Frovtunes’ Kiss (20 page)

Trusting Shaun to plan a strategy, Graham went searching the inner offices for Moira. He found her curled in a chair at the meeting-room table, her head cradled on her arms.

He lingered in the doorway, watching as her slender shoulders convulsed. Was she crying? The notion gripped his chest and at the same time sent an uncomfortable sensation crawling through him. He considered retreating to allow her a few more minutes of privacy.

Privacy? Bloody coward, afraid of a woman's tears. Yes, he'd rather face an army of honor-bent Bedouins than deal with a crying woman. A man possessed no defenses against that. Couldn't fight through tears with a sword, pistol, or fist. No, a woman's weeping reduced a man to shuffling, stuttering, spineless futility.

But the utter hopelessness of her posture wouldn't let him walk away, either. He tapped lightly on the open door, not wishing to startle her. At first she made no response. Ignoring the urge to give up, he was about to tap again when she lifted her head a fraction, just enough to view the doorway.

And give him a view of her face.

Without another thought, he went to her, crossed the room at a quick stride and knelt beside her chair. When his arms went around her, he felt none of her usual resistance, no effort to maintain propriety. The saltiness of tears mingled with her warm, sweet scent. Her breath trembled against his neck, and a need to protect, to fix everything that was wrong in her world, rose like a dervish inside him.

“Moira, forgive me. I should never have brought you here today. And for damned certain I shouldn't have let you look inside that office.”

She lifted her face from his collar. “I might have come alone if you hadn't volunteered to accompany me. I don't know what I would have done.”

Standing, he hoisted her into his arms, sat in the chair, and tucked her into his lap. For a long time she simply leaned against him. He held on tight, chin nestling in her hair.

His chest ached in response to her grief, but he felt something else, too, a surprising and thoroughly unfamiliar contentment, as if he were precisely where he ought to be. As if his shirtfront had been fashioned for no other purpose than absorbing as many tears as she needed to shed.

“I'm an abominable person,” she at last said with a sniffle. She sat up straighter and wiped her palms across her sodden cheeks.

He blinked. “What on earth do you mean? You're the best person I know.”

“Mr. Smythe wasn't only our solicitor. He was our friend. And…and…”

He thought she was going to collapse into sobs again, but she only swallowed and drew a deep, albeit shaky, breath. “I'm selfish and horrible because only some of my tears are for him. The rest are because now I'll never know what Papa intended for Mother and me. Our last hope is gone, probably forever. But how can I cry for my own petty concerns? How dare I, when poor Mr. Smythe lies dead?”

“Ah, Moira. You're not horrible, and neither are your concerns petty. I understand how vital your stepfather's promise is to you, and I assure you, hope is not lost. We're not going to sit back and do nothing.”

She was no longer looking at him, didn't even appear to be listening. Tears clung to her eyelashes and cheeks but had stopped flowing. Her brow furrowed as she stared across the room to the open doorway. He experienced a vague twinge of annoyance. Here he was at his most gentlemanly, despite the fact that her warm weight in his lap aroused urges that undoubtedly would have earned him a slap if she knew of them. He had put her needs first, and she'd barely noticed…

“I just remembered something. That cabinet in Smythe's office…” Sliding off his knees, she jerked her skirts into place and took off at a trot.

Graham followed her back to Smythe's office. The body had been moved, thankfully, to the long table in the filing room. Moira knelt beside the overturned cabinet, running a hand along its splintered edges.

“I noticed this when we first came in. It seemed odd to me, but then we discovered Mr. Smythe, and I forgot all about it. But look here, where it's broken. There are tiny hinges hidden within the molding.” Her hand traced the panel's edges. “And a recessed latch.”

Gaining her feet, she stooped and set the painted cabinet upright. One of its bowed panels swung back and forth, like a door.

“I never knew about this.” She thrust a hand into the concealed compartment and felt all around. “It's empty, but…” A startled gaze rose to meet his. “There's an identical cabinet at home in your study. Papa bought them on a trip to France, keeping one and giving this one to Mr. Smythe.”

“I never noticed the similarity, but now that you mention it—”

Her features went taut with urgency. “I believe I know where Papa's codicil is hidden.”

       12      

B
onnet bouncing on its strings against her back, Moira ran through the house, sliding to a breathless halt when she reached the study.

There she lingered, unable to step inside, at least not until she'd admonished her heart to cease pattering and she regained a modicum of common sense. The codicil might not be hidden where she believed it to be. Or it might not exist at all outside of her imagination. Papa never did so much as mention the word, although she had been so certain it was what he had meant.

It must exist. It simply
had
to.

With a shaky sigh, she entered the study. On the far wall, beneath the stern glare of the first Baron Monteith captured by bold brushstrokes on canvas, stood the mate to the cabinet in Mr. Smythe's office.

Painted garlands of flowers and leaves festooned a creamy surface, spilling down the sides to gently bowed legs that ended in clusters of carved blossoms. Lovely. Delicate. And today, perhaps, an instrument of fate.

On trembling legs she made her way across the room. Part of her dreaded reaching her destination, fearing the abysmal disappointment she might meet. Then the cabinet was before her. Her hands remained at her sides as the fortitude suddenly drained out of her in a torrent. Her legs gave way. She reached for the wall, teetered a moment, then sagged against the wainscoting until her bottom made contact with the floor.

