The Missing Heir. Gail Ranstrom

Bellows was sure to deny everything. He stood and clapped the valet on his shoulder. “I should be going. I just wanted to stop in and make certain that all was well, Bellows. My uncle was always fond of you.”

      Bellows nodded again as he walked Adam to the door. “I’m a lucky man,” he said. “Most valets do not retire in the style Mrs. Forbush has provided. And Mrs. Humphries, too.”

      Adam paused. “Ah, yes, Mrs. Humphries. Could I trouble you for her address? I’d like to assure myself of her good situation, as well.”

      Grace stared at the envelope on the silver tray for a several minutes while she weighed the consequences of burning the contents unread against the consequences of reading it. The letter, from Leland, had arrived an hour ago. When her brother took the time to write a letter, it could not be anything good.

      She glanced at the clock on the fireplace mantel. She should be preparing for another evening at the hells instead of dawdling in the library. Would the letter wait until morning?

      No. The dread of it would taint her entire evening and she was certain not to sleep. She’d best have it over with and know what was afoot. First, though, she went to the sideboard and poured herself a draft of sherry. She suspected she’d need the fortification.

      She sat at her desk, took a sip, and slipped her silver letter opener beneath the flap. She took one deep, bracing breath, and then unfolded the single sheet and began reading.

      Mrs. Forbush,

      I am distressed to hear that you are engaging in unsavory pastimes and have made some ill-advised decisions, thus exposing yourself and your family to scandal. My name and reputation as your brother and only remaining male relative could be affected, thus it is my duty to recall you to your senses.

      You will recollect that our agreement in the wake of your husband’s death permitted your continued residency in London, provided that you did nothing to invite scandal. Alas, I do not consider sheltering an unmarried man who could be the instrument of your destruction and cavorting at gaming hells and wagering your inheritance to be acceptable behavior.

      Grace gasped. It was not as if Leland’s behavior had always been completely circumspect. He’d had his fair share of scandals, not the least of which was the way he treated his sister and his wife. Pricilla, though, never complained because she was too frightened or did not know any better. Instead she would take to her bed pleading a headache or some other malady.

      Either you cease your activities at once, or you will compel me to come to London and remove you to Devon—forcibly if need be. Do not think you can refuse me, sister, since I know and will use your disgraceful secret to ensure your compliance.

      I remain,

       Yr. Brother, Leland York

      Grace dropped the letter on the tray. How did Leland find these things out so quickly? And why did his demands and threats still devastate and infuriate her so? All she had to lose was…everything. And the worst that could happen was that she would end up back at her childhood home under her brother’s heavy hand. Unacceptable. Completely unacceptable.

      But even more unacceptable was abandoning Miss Talbot to a similar fate. It was too late for Grace, but there was yet time to save Miss Talbot. Despite Leland’s threats, she had to go on. Striking a decisive blow for Miss Talbot had taken on the proportions of striking a blow against Leland’s abuse. She would continue because she had a moral obligation to help anyone who shared her fate, and anyone without the strength to stand on her own. “Damn him,” she muttered when tears welled in her eyes. She picked up her glass and lifted it to her lips.

      Passing the library on his way upstairs, Adam heard a muffled, “Damn him!” He peeked in to see Grace looking quite distressed, her attention fastened to an open letter. How unlike the unflappable Mrs. Forbush to curse. He didn’t want to interrupt her, but neither did he want to leave her in distress. He leaned one shoulder against the doorjamb and waited for her to finish.

      When she lifted her wineglass to drink, she noticed him for the first time. He was surprised to see tears welling in her eyes. He’d stake his life that she was not the sort to cry without a reason. “Bad news?” he asked.

      She blinked to clear those dark sultry eyes and glanced away as if embarrassed to have been caught in a genuine emotion instead of the carefully constructed impression she fought to maintain. Her shoulders squared and the social mask fell into place, shutting him out as effectively as a snub.

      “A letter from my brother.” Her voice was tight, and she looked down.

      He crossed the library and stood across the desk from her, not knowing what to do. There was something indefinable in her expression, something touchingly vulnerable. She frowned and pressed a spot in the center of her forehead, as she’d done the day he arrived. He’d learned it was a thoughtful gesture. One she used when puzzling a problem or fighting a headache.

      “I-is there something you needed, Mr. Hawthorne?”

      Her words were a reproach—a dismissal at the very least—and he bristled. “No,” he admitted. “You looked as if you needed a friend.”

      She glanced up at him again, little creases forming between her eyes. “I did not mean to be short with you, Mr. Hawthorne. You surprised me. I hadn’t realized you were standing there.”

      “I heard a sound when I was passing,” he explained. Their stilted conversation was awkward and he turned to go.

      “Mr. Hawthorne, please wait.” She stood and came around the desk to face him. “I apologize if I made you feel uncomfortable. I fear I am so used to keeping my own counsel that I have become unfit company. Forgive me?”

      “Of course.” He’d have forgiven her anything when she looked at him so earnestly. She was close enough that she had to look up to meet his gaze, and he found himself leaning toward her, drawn almost against his will. “Does your brother often affect you in this way?”

      “Always, I fear.” She sighed. “He knows just what to say to bring me to a boil.”

      He laughed, relaxing. “I gather that is ordinary for brothers.”

      “I wouldn’t know, sir. I only have the one, and we have ever been at odds. He thought Papa favored me and has always found ways to make me pay for it.”

      “And he has found another way?” Before he could think better of it, he reached out and touched her shoulder. She flinched and then caught her breath on a sob, as if the human touch had been more than she could bear. He’d only meant to comfort her, not devastate her.

      She turned her face away and murmured, “I…I am sorry, Mr. Hawthorne. I don’t know what has gotten into me.”

      Selfishly, because he wanted to feel her against him, he tugged her into his arms and held her tightly, half expecting her to pull away. Instead she fit against him perfectly. The tension drained from her shoulders and she gave a shaky sigh.

      There was something shy and uncertain in her surrender. Grace, for all her composure, was human, after all. He regretted his suspicions. She could not possibly be guilty of murder. “How long has it been, Grace, since someone offered you comfort?” he asked.

      “Since…since Mr. Forbush,” she whispered.

      “Mr. Forbush,” he repeated. “Did you always call him that? Was he never ‘Basil’?”

      She sniffled. “He always called me Mrs. Forbush, and so I returned his courtesy. I believe he preferred it that way.”

      Adam struggled with that for a moment. Could his uncle have been blind? How could he not have invited—even welcomed—informality between himself and his lovely wife? Unforgivably, but needing to know, he asked, “Even when…intimate?”

      He felt her stiffen and pull away. “Really, Mr. Hawthorne, I do not wish to discuss such things.”

      “I’ve offended you.”

      “I…it