The Missing Heir. Gail Ranstrom

in the mirror. Delicate pink stained her cheeks and neck. “I must get dressed, Dianthe,” she said. “I am going to the bank and my factor’s office. The sooner Mr. Hawthorne has the resources to leave us, the better.”

      Mr. Evans tapped a sheaf of papers on the surface of his desk to straighten them. Moistening his index finger, he began to leaf through the heap. Page by page, he separated the stack into two piles. “You realize this will considerably diminish your assets, do you not, Mrs. Forbush?”

      Considerably? “I dare hope it will not impoverish me?”

      “Nothing so severe as that,” her factor said, glancing above the rim of his spectacles. “But the bulk appears to be the investments of Mr. Hawthorne’s assets. If you insist that he should reap all the benefits—despite the fact that they were your investments—then your accounts shall suffer.”

      She sighed and shrugged. An honest debt was an honest debt. Her gravest concern was that the news of her reduced circumstances would affect her ability to make Morgan take her seriously as a deep player. Oh, blast the timing! She would have to hold Adam’s funds until after dealing with Morgan. Now he would have to depend on her hospitality for another fortnight. “Mr. Evans, take your time in separating the assets and attributing the interest. I would not want you to make any mistakes because I had rushed you. We need not conclude this matter for two or three weeks. Mr. Hawthorne is staying with me and his needs will be taken care of. No need for unseemly haste.”

      “As you say, Mrs. Forbush.”

      Grace smiled. She employed Mr. Evans to act in her best financial interests, and he was certainly doing so now. “I wish Mr. Hawthorne to have the interest. If he’d been here, he would have made his own investments.”

      “If he’d been here, you’d not have had anything to invest,” Mr. Evans muttered as he continued his separation of the papers.

      “I’d still have had my husband’s estate,” she corrected.

      “Likely not, Mrs. Forbush.”

      Grace frowned. What did the man mean? Her solicitor had made some veiled reference to the same thing earlier this morning at their appointment. She’d asked to see Basil’s will, and he had told her it was “unavailable.”

      “Likely not? What do you mean, Mr. Evans? Explain yourself.”

      He finished sorting the stacks and looked up at her, concern creasing his forehead. “What? Oh…I, um, meant there would not have been as much to invest, Mrs. Forbush.”

      Grace sat back in her chair. She had the uneasy feeling that people were keeping things from her. “I want Mr. Hawthorne to have everything that should have been his, Mr. Evans. Mr. Forbush was always generous with me, and I can be no less with his nephew. That is what he would have wanted.”

      “If you are certain.” Mr. Evans looked over the rims of his spectacles again. “Your integrity is admirable. Shall we meet a fortnight hence to sign the papers and complete the separations?”

      “I shall mark my calendar, Mr. Evans.”

      Adam tied his cravat for the fifth time. He’d gotten rusty in the particulars of refined dress. There were no cravats in the wigwams of the wilderness. Finally satisfied on the sixth try, he shrugged into his jacket and headed down to dinner. He’d taken several items of his better clothing to a tailor for the alterations he would need to make himself presentable in society, and had kept these few clothes out for use in the meantime. New, currently fashionable items would have to wait until his reinstatement and the pay that went with it.

      When he entered the dining room, he found Grace and her niece waiting for him. “Sorry,” he said. “Had trouble with my cravat.”

      Grace looked up at him and blinked. A slow smile warmed her face and her expression turned sultry. She stood and came toward him, extending her arms. When she was close enough for him to smell the delicate floral scent of her perfume, she lifted her graceful hands to tighten the knot and arrange the folds. He watched her fingers work through the fabric and felt a swift visceral reaction. How would those fingers look against his bare flesh? How would they feel closing around his—

      She looked up, smoothing the fabric and meeting his gaze. “There. What do you think, Mr. Hawthorne?” Her voice was slightly breathless.

      That it’s a damn good thing you don’t know what I’m thinking! He stood frozen for a moment while he gained mastery over his rioting blood. “Well done, Mrs. Forbush.”

      She returned to her place at the table and even the rustle of her blue-gray gown caused him to catch his breath. He’d been too long without a woman. But his uncle’s widow was more than just any woman. She was Salome incarnate—a natural seductress.

      A moment later he took the place set for him at the opposite end of the table, Miss Lovejoy between them. “Feel free to correct my manners, ladies. I’ve been so long away from utensils and china that I may forget myself and use my hands.”

      Dianthe laughed. “I think you will adapt quite easily, Mr. Hawthorne. Aside from your native clothing, I’ve seen nothing of you that is unpolished. Though your barber could have cut a little closer.”

      He acknowledged her compliment with a smile, but turned to Grace for confirmation, given with a single nod. “I rather think the length becomes you as it is, Mr. Hawthorne.”

      They were silent as Mrs. Dewberry served dishes laden with roast beef, Yorkshire pudding, tender vegetables drowning in rich butter and what seemed like a myriad of condiments and confections after the simple fare he was accustomed to eating.

      “Are you coming out tonight, Mr. Hawthorne?” Dianthe asked him at length.

      The question startled him. How long had it been since anyone had cared or questioned his comings and goings? Odd, how the careless question made him feel a part of something larger. “I do not have plans, Miss Lovejoy, but I think I am ready to make an appearance in society. Must be done sooner or later and there’s no sense putting it off.”

      “Marvelous,” she said with a smile. “Then you must accompany me to Charity MacGregor’s little reception. She is a delightful hostess, and all the most amusing people will be there. The Aubervilles are picking me up on the way. You could come along if you wish.”

      He’d met Lord Auberville years ago when he’d been a diplomatic advisor to a military contingent suing for peace with Algiers. “I would like to pay my respects,” he mused. He looked at Grace for her consent.

      “I have other plans for tonight, Mr. Hawthorne.”

      “Aunt Grace is going gambling,” Dianthe volunteered.

      Surprised, he looked at his hostess in a new light. He hadn’t suspected she had an adventurous side. Who was this woman with such an odd blend of innocence and experience? Everything about the woman was contradictory. “Gambling, eh? What is your game of choice?”

      She shrugged and gave him a listless smile. “I think I prefer vingt-et-un, sir. Hazard and faro are diverting. I enjoy whist, but I do not like being dependent upon a partner.”

      He nodded, unsure what to make of this news. “I suppose it would depend upon the partner,” he allowed.

      By the quick flicker of her eyes, Adam knew that she had read the veiled meaning in his words. It would be interesting to match wits with Grace Forbush. Subtlety was her hallmark and she only gave herself away in the slight lift at the corners of her luscious mouth or the blink of an eye. She was so tightly contained that he could not help but wonder what she might do if she actually lost control. He’d like to find out.

      “Do you gamble often, Mrs. Forbush?”

      “There are more ways to gamble than laying counters upon a table, Mr. Hawthorne, and the stakes need not be money.”

      Now this was interesting. Where else might the lovely widow gamble, and for what stakes? “I shall remember that, Mrs. Forbush. Perhaps we will have