The door to the study closed softly. She looked up to see Graham approaching, her reticule dangling on its cords from his fist. In her haste she had left it in the coach.

She offered a wan smile. “You look. I can't.”

He set her purse on his desk, then bent over her and touched her shoulder, a brief but reassuring brush with the backs of his fingers. Turning to the cabinet, he stood considering it a moment before running his hands along the panels. Moira hugged her knees and shut her eyes.

Through the rushing of blood in her ears came a click, then a squeak as the panel opened. The sound shot through her, striking chords of apprehension, hope, uncertainty. Then…nothing. Not a blessed sound.

Still not daring to look, she pressed her palms against her eyes. Was the compartment empty? How would she bear it? How on earth to return home to her mother with empty hands, empty hopes, empty cupboards, and no means of filling them?

“Moira.” Her name came as a deep bass note. “Look.”

A crinkling of paper forced her eyes open. Graham pulled his hand out of the cabinet, fingers clamped around a tied bundle of papers.

“Please.” She paused to swallow and say a quick prayer. “Tell me it isn't a stack of old letters.”

He tore at the twine. Her heart slammed her corset stays as he smoothed the pages open. He went still, frowning down at the topmost document before shuffling through the rest. His continued silence raised a mad impatience until she barely kept from grabbing his lapels and shaking him.

“Blazing hell.” He slid down the wall to sit beside her. A nervous rustling rippled through the papers. Then he broke into a grin that made his dimples cavernous. “These are ledgers, records of government stocks drawn on the Bank of England.”

She regarded him blankly. “Stocks?”

“This is it, Moira.” He waved the bundle under her nose. “These are your unentailed funds. Look here.” He pointed at a list of figures that meant nothing to her. “See? Most of these stocks were purchased way back in the late 1700s. Do you have any idea what they're worth now?”

She shook her head, the only response she could manage from within the swimming numbness threatening to drown her.

“Are you all right?” He slipped an arm around her shoulders. “Say something. You're frightening me.”

“But…what about the codicil? Is it there?” Her hands lay limp in her lap. Even now she couldn't summon the strength to reach for the documents that determined her future.

“I don't see it, but frankly you don't need one.”

“But without a codicil, these stocks are yours.” She slid out of the shelter of his arm, using the chair rail to pull to her feet. Fighting tears, she summoned all her resolve to hold her countenance steady. “I've told you before, I don't seek anyone's charity. I won't take what is rightfully yours.”

“Ah, Moira, do you think I'd claim these stocks? Never.” He gained his feet and faced her. “They are yours and your mother's, as your stepfather promised. His word is codicil enough for me. This is not charity, but the fulfillment of a dying man's wishes. We need only go down to the bank and authorize the transfer.”

A refusal simmered on her tongue. Why shouldn't he claim these stocks as part of his inheritance? Neither the bank nor the law would blink twice. Only her claims dictated he do otherwise, and that made it feel entirely wrong. The thought of accepting charity stung, yet she and her mother needed that money. Badly.

She was about to decline his offer, tell him he was a dear but she simply couldn't accept his generosity, when the enthusiasm in his handsome features sparked an entirely different notion.

“You, Graham Foster, are the greatest liar that ever walked the face of this earth.”

Her words stunned him to wide-eyed, eyebrow-arcing silence. She swallowed the urge to laugh and said, “You are a fraud, my lord Monteith, a charlatan of the most brazen kind. It's been a merry chase, wondering after the true Graham Foster. But you have been found out, my friend.” She jabbed a forefinger into his shirtfront. “There is no use denying it any longer.”

“Deny what?” His hand closed around hers, holding it against his chest. He looked utterly confused, alarmed. “What have I done now?”

“Nothing. That's just it.” Only with the staunchest of efforts did she contain a mouthful of delighted, bubbling laughter. “You pretend to be so cynical, so self-sufficient. Graham Foster doesn't need anyone, especially not his family. You almost had me believing it. And then you go and make such a sweet, generous, completely noble gesture such as handing me these stock accounts. You're no blackguard.” Her hand slid out from beneath his and came to rest on his smooth-shaven cheek. “You're a mush.”

“A what?”

“You heard me.”

He shook his head in adamant denial.

She cupped his face a moment longer; he was so beautiful, and never more so than at that moment.

“You're a family man in the truest sense of the word.” This time laughter accompanied her words; she simply couldn't help it. Finding the answer to her worries
and
discovering the gentler Graham Foster beneath the arrogant rogue proved more than she could bear. “Why else would you extend such kindness to my mother and me?”

“Yes, but you're not family, Moira.” The familiar devilish twinkle returned. He was laughing, too, now. “What are we? Distant stepcousins twice or thrice removed?” He made a feeble show of ticking off the degrees of relation on his fingers. His voice rasped like gravel as he continued, “No, not related in the least. Here, I'll prove it to you.”

Before she knew what he was about, his hands closed around her shoulders. He suddenly pulled her to him. A little squeal escaped her, quickly muffled by his lips, absorbed into his mouth. A vague thought flitted through her mind, something about impropriety and the necessity of pushing him away. Oh, but sensation—the strength of his arms, the masculine musk of his skin against her nose—proved stronger, keener, and infinitely more interesting.