3 
3 Moira pivoted and set off at a brisk pace, away from Graham Foster. She had been watching him for the better part of a half hour, after learning his identity from an acquaintance. She had known the Fosters were attending tonight, and so she had managed an invitation through the wife of an old friend of her stepfather’s. But until some thirty minutes ago, she’d had no idea this man was the very same who had witnessed her utter humiliation at Mr. Smythe’s office yesterday.
Good grief.
Tonight, as yesterday, he was affecting her in the most alarming manner. As she strode off, her hand flew instinctively to her mask to ensure it was still in place. She resisted a peek over her shoulder. Was he following, as she had intended? She listened for the clip of pursuant footsteps, but heard only the dull roar of voices and the musicians on the terrace.
Then there he was, not behind, but right in front of her, stepping out from behind a topiary elephant. Flashing that disturbing set of dimples, he pinned her with a stare as piercing as cut crystal. “Good evening.”
His voice was deep, as fiery and rich as brandy and altogether too intimate. The sort that made pulses race, cheeks flame.
She pulled back, and the wineglass she’d been holding slipped from her fingers. It shattered against the paving stones, sending up a shower of white wine.
“Good heavens,” she mumbled, instantly forgetting all the carefully rehearsed witticisms with which she had planned to seduce information from this man. “How horribly clumsy of me.”
When he didn’t immediately respond, she wanted to dissolve into the footpath. Oh, whatever had made her—inexperienced, country-bred Moira Hughes—think she could charm a confession out of a scoundrel the likes of Graham Foster?
She braved an upward glance, straight into those clear blue eyes, which on second thought possessed an intriguing hint of green. Not to mention laughter. Yes, Graham Foster’s eyes smiled down at her even before his lips parted and curled.
Something bracing and sharp tripped her heartbeat. She whisked her gaze away. Would he recognize her eyes within the mask’s slits?
“The fault was entirely mine, I assure you,” he finally said in that too smooth, far too sensual voice. On either side of a broad grin, the dimples that had flashed in her dreams last night cut even deeper crevasses into his cheeks. “The shattering glass didn’t catch you, did it?”
“The glass?” She gazed at the ground, at bits of crystal sparkling in the lamplight, then at her wine-soaked hems. “Oh, dear. I’m quite all right, but my dress is ruined. Your trousers, too, I’m afraid. Oh, what a mess.”
“At least we can be thankful it wasn’t port.”
“Ladies don’t generally drink port, sir.”
“Don’t they? A pity.” He leaned in closer, and she caught the scent of his shaving soap, crisp and invigorating, like clean canvas sails stretched in a high-seas wind. “I believe ladies should grasp at life, and convention be damned.” The last word plummeted to a growl that raised a shiver down her spine.
She stepped back. “I should call someone to clean these fragments away.”
“No need. Here comes a footman now.”
Indeed, a man in livery trotted down the terrace steps, broom and dustpan in hand.
“I’m so sorry,” Moira said to the servant.
“It’s what the good man’s paid to do.” Graham Foster took possession of her elbow in his broad palm. “Come, we’ll find you another glass, shall we?”
“Oh, but…” She trailed off. Hadn’t she come here for this specific purpose? To strike up an acquaintance with the new Baron Monteith, beguile him, and steal inside his conscience. An unshakable suspicion convinced her that Mr. Smythe had been withholding vital information yesterday. Could he have been acting upon his new employer’s orders?
Goodness, Moira Hughes, you’re in it up to your ears now, aren’t you?
As he guided her along the garden path, a sense of laughter hovered about him—in his eyes, in his voice, even in the way he claimed her arm with a breezy familiarity that set her on her guard.
They passed one of a half dozen refreshment tables ranged through the gardens. Upon arriving earlier, she had set about quieting her growling stomach by discreetly consuming an entire Cornish hen, a healthy slice of roast venison, asparagus in cream sauce, potato pudding, and several ratafia biscuits so luscious she’d nearly sighed her pleasure aloud. This—and only this—allowed her to pass the refreshments now with the air of disinterest expected in a wellborn lady.
With a fluid sweep and without the slightest break in his stride, he lifted a glass from the linen tabletop. An equally smooth flourish transferred the glass to her hand.
