"Fortune smiles on two to whom fate has been unkind."
Reviewed by Leanne Davis
Posted April 8, 2008
Romance | Historical
Sir Graham Foster was sent off in disgrace by his family.
He has made a name for himself in excavating ruins in
Egypt. His knighthood had even been earned by his hard
work and the presentation of artifacts to King George.
When word reaches him that he has inherited a barony and
his family is amassing a great deal of debt in his name, he
must return to England to resolve the issues. Moira Hughes and her mother have been evicted from their
long time home, Monteith Hall, by the new baron. Her
stepfather told her on his deathbed that he had made
provision for them but it seems that the will doesn't
reflect this. They find themselves dependent on the
charity of the local church who offers them a
small,decrepit cottage to reside in. Moira's mother has
retreated into a fantasy world where her beloved husband is
still alive and their return to the Hall is imminent. Moria takes a job as a maid at the Hall in an effort to
find the codicil to the will which everyone insists doesn't
exist. Unfortunately, she had made the acquaintance of the
new Baron when she met with the solicitor and her deception
is discovered almost immediately. Since she did a terrible
job as a maid, Graham insists on dressing her as befits her
station and helping her to discover the truth. Graham plans to straighten out his family and then return
to Egypt. However, he doesn't count on the resentment he
meets with and the attraction he feels for Moira. Moira
prefers to believe Graham is a villain but as he helps her
discover the truth, she is unable to deny the attraction. The hero and heroine really made this book work. Graham is
a charming man who is innocent of the wrongdoing of which
he is accused. Instead of wallowing in bitterness, he sets
out to do something worthwile with he his life. He uses
his bad reputation to cover his real aims in life of
protecting the ransacking of the treasures of Egypt by
those who are out to steal artifacts. Moira is a strong woman who must learn to see behind the
facades that people erect to be able to move forward. As
she learns the truth about Graham, she will find many of
her illusions being destroyed. She is able to rise above
the betrayal and search for something that means more to
her than she could imagine. Settle down and enjoy the charm of the hero as the story
unfolds.
SUMMARY
Practical, country-bred Moira Hughes must fight for the
family fortune she believes her stepfather's heir has
unlawfully withheld from her. Graham Foster, treasure
hunter and Egyptian antiquities expert, returns to London
to claim his barony only to find himself accused of foul
play by Moira and her family. Finally coming to a wary
truce, Graham agrees to help Moira find her lost fortune,
and together they follow a trail of fraud, deceit, and
murder that leads them through the streets of London—and
into each other's arms.
ExcerptCHAPTER ONESir Graham Foster sucked blistering air into his lungs,
gave his Arabian gelding a firm pat on the neck, adjusted
his feet in the stirrups, and raised his saber high above
his head. Glaring sunlight arced along the steel, sending a
shimmering signal to the men assembled before him. Boot heels dug into drought-scorched earth. A plaintive
creaking arose as hemp ropes tightened and clenched. Some
two dozen workers strained forward beside ten of the best
camels British pounds could buy. Slowly, painstakingly, and
with a screech that set Graham's teeth on edge, the barrier
to the tomb inched open. He prayed the ropes would hold. And that the laborers
handpicked from a local tribe of nomads wouldn't choose
that moment to start an uprising or observe one of hundreds
of incomprehensible religious rituals. Or simply decide it
was time to return to their colorful tents on the desert. He gripped a handful of damp shirtfront and unstuck it from
his chest. It had taken three months to find this tomb, a
modest vault of stone and mud brick laid out on a
rectangular slab about twenty feet below ground. It hadn't
always been subterranean, but part of the once-prosperous
village of Deir el-Medina, now buried beneath centuries of
blowing sand. It wasn't a place one would expect to find
the remains of a pharaoh, but rather a pharaoh's master
craftsman. Which suited Graham Foster fine. He wasn't searching for a
king's treasure or anything of great historical value. Not
this time. A text in the Alexandria archives had indicated
this to be the burial site of a wealthy goldsmith from the
second millennia BC, and Graham expected a handsome return
for his pains. He only hoped the poor dead chap wouldn't
mind extending him a bit of a loan for a good cause. It had taken another two months to raise the money and
manpower needed to excavate. An additional four weeks to
successfully bribe Pasha Mohammed Ali, Egypt's
temperamental Turkish ruler, into allowing the "pesky
British swine" access to the area. Of course, this
