Frovtunes’ Kiss (37 page)

Miss Hughes regarded him a moment in silence, then shook her head. “If only they had left some clue to the direction they took.”

“They may have left no clues,” Shaun put in before Graham could comment, “but that doesn't prevent us from making an educated guess.”

“Whatever do you mean, Mr. Paddington?” Miss Hughes asked.

“Just this.” His gaze encompassed the little group: Miss Hughes waiting expectantly, Graham half-dubiously, Freddy Foster with mild curiosity, and Miss Letty Foster—lovely Letty—with a regrettable pout of impatience.

He sighed. “There are only so many roads out of London. A man traveling with a woman and child would certainly use one of the coaching routes, wouldn't he? Any other would slow a fugitive to a dangerously sluggish pace.”

Miss Hughes held up her hands. “But once beyond the city, there's no telling which way they might head.”

“No? They'll want a town with a bank, won't they?” Shaun grinned. “In order to draw funds from the inheritance the moment they become available, or perhaps arrange a series of transfers to some final destination.”

“Good grief, Shaun, you're a genius.” Graham flashed his first genuine smile in hours.

“That does narrow the field,” Freddy agreed.

And Miss Foster…Letty? Shaun's pulse thudded as he waited for…yes, for
that
. The little ridge of perplexity above her nose disappeared and then reemerged as something altogether different.

Interest? Regard? Or—dare he think it—admiration?

“They want a means of disappearing, too,” he pressed on, emboldened now. “Once the inheritance is at their disposal, why shouldn't they leave the country? They'd be much harder to trace on the Continent. My guess is they're headed for a port.”

Graham's eyes narrowed. “They might have boarded ship right here on the Thames.”

“That was my first guess, but it takes time to reach the mouth of the Thames, and a ship can be boarded and searched anywhere along the way. I think they'll likely take an overland route to a port city.”

“A first-rate deduction, Mr. Paddington.” One of Miss Foster's golden eyebrows arced. “But there are numerous ports along the coast, with numerous destinations.”

“True enough, Miss Foster. But remember, they must wait for their funds before they travel. They'll want a busy city where they'll blend in. They'll also want a swift journey once they embark. I would rule out Portsmouth and all ports west of Dover due to the more lengthy distance across the channel. Dover itself is a possibility, although perhaps too obvious a one. They'll know we'll send men looking for them in Calais. That leads me to suspect they might try a more easterly port, perhaps Margate or Southend-on-Sea. From either of those, they might disappear into the Netherlands.”

“How very astute of you, Mr. Paddington.” The corners of Miss Foster's delicate mouth curved into a smile that added several beats to the rhythm of his pulse.

“Another matter occurred to me, as well,” he said, speaking now as if Letty Foster were the only person in the room. “Mr. Parker aside, the Bow Street inspectors are leery of our suspicions concerning Oliver Pierson and Piers Oliphant.”

“Morons,” the lady declared with a disdainful sniff.

“Indeed, Miss Foster, and I thought…if we only had a picture of Pierson to show Susan Oliphant's neighbors, we might very well achieve a positive identification and sway the officers to our cause.” He paused, swallowed, and prepared to be as forward as he dared. “Do you not draw, Miss Foster?”

“Why, yes, I do, Mr. Paddington, and I believe I understand what you are suggesting. I am acquainted with the man in question.” Her gaze darted to her brother. “I met him before you came home, Monteith, when Mr. Smythe opened the house for us.” She turned back to Shaun, face positively radiant with eagerness. “Perhaps you'll be so good as to help jog my memory, Mr. Paddington, to ensure I get it right.”

Ah, darling Let, anything. Anything at all
. Aloud he said, “I would be honored to be of service, Miss Foster.”

Reaching beside her to the nightstand, she lifted a platter whose hideous brown contents, as glistening and lumpy as flies trapped in molasses, quivered from the movement. “Would you care for some mince pie, Mr. Paddington?”

He schooled the distaste from his features. “Indeed, I would, Miss Foster.”

The house was hushed, vacuous. As Graham passed Moira's door, no light beckoned from beneath. He was tempted to try the knob. Was she awake? Still angry with him? He wished to explain again—better this time—why he'd brought things to a halt earlier that night.

Wanted to take her in his arms and assure her it hadn't been for lack of desire.

Or would he only compound the damage? It seemed they couldn't be alone without losing their heads.

Then again, was that really such a terrible thing? The notion raised a bit of a grin. He'd deal with Moira in the morning, when they were both fully awake. Thoughts of her constantly filled his mind, true, but it was concern for someone else that presently kept him from his bed.

He continued across the gallery and turned into the east wing. At Freddy's threshold, he stopped and pressed his ear to the door. Not a sound issued from within. Setting his candle on the hall table, he carefully turned the knob and stepped into the nearly pitch-dark bedroom.

He preferred the shadows. Freddy slumbered with nary a sound, his outlines a too-slender shape beneath the bedclothes. He'd lost weight, even in the few weeks Graham had been home.

If only he had been alert to the signs sooner, the warnings that contradicted the notion of Freddy overindulging in similar fashion to the other young bucks of his set. No, Freddy's excesses were of a far more sinister nature. He was wasting away inside and out, and until today all anyone had thought to do was disapprove.

