Frovtunes’ Kiss Page 7

  But it was for Moira that he calmed. She looked genuinely shaken by Letty’s charges, flushed and feverish, and while he wouldn’t mind being the cause of that glow, frightening the poor woman was for deuced certain not the tactic he’d use. No, much more pleasurable diversions sprang to mind.

  But first he needed to clear the room.

  “Mr. Doone, please accept my apologies for this misunderstanding. Mr. Paddington will be most happy to compensate you for your inconvenience.”

  Shaun rolled his eyes.

  “Well…if your lordship will vouch for the young lady, and if no crime has actually been committed…” The magistrate clasped his rheumatic hands and gave a satisfied nod.

  “None has,” Graham assured him. “And as head of the family, I assure you I take full responsibility for Miss Hughes. I’ll see to it she behaves herself and comes to no more mischief. A good paddling, perhaps—”

  “Oh!” With a delightful twitch of those shapely hips, Moira pulled up straight. Had she possessed a bayonet, she’d have run him through on the spot, he felt quite certain.

  “Shaun, please see our guest to the door and remember to thank him properly.” His emphasis on the last word produced a grudging nod from Shaun. Graham turned to his sister. “I’d like a word with you later.”

  Without another peep, Letty darted past him and out the door. He followed her and closed it, leaving him once more alone with Moira.

  She eyed him with no small amount of apprehension. “You stay away from me.”

  He couldn’t help smiling. “Don’t worry, my dear, your backside is safe with me.” For the most part anyway, although what wouldn’t he give to explore the luscious curves of that sweet little rump.

  “I do, however, expect answers, Miss Hughes, and if you don’t wish me to summon Mr. Doone back, you’d best be honest. Now then, explain to me about this codicil.”

  She hesitated, compressing her lips as she gathered her thoughts. A little frown creased her brow. “Another matter first, Mr. Foster. You mustn’t think Mrs. Higgensworth had anything to do with this. I won’t have you blaming her or—”

  “I ‘mustn’t’? You ‘won’t have me’?” Her audacity raised a chuckle. “Bold talk for a maid who nearly found herself incarcerated for theft.”

  She paled, but held her ground. “I swear she had no idea—”

  “That her former employer’s stepdaughter had joined her staff? How much of a fool do you take me for?”

  “Oh, but she didn’t want to. I begged her to let me. I even threatened—”

  Her sudden desperation produced a pang of guilt. Obviously her former housekeeper’s future outweighed even her own concerns. However amusing he found the incident, this was no joke to Moira. “Mrs. Higgensworth’s position is quite secure,” he said. “Now, about this codicil business.”

  “Of course.” She smoothed her palms across her apron. When her gaze met his again, she was all business, brisk with purpose. “Before my stepfather died, he confided to me that he’d secured my mother’s and my future, that he’d made provisions for our well-being. He was most emphatic about it. Thus far these arrangements have failed to materialize, and even Mr. Smythe claims to know nothing about them.”

  “I know of no such provisions, either.”

  Her narrowed eyes proclaimed him a liar. “Do you swear?”

  The question sparked a memory, a vile one. He’d sworn his innocence at Oxford, and no one had believed him. His pulse rapped at his temples. Good God, was her goading deliberate? Did she know how sharply her insinuations stung?

  “No, I do not swear, Miss Hughes, for I’ve learned swearing does not a believer make. I tell you I do not have your codicil. Disbelieve me if you wish.”

  “But…” He’d called her bluff, and now her bravado faltered like Freddy on the foot pavement. Those exquisite obsidian eyes held him in a helpless, beseeching sort of gaze that made him regret his stern words.

  Perhaps he’d overreacted. Yes, he probably had, letting past unpleasantness rule him in this instance, when Moira’s foremost concern was for her and her mother’s future.

  He held up a hand and said more gently, “If it will make you feel better, I swear.”

  “Of course, if you did have the codicil,” she tapped a finger to her chin as if figuring an arithmetic problem, “it would be in your best interest to deny it, wouldn’t it, Mr. Foster?”

