Frovtunes’ Kiss (5 page)

He raised her glass and drank from it, from the place that still held the moisture of her lips. As his gaze held her, the air around her thickened and warmed. Her mouth tingled as if his lips had touched her and not the glass; an achy sensation gathered deep inside.

“Th-there is nothing to forgive, my lord,” she assured him, and shook her head to clear it. The past moments had quite convinced her she would never glean a bit of useful information from him, not here beneath the dark and fragrant arbor; not with those laughing blue eyes making her forget everything she'd planned to say to coax the truth from him.

“If you'll excuse me, my lord, I—”

“Won't you call me Graham? I cringe at the sound of ‘my lord.' “

“Certainly not.”

“No?” He touched a fingertip to the underside of her chin, sending a mortifying blaze of heat to her cheeks. “I suppose it will have to be Foster then, won't it? For I simply will not abide ‘my lord.' “

How dare he belittle the title borne with such dignity by both her stepfather and Nigel? She clenched her fists in the folds of her gown. “Mr. Foster, I must bid you good evening. I did not attend alone, you see. I was escorted by…my brother, and I'm afraid he'll be searching for me.”

“Brother. Blazing hell.” His groan dissipated into the honeysuckle. “I'd forgotten. I'm supposed to be searching for a brother myself. We'll have to excuse each other then, Miss Houser.”

He lifted her hand to his lips. When she thought he would release her, he didn't, but contemplated her glove with a vague frown. She had sold all her full-length evening gloves and had to make due with these lace mitts. Now her wrist felt naked and vulnerable beneath his scrutiny.

Gently he turned her palm upward. Bending his head, he pressed his open lips to her pulse, just beyond the edge of her glove. And then…great good heavens…she felt the moist graze of his tongue against her flesh, leaving a trail of fire that burned all through her, straight down to the tips of her toes. Her knees wobbled, threatened to give way. A gasp broke from her lips.

Graham Foster straightened, smiled into her eyes, turned, and strode away. Her heart pounding against her corset stays, Moira stared after him and shivered.

“Shaun, my friend, I think I'm in love.”

“You don't say.” Shaun turned from whatever he'd been contemplating outside Graham's sitting-room window. Eyebrows as black as coal arced in genuine interest. “With whom?”

Graham stretched out his legs on the chaise, tipped his head back, and slipped another orange slice into his mouth. He'd purchased two crates in Spain on the trip back from Africa. Now he wished he'd brought three, as Letty threatened to exhaust the supply within days. “I wish I knew,” he replied.

“A little early to be drinking, isn't it?”

“I haven't been. Did you see me walking with a woman at the ball last night?”

“I saw you walking with a number of women.” Shaun moved away from the window and threw himself into a nearby armchair. “To which are you referring?”

“You saw me
escaping
the advances of a number of women. Only one caught my interest. The one in dark blue with the matching mask.”

“Ahhhh. Intriguing, that one. You ever discover what lay behind that mask?” Shaun leaned to pluck an orange from the bowl at Graham's elbow.

“No, damn it.”

“More intriguing still. And since you no doubt tried, I'm quite certain your failure to do so has you stewing.”

“I want you to make inquiries.”

“Will do.” Shaun pierced the orange rind with his thumbnail, sending out a tangy spray of juice. He licked the tip of his thumb and made a face. “Too tart. I did manage to find out where that Miss Hughes is staying while she's in London. Got Smythe's secretary to spill his guts.”

“So Smythe lied.”

“Like a Gypsy horse trader.”

“I wonder why. How thickly did you have to line the secretary's pocket?”

“Not too much. Just sat there cleaning my fingernails with that serpent's-head dagger I found in Dendera.” Shaun shrugged. “It seems the lady has rooms at a boardinghouse on the Surrey side of the river.”

Graham jerked his chin toward his friend. “The Surrey side?”

“Southwark.”

“Why the devil would she take rooms there? She might have stayed here if she'd only asked. It was her home, after all, before it became mine.”

“You know how ladies are. Probably didn't want to share the place with a new mistress.”

“New mistress, indeed.” Graham scowled and rolled his partially eaten orange onto the table beside him. “I wasn't at all pleased to arrive in England to find my family already installed in my new home and amassing debts I'm now expected to pay. Talk about taking without asking.”

“Have they spent all that much? Relatively speaking, that is.”

“That's not the point. They had no right.”

“They
are
your family.”

“Are they? They disowned me quick enough ten years ago over that cheating incident.” Graham suppressed a shudder at the memory of the injustice. He'd never felt more betrayed before or since.

Shaun furrowed his brow in sympathy. “Didn't help matters that your own uncle took sides against you.”

“The old cobra isn't my uncle. Just another of my numerous distant cousins. We're a far-flung family, one whose reach far exceeds its regard.”

“Still, your immediate family has tried to make amends over the years,” Shaun reminded him, not for the first time.

“Ah, yes,
after
they heard I'd discovered treasure in Egypt. But I haven't tossed them out on their ears yet, have I?” Shaun said nothing as Graham ruminated for several moments. Then a thought occurred to him. He swung his feet to the floor and sat up. “I have a sneaking suspicion they might be the same person.”

His friend nodded, unperturbed as usual by Graham's abrupt leap in conversation. “Miss Hughes and the mysterious woman in blue, eh?”

“She called herself Mary Houser.”

