The Missing Heir

  * * *

  “Nenemoosha. The Chippewa word for sweetheart.”

  “Nenemoosha,” she repeated. Then more slowly, softer, “Nenemoosha…” with a wistful sigh.

  He leaned toward her, unable to resist the word said so sweetly. “Say, metea.”

  “Metea?” she asked.

  “Do not say it like a question,” he instructed.

  “Metea,” she repeated.

  He leaned the rest of the way across the little tea table and deposited a kiss on her lips.

  “Again?” he asked.

  “Metea.”

  Again he kissed her, deeper, fuller.

  When he sat back, she smiled. Ah, she understood that the word was an invitation.

  “Metea, metea, metea,” she said.

  Tugging her into his arms, he took intense satisfaction in the feel of her against him. God forgive him, it did not matter if she was telling the truth. He wanted her. And that was all that mattered at this moment.

  “You owe me, Mrs. Forbush,” he said against her lips. “And I want payment…!”

  Praise for Gail Ranstrom

  Saving Sarah

  “Gail Ranstrom has written a unique story with several

  twists that work within the confines of Regency

  England…. If Ranstrom’s first book showed promise,

  then Saving Sarah is when Ranstrom comes of age.”

  —The Romance Reader

  A Wild Justice

  “Gail Ranstrom certainly has both writing

  talent and original ideas.”

  —The Romance Reader

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  GAIL RANSTROM THE MISSING HEIR

  Available from Harlequin Historicals and

  GAIL RANSTROM

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  Dedicated to The Hussies,

  for their unfailing friendship,

  nurturing and support.

  Special thanks to Eileen G., Lisa W. and Suzi S.— the Wild Writers. Thanks for keeping me focused, writing and laughing.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Prologue

  Wednesday, May 24, 1820

  “But there was something relentlessly methodical in the way my brother was fleeced, and that is why I suspect cheating.” Miss Laura Talbot sat primly on the edge of her chair, an air of expectancy hovering about her like a storm cloud. “Can you help me?”

  Grace Forbush glanced at the four other women in her parlor. Annica Sinclair, Lady Auberville, merely blinked. Charity MacGregor arched her eyebrows and tilted her head to one side. Lady Sarah Travis shook her head in sympathy, and Dianthe Lovejoy shot a worried glance back at Grace.

  Grace delicately cleared her throat and set her teacup aside. “Before we undertake any case, Miss Talbot, you must understand that the Wednesday League is devoted to obtaining justice for women. Justice. You must be completely candid with us, and you must accept that, should we discover your brother’s gaming debts are honest, we can do nothing to help you. We cannot alter the truth, merely uncover it.” And Grace more than half suspected the debt was honest. Who, after having lost his entire fortune, did not cry “foul”?

  “Yes, of course.” Miss Talbot nodded eagerly. “I have been candid, and though I would not like the consequences, I am willing to abide by them.”

  “What are the consequences to you, Miss Talbot?” Lady Annica asked. “Aside from reduced circumstances?”

  “Two and a half weeks hence, on the tenth of June, I am to wed Lord Geoffrey Morgan. You see, I was a part of my brother’s last desperate wager.”

  “Lord Geoffrey Morgan?” Lady Sarah frowned and shot a glance at Grace. “He must have been desperate, indeed.”

  Grace nodded. Her own experience had been remarkably similar to Miss Talbot’s, down to the blend of old and new bruises on Miss Talbot’s arms, and likely other, less exposed, places. And, like her own brother, Grace saw this as evidence that Miss Talbot’s brother delighted in the infliction of pain and complete domination. Unlike Miss Talbot, however, she had found marriage to a stranger an escape rather than an unacceptable fate.

  “I gather Lord Geoffrey is not a choice you would make for yourself?” she asked.

  “Heavens no!” Miss Talbot gasped. “I’ve met him only once, the day after my brother’s losing wager. He is a gambler, and when I asked my friends about him, I learned that he has a very murky reputation. The very idea of marriage to such a man is abhorrent to me.”

  The Wednesday League knew Geoffrey Morgan. He had been close to Constance Bennington, a member of their group, before her death. He’d disappeared for several years after her death, and then returned under a rather dark cloud. Grace studied Miss Talbot closely. The girl was perhaps ten and seven, and very pretty in an ordinary sort of way. She had a lovely complexion, even features, wide brown eyes and a trim figure. Grace could only imagine what marriage to a man who had to gamble for a bride would do to an innocent like Laura Talbot. Well, not while she breathed! Laura would have the chance that Grace never had.

  Grace leaned forward and patted Miss Talbot’s hand. “If Lord Geoffrey has been cheating, we shall discover it, my dear. Meantime, I would like you to think about simple refusal of your brother’s debt. It is his debt, after all, and not yours. I do not think the courts would look kindly on this sort of thing.”

