“What could you possibly have to interest me?”

There was challenge in McHugh’s voice, and insult. Yet she knew she loved him, needed him as he could never need her.

Even worse, she could not rid herself of the memory of the sensations he’d evoked. Her thoughts kept returning there, wanting more, needing more, and knowing she could never submit to such intimacies again if they did not come from him.

She lifted her chin in defiance, daring him to carry out his threat, both dreading and needing the answer to her question. What did he mean to do?

McHugh closed the remaining distance between them and pulled her roughly against him. “Damn it! You know what I want, Afton. You’ve always known, and you’ve used it against me.”

She sighed. “How could I when I wanted it, too?”

Praise for Gail Ranstrom

Saving Sarah

“Gail Ranstrom has written a unique story with several twists that work within the confines of Regency England…. If Ranstrom’s first book showed promise, then Saving Sarah is when Ranstrom comes of age.”

—The Romance Reader

A Wild Justice

“Gail Ranstrom certainly has both writing talent and original ideas.”

—The Romance Reader

The Rake’s Revenge
Gail Ranstrom

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For Natalie, Jay and Katie, the three best things that

ever happened to me. Thank you for being my best friends

and my biggest fans. I love you

more than words can ever say.

A grateful nod to the bridge ladies

of Missoula, Montana: Shari L., Linda K., Nancy G.,

Sherry S., Nancy N., Linda C. and Judy S.

Your strength, kindness and friendship have been

an inspiration. Thank you for being with me

through the darkest times and the brightest.

And, of course, the Wednesday League—

Margaret, Cynthia and Rosanne.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Epilogue

Prologue

London, December 3, 1818

“D ead? Madame Zoe is dead?”

Nodding, Afton Lovejoy paced her aunt Grace’s parlor in wide circles and fought the lump in her throat. There was worse to come, but the Wednesday League, the group of five intrepid ladies who secretly obtained justice for wronged women, did not know that yet.

“When?” Annica Sinclair, Lady Auberville, blinked her deep green eyes and set her teacup aside.

“Yesterday morning. I cannot be certain how long she lay there, but ’twas then that I found her. She…she—” Afton paused to brace herself against the rising pain. She couldn’t give way to it. If she did, she’d never stop crying.

“Sit down, dear,” her aunt Grace said, waiting until Afton perched on the edge of a chair before continuing. “Madame Zoe was still alive when Afton arrived at her salon above La Meilleure Robe. She expired in Afton’s arms. Afton went downstairs to Madame Marie, and Marie, knowing Afton is my niece, sent for me.”

“How perfectly awful for you, Afton,” Lady Sarah Travis gasped. “Had she been ill?”

“’Twas murder,” Afton announced. “There were wounds on her temple and abdomen that had bled profusely, and bruises around her throat. Her assailant must have thought she was dead when he left.”

Charity Wardlow’s cup rattled in the saucer and she put it down before it could spill. “I always come over queer when there is a murder. Oh, dear—the gossip this will create! The ton’s premier fortune-teller dead at the hand of a murderer.”

“The ton must not find out, Charity. At least, not yet,” Grace said.

“But the constabulary will report—”

Grace shook her head. “They will report nothing. We did not tell them. Everyone believed Madame Zoe was just another French émigré—a woman who lived on the fringe of society, a woman of little consequence. And that belief is preferable to the truth.”

“What is the truth?” Lady Annica asked, leaning forward.

Grace hesitated only a moment before replying. “That Madame Zoe was, in fact, an English gentlewoman reduced to earning a living in the only way open to her, yet compelled to hide her identity to spare her family shame.”

The heat of a blush stole up Afton’s cheeks. How utterly humiliating it was to be the proverbial “poor relations.” And how scandalous to admit your family’s living was made by swindling the ton.

“You knew her? Personally?” Sarah asked.

“She was Henrietta Lovejoy,” Grace admitted. “Afton’s maiden aunt on her father’s side.”

There was a finality to hearing those words spoken aloud that Afton had been able to deny until this very minute. Auntie Hen was gone. Dead. Murdered. Buried secretly in a convent garden. Afton glanced up to see all eyes upon her. The desolation of loss spilled tears over her lashes and down her cheeks. She dashed them away with an impatient flick. Later. She’d deal with the pain later.

“How dreadful for you, Afton, and for you, Grace.” Annica stood to give them each a warm hug. “But, if you did not call the authorities…” The question hung in the air.

“We waited until dark and then hired a dray to take Henrietta’s b—remains to the nuns at St. Ann’s. Under the guise of a nun, she was buried privately with due respect and consideration this morning,” Grace explained. “Only Afton and I were present.”

Charity leaned forward in her chair. “What of her friends and family? There will be questions.”

“I fear not, Charity,” Grace said with a little sigh. “Hen did not mix in London society, and she lost touch with her friends in Wiltshire long ago. She said that was the only way to maintain her anonymity as Madame Zoe. Five years as Madame Zoe, and only Madame Marie, Afton and I knew her true identity.”

Lifting her chin with resolution, Afton said, “I have been thinking what I can do to make this right. How to…to—”

“Obtain justice for your aunt?” Annica guessed.

Afton nodded and braced herself for a storm of protest. Here, at last, was the crux of the matter. “The killer cannot be certain that Auntie Hen is dead, since she was still alive when I found her. I intend to pose as her and flush him out.”

“What! No! You cannot!” The ladies spoke as one.

Annica and Sarah exchanged concerned glances. Afton knew they had both conducted investigations with near-dire consequences, barely escaping with their lives.

“Madame Zoe was the foremost fortune-teller in London. Why, anyone of consequence has been to her salon. How can you hope to deceive the entire ton?” Sarah asked.

Afton sighed. “Auntie Hen and I both learned to read tarot cards from a gypsy camped on the Lovejoy estate one rainy summer. I scoffed, but the crone told me that magic was real and that I would learn that someday,” she said. “’Twas just a parlor game then, a lark, but ’twas great good fun, and I still remember what each of the cards mean. I intend to wear Auntie Hen’s disguise of widow’s weeds and veils, and speak in a low, damaged voice with a French accent. Sooner or later, the murderer will have to return.”

“To kill you,” Charity said. “’Tis too dangerous. He will have the advantage because he knows that Zoe can identify him. But you will not know him. Oh, if we only knew more!”

Afton looked down at her closed fist. “There is more. I found this on the floor beside her.” She opened her hand to reveal a black onyx raven with a small diamond eye, mounted on a gold stickpin. The ladies leaned over her hand to study the object.

“Stunning,” Annica declared. “Quite valuable, unless I miss my guess. The murderer will be looking for Zoe, but he will also be looking for his lost pin.”

“I still cannot fathom how he gained entry,” Charity ventured. “I thought one was required to make an appointment with Madame Zoe through her factor. A man named Mr. Evans.”

“Auntie Hen had no appointments that night. The murderer either found her at her salon by chance, or stalked her until she was alone.” Afton’s voice tightened with anger.

Grace tucked a single stray strand of chestnut hair back into place and nodded. “We hope the murderer will be so mystified by Zoe’s survival that he will proceed with extreme caution. At the very least he will not be looking for Miss Afton Lovejoy from Little Upton, Wiltshire. But there will be undeniable danger when Afton is posing as Zoe in the salon above Madame Marie’s dress shop. Perhaps one of us should hide in the little dressing room whenever Afton is there.”

“I know!” Charity exclaimed. “We shall ask Mr. Renquist to install a bell rope in Zoe’s salon that rings in La Meilleure Robe’s sewing room downstairs. Then Afton could ring for help if something should go awry.”

Afton recalled that Mr. Renquist, Madame Marie’s husband, was the Wednesday League’s chief investigator and had a legion of Bow Street Runners at his disposal. She was comforted by the thought of having him within call. She might yet live through this affair.

Lady Annica leaned forward. “If you insist upon doing this, Afton, you will have our full support and assistance. I shall spread the story that Madame Zoe had an accident and cannot recall anything because of an injury to her head. Perhaps that will reassure the murderer that ‘Madame Zoe’ will not name him.”

“Still, I am uneasy….” Grace began. “Very well, but only until the end of the month, Afton. After that, we shall have to inform the authorities. This sort of villainy cannot go unreported.”

Afton took a deep breath. It was both more and less than she had hoped for—more help, less time. Thus, there was no time to lose. “I shall begin at once.”

Chapter One

London, December 12, 1818

C ould there be any greater contrast between these smells and sounds and the dank Moorish dungeon he had so recently escaped? Lord Robert McHugh, fourth earl of Glenross, shrugged out of his greatcoat and handed it to a waiting footman. The scent of evergreens mixed with spicy canapés and hot mulled wine wafted through the air. The soft strains of an orchestra and polite conversation carried from an adjacent room. Beside him, Lord Ethan Travis kept up a discourse on the many reasons Rob should reconsider attending this soiree tonight.

“You are not ready for this, McHugh. You are only a fortnight back in London. Give yourself more time before—”

“No time to spare, Travis,” he said. “It ran out in Algiers.”

“You need to reacquaint yourself with society. If you rush in where angels fear to tread—”

“Do you think society is not ready for me?” Rob could not help smiling at his friend’s concern.

Ethan shot him an exasperated look. “I’d find a barber, were I you. Your locks are beyond Byronic. And your emotions are as raw as a winter day. Diplomacy has never been your strong suit. Under the circumstances, no one could fault you, but why put yourself through the whispers, the pity….”

Pity? He’d have to squelch that. He’d rather be hated than pitied. “Why the concern, Ethan? The Foreign Office has kept me in isolation since my return. Two blasted weeks of picking my brains for any scrap of information I managed to gather during my…ah, residence at the Dey’s palace. It is too early for you to have had complaints of me.”

“That is what I am trying to forestall.”

