Frovtunes’ Kiss Read online

  “You said just a name.”

  “No good to me unless I know where to find him.” Then, more agreeably, “I promise I’ll make it worth your while.”

  The clerk worried his bottom lip. “I could lose my position. Can you make that worth my while?”

  Bentley had a point. It would take quite a sum to make up for the loss of his employment. Graham decided on a fresh approach. “The information may be vital to an investigation being conducted by Mr. Miles Parker of the Bow Street Runners. An investigation of a crime that could very well be linked to Everett Foster’s estate.”

  The man’s brows converged. “Inheritance fraud?”

  “Murder, Mr. Bentley.”

  The clerk swallowed again. Dipping his quill, he scratched some words across a sheet of paper, folded the page, and held it out.

  “Thank you.” Graham slipped the notepaper into his coat pocket. “An associate will pay you a discreet visit soon. And now I suppose our business here is concluded.”

  “Not quite yet.” Moira prevented him from standing by gripping his wrist. “Mr. Bentley, can you, or someone else here, at least tell us what manner of man this Mr. Oliphant is, generally speaking, that is?”

  “I’m afraid not, Miss Hughes. The transactions were conducted through his solicitor.”

  The very word sparked a note of alarm. Graham leaned forward. “And who is that?”

  The clerk scanned the financial documents and tapped a page with his forefinger. “The offices of Smythe and Davis.”

  The name hit Graham like a fist.

  “I feel ill.” Moira pressed the heel of her hand to her brow.

  Graham cupped her elbow, helped her rise, and slipped an arm around her waist. “Steady. We’ll get to the bottom of this.”

  “Oh, dear. Perhaps Miss Hughes would care for some brandy,” Mr. Bentley offered, his helpful demeanor once more in place. “There’s some in the private office.”

  “No amount of brandy can cure what ails me, Mr. Bentley.” Pivoting out of Graham’s embrace, she set off at a crisp march that raised an irreverent echo through the building.

  He hurried after her. “Moira, wait. It isn’t over. We’ll get to the bottom—”

  “Don’t. And I’m perfectly capable of walking unassisted,” she added when he again attempted to hold her about the waist. Her eyes sparked dangerously. “All that money, given to a stranger.”

  “Not a stranger, apparently. At least not to your stepfather.”

  Her expression blackened even as her pace quickened. People darted out of her path; a porter hurried to open the street door for her.

  “Why?” she demanded to the wind rushing down Threadneedle Street. “Why would Papa do this? He promised me…”

  “He was ill at the time—”

  “He wasn’t raving, blast it.” A passerby jostled her elbow. Graham steered her toward the waiting carriage. “And all along, Smythe knew. Knew the truth and flat out lied to me. I can’t believe it. I simply cannot.”

  “Perhaps there were debts. Perhaps Everett meant his family wouldn’t have to worry because he’d settled those debts with this Mr. Oliphant. He expected you to marry Nigel—”

  “Nigel.” The carriage door stood open. Graham waited, one hand extended to help her inside. But in the next instant, she whirled and set off down the foot pavement toward the Romanesque structure that housed the Royal Exchange.

  “Now where are you going?” He trotted to catch up.

  “Nigel. Mr. Smythe.” She went still, panting into the gusts racing between the buildings. “Dead. Both of them. The burglary. Now this Mr. Oliphant turns up.”

  “You suspect a connection between Smythe’s and Nigel’s deaths and Michael Oliphant?”

  Both her features and her voice became deadly calm. “Don’t you?”

  He gave a reluctant nod, unable to deny her suspicions. There was something more going on here than a misplaced codicil, something elusive and sinister. Perhaps he might have connected the pieces sooner, if not for a stubborn inclination to ignore certain facts.

  Nigel. The very name festered on his conscience like an open blister. He’d tried ignoring Nigel’s ghost and pretending this one rival for Moira’s affections had never existed. But in so doing, had he silenced a vital message from the grave?

  He seized her forearms. “How can Nigel have been involved in any of this? His death was an accident.”

