Frovtunes’ Kiss (33 page)

“Piers Oliphant? No, no, you're quite mistaken.” She experienced a rush of relief that they had not, in fact, been discussing the same person. “My business is with Mr.
Michael
Oliphant. Do you know him?”

A frown deepened the already considerable creases in the woman's brow. “No, I ain't never ‘eard of a Michael Oliphant. Could be there's another brother, I s'ppose, but I ain't never seen him round ‘ere.” A crooked finger pointed in Moira's face. “You'll stay clear of that Piers, though, if you know what's good for you.”

“Yes, I'll be sure and do that. Good day and thank you.” Disheartened yet again, Moira backed away toward the street, only to tread on poor Mr. Paddington's toes. Well, he needn't hover quite so close, need he?

“Crazy old coot,” he murmured, gripping the hand strap as their coach swerved west onto the Strand. “Reminds me of our gamekeeper's wife when I was a lad. Always going about the estate hiding the heads of dead chickens in the oddest places. Claimed it warded off all manner of calamity. Scared the other servants silly, till Father demanded she stop or pack her bags.”

She only half-listened to his reminiscence, her mind far more occupied with deciding how next to proceed. Return to Mr. Bentley at the bank? He'd already risked his employment by helping her once. Begin another search through the house, in hopes of finding…what?

Or finally admit defeat and return home to her mother. Such a bleak prospect, such grim finality…

“Gamekeeper,” she exclaimed, her mind seizing upon that single word from Mr. Paddington's boyhood memory. “Good gracious, why didn't I think of it sooner?”

He eyed her in sidelong puzzlement. “Do you hunt, Miss Hughes?”

“What?” She shook away her preoccupation. “No, Mr. Paddington, I do not hunt. But tell me, who in every household knows precisely the affairs of each of its members? Who keeps abreast of every new development, every crisis, each and every well-guarded secret?”

His brows gathered. “Never was much good at riddles, Miss Hughes.”

“The servants, Mr. Paddington, the servants.”

He mouthed a silent
ah
but didn't appear any more enlightened. She slapped her palms against the seat in a burst of impatience. “Is there no way to coax our driver to enliven the pace?”

“Right you are, Miss Hughes.” In this, Mr. Paddington showed no hesitation in the least. Putting his face to the window, he stuck two fingers in his mouth and emitted a sharp whistle. “Driver, there's an extra quid for you if you get us to Brook Street within the half hour.”

As if eager to match the leap in Moira's pulse, the horses broke into a trot.

“You went
where?”

Though it was Moira's matter-of-fact announcement that prompted Graham's interrogation, his exasperation centered directly on Shaun. “What were you
thinking?
You
don't
take a woman like
Moira
to a neighborhood like
that
, especially when there's already been at least
one
murder committed in all of this
mess”

And
why
was he sounding remarkably like Letty, aping her habit of emphasizing every other word?

He stepped back, perched at the edge of his desk, shut his eyes, and brought his temper under control with a deep breath. Between his exploits with Freddy this afternoon and now this…

He opened his eyes to find Moira standing within the vee of his splayed knees. Her arms went around his neck, her sweet touch imparting the contrition reflected in her eyes. Her muslin-clad breasts brushed his shirtfront, sending his anger for a headlong tumble into desire.

Little conniver, trying to win his sympathies, and doing a splendid job of it, too.

“You mustn't blame Mr. Paddington,” she said. “The fault lay entirely with me.”

“I don't for one minute doubt that. However…”

She stopped his words with a kiss that brought her length snugly against him. As lust leapt to a roaring flame, he heard Shaun clearing his throat and shuffling his feet.

No, he supposed he oughtn't to blame his friend for Moira's dangerous foray, for he knew as well as anyone the extent of the woman's persuasiveness.

He savored the taste of her lips another moment before raising his mouth from hers. “All right, my dear, we'll deal with your headstrong inclinations later.”

She smiled sheepishly at him, then turned serious. “How is your brother?”

Changing the subject—a good strategy. But the warmth of her hands closing around his own spoke of her genuine concern for Freddy. “Sleeping safe and sound in his bed.”

“And Letty?”

“A bit shaken, but keeping guard at his bedside.” He gave in to the temptation to lower his forehead to hers, losing himself for a few precious seconds in the feel and scent of her. “I have to thank you. Turns out you were right about bringing Letty. She surprised me today, appealing to Freddy as part-sister and part-regiment commander. He'd never have come along had it been me alone.” He shook his head. “He despises me.”

“Don't be silly.” She nudged his chin. “Your brother doesn't despise you. If he did, he wouldn't go to such lengths to attract your notice.”

He met her gaze. “Is that what he's doing?”

Her sigh pronounced him hopeless. She suddenly tugged his hand, leading him past a rather relieved-looking Shaun and into the corridor. Before they'd progressed many paces, however, she stopped and called over her shoulder, “Mr. Paddington, why don't you see if Miss Foster needs anything.” Then she began hollering Mrs. Higgensworth's name.

They discovered the housekeeper at the rear of the house, in the ladies' parlor. On bent knees, the woman was carefully sweeping a bristle brush back and forth across an armchair's gold moiré cushion.

“When I discover which servant spilled water on this costly fabric,” she griped under her breath, “there's going to be a very loud, very uproarious to-do.”

“Ah, Mrs. Higgensworth?” Moira hovered on the threshold, her momentum abruptly stalled.

