Frovtunes’ Kiss Page 5

  He began to steer his brother toward the house when a maid bearing table linens crossed the threshold from the Gold Saloon inside. With a brisk snap she opened a tablecloth and spread it across the polished wooden table, then began setting out napkins. Hunching over her task, she seemed in a bit of a hurry. A sudden breeze caught one linen square and whisked it from her hands, sending it floating over the flagstones. She scrambled after it.

  Graham went still, arms falling to his sides. That dark coif, those delicate shoulders, the smart little flicking motion in her hips as she bustled after the errant serviette…

  Thud.

  “Ouch.”

  “I can’t manage him all by myself, you know.”

  Turning, Graham witnessed a scowling Shaun struggling to lift a half-sprawled Freddy from the path. Freddy’s legs, incapable of anchoring his weight, wobbled and gave way with each attempt.

  “Sorry.” Graham tugged his brother relatively upright. By the time he looked up at the terrace again, the dark-haired maid had vanished, replaced by a redhead carrying cups and a coffeepot.

  “Shaun,” he mumbled as a nagging sensation took hold, “I must be in love.”

  “Why’s that, m’lord?”

  He ignored Shaun’s flippant use of his title. “I’m beginning to see the lady everywhere.”

  “Big brother’s in love, is he?” Freddy’s knees buckled as giggles racked him. Graham and Shaun traded exasperated looks over his sagging head and hoisted him higher. “In that case, Graham, you lordly old boy, roll your leg over…roll your leg over…roll—”

  Graham released his hold on Freddy’s arm, and this time Shaun made no effort to catch the weight plunging to the ground. Another thud was followed by a groan.

  “Coffee, Shaun?” Straightening his coat, Graham set off for the house without sparing a second glance at the heap his brother had become.

  “Don’t mind if I do, thank you.”

  “Do join us when you can, Freddy,” Graham called over his shoulder. To his friend he murmured, “I’ll send a footman out for him. Think I’ll have Isis brought down, as well. She could use a bit of sunshine.”

  Moira peeked carefully through the curtains of the Gold Saloon as Graham Foster and his guest took their seats on the terrace. There had been a third man with them, and she assumed by his striking resemblance to both Graham and Miss Letitia that he was the younger Foster brother. She no longer saw him and hoped he hadn’t reentered the house. The fewer people about, the better.

  Scanning the gardens, she spotted something long, dark, and sprawling on the path near the birdbath. It stirred and, raising up on elbows, revealed itself to be a man. A thatch of golden brown hair caught the sun for an instant before the figure flattened against the ground and went still.

  The brother? Moira squinted, straining to see out the slightly wavy glass of the window. Why, Frederick Foster must be blind, stinking drunk. That would certainly explain the ribald crooning she’d heard a few minutes ago, lyrics that had made her blush.

  Well and good. Mrs. Foster and her ill-mannered daughter had gone out for the day, so she needn’t worry about them. Earlier, Mrs. Higgensworth had presented Moira with quite a boon. While rummaging through a cupboard below stairs, the housekeeper had quite unexpectedly discovered an extra key to the master’s study. Now Moira slipped away from the window, tiptoed from the saloon, and stole across the house.

  Minutes later, her throat closed as she stared into the velvet shadows of the room officially forbidden to her throughout her childhood, yet into which she’d been invited more often than not.

  Moira, darling, come and help Papa decipher these figures… Moira, Papa’s eyes are grown tired… Come read this passage for me, dear heart…

  “Oh, Papa. How I miss you.”

  She blinked away a veil of tears. The room had changed little these past months. Though Papa’s personal effects had been cleared away, the furnishings remained the same, placed where they had always been. Even his favorite chair, a leather wingback, sat beside the hearth at the precise angle Papa had always insisted upon. It wanted only for the master of the house to settle in, favorite book in hand.

  A tremulous breath filled her lungs with Everett Foster’s pipe tobacco, old and stale but lingering like a persistent ghost, a haunting reminder of the happy life they’d shared.

  She hitched her maid’s skirts in one hand and strode to the desk. This was no time for sentimental tears, but for decisive action. Who knew how much time she had?

