Frovtunes’ Kiss (19 page)

The stranger with her now occupied the far corner of the coach by choice, a great brooding shadow drawn in upon himself, arms crossed, shoulders bunched, head bent. Oh, he liked to pretend imperviousness to life's trials and to his family's idiosyncrasies, but she knew better.

As he'd already proved in dozens of small ways, he wasn't a bad sort, not the cad she'd envisioned prior to meeting him. He was simply, well, a bit lost, and determined to shield his gentler side behind a devil-may-care indifference.

She saw what his brother's words did to him. But she had also detected in Freddy's abominable behavior a perverse sort of reaching out, a desperate plea for Graham to intervene. Perhaps this same sort of longing accounted for Letitia's petulance, as well. Despite their adult appearances, the Foster twins were two children in need of a father, or at least a father figure. Something Moira understood, being sadly devoid of a father herself these days.

Oh, but not one of these Fosters understood another. Somewhere along the way, events had torn them asunder from the heart outward, and Moira's own heart ached for them, albeit each of them often made her want to dash her head against the wall.

Perhaps, in return for Graham's helping her with her stepfather's will, she might find some way to reconcile this muddle of a family. Of course, the effort would require her to decline Benedict Ramsey's kindness and remain on Brook Street, where she might daily exert her influence. She wondered…could she befriend so quarrelsome a creature as Letitia? Win the regard of the flighty, pretentious Augusta? Gently lead Freddy away from the bottle—if he ever came home, that was. And Graham…

How to convince him he not only needed his family, but that it was perfectly all right to need them? She'd have to employ subtle means, and not be nearly as obvious in her prompting as she'd been back at the house.

A secretive smile blossomed as she warmed to the task.

“What's so amusing?”

“Oh, nothing.” She assumed an innocent expression. “I'm merely gladdened by the prospect of discovering something useful at Mr. Smythe's office. Do you suppose he'll have Papa's documents ready for us?”

“He'd better.” Graham returned to his huddle.

Oh, yes, the man needed her help. His entire family did. As she fell to planning her strategy, she barely noticed the remainder of their trip until the coach rolled to a stop and the footman opened her door.

They discovered Smythe's front office to be strangely quiet. Not only were there no patrons occupying the waiting area, but Mr. Pierson's desk stood deserted, as well, giving Moira the impression of a guardhouse hastily abandoned in the face of an attack.

“How odd.”

Graham led the way to the inner door. It opened upon more silence, so ponderous the hairs on Moira's nape stood on end. “If no one is in, why would the street door be unlocked?”

“Is anyone here?” Graham called. His voice filled the corridor, bouncing back at them from the closed office doors.

Moira instinctively reached for his hand, seeking reassurance in his steady grip. He didn't disappoint. His fingers closed securely around hers, instilling a sense of protection.

“Come.” His sultry murmur produced chills, or were the goose bumps running down her arms the result of the eerie stillness?

They stopped outside Mr. Smythe's door. Graham knocked. He turned the knob and pushed the door open.

A gasp broke from Moira's lips at the sight within. The room lay in shambles. Papers littered the floor. Drawers hung open or had been pulled free and dumped upside down. The contents of the desktop—ink, pens, desk pad, a lamp—lay in a scattered pile. A small cabinet had been flung onto its side, its doors gaping, a panel splintered.

“Blazing hell.”

“Yes, poor Mr. Smythe. He'll be most dismayed when he discovers he's been burgled.”

“That's not what I mean, Moira.” He raised his free hand and pointed to the floor just beyond one end of the desk.

At first Moira only made out a dark object poking through a spilled sheaf of papers. It was rounded on one side, flat on the other, not very big, and shined a bit in the light of the window. What could so leach the color from Graham's face and cause his fingers to tighten so insistently around hers as though ready to yank her away at any moment? Anchored by his hold, she pressed forward, peering to make sense of that strange black object.

The instant of recognition propelled her backward into his chest; her heart hammered in her throat while her legs nearly buckled.

The object was a shoe…connected to a trouser-covered ankle.

Graham's arms encircled her. She turned, pressing her face into his shirtfront. “Good heavens, is it…is it…?”

“Stay here.” He released her, though he hesitated before leaving her side as if to be certain she could stand on her own. Her ability to do so surprised even her. The room spun at the edges of her vision as she watched him cross to the desk. Broken glass crunched beneath his feet. He placed a bracing hand upon the desk's edge and leaned over low. Then lower. His back to her, he crouched and shoved bits of clutter aside.

“Is it?” she asked in a whisper.

“It is.”

She stepped forward. Graham whipped around, holding up both hands. “Don't come any closer, Moira.”

“Is—is he alive?”

He stared into her eyes, and shook his head. “I don't think so. He doesn't appear to be breathing.”

“Oh, good heavens.” Her hand pressed her mouth; she spoke around her shaking fingers. “How dreadful. Oh…what about Mr. Davis?”

Whirling, she grasped her skirts and headed across the corridor to the other solicitor's office. Before she reached the threshold, Graham caught her from behind, his arms snaking beneath her arms and taking firm possession of her. “But we need to see if he's all right…”

“I'll see. You stay put.”

She didn't argue. Trembling, breath lodged in her throat, she watched as Graham pushed the door inward.

It opened upon a scene much like the first. Strewn papers, ransacked drawers. And a body sprawled across the floor, though thankfully this one stirred in response to Graham's approaching footsteps. By the time he reached Mr. Davis, prone at the foot of the bookshelves, the solicitor let out a weak groan and tried to lift his face from the rug.

“Davis? Can you hear me?” Graham squatted on his haunches and gave the man a cautious nudge. The solicitor's chin dropped back to the floor, but he continued to make noises, albeit incomprehensible ones.

