The Missing Heir Page 3

  Well past midnight, ignoring the looks of suspicion and wariness from the other patrons of the Eagle Tavern, Adam stepped up to the bar and fastened the publican with a steady gaze. “Fast Freddie?” he asked.

  The barkeeper gave him a long look. “Who wants t’know?”

  “Hawthorne,” he answered, without any real hope that would grant him access. Adam realized his appearance was a disadvantage—anything that called attention in this part of town was a disadvantage.

  The man blinked once, then nodded toward the stairs. “Upstairs,” he said.

  Good God. Four years later and Freddie Carter still kept “hours” in an upstairs room of the Eagle Tavern off Red Lion Square. He could scarcely believe his luck. He climbed the stairs, his moccasins silent on the treads. He rapped twice on the solid door and stood back.

  A deep voice called, “Yes?”

  “I’m looking for Fast Freddie,” he answered.

  “Is that Hawthorne?” the voice called from within. “Good Lord, man! I heard you were back scarce an hour ago!” The door opened wide and Freddie clapped a meaty hand on Adam’s shoulder and dragged him inside. “I heard you’d gone native, but I wouldn’t believe it until now. Aye, but you’re a sight for sore eyes.”

  Adam grinned. “And I scarce dared believe you’d still be holding court in a seedy tavern. Shouldn’t you have saved the world by now?”

  The man laughed and pulled him nearer the fire. “Got thrown off schedule when you left, Hawthorne, but now you’re here and we’ll get back on track.” Freddie pressed a tankard of stout into his hand and went to lock the door.

  “Have I interrupted business hours?” he asked.

  “Just wrapping things up for the night, Hawthorne. Anyone who had a private commission for me would have come by now. Do you have something to occupy me?”

  “Not at the moment.”

  “Something to do with your travels, I warrant.” Freddie leaned back in his wooden chair, tipping it onto the back legs.

  Adam grinned but said nothing. Fredrick Carter had always been perceptive. That was his gift, and it was what made him one of the best investigators in England.

  When they’d been in their final term at Eton, Freddie’s father had been killed by street thugs for his watch and wedding ring. Adam had gone on to Cambridge, but Freddie had been forced to support himself, his mother and his three brothers. He’d devoted himself to bringing his father’s murderer to justice, he’d collected the reward and his course was set. Now he craved the excitement and danger of being a thief taker. Couldn’t live without it, he’d told Adam. He’d even persuaded Adam to work with him on a few cases before Adam was posted to Toronto.

  “Come then,” Freddie said as he took a deep swallow from his tankard, “and tell me about your adventures. What did you do to get yourself reported dead?”

  Adam emptied his tankard, savoring the dark earthy flavor of the stout. He launched into the story he’d already told Craddock and Barrington but added detail he’d only share with a friend. Freddie’s eyes widened as he concluded. “Then, when they realized I could not be guilty of the massacre, I’d become so mired in tribal warfare and retribution that I couldn’t leave.”

  “Four years with Indians,” Freddie mused. “There’s even more to the story than you’ve told, Hawthorne. Does it have anything to do with that thing on your arm?”

  Adam glanced down at the intricately beaded band on his left wrist. “Everything,” he admitted.

  “A gift?”

  “From Nokomis, a beautiful Indian maid. I found her gutted and scalped when we returned to the village.”

  “You loved her,” Freddie said softly.

  Nokomis, Daughter of the Moon, had been infinitely sweet and funny, and she’d owned his heart completely. “Nokomis was eight, the chief’s daughter, and like a daughter to me. I’ve seen war before, Freddie, but this…this was different.”

  “So it took you four years to find the sons of bitches? Time well spent, I’d say.”

  “We hunted the warriors down one by one, but we never found the one the Indians called Long Knife, for the sword he wore. That man, Freddie, was an Englishman and British soldier. I’d wager my soul he was the one in command of that attack.”

  Freddie whistled softly as he tipped his chair forward and went to stir the fire. “So that’s what brought you back. Can’t say as I blame you. Only promise you will not gut an English soldier on a London street. I’d hate to have to bring you in.”