“Champagne, madam.”
“Why, thank you.”
As they walked on, her free hand somehow traveled to the snug, warm, quite solid crook of his arm. His considerably larger hand descended to hold hers firmly in place. She became exceedingly aware of the masculine weave of his coat sleeve beneath her fingers, the rougher contour of his palm against the back of her hand. A tremulous sensation traveled through her.
“As long as we’ve baptized one another in your wine, madam, perhaps you’ll tell me your name.”
He guided her past the central fountain and down a tree-lined path that disappeared beneath an arbor. Covered in climbing honeysuckle, the latticework formed a sweet, dusky tunnel. A little warning trilled inside her, along with a tremor of expectation she liked not at all.
She knew she should divert him in another direction, but trees and tall hedges barred that option. He ushered her steadily forward into the fragrant twilight of the arbor. She drew a breath that quivered and slowly released it. “You’ve yet to introduce yourself, sir.”
“Indeed, madam.” He chuckled as he brought her to a halt, then twirled her as if leading her in a dance. “Graham Foster, at your service.”
“Sir Graham Foster,” she said with feigned surprise. To have not done so would have seemed odd, indeed, for these days nearly everyone had heard of the exploits of the daring Egyptologist Graham Foster.
“Not Sir Graham any longer, I’m afraid.” His grin turned wry. “Seems I inherited a bit of a barony while I was away. Now I’m saddled with a title, property, and the lot. Keep hoping to wake up and discover it’s all just a perplexing rumor.”
Moira stiffened. A rumor? Had rumor dislodged her ailing mother from the home she loved, from all that was familiar and comfortable? Indeed, not. The new Lord Monteith had done that, though it seemed little more than a joke to him.
“Why don’t you give it back?” she murmured through lips gone stiff with fury.
“Can’t. It’s all entailed, and I have the dubious honor of being the last available heir. Besides, I believe I can find good use for my inheritance. But we digress. You still haven’t told me your name.”
She concealed her outrage behind her champagne glass, letting far too much of the sparkling liquid pass her lips before remembering how quickly the bubbles tended to affect her judgment. She slipped her hand from his arm. “I am Miss Houser. Miss Mary Houser.”
She’d hesitated the smallest fraction of an instant in speaking the name, and—confound the man—his eyes narrowed in acknowledgment. But speculation quickly vanished within the laugh lines fanning from the corners of his eyes.
“Very pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Mary Houser.” His tone mocked ever so subtly. He reclaimed her hand and shook it, then continued to hold it, confine it really, within the confident sprawl of his long fingers. “Especially as you took such great pains to make my acquaintance.”
Her chin snapped up. “I beg your pardon.”
“Don’t deny it.” Even as his voice dipped to a sinister baritone, his grin widened. “If that smile of yours earlier didn’t say ‘follow me,’ I’ve lost all power of perception.”
“You assume too much, sir.”
“Now, now, Miss Houser, let us be frank. You wished to meet me, and I am equally delighted to meet you.”
Oh, such an insufferable flirt. Such a coxcomb. Her hackles rose. She tried to tug her hand free, but like a clever snare, his grip tightened and trapped her fast.
“You know, Miss Houser, you still have me at a distinct disadvantage.” His fingertip stroked her knuckles beneath her lace glove, sending her pulse for a gallop. “You have full view of my features while yours remain hidden beneath that mysterious mask of yours. Won’t you remove it so we might become properly acquainted?”
With a jolt of alarm, she pulled free. “I think not, my lord, for were I to remove my mask, my coif would fall to shambles.” Turning to prove her point, she allowed him to see where the silken ribbons twined into her coiled hair and helped hold her veil in place.
A colossal mistake on her part. He eased closer, his solid chest radiating heat against the thin silk covering her back. His hand slipped beneath her veil and descended on her nape with a whisper’s touch that made her skin sizzle. “You are correct, Miss Houser, this is quite an entanglement. You may never free yourself of it.”
At the sound of his throaty chuckle, she whirled, only to find her back tucked against the trellis. Delicate tendrils of honeysuckle curled about her shoulders while its heavy perfume blanketed her senses.