“Has anyone complained of my manners?” he asked.

“Your manners, when you choose, are impeccable, Rob. Not so your reputation. And you’ve done little to mend it. Your single-mindedness and complete lack of a conscience when pursuing a goal are legendary. But I still wouldn’t be ready to toast debutantes and make polite conversation had I been through what you have the past few years, and worse these last six months.”

Rob pushed the ache of memories back into the dark recesses of his mind. He couldn’t allow his demons to divert him from his mission tonight. “Your concern is unnecessary, Ethan.”

“I know you want to find this ‘Madame Zoe’ person and bring her down, but this is not the time for it, Rob.”

“None better,” he countered. “But have no fear. I shan’t make a scene. To the contrary, I mean to keep my intentions secret. Bad hunting strategy to sound the horn and send the fox to ground.”

Ethan cleared his throat. “Mrs. Forbush is my wife’s close personal friend. She is introducing her niece, Miss Dianthe Lovejoy, to society tonight. She would be devastated if anything should go wrong.”

“You regret obtaining the invitation for me?” he asked. “What could possibly go wrong?”

“Good God, McHugh. Can you be serious?”

Rob gave a grim laugh. “Did the Foreign Office ask you to watch me? You sound just like Lord Kilgrew. He urged me to take some time before resuming my…obligations.” Rob tugged at the crisp curls at the back of his neck and permitted himself a small sigh. He supposed Ethan was right about one thing—he should have gotten a haircut.

But Ethan Travis needn’t have worried. Rob’s incarceration in Algiers had given him time to contain his cold fury at the forces that had set him on this path. Without that control, he’d be burning a path through London society in pursuit of the information he sought.

Ethan sprang a surprise of his own. “Your brother, now,” he said in an obvious attempt to turn Rob’s attention to a less volatile subject, “makes up for your social inadequacies. He’s been making an impression on London society since arriving six weeks ago. Did you know he’s staying at Limmer’s?”

“Douglas is in London?” This was a surprise. The Foreign Office had permitted no news of the outside world during Rob’s two-week interrogation.

Ethan nodded. “Your solicitor sent for him when the news reached us that the Dey had sentenced you to death, and that you…would not be coming back.”

“Hope he’s not squandering his inheritance.” Rob grinned. “Does he know that I’m alive?”

“Not yet. But my note should be catching up to him within the hour. Be warned—he’s got himself engaged.”

“Has he now? In a month? That was quick work.”

“You’ll like her, Rob. ’Tis the Barlow girl. Do you recall Beatrice?”

Rob nodded as they entered the Forbush ballroom. If memory served, Beatrice “Bebe” Barlow was a pretty, petite blonde of about twenty-one years or so. She had engaged his attention for about two minutes before he realized she was quite ordinary—even a little flighty. That soft vagueness would appeal to Douglas, though, and Rob wished his brother well.

He noted the short hush that fell over the assembly, followed by looks of pity or common curiosity, as he entered. It would appear the news of the outcome of his mission and his escape had reached the ton even before he had. A lightning flash did not strike with the speed of London gossip. What a pity the Foreign Office could not harness that force for foreign intelligence-gathering.

He paused near the fireplace to reconnoiter. He could never enter a room without scanning it for potential hazards, enemies or traps, or identifying exits and escapes—a result of having been too long with the Foreign Office, and too long in a foreign prison. Ethan gave him a nod of support before going on alone to find his wife.

And there across the room, engaged in conversation with a stunning woman with reddish-blond hair in a pink gown, was his hostess, Mrs. Grace Forbush, a beautiful widow in her early thirties—and the very person to aid him in his quest. Mrs. Forbush, with her popular Friday afternoon salons, knew all that went on in the ton. All that mattered, that is. He assumed a pleasant smile and his best society manners, and went forward to do battle.

Grace lowered her voice to a whisper. “I am afraid for you, Afton. You have only a little more than two weeks. If you continue to pose as Madame Zoe after that, I fear that we might lose you.”

“I cannot stop now, Aunt Grace. I’ve lost Mama and Papa, and Auntie Hen,” Afton whispered back. Her heart caught in her throat as she thought of all that was at stake. “I cannot lose anyone else. I do not think I’d survive it.”

She glanced to the dance floor, where her younger sister, Dianthe, waltzed by with an eligible young baron. Her blond hair shone in the candlelight and her pale blue gown was a perfect foil for her china-blue eyes. By any standard, Dianthe was an uncommon beauty. If she married well, Afton could count that one obligation met. One less task to claim her attention. One step closer to her final goal of meeting her promise to her dying father to keep the family safe and secure—a task his own incompetence had prevented him from accomplishing.

She was touched by Grace’s concern but unswayed in her determination. “If the murderer meant to kill me, he has had ten days to attempt it. Lady Annica’s rumor about Madame Zoe losing her memory must have eased his mind.”

Grace stiffened as she glanced at a point beyond Afton’s right shoulder. Judging from the expression on her face, her aunt was surprised and a little uncertain.

“Mrs. Forbush, thank you for inviting me this evening.”

Something in the deep timbre and faint Scottish brogue of that voice sent a chill up Afton’s spine. She turned to see the speaker bow over Grace’s hand and lift it to his sensual lips. A shock of dark hair fell over his brow and light sparked in eyes the shade of moss. When he straightened, he was a full six feet and more. His shoulders were broad, his features were finely chiseled and, despite his beauty, he was intensely masculine. Or was it the hint of frozen danger hovering about him like a ghostly presence that made her shiver?

“Lord Glenross! Heavens! I did not expect you to come in view of—that is—I’m delighted, but I did not hope to see you.”

Lord Glenross? The man the entire ton had been gossiping about for the past two hours? The man who had just escaped after six months in an Algerian prison under sentence of death? Ah, now she knew the reason for his detachment. And her unease. She could not even imagine what might be done to a British officer in an Algerian prison.

Lord Glenross smiled—at least Afton thought it was a smile, but it could have been a grimace—his attention still fastened on Grace. “I would not have dreamed of missing it.”

“You flatter me, Lord Glenross. I was not altogether certain you would welcome an invitation under the circumstances. That is…I thought—”

Afton could not take her eyes off the man. He turned to her as Grace continued her apology. His glance traveled from her eyes, paused in study of her mouth, then dropped farther to linger a moment at her throat before dipping to the low décolletage of her pale pink gown. Her skin tingled in the wake of that heated gaze. When he returned his attention to her face, he gave her a devastating smile that made faint dimples appear in both cheeks, and Afton could not catch her breath. His appraisal, without the final smile, would have been insulting. She might have been flattered if there had not been something cynical in his study…as if there was really nothing personal in his assessment. As if he could appreciate, but never participate.

Lord Glenross returned his attention to Grace, as if remembering her suddenly. “Thank you, Mrs. Forbush, but I am quite all right,” he said.

Grace gave him a doubtful smile. “I am glad to hear it. If there is anything I can do, my lord, you need only ask.”

He paused long enough for Afton to realize he was measuring his reply—managing the impression he gave. That knowledge set her on her guard.

He lifted one shoulder in a negligent shrug. “I’ve had time to ponder the Fates, Mrs. Forbush, and wonder what forces set us on a path.”

Fascinated by where he was headed with his conversation, Afton accepted a cup of rum punch from a passing footman’s tray and fortified herself with a deep gulp while she awaited Lord Glenross’s further explanation.

“Life is a great mystery, is it not? Any advantage one might gain would be of assistance, do you not agree?”

“Why, yes, I do,” Grace said. “I have always believed that knowledge is a powerful thing.”

“I knew you would think so, Mrs. Forbush, and that is why I have sought you out to ask how to contact a certain ‘Madame Zoe.’ Pray tell, how might I accomplish that?”

Surprise and shock made Afton choke, the punch halfway down her throat. Lord Glenross stepped forward, a concerned look on his face.

Grace intercepted him and thumped Afton on the back, glancing at her in silent desperation before answering. “Oh, Lord Glenross! How would I know such a thing?”

“You know everything worth knowing, Mrs. Forbush. And if you do not know, you know how to find out.”

Afton finally caught her breath and Grace turned her attention back to Glenross. “Well, um, yes. I suppose I could make inquiries, but I must say that I am astonished, my lord. I would never have thought you to be the sort who would traffic with psychics.”

“The collective ton says Madame Zoe is a phenomenon, Mrs. Forbush. Perhaps she will predict my future.” His expression did not change, but the corner of his right eye twitched faintly. “Or perhaps I shall predict hers,” he added.

Afton tried to gather her wits. Madame Zoe? Men like Lord Glenross did not consult fortune-tellers. He was playing some sort of deep game and, from what she’d seen of the man, no good could come from it. She glanced at Grace, wondering how she could possibly reply to such a request.

“That is very open-minded of you, my lord,” Grace declared. “I shall have that information for you by Monday morning, latest. Shall I post the instructions to you at your hotel? Or shall I send ’round to your club?”

Afton contained her gasp of dismay even as Glenross smiled triumphantly. “Send to my hotel. I am staying at Pultney’s in Piccadilly.” That bit of business out of the way, he looked pointedly at Afton, and then back to Grace.

“Oh! I beg your pardon, my lord,” she said. “May I present my niece, Miss Afton Lovejoy? Miss Lovejoy, please meet Robert McHugh, Lord Glenross.”

“Lord Glenross,” Afton managed to acknowledge. With some trepidation, she dropped a small curtsy and offered her hand. He accepted it and lifted it to his lips. The warmth of his fingers spread through her, and when those sensual lips brushed lightly across her knuckles, his breath warmed her blood.

“Miss Afton Lovejoy?” he asked, turning back to Grace. “I could have sworn the invitation stated that you were honoring a Miss Dianthe Lovejoy.”

