Frovtunes’ Kiss Page 9

  The little sneak. Instead of ordering the carriage and waiting for it to come round to the front steps like someone with nothing to hide, she’d mumbled excuses after breakfast, slipped out through the terrace, and hurried off across the gardens like a wraith in the morning mist.

  He swung the door wide and hoisted himself in. “So then, where are we going? Smythe’s office?”

  The corner of her mouth pinched inward. “We needn’t go anywhere. I’m quite capable of—”

  “Yes, Moira, I believe we established last night that you’re a perfectly capable individual.” He closed the door and slid closer to her. “We also agreed, however, that when you returned to Mr. Smythe’s office, I would accompany you.”

  “I’m not going to Mr. Smythe’s office. Not now, at any rate.” Her tone implied an unwillingness to offer further explanation.

  Ha. He rapped on the ceiling, and moments later the coach rolled through the open gates. Lounging beside her, he stretched out his legs, propping one across the other. Through half-closed lids he studied her. She was all rigid annoyance, simmering exasperation. Completely adorable.

  “Trying to slink off without me, weren’t you, Moira?”

  “I was doing no such thing. I’m not on my way to Mr. Smythe’s office. I’ve…other matters to attend to this morning, and there’s simply no reason for you to tag along.”

  “Other matters? Such as?”

  Her breath hissed. “I’m returning to my lodging house.”

  “Good. We’ll gather your things and inform the landlord you’ll no longer need the place. You’ll stay with us.”

  “Will I?” She bristled. “I don’t remember being asked, or making such a decision.”

  “Then consider this a formal invitation.”

  Her gaze narrowed on him, then sharpened as she reached a decision with a shake of her head. “I think I’d prefer—”

  “To what, Moira, pay for a place you don’t need when there’s a perfectly good room at your disposal on Brook Street? Or would you rather toss money away than accept my hospitality?” He leaned closer and spoke in a tone that always elicited a reaction that fascinated him—a shivering flutter she unsuccessfully tried to hide every time. “After all,” he murmured, “it was your home long before it became mine. I couldn’t sleep nights knowing we’d inconvenienced you.”

  Yes, there it was, that little shudder across her shoulders. “I…I suppose you’re right.” She compressed her lips as her stubborn resolve faltered. “Thank you, then.”

  “You needn’t sound so irritated.”

  “I’m not. I appreciate your generosity.” She shifted, broadening the space between them by an inch or two. “Still and all, there’s no need for you to be here now. You needn’t upset the routine of your morning.”

  “No bother at all.”

  The pull of her eyebrows declared she minded, very much. Was his presence so irksome, or was Moira Hughes once again concealing something? He knew better than to ask, but as the coach headed down New Bond Street and across Piccadilly, he wondered. Perhaps Moira didn’t want him to see her lodging house. Could the place be as bad as all that?

  He glanced out the window. They were skirting St. James Park and would soon come up on Whitehall and then the Westminster Bridge. Lambeth lay directly across the river.

  Lambeth wasn’t so bad. It even boasted a palace of the same name. When he left England years ago, plans were just beginning for the development of South London. If they headed west, they’d pass Vauxhall Gardens and the new residential neighborhoods of Church Street and Prospect Place. Not prosperous in the same sense as Mayfair, but certainly respectable.

  When they reached the Surrey side of the river, however, the coach veered sharply east, away from Lambeth and toward Southwark. The sharp scent of fresh-cut lumber permeated the air, and within minutes a thin coat of sawdust clouded the windows. They passed one timber yard after another as they hugged the river. The street began to narrow.

  The growing tension in Moira’s bearing suggested he might as well expect the worst. The notion of her dwelling in some sagging old edifice framed in worm-eaten timber both twisted his gut and inflamed his temper. He stole a glance at her, thinking of how she had played maidservant to press her rights. So brave, and so damnably proud for not wanting him to know the truth.

  Ah, she was something, this distant stepcousin twice or thrice removed.