  That went beyond the pale. The hair on his nape bristled. “Perhaps no codicil exists at all, Miss Hughes. Perhaps you resent my inheritance and have invented a ploy by which you hope to profit.”

  “How dare you?” Fury frothed in her eyes. The charges that followed, “cur,” “villain,” “blackguard’—he rather liked that last one—were fair enough, he supposed. Yet when she nipped her bottom lip to stop its quivering, he felt a scrap of remorse once again for not keeping tighter rein on his temper.

  “You see, Miss Hughes,” he said quietly, “accusations hurt, don’t they?”

  “Oh.” Her expression relaxed as understanding dawned. “You were making a point. You didn’t mean it, then?” She paused, searching for confirmation. He nodded, and the last of her frown smoothed away. “Because I would never stoop to anything so deceitful—”

  She stopped again, glanced down at her clothing, and continued with a rueful grin that did much to lighten his own mood. “Well, perhaps a small deceit for a good cause. But I shouldn’t have accused you as I did. I’m sorry.”

  “Apology accepted. And for what it’s worth, I do believe that you believe a codicil exists. Perhaps together we might discover the truth of it.”

  “You’re willing to help me?”

  “I am.”

  “May I continue searching the house?” Her lips parted as if ready to smile, but not quite.

  Ready for another kiss in his opinion, though that was best kept to himself. He smiled and gazed at the shambles she’d made of his study. “If you promise not to tear it apart bit by bit.”

  “I won’t. I promise. Oh, thank you…” She swept forward, reaching out with both hands. Petite, delicate, they fit smoothly into his palms, her grasp almost childlike but with a warmth that proclaimed her very much a woman. Just as his body’s response to her touch, to her nearness, was male in every way.

  He wanted to pull her to him and savor another sweet, virginal, yet ever-so-promising kiss while pressing her tight to his arousal. Yes, he could have spent the remaining afternoon hours doing just that.

  Did his inclinations show on his face, or had she simply realized what she’d done, hurrying to him and grasping hold as she had? With a jolt, she reclaimed her hands and retreated, leaving him with the unsettling impression they were engaged in a bizarre kind of waltz, back and forth, side to side.

  And perhaps they were. Despite his reassurances, he wasn’t entirely convinced of her codicil story. If Everett Foster had made such provisions, why didn’t anyone know of them? Why the devil would a man hide such an important change to his will?

  Unless he hadn’t hidden it, and someone else had already discovered it. His family had already taken up residence here before his arrival in England…

  Would they stoop so low? They were a covetous bunch, to be sure. His father’s legacy of debts had made them so, but Graham had alleviated that problem years ago with profits from his Egyptian finds.

  Even so, they had claimed Monteith Hall without his authority, and without a thought for the women they displaced. And now, perhaps, a codicil went missing…his blood ran cold at the thought. He’d soon have a talk with his family.

  “Tell me about this ramshackle cottage I’ve supposedly forced you and your mother into.”

  “Ah, yes, that.” To his surprise, her cheeks burned bright. She drifted to the bookcase and became inordinately interested in straightening a row of volumes. “I exaggerated. The cottage is lovely, really, quite comfortable. It was a difficult move for my mother, I’ll admit, but—”

  “Are the two of you in financia
l straits?”

  “Why, no, not at all.” She seemed taken aback by the notion, a little insulted. She stopped fussing with the books. “Mother and I will do well enough, I daresay, Mr. Foster.”

  “Graham.”

  She let out a sigh. “Mother and I deserve our fair share of my stepfather’s legacy. I fully believe he set aside funds for us, a sum not entailed with the estate. This being the case, why shouldn’t I see his intentions come to fruition?”

  “Surely Mr. Smythe—”

  She flicked her wrist. “Mr. Smythe was of no help when I visited him.” Her lashes fell, shadowing another rise of color. Obviously she remembered, as he certainly did, their first encounter at Smythe’s office. “He couldn’t be rid of me soon enough. It was most suspicious. I’m convinced he knows more than he’s willing to say.”

  “Perhaps you and I should visit him together. He’s my solicitor now, and if he wishes to remain in my employ, he won’t dare put me off.”