  Mrs. Higgensworth would steer the other staff clear of this room, and Mrs. and Miss Foster had mentioned a museum on their way out the door. They were going to view the artifacts brought home from Egypt by the new Lord Monteith.

  Graham Foster, on the other hand, might decide to retire to his study at any time. Mrs. Higgensworth promised to keep watch and deter him if it proved the case, but even so, Moira must move quickly. Where would her stepfather have hidden something as vital as a codicil?

  She opened the topmost desk drawer to discover a leather-bound notebook, a pot of sealing wax, a penknife, and, tossed in haphazardly, a pair of riding gloves. She leaned in closer, inspecting the buff leather. These were not Papa’s gloves. They were far too large and too grayed at the fingertips, revealing signs of frequent use. Papa would have discarded them long ago in favor of a new pair.

  With her forefinger she stroked the buttery kidskin. Then she lifted the pair, holding them in the light of the window behind her. She imagined them filled with the rugged contour of Graham Foster’s hands.

  Hands that had enfolded her own in confident strength, drawn her somewhere she hadn’t wished to go, and held her there, nearly breathless. Remarkable, startling, disturbing hands. She raised his gloves to her cheek…

  And remembered what he’d done next. Her wrist…his tongue. Oh, such insolence. Nigel had never…simply wouldn’t have done… She tossed the pair into the drawer and snapped it shut.

  The codicil was her only reason for snooping—yes, like a common thief—through the man’s personal effects. To no other purpose would his private, intimate world ever intersect with hers. That she silently swore.

  And yet…what else of his might she find?

  The notion shocked her. Scandalized her. Why, to rummage through a stranger’s possessions was bad enough. But to enjoy it, anticipate it, was wrong. Disgraceful. Beneath her.

  As she opened another drawer, her fingertips quivered while her belly tightened around a curling sensation.

  CHAPTER

  5

  Congratulations, Freddy, on having made a firstrate ass of yourself.”

  As Graham spoke, the footman who had helped his brother to the terrace moments ago backed discreetly into the house. Graham lifted the silver coffeepot and filled Freddy’s cup with the steaming brew made extra strong according to his orders.

  Movement inside his coat pocket—fitted with a stiff, starched linen sleeve to prevent it collapsing—signaled Isis’s awakening from her midday slumber. Graham set the pot down and carefully slipped his hand into his pocket. Once his Egyptian-born pet made her way onto his wrist, he extended his arm to the streaming sunshine. She rose up on eight bristling legs, basking in the heat.

  “I dread to think what iniquities you might have committed last night, little brother,” he said. “You didn’t get married or anything to that effect, did you?”

  Sitting opposite, Shaun snickered at the suggestion. Freddy slouched with elbows propped on the table, head anchored in splayed fingers. Suddenly, from that miserable huddle, a yelp emerged.

  “Good God, Graham, don’t move.” Freddy’s head swung upward, mouth agape. One hand inched toward his napkin. “Hold completely still, and I’ll swat it away.”

  Graham’s free hand shot up, creating a protective barrier between his pet and Freddy’s improvised weapon. “Don’t you dare harm a hair on Isis’s, ah, legs.”

  Freddy’s jaw dropped. “Isis?”

  “Quite. She’s an Afri
can sun spider.” Graham brought the arachnid close to his face and stared into numerous bulging black eyes. “And what a lovely sun spider she is. Want to hold her?”

  Freddy lurched away, nearly losing his balance and toppling his chair. He gripped the table’s edge for purchase. “Keep that disgusting creature away from me.”

  “Disgusting? That’s no way to talk about a lady.”

  With a sickened expression—though whether from drink or Isis’s presence, Graham couldn’t say—Freddy watched the spider’s hairy-legged trek along Graham’s coat sleeve. She stopped at his elbow and raised her burnished brown back to the sun, twitching her pedipalps to taste the air. Freddy grimaced, shut his bloodshot eyes, and cradled his forehead in his palm.

  “She’s really quite harmless.” Graham leaned toward his brother, bringing Isis with him. Though in his younger days he’d consumed enough brandy to sympathize with Freddy’s present condition, he couldn’t resist teasing. “I think she likes you.”