  Adam stared into the glowing embers, remembering how Nokomis had thrown her arms around his neck and begged him to wait for her until she’d grown up. So sweet, so innocent, she’d sworn she would marry no one but him.

  When he’d found her in the mass of putrid bodies, she bore cuts that could only have come from an English blade. Adam prayed he had retained enough of a grip on his decidedly English values to restrain himself from killing the man who’d done that. It would be a near thing, though, in view of the fact that he hadn’t exercised much of that restraint lately. “I think I can safely promise you that I will not gut the man, Freddie.”

  “Good. Meantime, what are your plans?”

  Adam ran his fingers through his long hair. “Find a barber and a tailor. I’ve reported to my superiors and, until I am officially declared alive, I’m on my own. Craddock said I’d be reinstated, but I wonder if that’s a good idea. Another assignment like the last could end me.”

  “Do you not have property in Wiltshire or Devonshire?”

  He nodded. “Devonshire. But since I’ve been declared dead, there are a few complications.”

  “Ah. But it will all be yours anyway, now that your uncle is dead.”

  “Barrington said he’d left everything to his widow.”

  “Bloody hell,” Freddie murmured. “I gather that’s the complication?”

  Adam nodded. “My uncle’s widow has claimed his fortune and mine. She’s young, beautiful and, now, very rich. There were no children. I’m wondering if she could have…”

  Freddie sighed. “Greed makes people do strange things, Hawthorne. I won’t lie to you—there were whispers to that effect. But the gossip died and suspicion was dropped. Where can I reach you? Where are you staying?”

  “With my aunt, Grace Forbush. Bloomsbury Square.”

  Freddie’s laughter followed him down the stairs. “Watch your back, Hawthorne.”

  Chapter Three

  Mrs. Dewberry snapped the heavy ivory velvet drapes open, keeping up her steady stream of chatter. Grace winced as the early morning light streamed through her bedroom window and struggled to sit up.

  “’E ate everything on the tray, I’ll give ’im that. Good appetite for someone so thin, that man.”

  Grace rubbed her temples, picturing the lean form of Adam Hawthorne. She doubted the hollows in his cheeks were natural. He had the look of a man used to a Spartan existence and heavy physical activity.

  “And I could’ve been wrong about the man,” Mrs. Dewberry admitted—a rarity for her. She placed a breakfast tray across Grace’s lap and shook out the napkin. If Grace did not take it quickly, Mrs. Dewberry was sure to tuck it beneath her chin. “’Is manners are quite lovely when ’e uses ’em. The mister says ’e inquired if ’e could stable a ’orse ’ere. Said ’e’d be glad to pay the mister, ’e would.”

  “Of course he may have a horse here. And Mr. Dewberry is not to accept anything from Mr. Hawthorne. He is our guest. I shall see that there is extra in Mr. Dewberry’s envelope for the inconvenience.”

  “That’s very considerate of you, Mrs. Forbush.”

  Grace poured herself a cup of strong breakfast tea. Her head ached and she needed to clear the cobwebs before she dealt with her solicitor and factor. Barrington had taken her to two gaming hells last night, infamous smoke-filled places where her eyes stung and her head throbbed. But she had to admit that she’d felt an edge of excitement when she’d won a small wager playing vingt-et-un.

  One more night
to learn, then she’d be ready to set herself up as an easy mark. If Morgan gulled her, she’d find out how, and then she’d expose him. The Talbot name would not need to come into it at all. His debt would be void and Laura Talbot would have a second chance to make a happy match.

  She was spreading butter on a muffin when Dianthe burst into the room, tying her robe at her waist. “Aunt Grace! I just saw Mr. Hawthorne leaving.”

  “Oh, yes,” Mrs. Dewberry said. “’E said ’e ’ad some things to do and that ’e’d join you for dinner.” She paused at the door and smiled. “I’m ’aving Cook make a nice roast of beef and Yorkshire pudding.”

  “And strawberry tarts for dessert?” Dianthe added.

  “Aye, miss. I’ll tell Cook.”

  Dianthe jumped on the bed and sat cross-legged. “I wish you could have heard the talk last night, Aunt Grace. It couldn’t have been midnight yet when the news began to circulate that you had gone to a gaming hell with Barrington. It was all the buzz.”

