Frovtunes’ Kiss (13 page)

“Shaun, my friend, you don't know Moira Hughes. Whatever you would normally expect from a woman, she says and does the opposite.”

“And that's precisely why you like her, isn't it?”

Graham lowered his candle and grinned in the darkness. “She's a challenge, by God.”

“And you never could resist a challenge, especially one as fetching as Miss Hughes.”

Graham nodded, and remembered another matter he'd pondered earlier. “That Mr. Doone. Not really a magistrate, is he?”

“Ah, you've caught me.” Shaun shook his head and laughed. “I confess it. Hadn't the faintest inkling where to find a real one. Found Doone loitering near the park and did a quick once-over. Frayed trouser hems, missing button on his coat…”

“That's what tipped me off.”

“Yes, a gentleman with too many gambling debts. Needed the money. By the way, you owe me four quid.” Graham's mouth fell open, and Shaun shrugged. “He did a fair enough job, don't you think? Duped the ladies.”

“Indeed. I'd say Letty was rather grateful for your intervention.”

“You think so?” Before Graham could answer, Shaun's eager look vanished into a twist of his mouth. He flicked a hand against the bedclothes in a dismissive gesture. “If that's all, do you think a man might catch a few moments' sleep? Bloody middle of the night, for God's sake.”

Graham lingered, regarding his friend. “You've gone and got all moon-eyed over her, haven't you?”

“Over whom?” Shaun stifled a yawn.

“Letty.”

“Don't be bloody ridiculous.”

“Ah, Shaun…” He drew a breath, let it out slowly, and shook his head. “She'll only bring you heartache.”

“Haven't the foggiest notion what you're going on about.”

“Just trying to save you a lot of grief, old man.”

“Save someone else. Save Miss Hughes. Talk about moon-eyed.” Hitching an eyebrow, Shaun crossed his arms behind his head. “Haven't seen you like this since that supposed sultan's daughter wandered into the Aswan camp.”

“Now that's downright underhanded of you, Shaun. You promised never to bring it up again. Besides, this is different. Entirely.”

“Mm.” Shaun's eyes drifted shut, and Graham turned to go. It wasn't until he reached the door that Shaun's voice drifted across the room. “A supposed sultan's daughter is not what one would call marriage material. Miss Hughes, on the other hand…”

His hand on the knob, Graham turned back into the room. “Now who's being bloody ridiculous? Whether or not Moira Hughes is marriage material is a moot point. I'm returning to Egypt as soon as possible, and there's an end to the matter.”

A resounding snore formed the whole of Shaun's reply, but Graham knew his friend wasn't sleeping.

       8      

H
old up there.” Graham sprinted past the carriage house to the cobbled drive, where his coach and four stood ready. He signaled to the porter, just then opening the gates. “One moment, please.”

The iron scrollwork barrier creaked to a stop, preventing the carriage from proceeding out to the lane that opened onto Brook Street. Graham came up beside the passenger window. Through reflections of the gatehouse's whitewashed brickwork, he spied Moira sitting stiffly against the squabs and looking none too pleased, at least not in profile.

The little sneak. Instead of ordering the carriage and waiting for it to come round to the front steps like someone with nothing to hide, she'd mumbled excuses after breakfast, slipped out through the terrace, and hurried off across the gardens like a wraith in the morning mist.

He swung the door wide and hoisted himself in. “So then, where are we going? Smythe's office?”

The corner of her mouth pinched inward.
“We
needn't go anywhere. I'm quite capable of—”

“Yes, Moira, I believe we established last night that you're a perfectly capable individual.” He closed the door and slid closer to her. “We also agreed, however, that when you returned to Mr. Smythe's office, I would accompany you.”

“I'm not going to Mr. Smythe's office. Not now, at any rate.” Her tone implied an unwillingness to offer further explanation.

Ha. He rapped on the ceiling, and moments later the coach rolled through the open gates. Lounging beside her, he stretched out his legs, propping one across the other. Through half-closed lids he studied her. She was all rigid annoyance, simmering exasperation. Completely adorable.

“Trying to slink off without me, weren't you, Moira?”

“I was doing no such thing. I'm not on my way to Mr. Smythe's office. I've…other matters to attend to this morning, and there's simply no reason for you to tag along.”

“Other matters? Such as?”

Her breath hissed. “I'm returning to my lodging house.”

“Good. We'll gather your things and inform the landlord you'll no longer need the place. You'll stay with us.”

“Will I?” She bristled. “I don't remember being asked, or making such a decision.”

“Then consider this a formal invitation.”

Her gaze narrowed on him, then sharpened as she reached a decision with a shake of her head. “I think I'd prefer—”

“To what, Moira, pay for a place you don't need when there's a perfectly good room at your disposal on Brook Street? Or would you rather toss money away than accept my hospitality?” He leaned closer and spoke in a tone that always elicited a reaction that fascinated him—a shivering flutter she unsuccessfully tried to hide every time. “After all,” he murmured, “it was your home long before it became mine. I couldn't sleep nights knowing we'd inconvenienced you.”

Yes, there it was, that little shudder across her shoulders. “I…I suppose you're right.” She compressed her lips as her stubborn resolve faltered. “Thank you, then.”

“You needn't sound so irritated.”

“I'm not. I appreciate your generosity.” She shifted, broadening the space between them by an inch or two. “Still and all, there's no need for you to be here now. You needn't upset the routine of your morning.”

