Frovtunes’ Kiss (3 page)

He gave a nod and reclaimed his arm. “Very well. Perhaps I can spare you a moment. Step this way.”

He led her past the first office and into another that lay empty. Mr. Smythe walked several paces into the spacious, well-appointed room but didn't sit, nor did he invite Moira to make herself comfortable in one of the armchairs set before the desk. Just as well. She presented a much more formidable impression, she thought, standing rather than sitting.

“What may I do for you, Miss Hughes?”

“It's about my stepfather's will.”

A decidedly uncomfortable cast settled over the man's aging features. “The will has been read and executed accordingly, Miss Hughes. And I must point out you were not directly mentioned in it.”

“May I see a copy?”

“That would be most irregular.”

By the depth of his frown, she knew he meant impossible.

“Then can you tell me please, sir, did my stepfather make any recent changes to the will, perhaps a few weeks or months prior to his passing?”

“Again, Miss Hughes, your inquiry is most irregular. You were not, after all, Everett Foster's natural daughter.”

A near sob of frustration escaped her.

His expression softened. “In answer, no. Lord Monteith made no changes to his will. You must realize the document was merely a formality. The original patent quite clearly established the line of inheritance.”

“Are you entirely certain?” She wanted to grasp his lapels and shake him, make him remember what must—simply
must
—be so. “Could there be a codicil? You see, Mr. Smythe, as Papa lay ill, he told me he'd made a change, one that would…”

She trailed off, unwilling to disclose to this apparently indifferent man how very badly she and her mother needed whatever provisions Everett Foster had made for them.

“If there is a codicil,” Mr. Smythe said at length, “I'm afraid I am not aware of it, which prompts me to state with certainty that none exists. Lord Monteith always discussed his legal affairs with me. He wouldn't likely have taken such action without consulting me.” He smiled gently, his first real show of sympathy thus far. “I know he was very ill in the end, my dear. Could he perhaps have been delirious when he made this declaration to you?”

Moira sank into the nearest chair. “Perhaps. I don't know.” She cradled her forehead in her gloved hand. “Couldn't you please make an exception and allow me to view the will?”

“If it were up to me, I would. But you see, since the will has been executed, the document has been registered and filed with the Prerogative Court of Canterbury.”

“Very well, then, I'll go there.”

“Miss Hughes, one can't simply
go there
. One must first file a request to view the documents in question and wait for the next available appointment. This being London's busiest season, it could take weeks or even months.”

“Months?” Her throat closed around a lump of despondency.

“I'm sorry, Miss Hughes, but I must be getting back…”

“Yes, to your important client.” She placed her hand in his offered one and rose to her feet, feeling the slightest of thrusts as he turned her toward the door. So much for sympathy.

He escorted her into the corridor. “How is your mother?”

“Quite well, thank you. Enjoying our new home.”

“Give her my regards.”

“I will. Good day.”

“Good day, Miss Hughes.”

She barely had time to turn away before the tears began stinging her eyes. Clenching her teeth and wanting only to be gone, she quickened her steps.

The door to the first office lay partially open. At her approach, a man sitting inside turned his head toward her, revealing a strong chin; a fine straight nose; a brow hidden beneath a careless shank of tawny brown hair. He saw her, stood partway up, and made a little bow, his head cocked in polite acknowledgment. His eyes—cool, clear, starkly blue against an unusually tanned complexion—met hers, and he flashed a grin that took her aback with its impertinence, its brazen assessment.

To Moira's complete chagrin, his disarming smile brought her to a dead halt. Like a simpleton, she stared at the teasing curve of those lush lips, the whiteness of his even teeth, and the deepest, most captivating set of dimples she had ever seen.

And then, dear God, a tear spilled over, trickling hot moisture down her cheek. At the same time—oh, the shame of it—she emitted a small but undeniable sniffle.

Mortified, she hurried to the door of the outer office, praying the man hadn't noticed her sorry state or, if he had, that she'd never cross paths with him again.

“Mr. Smythe, who was that lovely but woefully tragic young lady walking by just now?”

The solicitor rounded his desk, adjusted his trouser legs, and settled into his creaking leather chair. “Yes, that was Miss Moira Hughes, the late Lord Monteith's stepdaughter.”

“Really? Then why the blazes didn't you introduce us? She and I
are
practically related.” He bit back a grin. This might prove one instance when a family connection came in handy. “She seemed rather upset. Is there a problem I should know about? As head of the family, I mean.”

“No, my lord, not at all.” At Graham's skeptical look, Smythe released a lengthy sigh. “I'm afraid her stepfather's death has left the lady most distraught.”

“Have she and the widow been provided for? Is there anything I might do for them?” Yes, he'd be more than gratified to offer his services to the darkly stunning Moira Hughes; would graciously lend a sympathetic ear to her sorrows and extend a benevolent hand to wipe away her tears, albeit they magnified those midnight eyes until they gleamed like newly cooled obsidian.

“You needn't concern yourself.” The solicitor held up the flats of his hands in a gesture of reassurance. “They've a house in Shelbourne and an annuity. I assure you they are quite well taken care of.”