  Her left hand rested against the seat, fingers half-curled within one of Letty’s kid gloves. Wrinkled and a little bunched between her thumb and forefinger, the glove made an ill fit, and Moira’s hand seemed all the more delicate. Vulnerable. His own inched toward it, sliding cautiously like Isis approaching her prey, careful not to startle the coveted prize away.

  She didn’t notice, too entranced by the shops and buildings outside her window. His fingers made contact, just the tips to the side of her palm.

  She started. “What are you doing?”

  “What?” He looked down at their hands and pretended surprise. “Oh. Sorry. Close confines. Didn’t realize.”

  “Stay on your side, please.” She slid her hand into her lap. Her chin rose to a righteous angle.

  “Didn’t realize there was a boundary.”

  She slanted an eyebrow, pursed her mouth.

  He slid closer to the door on his side.

  But as the road became more rutted, he let the carriage jostle him back toward her bit by bit. The corners they turned worked to his advantage. Their elbows met. She shot him a look, and he moved his away, but before long his right knee swung to the side, bringing his thigh flush against hers.

  “Will you stop that?” Her forefinger nudged his ribs. “This coach is plenty large for the two of us. Do keep your distance or sit there.” She pointed to the seat opposite.

  He hid a grin and shoved away, waiting for his next opportunity to steal closer. He simply enjoyed touching her—found it nearly impossible not to. Even in opposite corners, the dim confines of the coach created a closeness he couldn’t ignore. Didn’t wish to ignore. Everything about her sparked his awareness. The floral scent of her bath soap, the grace of her unconscious movements, the gentle rise and fall of her breathing.

  She peered at him, her eyes flashing with alarm.

  “Is something wrong?” he asked.

  “You don’t have that creature with you, do you?”

  “Isis?”

  Moira nodded and managed to squeeze a few more inches away.

  “She’s at home, safe in her crate.”

  “Thank heavens for that.” She visibly relaxed.

  “You needn’t fear her. She’s perfectly harmless. Besides Shaun, I consider Isis my best friend.”

  Her nose crinkled. “You have some rather interesting friends. Wherever did you find them?”

  “Egypt, of course. Crawling round outside my tent, for one.”

  “And Mr. Paddington?”

  “I was speaking of Shaun. Found him foxed, bruised, and half-starved outside my tent one morning about four years ago. Been my best friend ever since. I discovered Isis sleeping inside one of my boots one evening nearly a year ago. Damned near jumped out of my skin. But then a local boy explained that she’d never hurt anything larger than a fly.”

  Moira made a sound between a chuckle and a snort. The coach gave a sudden pitch as it rounded a corner. She toppled sideways, her shoulder striking his. Another jolt landed her against his chest. Even as his arms closed around her, she shrank out of them, scooting into the far corner again.

  “Sorry,” she murmured and righted her hat.

  He certainly wasn’t sorry. He wished a rut would toss her right into his lap. What a flurry of skirts and indignation that would be.

  Little chance of it now. The coach slowed along a street Graham ordinarily would have sped through. He looked out at a butcher shop that stank of last week’s slaughter, a coaching inn that promised fleas, and, farther down, a stark, three-story abode with Miss Ashworth’s Foundling Hospita
l styled in chipped green paint above the door. It was opposite this that the coach creaked to a stop.

  Dear God, not here. Not Moira.

  She wouldn’t meet his gaze, but stared at her hands until the driver opened her door and let down the step. Without a word, she descended to the street and started toward the two-story dwelling that should have been torn down a century ago. When a round of obscenities drifted from the attached tavern, she made no sign that she’d heard.

  Graham fell into step beside her. “So, this is it?”

  She nodded, looking miserable.

  It was worse than he had imagined, and worse still for the two of them now seeing it from each other’s eyes. Had anyone else—even he—been forced to dwell in such a place, he might have found it, well, tolerable. But knowing lovely Moira had suffered this hellhole made it all the more deplorable. For her, he guessed, worse than living here was having him know she lived here.

