The Missing Heir

“’Twasn’t in my plans, either, Grace. This has caused some damned inconvenient problems for me, as well.”

She glanced sideways at her escort. In his late fifties, slightly overweight and with a florid complexion, he could still confound her with his pomposity. “What inconvenience has it caused you?”

“Ah, well, ’tis business, m’dear. No need to worry your little head about it. I only wonder what the ton will say about his presence in your house.”

“No one will gossip. I rather think there would be a greater scandal if I refused him shelter. And, despite his rather eccentric appearance, he seems to possess the requisite manners to get along in society.”

“Send him on his way, Grace. He’s older than you, you’re both unmarried and people will speculate. Do you want your friends peddling your business behind their fans?”

“My friends would never peddle my business. And I’ve done nothing improper.” Still, gossip regarding her sheltering a single man could cause a problem. If word got back to her brother…. Lord! He’d come to London and drag her back to Devon by her hair!

Barrington gave her a speculative look. “And now we are on the subject of improper, why have you suddenly taken an interest in gaming?”

Grace was prepared for the question. She disliked telling half-truths, and she loathed the necessity, but Ronald Barrington was not, and would never be, privy to Wednesday League business. That was always strictly confidential. She sighed and glanced out the coach window. “I’ve told you, sir. I am bored half to death. I crave something different. Something more exciting.”

“I could give you something more exciting, Grace,” he intoned meaningfully, leaning closer and squeezing her arm.

What in the world had gotten into Lord Barrington? He’d never pressed her thus before. They’d always been clear that theirs was a platonic friendship, though they’d allowed the ton to think otherwise. And anyway, it was completely beyond her imagination why men thought a sweaty, uncomfortable coupling in the sheets was such fun. For her, it had been—no, that was well-traveled territory. She would not go there again. She hadn’t put herself through that since Basil had died.

What was wrong with her? Why had all these ghosts risen to haunt her? Adam Hawthorne’s sudden resurrection must have upset her more than she’d thought. He’d looked almost savage in his buckskins and long hair, and something deeply disturbing inside her had answered that primal pull. The sight of his leather breeches snug over strongly muscled thighs, the jacket straining against his shoulders and chest, and the raw masculinity he exuded had stolen her wits.

She took a deep breath as she prepared to exit the coach. She needed to put thoughts of Mr. Hawthorne behind her. He was a distraction from her goal. Tonight she would learn at least two popular games and the rudiments of placing bets. She must be prepared before she took on Lord Geoffrey at his own game.

Well past midnight, ignoring the looks of suspicion and wariness from the other patrons of the Eagle Tavern, Adam stepped up to the bar and fastened the publican with a steady gaze. “Fast Freddie?” he asked.

The barkeeper gave him a long look. “Who wants t’know?”

“Hawthorne,” he answered, without any real hope that would grant him access. Adam realized his appearance was a disadvantage—anything that called attention in this part of town was a disadvantage.

The man blinked once, then nodded toward the stairs. “Upstairs,” he said.

Good God. Four years later and Freddie Carter still kept “hours” in an upstairs room of the Eagle Tavern off Red Lion Square. He could scarcely believe his luck. He climbed the stairs, his moccasins silent on the treads. He rapped twice on the solid door and stood back.

A deep voice called, “Yes?”

“I’m looking for Fast Freddie,” he answered.

“Is that Hawthorne?” the voice called from within. “Good Lord, man! I heard you were back scarce an hour ago!” The door opened wide and Freddie clapped a meaty hand on Adam’s shoulder and dragged him inside. “I heard you’d gone native, but I wouldn’t believe it until now. Aye, but you’re a sight for sore eyes.”

Adam grinned. “And I scarce dared believe you’d still be holding court in a seedy tavern. Shouldn’t you have saved the world by now?”

The man laughed and pulled him nearer the fire. “Got thrown off schedule when you left, Hawthorne, but now you’re here and we’ll get back on track.” Freddie pressed a tankard of stout into his hand and went to lock the door.