  Miss Talbot glanced down at her lap. “If this were taken to the courts, the scandal would ruin what is left of the family reputation. Regardless, my integrity and reputation would be stained. I cannot decide which I dread more at the moment, Mrs. Forbush—my brother’s wrath or Lord Geoffrey’s attentions. I suspect my brother has the capacity to make my life exceedingly more unpleasant than Lord Geoffrey. And, since I have not reached my majority, I am obligated to my brother.”

  That, too, was familiar territory! But Grace had not been gambled away by her brother. She’d been arbitrarily bartered for land adjoining their estate.

  Charity MacGregor stood and went to glance out the parlor window at the park across the street. “Strategically speaking, Grace, how are we to accomplish this task? We cannot march into gaming hells and demand to see betting books, nor can we cast dice or bet on the turn of a card.”

  They couldn’t, it was true. But she, as an independent widow of spotless reputation and high social consequence, would have a certain immunity in these matters. Society would watch her for any misstep, but they would allow her more latitude than a spinster or married woman, believing she would soon tire of it. And she would—within two and a half weeks.

  Squaring her shoulders, she said, “I shall lead the investigation. I am certain I can persuade Lord Barrington to i
ntroduce me to the appropriate persons.” She turned back to Laura Talbot and smiled. “Do not worry, Miss Talbot. I promise that I will do everything within my power to prevent your marriage to Lord Geoffrey. And I shall begin tomorrow.”

  Chapter One

  Adam Hawthorne turned his face upward and breathed deeply of the warm spring rain before entering the imposing graystone building at precisely ten o’clock. He turned the collar of his fringed buckskin jacket down and shook the raindrops from his hair. Such niceties as hats and greatcoats had been sadly absent in the northwest wilderness and, after four years, deuced difficult to even remember.

  Barely one day back in England and he was already feeling out of place. He supposed the buckskins didn’t help. How long would it take him to think and feel like an Englishman again? A week? A month? Ever? Ah, well, at least he’d remembered to do his duty first and leave personal concerns for later.

  He strode up the stairs to the second floor, down the hall to a door at the end, and announced himself to a slender young man wearing wire spectacles. “Adam Hawthorne to see Lord Barrington.”

  The young man’s gaze swept Adam from head to toe and curiosity registered behind the pale blue eyes. That glance brought home to Adam just how starkly foreign he must look in a London Ministry building. He supposed he should elevate finding a tailor and a barber to the next item on his list of things to do. But that would depend on what he found out here.

  “His lordship is expecting you, sir. Please go in.”

  Adam rapped sharply on the frosted-glass pane of the door before opening it and stepping through. Lord Ronald Barrington glanced up from a stack of papers.

  “Hawthorne! By God, ’tis good to see you.” He gestured at a leather-upholstered chair in front of his desk. “Sit down, man. When I got your message earlier, I was dumbfounded. You were reported dead four years ago.”

  “So I’ve heard, my lord.”

  “Why are you here, Hawthorne? You’re a diplomatic attaché, so I am not in your line of command.”

  “Yes, sir, but I was attached to the military at Fort Garry. I reported to Lord Craddock the minute I got off the ship and, once he’d taken my statement, he suggested I see you as a courtesy. He thought some of the intelligence I gathered might be of interest to you.”

  “Indeed?” Barrington looked intrigued as he called the clerk into his private sanctum and instructed him to take notes. “Well, give over, man. I’m always interested in what’s happening in the northwestern reaches.”

  It was well into the afternoon before Lord Barrington sat back in his chair and nodded, dismissing the clerk with a wave of his hand. “Thank you, Hawthorne. Your information should prove useful. Despite the Treaty of Ghent five years ago, I do not delude myself that the French influence in Canada is over.”

  Adam nodded. Now that business was out of the way, he could pursue his personal agenda—the one that had driven him for the past four years, and the real reason Lord Craddock had referred him to Barrington. “I need a piece of information from you, Lord Barrington.”

  “Ask. I’m much in your debt and I’ll be pleased to answer anything.”

  “I’d like the name of the military attaché at Fort Garry four years ago.” Indeed, he wanted that name more than he wanted breath and life. Finding the name of the bastard who’d given the order to decimate the Chippewa tribe he’d been lodged with was the only thing that had kept him alive through long, frigid winters huddled in wigwams, through deprivation and starvation and homelessness.

  “Any particular reason you want that information, Hawthorne?”

  Adam affected nonchalance. He softened his expression and offered a smile. “Just curious who reported me dead, sir.”

  “I believe it was a party from the local fort. They rode out on patrol and came back with the news that everyone, to the last woman and child, had been murdered in warfare by a rival tribe.”

  Idiots! Bloody damned idiots! Had they even investigated the attack? Likely not. It had only been made to look like tribal warfare. Was Barrington covering the truth, or was he foolish enough to believe that neighboring tribes simply attacked each other without reason or provocation? He couldn’t be that naive. But with Barrington’s help or not, someone would eventually talk—even if it was at the point of Adam’s knife.