  “Was it?” She shook her head, glaring over his shoulder across the square at the pillared entrance to the Exchange. “Nigel was an expert rider. I’d seen him urge his horse over hedgerows in the driving rain with nary a misstep. He could gallop his mount blindfolded with both hands tied round his back. Tell me…how does such a man fall and break his neck on a main thoroughfare in fine weather?”

  “Where was he going when it happened?”

  “Home. From London. He’d come to secure his interests as the new Baron Monteith.”

  “Good God.” He gave her a shake that imparted merely a fraction of the panic squeezing his chest. Passing pedestrians stared. He forced his voice to calm, his grip to lighten. “Why didn’t you tell me this sooner?”

  “I would have, but I didn’t realize its significance until today.” Her face filled with dismay. He felt her trembling beneath his palms, and he instantly regretted his curtness.

  “I’m sorry. Come. Let’s get you home.” Gently he placed a hand at the small of her back and turned her toward the carriage.

  “Yes, home. Not Brook Street, but Shelbourne.” She climbed into the carriage before he could offer assistance. “I should never have left my mother alone. She could be in danger, as well.”

  “Let’s not jump to conclusions.” He summoned what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “However, while I understand why you don’t wish to move her again, I insist we do just that. You’ll both be safer at Monteith Hall. I shan’t take no for an answer.” He rapped on the ceiling. The carriage lurched forward.

  “What of Michael Oliphant?”

  “I’ll deal with him the moment I return to London.”

  She faced him levelly, or as levelly as the swaying carriage allowed. “You’ll do no such thing. One and possibly two men may have died because of that man.”

  “You needn’t worry. I’ll go straight to Bow Street and enlist the assistance of Miles Parker.”

  “Let’s go see him now. He’ll want to know what we’ve discovered today, especially Smythe’s connection to the stock accounts.” She leaned back against the squabs, and he resisted the temptation to gather her into his arms, at least in her present mood. “My suspicions concerning Nigel may also be of interest to him.”

  “We’ll make a brief stop, then, to convey our news to Mr. Parker. I suppose he’d best search out Michael Oliphant as soon as possible. Meanwhile, I’m not letting you out of my sight until you’re safely installed at Monteith Hall.”

  She nodded, but a pensive look clouded her eyes. It was a look he didn’t trust, not on the doggedly headstrong Moira Hughes. The sooner he got her away from London, the better.

  “Moira, darling, you’re back.”

  “I am, Mother. I’m here at last.” Hurrying to her mother’s chair in the cottage’s cramped parlor, Moira sank to her knees in a billow of skirts.

  Her heart thudded, both with happiness at the reunion, and with anxiety about how her mother had got on in her absence. And yet, Estella had hardly blinked moments ago when Mrs. Stanhope announced her and Graham’s arrival.

  “I’m frightfully sorry to have been away so long, Mother. Are you quite well? Did you miss me terribly?”

  “Yes to the first, and very much indeed to the second.” Estella stroked Moira’s cheek. “I told Mrs. Stanhope to hold tea, but now that you’re back from your walk, I shall ring for her.”

  A weight like yesterday’s dumplings descended in Moira’s stomach. She flicked a glance at Graham and winced at the pity in his eyes.

  “I see you’ve brought Nigel with you.”
Pleasure filled her mother’s voice. “How splendid. It’s been a long while since we’ve visited with Nigel, hasn’t it, my dear?”

  Laying her cheek in her mother’s lap, Moira reached her arms around a waist gone noticeably thinner in her absence. “Mother, this isn’t—”

  “Lady Monteith.” Graham approached the faded petit-point armchair. Bending at the waist, he lifted Estella’s hand to his lips. “Ma’am, I am your late husband’s relative, Graham Foster. I’m very pleased to make your acquaintance.”

  “Graham Foster? Not Nigel, then?” Shadows gathered in Estella’s dark eyes.

  “No, Mother, not Nigel.”

  “Well, then.” She produced a polite smile that trembled slightly at its corners. “Won’t you join us for tea, Mr. Foster? You must forgive us, though. We seem to have misplaced our splendid Meissen tea service and must make do with the Minton set I purchased in Staffordshire before my marriage to Lord Monteith. It’s quite lovely, mind you, but not nearly as elegant as the other.” Her gaze darted about the room. “We seem to have misplaced a great many things lately.”