“Have I interrupted business hours?” he asked.

“Just wrapping things up for the night, Hawthorne. Anyone who had a private commission for me would have come by now. Do you have something to occupy me?”

“Not at the moment.”

“Something to do with your travels, I warrant.” Freddie leaned back in his wooden chair, tipping it onto the back legs.

Adam grinned but said nothing. Fredrick Carter had always been perceptive. That was his gift, and it was what made him one of the best investigators in England.

When they’d been in their final term at Eton, Freddie’s father had been killed by street thugs for his watch and wedding ring. Adam had gone on to Cambridge, but Freddie had been forced to support himself, his mother and his three brothers. He’d devoted himself to bringing his father’s murderer to justice, he’d collected the reward and his course was set. Now he craved the excitement and danger of being a thief taker. Couldn’t live without it, he’d told Adam. He’d even persuaded Adam to work with him on a few cases before Adam was posted to Toronto.

“Come then,” Freddie said as he took a deep swallow from his tankard, “and tell me about your adventures. What did you do to get yourself reported dead?”

Adam emptied his tankard, savoring the dark earthy flavor of the stout. He launched into the story he’d already told Craddock and Barrington but added detail he’d only share with a friend. Freddie’s eyes widened as he concluded. “Then, when they realized I could not be guilty of the massacre, I’d become so mired in tribal warfare and retribution that I couldn’t leave.”

“Four years with Indians,” Freddie mused. “There’s even more to the story than you’ve told, Hawthorne. Does it have anything to do with that thing on your arm?”

Adam glanced down at the intricately beaded band on his left wrist. “Everything,” he admitted.

“A gift?”

“From Nokomis, a beautiful Indian maid. I found her gutted and scalped when we returned to the village.”

“You loved her,” Freddie said softly.

Nokomis, Daughter of the Moon, had been infinitely sweet and funny, and she’d owned his heart completely. “Nokomis was eight, the chief’s daughter, and like a daughter to me. I’ve seen war before, Freddie, but this…this was different.”

“So it took you four years to find the sons of bitches? Time well spent, I’d say.”

“We hunted the warriors down one by one, but we never found the one the Indians called Long Knife, for the sword he wore. That man, Freddie, was an Englishman and British soldier. I’d wager my soul he was the one in command of that attack.”

Freddie whistled softly as he tipped his chair forward and went to stir the fire. “So that’s what brought you back. Can’t say as I blame you. Only promise you will not gut an English soldier on a London street. I’d hate to have to bring you in.”

Adam stared into the glowing embers, remembering how Nokomis had thrown her arms around his neck and begged him to wait for her until she’d grown up. So sweet, so innocent, she’d sworn she would marry no one but him.

When he’d found her in the mass of putrid bodies, she bore cuts that could only have come from an English blade. Adam prayed he had retained enough of a grip on his decidedly English values to restrain himself from killing the man who’d done that. It would be a near thing, though, in view of the fact that he hadn’t exercised much of that restraint lately. “I think I can safely promise you that I will not gut the man, Freddie.”

“Good. Meantime, what are your plans?”

Adam ran his fingers through his long hair. “Find a barber and a tailor. I’ve reported to my superiors and, until I am officially declared alive, I’m on my own. Craddock said I’d be reinstated, but I wonder if that’s a good idea. Another assignment like the last could end me.”

“Do you not have property in Wiltshire or Devonshire?”

He nodded. “Devonshire. But since I’ve been declared dead, there are a few complications.”

“Ah. But it will all be yours anyway, now that your uncle is dead.”

“Barrington said he’d left everything to his widow.”

“Bloody hell,” Freddie murmured. “I gather that’s the complication?”

Adam nodded. “My uncle’s widow has claimed his fortune and mine. She’s young, beautiful and, now, very rich. There were no children. I’m wondering if she could have…”

Freddie sighed. “Greed makes people do strange things, Hawthorne. I won’t lie to you—there were whispers to that effect. But the gossip died and suspicion was dropped. Where can I reach you? Where are you staying?”