  Grace laughed and shook her head. “That did not take long. What are they saying?”

  “That you must be bored. Only Mrs. Thayer said that you’d bear watching lest you get yourself into some trouble.”

  “Hmm.” Grace sipped her tea, beginning to feel better. “Well, by the time anyone has the least bit of concern, I shall be done. Nothing to worry about, Di. The Wednesday League has taken on much more difficult cases than this. This will be a mere stroll in the park.”

  “All the same, I wish I could help you. I really do not like the idea of you going alone to such…unwholesome places. I asked Mr. Thayer about Geoffrey Morgan last night, and he said to warn you rather strongly about him.”

  “Is the news out that Mr. Hawthorne has returned?”

  “No. I thought that odd, but I gather he has not been out in society since his return. I will be amazed if there are not whisperings by tonight. Are you going out after dinner?”

  “Barrington has agreed to take me to another hell. I’ve heard the Pigeon Hole is an amusing place.”

  “Will you take Mr. Hawthorne with you?”

  Grace pushed her tray aside and stood. “I think he would frighten fully half the population of London.”

  “You are ashamed to be seen with him,” Dianthe accused.

  Absolutely not. Yet, when she tried to imagine walking into the Auberville ballroom with a man in buckskins, she almost laughed. She could not begin to comprehend the gossip that would cause. But then she thought of where he would look at ease, and she glanced at her bedroom door. She imagined him there, late at night, holding a candle, that insouciant smile on his face, making himself as comfortable as he had in the library. Her mouth went dry and her chest constricted.

  “Aunt Grace!” Dianthe exclaimed. “I have never seen you blush before. How interesting.”

  She went to her dressing table and looked in the mirror. Delicate pink stained her cheeks and neck. “I must get dressed, Dianthe,” she said. “I am going to the bank and my factor’s office. The sooner Mr. Hawthorne has the resources to leave us, the better.”

  Mr. Evans tapped a sheaf of papers on the surface of his desk to straighten them. Moistening his index finger, he began to leaf through the heap. Page by page, he separated the stack into two piles. “You realize this will considerably diminish your assets, do you not, Mrs. Forbush?”

  Considerably? “I dare hope it will not impoverish me?”

  “Nothing so severe as that,” her factor said, glancing above the rim of his spectacles. “But the bulk appears to be the investments of Mr. Hawthorne’s assets. If you insist that he should reap all the benefits—despite the fact that they were your investments—then your accounts shall suffer.”

  She sighed and shrugged. An honest debt was an honest debt. Her gravest concern was that the news of her reduced circumstances would affect her ability to make Morgan take her seriously as a deep player. Oh, blast the timing! She would have to hold Adam’s funds until after dealing with Morgan. Now he would have to depend on her hospitality for another fortnight. “Mr. Evans, take your time in separating the assets and attributing the interest. I would not want you to make any mistakes because I had rushed you. We need not conclude this matter for two or three weeks. Mr. Hawthorne is staying with me and his needs will be taken care of. No need for unseemly haste.”

  “As you say, Mrs. Forbush.”

  Grace smiled. She employed Mr. Evans to act in her best financial interests, and he was certainly doing so now. “I wish Mr. Hawthorne to have the interest. If he’d been here, he would have made his own investments.”

  “If he’d been here, you’d not have had anything to invest,” Mr. Evans muttered as he continued his separation of the papers.

  “I’d still have had my husband’s estate,” she corrected.

  “Likely not, Mrs. Forbush.”

  Grace frowned. What did the man mean? Her solicitor had made some veiled reference to the same thing earlier this morning at their appointment. She’d asked to see Basil’s will, and he had told her it was “unavailable.”

  “Likely not? What do you mean, Mr. Evans? Explain yourself.”

  He finished sorting the stacks and looked up at her, concern creasing his forehead. “What? Oh…I, um, meant there would not have been as much to invest, Mrs. Forbush.”

  Grace sat back in her chair. She had the uneasy feeling that people were keeping things from her. “I want Mr. Hawthorne to have everything that should have been his, Mr. Evans. Mr. Forbush was always generous with me, and I can be no less with his nephew. That is what he would have wanted.”