Grace indicated Dianthe with a wave as she waltzed by with yet another proud-looking partner. “Dianthe is Afton’s sister.”

Lord Glenross barely spared a glance for Dianthe before returning his attention to Afton. “Miss Lovejoy, I am charmed,” he said. “Have you just now come to town?”

She wet lips gone dry with anxiety. “I’ve been in London six months, my lord. As Mrs. Forbush’s companion.”

Grace interceded once again. “Afton has shunned society since coming to town, my lord. She calls herself my companion, but she is my niece by marriage, as well as a very dear friend.”

“I am pleased that you have joined society tonight, Miss Lovejoy. I would be honored if you would consent to dance the next waltz with me.”

Her heartbeat tripped. If she danced with him, would he be able to recognize her through her disguise when he met her as Madame Zoe? She could not risk such a thing. “I have promised the next waltz, my lord,” she lied.

His smile did not falter, nor did his expression change, but she felt a subtle change in him. He knew she was lying!

“I see,” he murmured. “Another time, Miss Lovejoy?” Without waiting for an answer, he bowed and departed in the direction of the game room.

Afton was appalled at the odd mixture of excitement and dread that filled her at the thought of seeing Lord Glenross again. She turned to Grace and lamented, “If there were only some way to refuse him!”

Grace looked doubtful. “If you wish, I shall tell him I could not discover how to contact Madame Zoe.”

A complete waste of time. If Glenross did not have the referral from Grace, he would acquire it elsewhere. Slowly, painfully, Afton’s heartbeat steadied. She shook her head. “Send Glenross my factor’s address, and I shall instruct Mr. Evans to grant an appointment as soon as possible. As Shakespeare said, ‘If it were done when ’tis done, then…”

“‘…’twere well it were done quickly.’” Grace finished the quote with a nod of agreement. “An excellent idea. Mr. Evans shall handle it all. He is the very personification of discretion.”

Afton steadied her nerves and gave her aunt a small smile. “I shall simply tell Lord Glenross a happy little fortune and be done with him.”

Chapter Two

S omeone was in his room…someone who didn’t belong. Key in one hand, Rob paused with his other on the knob of his hotel room door. The fine hairs on the back of his neck stirred with an uneasy prickle.

It was unlikely that the Dey would have sent men after him. Unlikely, but not impossible. And he’d damn well die fighting before undergoing the Dey’s “hospitality” again. Being locked cramped and naked for weeks on end in a box so small he could neither turn nor raise his hand to scratch an itch, being left to wallow in his own filth, freeze by night and swelter by day, had taken its toll. A good day had been when someone took pity and threw an urn of fetid water over the box, and a few drops had trickled between the slats and cooled his stinging flesh. Rob could not yet think of the bad days—days he had been manacled spread-eagled against a dank dungeon wall for whippings that tore flesh from his back, while demands for information were screamed in his ears.

But there had been worse. Much worse. Bile rose in his throat as a sweat broke out on his forehead. No. He’d deal with that later. He wasn’t ready yet.

He braced himself and turned the knob. It gave without a click. Unlocked. He distinctly recalled locking it before leaving for Mrs. Forbush’s soiree.

He bent and slid his dagger from his boot. They wouldn’t take him alive this time. A quick glance down the corridor confirmed that he was quite alone.

He gripped the dagger in his right hand and eased the door open. A faint glow from the banked fireplace barely afforded enough light to make out the form of furniture. A movement from the chair facing the fire drew his attention.

Every muscle controlled, he crept forward. He stilled his breathing as he approached the back of the chair, knowing that even the air stirred by his breath could alert a seasoned thief or a foreign assassin. Surprise was his greatest advantage.

He jerked the man’s head back, his blade pressing against the interloper’s throat before he could react. “Identify yourself,” he snarled in the man’s ear from behind.

“Gads, Robbie! It’s Doogie! D’ye not remember me?”

Rob dropped his hand and released his brother, nearly weak with relief. “Douglas! What are you doing here?”

“I got Travis’s note and I’ve been trailing your footsteps ever since, always a step behind. Thought I’d just come to your lodgings and wait. I got the maid to unlock for me.”

Rob did not even want to know how his brother had bribed the maid. Douglas had a way with women, and never had trouble getting what he wanted of them. Rob slipped the dagger back in his boot as Douglas came around the chair to embrace him.

A moment later, embarrassed by his display of emotion, his brother released him and stepped back. “Damn me, Rob, say you won’t be going abroad again. My heart canna take it.”

“I willna,” Rob promised, falling into the comfortable brogue of their youth. “I’m back to stay.”

“That’s good. I’d have made a poor laird.” Douglas went to the bureau and retrieved Rob’s bottle of Scotch whiskey. He refilled his glass and poured one for Rob. “To the return of the McHugh!”

There’d been no whiskey in Algiers or in the government hospital where he’d been held since his return. Rob drank deep, eager for the fire and pleasant lethargy that would seep through him when the Scotch did its work. Maybe tonight he’d finally be able to sleep. “To Doogie McHugh and his lady fair.”

“Ach. So you’ve heard?” Douglas grinned and sank back into his chair. “She’s an angel, Rob. I don’t deserve her.”

“I met Miss Barlow last year. She is lovely, Douglas. She’ll give you beautiful babes. Mind that the first one’s a boy, for the title.” Rob wondered how his brother could prefer bland Bebe Barlow when there were more tasty morsels about—like that appetizing little Miss Afton Lovejoy. Now there was something he could envy Douglas for. Aye, Miss Lovejoy was right to be wary of him. He’d swallow her in a single bite.

“I’ll do my duty, and wear a smile doing it,” Douglas vowed.

“I always said you were a brave lad,” Rob teased. “You’re fond of her, then? The match wasn’t for expedience?”

“Bebe is my life, Rob. She’s the reason I draw breath.” Douglas’s face sobered and he glanced down at his feet. “Sorry, Rob. I didn’t mean to remind you. But, in time, you will marry again. You’ll have the heir you always wanted.”

“I’ll leave that to you, Douglas. ’Twill be your son now who’ll bear the Glenross title.” Doogie hadn’t known that Hamish hadn’t been a McHugh by blood. No point in telling him now, Rob supposed. He had grown to love the boy and had learned to ignore Maeve’s indiscretion.

“You say that now, Rob, but some pretty face will turn your head and you’ll change your tune.”

“I’ve not got the mettle for marriage.” And he hadn’t the heart to risk deceit again. Deceit and denigration.

“’Twas none of your fault, man. Maeve’s the one who insisted she visit her sister in Venice. She was a determined woman and made her own decisions.”

Douglas was wrong. Rob didn’t blame Maeve for that particular decision. But he knew who was responsible—the damn charlatan who’d hinted that his wife’s destiny awaited her in Venice. That she should go there to escape the man who would destroy her: him. Rob would hunt Madame Zoe until he could expose her for the imposter she was, and then he’d utterly destroy her—her confidence, her trade, her income and, sweetest of all, her reputation. By the time he was finished with her, no member of society would consult her.

Ah yes. He’d learned to be a very patient man lying alone in a cramped box while oozing infection from his wounds and planning his escape. All those months in the Dey’s dungeon he’d been waiting, going slowly mad. And he’d planned. Madame Zoe would pay for destroying the McHughs.

Monday morning, in the well-appointed offices above a bank, Rob studied his fingernails in a pose of casual boredom as Mr. Evans, Madame Zoe’s factor, leafed through her appointment book with a great show of accommodation. Indeed, Rob was anything but bored. It was December 14, and by his estimation, he should be finished with Madame Zoe no later than Christmas. He studied his surroundings, imagining the sort of woman who would employ Mr. Evans.

The office was estimable in every sense of the word. Comfortable chairs sat along one wall and the factor’s desk was clean, polished and modest. Mr. Evans himself appeared to be an eminently respectable man in his middle years, and Rob wondered why he would represent a charlatan.

The London gossip mill held that Madame Zoe was a middle-aged French émigré, a fortune-teller to the French court who had foretold the rise and fall of Napoleon Bonaparte. She was a widow, ’twas told, and always wore black. Liberal use of veils prevented anyone from giving an accurate description. Some even speculated that she was a prominent member of the noble but impoverished French community in London and employed the veils to prevent recognition in that circle.

Charlatan or not, Madame Zoe was clever to have put such an elaborate process in place. Before she ever saw a new client, the person had been screened by her factor. Only then was the client given an appointment time and the address at which she could be found. What a sweet little setup.

Tired of waiting for what was essentially a simple task, Rob slouched in his chair and asked, “So you do all Madame Zoe’s procuring?”

Mr. Evans flushed. “I make appointments for consultations with Madame Zoe. I am a factor, not a flesh peddler. She is extraordinarily busy, what with the ton in town for the season.”

“I will take whatever appointment she has available.”

The man cleared his throat. “Payment in advance.”

“Payment in advance?” Rob repeated, just to be certain his displeasure was evident. What a lot of nerve—demanding to be paid in advance for a pack of lies!

“Yes, my lord. Without exception,” the man confirmed.

“What if she has nothing to tell me?”

“There are no guarantees, my lord. And no refunds.”

Rob watched the man steadily, knowing his attention was unnerving. It was a technique he frequently used when eliciting a confession. The enemy always feared his silence meant that he knew more than he actually did.

“Madame Zoe has had a cancellation,” Mr. Evans said after flipping through a number of pages in the little leather-bound appointment book. “She can see you this afternoon at three o’clock,” he said after an uneasy moment. “Shall I put you on the books, my lord?”

“Yes,” Rob said, more harshly than he intended.

The factor dipped his pen in an inkwell and scratched a line of writing across a piece of paper. “Five pounds, please.”

Five pounds! Though it galled him to pay even a ha’penny, Rob handed over the required sum in exchange for the address.