“Here, my lord.” She thrust her glass at him. “I’ve discovered I have no taste for champagne after all. I must go.”
A nimble side step blocked her escape. “Have I offended you, Miss Houser? Please forgive me. I’ve been away many years, so long I am now a foreigner in my own country. It would seem I’ve become woefully ignorant of English manners and customs. To be frank, I feel out of place at affairs such as these, and when I saw you walking alone…well, I thought perhaps I’d encountered a kindred spirit.”
He raised her glass and drank from it, from the place that still held the moisture of her lips. As his gaze held her, the air around her thickened and warmed. Her mouth tingled as if his lips had touched her and not the glass; an achy sensation gathered deep inside.
“Th-there is nothing to forgive, my lord,” she assured him, and shook her head to clear it. The past moments had quite convinced her she would never glean a bit of useful information from him, not here beneath the dark and fragrant arbor; not with those laughing blue eyes making her forget everything she’d planned to say to coax the truth from him.
“If you’ll excuse me, my lord, I—”
“Won’t you call me Graham? I cringe at the sound of ‘my lord.’ “
“Certainly not.”
“No?” He touched a fingertip to the underside of her chin, sending a mortifying blaze of heat to her cheeks. “I suppose it will have to be Foster then, won’t it? For I simply will not abide ‘my lord.’ “
How dare he belittle the title borne with such dignity by both her stepfather and Nigel? She clenched her fists in the folds of her gown. “Mr. Foster, I must bid you good evening. I did not attend alone, you see. I was escorted by…my brother, and I’m afraid he’ll be searching for me.”
“Brother. Blazing hell.” His groan dissipated into the honeysuckle. “I’d forgotten. I’m supposed to be searching for a brother myself. We’ll have to excuse each other then, Miss Houser.”
He lifted her hand to his lips. When she thought he would release her, he didn’t, but contemplated her glove with a vague frown. She had sold all her full-length evening gloves and had to make due with these lace mitts. Now her wrist felt naked and vulnerable beneath his scrutiny.
Gently he turned her palm upward. Bending his head, he pressed his open lips to her pulse, just beyond the edge of her glove. And then…great good heavens…she felt the moist graze of his tongue against her flesh, leaving a trail of fire that burned all through her, straight down to the tips of her toes. Her knees wobbled, threatened to give way. A gasp broke from her lips.
Graham Foster straightened, smiled into her eyes, turned, and strode away. Her heart pounding against her corset stays, Moira stared after him and shivered.
“Shaun, my friend, I think I’m in love.”
“You don’t say.” Shaun turned from whatever he’d been contemplating outside Graham’s sitting-room window. Eyebrows as black as coal arced in genuine interest. “With whom?”
Graham stretched out his legs on the chaise, tipped his head back, and slipped another orange slice into his mouth. He’d purchased two crates in Spain on the trip back from Africa. Now he wished he’d brought three, as Letty threatened to exhaust the supply within days. “I wish I knew,” he replied.
“A little early to be drinking, isn’t it?”
“I haven’t been. Did you see me walking with a woman at the ball last night?”
“I saw you walking with a number of women.” Shaun moved away from the window and threw himself into a nearby armchair. “To which are you referring?”
“You saw me escaping the advances of a number of women. Only one caught my interest. The one in dark blue with the matching mask.”
“Ahhhh. Intriguing, that one. You ever discover what lay behind that mask?” Shaun leaned to pluck an orange from the bowl at Graham’s elbow.
“No, damn it.”
“More intriguing still. And since you no doubt tried, I’m quite certain your failure to do so has you stewing.”
“I want you to make inquiries.”
“Will do.” Shaun pierced the orange rind with his thumbnail, sending out a tangy spray of juice. He licked the tip of his thumb and made a face. “Too tart. I did manage to find out where that Miss Hughes is staying while she’s in London. Got Smythe’s secretary to spill his guts.”
“So Smythe lied.”
“Like a Gypsy horse trader.”
“I wonder why. How thickly did you have to line the secretary’s pocket?”
“Not too much. Just sat there cleaning my fingernails with that serpent’s-head dagger I found in Dendera.” Shaun shrugged. “It seems the lady has rooms at a boardinghouse on the Surrey side of the river.”
