Frovtunes’ Kiss Page 2

In the fading twilight, she scanned the surrounding countryside, the gentle hills and meadows of Shelbourne. Deeply she inhaled the piney-sharp scent of the village’s evening fires. From a quarter mile away, the church bell struck a single peal, ringing in the half hour.

  The very thought of leaving produced an ache so sharp it nearly cut off her breath. Although the family had many acquaintances in London, in truth she could count none as close friends. Certainly no one in whom she felt an inclination to confide. She could not have borne the pitying looks, nor the whispered gossip about how low poor Estella Foster and her daughter had sunk.

  So then, where would she stay? Not in the family’s Mayfair town house. That belonged to Graham Foster now. There was Uncle Benedict, but the letter she had sent him nearly a month ago had brought no reply; he must be traveling at present. No, she would be on her own, and on such limited funds she despaired of eating more than one meal a day. But what other choice?

  With no man to champion her cause, she must act as head of the family, no matter how inappropriate, how frowned upon. For there was nothing genteel about poverty. Nothing to be gained from an empty stomach. No, indeed. She must plant the garden and see her mother settled into a pleasant routine with Mrs. Stanhope. Then she would pack her bags and set out for London.

  CHAPTER

  2

  I‘m afraid you can’t go in there, Miss…ah…”

  “It’s Miss Hughes, and well you know it by now, sir.” Moira made it as far as the inner door that led into the private offices of Smythe and Davis, Legal Consultants before the secretary barred her way. He was a new employee, someone Moira had never met before this week. Wedging himself between her outstretched hand and the doorknob, he regarded her defiantly.

  “Mr. Smythe is presently engaged with a client and must not be disturbed.”

  “Mr. Pierson, I’ve called three times this week, and each time I’ve been turned away with promises that Mr. Smythe would schedule an appointment at his next possible convenience. He has failed to do so, and my patience has quite run out.”

  She drew a breath she hoped showed no trace of the turmoil pitching inside her. She loathed forcing her way into a man’s world and issuing demands with feigned bravado. If only Nigel were here. Ah, but if Nigel were here, she wouldn’t be in this predicament.

  She became uncomfortably aware of the person sitting in the waiting area, a well-dressed man with a thatch of black hair whose face must no doubt be turned in her direction.

  The secretary sniffed. “Mr. Smythe’s appointment calendar is quite full, Miss Hughes. He has had urgent business—”

  “No more urgent than mine, I assure you, Mr. Pierson.” She stopped a tad short of becoming shrill. Both the secretary and the blasted door stood like stone walls between her and the sole reason she’d traveled to London. Her stomach clenched around a clawing sensation that never left her, a hollow ache only partly due to hunger, more to sinking desperation. She couldn’t give up now, simply wouldn’t turn away in defeat—

  The door abruptly opened.

  “Is there a problem out here, Pierson?”

  Moira surged forward, nearly knocking the secretary out of her way. “Mr. Smythe, finally. “

  The solicitor stared at her a long moment, his obvious irritation tinged with an impatient curiosity. “Miss Hughes?”

  He said it as though he hadn’t spared her a thought in months; as if he hadn’t received multiple messages from her these past several days.

  “Yes, Mr. Smythe, and if you have but a few moments—”

  “I’m afraid I haven’t, not at present. I’ve a very important client in my office.” He began retreating through the door.

  A surge of panic sent Moira’s hand clutching at his coat sleeve. He regarded her with no small amount of consternation, but didn’t pull away.

  “Mr. Smythe, my stepfather was a very important client of this firm for many years. Please speak with me.” She held her breath.

  He gave a nod and reclaimed his arm. “Very well. Perhaps I can spare you a moment. Step this way.”

  He led her past the first office and into another that lay empty. Mr. Smythe walked several paces into the spacious, well-appointed room but didn’t sit, nor did he invite Moira to make herself comfortable in one of the armchairs set before the desk. Just as well. She presented a much more formidable impression, she thought, standing rather than sitting.

  “What may I do for you, Miss Hughes?”

  “It’s about my stepfather’s will.”