  Her lack of reaction surprised him. He had expected some small show of gratitude. A sincere thank you, a warm handshake. A kiss would have been nice, but he knew better than to hope for that. Instead, those endless sable eyes narrowed once again, glittering inside lashes nearly as dark. “Why are you so willing to become involved?”

  Graham circled the desk. Opening the top drawer, he offered his arm to Isis. Moira shuddered but craned her neck to watch the spider saunter to his shoulder.

  “My dear, this is what I do,” he said, enjoying the way she cringed when Isis burrowed against his neck. “I decipher clues and hunt treasure. In a city as boring as London, how can I possibly resist coming to your aid?”

  That much was true. He needn’t add that unlocking the mysteries of Moira Hughes presented an even greater challenge, one he couldn’t ignore.

  Her eyebrows shot up, though whether because his reply surprised her or because Isis had just scurried beneath his chin, he couldn’t say.

  “I don’t like London, either,” she said. “Much too dreary.”

  He grinned. “I’ve a hunch the city’s about to take on a whole palette of new colors.”

  CHAPTER

  7

  Later that evening, Moira swept along the upper gallery of her former London home and wondered if perhaps she hadn’t taken leave of her senses. She should have returned to her lodging house hours ago to plan her next strategy, but somehow Graham Foster had ceased being her enemy and become an essential element of that strategy.

  Now she was his guest for the evening, and on her way to supper wearing a gown borrowed from his sister. The notion rather made her feet drag. She and Letitia had hardly started off on cordial terms. Would the young lady accuse Moira of plundering her wardrobe?

  Halfway along the gallery, she came to a halt. Something felt not quite right, an odd sensation she’d experienced earlier but hadn’t paused to consider. Now she examined her surroundings. The carpet, the wall sconces, and the three crystal chandeliers were as she remembered.

  An irksome feeling of being spied upon made her skin prickle. She peered to her right, and understanding struck her in one indignant wave.

  Good heavens. Great-step-grandfather Elijah Foster’s portrait was no longer hanging in the space it had occupied for the past seventy years. In its place hovered the image of a man with sea-blue eyes and golden brown hair. A dimple in his right cheek lent a merry aspect to an otherwise serious expression, and as Moira stared up at him, she could have sworn he winked at her.

  How very like Graham Foster. Yet not quite, for the artist’s rendering placed the man securely within his fourth or fifth decade of life. Graham Foster’s father, perhaps?

  Undoubtedly.

  She strode another several paces. Aunt Patricia and Great-uncle Darnsworth were missing, as well. From their erstwhile perches stared faces she had never seen before.

  She continued to the staircase and turned to view the hall. Well, at least the portrait of her stepfather sitting beside his favorite hunting hound still occupied its usual spot, but who were those rather dour-faced ladies to the left of him?

  Members of the new baron’s lineage, to be sure.

  With a harrumph, she pivoted to descend the stairs but pulled up short, her breath catching in a gasp she immediately regretted.

  Graham Foster stood a few steps below her, leaning against the banister with a careless slouch and a quizzical smile. Black evening attire, cut to display every broad, masculine line of him, lent an all-too-engaging contrast to his sun-warmed hair and skin, and to the brilliance of eyes that, like his father’s, couldn’t quite decide whether to be blue or green.

  Oh, do stop staring, Moira. It’ll swell his head.

  “Good evening,” she said, attempting to mix cordiality with a good dose of indifference. “You look rather nice tonight.”

  “Good evening. And may I return the compliment, but with a good deal more enthusiasm. You are a vision.” He had the audacity to wink with the same impudence she had detected in his father’s portrait. He climbed the remaining steps and stood beside her. “Ready for supper?”

  She held out the rose silk skirts of her borrowed gown, hastily nipped here and let out there by a vastly relieved Mrs. Higgensworth, who was smiling again now that Moira’s charade had reached its conclusion. “Do you think your sister will mind very much?”

  “I fear Letty will burn with fury when she sees what that dress does on you.” He tipped a bow and extended the crook of his elbow. “Shall we?”

  She hesitated. “I’d like to set some things straight first, Mr. Foster.”

  “Graham.” He lowered his arm to his side.