Graham jerked his chin toward his friend. “The Surrey side?”
“Southwark.”
“Why the devil would she take rooms there? She might have stayed here if she’d only asked. It was her home, after all, before it became mine.”
“You know how ladies are. Probably didn’t want to share the place with a new mistress.”
“New mistress, indeed.” Graham scowled and rolled his partially eaten orange onto the table beside him. “I wasn’t at all pleased to arrive in England to find my family already installed in my new home and amassing debts I’m now expected to pay. Talk about taking without asking.”
“Have they spent all that much? Relatively speaking, that is.”
“That’s not the point. They had no right.”
“They are your family.”
“Are they? They disowned me quick enough ten years ago over that cheating incident.” Graham suppressed a shudder at the memory of the injustice. He’d never felt more betrayed before or since.
Shaun furrowed his brow in sympathy. “Didn’t help matters that your own uncle took sides against you.”
“The old cobra isn’t my uncle. Just another of my numerous distant cousins. We’re a far-flung family, one whose reach far exceeds its regard.”
“Still, your immediate family has tried to make amends over the years,” Shaun reminded him, not for the first time.
“Ah, yes, after they heard I’d discovered treasure in Egypt. But I haven’t tossed them out on their ears yet, have I?” Shaun said nothing as Graham ruminated for several moments. Then a thought occurred to him. He swung his feet to the floor and sat up. “I have a sneaking suspicion they might be the same person.”
His friend nodded, unperturbed as usual by Graham’s abrupt leap in conversation. “Miss Hughes and the mysterious woman in blue, eh?”
“She called herself Mary Houser.”
“Moira Hughes, Mary Houser.” Shaun shook his head. “Quite the amateur, isn’t she?”
Moira. Like Maura, but not quite. No, one must achieve a quick realignment of the mouth to make it come out right. A pursing of the lips and a slight flick of the tongue, clever little motions that pleased him. Rather like a kiss. Moira, Moira. “What do you suppose she might be hiding?”
A knock at the door prevented Shaun from answering.
“Come.”
Baxter bowed his way into the room. A dismal expression dragged at his otherwise stoic features. “I’ve brought the requested items, sir.”
“Good. Bring them here.”
The valet stepped gingerly across the carpet as if afraid of disturbing someone, then reached into his coat pocket to extract a cloth bag cinched tight with a drawstring. Graham reached for the sack and held it to his ear.
“Are they alive? I don’t hear them buzzing.”
“Quite alive, my lord.” Baxter’s lip curled. “Sleeping, perhaps.”
Graham nodded. “Thank you, Baxter. That will be all.” But just before the servant closed the door behind him, Graham called, “Oh, Baxter, have you seen my brother yet this morning?”
“No, sir. I don’t believe Mr. Frederick returned home last evening.”
“Let me know the moment he does.”
“Very good, sir.”
“Brothers, sisters, cousins…ah, Shaun, life was so much simpler in Egypt,” Graham grumbled as the door closed behind his valet.
“You didn’t think so when Hakim al Faruq threatened to slit your throat.”
“The man was making a point.”
“Yes, against your jugular.”
“It turned out well, didn’t it? I miss the old boy. By God, I miss that life.”
“We’ll return soon enough, and when we do, we’ll have virtually unlimited funds.” The armchair creaked as Shaun leaned forward. “We won’t have to search out the graves of goldsmiths and minor nobles any longer. We can head right for the important sites and get on with the work we set out to do.”
“How right you are.” Graham glanced down at the sack cupped in his palm. His mood brightened considerably. “Isis is sure to be hungry by now, but perhaps I should wait and allow Freddy the honor when he arrives home. Or perhaps you’d prefer to do it.”
Shaun flicked the fingers of both hands as if to dislodge something sticky and unpleasant. “Unless you wish to create a panic, you’d best do it. I’ll lock the door, just in case.”
“Why, Miss Moira, what a surprise. A wonderful surprise, my dear. But why are you sneaking in through the garden?”
Stout hands encased Moira’s shoulders as Mrs. Higgensworth drew her into the kitchen.