  “Looks as though she wants a kiss,” Shaun added with a wicked grin. Yet the direction in which he leaned and the wary narrowing of his eyes declared Shaun’s relief that Isis’s regard centered on Freddy and not himself.

  Muttered oaths too garbled for comprehension streamed from his brother’s lips, though Graham distinctly heard his name mentioned more than once.

  “Would you mind leaving us?” he said to Shaun. “There’s something I need to discuss with my brother.”

  “Right you are.” Looking a bit disappointed, Shaun pushed to his feet.

  Graham slipped Isis into his coat pocket; she scuttled into a corner and settled in. He didn’t immediately speak, but stared out over the small but formal gardens he had the damnedest time thinking of as his. Fruit trees and box hedges bordered fastidious flower beds; marble benches, birdbaths, and statues graced several winding paths. Set near the rear wall, a miniature Grecian pavilion dominated the scene.

  Such perfect, symmetrical artistry seemed to exemplify the well-ordered ideal of a gentleman’s life—the elegance, the refinement, the ease. On the other hand, his brother, fast degenerating into hiccups, expressed the reality so often lurking beneath.

  Hypocrisy. It was what had sent Graham seeking adventures in far-off places years ago. It was what convinced him of the importance of self-reliance. It made him wonder now if he shouldn’t simply get up from the table, set his feet in motion, and see how far he got by the end of the day. Hadn’t he learned, in the harshest terms possible, that the concept of family—especially his family—constituted the greatest hypocrisy of all?

  “Why are you doing this, Freddy?” he asked quietly, eyes fixed on the swaying tops of the pear trees flanking the pavilion.

  “Doing—hic—what?” His brother eyed him up and down. “Where’d that thing go?”

  “My pocket. You’re safe for the moment, so do me the favor of satisfying my curiosity. Why do you seem hell-bent on destroying your life?”

  “That’s overstating it just a bit, wouldn’t you say? And do you really—hic—think you’re at all qualified to judge my actions?”

  “No, not to judge. But I’m worried about you.” The truth of that statement startled him, but there it was. For all his claims to the contrary, he cared. Very much.

  “Ha.” Another hiccup claimed Freddy’s laugh, making it an ugly, clipped bark. “You’re not permitted to worry about me. You relinquished that right years ago.”

  “I’m still your brother.”

  Freddy laughed again, a strident sound filled with scorn. “Who are you to point fingers? As I recall—hic—you didn’t leave England in a burst of triumph. Or did you? Perhaps cheating at one of the most—hic—prestigious universities in Europe would be considered quite a coup in certain circles.”

  Graham lifted a weary gaze to his brother’s face. “Do you believe that, Freddy?”

  “Why shouldn’t I?”

  “Because it isn’t true.”

  “Then why did you leave?”

  “I seem to remember a certain letter signed by both you and Letty, informing me in no uncertain terms I’d done the right thing in leaving.” The missive had caught up with him on the Iberian Peninsula, days before crossing the Strait of Gibraltar into Morocco. Until those bitter words had spread their poison through his veins, he had considered retracing his steps…

  “We were children when we wrote that.” Freddy’s fist struck the table, sending his coffee cup toppling from its saucer. He seemed oblivious to the liquid soaking his sleeve as he gripped the edges of the table and hissed, “Why didn’t you come back when Father died?”

  Freddy’s vehemence momentarily knocked Graham breathless. “I didn’t return because I was angry. Damned angry. I’d been accused of an offense I didn’t commit. My future, the future I’d been working so hard to achieve, crumbled before my eyes and no one—not Father, Mother, or anyone else—stood by me. So I left. I left England, with its sanctimonious rules and shallow standards, and washed my hands of the whole damned lot.”

  “And—hic—of me.” The venom injected into those words stung no less for the hiccup.

  A gulp of air lodged like a stone in Graham’s lungs. “No, Freddy, not you. I believed you wanted me gone, yes, but that only garnered my regret, not my anger.”

  “No?” The younger Foster raised eyes burning from drink, and from a pain Graham realized he had put there. “I bore the brunt of it. Me and Letty both. While you were off hunting for trinkets, we lost our father. You’re our elder brother. You should have become head of the household.” His voice dropped to a caustic whisper. “You should have been here.”

