Frovtunes’ Kiss (7 page)

“And what would you know of my sister, Shaun?”

“Nothing.” He sniffed, affecting a disinterested air.

“Then why don't you talk about Miss Hughes and leave Letty to me.”

Shaun's mouth curved to a sly grin. “Did some snooping around that boardinghouse of hers. Miss Hughes hasn't been back to her rooms for the past couple of days at least.”

“You don't say.” Graham walked to the window. Above slate rooftops, London's constant haze presented a sickly contrast to the startling azure skies of Egypt. He stared past his own faint reflection to the carefully swept street below, again so unlike his adopted nation's sandy, ever-changing thoroughfares. A coach and four ambled by, rumbling along the cobbles. The gilt crest on its door caught the weak sun and tossed a glint in his eye. “Moira Hughes came to London for a reason, Shaun. An important one. I'm sure of it.”

“Yes, but what? And why would Smythe lie about not knowing where she was staying?”

“Good questions, both.”

Down below, a woman walked past the house, her steps raising a crisp echo along the foot pavement. Graham watched her until she disappeared around the corner. Something about her graceful posture and imperious stride seemed familiar, and utterly contrary to the white linen cap, dark blue frock, and low-heeled boots that declared her a maid. With a shake of his head, he turned from the window. “And my brother? Have you discovered his whereabouts?”

“The Lazy Hound.”

“God knows you're right, Shaun, but that is my brother you're talking about.”

“No, the Lazy Hound Tavern. Over on Cheapside. That's where he is.”

“Ah. Come along, then. Let's go and collect him.”

“Oh…roll your leg over, roll your leg over, roll your leg over…it's better that way! Oh, roll—”

“Stop it, Freddy. I'm warning you.” Graham tugged his brother's arm for emphasis, producing the desired effect, but at the same time causing Freddy to stumble over his own feet. He'd have skidded face-first onto the graveled path if not for Graham and Shaun each having one of his arms slung across their shoulders.

“Pardon, your lordship. Don't like my singing, eh? Miss Ruby Rousseau liked it well enough. Want to know
how
she liked it, Graham, old boy?”

Graham turned his face to avoid a waft of secondhand whiskey fumes. Earlier, he and Shaun had discovered Freddy thoroughly cup-shot, lying facedown across a littered table in the Lazy Hound Tavern. Red satin dress hitched to her thighs, the famed Ruby Rousseau, in little better condition herself, had sat perched beside him, running her fingers through his tawny hair and humming the same sordid tune Freddy currently seemed so fond of.

After tossing down a shilling for Miss Ruby's pains, Graham and Shaun had hefted Freddy by shoulders and legs and carried him out of the dank, putrid-smelling establishment. He passed out during the ride home, regaining consciousness once and only briefly, to hang his head out the carriage door. The street sweeper would be far from pleased when he reached the corner of High Holborn and Oxford.

Upon arriving home, they bypassed the house and proceeded to the garden, where Graham and Shaun were presently walking Freddy back and forth in the hopes of establishing some measure of sobriety before their mother saw him.

“You're a disaster,” Graham murmured as all three men struggled to remain upright where the path circled a birdbath. “Where's Baxter with that coffee?”

Shaun squinted over his shoulder. “Looks like refreshments are on the way.”

Graham followed his friend's gaze. A small square table had been placed just beyond the terrace doors, and two footmen were now placing chairs around it. “About bloody time.”

He began to steer his brother toward the house when a maid bearing table linens crossed the threshold from the Gold Saloon inside. With a brisk snap she opened a tablecloth and spread it across the polished wooden table, then began setting out napkins. Hunching over her task, she seemed in a bit of a hurry. A sudden breeze caught one linen square and whisked it from her hands, sending it floating over the flagstones. She scrambled after it.

Graham went still, arms falling to his sides. That dark coif, those delicate shoulders, the smart little flicking motion in her hips as she bustled after the errant serviette…

Thud.

“Ouch.”

“I can't manage him all by myself, you know.”

Turning, Graham witnessed a scowling Shaun struggling to lift a half-sprawled Freddy from the path. Freddy's legs, incapable of anchoring his weight, wobbled and gave way with each attempt.

“Sorry.” Graham tugged his brother relatively upright. By the time he looked up at the terrace again, the dark-haired maid had vanished, replaced by a redhead carrying cups and a coffeepot.

“Shaun,” he mumbled as a nagging sensation took hold, “I must be in love.”

“Why's that, m'lord?”

He ignored Shaun's flippant use of his title. “I'm beginning to see the lady everywhere.”

