The Missing Heir. Gail Ranstrom

these matters. Society would watch her for any misstep, but they would allow her more latitude than a spinster or married woman, believing she would soon tire of it. And she would—within two and a half weeks.

      Squaring her shoulders, she said, “I shall lead the investigation. I am certain I can persuade Lord Barrington to introduce me to the appropriate persons.” She turned back to Laura Talbot and smiled. “Do not worry, Miss Talbot. I promise that I will do everything within my power to prevent your marriage to Lord Geoffrey. And I shall begin tomorrow.”

       Chapter One

       A dam Hawthorne turned his face upward and breathed deeply of the warm spring rain before entering the imposing graystone building at precisely ten o’clock. He turned the collar of his fringed buckskin jacket down and shook the raindrops from his hair. Such niceties as hats and greatcoats had been sadly absent in the northwest wilderness and, after four years, deuced difficult to even remember.

      Barely one day back in England and he was already feeling out of place. He supposed the buckskins didn’t help. How long would it take him to think and feel like an Englishman again? A week? A month? Ever? Ah, well, at least he’d remembered to do his duty first and leave personal concerns for later.

      He strode up the stairs to the second floor, down the hall to a door at the end, and announced himself to a slender young man wearing wire spectacles. “Adam Hawthorne to see Lord Barrington.”

      The young man’s gaze swept Adam from head to toe and curiosity registered behind the pale blue eyes. That glance brought home to Adam just how starkly foreign he must look in a London Ministry building. He supposed he should elevate finding a tailor and a barber to the next item on his list of things to do. But that would depend on what he found out here.

      “His lordship is expecting you, sir. Please go in.”

      Adam rapped sharply on the frosted-glass pane of the door before opening it and stepping through. Lord Ronald Barrington glanced up from a stack of papers.

      “Hawthorne! By God, ’tis good to see you.” He gestured at a leather-upholstered chair in front of his desk. “Sit down, man. When I got your message earlier, I was dumbfounded. You were reported dead four years ago.”

      “So I’ve heard, my lord.”

      “Why are you here, Hawthorne? You’re a diplomatic attaché, so I am not in your line of command.”

      “Yes, sir, but I was attached to the military at Fort Garry. I reported to Lord Craddock the minute I got off the ship and, once he’d taken my statement, he suggested I see you as a courtesy. He thought some of the intelligence I gathered might be of interest to you.”

      “Indeed?” Barrington looked intrigued as he called the clerk into his private sanctum and instructed him to take notes. “Well, give over, man. I’m always interested in what’s happening in the northwestern reaches.”

      It was well into the afternoon before Lord Barrington sat back in his chair and nodded, dismissing the clerk with a wave of his hand. “Thank you, Hawthorne. Your information should prove useful. Despite the Treaty of Ghent five years ago, I do not delude myself that the French influence in Canada is over.”

      Adam nodded. Now that business was out of the way, he could pursue his personal agenda—the one that had driven him for the past four years, and the real reason Lord Craddock had referred him to Barrington. “I need a piece of information from you, Lord Barrington.”

      “Ask. I’m much in your debt and I’ll be pleased to answer anything.”

      “I’d like the name of the military attaché at Fort Garry four years ago.” Indeed, he wanted that name more than he wanted breath and life. Finding the name of the bastard who’d given the order to decimate the Chippewa tribe he’d been lodged with was the only thing that had kept him alive through long, frigid winters huddled in wigwams, through deprivation and starvation and homelessness.

      “Any particular reason you want that information, Hawthorne?”

      Adam affected nonchalance. He softened his expression and offered a smile. “Just curious who reported me dead, sir.”

      “I believe it was a party from the local fort. They rode out on patrol and came back with the news that everyone, to the last woman and child, had been murdered in warfare by a rival tribe.”

      Idiots! Bloody damned idiots! Had they even investigated the attack? Likely not. It had only been made to look like tribal warfare. Was Barrington covering the truth, or was he foolish enough to believe that neighboring tribes simply attacked each other without reason or provocation? He couldn’t be that naive. But with Barrington’s help or not, someone would eventually talk—even if it was at the point of Adam’s knife.

      His long years in the Diplomatic Corps came to his aid. Slipping into his English skin, he buried his anger and gave Barrington a bland smile. “I’d like to tell him in person that there were a few survivors. I’d think that would ease his mind.”

      “Yes, but how did you survive? The word we received said that not a single living thing was left. Given the savagery of the attack, it was believed no prisoners were taken.”

      Adam nodded. “None were, my lord. I’d gone out with a small hunting party the day before the attack. There were eight of us, and when we returned to the village and found…well, believing the English were responsible, and rather than kill me, my hosts took me hostage and we rode south to…to a place the Indians call Chick’a gami. You’ve heard the rest, sir.”

      “Aye. Well, I’ll have to search through the records for his name. It may take some time. Will you be in town?”

      Tension drained from Adam’s shoulders. He stood and smiled. “Yes, sir. I still have some business here. Lord Craddock said he would have me reinstated and secure my back pay. I’ll need it to repair and stock my cottage and lands in Devon. Since I was reported dead, I imagine the stock was sold off, but I pray the cottage is still in the family.”

      “Family,” Barrington repeated. He looked thoughtful.

      “Well, only Uncle Basil and I remain, unless that young wife of his has given him heirs.”

      “You’ve not gone there?”

      Adam recalled the expansive home on Bloomsbury Square and smiled. “I wanted my business finished so that I could relax and enjoy the reunion. I’ve never met my new aunt, you know. Uncle Basil said he met her while selling a parcel of land to her brother. She was in the country when I was last in London on my way to Ghent, but I saw the portrait of her in Uncle Basil’s study.”

      And what a portrait it had been! It had kept his blood humming for weeks afterward, and many long winter nights since. Dark, sultry eyes gazed out of a face of sheer perfection. Her expression had been self-possessed and confident, and Adam found himself envious of his aging uncle for the first time. He’d suspected the wife was a fortune hunter, since a woman like that could have married someone considerably higher in station. And considerably younger. He wondered if there’d still be fire in those dark eyes.

      Barrington heaved a deep sigh and wouldn’t meet Adam’s gaze. “Damn it all, Hawthorne. Craddock should have told you. I’m afraid I’ve got bad news. Your uncle expired immediately after we’d had word of your death. Everyone said it was the grief, but it went beyond that.”

      Adam sat again, trying to comprehend this last in a chain of bitter disappointments. “How….”

      “He hadn’t been well. He did his best to hide it from you on your last visit. Didn’t want to worry you, he said. When we got the news of your death, the spirit went out of him. I helped his widow make the final arrangements and put his business in order. The last thing he did was change his will to leave everything to her.”

      Adam nodded, registering the logic in that. He had already discovered through his earlier visit to his bank that his uncle had closed his bank accounts and taken his assets, but he had been confident they would be returned