  A decidedly uncomfortable cast settled over the man’s aging features. “The will has been read and executed accordingly, Miss Hughes. And I must point out you were not directly mentioned in it.”

  “May I see a copy?”

  “That would be most irregular.”

  By the depth of his frown, she knew he meant impossible.

  “Then can you tell me please, sir, did my stepfather make any recent changes to the will, perhaps a few weeks or months prior to his passing?”

  “Again, Miss Hughes, your inquiry is most irregular. You were not, after all, Everett Foster’s natural daughter.”

  A near sob of frustration escaped her.

  His expression softened. “In answer, no. Lord Monteith made no changes to his will. You must realize the document was merely a formality. The original patent quite clearly established the line of inheritance.”

  “Are you entirely certain?” She wanted to grasp his lapels and shake him, make him remember what must—simply must—be so. “Could there be a codicil? You see, Mr. Smythe, as Papa lay ill, he told me he’d made a change, one that would…”

  She trailed off, unwilling to disclose to this apparently indifferent man how very badly she and her mother needed whatever provisions Everett Foster had made for them.

  “If there is a codicil,” Mr. Smythe said at length, “I’m afraid I am not aware of it, which prompts me to state with certainty that none exists. Lord Monteith always discussed his legal affairs with me. He wouldn’t likely have taken such action without consulting me.” He smiled gently, his first real show of sympathy thus far. “I know he was very ill in the end, my dear. Could he perhaps have been delirious when he made this declaration to you?”

  Moira sank into the nearest chair. “Perhaps. I don’t know.” She cradled her forehead in her gloved hand. “Couldn’t you please make an exception and allow me to view the will?”

  “If it were up to me, I would. But you see, since the will has been executed, the document has been registered and filed with the Prerogative Court of Canterbury.”

  “Very well, then, I’ll go there.”

  “Miss Hughes, one can’t simply go there. One must first file a request to view the documents in question and wait for the next available appointment. This being London’s busiest season, it could take weeks or even months.”

  “Months?” Her throat closed around a lump of despondency.

  “I’m sorry, Miss Hughes, but I must be getting back…”

  “Yes, to your important client.” She placed her hand in his offered one and rose to her feet, feeling the slightest of thrusts as he turned her toward the door. So much for sympathy.

  He escorted her into the corridor. “How is your mother?”

  “Quite well, thank you. Enjoying our new home.”

  “Give her my regards.”

  “I will. Good day.”

  “Good day, Miss Hughes.”

  She barely had time to turn away before the tears began stinging her eyes. Clenching her teeth and wanting only to be gone, she quickened her steps.

  The door to the first office lay partially open. At her approach, a man sitting inside turned his head toward her, revealing a strong chin; a fine straight nose; a brow hidden beneath a careless shank of tawny brown hair. He saw her, stood partway up, and made a little bow, his head cocked in polite acknowledgment. His eyes—cool, clear, starkly blue against an unusually tanned complexion—met hers, and he flashed a grin that took her
aback with its impertinence, its brazen assessment.

  To Moira’s complete chagrin, his disarming smile brought her to a dead halt. Like a simpleton, she stared at the teasing curve of those lush lips, the whiteness of his even teeth, and the deepest, most captivating set of dimples she had ever seen.

  And then, dear God, a tear spilled over, trickling hot moisture down her cheek. At the same time—oh, the shame of it—she emitted a small but undeniable sniffle.

  Mortified, she hurried to the door of the outer office, praying the man hadn’t noticed her sorry state or, if he had, that she’d never cross paths with him again.

  “Mr. Smythe, who was that lovely but woefully tragic young lady walking by just now?”

  The solicitor rounded his desk, adjusted his trouser legs, and settled into his creaking leather chair. “Yes, that was Miss Moira Hughes, the late Lord Monteith’s stepdaughter.”

  “Really? Then why the blazes didn’t you introduce us? She and I are practically related.” He bit back a grin. This might prove one instance when a family connection came in handy. “She seemed rather upset. Is there a problem I should know about? As head of the family, I mean.”

