infliction of pain and complete domination. Unlike Miss Talbot, however, she had found marriage to a stranger an escape rather than an unacceptable fate.
“I gather Lord Geoffrey is not a choice you would make for yourself?” she asked.
“Heavens no!” Miss Talbot gasped. “I’ve met him only once, the day after my brother’s losing wager. He is a gambler, and when I asked my friends about him, I learned that he has a very murky reputation. The very idea of marriage to such a man is abhorrent to me.”
The Wednesday League knew Geoffrey Morgan. He had been close to Constance Bennington, a member of their group, before her death. He’d disappeared for several years after her death, and then returned under a rather dark cloud. Grace studied Miss Talbot closely. The girl was perhaps ten and seven, and very pretty in an ordinary sort of way. She had a lovely complexion, even features, wide brown eyes and a trim figure. Grace could only imagine what marriage to a man who had to gamble for a bride would do to an innocent like Laura Talbot. Well, not while she breathed! Laura would have the chance that Grace never had.
Grace leaned forward and patted Miss Talbot’s hand. “If Lord Geoffrey has been cheating, we shall discover it, my dear. Meantime, I would like you to think about simple refusal of your brother’s debt. It is his debt, after all, and not yours. I do not think the courts would look kindly on this sort of thing.”
Miss Talbot glanced down at her lap. “If this were taken to the courts, the scandal would ruin what is left of the family reputation. Regardless, my integrity and reputation would be stained. I cannot decide which I dread more at the moment, Mrs. Forbush—my brother’s wrath or Lord Geoffrey’s attentions. I suspect my brother has the capacity to make my life exceedingly more unpleasant than Lord Geoffrey. And, since I have not reached my majority, I am obligated to my brother.”
That, too, was familiar territory! But Grace had not been gambled away by her brother. She’d been arbitrarily bartered for land adjoining their estate.
Charity MacGregor stood and went to glance out the parlor window at the park across the street. “Strategically speaking, Grace, how are we to accomplish this task? We cannot march into gaming hells and demand to see betting books, nor can we cast dice or bet on the turn of a card.”
They couldn’t, it was true. But she, as an independent widow of spotless reputation and high social consequence, would have a certain immunity in these matters. Society would watch her for any misstep, but they would allow her more latitude than a spinster or married woman, believing she would soon tire of it. And she would—within two and a half weeks.
Squaring her shoulders, she said, “I shall lead the investigation. I am certain I can persuade Lord Barrington to introduce me to the appropriate persons.” She turned back to Laura Talbot and smiled. “Do not worry, Miss Talbot. I promise that I will do everything within my power to prevent your marriage to Lord Geoffrey. And I shall begin tomorrow.”
Chapter One
A dam Hawthorne turned his face upward and breathed deeply of the warm spring rain before entering the imposing graystone building at precisely ten o’clock. He turned the collar of his fringed buckskin jacket down and shook the raindrops from his hair. Such niceties as hats and greatcoats had been sadly absent in the northwest wilderness and, after four years, deuced difficult to even remember.
Barely one day back in England and he was already feeling out of place. He supposed the buckskins didn’t help. How long would it take him to think and feel like an Englishman again? A week? A month? Ever? Ah, well, at least he’d remembered to do his duty first and leave personal concerns for later.
He strode up the stairs to the second floor, down the hall to a door at the end, and announced himself to a slender young man wearing wire spectacles. “Adam Hawthorne to see Lord Barrington.”
The young man’s gaze swept Adam from head to toe and curiosity registered behind the pale blue eyes. That glance brought home to Adam just how starkly foreign he must look in a London Ministry building. He supposed he should elevate finding a tailor and a barber to the next item on his list of things to do. But that would depend on what he found out here.
“His lordship is expecting you, sir. Please go in.”
Adam rapped sharply on the frosted-glass pane of the door before opening it and stepping through. Lord Ronald Barrington glanced up from a stack of papers.
“Hawthorne! By God, ’tis good to see you.” He gestured at a leather-upholstered chair in front of his desk. “Sit down, man. When I got your message earlier, I was dumbfounded. You were reported dead four years ago.”
“So I’ve heard, my lord.”
“Why are you here, Hawthorne? You’re a diplomatic attaché, so I am not in your line of command.”
“Yes, sir, but I was attached to the military at Fort Garry. I reported to Lord Craddock the minute I got off the ship and, once he’d taken my statement, he suggested I see you as a courtesy. He thought some of the intelligence I gathered might be of interest to you.”
“Indeed?” Barrington looked intrigued as he called the clerk into his private sanctum and instructed him to take notes. “Well, give over, man. I’m always interested in what’s happening in the northwestern reaches.”
It was well into the afternoon before Lord Barrington sat back in his chair and nodded, dismissing the clerk with a wave of his hand. “Thank you, Hawthorne. Your information should prove useful. Despite the Treaty of Ghent five years ago, I do not delude myself that the French influence in Canada is over.”
Adam nodded. Now that business was out of the way, he could pursue his personal agenda—the one that had driven him for the past four years, and the real reason Lord Craddock had referred him to Barrington. “I need a piece of information from you, Lord Barrington.”
“Ask. I’m much in your debt and I’ll be pleased to answer anything.”
“I’d like the name of the military attaché at Fort Garry four years ago.” Indeed, he wanted that name more than he wanted breath and life. Finding the name of the bastard who’d given the order to decimate the Chippewa tribe he’d been lodged with was the only thing that had kept him alive through long, frigid winters huddled in wigwams, through deprivation and starvation and homelessness.
“Any particular reason you want that information, Hawthorne?”
Adam affected nonchalance. He softened his expression and offered a smile. “Just curious who reported me dead, sir.”
“I believe it was a party from the local fort. They rode out on patrol and came back with the news that everyone, to the last woman and child, had been murdered in warfare by a rival tribe.”
Idiots! Bloody damned idiots! Had they even investigated the attack? Likely not. It had only been made to look like tribal warfare. Was Barrington covering the truth, or was he foolish enough to believe that neighboring tribes simply attacked each other without reason or provocation? He couldn’t be that naive. But with Barrington’s help or not, someone would eventually talk—even if it was at the point of Adam’s knife.
His long years in the Diplomatic Corps came to his aid. Slipping into his English skin, he buried his anger and gave Barrington a bland smile. “I’d like to tell him in person that there were a few survivors. I’d think that would ease his mind.”
“Yes,