  Not misplaced, Moira reflected dismally, but left behind at Monteith Hall. “Mother, would you like to see the Hall again? Return there to live, perhaps?”

  “Why, yes, I would, indeed.” Her matter-of-fact reply held the question in no higher account than what cake she’d like with her tea. “We should go soon, in fact. Your papa will be waiting for us. He must wonder why we’ve lingered so long on holiday without him.”

  Graham’s hand closed on Moira’s shoulder. She could not help turning toward it and seeking its warmth beneath her chin.

  How she’d hoped—prayed—things would be better with her mother by now, that the confusion would have cleared once Mrs. Stanhope had settled her into a routine. On the contrary, Mother seemed worse than ever, her thoughts more mired in the past. Moira wondered if moving back to Monteith Hall would make any difference at all.

  The reverberation of the tea cart along the corridor’s bare floorboards interrupted her musings. Bare floorboards. Yes, when she last walked the parlor floor, her footsteps had reverberated throughout. Now, however…

  Gazing downward, she realized her knees were cushioned by a thoroughly unfamiliar throw rug. They certainly hadn’t brought this broadloom of green vines on a russet background from Monteith Hall. Another rug lay beneath the front window.

  Where on earth had they come from? Or, more to the point, where had the funds to purchase them come from?

  “Mother…”

  Mrs. Stanhope entered the parlor at that moment and positioned the refreshment cart beside her mother’s chair. Smiling, the housekeeper whisked a silver cover off a platter. Moira’s breath caught at what she saw.

  Tea cakes dripping with honey. Clotted cream. Fruit preserves. Cinnamon biscuits. Good heavens!

  A sense of outrage clogged her throat. Such extravagance. Such sinful excess. How was it possible? Even if the funds she had sent had managed to arrive so quickly, the money was simply not enough for luxuries like these.

  She pushed slowly to her feet. How could Mrs. Stanhope have been so reckless with their meager savings?

  “My goodness,” that very woman exclaimed as she hurried back into the hall. “I nearly forgot. I’ve made a lovely bread pudding, as well. I’ll be right back with it.”

  Estella nodded and lifted the teapot. Moira felt as though she staggered at the brink of disaster.

  “Excuse me a moment,” she murmured and followed Mrs. Stanhope into the kitchen. The sound of the housekeeper’s uneven soprano sent her ire soaring with each carefree note.

  “Mrs. Stanhope, a word, if you please.”

  “Of course, Miss Moira.” The woman looked up from the worktable, where she was just lifting a linen cloth from an oblong pan. Inside, cubed bread oozed with buttery vanilla sauce dotted with raisins. A warm, sweet aroma set Moira’s mouth watering despite her indignation. “I do hope you and the new Lord Monteith brought your appetites.”

  A deep breath helped contain the urge to bellow. Moira clutched her hands together. “Mrs. Stanhope, what have you done? Sugar, butter, new rugs? What is the meaning of this?”

  “I…whatever do you mean, Miss Moira?”

  Sheer frustration propelled her to the worktable. Gripping the pan, Moira lifted it, then smacked it against the countertop. The bread pudding shimmied within its syrup. Splatters flew.

  Mrs. Stanhope flinched. “Why, Miss Moira—”

  “Don’t Miss Moira me. Not after months of meting out every ingredient, of painstakingly rationing our foodstuffs, of barely holding financial disaster at bay…” Her words dissipated on a nauseating wave of fury. Trembling, she clenched her teeth and fisted her hands. “I demand to know where all this abundance comes from.”

  “But…” Mrs. Stanhope eyed her sideways, her wary frown suggesting Moira had quite taken leave of her senses and was liable to exhibit even more deranged behavior at any moment. As well she might. “They were delivered the day before yesterday. Didn’t you arrange it, Miss Moira?”

  “Delivered?” Several seconds ticked by on the wall clock before she was able to close her mouth, swallow, and form an answer. “I most certainly did not. Who delivered them?”

  “Two men in livery came in a coach, which is odd, now that I consider it.”

  “Livery?” Suspicion hissed through her like a serpent. “What color?”