  His long years in the Diplomatic Corps came to his aid. Slipping into his English skin, he buried his anger and gave Barrington a bland smile. “I’d like to tell him in person that there were a few survivors. I’d think that would ease his mind.”

  “Yes, but how did you survive? The word we received said that not a single living thing was left. Given the savagery of the attack, it was believed no prisoners were taken.”

  Adam nodded. “None were, my lord. I’d gone out with a small hunting party the day before the attack. There were eight of us, and when we returned to the village and found…well, believing the English were responsible, and rather than kill me, my hosts took me hostage and we rode south to…to a place the Indians call Chick’a gami. You’ve heard the rest, sir.”

  “Aye. Well, I’ll have to search through the records for his name. It may take some time. Will you be in town?”

  Tension drained from Adam’s shoulders. He stood and smiled. “Yes, sir. I still have some business here. Lord Craddock said he would have me reinstated and secure my back pay. I’ll need it to repair and stock my cottage and lands in Devon. Since I was reported dead, I imagine the stock was sold off, but I pray the cottage is still in the family.”

  “Family,” Barrington repeated. He looked thoughtful.

  “Well, only Uncle Basil and I remain, unless that young wife of his has given him heirs.”

  “You’ve not gone there?”

  Adam recalled the expansive home on Bloomsbury Square and smiled. “I wanted my business finished so that I could relax and enjoy the reunion. I’ve never met my new aunt, you know. Uncle Basil said he met her while selling a parcel of land to her brother. She was in the country when I was last in London on my way to Ghent, but I saw the portrait of her in Uncle Basil’s study.”

  And what a portrait it had been! It had kept his blood humming for weeks afterward, and many long winter nights since. Dark, sultry eyes gazed out of a face of sheer perfection. Her expression had been self-possessed and confident, and Adam found himself envious of his aging uncle for the first time. He’d suspected the wife was a fortune hunter, since a woman like that could have married someone considerably higher in station. And considerably younger. He wondered if there’d still be fire in those dark eyes.

  Barrington heaved a deep sigh and wouldn’t meet Adam’s gaze. “Damn it all, Hawthorne. Craddock should have told you. I’m afraid I’ve got bad news. Your uncle expired immediately after we’d had word of your death. Everyone said it was the grief, but it went beyond that.”

  Adam sat again, trying to comprehend this last in a chain of bitter disappointments. “How….”

  “He hadn’t been well. He did his best to hide it from you on your last visit. Didn’t want to worry you, he said. When we got the news of your death, the spirit went out of him. I helped his widow make the final arrangements and put his business in order. The last thing he did was change his will to leave everything to her.”

  Adam nodded, registering the logic in that. He had already discovered through his earlier visit to his bank that his uncle had closed his bank accounts and taken his assets, but he had been confident they would be returned to him. Ah, but now everything was in the possession of his widow, and it was anyone’s guess what she would do. “Well, there appears to be some matters we will have to sort out. Did she and my uncle have heirs?”

  “No,” Barrington admitted.

  “Has she remarried?”

  “She seems quite content to be a widow.”

  A niggling suspicion grew from his hunch that she’d been a fortune hunter. Had she sped her husband’s demise once the competition for his money was gone? No. Barrington just said his unc
le had been ill even before his last visit.

  “She lives quietly,” Barrington continued. “Her reputation is of the highest order. Not a breath of scandal.”

  “Discreet, then,” he concluded.

  “There is nothing to be discreet about. She’s blameless.”

  Adam glanced up at Lord Barrington. His reaction to the implied criticism was telling. All the signs were there. Damned if Barrington wasn’t in love with his widowed aunt! He cleared his throat and stood. “Good to know,” he said, heading for the door. “You’ll let me know when you find the name of the military advisor at Fort Garry?”

  “Where shall I send word?”

  He smiled, an idea taking root. There was only one way to get to the bottom of his uncle’s death. “I’ll let you know when I’m settled, sir.”

  The sound of a bell downstairs announced a visitor. A quick glance at the little enameled clock on her bedside table urged Grace to haste. Ronald Barrington must have come early. He was not supposed to pick her up for another hour. Mrs. Dewberry, her housekeeper, would put him in the library with a glass of port, but she did not like to leave him alone so long. He had a propensity to snoop through her private correspondence.

  Glaring in her mirror, she fussed with a few stubborn strands of hair. She always wore the dark mass smoothed back and contained in a tidy chignon due to its unruly tendencies and she never felt completely groomed until it was perfect.

  “Really, Aunt Grace, I think you should snip half of it off and leave the rest in curls.” Dianthe shook her own blond ringlets and laughed. “I’ve never seen hair so long you could sit on before. And I think you’d look younger with it down.”

  Yes, that was half the problem. Grace did not want to look younger. Though less than ten years older than Dianthe, she had learned to act twenty years her senior. She smiled. “If I cut it, I’ll never gain control of it again.”