excavation was merely a means to a more important end. If
it proved fruitless, there would be more searching, more
money to raise, more bribes to offer, and more nomads to
deal with. "My lord! My lord!" Shaun Paddington, his friend, assistant, and, when
necessity dictated, imposter British consul, hailed from
the top of a rise some thirty yards away. Graham swore
under his breath. What could be so important that Shaun
would interrupt him at such a crucial moment? A high-pitched groan snared his attention. The workers were
moving too fast, putting undue strain on both the ropes and
the entrance slab. Too much tension on the stone could
literally render it to pieces and cause a cave-in. Graham cupped his hands around his mouth. "Slow down before
it shatters!" The perspiration rolling down his sides had little to do
with the hundred-degree heat pounding down from an
unimpeded sun. He sucked another breath in preparation of a
second warning when he saw the lead camel drivers signal to
their snorting, spitting charges. Graham held the searing oxygen in his lungs. Done without
the proper skill, the drivers could stop the progress
altogether instead of simply slowing it. The momentum would
be lost. That meant starting over. "My lord!" Shaun shouted again. Damn. From the corner of his eye, Graham saw his friend
descend a sand dune at top speed. As his image undulated in
the heat waves, Graham noticed something white flapping in
Shaun's outstretched hand. "Blazing hell, Shaun, not now." But within seconds, the overseers had brought the pace
under control. The whining complaint of the ropes and the
slab ceased. With a whoop of mixed relief and triumph,
Graham swung from the saddle. "Did you see that, Shaun?" he called to the panting man,
whose running steps kicked up whorls of sand around his
legs. "Can I pick them or what? Are these fellows not
princes of their trade?" They weren't completely out of danger yet, wouldn't be
until the slab cleared the tomb and was secured with more
ropes and scaffolding. But already Graham felt the charge
of adventure, the anticipation of entering the three-
thousand-year-old grave site. Shaun loped to a halt a few feet away, waving what Graham
now identified as a sheet of paper practically under his
nose. "What have you got there?" Graham asked. "A grant from the
same university that sent me packing ten years ago? Tell
them I don't need it." "No, it's. . .a letter. . .from your. . .solicitor."
Puffing, Shaun bent full over, resting a hand on his knee
in an effort to recapture his breath. "I don't have a solicitor." His friend maintained his bent posture and continued
gasping. Finally, hand pressed to his chest in a manner
that would have worried Graham if he wasn't familiar with
the man's dramatics, he straightened. "You do now. And it
seems you're needed at home." "The devil I am. Bad joke, old man." An oddity struck him.
How had Shaun hailed him? With cries of my lord? He'd been Sir Graham Foster since his twenty-fourth
birthday, after presenting His Majesty, King George, with
assorted artifacts from various digs. Tanis had yielded a
gilded ebony statue of the god Osiris; from Karnak came a
bejeweled pectoral pendant featuring the eye of Horus; and
from Akhenaten, an elaborate burial mask. Baubles that had
granted him a solid footing on England's social ladder. But a lordship? "Shaun, my friend," he said with a laugh and a swat to the
other man's broad shoulder, "you've been baking in this sun
too long. Go back to your tent. Have a little nip. It'll
restore perspective to that addled mind of yours." Shaun shook his head and the paper at the same
time. "There's nothing wrong with me, my lord. Your cousin
twice removed and then some," he jabbed at the information
with his forefinger, "Everett Foster, has died and—" "Who?" "Your second cousin twice removed. Or is it thrice? Here,
it lists the lineage tracing you to him." Scowling, Graham peered at the page. "Oh. Old Man Monteith.
Only met him a couple of times, and that was years ago. But
this is absurd. He has a nephew." "Dead, as well, within weeks of his uncle." Shaun squinted
down at the page. "Says here you're the great-great-
grandson of the first Baron Monteith's younger brother." He
dropped the paper to his side and met Graham's gaze with a
mixture of disbelief and amazement. "It would appear you've
been the new Baron Monteith for quite some time now, my
lord." "Call me that again, and I'll knock you a facer. Now tell
me how I can avoid this calamity." Shaun stared back, lips compressed. A hot gust nearly
ripped the letter from his hand, but he whisked it tight
against his chest. Then he said, "There's more." "Out with it." "Your solicitor sends his apologies for having allowed your
family access to your new London town house. He didn't
think it would be a problem. They are your family, after
all." Shaun paused to swallow. "But it seems they've
amassed some debts." Gritty sweat trickled into the corner of Graham's eye. He
swiped at it with his sleeve. "Blazing hell."