  If only he hadn’t come along, he might have spared her this humiliation. He couldn’t change that, but he could take pains not to increase her discomfiture.

  “If you can manage packing on your own, Moira, there is a small matter I might attend to. Would you mind very much?”

  She brightened a tiny bit. “Not at all. I don’t wish to keep you from more pressing business.”

  “Would an hour be sufficient?”

  “I believe that would do.” Her look of genuine relief tugged at his heart and made him glad he’d posed the suggestion.

  “Don’t carry your bags down by yourself. I’ll send my driver up when we return.”

  A quarter hour later, Graham alighted from the coach, burning to smash something. Standing outside the offices of Smythe and Davis, Legal Consultants, he struggled to remain calm while at the same time attempting to estimate the force of a slam necessary to reduce the door’s etched window to a glittering shower of glass. It wouldn’t solve a single one of Moira’s problems, but it would bring him a certain satisfaction.

  Hands fisted, he drew breath in and out, steadying his nerves and reining in his anger. Shaun had discovered the whereabouts of Moira’s lodging house from Mr. Pierson, Smythe’s secretary. That meant Smythe also must have known. Devil take the solicitor for his incompetence. The man should have interceded, should have made arrangements more suitable for a lady.

  Graham regarded the doorknob, a polished brass ball of reflected sunlight. One more deep breath enabled him to grasp and turn it, even if setting his shoulder to the door and ramming it down better suited his mood.

  The jangle of a bell above his head nearly undid his tenuous composure. Seated at the paneled oak desk, Smythe’s secretary squinted up at him from over a sheaf of papers.

  “Your lordship.” He lowered the documents and pushed his spectacles higher on his nose. “We weren’t expecting you.”

  “No, you weren’t.” Graham forged a path to the door leading to the inner offices. “Is Smythe in?”

  “Yes, sir.” Pierson stood, gathering his coat closed with an air of impending urgency. “If you’ll have a seat, I’ll inform him your lordship is here.”

  “Don’t bother. I know the way.” Graham breezed past him.

  “But, my lord…” Throwing down his pen with a thwack, Pierson tried to head him off. “If you’d be patient, sir—”

  Graham moved faster, reaching the door first and capturing the knob in his fist. “I’ll announce myself, thank you.”

  “This is highly irregular, my lord.”

  “Irregular?” He stooped and shoved his face close to the clerk’s. “The matter I’ve come about is downright disgraceful, not to mention dishonorable. Believe me, Mr. Pierson, the responsible party shall rue the day I discover him.”

  He silenced any further protests with a look meant to intimidate the younger, shorter man. Pierson was only doing his job, he knew, but right now the secretary stood between Graham and his quest of attaining a measure of justice for Moira.

  A muscle worked in Pierson’s jaw, and a convulsive tightening of his throat pushed his Adam’s apple against his collar. A shimmer of gold winked from inside the starched linen, catching Graham’s attention for an instant before disappearing.

  Smythe must pay his man exceedingly well, for him to be able to afford gold jewelry. So, why such paltry attention to Moira’s welfare?

  With a cough, Pierson retreated to his desk. Graham pushed through the door.

  “Tell me why, Smythe.” Inside the solicitor’s private office, he all but charged the desk and hunched to grip its edge. “Why the devil is Moira Hughes living in a slum?”

  “Lord Monteith.” Smythe pushed back in his chair until it struck the wall behind him. “What can I do for—”

  “You can answer my question, damn your eyes.” At Smythe’s hesitation, anger zinged through Graham like a buzzing wasp, furious and ready to sting. He canted farther across the desk, feeling no compunction about using his size to intimidate.

  “A slum, you say?” The solicitor cowered in his chair, his knuckles white against the padded arms. “I had no idea.”

  “Don’t act the idiot with me. What’s happened to the funds her stepfather left for her and her mother?”

  “But, my lord, surely you don’t believe that story.” Relaxing a degree, Smythe dismissed Moira’s claim with a tsk that raised Graham’s wrath another notch.