  “Royal blue.” Mrs. Stanhope tilted her head. “With silver trim, I believe.” Her eyes went wide. “Why, that’s the—”

  “The new Monteith livery, yes.”

  “We left the Hall so soon after the change was made, I’d forgotten.” The woman took up the discarded linen cloth and began mopping at the butter sauce dispersed by Moira’s tirade. “Are you angry with me, Miss Moira? Should I not have accepted the delivery?”

  Angry? Quite right. But not with this trustworthy woman. “Mrs. Stanhope, do forgive me. I don’t know what came over me. I’m so sorry. It’s just …well, never mind. You did exactly right.”

  The woman beamed, and Moira did an about-face, blazing a path back to the parlor. From the doorway she wagged a beckoning finger at Graham. “Would you mind helping me find something in the coach, please?”

  He sat perched on a footstool in front of her mother’s chair, his long legs drawn up and his cup and saucer balanced on his knee. Her mother was saying something that had him grinning. At Moira’s request, he nodded, set his teacup on the cart, and placed his hand over one of Estella’s. “Would you excuse me a moment, ma’am?”

  “Yes, but don’t be long. Your tea will grow cold, and besides, we have so much to catch up on. Moira, dear, did you know Nigel’s been all the way to Egypt? No wonder his presence at Monteith has been woefully scarce these past months.”

  “Yes, Mother. We’ll be back presently.” Tugging Graham by his coat sleeve, she conveyed him out the front door and down the garden path. At the gate, she halted and released him. “All right, you. Come clean. Who stocked the cupboards?”

  CHAPTER

  14

  Moira wanted to be furious, but this man made it a devilish difficult task. Especially when the afternoon sunshine gilded the ends of his hair, rekindled the African sun in his skin, brightened his eyes to aquamarine, and—oh, how she hated to admit it—lent him the dashing magnificence of an Egyptian king.

  She blinked and banished the pharaoh from her sights, bringing Graham Foster clearly into view. He was trying to smile, yet looked uncharacteristically at a loss as he fidgeted with his cravat.

  “There’s no need to be angry, Moira.”

  “Have you not heard a blessed word I’ve said about accepting charity? When I went to London, it was to secure what I believed to be…”

  Her voice caught. Blast. What she didn’t need now were tears, but there they were, pushing against her eyes and closing her throat until all she could do was hiccup into her hand. She spun away, but Graham caught her shoulders, turned her, and
gently drew her to him.

  “I was only trying to help.”

  “Assisting me in my quest is one thing, and for that I’m eternally grateful.” A sob rushed out, unstoppable for all she whisked a fist to her mouth in the effort to contain it.

  Without a word, he anchored his arms around her and pressed his forehead to hers, waiting patiently to catch whatever utterances made their way past her weeping.

  She gathered her breath, stepped backward until his hold loosened, and wiped angrily at her eyes. “Handouts are quite another matter. I will not live my life as anyone’s poor, dependent relation. How dare you think so little of me and of my capacity to care for me and mine.”

  “It was only the other day you called me sweet, Moira.” His hands nestled warmly at the curves of her neck. “Have I once more reverted to blackguard?”

  “Oh, don’t do that. Don’t try to be adorable.” She shoved his arms away, then regretted it, immediately missing their steadying strength.

  “Adorable. Egad.” His mouth pulled. “A sweet, adorable blackguard. Please don’t tell Shaun. I’d never live it down.”

  “Oh, you’re impossible.” She pushed through the gate and strode half the length of the picket fence before halting and doing something she hadn’t done in many years. She stomped her foot. “Why won’t you understand? I’m an able-bodied person. I can obtain some sort of position. A teacher, a governess. I sew tolerably well. I could take work as a seamstress.”

  “A seamstress?” Quicker than lightning he was beside her, grasping her elbow and turning her to face him again with considerably more insistence than she might have preferred. “And do what, Moira, sit in some garret fifteen hours a day wearing out your fingers and your eyes for a pittance that will keep you merely half-alive? I’d sooner die than allow you to come to that.”

  “Allow me? Of all the impertinence.” Her chin came up. She was about to take him to task when suddenly the admonishments flew from her mind. His expression was fierce, his jaw stony. She realized what he’d said—but had he meant it?