  “Freddy, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize…”

  “Don’t bother.” His brother turned his face away and squinted into the gardens. “You think you can waltz back into our lives after a decade and express your disappointment in the way we turned out? The devil—hic—with you.”

  Freddy shoved backward and gained his feet, overturning his chair with a crash. A footman appeared in the doorway, but Graham gestured him away. A sound of disgust grated in Freddy’s throat as he pivoted with a precarious stagger, caught his balance, and headed for the house.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To—hic—pack my things.”

  “You’re in no condition to—”

  From inside the house, a shriek blared—long, keening, outraged—taken up by frantic cries of Help! Help!

  “What the blazes?” Graham jumped up from his seat.

  “That’s Letty.” Freddy took off running. A clunk resounded when the toe of his shoe caught against the step-up into the Gold Saloon. He went down hard across the threshold, chin mercifully landing on the plush rug inside. He lay there stunned, blinking, then rose tentatively on his elbows and shook his head to clear it. Continued cries of “Help, thief!” roused him to his feet. Graham followed at a run.

  “Oh, do stop yelling. I can explain. Really. Please just shush!” Backed to the study’s bay window, Moira wanted to clap her hand over Miss Foster’s mouth to stop her from raising the alarm.

  On second thought, that mouth was presently opened so wide she doubted one hand or even two could effectively seal it.

  Poised at the center of the room, arms flapping and ringlets flailing like a raging Medusa, the girl shouted on and on until Moira’s ears throbbed. She had been caught red-handed as they say, with desk drawers yawning, cabinets gaping, and a dozen or more books akimbo, pages fluttering in the breeze of the young woman’s tirade.

  “This isn’t what you think,” Moira tried again, raising her voice to be heard. Miss Foster’s face, already an ominous scarlet, flamed hotter still, precipitating another hasty step backward on Moira’s part. She found herself flush against the windowpanes and tangled in the curtain.

  “I—I must have misunderstood Mrs. Higgensworth’s instructions…” Even to her desperate ears, that explanation rang with idiocy. She might have done better had the clatter of approaching footsteps not sent the pan
ic rising to her throat.

  Several men burst in at once, a small but vigorous onslaught of trampling feet and booming voices. Their sheer ferociousness drove Moira tighter against the panes. Their entrance also silenced Miss Foster, thank heavens for that at least. An instant later Graham Foster, his brother, houseguest, and several footmen went silent, their fierceness fading to puzzlement as they took in the scene.

  Frederick Foster was the first roused from bewilderment. “Letty, for pity’s sake.” His words were slurred and breathless. “Are you hurt?”

  “I caught her ransacking the place.” Miss Letitia jabbed a forefinger in Moira’s direction. “She’s a thief.”

  “Blazing hell.” Graham Foster tugged his neck cloth and scowled. With a backward wave, he dismissed the footmen. “Letty, we thought someone had a knife to your throat.”

  “Look what she’s done.” Miss Foster swept her arm in an arc that encompassed the disheveled room. “We must have her arrested at once.”

  “For untidiness?”

  “For thievery!”

  “Good grief, there’s nothing in this room to steal,” Graham said. “I doubt she’s loaded her apron with books and writing paper.”

  Letitia Foster hoisted her chin. “Then what on earth is she doing?”

  Oh, dear. All gazes turned to Moira, huddled and shaking in the window recess. In that instant she understood the discomfiture of the fox held pinioned to a tree by barking, salivating hounds. She swore then and there she’d never join a hunt again, not even for the exercise.

  Ah, but they were waiting for an answer.

  “Yes, well, I…you see, I was in the process of…” She glanced at each expectant face in turn: Miss Letitia, Mr. Frederick, the houseguest, and, finally, Graham Foster. Her mouth ran dry. It was the way he peered back at her. Since entering the room he’d barely spared her a glance, focusing his annoyance on his sister. Now his scrutiny caressed her up and down and deepened with the inescapable dawning of recognition.

  “Moira Hughes.” His mouth curved with the familiar impudence, raising the hairs on her nape. “Moira, Moira. What a delightful surprise.” He lengthened the syllables of her name, pronouncing each with evident pleasure as though savoring a spoonful of honey. “Or are you Mary Houser today?”