Afton climbed the steep stairway that rose from a hidden panel in La Meilleure Robe to open in the closet of Madame Zoe’s second-floor flat. Should anyone follow her, it would appear as if she had gone to the shop for a fitting with Madame Marie. And when she left, it was through the same closet and out of Madame Marie’s door.

At the top of the secret stairs, the abandoned servants’ access from the time when the building had been a private residence, she listened carefully for a moment, her ear against the wooden panel. She was always a little afraid one of her patrons might have arrived early and entered by force, in an attempt to discover her true identity. Or worse—that the murderer had returned, broken into the flat, and lay in wait for her. That possibility had led Grace to insist that Afton carry a small, but very sharp, dagger. Reassured by the silence, she pushed the secret door open and slipped through into Zoe’s salon.

Afton lifted the heavy tapestry curtain that separated the back room from the main room, and went to light the fire banked in the small fireplace. That done, she opened the cupboard containing the tools of her trade: a deck of tarot cards, a deck of ordinary playing cards, a crystal orb, a bowl for water gazing, astrological charts, runes, candles, incense and a host of other items that she had no idea how to use. Guessing that Lord Glenross would not ask for anything unusual, she retrieved a deck of cards and left it on the round table in the center of the room.

Lord Glenross, Robert McHugh. Though foppish elegance and a slender frame were all the rage, Afton preferred a more substantial man, and Glenross was certainly that. He was almost too muscular for current styles. The narrowly cut jackets strained over his shoulders and chest in a most distracting manner. The prospect of being alone with him, even in disguise, caused her no small amount of anxiety. To her, he was larger than life. He filled a room, claiming it with no more than a crooked smile. And his eyes! Those cool ice-green eyes that looked right through her flesh to her soul! Thank heavens for her veils!

A glance at the clock on the small dressing table inspired her to hasten. She had slipped out of an impromptu tea and lively discussion of Lord Byron’s latest exploits, with barely a nod in her aunt’s direction, but the delay had caused her to run late. She stripped and donned black crepe de chine widow’s garb that covered her from throat to toe. Above that, a gray wig topped by black silk veils obscured her face. Last, she pulled on a pair of white silk gloves to cover her hands. Nothing, she knew, would betray her identity.

The clatter of horses’ hooves and the jangle of harness from the street below drew her to the window. A black town coach drew up outside and the door opened. Instead of a patron of Madame Marie, the occupant was none other than her client. Early. Afton smiled, thinking he must be more anxious for a reading than she’d thought, and watched through the sheer lace panels as the top of his head disappeared though the doorway below. She wondered again at the incongruity of a man like McHugh consulting a fortune-teller as she decided not to pull the heavy velvet draperies over the lace curtains.

For good measure, Afton checked her appearance in the mirror above the fireplace. Yes, the veils obscured her features and made her virtually unrecognizable. She would be safe enough. Just as she lit white candles and sandalwood incense, a knock sounded at the door. She lifted the little brass disk that covered the peephole to see the Scot, quite alone. She paused with her hand on the latch, anxiety twisting her stomach in knots.

“He is just curious,” she whispered to herself, though she was too well aware that any client—this one?—could be Auntie Hen’s murderer. She glanced at the bell rope, touched the little dagger in her sewn-on pocket, squared her shoulders and lifted the latch.

The door opened slowly, revealing a smallish woman swathed in black. Even the heavy veils covering her face betrayed no hint of the features beneath. Though he itched to peel the layers back and expose the face, Rob schooled himself to patience. Madame Zoe’s actual identity was only one part of his problem. He could discover that whenever he chose. He needed to know her weaknesses, to uncover her vulnerabilities and decide the perfect way to destroy her. He estimated he would need at least three visits.

“Entrez, m’sieur.” Soft, well-modulated tones greeted him as the veiled woman stepped aside to grant him entry. If that was a crone’s voice, he was not Rob McHugh.

A quick glance around the small room revealed a dozen telling details. The meager supply of wood on the hearth indicated use of the room for only short periods of time. Personal items were at a minimum. This was a salon only, not a home for the fortune-teller. The furnishings were tasteful, though shabby and worn. A single window facing the street below was hung with an airy lace curtain, and small pots of greenery lined the sill. Blue velvet draperies could be pulled for additional privacy, and would darken the room for a mystical atmosphere. A curtained alcove in the far corner likely hid a chaise and washstand, perhaps a wardrobe or clothespress. The only concession to female vanity was the old mirror mounted above the fireplace.

But most interesting to Rob was the small dark stain on the threadbare rug beneath the central table. Tea? Wine? Blood? Very interesting. And then there was the discreet bell rope hung from a hook near the fireplace. Where would it ring?

“M’sieur?” the woman asked again.

“Madame Zoe? Am I late?”

“Mais non,” she said. As he passed her going into the room, he caught the subtle scent of lilies of the valley. Sweet, warm, seductive. Also very interesting.

She swept her arm toward the table in the center of the room in an invitation to sit.

“Do you know who I am?” he asked, ignoring the chair.

Her voice was still soft and heavily accented, but now held a hint of humor. “I know all, m’sieur.”

He laughed, amused by her conceit. “Then who am I?”

“You are my three o’clock appointment, m’sieur.”

Clever thing. He shook his head. She was not going to make him like her. “Do you mock me?”

“Mais non, m’sieur.” She gripped the back of the chair opposite the one she had indicated for him. “That would be very bad for the business, no?”

“My business, at any rate.”

“So. You ’ave the curiosity to know what the future ’olds for you?”

“Yes, indeed.” He nearly rubbed his hands together in anticipation.

“’Ow do you wish your fortune told, m’sieur? Cards? Tarot? Tea leaves? Crystal orb? Runes?”

Rob gestured at the deck of cards on the table. “Cards.”

He smiled as she sat and made a graceful mystic gesture over the deck, as if invoking the fortune-telling god, before passing the deck to him. “You must shuffle the cards, m’sieur. They must carry your energy. Your…essence.”

Without sitting, Rob shuffled the deck three times before sliding it back across the table to her. She then dealt a circular pattern of cards, faceup, on the table and placed one card facedown on top of each. In the center of the pattern, she turned a single card up. The king of spades.

Pointing to it, she said, “You, m’sieur.”

“Are you quite certain?”

“Oui. Were this a tarot deck, you would be the king of swords. A good card. A strong card. A warrior.”

Flattery? Somehow he thought not. “Swords, eh? What am I doing?”

She pointed to a queen of hearts. “Doutant moi.”

Another joke? “How do you know you are the queen of hearts?”

“She is presently close to you and ’as the gift of sight. Do you know such another?”

She had him there. “No,” he admitted.

“Voilà! C’est moi.” There was a note of triumph in her voice, as if she had surprised even herself.

“Will my doubt prevent you from giving me a reading?”

Madame Zoe sat back, folded her hands in her lap. “Mais non, m’sieur. Do not concern yourself. The cards are what they are. But I feel the doubt in you. You do not think telling the future is possible, no?”

“Pray, do not allow my reservations to hinder you. This is my first time at a fortune-teller. You must allow me my little doubts.” He took the chair across from her and folded his arms across his chest.

She appeared to be weighing her words, deciding what to say, or how much. “You are a warrior, m’sieur. You ’ave come ’ere with the…plan. The strategy. There is something you wish to know, but you will not speak it aloud.”

He raised an eyebrow. That was a clever ploy. While quite true of him, the same could be said of nearly everyone who visited a fortune-teller. “Hmm. Must I speak it aloud, madame, for you to answer the question?”

“No. I confess it would be easier, but not needed.” She pointed to the ten of spades. “I think it ’as to do with the revenge. I do not see a ’appy outcome, m’sieur. Revenge is a two-edged sword. It draws blood on both sides, n’est-ce pas? One cannot be certain ’oo will be cut.”

A remarkably good guess, he thought. “Sometimes the reason for revenge makes it worth the risk.”

She shook her head slowly. “Mais non, m’sieur. There are only two reasons for revenge. Both silly.”

“And those reasons would be…”

“L’amour ou l’argent, monsieur.”

Of course. Love or money. One did not have to be a fortune-teller to know this. “Which do you think is my motive?” he asked, unable to keep the challenge from his voice.

Her own voice was steady and sure. “Love. You are not a man to quibble over money.”

“You are very logical, madame. Very perceptive.” Was it perception that passed for fortune-telling? Did she merely tell people what she guessed they wanted to hear? Was she little more than an intuitive observer?

“Not logical, m’sieur. I only speak what the cards say.”

“Balderdash!” The word was out before he could stop it.

A small muffled laugh emerged from beneath the veils. “I am sorry you think so. Néanmoins, you ’ave come for the reading, and I shall oblige.” She bent over the spread cards once again in an attitude of rapt concentration, turning the facedown cards up in a precise pattern. “You, and you alone, ’ave the power to determine your future. What I tell you now is only what could be…what might be. You must choose your course.

“You are now suffering from…’ow you say—chagrin d’amour?”

The corner of his mouth twitched. “You say, ‘a broken ’eart.’” At last Madame Zoe was going astray. Maeve and Hamish’s deaths had not broken his heart, they had hardened it.

“Oui, ’eartbreak. But you must not worry, m’sieur. You will love again. You will love deeper.” She pointed to the queen of clubs. “She was not your grande passion. You will ’ave la grande passion. If…”

“If?”

She shrugged. “If you let go of your ’urt. If not, your quest for revenge will poison you and those around you.”

Dangerously close! How could she garner that from a few common cards? “You misunderstand, madame. What you call revenge, I call justice. As for putting it aside—that’s easy to say, impossible to do.”

“M’sieur, I…” She trailed off in a sigh.

“If you have something to tell me, madame, do so,” he said.

