  Breakfast proved uneventful, a circumstance Graham credited to the fact that none of his immediate family members made an appearance in the morning room. If Moira’s pensive silences and Shaun’s frequent sighs lent a certain tension to the meal, he felt grateful to have escaped any further dramatics.

  Soon after, he and Moira prepared for their sojourn to Smythe’s office, where together they planned to search through Everett Foster’s financial records with a quizzing glass if need be. He’d have Moira all to himself during the coach ride first, a notion that spread a grin across his face as he descended the stairs to meet her in the foyer.

  He discovered his brother there instead, striding to the front door with the pace of a man in a hurry.

  “Where are you off to so early?”

  With no acknowledgment, Freddy swung the door wide and stepped out onto the portico. In his free hand, he clutched a valise. Graham hurried to follow. “Wait a moment, Freddy. Where do you think you’re going?”

  Freddy halted on the top step. “I don’t believe it’s any of your concern. I’m of age, or nearly. I’ll do as I please.”

  “I asked you a simple question.”

  “Then here’s a simple answer. I’ve no desire to spend another day under this roof.” He started down the steps.

  Graham caught up again and checked his brother’s descent with a grip on his shoulder. “What suddenly brought this on? I can see you’re angry, but I haven’t the slightest notion why. Is it because of the other day? Should I have left you unconscious in a puddle of ale at the stinking tavern?”

  “I’m not the least bit angry.” Freddy avoided Graham’s gaze, squinting in the sunlight to the street below. “In fact, thank you for rescuing me.”

  Sarcasm drenched his words. Despite his assertion to the contrary, Freddy was furious. Roiling. Graham recognized the signs. Labored breathing, white-knuckled hold on the valise handle, rigid tension across his back.

  He removed his hand from his brother’s shoulder. He had already been struck once today, and Freddy’s bearing put him on his guard. “Whatever the problem is,” he said, “leaving won’t solve it.”

  Freddy forced a humorless chuckle. “I should think you’d be relieved to see the last flick of my coattails.”

  Perhaps Freddy was right, he should be. One less problem to contend with, one less self-absorbed family member driving him to distraction. Yet for some bloody reason, relief was the last emotion he felt. On the contrary, the idea of watching his younger brother march away filled him with a palpable sense of panic.

  He swallowed, took a deep breath, and tried to be rational. “See here, Freddy, do you really think your present circumstances allow you the means to live independently? In any sort of acceptable style, that is?”

  “By ‘circumstances,’ are you referring to my utter lack of means or that I’m a drunk?”

  “Don’t make a joke of it. What do you wish me to do? Stay out of your way? I will.”

  “That’s just it, big brother. I don’t want you to do a thing.” Biting sarcasm contorted each syllable. “Living off the fruits of your inheritance was bloody enjoyable while it lasted. Unfortunately, you’re part of the bargain.”

  Graham stiffened against the sting of Freddy’s verbal blow. His brother’s expression warned of worse to come. He braced, ready for the full brunt of Freddy’s antagonism.

  “Has this anything to do with my years in Egypt? My staying away so long? You told me the other day I should have been here.”

  “Did I?” Freddy tossed his head in a gesture very like one of Letty’s. “Drunken ranting, so don’t flatter yourself. And don’t think I begrudge you your illustrious career. You were meant for that life. You prepared for it so thoroughly at university.”

  Graham’s insides clenched. With narrowed eyes, he seethed, close to forgetting everything he knew of tolerance and self-control. “What are you implying?”

  “Implying? No, brother, I’m saying quite plainly I despise you.” Freddy tossed an offhand shrug and faced Graham full on. In eyes very like his own, Graham witnessed glittering, naked contempt. “I’m saying your years in Egypt proved you’re not only a cheat, but a thief, as well. Whatever trinkets you unearthed were not yours to claim, yet claim them you did.”

  Freddy leaned close, bringing the reek of brandy to burn Graham’s nostrils. “I’m saying, dear brother, that of all the faces inhabiting this incomprehensible world, yours is the one that repels me most.”

  Graham’s skin ran hot and then cold. The words rang in his ears like an echo from some far-off source, not possibly having anything to do with him. Yet the reverberations kept on, running all through him, leaving his nerve endings prickling and numb.

  Freddy strolled down the steps before Graham recovered even a fraction of his equilibrium, before his temples ceased throbbing enough to allow his vision to clear.

  He briefly considered calling to his brother, but the grim set of those retreating shoulders silenced the urge. Feeling dizzy, mildly sick, he closed his eyes, opening them again at the sound of a footfall on the threshold behind him. Moira stood poised in the doorway. A regretful look on her face revealed that she’d seen and heard all, or at least enough.

  “He’ll come back,” she said quietly. Pity hovered in her lovely dark eyes, and he found it astounding that Moira Hughes—fatherless, homeless, penniless—should feel such an emotion for him, Baron Monteith, desert adventurer and treasure hunter.

  Blazing hell.

  He shook his head. “I don’t think so. He’s so angry and…” He trailed off, too weary to enumerate.