“No bother at all.”

The pull of her eyebrows declared she minded, very much. Was his presence so irksome, or was Moira Hughes once again concealing something? He knew better than to ask, but as the coach headed down New Bond Street and across Piccadilly, he wondered. Perhaps Moira didn't want him to see her lodging house. Could the place be as bad as all that?

He glanced out the window. They were skirting St. James Park and would soon come up on Whitehall and then the Westminster Bridge. Lambeth lay directly across the river.

Lambeth wasn't so bad. It even boasted a palace of the same name. When he left England years ago, plans were just beginning for the development of South London. If they headed west, they'd pass Vauxhall Gardens and the new residential neighborhoods of Church Street and Prospect Place. Not prosperous in the same sense as Mayfair, but certainly respectable.

When they reached the Surrey side of the river, however, the coach veered sharply east, away from Lambeth and toward Southwark. The sharp scent of fresh-cut lumber permeated the air, and within minutes a thin coat of sawdust clouded the windows. They passed one timber yard after another as they hugged the river. The street began to narrow.

The growing tension in Moira's bearing suggested he might as well expect the worst. The notion of her dwelling in some sagging old edifice framed in worm-eaten timber both twisted his gut and inflamed his temper. He stole a glance at her, thinking of how she had played maidservant to press her rights. So brave, and so damnably proud for not wanting him to know the truth.

Ah, she was something, this distant stepcousin twice or thrice removed.

Her left hand rested against the seat, fingers half-curled within one of Letty's kid gloves. Wrinkled and a little bunched between her thumb and forefinger, the glove made an ill fit, and Moira's hand seemed all the more delicate. Vulnerable. His own inched toward it, sliding cautiously like Isis approaching her prey, careful not to startle the coveted prize away.

She didn't notice, too entranced by the shops and buildings outside her window. His fingers made contact, just the tips to the side of her palm.

She started. “What are you doing?”

“What?” He looked down at their hands and pretended surprise. “Oh. Sorry. Close confines. Didn't realize.”

“Stay on your side, please.” She slid her hand into her lap. Her chin rose to a righteous angle.

“Didn't realize there was a boundary.”

She slanted an eyebrow, pursed her mouth.

He slid closer to the door on his side.

But as the road became more rutted, he let the carriage jostle him back toward her bit by bit. The corners they turned worked to his advantage. Their elbows met. She shot him a look, and he moved his away, but before long his right knee swung to the side, bringing his thigh flush against hers.

“Will you stop that?” Her forefinger nudged his ribs. “This coach is plenty large for the two of us. Do keep your distance or sit there.” She pointed to the seat opposite.

He hid a grin and shoved away, waiting for his next opportunity to steal closer. He simply enjoyed touching her—found it nearly impossible not to. Even in opposite corners, the dim confines of the coach created a closeness he couldn't ignore. Didn't wish to ignore. Everything about her sparked his awareness. The floral scent of her bath soap, the grace of her unconscious movements, the gentle rise and fall of her breathing.

She peered at him, her eyes flashing with alarm.

“Is something wrong?” he asked.

“You don't have that creature with you, do you?”

“Isis?”

Moira nodded and managed to squeeze a few more inches away.

“She's at home, safe in her crate.”

“Thank heavens for that.” She visibly relaxed.

“You needn't fear her. She's perfectly harmless. Besides Shaun, I consider Isis my best friend.”

Her nose crinkled. “You have some rather interesting friends. Wherever did you find them?”

“Egypt, of course. Crawling round outside my tent, for one.”

“And Mr. Paddington?”

“I was speaking of Shaun. Found him foxed, bruised, and half-starved outside my tent one morning about four years ago. Been my best friend ever since. I discovered Isis sleeping inside one of my boots one evening nearly a year ago. Damned near jumped out of my skin. But then a local boy explained that she'd never hurt anything larger than a fly.”

Moira made a sound between a chuckle and a snort. The coach gave a sudden pitch as it rounded a corner. She toppled sideways, her shoulder striking his. Another jolt landed her against his chest. Even as his arms closed around her, she shrank out of them, scooting into the far corner again.

“Sorry,” she murmured and righted her hat.

He certainly wasn't sorry. He wished a rut would toss her right into his lap. What a flurry of skirts and indignation that would be.

Little chance of it now. The coach slowed along a street Graham ordinarily would have sped through. He looked out at a butcher shop that stank of last week's slaughter, a coaching inn that promised fleas, and, farther down, a stark, three-story abode with
Miss Ashworth's Foundling Hospital
styled in chipped green paint above the door. It was opposite this that the coach creaked to a stop.

Dear God, not here. Not Moira.

She wouldn't meet his gaze, but stared at her hands until the driver opened her door and let down the step. Without a word, she descended to the street and started toward the two-story dwelling that should have been torn down a century ago. When a round of obscenities drifted from the attached tavern, she made no sign that she'd heard.

Graham fell into step beside her. “So, this is it?”

She nodded, looking miserable.

It was worse than he had imagined, and worse still for the two of them now seeing it from each other's eyes. Had anyone else—even he—been forced to dwell in such a place, he might have found it, well, tolerable. But knowing lovely Moira had suffered this hellhole made it all the more deplorable. For her, he guessed, worse than living here was having him
know
she lived here.