She leaned over the cards again and turned another three up, then another three, stopping to study the way the cards had fallen. “Danger. Clearly, danger. Spreading in a radius around the king—you, m’sieur. Alas, I cannot tell if the danger is to the king or from the king. It may be both. You must be very careful, m’sieur.” She fell silent, her head bent over the cards.

Damnation. Was she about to give him a warning from the cards? Had he just tipped his hand? He stirred uneasily as he waited for her to finish. “Madame? Have you fallen asleep?” he asked when the silence stretched out.

When she answered, her voice was subdued, and he felt for the first time that she was hedging. “You must not worry, m’sieur. The matters that are troubling you will soon come clear.”

“Is that what your cards tell you?”

She touched her forehead through her veil. “I…I ’ave suddenly come over with the malaise, m’sieur. I will instruct my factor to reimburse you.”

“I do not want reimbursement, madame. I want a reading.”

The hand on her forehead began to tremble, and Rob realized she was not feigning to get rid of him. She was actually in distress. He leaned toward her, surprising himself with a quick pang of concern. “Do you require assistance, madame?”

She waved one hand to prevent him from coming closer. “’Ow kind of you, mais non. I must ’ave quiet. I cannot see your future, m’sieur. There are clouds, barriers—”

“Ah.” He nodded “The doubts you spoke of earlier.”

“Oui,” she sighed.

“Then can you tell me the past?”

She studied the remaining cards after fanning them in an arc across the table. “Your past is filled with, ah, turbulence. And much pain, I think. There ’as been betrayal and injury. You ’ave learned not to trust. You…you are a man of strong passions, though you ’ide it well. You are intelligent, thoughtful, deliberate—relentless in pursuing your goal. Alas, m’sieur, you are not ’appy. You ’ave the deep ’urt. You must overcome these things if you are to live again. In the present, m’sieur, you do not allow for the—’ow you say—caprice of life. For the whim, the ’umor or the silly thought. You ’ave not learned that dreams, no matter ’ow impossible, make dreary lives worth living, and that when ’ope dies, the ’uman spirit dies. You ’ave not found within you the ability to laugh at life’s absurdities. The world does not turn because you turn it, m’sieur. Au contraire. It turns of its own accord. Time is even more relentless than you.”

He narrowed his eyes at the unvarnished rebuke. She had not falsely flattered him, nor couched her message in a veil of euphemisms. And her reckoning was dead-on. He hadn’t a single whimsical bone in his body. That she knew so much about him made him uncomfortable. He began to think that, however misguided, she might be sincere in her delusions of “knowing all.”

“You are loyal to your friends,” she continued, “and will not ’esitate to protect them, even from themselves. You—”

“Enough!” he snapped. She was more than a fortune-teller—she was a witch! He stood so quickly the little wooden chair tipped backward and clattered on the floor. “That is enough for today. I will be back for my money’s worth, madame. You may count on that.” Feeling as if the walls were closing in on him, he turned on his heel and headed for the door. He could have sworn he heard a muffled curse on his way out.

In all, though, his visit had been a success. He had learned a great number of interesting things about the infamous Madame Zoe. Her soft youthful voice betrayed the fact that she could not be an ancient French émigré. Unless he missed his guess, she could not be above twenty and five. Her size was another clue. Despite the mourning weeds, he could tell that her figure was more willowy than that of an aging matron, her posture straight, not hunched. Her scent, lilies of the valley with the underlying hint of greens, was unaffected and free of the cloying heavy scents of musk and rose so popular today. It was a fragrance that had brought his blood up instantly.

But even more interesting, Madame Zoe was not French at all. No, when speaking the foreign words, her accent was flawless, but when speaking English, her affected French accent was appalling. Truly one of the worst he’d ever heard.

Best of all, now he had her address. He knew where to find her when he was ready to come for her. And that would be soon.

Oh, yes. Mr. Evans had been right. She’d been worth the five pounds. And Rob would gladly pay the price again for another visit.

Chapter Three

A fton glanced around the grand ballroom of the Argyle Rooms. The elegant setting, replete with crystal chandeliers and fresco-painted walls, was like something from a fairy tale. Everything was perfect and boded well for Dianthe’s further success. It would never do to have other guests at the Lingate fete overhear their conversation and ruin it all.

She pulled her aunt toward a quiet corner. “I tell you, Aunt Grace, it was eerie,” she whispered. “I know what each of the cards is supposed to mean, but I could not make out the meaning in the way they fell. I was in his fortune, and I was a danger to him—or he to me, I could not tell which. I tried to think, but I kept hearing the word danger, and I could not banish it from my mind. I vow, for a moment I thought it was Auntie Hen whispering to me.”

Grace blanched. “You do not think—”

“No! Oh, no. Of course not,” Afton assured her. “It wasn’t real. The voice was in my head—more like a memory. But it distracted me, and Lord Glenross must think I’m quite mad. I had only started to tell his future when I…became mystified. He said he would be back.”

Grace’s clear brown eyes widened. “And so he is.”

Afton turned in the direction of Grace’s gaze. Lord Glenross, dressed in elegant eveningwear, was wending his way around groups and couples, progressing relentlessly toward them. Light-headed with anticipation, she said a quick prayer that she would do or say nothing that would betray her as Madame Zoe.

When he arrived before them, he gave a polite bow and straightened with a smile. Afton noted that he’d had a haircut since this afternoon. He now had the look of the haut monde, but there was something primitive in his bearing and his movements—as if someone had dressed a lion in a lamb disguise. She liked him better without his “civilized” veneer.

He gave a short bow. “Mrs. Forbush, I am in your debt.”

Grace tilted her head to one side and returned his smile. “Whatever for, Lord Glenross?”

“Your assistance in contacting Madame Zoe. I hope it did not inconvenience you greatly.”

“Not in the least, my lord. The information came easier than you might imagine. Were you successful?”

“Quite. I met with her this afternoon.”

The knowledge that he did not know who she was intoxicated Afton and made her feel daring. She couldn’t contain her curiosity. “Was your appointment satisfactory, my lord?”

He turned to her, looking surprised that she had addressed him. He smiled and nodded. “Miss Lovejoy, is it not? Yes, I was satisfied with the appointment. I found Madame Zoe to be quite…insightful.”

“Is she as good as the on dit has it?”

“That remains to be seen.”

Afton was about to reply when she noted Sir Martin Seymour coming their way. He was blond, tall, slender, handsome and perfectly groomed—a fair complement to Lord Glenross. He bowed to her and Grace before turning to Glenross.

“If it isn’t the McHugh, my childhood chum,” he said, grinning and embracing him. “I heard, but I dared not believe. Glad you made it back, old friend.”

Glenross clapped the other man on the back and said, “Seymour, it is good to see you. Have you been well?”

“Tolerable. And you?”

Glenross’s face clouded. “As you might expect.”

“Sorry,” Martin murmured. “I did not mean to awaken any loathsome memories.”

“There are not many of the other kind.” Glenross gave a short, self-deprecating laugh. “I do not usually indulge in self-pity. Bear with me, Seymour. I will regain my balance in another day or two.”

Afton was touched by his obvious dismay. She was certain he did not often betray himself in such a blatant manner.

“No doubt,” Martin said. He turned to her and Grace, then bent in a debonair bow. “Ladies, please excuse our lapse of good manners. The McHugh and I grew up not three miles apart, and I have not seen him since…before Algiers.”

“How nice,” Grace said. “It is always a pleasure to reacquaint oneself with old friends, is it not?”

“Without a doubt,” Seymour said. “Are you ladies enjoying yourselves?”

“We have not been here long,” Grace answered. “Mr. Julius Lingate claimed Dianthe for a waltz upon our arrival, and we have been awaiting her return to us. I believe she was claimed for another dance, but—”

“Ah, there she goes again.” Martin laughed, gesturing at the waltzing couples. He nodded toward the dance floor and reached for Afton’s hand. “We should join her, Miss Lovejoy. Since you are standing here, you cannot be spoken for.”

Afton did not like being manipulated, but she could not disengage her hand without appearing rude. “Oh, Sir Martin, I am a poor partner. You can be nothing but disappointed. I had scant opportunity to practice waltzing in Little Upton.”

“Leave it to me, Miss Lovejoy. I have enough skill and practice for us both.” He paused long enough to bow again in Grace’s direction and call a farewell to Glenross as he led her toward the dance floor. “Come ’round to my club later, Rob. We’ll reacquaint you with some late entertainments.”

Afton felt heat creep into her cheeks when she wondered what sort of late entertainments that would be, and before she knew it, she was dancing her first waltz.

Her partner smiled. “I say, Miss Lovejoy, you look quite fetching in violet. You ought to wear it more often.”

“Thank you, Sir Martin,” she murmured as she scuffed the toe of his boot with her slipper. She liked the rhythm of the music, but she did not care to have Martin Seymour mere inches from her face. Nor did she quite understand what steps would be required of her next.

Her partner’s hand on her waist gave her no guidance. Her foot landed squarely on top of his boot and he winced, trying, no doubt, to cover a look of annoyance.

“Oh, I am sorry. Perhaps I am not suited.”

“I shan’t hold it against you, Miss Lovejoy. You will learn.”

She wondered if she would. She suspected she was more suited for country reels and quadrilles. Then a sudden thought occurred to her. Sir Martin was eminently qualified to court Dianthe. “My sister is much in demand. Have you danced with her?”

“I have, indeed. She is light of foot, but she hasn’t your fire.” Sir Martin gave her a meaningful look.

“You like red hair, sir?”

“Your locks are more a reddish-blond, and I like it very much, indeed. My inquiries have revealed that you have been in town six entire months, Miss Lovejoy. How is it that you are yet unattached?”

“Luck?” she ventured.

He grinned. “My good luck. I should have been distraught if you’d been spoken for before I had my chance.”

