The Missing Heir. Gail Ranstrom
always kind enough to indulge my whims, whether he understands them or not.”
Her escort looked down at her, momentarily confused. “Why, uh, I do my best.”
“As would I,” Morgan said, “were I fortunate enough to have the attention of so lovely a woman.”
Barrington bristled. “But Grace, er, Mrs. Forbush, wants to take more risks than she should. A little reckless, if you ask me,” he continued, just warming to the subject.
“Reckless, eh?” Morgan asked.
Grace could almost see his speculation. Was he assessing her to determine if she’d be an easy mark? Or just wondering precisely how reckless she might be? She felt the need to explain. “Lord Barrington is only out of sorts because I asked him to take me to the Blue Moon tonight.”
Now Morgan laughed outright. “The Covent Garden hells are déclassé, and well beneath your notice, I promise you. They call it the Blue Moon for a reason. Their clients only win once in a blue moon.”
Barrington nodded. “Quite right, Morgan. There, you see, Grace? I told you it wasn’t the place for you.”
She merely returned Barrington’s grin. She’d only wanted o go because she’d heard that it was one of Morgan’s favorite haunts. “Nevertheless, I should like to go there sometime.”
“Perhaps you will be able to persuade someone to take you,” Morgan said. “But come. Have you learned faro, Mrs. Forbush? Allow me to teach you if Barrington has neglected that part of your education.”
“I tried my hand last night, Lord Geoffrey, but I do not seem to have a grasp of the game. I lost miserably.”
He took her arm and led her toward the faro table with Barrington at her other side. Whatever the man was, he was not lacking in social graces.
The afternoon sun was still high when Adam checked the slip of paper that had arrived by messenger that morning from Freddie. He glanced at the gray ivy-covered cottage again. Yes, the St. Albans address was correct if a bit surprising. Retired valets and household servants most often shared quarters in retirement, if not entered a home for the infirm. This small cottage was set back from the street, had a vegetable garden and was well kept and in good repair. He knocked twice, wondering if Freddie had gotten the address wrong.
A balding man opened the door and blinked rheumy gray eyes in surprise. “Mr. Hawthorne! I…we….”
“Thought I was dead,” Adam finished for the speechless valet. He was startled at how much the man had aged since he’d last seen him. He would not have recognized Bellows on the street. “But, as you can see, I’m hale and hardy.”
“Come in, sir. Come in.” The man stood aside to allow Adam to pass. “What a pleasure to see you, sir.”
The main room had a low ceiling and was small but comfortable. Surprised, Adam recognized a few nice pieces from his uncle’s house mingled with other good but worn furniture. He removed his hat and shook Bellows’s hand. “I heard you’d retired, Bellows, so I came to pay my respects.”
The man flushed with pleasure. “Please sit down. May I offer you a cup of tea?”
Adam took one of the chairs by the fireplace and shook his head. “No, thank you, Bellows. I can’t stay long. I just wanted to reassure myself that you are well and happy.”
“Very kind of you, sir.” Bellows sat opposite him and smiled. “Quite a shock, finding you alive all these years, sir. If I was rude, I apologize.”
“Not at all,” Adam assured him. “But you cannot have been more shocked than I to learn that you’d retired. I somehow thought you’d work until you were senile.”
Bellows laughed and rubbed his bald head. “And I would have, too, if Mrs. Forbush had not insisted. But once your uncle was gone, there didn’t seem much point in staying on. He’d already begun to fail but after we had the news about you, well, the end came quickly. He did not suffer, sir.”
Adam nodded and said nothing. Barrington had said Uncle Basil had been ill since before Adam’s last visit. According to Grace, he began a decline after the report of Adam’s death. Now Bellows reported he’d been ill only shortly before the report of Adam’s death. Which was the truth?
“Aye, sir. And when our mourning was done, Mrs. Forbush asked my help in putting Mr. Forbush’s things away. We had nice long chats while we worked, and ’twas when I mentioned that I’d worked for Mr. Forbush for forty-five years that Mrs. Forbush insisted I should retire. Said I done more than faithful service and deserved a rest. I was that shocked, I was.”
“I hope you are not suffering financially.”
“Nothing of the sort, sir.” Bellows straightened in his chair and smiled. “I’ve been pensioned off. First of every month, I get an envelope from the missus. More than enough to pay my expenses, sir. In fact, the ladies in the village think I’m quite a catch. I can tell you, Mr. Hawthorne, that I do not lack for companionship.”
Was the pension a bribe for not talking? Adam wondered. If his uncle’s end had come quickly, perhaps it had been assisted. “Tell me, Bellows, was my uncle ill when I was here last and just neglected to mention it?”
“That was just before you went to the colonies, was it not? No. He’d been fit as a fiddle. He did not decline until just before the news of your death came. Then, of a sudden, he went very quickly, sir.”
“Did you think that odd, Bellows?”
“Odd? No, sir. After all, he was near sixty and five.”
“Then I gather it was not his heart that gave out?”
“No, sir. A quick wasting illness of some sort. The doctor couldn’t quite put his finger on it. He thought it might be the grief of losing you, sir. Wouldn’t eat, and then purged when he did. No Forbushes left now, but for the missus.”
Adam puzzled this out. Why had Uncle Basil given up—especially when he had a woman like Grace Ellen York to share his life? That didn’t make sense. “Apart from the report of my death, was my uncle happy, Bellows?”
“Yes, sir. His business was doing well and the missus always brought a smile to his face. She was a blessing to him. Real gentle, she was, even though he was sometimes short with her and said hurtful things. Told her she was a burden and had been a bad bargain. He said he had expected more of her, but I cannot imagine what, Mr. Hawthorne. The missus was diligent and did more than most wives. You know how mean-spirited he could be sometimes. But she took good care of him at the last. Wouldn’t leave his side. I feared we’d lose her if she didn’t rest. Heart-wrenching, it was.”
“They were in love, then?”
Bellows sat back in his chair and frowned. “Well, sir, when she first came to London as his bride, I assumed she was a part of his business dealings with her brother. But, as time went on, I saw a certain fondness grow.” He paused and lowered his voice confidentially. “You know how these things are, sir—older husband wants an heir and gets himself a young bride? Then a year or so later, the wife quietly takes lovers? Never happened with Mrs. Forbush. She was devoted to the mister, though I cannot say if it was the kind of love you mean, sir. More like friendship. She cried for weeks after he passed, and quarreled fearsome with her brother when he came to take her home. Said she wouldn’t leave the only peace she’d ever known. Lord Barrington had to intercede for her.”
Adam tried to picture the serenely self-possessed Grace crying for weeks. Or calling upon anyone for help. There was something quite odd about this account. “Well, I gather that since she’s still here, she won her way.”
“With conditions, sir,” Bellows said.
“What conditions?”
Bellows blinked. An indiscreet servant was the bane of an employer’s existence. Had he realized he’d said too much? “Oh, uh, I wouldn’t know about that, sir.