  And yet the question struck home. Did he believe in this supposed codicil’s existence? Was it merely wishful thinking on Moira’s part, or perhaps the ravings of a dying man?

  He straightened, tapping one fist against his thigh lest Smythe think his anger had abated. “I want to see everything—and I do mean everything—connected with Everett Foster’s estate and will. I’ll give you a day to prepare. When I return with Miss Hughes tomorrow afternoon, I’ll expect every document ready to be examined with a fine-tooth comb.”

  “Tomorrow? I don’t think—”

  “Mr. Smythe, if you value my continued business with this firm, you will do as I say.”

  Smythe blinked up at him and swallowed. “Of course, my lord. It will be my pleasure.”

  Graham stalked out of the office, pushing past Smythe’s startled-looking partner, Mr. Davis, who had been watching wide-eyed from the corridor.

  CHAPTER

  9

  As the coach made its way out of Southwark, Moira didn’t dare steal a glance at Graham. What must he be thinking of her former living quarters?

  As long as she could remember, she had been a wealthy baron’s daughter. Loved, cared for, indulged. Only now was she beginning to appreciate how much she had taken for granted, and with what unthinking ease she’d donned each new party frock and savored every lavish meal. Oh, the waste of it, especially when lost on the cheerful disregard of a child.

  Really, she hadn’t minded Southwark so very much. It had saved her a considerable amount in rent money, and she was perfectly willing to forego small comforts for the good cause of seeing her mother comfortably and securely settled. Yes, she might have continued enduring that lodging house, if only it had remained her little secret.

  Well, never mind what Graham thought of the place. Necessity had brought her there. No use complaining, no sense regretting it. She was, of course, glad to be leaving. Except…

  She caught her lip between her teeth as she remembered how Graham had admonished his mother at supper the previous evening.

  Moira had been raised on certain principles. The head of a family should treat all those in his care with the utmost kindness and compassion. As Papa had done. Even at her naughtiest, she had never received anything more severe than a gentle reprimand. Firm, but never stern. Never angry. And neither had she ever heard Everett Foster speak an unkind word to her mother.

  Graham Foster was a man who took liberties, who acted on instinct and made few apologies. A man who didn’t stop to consider the right or wrong of his actions, or their effect on the people around him.

  His effect on her. Far too often, he left h
er feeling breathless, turned about, a little out of control. She was not someone who enjoyed feeling out of control. Nor did she relish the idea of being dependent upon such a man.

  The interior of the coach felt hot and airless. He insisted on sitting too close, on touching her and pretending he hadn’t meant to. No matter her prods, exasperated sighs, or pointed glares. He returned each with a wide-eyed nonchalance that denied all knowledge of how unsettled he made her.

  Then again, perhaps he didn’t know. How could he? Only she could feel that odd twist in her stomach, the jump in her pulse, the nearly irresistible urge to press her face to his skin and breathe him in. And give in to his teasing.

  No, surely he couldn’t know any of that.

  Their present direction restored a sense of, oh, safety, she supposed. A comfortable sensation spread through her as they turned onto Queen’s Square in Westminster and a familiar brick mansion came into view. She knew this dwelling nearly as well as Monteith Hall and the Brook Street town house.

  The carriage was admitted through the gate and traveled the short sweep of drive to the front steps. Graham peered out the window. “Where are we?”

  “Trewsbury House. I’m hoping the bishop can shed light on Papa’s last trip to London.”

  “The bishop?”

  She nodded as she craned her neck to see around him. “I do hope he’s returned. He’s almost always in town during the Season, but last week when I stopped by, he was away on church business. Do you think he’ll mind terribly that we’ve come unannounced?”

  Graham shrugged. “Not knowing the man, I couldn’t say.”

  She stared at him blankly. “Of course, you know him, silly. He’s your cousin as much as he was Papa’s.”

  “A cousin of mine?” He looked puzzled, then wary. His voice dropped to a monotone that warned of impending anger. “What is his name, Moira?”