“Yes, dear, what can I do for you?”

“The spilled water…er…that would be me.”

The housekeeper sat back on her heels. “I suppose I might have guessed. Well, never mind. If the stain won't come out, I'll set another pillow over it.”

“Yes, but do leave it for now, please. There's something I wish to ask you. But not here. Is anyone in the morning room at present?”

“Quiet as a tomb. I'll have tea sent up directly.”

At the morning-room table, Graham's curiosity spiked as he watched Moira sip tea and nibble her watercress sandwich. He kept his questions to himself, however, fairly certain her sudden interest in speaking with the housekeeper bore some connection with her illicit ride to the Strand.

“Mrs. Higgensworth, you've been here for many years, haven't you?”

“Indeed, Miss Moira. I came when your stepfather first became Baron Monteith. I was a parlor maid then.”

“So you must be fairly familiar with Papa's acquaintances.”

“With those acquaintances who have visited the house.” The woman stirred her tea absently.

“Can you tell me, did you ever hear of a Mr. Michael Oliphant?”

The spoon clattered, sending dollops of tea across the linen tablecloth. “Who?”

Moira regarded the stains, then exchanged a glance with Graham. “You heard me, Mrs. Higgensworth. And I daresay you've heard the name Michael Oliphant before.” Her gaze, sharp and glittering, rose to meet the other woman's. “Please, you must tell me all you know of this man.”

“Oh, now, Miss Moira, why would you want to go poking into matters that don't concern you?”

The apprehension in the woman's voice raised the hairs on Graham's neck and made him wish he'd been the one conducting this inquiry, without Moira present.

Moira leaned over the table. “Doesn't concern me? Mrs. Higgensworth, I'll have you know this Mr. Oliphant has made off with a portion of my stepfather's estate. A portion that by rights and all that is decent should belong to my mother.”

Dismay spread across the wide, kindly face. “Your mother's a goodly soul and as generous a mistress as a body could hope for.” Her voice fell to a whisper. “She didn't deserve it, Miss Moira, and neither did you.”

“Deserve what? Did my stepfather fall into debt?”

The housekeeper angled a despondent look at Graham, obviously wishing herself elsewhere. He wished it, too, dreaded the unknown thing about to be said, but realized it was too late to stop this particular boat from sinking. He nodded gently. “You needn't fear the consequences, Mrs. Higgensworth. Just tell us what you know.”

She sighed. “A debt of sorts, yes. Of the moral kind. It's a tale I swore I'd never speak aloud, especially not to you, Miss Moira. My sweet lamb.”

At the endearment, Moira reached across the table to clasp the woman's hand. “Have no fear of speaking the truth,” Moira assured her. “The truth can't possibly hurt me more than all these secrets have.”

The housekeeper denied this with a tearful shake of her head. She frowned down at the slender hand covering her own plump one.

“I did meet a soul by the name of Michael Oliphant last winter. It was as cold and black a night as can be imagined, and I'd only just crawled beneath the bedclothes when a pounding shook my bedroom door. It was your stepfather, Lord Monteith. Without a word of explanation, he bade me don my heaviest dress and cloak and follow him out to the carriage house.

“We left Mayfair and traveled to a neighborhood the likes of which make hearty men tremble in their boots. I don't know where we were. It was so dark and I was shivering so badly I couldn't retrace our route for all the gold in America.”

“That's all right,” Moira said, and Graham doubted anyone but he could have detected the impatience in her voice. “What did you find when you arrived?”

With shaky hands Mrs. Higgensworth lifted her tea and took a sip. “You're quite sure you wish to know, Miss Moira?”

A breath slid from her throat, her frustration evident.

“So be it, then. What I found in that squalid dwelling was a woman laboring to bring forth a child.” Her gaze bore into Moira's. “I had been brought to attend the birthing. Michael Oliphant entered the world that night.”

“My goodness! Could that be the baby boy I met today? Then I must be seeking whomever his mother named him after. She called herself
Miss
Oliphant, so the child is obviously not named for his father. One of his uncles, perhaps? But I don't understand why you and Papa were—”

“No, Miss Moira, there is no uncle by that name. It wasn't the mother who named the babe. His father named him. His father bestowed his own middle name on the child.”

That last statement, drawn out in a plunging whisper, hung between them all like the echoing beats of a drum. Graham didn't know what they meant. He only knew they sapped the color from Moira's cheeks and left her shaking.

“Dear God.” She lurched to her feet, sending her chair crashing behind her.

“Moira, what is it?” He gained his feet in an instant.

“It can't be.” Backing away from the table, she stumbled against her chair's upturned legs.

He darted to her side, reaching to steady her. Her wrist trembled in his hand. “What can't be? Mrs. Higgensworth, what does this mean?”

“I swore I'd never tell.” The woman's gaze brimmed with remorse. “I wish I'd kept my oath.”

“Tell what?” He caught Moira's shoulders. Horror slowly spread across her features, engulfing them. “Moira, what don't I understand?”

Eyes gone bleak and misty met his. Helpless, he watched the dazzling spark he adored extinguish like last night's embers. Though she peered into his face, her gaze traveled through him, to some unspeakable sorrow beyond.

“He gave the boy his middle name. Just as he left him an inheritance to see him through life.” Her voice was flat, devoid of all expression save resignation. “Why shouldn't he have done so? The boy's father, you see, was Everett Michael Foster.”

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