“Big brother's in love, is he?” Freddy's knees buckled as giggles racked him. Graham and Shaun traded exasperated looks over his sagging head and hoisted him higher. “In that case, Graham, you lordly old boy, roll your leg over…roll your leg over…roll—”

Graham released his hold on Freddy's arm, and this time Shaun made no effort to catch the weight plunging to the ground. Another thud was followed by a groan.

“Coffee, Shaun?” Straightening his coat, Graham set off for the house without sparing a second glance at the heap his brother had become.

“Don't mind if I do, thank you.”

“Do join us when you can, Freddy,” Graham called over his shoulder. To his friend he murmured, “I'll send a footman out for him. Think I'll have Isis brought down, as well. She could use a bit of sunshine.”

Moira peeked carefully through the curtains of the Gold Saloon as Graham Foster and his guest took their seats on the terrace. There had been a third man with them, and she assumed by his striking resemblance to both Graham and Miss Letitia that he was the younger Foster brother. She no longer saw him and hoped he hadn't reentered the house. The fewer people about, the better.

Scanning the gardens, she spotted something long, dark, and sprawling on the path near the birdbath. It stirred and, raising up on elbows, revealed itself to be a man. A thatch of golden brown hair caught the sun for an instant before the figure flattened against the ground and went still.

The brother? Moira squinted, straining to see out the slightly wavy glass of the window. Why, Frederick Foster must be blind, stinking drunk. That would certainly explain the ribald crooning she'd heard a few minutes ago, lyrics that had made her blush.

Well and good. Mrs. Foster and her ill-mannered daughter had gone out for the day, so she needn't worry about them. Earlier, Mrs. Higgensworth had presented Moira with quite a boon. While rummaging through a cupboard below stairs, the housekeeper had quite unexpectedly discovered an extra key to the master's study. Now Moira slipped away from the window, tiptoed from the saloon, and stole across the house.

Minutes later, her throat closed as she stared into the velvet shadows of the room officially forbidden to her throughout her childhood, yet into which she'd been invited more often than not.

Moira, darling, come and help Papa decipher these figures… Moira, Papa's eyes are grown tired… Come
read this passage for me, dear heart…

“Oh, Papa. How I miss you.”

She blinked away a veil of tears. The room had changed little these past months. Though Papa's personal effects had been cleared away, the furnishings remained the same, placed where they had always been. Even his favorite chair, a leather wingback, sat beside the hearth at the precise angle Papa had always insisted upon. It wanted only for the master of the house to settle in, favorite book in hand.

A tremulous breath filled her lungs with Everett Foster's pipe tobacco, old and stale but lingering like a persistent ghost, a haunting reminder of the happy life they'd shared.

She hitched her maid's skirts in one hand and strode to the desk. This was no time for sentimental tears, but for decisive action. Who knew how much time she had?

Mrs. Higgensworth would steer the other staff clear of this room, and Mrs. and Miss Foster had mentioned a museum on their way out the door. They were going to view the artifacts brought home from Egypt by the new Lord Monteith.

Graham Foster, on the other hand, might decide to retire to his study at any time. Mrs. Higgensworth promised to keep watch and deter him if it proved the case, but even so, Moira must move quickly. Where would her stepfather have hidden something as vital as a codicil?

She opened the topmost desk drawer to discover a leather-bound notebook, a pot of sealing wax, a penknife, and, tossed in haphazardly, a pair of riding gloves. She leaned in closer, inspecting the buff leather. These were not Papa's gloves. They were far too large and too grayed at the fingertips, revealing signs of frequent use. Papa would have discarded them long ago in favor of a new pair.

With her forefinger she stroked the buttery kidskin. Then she lifted the pair, holding them in the light of the window behind her. She imagined them filled with the rugged contour of Graham Foster's hands.

Hands that had enfolded her own in confident strength, drawn her somewhere she hadn't wished to go, and held her there, nearly breathless. Remarkable, startling, disturbing hands. She raised his gloves to her cheek…

And remembered what he'd done next. Her wrist…his tongue. Oh, such insolence. Nigel had never…simply wouldn't have done… She tossed the pair into the drawer and snapped it shut.

The codicil was her only reason for snooping—yes, like a common thief—through the man's personal effects. To no other purpose would his private, intimate world ever intersect with hers. That she silently swore.

And yet…what else of his might she find?

The notion shocked her. Scandalized her. Why, to rummage through a stranger's possessions was bad enough. But to enjoy it, anticipate it, was wrong. Disgraceful. Beneath her.

As she opened another drawer, her fingertips quivered while her belly tightened around a curling sensation.

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