  “If you are certain.” Mr. Evans looked over the rims of his spectacles again. “Your integrity is admirable. Shall we meet a fortnight hence to sign the papers and complete the separations?”

  “I shall mark my calendar, Mr. Evans.”

  Adam tied his cravat for the fifth time. He’d gotten rusty in the particulars of refined dress. There were no cravats in the wigwams of the wilderness. Finally satisfied on the sixth try, he shrugged into his jacket and headed down to dinner. He’d taken several items of his better clothing to a tailor for the alterations he would need to make himself presentable in society, and had kept these few clothes out for use in the meantime. New, currently fashionable items would have to wait until his reinstatement and the pay that went with it.

  When he entered the dining room, he found Grace and her niece waiting for him. “Sorry,” he said. “Had trouble with my cravat.”

  Grace looked up at him and blinked. A slow smile warmed her face and her expression turned sultry. She stood and came toward him, extending her arms. When she was close enough for him to smell the delicate floral scent of her perfume, she lifted her graceful hands to tighten the knot and arrange the folds. He watched her fingers work through the fabric and felt a swift visceral reaction. How would those fingers look against his bare flesh? How would they feel closing around his—

  She looked up, smoothing the fabric and meeting his gaze. “There. What do you think, Mr. Hawthorne?” Her voice was slightly breathless.

  That it’s a damn good thing you don’t know what I’m thinking! He stood frozen for a moment while he gained mastery over his rioting blood. “Well done, Mrs. Forbush.”

  She returned to her place at the table and even the rustle of her blue-gray gown caused him to catch his breath. He’d been too long without a woman. But his uncle’s widow was more than just any woman. She was Salome incarnate—a natural seductress.

  A moment later he took the place set for him at the opposite end of the table, Miss Lovejoy between them. “Feel free to correct my manners, ladies. I’ve been so long away from utensils and china that I may forget myself and use my hands.”

  Dianthe laughed. “I think you will adapt quite easily, Mr. Hawthorne. Aside from your native clothing, I’ve seen nothing of you that is unpolished. Though your barber could have cut a little closer.”

  He acknowledged her compliment with a smile, but turned to Grace for confirm
ation, given with a single nod. “I rather think the length becomes you as it is, Mr. Hawthorne.”

  They were silent as Mrs. Dewberry served dishes laden with roast beef, Yorkshire pudding, tender vegetables drowning in rich butter and what seemed like a myriad of condiments and confections after the simple fare he was accustomed to eating.

  “Are you coming out tonight, Mr. Hawthorne?” Dianthe asked him at length.

  The question startled him. How long had it been since anyone had cared or questioned his comings and goings? Odd, how the careless question made him feel a part of something larger. “I do not have plans, Miss Lovejoy, but I think I am ready to make an appearance in society. Must be done sooner or later and there’s no sense putting it off.”

  “Marvelous,” she said with a smile. “Then you must accompany me to Charity MacGregor’s little reception. She is a delightful hostess, and all the most amusing people will be there. The Aubervilles are picking me up on the way. You could come along if you wish.”

  He’d met Lord Auberville years ago when he’d been a diplomatic advisor to a military contingent suing for peace with Algiers. “I would like to pay my respects,” he mused. He looked at Grace for her consent.

  “I have other plans for tonight, Mr. Hawthorne.”

  “Aunt Grace is going gambling,” Dianthe volunteered.

  Surprised, he looked at his hostess in a new light. He hadn’t suspected she had an adventurous side. Who was this woman with such an odd blend of innocence and experience? Everything about the woman was contradictory. “Gambling, eh? What is your game of choice?”

  She shrugged and gave him a listless smile. “I think I prefer vingt-et-un, sir. Hazard and faro are diverting. I enjoy whist, but I do not like being dependent upon a partner.”

  He nodded, unsure what to make of this news. “I suppose it would depend upon the partner,” he allowed.

  By the quick flicker of her eyes, Adam knew that she had read the veiled meaning in his words. It would be interesting to match wits with Grace Forbush. Subtlety was her hallmark and she only gave herself away in the slight lift at the corners of her luscious mouth or the blink of an eye. She was so tightly contained that he could not help but wonder what she might do if she actually lost control. He’d like to find out.