“Moira Hughes, Mary Houser.” Shaun shook his head. “Quite the amateur, isn't she?”

Moira. Like Maura, but not quite. No, one must achieve a quick realignment of the mouth to make it come out right. A pursing of the lips and a slight flick of the tongue, clever little motions that pleased him. Rather like a kiss. Moira, Moira. “What do you suppose she might be hiding?”

A knock at the door prevented Shaun from answering.

“Come.”

Baxter bowed his way into the room. A dismal expression dragged at his otherwise stoic features. “I've brought the requested items, sir.”

“Good. Bring them here.”

The valet stepped gingerly across the carpet as if afraid of disturbing someone, then reached into his coat pocket to extract a cloth bag cinched tight with a drawstring. Graham reached for the sack and held it to his ear.

“Are they alive? I don't hear them buzzing.”

“Quite alive, my lord.” Baxter's lip curled. “Sleeping, perhaps.”

Graham nodded. “Thank you, Baxter. That will be all.” But just before the servant closed the door behind him, Graham called, “Oh, Baxter, have you seen my brother yet this morning?”

“No, sir. I don't believe Mr. Frederick returned home last evening.”

“Let me know the moment he does.”

“Very good, sir.”

“Brothers, sisters, cousins…ah, Shaun, life was so much simpler in Egypt,” Graham grumbled as the door closed behind his valet.

“You didn't think so when Hakim al Faruq threatened to slit your throat.”

“The man was making a point.”

“Yes, against your jugular.”

“It turned out well, didn't it? I miss the old boy. By God, I miss that life.”

“We'll return soon enough, and when we do, we'll have virtually unlimited funds.” The armchair creaked as Shaun leaned forward. “We won't have to search out the graves of goldsmiths and minor nobles any longer. We can head right for the important sites and get on with the work we set out to do.”

“How right you are.” Graham glanced down at the sack cupped in his palm. His mood brightened considerably. “Isis is sure to be hungry by now, but perhaps I should wait and allow Freddy the honor when he arrives home. Or perhaps you'd prefer to do it.”

Shaun flicked the fingers of both hands as if to dislodge something sticky and unpleasant. “Unless you wish to create a panic, you'd best do it. I'll lock the door, just in case.”

“Why, Miss Moira, what a surprise. A
wonderful
surprise, my dear. But why are you sneaking in through the garden?”

Stout hands encased Moira's shoulders as Mrs. Higgensworth drew her into the kitchen.

Moira indeed felt like a sneak. Having concealed herself in the laundry yard until dusk, she'd approached the house and peeked in through the kitchen windows, ducking whenever one of the servants passed by. It had taken a colossal effort of patience to wait until she finally glimpsed the housekeeper alone before tapping on the garden door. She drew a breath now to begin her explanation but Mrs. Higgensworth spoke first.

“You poor lamb, abroad this time of evening and all alone. Why I've never heard of the like…” Cradling Moira's hand in both her warm, ample ones, the older woman brought her into the servants' dining hall. “Have you had your tea? You sit yourself down while I ring for Susan to bring some.”

Emitting little puffs of breath, the housekeeper waddled to the bell pull. “You're such a dear to visit me like this. We've missed you and your mother dreadfully these many months, and your stepfather, too, God rest his kindly soul. I daresay, things have not been the same since he left us. Dear me, not at all the same…”

“Mrs. Higgensworth, I need to speak with you.”

“Not until I've seen a hot meal go into you. You're as thin as a scarecrow, you poor little thing.” She returned to the table and plunked down beside Moira. “I suppose I should bring you upstairs and announce you, though I confess I'd rather keep you to myself for a while, give us time to catch up and all. But, Mrs. Foster—oh, can you believe the woman ordered me to call her
my lady
, as if it were her birthright. No, it's her oldest son who's inherited the Monteith name, and all the rest of ‘em are Missus, Miss, and Mister Foster as far as I'm concerned.”

She went on, but Moira heard little after mention of the son who'd inherited Monteith. The very thought of him incited an infuriating flurry in her stomach. Her wrist still tingled, occasionally, where the rogue's lips—and tongue—touched it the night of the ball.

She suppressed a shiver.

“Please, Mrs. Higgensworth. I'm here because I need employment. As a maid.”

Mrs. Higgensworth's mouth dropped open. Something between mild amusement and abject horror flickered across her face.

“Can you hire me, Mrs. Higgensworth?”

Moira's question roused the woman from her stunned silence. “Well, I…I don't know…I can't imagine…whatever do you mean, Miss Moira?”

“I wish to work here as a maid.”

“But…you're a gentlewoman.” Her voice plunged to an undertone. A wash of crimson stained her face. “You couldn't possibly. Oh, what on earth's happened, my dear, to drive you to such lengths?”

How Moira wished she could explain, yet to do so would only burden a kind soul who had no means of offering the financial assistance she and her mother so desperately needed. “I don't mean permanently. Just for a short time. You see, I believe my stepfather left something behind here, and I need to find it.”

“Is that all?” The woman released the corner of apron she'd balled in her hands. “Why don't you just ask the new Lord Monteith for it, whatever it is?”

“Oh, no, I couldn't. You see, I don't believe he wishes me to have it, though it belongs to my mother by rights. Please, Mrs. Higgensworth, couldn't you fit me in as a parlor maid or the like? I need access to the library and study, and perhaps the master's private rooms, as well.”