Frovtunes’ Kiss (16 page)

She shoved at his shirtfront. “You're insane.”

“Oh, go on, admit it. You'd grown weary of the old snake.”

She managed to create an inch or two between them, but he stubbornly held on, his arms locked like iron bands around her while his fingertips fondled her back, gingerly exploring the cloth buttons on her gown and eliciting a quivery-cool scattering of goose bumps.

“Aren't you secretly glad I rescued you?” His voice dipped, a warm ocean eddy over rock and sand. He began pressing the buttons up and down her back, playing them like notes on a pianoforte. “Surely you didn't credit his wretched opinions?”

“Stop that.”

But he didn't. He only summoned the dimples to distract her. And distract they did with their boyish mischief, their mockery.

Tipping her head back to scowl at him, she discovered something else lurking behind the laughter in his eyes. Something that slipped out at an unguarded moment, not at all lighthearted but—goodness—vulnerable. Downcast. Needful. Her scowl eased as she considered this.

Yes, he very much wished her to concur that perhaps the bishop was wrong, that Graham Foster was not the rogue the family believed him to be. This heretofore unexposed side of him rather touched her heart, albeit she could have boxed his ears for his antics.

She was about to reassure him with some small show of faith that wouldn't also inflate his ego or give him untoward ideas, when footsteps on the drive caught her attention. Stretching to see over his shoulder, she beheld a young dark-haired man who had just descended from a coach parked behind theirs. He carried a leather portfolio in one hand and two or three slender ledgers in the other. A pair of spectacles flashed in the sunlight as he climbed the front steps.

“Isn't that Mr. Pierson?” she asked, pointing. “From Mr. Smythe's office.”

Graham turned to follow her line of sight. “I believe it is. Wonder what the devil he's doing here.”

“A legal matter, I suppose.” Moira shrugged. Pierson didn't notice them, half-hidden as they were behind one of the portico's wide columns. “The bishop is a client of Smythe and Davis just as Papa was. Just as you are.”

They heard the front door open and close. Graham said absently, “Mm, suppose you're right. Come. Let's go home.”

Home
. How easily he spoke the word. How naturally it fell from his lips as he offered his arm to escort her down to the carriage. The house on Brook Street—once her home, now his. But certainly not theirs. Yet he said it with the sort of familiarity he so often bandied about, as though home and family were nothing special, nothing to be cherished or defended or valued above all else in life.

It was this—this lack in him—more than anything the bishop of Trewsbury might have said about Graham Foster that disturbed her most. What did this man, this adventurer, know of home? What did he know of family? Or of the pain in her heart at having lost both?

       10      

M
oira awoke early the next morning determined to perform a task put off since her arrival in London. Going to the clothes-press in her dressing room, she opened the top drawer and rummaged through the undergarments she had unpacked the night before. There she found the lacquered wooden box that held paper, ink pot, pen, and sealing wax.

She arranged these items on the bedside table. Slipping back beneath the bedclothes, she propped the crisp paper on a closed book and frowned in concentration, preparing to write a detailed letter to her mother. Of course, a great deal of those details would come straight from her imagination.

Having a lovely time in London. Catching up with old friends. Attended a brilliant ball last week. Have positively been adopted by the Mrs. Augusta Foster and family.

This last would let her mother know where to direct her correspondence without raising her concerns for Moira's welfare. After all, Augusta Foster was Everett Foster's second cousin by marriage, or some such relation, and it would not be at all unusual for the woman to take Moira under her wing. Even if, in truth, she hadn't.

She stared down at the blank page while tapping the end of her pen to her lip. She didn't like lying, especially to her mother, but what other choice? Besides, accompanying the missive would be the wages she earned as a maid. She hoped even that small amount might bring cheer to her mother's comfortless cottage, perhaps a small treat or two. Reaching across to the end table, she dabbed the brass nub of her pen into the ink.

Her pillow shifted beneath her, and her effort to catch her balance resulted in a gleaming black splatter across the edge of her pillowcase. Oh, rotten luck, the case happened to be part of the Alençon lace-edged linen set her mother had purchased in Paris several years ago.

Perhaps Mrs. Higgensworth knew a handy recipe for ink stains. In the meantime, the occasion called for a fresh case. After sliding the pillow free, she swung her dressing gown over her nightgown and padded barefoot from her room.

The doorknob of the linen chamber wouldn't budge. Locked? She tried again. How odd. As if there were treasure rather than towels and bedclothes inside. She glanced up and down the empty corridor. As she stood contemplating the puzzle of the locked door, a thunking echoed from the back staircase that led from the attic rooms to the ground floor.

Moira hurried along the carpeted hall, and stepped over a threshold onto the bare floorboards of the service stairwell. A maid descended to the landing, her mouth gaping in a hearty yawn as she reached around to tie the trailing ends of her apron.

“Excuse me,” Moira said.

The woman came to a halt, one hand absently tucking a curl into her frilled mobcap. She bobbed a curtsy. “Good morning, ma'am. May I be of service?”