  “I don’t mean to make things worse.” She descended a step and stopped. “In fact, I hope to make them better.”

  “Is this a riddle?”

  “No. I’ve made a decision.” She flashed a smile. “I’m leaving, too. Moving out.”

  “The devil you are.”

  Unfazed, she continued down until she stood beside him. “I heard Letty crying as I passed her door. You oughtn’t to make your sister cry, you know.”

  “Letty was being a spoiled brat this morning. And every other morning, not to mention afternoons and evenings.”

  “Perhaps, but this time I was the cause. I don’t wish to be the source of family strife. Certainly not of tears.”

  “Believe me, Moira, you are not the source. The discord between us began long before you ever set foot in this house.”

  “That may be,” she said a little absently, as if it were a moot point. “Uncle Benedict has graciously invited me to be his guest. I think it would be best if I accepted.”

  “No, Moira.” He reached out, only just preventing himself from taking possession of her arm. It was obvious from the way she flinched that his curtness startled her all the same. He continued more softly, “Not with him. I’d sooner see you return to that lodging house in Southwark.”

  She grimaced at the mention of her former abode, and he could have bitten his tongue for being so insensitive. “The bishop of Trewsbury isn’t all he seems,” he said qu
ickly, “albeit he’s got that sympathetic old cleric routine down to perfection. He has a devious streak, and few qualms about employing treacherous means to achieve his ends.”

  “I will grant perhaps in your case, he made a mistake…” She trailed off when he slanted a disapproving eyebrow. “All right, in your case he did make a mistake. People do. But I know the bishop to be a man of principles, and I will not hear him maligned so.”

  “Moira, Moira.” Tsking, he reached for her hand. When she didn’t resist, he held it in both of his own, which was better than physically trying to shake sense into that beautiful head of hers. “It’s naïve to believe someone deserves your trust simply because he is family.”

  “I’ve yet to be proven wrong.” Those midnight eyes glimmered with certainty. Heat tingled between their joined palms, making him want to draw her against him, to feel all of her pressed to his length.

  She made him want to believe. Made him want to release the past and bury his senses in the taste and scent of her skin. But experience had taught him a lesson too harsh to forget, even at the behest of the lovely Moira Hughes. As easily as perfect strangers, a family could fail to trust, fail to defend, fail to rally around one of their own.

  “Please stay here with us.” He stroked the back of her hand, then stopped when he remembered that was just the sort of thing likely to drive her away. “I’ll even try to be nicer to Letty if you’ll agree to stay.”

  Her glance flicked to their clasped hands. She skewed her mouth in skepticism. “She is your sister. It shouldn’t be a challenge to be nice to her. You really ought to value your family, not set them at a distance.”

  “What I’ve learned to value is loyalty, whether blood related or not. In fact, I’ve often found that lack of blood ties makes for a truer friend, one free of ulterior motives.”

  “I’m sorry for you.” Her fingers tightened a little around his. “There are no greater ties than family. No greater joy. You have a mother, a brother, and a sister. You should stop taking them for granted and appreciate your good fortune.”

  Her admonishment hurt a little; after all, who had been taking whom for granted?

  “Lucky? Ah, Moira, such easy words for you. You, my dear, are one of the lucky few for whom the word family holds only good connotations. I, on the other hand, have learned life’s greatest disappointments spring from where one’s trust lies deepest. Trust is a devilish thing, Moira, and highly overrated in this world. It’s a mistake I won’t make again.”

  “They hurt you very badly.” Not a question, but a quiet avowal. “Perhaps you should forgive them and move on.” Her tone, however, said grow up and move on.

  He released her hand. “Again, easy words.”

  “Well.” There was a world of sentiment encompassed in that utterance, and the notion that, just as his family did, she perhaps found him lacking. More than any of his mother’s admonishments, Letty’s complaints, or Freddy’s accusations, that one little well made him feel inadequate, ungenerous, a cheater.

  Her eyebrows rose in the face of his continued silence. “Shall we go see Mr. Smythe?”

  “By all means.” He offered the crook of his arm, hoping he’d be spared further judgment for the rest of the day at least. There was only so much a man could tolerate in a single morning.

  No, there was more to it, much more. His brother despised him; the same brother who once idolized him. The fact of it produced a knifing pain in his chest. He didn’t want to be alone with that pain.

  Perhaps Moira felt a certain disappointment in him, but she neither despised nor looked up to him, neither vilified nor glorified him. That made her a rather safe haven at the moment.

  Graham was uncommonly silent on the carriage ride across town, and Moira found it unnerving, even more so than when he teased her and found spurious reasons for touching her. She’d grown accustomed to that Graham Foster, the cavalier who feigned ignorance of civilized manners; the playful, boyish rogue who nevertheless retreated to his corner whenever she said no and meant it. She’d learned how to handle that Graham Foster.

  The stranger with her now occupied the far corner of the coach by choice, a great brooding shadow drawn in upon himself, arms crossed, shoulders bunched, head bent. Oh, he liked to pretend imperviousness to life’s trials and to his family’s idiosyncrasies, but she knew better.