Afton blinked in surprise. Was he asking if his attentions were welcome? “I…I have not been much in society, sir. Did your inquiries reveal that I am my aunt’s companion?”

Sir Martin affected a wounded look as he spun her in a tight circle. “Miss Lovejoy, say you do not think me so parsimonious as to be a fortune hunter.”

She laughed. “Sir, most women are judged as worthy as their fortunes, and I come with more liabilities than assets.”

“Noted. And yet I am undaunted.”

What will it take? Afton thought. Ashamed of herself, she smiled. “You are very kind, sir.”

“Not at all. Bloodlines are also important, would you not agree? You are of a good family, and your father was only once removed from a title, I think?”

“The Lovejoy pedigree stands up to scrutiny.”

The waltz ended. Sir Martin offered his arm as he escorted her back to Grace. He leaned close to her ear and whispered, “We shall waltz again, Miss Lovejoy.”

She put on a polite smile. “Do not forget Dianthe.”

The moment Sir Martin departed, Grace took Afton’s hand and led her apart from the little group she’d been standing in. “Glenross said he’d be back to claim a dance. He was asking about you, Afton, and your circumstances.”

“What if he suspects I am…”

“I pray that is not possible. Though he seemed to study you overmuch, you betrayed nothing of your identity.”

“I am certain of it. I was swathed head to toe in Auntie Hen’s disguise. Why, I even wore gloves to cover my hands. I lowered my voice and spoke with an accent. Still, he was behaving oddly.”

“Then he must be smitten with Afton Lovejoy.”

“Also impossible, Aunt. From the on dit, Glenross is notorious for being blind to a pretty face. I’ve heard that from too many sources to doubt it. And he is still mourning his late wife, Lady Maeve.”

“Did you see that in the cards?”

“Heavens!” Afton laughed. “You mustn’t believe such silly stuff. Who would know better than I what balderdash that is? A parlor game, Aunt Grace. Put no more stock in it than that.”

“Then perhaps you ought to tell your own fortune, Afton. But later. Here comes Glenross again.”

“I think I am not meant to dance the waltz, Lord Glenross. I fear I have lamed poor Sir Martin for life.”

He deflected her mild protest with an unarguable counter. “Allow me to worry over the state of my own feet, Miss Lovejoy. You cannot know just how sturdy I am.”

She laughed, thinking it would be interesting to make a comparison between him and Sir Martin. She offered her hand.

“When you ran off last night, I thought I might have offended you in some way,” he said when the music started.

“Not in the least, my lord.” She placed her right hand across his left palm and was fascinated by how small it looked in his. As he settled his warm right hand at her waist, a quiver of excitement traveled up her spine. She was acutely aware of his size, his scent, his proximity and the odd gentleness of his touch despite his rough strength. No, he did not offend her in the slightest possible way.

“That is a relief,” he said as he led her into the dance. “I am usually deliberate when I am giving offense, but I must allow for the occasional faux pas. You will correct me if I err, will you not?”

“With alacrity,” she teased. “I thought you had been back long enough to have reclaimed your social graces.”

He gave her a curious look, his cool eyes searching hers. “I have, Miss Lovejoy. What you see before you is the polished version of Rob McHugh.”

“I suspected as much, my lord.” Indeed, he was so polished that he left her breathless. His admission that she was looking at that side of him made her ashamed of teasing him. Thus far, as Afton, she had seen little of the cold, dangerous, fierce reputation that the ton gossiped about. Ah, but as Madame Zoe she had experienced a decided frost.

She took a deep breath and stiffened her spine. She had to be very careful not to betray the tiniest hint of Madame Zoe to Glenross. She suspected he would not take kindly to being deceived.

Seeking a change of subject, she realized she had not stepped on his toe once since the dance began. “I think this is going rather well,” she ventured. “Better than my first waltz.”

“Beginnings are always difficult, Miss Lovejoy. One cannot be proficient in…any task on one’s fledgling tries. ‘Firsts’ can be disappointing.” His voice lowered to that deep timbre that tickled her psyche. “But with a skilled and patient instructor, you may exceed your highest hopes.”

Afton grappled with that statement for a moment. “A…a good instructor can accomplish much,” she finally allowed.

Glenross tilted his head back in a hearty guffaw and led her into a quick turn. Miraculously, she did not even stumble. The strength and firmness of his hand had guided her unfalteringly through the maneuver. “I shall be pleased to devote myself to the task of teaching you to waltz, Miss Lovejoy. I cannot wait to see how much you might accomplish.”

Even though she wished the dance could last forever, the whisper in her ear was back. Danger. Danger.

As Seymour prattled beside him at the tavern bar, Rob tossed back another whiskey. He’d meant to go back to his room and make an early evening of it, but when little Miss Lovejoy had challenged him, made him laugh, made him forget—just for a minute—he’d become rife with guilt. A guilt he was desperate to assuage. In any way possible. He didn’t need the damn guilt to remind him that he’d failed—at being a father and a husband.

Failed so miserably that Maeve had been moved to tell him so. He was too intemperate, too fierce in his passions, she’d informed him. He unsettled her, she’d said. She’d feared he would consume her if she let him. She’d said she needed a finer emotion from him—something gentler, less intense. Safer. He was, according to his deceased wife, on a level scarcely above an animal. “McHugh the Destroyer,” she’d called him, because he’d destroyed her only chance for happiness. Thus far, he’d been unable to find anything that would prove her wrong. He had wanted her each time he’d been with her, but he hadn’t…what? Become soft and moon-eyed over her many vaunted attributes? Craved her? Thought of her constantly when they were apart? Been anxious for the next time he’d see her?

Loved her?

Sadly, he hadn’t. Their marriage had been arranged by their families when they were still in the nursery. And that lack of love was the true source of his guilt. He was left to conclude that he simply did not possess the finer emotions. So, when Maeve had ripened with child at a time when he could not have been the sire, he’d remained silent and claimed Hamish as his own. That was the least he could do for a wife he had failed in every other way.

But, animal that he was, he’d obsessed over the identity of Hamish’s sire, and about many interesting ways he could kill the damn poacher. Who had given Maeve what Rob had not been able to give her? God help him, it made no difference now, but that question still ate at him.

Tonight, he’d thought a trip to the gaming hells and brothels of London’s squalid side would sate his animal needs. He’d thought he’d be able to overcome the humiliation of the atrocity his body had become. He’d hoped he’d find relief, release, repose, if only for the night. Instead, when Seymour had taken him to the most popular brothel in London, he’d chosen a saucy redhead with blue eyes and a teasing smile. When he realized he’d selected a pale copy of Miss Lovejoy, he’d given the prostitute a guilty pass. He damn well wasn’t dead below the waist, but he also wasn’t interested in simple ejaculation. Fool that he was, he craved possession. He craved contact on a deeper level than the physical. He craved meaning.

“McHugh?” Seymour asked.

A sideways glance revealed an ale-sodden gentleman staring into his tankard. “Aye?”

“Too bad about Maeve and Hamish.”

Rob had no reply for that. He gestured to the publican for another glass of whiskey.

Seymour shook his head. “You shouldn’t have let them go.”

“I live with that every day, Seymour.” He studied the wet circle left on the bar by his glass.

“Too late now, though.”

He tossed his whiskey down in a single gulp and slammed the glass on the bar. “I’m gone, Seymour. My pillow is calling.”

“But you haven’t made the two-backed beast yet. ’Tisn’t natural. You’re on edge, McHugh. The least little thing could set you off. When was the last time you—”

Rob shook his head as he turned to the door. He wasn’t about to tell Seymour he hadn’t been with a woman in months—no, years. They’d all blurred together and been so exceedingly forgettable, the women and the years. And he’d grown accustomed to being on edge. Hell, he’d almost grown to like it.

Afton drew the warm velvet robe closer around her and went to curl up before the fire as she waited for Grace and Dianthe’s return. Though she had more important things to think about, her mind kept wandering back to her dance with Lord Glenross and the feeling of his hand on her waist. She craved more of that feeling, and cringed with guilt every time she thought of it. She was taking his money, pretending to tell his fortune, and using knowledge she gathered as Afton Lovejoy to deceive him into thinking Madame Zoe was clairvoyant. For the first time, she felt like a common fraud.

To complicate matters, since her sister’s arrival in London one week ago, Afton had purchased ball and riding gowns, shoes, riding boots, dancing slippers, gloves, bonnets, reticules, morning and afternoon gowns, calling cards—and the costs added up. She would not have the resources to give Dianthe a second season. In fact, if she gave up the income as Madame Zoe, she would not be able to see Dianthe through this season.

Gads! Five years of scrimping and saving, five years of mind-numbing drudgery in Wiltshire and now in London, and all her carefully laid plans were about to go awry because an unspeakable villain had murdered Aunt Henrietta!

Afton stood and began pacing. She had lost so much. Her mother, her father, Aunt Henrietta, the meager savings for her dowry—all gone. Lord, she was so tired! Dianthe found the uncertainty exciting, but Afton ached to feel safe for just a moment.

Near dawn, the clatter of hooves on cobblestones pulled her from her reverie, and she hurried to her bedroom window to watch as the Forbush coach pulled up to the front door. Dianthe, accompanied by Grace and Lord Ronald Barrington, one of Grace’s many admirers, stepped out and hurried inside just as the tall grandfather clock struck the hour of four. Afton knew the routine. Lord Ronald would beg a bedtime sherry and then leave, still unrequited in his lust for Grace.

Turning away from the window, Afton went to wait, cross-legged, on her bed. By the time her door flew open and Dianthe danced in, she had a smile fixed firmly in place.

“Was it wonderful, Di? Did all the ton fall at your feet?”

Her sister untied the strings of her cape and let it slide to the floor. “It was extraordinary! I feel like a princess. I adore London! I revel in all my new gowns! Why, oh why, did you not send for me ere now?”