“Do you know where she's residing in London?”

Smythe glanced at him from over a sheaf of papers. “She used to reside where you're presently residing, my lord. Beyond that I couldn't say. She didn't leave her card.”

“A pity. I shall have to make inquiries.” He grinned at the other man. “Tell me again, Smythe. Exactly how much money have I inherited?”

“What do you mean, they've vacated?” Graham ran a hand through his hair, then remembered the pomade his new valet had saturated his head with earlier. He resisted the urge to wipe his fingers on the front of his formal tailcoat and vowed to duck the next time Baxter came at him with a comb and an open jar.

Then again, Baxter's fashion sense appeared to be dead-on, judging by the number of heads glistening beneath the lanterns strung throughout Mr. and Mrs. Ralph Jarvis's formal gardens. That is, where heads were visible. The affair was a masquerade ball with an Italian Renaissance theme, and a good number of the crush sported wigs and masks.

Graham had flat out refused to attend in costume. Despite his mother's and sister Letty's protestations, he'd worn black evening attire whose sole concession to history was a cravat pin of lapis lazuli carved in the shape of a scarab. It was Egyptian in origin, but who here would know the difference? He'd threatened to come in a fig leaf and nothing more, effectively silencing Mother's and Letty's nagging.

Beside him, his mother tsked at his question. “Perhaps
vacated
is the wrong word, dear. Lady Monteith and her daughter have simply moved into a home that is more suitable to their needs.”

“At whose insistence?”

“Their
own
, to be sure,” his sister said. “They
certainly
must understand that you, as the new baron, have need of the house or will shortly, once you've married and set about producing an heir.”

The beginnings of a headache grazed his temple. “I see you two have my future well planned.”

“Yes, and after all,” his mother went on, shaking her head and setting the peacock feathers on her mask fluttering, “what need would a widow and her spinster daughter have of such a vast estate?”

Spinster?
Hardly the word Graham would use to describe the dazzling beauty he had glimpsed in Smythe's office yesterday. Somewhat flippantly he had termed her
tragic
, but the notion kept returning to haunt him. He couldn't erase from his memory the single tear that had traced a glistening course down her lovely cheek.

The woman had lost her stepfather and her fiancé all in the same year. She'd left her home of many years, as well. Everyone jumped to reassure him of her well-being, but he wondered. Had the move been a voluntary escape from too many rooms and too many memories, or impelled by far less sentimental forces, such as the two ladies currently affecting innocent expressions, or trying to.

“Really
, Monteith, you needn't sound as if we tossed them out into the
rain
. We hear the parish has offered them a perfectly
charming
cottage.” Letty waved a beaded fan before her face while peering over its rim to see who might be watching her. In her jeweled headdress and draping, shoulder-baring gown of red and gold, his sister appeared an odd mixture of Roman goddess and Italian courtesan.

Graham suppressed the urge to point this out to her and said, “For the umpteenth time, Letty, it's Graham. Not Monteith.”

No, his title sat heavy with him, more a burden than a boon after so many years in the desert. There, such respect was typically reserved for men who'd truly earned it, rather than those who claimed it on the successes of their forebears.

“How
provincial
.” Letty tossed her golden brown curls. “Monteith
is
your name now, like it or no. Furthermore, while you were away digging for skeletons, I grew up. I prefer Letitia. I
despise
Letty.”

Yes, so did their mother. Graham still remembered the exact moment Augusta Foster had realized her colossal error in naming her infant twins Frederick, for their paternal grandfather, and Letitia, for a greataunt. She'd entered the nursery one sunny morning to hear their nurse cooing ever so gaily above them, “Good morning, Freddy; good morning, Letty. Time to get Freddy and Letty all ready.”

Their mother had gone utterly still, open mouthed and aghast, only to burst into a tirade an instant later. She'd berated the nurse never to use those pet names again if she valued her position. Too late. Nine-year-old Graham, perched on the window seat, had taken an immediate fancy to the rhyme. He'd devised dozens more over the years.

“I'll certainly try to remember that, Letty,” he said now with a wink that made his sister's eyes narrow and her lower lip droop.

A crescendo from the orchestra drowned out her huff. Graham's gaze drifted to the couples waltzing on the terrace. This gathering was about as exciting as life in London ever became, and he feared he'd drown in the boredom of it.

Like Letty, the city had grown up while he was away, burgeoning with new streets and squares, becoming ever more intricate, sophisticated, fussy. And as with Letty, he rather disapproved of the changes that made London a stranger to him.

An increasingly familiar yearning took hold, an acute craving for baked desert winds, the piercing brightness of sun and sky, the unpredictable adventures of hidden temples, cursed tombs, and Bedouin-guarded treasure.

How long before he settled his inheritance and returned to Egypt?

“Where has your brother run off to?” His mother's question broke his reverie. She craned her neck to scan the gardens. “I do hope he hasn't…” She trailed off as frown lines arced above her feathered mask.

She needn't finish the thought, for Graham to understand her apprehensions concerning her younger son. Freddy, too, had undergone changes since Graham had seen him last, not the least of which was a troubling fondness for brandy. “Would you like me to find him, Mother?”