Moira indeed felt like a sneak. Having concealed herself in the laundry yard until dusk, she’d approached the house and peeked in through the kitchen windows, ducking whenever one of the servants passed by. It had taken a colossal effort of patience to wait until she finally glimpsed the housekeeper alone before tapping on the garden door. She drew a breath now to begin her explanation but Mrs. Higgensworth spoke first.
“You poor lamb, abroad this time of evening and all alone. Why I’ve never heard of the like…” Cradling Moira’s hand in both her warm, ample ones, the older woman brought her into the servants’ dining hall. “Have you had your tea? You sit yourself down while I ring for Susan to bring some.”
Emitting little puffs of breath, the housekeeper waddled to the bell pull. “You’re such a dear to visit me like this. We’ve missed you and your mother dreadfully these many months, and your stepfather, too, God rest his kindly soul. I daresay, things have not been the same since he left us. Dear me, not at all the same…”
“Mrs. Higgensworth, I need to speak with you.”
“Not until I’ve seen a hot meal go into you. You’re as thin as a scarecrow, you poor little thing.” She returned to the table and plunked down beside Moira. “I suppose I should bring you upstairs and announce you, though I confess I’d rather keep you to myself for a while, give us time to catch up and all. But, Mrs. Foster—oh, can you believe the woman ordered me to call her my lady, as if it were her birthright. No, it’s her oldest son who’s inherited the Monteith name, and all the rest of ‘em are Missus, Miss, and Mister Foster as far as I’m concerned.”
She went on, but Moira heard little after mention of the son who’d inherited Monteith. The very thought of him incited an infuriating flurry in her stomach. Her wrist still tingled, occasionally, where the rogue’s lips—and tongue—touched it the night of the ball.
She suppressed a shiver.
“Please, Mrs. Higgensworth. I’m here because I need employment. As a maid.”
Mrs. Higgensworth’s mouth dropped open. Something between mild amusement and abject horror flickered across her face.
“Can you hire me, Mrs. Higgensworth?”
Moira’s question roused the woman from her stunned silence. “Well, I…I don’t know…I can’t imagine…whatever do you mean, Miss Moira?”
“I wish to work here as a maid.”
“But…you’re a gentlewoman.” Her voice plunged to an undertone. A wash of crimson stained her face. “You couldn’t possibly. Oh, what on earth’s happened, my dear, to drive you to such lengths?”
How Moira wished she could explain, yet to do so would only burden a kind soul who had no means of offering the financial assistance she and her mother so desperately needed. “I don’t mean permanently. Just for a short time. You see, I believe my stepfather left something behind here, and I need to find it.”
“Is that all?” The woman released the corner of apron she’d balled in her hands. “Why don’t you just ask the new Lord Monteith for it, whatever it is?”
“Oh, no, I couldn’t. You see, I don’t believe he wishes me to have it, though it belongs to my mother by rights. Please, Mrs. Higgensworth, couldn’t you fit me in as a parlor maid or the like? I need access to the library and study, and perhaps the master’s private rooms, as well.”
“Oh, now, Miss Moira, you’re as sensible a girl as ever were born, but this plan of yours is foolhardy. What if the family should discover you?”
“The only one who might recognize my face is Lord Monteith. The rest of the family has never met me. And I understand most of Papa’s staff has left. Is there anyone working above stairs who might recognize me?”
“Well…” Mrs. Higgensworth tapped her chin. “There’s Stanley the groom, but you wouldn’t cross paths much with him, I don’t suppose. You’re right, nearly all the old staff was either let go or left on their own as soon as new positions became available. As I told you, things haven’t been the same around here, though better since the new Lord Monteith’s arrival, I must admit.”
“So, then.” Moira held the other woman’s gaze and her breath at the same time, and ignored her jolting pulse as she acknowledged how close she would be to Graham Foster during the next few days. “Will you help me?”
“Well…forgive me for having to ask, my dear, but…” Mrs. Higgensworth appraised her with a doubtful air. “Can you handle a mop and duster?”
“Of course.”
“Carry large trays stacked with china and silverware?”
“Child’s play.”
“Be willing to treat this family with the utmost respect?”
The thought of Graham Foster’s impertinence stiffened her spine. “Rather more vexing, but for a worthy cause, yes.”
“Then you’re hired, my dear. And may heaven preserve us both.”