“I did not know how much you would like town,” Afton replied with a laugh. “I have not experienced your success.”

“I cannot imagine why not.” Dianthe gazed at herself in the looking glass. “You are much prettier than I, Afton, and so petite. Men love that.”

“I am not your competition, Di.” Afton smiled.

“I know you would not want it so, but men are positively intrigued by redheads.”

“I am past my prime.”

“Au contraire,” Dianthe laughed. “Twenty and five is fully ripe. You are poised to fall from the tree.”

Afton had a sudden image of herself as an apple clinging to the tree with her last scrap of strength as Robert McHugh stood below, his hand cupped and ready to catch her. She shivered and put the distracting thought away. “No, Dianthe, you will be the one to make a match before the season ends.”

“Oh, I hope so. That is why I ordered a new ball gown when I was shopping with the Thayer twins this afternoon. Hortense and Harriett said I shall need every advantage I can secure.”

A new gown? Afton winced. Between Dianthe’s recent purchases and Auntie Hen’s death, where would she find the resources?

Dianthe’s eyes widened as she took in Afton’s expression. “Oh, dear. Should I have asked before I ordered the gown?”

She touched her sister’s cheek tenderly. Dianthe would be crushed to think she had caused a problem. “I wish I had gone with you. You know how I adore shopping.”

“Then you must come next time.” Dianthe began pulling the pins from her silken blond hair, letting it fall around her shoulders. “Why have you not entered society, Afton? Aunt Grace told me that she offered to pay your expenses and to sponsor you, but that you would not accept.”

Dianthe softened her voice. “Have you refused Aunt Grace’s offer because of Papa? You know you cannot go through life trying to make up for his shortcomings.”

“Shortcomings?” She gave a gentle laugh. “You are a master of understatement, Dianthe. Father was a pauper who borrowed from his friends and family until he had none left. People fled when they saw him coming. Do you not remember the humiliation? I will never impose in such a manner.”

“He did it for us, Binky,” Dianthe said, using Afton’s pet name.

“I’d rather have done without than live by charity,” Afton murmured.

“Never mind,” Dianthe soothed. “With hard work and determination, we have reversed the family fortunes—you, with your excellent business sense and the pay for assisting Aunt Grace, Auntie Hen hiring out to wealthy widows as a tour guide, and me with my little jams and jellies to sell at market.” She paused and gave Afton a sideways glance. “Ah, but you could make a brilliant match, Binky, and then we wouldn’t have to work so hard.”

Afton studied Dianthe’s face until she saw the twinkle of laughter in her eyes. She swung a pillow at her sister. “That’s your job, Dianthe! You make the brilliant match, then you can take care of me in my dotage.”

“I shall be delighted to do so.” Her sister sighed dreamily. “There are half a dozen men I’ve met so far to whom I could give my heart. But where is Auntie Hen? In her last letter she promised to meet us in town and help me make a choice.”

Guilt tweaked Afton and the pain crept forward. She could not give in to it yet. If Dianthe suspected the truth, she’d withdraw in mourning, and there might never be another chance to launch her in society. “She has been delayed in Greece, Dianthe. I am certain we will hear from her soon.”

“Oh, I do hope so. I miss her dreadfully and I know you and she are anxious for me to make a good match. I only wish she were here to guide me.”

Was a measure of desperation tainting Dianthe’s enjoyment of her debut? “You know I would not have you marry for advantage alone, do you not? Swear you will not marry without affection.”

“Of course not, Binky. And I do not think I will have to worry about taking care of you.” Dianthe grinned. “I saw that darkly handsome Lord Glenross dancing with you, and Sir Martin Seymour seemed quite smitten.”

Glenross. A queer shimmery sensation came over Afton when she recalled the way he’d looked at her. His quick flash of vulnerability when she’d teased him about his manners had touched her. She would have sworn that vulnerability went deeper than his wife’s death. Ah, but she would never know. Glenross was uncomfortably intense. Challenging. Exciting.

She’d had enough of that. Her father had been wildly exciting, carrying his family along in the wake of his high spirits. But his irresponsibility had cost his family their fortune and their future. After her mother had died of consumption, her father had squandered what was left of their resources to bury his grief in alcohol and games of chance. Five years later he had fallen off his horse in a drunken stupor and broken his neck, leaving Afton and his sister, Henrietta, to deal with the aftermath of his excesses.

Glenross, too, made her feel as if she were falling through space, rushing toward the ground, never hitting bottom, but knowing it was coming. She was exhilarated but terrified, and she couldn’t bear that feeling. After the last five years of living hand to mouth, she just wanted to feel safe, free of doubt and uncertainty. She wanted security and the assurance that her life would be calm and predictable.

Sir Martin, now, was an entirely different matter. Handsome, polite, stable, uncomplicated and very civilized. Very safe. Yes. If she had to choose a man this season, it would be Martin Seymour. Life would be simpler with someone like Seymour.

Chapter Four

L oosening the strings of her green woolen cloak, Afton took the single chair in front of Mr. Evans’s desk. “Booked solid for the next few days?” She glanced at the calendar on the wall. December 15. Only sixteen more days to catch the killer.

“Yes, Miss Lovejoy. Noon through tea beginning on Monday. Only one appointment today, later this afternoon. I thought Miss Henrietta would be pleased that business is so brisk.”

“Yes.” Afton cleared her throat. “But could you leave her some spare time for the next few weeks? My sister has come to town and Aunt Henrietta would like to visit with her.”

She wished she could tell him the truth, but the Wednesday League had agreed that the fewer people who knew the truth, the better their odds of success. If word got out that her aunt was dead, the villain would never rise to the bait.

Mr. Evans gave her a deferential nod. “I shall endeavor to direct appointments to afternoons.”

Afton thought of the endless rounds of receiving and paying calls, teas, shopping and sightseeing, and relented. Someone had to keep Dianthe’s spending in check. Unfortunately, Dianthe took after their father in that regard. “Perhaps a few in the evenings and a few during the day?”

“As you wish, Miss Lovejoy.” The factor busied himself with copying a list of names and appointment times for her.

“And, um, she wants you to put off Glenross when he comes to reschedule.”

“Was there a problem with the man?”

“Not exactly. But I—she cannot decide what he wants of her.”

Mr. Evans nodded and went back to his task. As she watched him transfer the appointments to a separate sheet of paper, she was struck with an idea. “Mr. Evans? Could you…that is, my aunt noted that one of her clients left, er, dropped a possession during his last appointment, but she cannot recall who it was. It was in the last week of November or the first week of December. She has misplaced her list and asked if I could prevail upon you for a copy of her appointments during that fortnight.”

Mr. Evans looked up from the paper and pursed his lips. He gave a rather pointed glance at the clock on the shelf behind him. “It will take a few moments, Miss Lovejoy.”

“Thank you, sir. I will wait.”

She perched on the edge of her chair, as if so temporary that Mr. Evans would not be inconvenienced beyond the moment he could produce the list. The man bent to finish his current work, then flipped the pages of Henrietta’s appointment book back to the time in question and began copying the names.

Afton could not wait to tell the Wednesday League of her brilliant idea. Although Auntie Hen hadn’t had an appointment the night she’d been murdered, it was possible she had seen her killer in the recent past. If Afton could give Mr. Renquist those names, he would know who to question. Who to investigate.

And, as luck would have it, she was to meet Mr. Renquist in less than an hour at La Meilleure Robe. She could give him a copy of the list of her aunt’s appointments, and answers would not be far behind.

A few moments later, the lists tucked into her white fur muff, she descended the single flight of stairs to the street. A blast of cold air took her breath away as she rounded the corner, ran squarely into a solid mass and teetered backward.

Lord Glenross steadied her with a firm hand on her elbow. “My apologies, miss.”

Afton’s hood had fallen back and she noted that Glenross was no less surprised than she. “Glenross! How…I mean, what…oh, dear.”

He glanced at the stairway. “Are you well, Miss Lovejoy?”

“Yes, thank you,” she said, frozen in place.

He reached out to touch her cheek, and his finger came away with a tear. “I have not injured you, have I?” he asked.

“Oh, no, my lord. I just…have come from seeing my factor and…”

“You have had bad news?”

“No. Oh, no.” She gave a little laugh and shook her head. “I was just thinking of, well, of the season, and of how I wish I were back in Little Upton for the holiday.”

“Homesick, eh?” He grinned. “One’s own hearth and home is a great comfort, is it not?”

“A great comfort,” she repeated with a little shiver.

Lord Glenross lifted her hood from her shoulders and settled it over her head again, arranging the fur-lined drape to frame her face. His gloved hand grazed her cheek and she caught her breath at the intimacy of the touch. He glanced at the stairway again and she suspected he was headed for Mr. Evans’s office to make another appointment. She did not envy the factor having to put Glenross off.

“Thank you for your assistance, my lord. I…I should be on my way now.” She shivered and backed away from him, anxious to clear her head.

He took her elbow once more and led her into the busy foot traffic on Fleet Street. “Where is your escort, Miss Lovejoy? Your coach?”

“I am my aunt’s employee, my lord. I have no escort, and I walked from her house.”

“Mrs. Forbush allowed—”

“She tried to send me in the coach, but I told her I could use the walk to clear my head. Sometimes she tries to do too much for me, and I have to remind her that I am in her employ.”

Snow mixed with rain began to fall, forming small pellets that made little clicking noises as they hit buildings, windowpanes and cobblestones. If the temperature dropped a few more degrees, there would be a heavy snowfall. The pavement had already grown slick as the sleet froze on the smooth surface. She shivered and drew her cloak a little closer.