# Moira Hughes threw her weight against the cottage door and
shoved. It stuck for an instant, then gave with an
abruptness that nearly sent her headlong across the foyer
floor. She clutched the doorknob and anchored her feet,
managing not to fall but only just. Then she took her first
glimpse of her new home. It was. . . Awful. Dim. Shabby. An enormous disappointment. She stepped
across the threshold. To her left, an archway opened upon a cramped parlor. She
spied, between two dust-laden windows, a diminutive
fireplace that promised to smoke the very instant anyone
dared ignite a blaze. To her right, a decidedly rickety
staircase ambled its way to the second floor. Ahead, the
foyer narrowed to a tight corridor that must surely lead to
an equally oppressive kitchen. Moira could only imagine the
amenities to be found there. She sighed. Until this morning, Monteith Hall had been her
home. Sprawling, elegant, large Monteith Hall, a mere two
miles and a world away. There had been servants, gardens,
fine carriages. Not that Moira and her parents had used the
latter for much besides excursions to church on Sundays.
They had settled, these past several years, into the
uneventful routine of country life. But there had been
security and a sense of peace, a dependable contentment. That had ceased to be true some four months ago. Until
then, she had been the beloved stepdaughter of Everett
Foster, Baron Monteith. Then one frigid November morning,
she had watched his coffin lowered into a fresh grave in
the family cemetery. Influenza turned into pneumonia, the
physician had informed her and her mother. Through their
grief, there had at least been a sense of reassurance, of
continuity, for Moira had for some months been engaged to
Nigel Foster, her stepfather's nephew and heir. But there would be no marriage now, nor had Nigel enjoyed
his inheritance for long. Poor Nigel. Dearest Nigel had
been thrown by his horse and laid in his grave not two
months after Papa, leaving Moira and her mother alone.
Quite alone. And what a great irony, for Nigel had been the
most proficient of riders. Something, a rabbit perhaps,
must have spooked his horse and, in a freak occurrence,
Nigel had fallen and broken his neck. At the moment of his death, Moira and her mother had lost
all claim to Monteith Hall and become merely the distant
step cousins of the new baron. A baron who very much wanted—
needed, his letter said—to take up immediate residence in
his country estate, and would Moira and her mother please
make the necessary arrangements as soon as possible. Those arrangements had thankfully materialized in the form
of this cottage, offered to them by St. Bartholomew's
Parish. St. Bartholomew's had once been presided over by
Moira's natural father, the Reverend Mr. John Hughes, and
she found the congregation's gesture touching, indeed. Not
to mention a tremendous relief. If the accommodations were
somewhat inadequate, the rent at least was cheap. Needless
to say, she and her mother hadn't rushed to pack their
things, but this day had arrived in a dizzying blur all the
same. Uncertain footsteps picked along the path behind her. Moira
backed out of the cottage, pasted on her most cheerful
smile, and turned. "Oh, Mother, isn't it wonderful? Just
like in a fairy tale." Seeing her mother's brow pucker with
doubt, she added, "Think how cozy we'll be here in winter.
And once the furniture arrives, you'll feel right at home." Putting a spring in her step, she went to her mother's side
and linked arms with her. "Come, let's explore." "Do you think your father will like it, dear?" Estella
Foster raised a skeptical glance to the stone and timber
facade. "It seems rather limited. You know how Papa likes
to roam the house at night when he cannot sleep." Moira regarded the hazy confusion in her mother's eyes. A
weight that had become a familiar burden these past months
pressed her heart. She patted a wrinkled hand, kissed a
careworn cheek. "You know Papa is in heaven, Mother," she said quietly, and
paused to let it sink in. Again. "And yes, I do believe he
would be quite pleased with our snug new home. Come, let us
have a look about. We must decide where to place your
settee and armoire. And the petit-point chair and
footstool." Yes, those items had been part of Estella Foster's dowry,
and so they were allowed to take them from Monteith Hall.