  “Yes, in fact, that’s the first matter—”

  “It’s Graham or nothing. I won’t answer to anything else.”

  “We haven’t known each other nearly long enough.”

  “Nonsense. We’re cousins.”

  “Hardly. We are stepcousins several times removed.”

  “True, and I’m glad about it.” He leaned closer, all but trapping her between his broad chest and the stair rail. “Glad we aren’t too closely related, Moira.”

  A tingling sensation raised the hairs on her arms. “Do step away, Mr.—”

  “Uh-uh…” He waggled a finger in front of her face.

  “Oh, all right. Graham. There. Are you quite happy now?”

  “Very happy, Moira. Did I mention how lovely you look?”

  Oh, impossible rapscallion of a man.

  He caught her hand and bowed over it, heating her skin with a touch of his lips. “At long last, I meet the true Moira Hughes. I must say, I approve of her wholeheartedly.”

  “You know nothing about me,” she said, uncertain whether to laugh or scold at his impertinence.

  A murmur of laughter rumbled in his chest. “Then learning you shall be all the more intriguing.”

  Her knees went a little watery. Learn her? As if he might hold all of her in his hand, turn her this way and that, explore all her parts, and…oh, dear. Her stomach dropped, contracted, then simply melted at the thought. Feeling rather dizzy, she let him tuck her hand into the bend of his elbow. They started down the stairs.

  “So then…” His fingers caressed her knuckles. “What is it you wish to set straight?”

  “Set straight? Ah…oh, yes.” A cool drink was what she presently wished, to clear her head and moisten a mouth gone dry. “It’s, em, about what you said to the magistrate earlier. I don’t need looking after. I am quite capable of taking care of myself, thank you.”

  “Are you, indeed?”

  “I most certainly am, Mr.—”

  “Graham.”

  Oh, how did he manage to beguile and infuriate her all at the same time? “Graham. Yes. Your assistance is greatly appreciated, of course. But intrusion into my private affairs—”

  “Won’t be tolerated?” At the bottom of the stairs he stopped, turned her to face him, and gazed directly—brazenly—into her eyes. His own gleamed with challenge. “So, as I a
ssist you, I am to keep my distance and mind my business, sweet cousin Moira?”

  She didn’t voice the retort that leapt to mind, didn’t dare. No matter what she said, Graham Foster somehow twisted her words, giving them double meaning and using them to his own devious advantage.

  His dimples flashed. “Shall we join the others?”

  If the amber tones of the Gold Saloon were familiar and reassuring, its occupants were not. These Fosters were practically strangers, mere acquaintances made under the worst of circumstances. Embarrassment over her earlier fiasco rose to sting her cheeks and scorch the tips of her ears. She found herself, much to her chagrin, clinging to the relative comfort of Graham’s solid arm.

  His brother, Frederick Foster, stood by a window overlooking the garden; he spared them nary a glance as they entered the room. Letitia Foster, her back also to them, hovered before the pianoforte, absently picking out odd notes with her forefinger. The Fosters’ houseguest stood at her elbow, offering compliments on the lady’s musical acumen. She acknowledged each with a shrug.

  “Good evening, everyone,” Graham said. “I trust you’ve all recovered from this afternoon’s excitement.”

  Letitia turned at the sound of his voice, and as her gaze lighted on Moira, her face flushed several shades of crimson. “Why, that’s my gown—”

  Oddly, her complaint went unfinished. Or perhaps not so oddly. Glancing at Graham’s profile, Moira saw the clear and quite stern warning he sent his sister.

  “Is Miss Hughes borrowing a gown of yours, Miss Foster?” Mr. Paddington’s voice rose in an obvious effort to diffuse the tension. “Allow me to compliment you on your excellent taste.”

  The young lady spared him a sidelong glance. “Kind of you to say, Mr. Paddington.”

  Her halfhearted acknowledgment raised a flush to the man’s face, cooled an instant later when Letitia swept from his side and plunked into an overstuffed chair. Chin propped in her hand, she continued eyeing Moira with a sullen expression until footsteps clattering down the corridor announced the arrival of the one family member Moira had yet to properly meet.