  As he’d already proved in dozens of small ways, he wasn’t a bad sort, not the cad she’d envisioned prior to meeting him. He was simply, well, a bit lost, and determined to shield his gentler side behind a devil-may-care indifference.

  She saw what his brother’s words did to him. But she had also detected in Freddy’s abominable behavior a perverse sort of reaching out, a desperate plea for Graham to intervene. Perhaps this same sort of longing accounted for Letitia’s petulance, as well. Despite their adult appearances, the Foster twins were two children in need of a father, or at least a father figure. Something Moira understood, being sadly devoid of a father herself these days.

  Oh, but not one of these Fosters understood another. Somewhere along the way, events had torn them asunder from the heart outward, and Moira’s own heart ached for them, albeit each of them often made her want to dash her head against the wall.

  Perhaps, in return for Graham’s helping her with her stepfather’s will, she might find some way to reconcile this muddle of a family. Of course, the effort would require her to decline Benedict Ramsey’s kindness and remain on Brook Street, where she might daily exert her influence. She wondered…could she befriend so quarrelsome a creature as Letitia? Win the regard of the flighty, pretentious Augusta? Gently lead Freddy away from the bottle—if he ever came home, that was. And Graham…

  How to convince him he not only needed his family, but that it was perfectly all right to need them? She’d have to employ subtle means, and not be nearly as obvious in her prompting as she’d been back at the house.

  A secretive smile blossomed as she warmed to the task.

  “What’s so amusing?”

  “Oh, nothing.” She assumed an innocent expression. “I’m merely gladdened by the prospect of discovering something useful at Mr. Smythe’s office. Do you suppose he’ll have Papa’s documents ready for us?”

  “He’d better.” Graham returned to his huddle.

  Oh, yes, the man needed her help. His entire family did. As she fell to planning her strategy, she barely noticed the remainder of their trip until the coach rolled to a stop and the footman opened her door.

  They discovered Smythe’s front office to be strangely quiet. Not only were there no patrons occupying the waiting area, but Mr. Pierson’s desk stood deserted, as well, giving Moira the impression of a guardhouse hastily abandoned in the face of an attack.

  “How odd.”

  Graham led the way to the inner door. It opened upon more silence, so ponderous the hairs on Moira’s nape stood on end. “If no one is in, why would the street door be unlocked?”

  “Is anyone here?” Graham called. His voice filled the corridor, bouncing back at them from the closed office doors.

  Moira instinctively reached for his hand, seeking reassurance in his steady grip. He didn’t disappoint. His fingers closed securely around hers, instilling a sense of protection.

  “Come.” His sultry murmur produced chills, or were the goose bumps running down her arms the result of the eerie stillness?

  They stopped outside Mr. Smythe’s door. Graham knocked. He turned the knob and pushed the door open.

  A gasp broke from Moira’s lips at the sight within. The room lay in shambles. Papers littered the floor. Drawers hung open or had been pulled free and dumped upside down. The contents of the desktop—ink, pens, desk pad, a lamp—lay in a scattered pile. A small cabinet had been flung onto its side, its doors gaping, a panel splintered.

  “Blazing hell.”

  “Yes, poor Mr. Smythe. He’ll be most dismayed when he discovers he’s been burgled.”

  “That’s not what I mean, Moira.” He ra
ised his free hand and pointed to the floor just beyond one end of the desk.

  At first Moira only made out a dark object poking through a spilled sheaf of papers. It was rounded on one side, flat on the other, not very big, and shined a bit in the light of the window. What could so leach the color from Graham’s face and cause his fingers to tighten so insistently around hers as though ready to yank her away at any moment? Anchored by his hold, she pressed forward, peering to make sense of that strange black object.

  The instant of recognition propelled her backward into his chest; her heart hammered in her throat while her legs nearly buckled.

  The object was a shoe…connected to a trouser-covered ankle.

  Graham’s arms encircled her. She turned, pressing her face into his shirtfront. “Good heavens, is it…is it…?”

  “Stay here.” He released her, though he hesitated before leaving her side as if to be certain she could stand on her own. Her ability to do so surprised even her. The room spun at the edges of her vision as she watched him cross to the desk. Broken glass crunched beneath his feet. He placed a bracing hand upon the desk’s edge and leaned over low. Then lower. His back to her, he crouched and shoved bits of clutter aside.

  “Is it?” she asked in a whisper.

  “It is.”

  She stepped forward. Graham whipped around, holding up both hands. “Don’t come any closer, Moira.”

  “Is—is he alive?”

  He stared into her eyes, and shook his head. “I don’t think so. He doesn’t appear to be breathing.”

  “Oh, good heavens.” Her hand pressed her mouth; she spoke around her shaking fingers. “How dreadful. Oh…what about Mr. Davis?”

  Whirling, she grasped her skirts and headed across the corridor to the other solicitor’s office. Before she reached the threshold, Graham caught her from behind, his arms snaking beneath her arms and taking firm possession of her. “But we need to see if he’s all right…”

  “I’ll see. You stay put.”

  She didn’t argue. Trembling, breath lodged in her throat, she watched as Graham pushed the door inward.