The chair Graham had dragged to the bedside earlier was still there, as though awaiting his return. Sitting, he leaned over the bed, hesitated, and lowered a hand to his brother's brow as Letty had done countless times the night before.

No fever, nothing to indicate permanent damage. Freddy stirred, and a soft groan whispered through his lips. Graham moved his hand away, then set it lightly on Freddy's shoulder.

He had been almost ten when the twins were born. From the very first, they'd been angelic conspirators, devilish schemers. Despite, or perhaps because he was nearly a decade older, they'd toddled and then clambered after him, racing to keep up with their big brother.

The big brother Freddy these days looked upon with loathing.

He was glad Freddy was sleeping. He had something to say, but he doubted his ability to say it to a countenance that judged and found him so entirely wanting.

“They were right about me, Freddy,” he whispered. “The university, Benedict Ramsey, our parents, everyone. I cheated, just as they all said I did. Except that it didn't involve another student or any pointless examination. It was you. You and Letty. I've cheated you both for years, and I realize saying I'm sorry won't begin to make amends. You have every right in the world to despise me. It's perfectly all right that you do. Only don't…”

He swallowed against a burning sensation and waited for his throat to reopen. “Don't despise yourself, Freddy. Give me all of your contempt. I deserve it. You don't. Neither does Letty. You have to understand. You determine your future, and whether or not you'll ever know any measure of happiness. You and no one else. Don't waste your life, Freddy. Don't be miserable because your buffoon of a brother didn't realize the worth of what he had.”

He sat back. There, it was said and done, while Freddy snoozed peacefully on. Better that way. At least Freddy couldn't turn away. At least he hadn't spat.

Graham stood up but lingered at the bedside. He hadn't quite said all. There was one thing more, the most important of all, perhaps. Of course, it was the hardest to say and probably the very thing Freddy would least wish to hear. He decided it was better left until his brother was wide awake.

What, after all, did he have to lose?

Graham rose to the first gray glimmers of dawn, well before anyone else, or so he thought. He was surprised a short time later to find Moira already in the morning room, standing at the sideboard and spearing a slice of fried ham with a fork. She flinched when he bid her good morning. He took in her pleated skirt with its matching jacket. A bonnet lay on the table beside her coffee cup.

“You're up early,” she said in a decidedly accusing tone. A guilty light flared in her eyes.

“So are you.”

She gave a little shrug and returned her attention to the platters on the buffet.

“Where are you off to?” he asked.

Her next selections of toast and preserves resulted in spilled crumbs, a clattering spoon. “Who says I'm going anywhere?”

“Your carriage dress. Rather jittery this morning, aren't you?” He took her plate from her hands and carried it to the table. “Can't have you ruining another morning-room rug, now can we?”

Her eyebrows twitched to a frown. “You shouldn't sneak about, startling people.”

She tried to slip past him to the table, but with a quick side step he blocked her path. “You haven't told me where you're going.”

“I have some errands to do.”

“Where?” A step brought him closer to her.

“Here and there.” She backed away. “You needn't be concerned.”

“Needn't I?” He prowled closer still and grasped her shoulders, halting any further retreat on her part. “I am head of the Foster family, and you are still a member of it, last I checked. I'd like to know ahead of time where you're going and with whom. For your own protection.”

Her lips parted and plumped on an indignant huff, one he felt sorely tempted to swallow with a kiss. “And if you don't happen to approve?”

“Then you don't go.”

Her frown became a genuine scowl. “Am I a prisoner?”

“Do you wish to be?” He met her scowl with a wide grin and pulled her to his chest. He couldn't help it, neither the smile nor the need to feel her against him. Right or wrong, good or ill, he could no more resist her than an explorer could resist the lure of uncharted territory. She stirred his blood like a bracing desert wind, tinged with mystery and the promise of adventure.

He held her past the moment of resistance, when the rigidity left her and the gaps between their bodies closed. Her scowl dissolved. He stole the opportunity and nipped her lips, and felt well-rewarded when she nibbled back.

Her arms slid around his neck. “Yes, in answer to your question, blast you, in a way I wish I were. Then I wouldn't have to make decisions I loathe. Not have to think so bloody much about…” Her sigh warmed the skin of his neck. Her fingers tangled in the hair at the back of his head, pulling none too gently.
“Why
do we keep doing this? It's as if we
are
prisoners. Ones who hold the key to their shared cell but refuse to unlock the door and escape.”

Her gaze met his with a flare of conflicting emotions. Naked longing checked with fear, a desire to trust tainted by uncertainty.

Damn Everett Foster for that.

But no, it wasn't all Everett's fault. Graham wanted to soothe her fears and doubts the way he now soothed her brow with a caress and a kiss. “Damned if I know how to let you go, Moira, or how to set my feet in motion even if the cell door stood wide open.”

“And yet you will,” she murmured, sending a dart of truth shooting through him.

A maid carrying a fresh pot of coffee entered through the swinging service door. His arms opened, and Moira stepped out of them, shuffling to put a respectable distance between them.

She fussed with her hair, brushed at her bodice. “Yes, Mr. Paddington's suggestion was brilliant,” she said loudly, as if hoping to fool the maid into believing they'd merely been having a conversation. “Letty has composed two sketches of Piers Oliphant, one with spectacles and one without. Both are uncanny likenesses.”