The Missing Heir. Gail Ranstrom

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СКАЧАТЬ brushstrokes on canvas. A hint of fire and depth was carefully banked beneath the icy exterior. It was a smoldering heat that could clearly bring a man to his knees with desire, but not many would have the courage to penetrate her intimidating demeanor. But he had seen enough of the world to know that Grace Forbush was a woman who barely held herself in check. She was hiding more than that smoldering sexuality, and he would not leave London until he discovered what it was.

      “I’d have written,” he said at length, “but there was nowhere to post a letter.”

      She smiled and nodded, and a small shift of her shoulders indicated a decision. “How long will you be in town, Mr. Hawthorne?”

      “Not long. I have a few business matters to conclude, and I’d like to contact some old friends, then I shall go to Devon. Or, depending upon the answers I get here, back to Canada.”

      “Have you decided to make your home there?”

      “No.” He glanced down into his brandy. Home. He’d traveled the world in search of it, but he’d never found “home.” Even England felt foreign now. He gave himself a mental shake and looked up again. “But there is a matter still pending.”

      She looked curious but she was too well bred to ask the question. Instead she changed the subject. “Have you found comfortable accommodations in town, sir?”

      He’d stayed in a flash house last night after debarking. He’d lain awake, waiting for one of the thugs who’d sized him up to steal the leather pouch with all he had left in the world. But no one had bothered him—likely because he’d slept with his knife in his hand—the deadly razor-edged knife that had become his constant companion in the last four years. “My ship docked late so I found a room near the wharves. Then, of course, there’s the money. As I’ve been reported dead, I imagine my accounts were closed?”

      The lovely widow knit her brow and pressed an index finger to her forehead again. He wondered if she realized that she was betraying emotion with that gesture. “Mr. Hawthorne, you must stay here, of course.”

      “Very kind of you, Mrs. Forbush, but—”

      “No. I insist. You see, Mr. Forbush closed your accounts and, in the absence of another heir, absorbed your assets.”

      Adam managed to look surprised. “I see. Well, that is the logical thing for him to have done.”

      “Yes, but it poses a complication now. I will need to go through the accounts and separate your assets from his and attribute any interest that would have been yours had your accounts remained open. I have made some investments with the funds, and those will revert to you, of course. I am afraid the accounting will take a little time. Or, if you would prefer not to stay here, I could advance you a portion and—”

      “I’d be pleased to lodge with you.” If he gave her another moment to think of alternatives, she’d probably withdraw her invitation. It suited his purposes much better to stay here. “Truth to tell, Mrs. Forbush, I shall enjoy feeling a part of the family again,” he hastened to add. That much was true. He longed for a sense of belonging, but had never found it. That emptiness had led him to the Diplomatic Corps. Perhaps he’d thought he’d find “home” in his travels. He hadn’t. Just more solitude.

      Adam smiled as his hostess requested her niece’s assistance. “Dianthe, please find Mrs. Dewberry and have her prepare the guest suite for Mr. Hawthorne. And ask her to send up a bath and…and the trunk in the attic that has Mr. Hawthorne’s name on it.” She turned back to him and tilted her head to one side as Miss Dianthe hurried from the room. “Perhaps there is something there that you can wear until you have time to see a tailor, Mr. Hawthorne, but we shall have to air them out. They are likely to smell of camphor and dust. Have you had your dinner yet?”

      How efficient she was. There appeared to be nothing that could shake her composure for long. She’d have made an excellent diplomat’s wife. “I’m afraid not.”

      “I shall ask Mrs. Dewberry to bring you a tray.”

      Was he to be banned from the table? “I wouldn’t want to be any trouble.”

      “No trouble at all, sir. I regret that Dianthe and I will not be able to join you tonight. We both have previous commitments. But tomorrow we shall take some time to become better acquainted. We shall look forward to hearing tales of your adventures.”

      The only tales he had to tell were not fit for civilized ears, Adam thought. But they would most definitely become better acquainted while he took the woman’s measure. Was she a fortune hunter? Might there be something odd about his uncle’s death? He intended to find out.

      As their coach drew close to an infamous hell near St. James Square, Grace finally spoke. “You knew? Why did you not warn me? I was so astonished that I must have looked an utter fool.”

      At least Ronald Barrington had the good sense to look shame-faced. “I had no idea he would come to see you today. I thought he’d settle in somewhere and—”

      She pulled her green silk-lined pelisse closer around her and clutched her beaded reticule tighter as the dank air seeped through the coach window. “He has settled in—at my house. Not that I begrudge him hospitality for a single second, but this was hardly a good time for it.”

      “’Twasn’t in my plans, either, Grace. This has caused some damned inconvenient problems for me, as well.”

      She glanced sideways at her escort. In his late fifties, slightly overweight and with a florid complexion, he could still confound her with his pomposity. “What inconvenience has it caused you?”

      “Ah, well, ’tis business, m’dear. No need to worry your little head about it. I only wonder what the ton will say about his presence in your house.”

      “No one will gossip. I rather think there would be a greater scandal if I refused him shelter. And, despite his rather eccentric appearance, he seems to possess the requisite manners to get along in society.”

      “Send him on his way, Grace. He’s older than you, you’re both unmarried and people will speculate. Do you want your friends peddling your business behind their fans?”

      “My friends would never peddle my business. And I’ve done nothing improper.” Still, gossip regarding her sheltering a single man could cause a problem. If word got back to her brother…. Lord! He’d come to London and drag her back to Devon by her hair!

      Barrington gave her a speculative look. “And now we are on the subject of improper, why have you suddenly taken an interest in gaming?”

      Grace was prepared for the question. She disliked telling half-truths, and she loathed the necessity, but Ronald Barrington was not, and would never be, privy to Wednesday League business. That was always strictly confidential. She sighed and glanced out the coach window. “I’ve told you, sir. I am bored half to death. I crave something different. Something more exciting.”

      “I could give you something more exciting, Grace,” he intoned meaningfully, leaning closer and squeezing her arm.

      What in the world had gotten into Lord Barrington? He’d never pressed her thus before. They’d always been clear that theirs was a platonic friendship, though they’d allowed the ton to think otherwise. And anyway, it was completely beyond her imagination why men thought a sweaty, uncomfortable coupling in the sheets was such fun. For her, it had been—no, that was СКАЧАТЬ