Relief sent Moira to kneel at Graham's side. “He's all right, then.”

“We'll know better in a moment, but at least he's alive.” He reached an arm around her waist and drew her against his side, closing the gaps between their bodies until she could feel the ripple of muscle along his rib cage, the slight crush of his torso against her breast.

Yet the intimacy of their position aroused nothing of his usual irksome, lustful teasing. Rather than wanting to push him away or chastise him, she felt protected, utterly safe.

Mr. Davis stirred again. Graham called his name. The man's eyes opened. He slowly rolled onto his back and attempted to sit up.

“Don't move.” Graham placed a hand on his shoulder. “Not just yet.”

“Wh-what happened?”

“We're hoping you might be able to tell us,” Graham said. “Do you remember anything?”

Mr. Davis fingered the side of his head. “Not sure. I was looking for a particular law book, when…” Pain etched furrows across his forehead. He lay silent for several moments before reaching out a hand. “Please help me up.”

“Certainly, Mr. Davis.” Moira helped him to a sitting position and, with Graham at his other side, let him lean his weight on her as he struggled to his feet. He swayed several times as they steered him to an armchair. After settling him in, Moira slipped away down the corridor to the meeting room. Nothing appeared disturbed there, and near the head of the long table, she found the brandy cart intact. She poured a generous glassful.

On the way back, an impulse sent her detouring to Mr. Smythe's doorway. His foot lay as they had left it, a scrap of buffed black leather poking heavenward. How forsaken it looked, how alone. A tearful ache pressed her eyes.

“We're so sorry to have left you there like that, Mr. Smythe,” she whispered to the toe of that black shoe. “It won't be much longer, we promise.”

“So you were searching for a book when the door opened,” Graham was saying as she reentered Mr. Davis's office. “Then what?”

The solicitor waited for Moira to hand him the snifter before answering. A gulp produced a shiver across his shoulders. With a deep breath, he continued, “I didn't bother turning around to see who it was. I knew only Smythe or young Pierson would be entering unannounced. Although, I do remember wondering why I hadn't heard a knock. Then I felt a blinding shock of pain, and everything went black.”

“You've no idea who struck you?” Graham perched on the edge of the desk. “You didn't hear anything that might identify the individual? Heavy or dragging footsteps, for instance?”

Mr. Davis shook his head. “I don't remember anything. What about Smythe? Was he attacked, too?”

Graham exchanged a glance with Moira. “We must send for the authorities,” he said quietly. “There'll need to be an inquiry. And Pierson appears to have gone missing.”

“You didn't answer my question about my partner.” Mr. Davis squinted back and forth between them. “Has something happened to Wallace?”

Graham nodded at the floor. “I'm sorry to have to tell you this, Davis. Wallace Smythe is dead.”

“Damn it, what could be taking so long?”

Graham paced Smythe's front office until a look from Shaun sent him into the nearest armchair. He plunked down into it and hunched forward. “I want her out of here, Shaun. Dead bodies are nothing new to you and me, but for Moira…”

“She'll be fine. She's a strong woman.”

Graham pushed out a breath. Moira and Mr. Davis were both still in the inner offices being interviewed by the coroner and a Mr. Miles Parker of the Bow Street Runners. Graham could only imagine the kinds of questions those men were asking. Of course, Moira would cooperate, not to mention put up a brave front worthy of a seasoned soldier. She always did, no matter the effort it cost her. “I should at least be in there with her.”

“These inspector chaps always want to question the witnesses individually. They believe it gives them an advantage.” Shaun paused, eyebrows knit. “You're convinced the burglar meant to kill Smythe?”

Graham knew by his thoughtful tone that Shaun was working it out, searching for clues in the scant information they had so far.

He nodded, unable to block out the memory of the solicitor's bashed head and misshapen features. “Definitely not the unintentional result of a mere blow to the head. The culprit wanted Davis incapacitated, but I assure you he meant to have Smythe permanently out of the way.” He winced as the grisly images flashed in his mind. “What's more, the inspectors have already determined that while Davis's office has been vandalized, nothing is actually missing. Smythe's office, on the other hand, was ransacked with a purpose.”

Specifically, Everett Foster's records. Vanished. All of them. And to think it had been Graham's orders that prompted Smythe to compile the documents and have them ready today. In effect, Graham had inadvertently made the thief's job easy.

“But why kill Smythe?” Shaun propped his chin in his hand.

“The answer may be hidden in Everett Foster's financial documents. Today's events have proved his last will and testament involve more far than meets the eye.” Pushing out of the chair, he began pacing again. “The big question is, what happened to Pierson and how much does he know? Think you can track him down?”

“That's two questions.” Shaun shrugged. “Finding Miss Hughes's lodging house was easy. Locating a man who might be intent on remaining hidden is another matter. I've been away from England a rather long time, old man. Don't have the contacts I once had.”

Graham approached Pierson's desk, gazing over the contents of the blotter. He lifted a brass fountain pen from its holder, opened and then closed a leather-bound ledger. “You don't suppose he was taken hostage?”

“To what purpose? If the killer wanted him dead, his body would be lying here now. And Pierson is just a clerk, so he's worth nothing as far as ransom is concerned.”

Graham nodded. “See what you can find out. I have a lot more faith in your abilities than in the authorities.”

The inner door opened upon Mr. Davis, followed by the coroner. “Mr. Parker is finishing up collecting his evidence,” the coroner told them. “And I now have the unhappy task of informing Wallace Smythe's family of his demise. Lord Monteith, Mr. Davis, good day to you both.” The man nodded at Shaun, as well, and took his leave.