  “No, my lord, not at all.” At Graham’s skeptical look, Smythe released a lengthy sigh. “I’m afraid her stepfather’s death has left the lady most distraught.”

  “Have she and the widow been provided for? Is there anything I might do for them?” Yes, he’d be more than gratified to offer his services to the darkly stunning Moira Hughes; would graciously lend a sympathetic ear to her sorrows and extend a benevolent hand to wipe away her tears, albeit they magnified those midnight eyes until they gleamed like newly cooled obsidian.

  “You needn’t concern yourself.” The solicitor held up the flats of his hands in a gesture of reassurance. “They’ve a house in Shelbourne and an annuity. I assure you they are quite well taken care of.”

  “Do you know where she’s residing in London?”

  Smythe glanced at him from over a sheaf of papers. “She used to reside where you’re presently residing, my lord. Beyond that I couldn’t say. She didn’t leave her card.”

  “A pity. I shall have to make inquiries.” He grinned at the other man. “Tell me again, Smythe. Exactly how much money have I inherited?”

  “What do you mean, they’ve vacated?” Graham ran a hand through his hair, then remembered the pomade his new valet had saturated his head with earlier. He resisted the urge to wipe his fingers on the front of his formal tailcoat and vowed to duck the next time Baxter came at him with a comb and an open jar.

  Then again, Baxter’s fashion sense appeared to be dead-on, judging by the number of heads glistening beneath the lanterns strung throughout Mr. and Mrs. Ralph Jarvis’s formal gardens. That is, where heads were visible. The affair was a masquerade ball with an Italian Renaissance theme, and a good number of the crush sported wigs and masks.

  Graham had flat out refused to attend in costume. Despite his mother’s and sister Letty’s protestations, he’d worn black evening attire whose sole concession to history was a cravat pin of lapis lazuli carved in the shape of a scarab. It was Egyptian in origin, but who here would know the difference? He’d threatened to come in a fig leaf and nothing more, effectively silencing Mother’s and Letty’s nagging.

  Beside him, his mother tsked at his question. “Perhaps vacated is the wrong word, dear. Lady Monteith and her daughter have simply moved into a home that is more suitable to their needs.”

  “At whose insistence?”

  “Their own, to be sure,” his sister said. “They certainly must understand that you, as the new baron, have need of the house or will shortly, once you’ve married and set about producing an heir.”

  The beginnings of a headache grazed his temple. “I see you two have my future well planned.”

  “Yes, and after all,” his mother went on, shaking her head and setting the peacock feathers on her mask fluttering, “what need would a widow and her spinster daughter have of such a vast estate?”

  Spinster? Hardly the word Graham would use to describe the dazzling beauty he had glimpsed in Smythe’s office yesterday. Somewhat flippantly he had termed her tragic, but the notion kept returning to haunt him. He couldn’t erase from his memory the single tear that had traced a glistening course down her lovely cheek.

  The woman had lost her stepfather and her fiancé all in the same year. She’d left her home of many years, as well. Everyone jumped to reassure him of her well-being, but he wondered. Had the move been a voluntary escape from too many rooms and too many memories, or impelled by far less sentimental forces, such as the two ladies currently affecting innocent expressions, or trying to.

  “Really, Monteith, you needn’t sound as if we tossed them out into the rain. We hear the parish has offered them a perfectly charming cottage.” Letty waved a beaded fan before her face while peering over its rim to see who might be watching her. In her jeweled headdress and draping, shoulder-baring gown of red and gold, his sister appeared an odd mixture of Roman goddess and Italian courtesan.

  Graham suppressed the urge to point this out to her and said, “For the umpteenth time, Letty, it’s Graham. Not Monteith.”

  No, his title sat heavy with him, more a burden than a boon after so many years in the desert. There, such respect was typically reserved for men who’d truly earned it, rather than those who claimed it on the successes of their forebears.

  “How provincial.” Letty tossed her golden brown curls. “Monteith is your name now, like it or no. Furthermore, while you were away digging for skeletons, I grew up. I prefer Letitia. I despise Letty.”