“Yes. Sorry to bother you.” Moira stopped, realizing she'd never uttered those words to a servant before. She felt a little silly for it, and noticed the maid eyeing her with a mildly amused expression. Did the girl recognize her as the newest and briefest member of the household staff? “I've just been to the linen chamber to discover the door locked,” she explained. “Do you have the key?”

“Why, no, ma'am. Only Miss Foster has the key.”

“Oh. It's never been locked before.”

“Miss Foster's orders, ma'am.” The maid gave an apologetic nod. “As of yesterday. The tea service and silverware cupboards, as well.”

“And why in deuced hell would that be?”

Moira spun about to find Graham looming behind her. The sight of him produced prickles of self-consciousness. In the dusk of the service hall, even with the maid present, there seemed something far too intimate about standing before him in her dressing gown and bare feet. Moira felt…chilly and exposed and rather regretful she hadn't considered this possibility before leaving her room.

He, on the other hand, looked elegant and entirely at ease in wheat-colored trousers tucked into glossy boots, and a stark white shirt that brought out the lingering traces of Egyptian sunshine on his face and throat. For several foolish moments, she stared, caught like a butterfly in a sunbeam, captured by the beauty, the sheer, simple magnificence of the man in shirtsleeves who filled the doorway and dwarfed his surroundings.

She was so taken by him that she didn't at first notice how intensely he returned her gaze. Then a single dimple winked at her. How did he do that? She blinked and looked away.

Moira Hughes, remember yourself
.

“G-good morning, your lordship.” The maid dipped an unsteady curtsy and caught the banister for balance. “I don't know why the cupboards have been locked. I-I only know what I've been told, milord.”

Graham's gaze lingered on the woman. “Of course. I'll inquire with Mrs. Higgensworth. That will be all.”

The young woman made another stiff curtsy in preparation of continuing down the stairs, but Graham stopped her. “What is your name?”

Her face filled with alarm. “A-Anne, milord.” Her eyes began to glisten, her chin to tremble. “I'm sorry, milord, I—”

“It's all right, Anne. You aren't in any trouble. You're part of my staff, and I only wished to know your name.” He offered a benevolent smile that made Moira-the-former-maid's heart leap with gratitude. “Keep up the good work.”

“Yes, milord. Thank you, milord.” Anne scurried away, raising a clattering echo down the steps.

“Come with me.” Taking Moira's hand, Graham drew her down the hall and around a corner to his sister's room. He rapped his knuckles against the door. “Letty Foster, I wish to speak with you this instant.”

A noticeable moment passed before they heard a light scuffle of footsteps inside. The door cracked open little more than an inch. “Yes, Monteith? Why ever are you kicking up such a clamor at this uncivilized hour?”

“Open the door and come out here, Letty.” Between gritted teeth he added, “Now.”

“Oh…all
right.”
She stepped into the hall wearing a pretty morning gown of sunny lawn sprinkled with a green leaf pattern. Short puffed sleeves brought grace to her long, lean arms.

Graham glared down at her. “I'm interested in knowing, Letty, why we are suddenly locking doors in this house that have never been locked before.”

Letitia sniffed, bit her bottom lip, and looked so nonplussed Moira experienced ripples of embarrassment on her behalf. It was like the other night at supper all over again. Moira tried to catch Graham's gaze and issue an unspoken admonishment to be kind, but he seemed not to notice.

“Well?” The word was a growl. “I'm waiting.”

Letitia summoned her courage with an up-tilt of her chin. “It seemed prudent.”

“Prudent?” His retort made both Letitia and Moira jump.

“Y-yes. There are
strangers
about.” Moira supposed Letitia didn't quite intend to level such an accusing gaze on her. The girl shrugged. “One can't be too careful nowadays.”

Graham thrust his face close to his sister's. “Is Mother privy to this? Or did you conceive of it all on your own?”

“Mother knows,” she murmured and eased away a step.

“The keys.” Graham held out his hand. “All of them.”

After the briefest hesitation, Letitia spun about, stalked to her dressing table, and returned holding a ring of keys of various shapes and sizes. A disgruntled sigh escaped her as she dropped them into her brother's hand.

He passed the keys to Moira. “I believe you needed something in the linen room. Feel free to help yourself to anything else you desire, even if it might happen to be a handful of silverware.”

His sister flamed scarlet from neck to hairline. Hefting fistfuls of skirt, she whirled to trounce back into her room.

“Stop right there, young miss. You and I are going to talk. Moira, will you please excuse us?”

Despite Letitia's less-than-generous disposition, Moira didn't favor abandoning her to her brother's unpredictable temper. Not with that stormy look on his face and that craggy ridge above his perfectly chiseled nose.

“Graham, please…I only wanted a pillowcase.”

“And now you shall have it.”

“Yes, but—”

Too late. He took possession of his sister's elbow and marched her across the gallery to his suite of rooms. Moira knew what a persuasive bully he could be. Poor Letitia. Moira would say a little prayer for her.