Most of the other furnishings must stay, of course, part
and parcel of the new baron's inheritance. "And don't forget your father's chair, dear." Estella's
grip tightened on Moira's arm as they entered the cottage
together. "He'll want it just so beside the hearth. Is
there a window nearby? Your father is most particular about
having natural light to read by during the day. You know
how he disdains lighting the lamps before tea." Moira sighed and nodded. Hours later, when the scant furnishings had been placed to
their best advantage and Moira had tucked her bewildered
mother into bed, she stole outside. Mrs. Stanhope, still at
work organizing the kitchen, promised to check on Estella
often. Thank heaven for Mrs. Stanhope, something of a saint in
Moira's estimation. She'd been housekeeper at Monteith
since before Moira and her mother's arrival when Moira was
only three years old. Favoring loyalty over her enviable
position in the manor, Mrs. Stanhope had chosen to
accompany them to their new home, such as it was. Exhaustion clawed at Moira's limbs, but she trod a resolute
path to the remnants of what had once been a kitchen
garden. No one had lived here for years, and the cultivated
rows had long gone to weeds. She would have to hoe and rake
quickly in order to plant in time for the growing season.
Even then the first yield would be negligible at best.
There would be little money besides. The vast bulk of the
fortune was entailed to the estate and belonged now to the
new Lord Monteith. Moira curved her tongue around his name: Graham Foster. She
wondered who he was, what he looked like. As to the sort of
man he was, she wasted no time in pondering. His nature had
been made plain by his curt request that they vacate the
Hall. Over the years she had heard rumors about him, mostly from
Nigel. Tossed out of Oxford for cheating, Sir Graham Foster
had become something of an adventurer, an explorer who dug
up ancient treasures in Egypt and claimed them for England.
He'd won the king's favor for his efforts. Now he was
coming home to claim the only security Moira and her mother
knew. She bit her trembling lip and vowed not to shed a single
tear. She'd shed plenty for dearest Nigel. Many more for
Papa. Of her natural father she retained no memories, for John
Hughes had died before her second birthday. She had always
thought of Everett Foster as her father with no other word
attached, just as he used to sit her on his knee and
declare her his bonnie little daughter. He'd called her his
child for the last time as he lay dying, and whispered of a
recent change in his will that would ensure his family's
welfare. Where had that money gone? Mr. Smythe, their solicitor in
London, had written to say he knew of no funds other than
those entailed to the estate, except for the small sum her
mother had brought to the marriage. Hardly enough to see
them through the coming months. Although the rent was paid
for a full year, they'd need food, fuel, and clothing, and
Moira couldn't expect Mrs. Stanhope to stay on for free. Something was very wrong, and it now fell upon her
shoulders to discover what that something was. The thought
of leaving her mother, even temporarily, brought on waves
of numbing doubt, but she knew Mrs. Stanhope would die
before she allowed any harm to touch her mistress. She and her mother would never again have a home such as
the one they'd left. They would never again enjoy the
privileges so recently stripped from them. But the other
things—security, contentment, a feeling of home—those Moira
believed—hoped—she could provide. She must first go to
London and press for their rights. She must summon every
ounce of her courage, barge into Mr. Smythe's office, and
demand to see her stepfather's financial records. Somewhere
a codicil to his will existed, and she intended to find it. In the fading twilight, she scanned the surrounding
countryside, the gentle hills and meadows of Shelbourne.
Deeply she inhaled the piney-sharp scent of the village's
evening fires. From a quarter mile away, the church bell
struck a single peal, ringing in the half hour. The very thought of leaving produced an ache so sharp it
nearly cut off her breath. Although the family had many
acquaintances in London, in truth she could count none as
close friends. Certainly no one in whom she felt an
inclination to confide. She could not have borne the
pitying looks, nor the whispered gossip about how low poor
Estella Foster and her daughter had sunk. So then, where would she stay? Not in the family's Mayfair
town house. That belonged to Graham Foster now. There was
Uncle Benedict, but the letter she had sent him nearly a
month ago had brought no reply; he must be traveling at
present. No, she would be on her own, and on such limited
funds she despaired of eating more than one meal a day. But
what other choice? With no man to champion her cause, she must act as head of
the family, no matter how inappropriate, how frowned upon.
For there was nothing genteel about poverty. Nothing to be
gained from an empty stomach. No, indeed. She must plant
the garden and see her mother settled into a pleasant
routine with Mrs. Stanhope. Then she would pack her bags
and set out for London.
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