  Yes, so did their mother. Graham still remembered the exact moment Augusta Foster had realized her colossal error in naming her infant twins Frederick, for their paternal grandfather, and Letitia, for a greataunt. She’d entered the nursery one sunny morning to hear their nurse cooing ever so gaily above them, “Good morning, Freddy; good morning, Letty. Time to get Freddy and Letty all ready.”

  Their mother had gone utterly still, open mouthed and aghast, only to burst into a tirade an instant later. She’d berated the nurse never to use those pet names again if she valued her position. Too late. Nine-year-old Graham, perched on the window seat, had taken an immediate fancy to the rhyme. He’d devised dozens more over the years.

  “I’ll certainly try to remember that, Letty,” he said now with a wink that made his sister’s eyes narrow and her lower lip droop.

  A crescendo from the orchestra drowned out her huff. Graham’s gaze drifted to the couples waltzing on the terrace. This gathering was about as exciting as life in London ever became, and he feared he’d drown in the boredom of it.

  Like Letty, the city had grown up while he was away, burgeoning with new streets and squares, becoming ever more intricate, sophisticated, fussy. And as with Letty, he rather disapproved of the changes that made London a stranger to him.

  An increasingly familiar yearning took hold, an acute craving for baked desert winds, the piercing brightness of sun and sky, the unpredictable adventures of hidden temples, cursed tombs, and Bedouin-guarded treasure.

  How long before he settled his inheritance and returned to Egypt?

  “Where has your brother run off to?” His mother’s question broke his reverie. She craned her neck to scan the gardens. “I do hope he hasn’t…” She trailed off as frown lines arced above her feathered mask.

  She needn’t finish the thought, for Graham to understand her apprehensions concerning her younger son. Freddy, too, had undergone changes since Graham had seen him last, not the least of which was a troubling fondness for brandy. “Would you like me to find him, Mother?”

  “Would you, Monteith? Yes, do be a dear.”

  A dear? Not exactly how he felt, especially when he would mostly likely want to box Freddy’s ears when he found him. As he started away, his mother’s eager voice carried above the surrounding din. “See there, Letitia. I do believe that young man is a viscount. Come, let�
�s wangle an introduction.”

  “Yes, but is he a rich viscount, Mama?”

  Ah, Letty. When Graham left England ten years ago, his little sister had been scrambling to follow her twin brother up into trees and anywhere else their tutors’ lessons might be avoided. She’d thumbed her nose at party dresses and any pastime considered conventionally feminine, much preferring to ride, swim, or shoot a bow and arrow. And her hair had been pleasantly wavy, not this ridiculous mass of corkscrews that jiggled whenever she moved. What in blazing hell had happened?

  His reunion with both siblings had been strained at best. He’d been away so many years…and there had been that letter they sent him not long after his departure from England.

  How could you disgrace us? We’re so terribly ashamed. Don’t ever return…

  He shook the memory away, blinked…and saw her. He had no idea who she was, but he couldn’t take his eyes off her. Downright stared as she proceeded in his direction. There were at least two-score ladies strolling the gardens tonight, but this one stood out, seized his notice, spiked his curiosity. It was, perhaps, in the way she moved effortlessly through the crush, as if she had nowhere in particular to be—unhurried, serene, her hips swaying with the languid grace of a temple cat.

  Like him, this woman wore simple evening attire: a sleek gown of midnight blue, a velvet mask trimmed to match. A gossamer veil of the same hue draped from a coil of ebony hair at the crown of her head. Unadorned, unaffected…and entirely intriguing.

  Their gazes met, hers a dark mystery behind the mask that covered half her face. A smile eased across her lips. Then, quite abruptly, she changed direction, but with a parting glance that set his feet in motion.

  Suddenly London seemed a good deal less boring.

  CHAPTER

  3

  Moira pivoted and set off at a brisk pace, away from Graham Foster. She had been watching him for the better part of a half hour, after learning his identity from an acquaintance. She had known the Fosters were attending tonight, and so she had managed an invitation through the wife of an old friend of her stepfather’s. But until some thirty minutes ago, she’d had no idea this man was the very same who had witnessed her utter humiliation at Mr. Smythe’s office yesterday.