Glenross’s features softened. “I believe I passed a tearoom a few doors down. I think you need to be warmed, Miss Lovejoy. Your aunt’s house is not exactly nearby.” He shook his head when she opened her mouth to protest. “I will not hear any objections. If you were found frozen tomorrow, I’d never forgive myself. Come. It is nearly tea time.”

Afton had no choice but to allow him to escort her the thirty yards or so to the small tearoom. A little bell above the door rang when they entered the shop, and a woman dressed in black with a white apron and dust cap came out of the back room.

“Welcome,” she said, her accent suggesting a hint of cockney. She led the way to a small private booth in the back, designed to protect them from curious stares. It held a small round table and two chairs. Ladies were not served with the general population and most genteel establishments had similar arrangements to accommodate just such circumstances. “You’re the first of the afternoon trade,” she said, hinting that they would not be disturbed.

Afton glanced at her escort. She’d never been to tea with a man. Country living did not lend itself to such refinements, and she had not been in such a position since arriving in London. She knew she was a country bumpkin, but she took a deep breath and decided to carry it off with as much aplomb as she could manage.

The warmth of the cozy tearoom was welcoming after the cold starkness of Mr. Evans’s office and the chill of the sleet. Lord Glenross lifted the cloak from her shoulders and hung it on a peg outside their booth. He held a chair for her and she sat. When she took her hand out of her fur muff, the folded sheets of paper fluttered to the floor. She had forgotten about Mr. Evans’s lists in the shock of colliding with Glenross.

Glenross had closed the little curtain that would shield their privacy when he turned and noted the papers on the floor. He lifted one eyebrow in question as he bent to pick them up. “Yours?”

“Oh!” she squeaked. “My…my errand list. A-and a shopping list.” She reached out to take the sheets from him. If he unfolded them, he would see the names and appointment times, and would know what she had been doing at Mr. Evans’s office.

Something of her panic must have reached him because he hesitated and gave her a curious look. “Miss Lovejoy, are you certain you are quite all right?”

“Yes, of course.” She extended her hand farther in wordless insistence.

He glanced at the papers as if he had forgotten them, then looked at her and smiled. “If it is errands, I’d do you a favor to lose them.”

“No! Please, my lord.”

“I was teasing, Miss Lovejoy. Apparently I need more practice. I would not have suspected Mrs. Forbush is such a harsh taskmaster.”

“She is not, my lord. The lists are mine. Personal.” Afton hated the panic lacing her voice, but she was growing more desperate. The knowledge that he could recognize the appointment list made her dizzy with anxiety.

Slowly, almost reluctantly, Glenross offered her the papers. She claimed them and quickly pushed them back in her muff, safely out of sight. When she glanced up again, he was studying her with a puzzled frown.

“I…I had forgot what was on the lists already, and feared I would return home with errands undone,” she said, compelled to offer an explanation for her behavior.

His expression grave, he nodded. “I have a theory about that.”

“Yes?” she asked

“If you forget, you truly do not want to remember. And if it is truly important, you will remember.”

“Yes, but I recall now that one of my errands is to buy ribbon for Dianthe’s hair for the Spencers’ ball tonight.”

He grinned as he sat across from her. “Ah. Ribbons. Important, indeed.”

The shop bell rang and the sound of another group entering the tearoom and taking seats in the main room carried to them in the back. Afton flashed Glenross a nervous smile, suddenly realizing how compromising their discovery together could be. Had she been an ordinary servant, no one would remark upon it, but since she existed on the fringe of society, her behavior should have been more circumspect. Glenross was a controversial man, and his title made him even more interesting to the ton. Ah well, too late now.

Glenross returned her nervous smile with a quirk of his own expressive mouth. She realized he was fully aware of the potential for gossip, and did not care a whit. Odd, she thought, for a man who valued his heritage and family name.

The serving girl brought a tray laden with teapot, cups, little biscuits, muffins and tea cakes, pots of jam and honey and thin cucumber sandwiches. When she’d unloaded the tray, she stepped back and asked, “Will there be anything else?”

Glenross shook his head. “No, thank you, miss. I shall ask if there is.”

She bobbed a curtsy and hurried away. After an awkward pause, Afton took charge of the pot. When she had served them both to her satisfaction, she sat back and sipped from her cup. Glenross looked completely out of place with a dainty teacup in his large scarred hand and she couldn’t help but laugh.

“I am sorry, my lord, but you do not look altogether comfortable. Which, of course, only indebts me further.”

“How so, Miss Lovejoy?”

“That you have sacrificed your comfort for mine. I do not much fancy having to repay you by bellying up to a bar with a tankard of ale, or rum, or some such beverage.”

It was his turn to laugh, a rare and unexpected sound. “I would not ask so much of you. I shall count myself well paid if you grant me another waltz.”

“Then do count upon it, Glenross,” she said, more firmly than was wise.

Conversation outside their booth stopped. His identity now known, Glenross’s assignation with an unseen woman would certainly be the topic of conversation around dinner tables and dance floors. Afton gave her companion an apologetic look.

“I am sorry,” she whispered. “I did not mean to call attention to you.”

He did not seem perturbed in the least. “This makes an excellent argument for a less formal form of address, does it not? Please forgo my title, Miss Lovejoy. Call me Rob, or McHugh. All my friends do.”

Friends! Did he really think of her as a friend? “I do not believe that would be appropriate,” she murmured in a low voice, not wanting to be overheard again.

“I insist.”

Afton opened her mouth and formed the “R” but could not bring herself to adopt the intimacy of the word. Indeed, the only male she’d ever called by his given name was Bennett. Why, even her mother had referred to her father as “Mr. Lovejoy.”

“Come now, Miss Lovejoy. It cannot be that difficult,” Lord Glenross taunted with a wicked grin.

“McHugh,” she gasped at last, finding “Rob” impossible to manage. Perhaps someday, if their acquaintance lasted that long, she could try “Lord Robert.”

He nodded his approval. “Good enough for now. Come, let’s plump you up with cake and jam.”

Using silver tongs, he placed a small slice of airy sponge cake on a plate and spooned a dollop of Devon cream and raspberry jam over the top. He placed a fork on the side of the plate and handed it to her with a flourish, as if to show her he was not lacking manners.

Catching his mood, she took a delicate bite, closed her eyes, smiled and moaned, “Mmm…heavenly,” as she licked the remaining cream from her lips.

When she opened her eyes, McHugh was looking at her as if dumbstruck. He blinked, cleared his throat and finished his cup of tea in a single gulp. “Yes. Heavenly.”

She took a small sip of her own tea, studying McHugh. He seemed suddenly uncomfortable. “Are you well?” she asked.

“I have thought of something I must do, and the sooner the better.”

“Oh?” Afton wondered if she had done something wrong. What could account for Glenross’s sudden change of mood?

“Take your time, Miss Lovejoy. Finish your tea and I will send my coach back for you.”

“But…ah, that is not necessary, my lord.” She groped for words. “I prefer to walk. Really.”

He opened the little curtain across the booth a crack. “It is snowing now, Miss Lovejoy. Heavily. The streets will be muddy and unpleasant.” His voice was harsh, making it clear that he was forbidding her to walk.

The greatest chill was coming from Glenross, she thought. “I have several errands and will be stopping frequently.”

“Where are you going?”

Afton recalled the list Mr. Evans had given her, and that she had a meeting scheduled with Mr. Renquist before her afternoon appointment as Madame Zoe. But she could not tell Glenross that. “Hatchard’s, the Exeter Change and…” She halted suddenly, wondering why she felt a need to explain to Glenross. “Really, my lord, I appreciate your concern, but that’s quite enough.”

The glacial-moss look was back in his eyes. “As you say. I will pay the shopkeeper on the way out.” He stood, keeping his hat in front of him and bowing sharply at the waist. With no more explanation than that, he turned and departed. Was this another example of the infamous Glenross unpredictability?

Breathless, Afton arrived at La Meilleure Robe at the appointed time. Mr. Renquist was waiting in one of the back fitting rooms, tapping his foot impatiently. His wife, Madame Marie, gave him a quelling glance.

“François, you are impolite. The girl is on time. Do you attempt to intimidate ’er?”

He looked suitably abashed. “My apologies, Miss Lovejoy. I have been anxious to know what you have for me. The ladies have been quiet of late and I had begun to think they had no further use for me.”

She took the little list from her muff and handed it over. She had meant to recopy the names, but her encounter with McHugh had taken all her time. She had read the list, though, and would remember most of the names.

“Interesting,” he murmured, scanning the lines. “It reads like a list of the ton’s most influential. What is it, miss?”

Afton sighed. “Auntie Hen’s appointments for the two weeks prior to her murder.”

Mr. Renquist smiled up at his wife. “Marie, this one has an investigator’s mind.”

Madame Marie ruffled his hair affectionately. “But of course she does, chéri.”

He grinned, obviously delighting in teasing his wife. He turned back to Afton. “I will look into this at once.”

She heaved a sigh of relief. This, at least, was one thing she needn’t worry about. Mr. Renquist had handled many cases for the Wednesday League and he could be trusted implicitly. “When should we meet again, sir?”

“I shall put one of my best men on this.” He paused, sensing her impatience. “I will leave word through my wife when I have anything to report. Never you fear, miss. We’ll find the bas…the cur who did this to Miss Henrietta.”

“Thank you, sir. And thank you for installing the little bell in Auntie’s flat. It gives me great comfort to know I can summon help if need be.”

“No trouble at all, miss. If anything happened to you, the ladies would skin me alive. I should set one of my men to guarding you.”

“Entirely unnecessary, Mr. Renquist,” she said. The last thing she needed was to have some strange man following her or waiting outside Aunt Grace’s for her to leave. How would she ever explain that to Dianthe?

“If you should change your mind, miss, just let me know. Best to be safe, eh?”

“I am always cautious, Mr. Renquist.”

He stared at her for a moment and then laughed. “That’s a good one, miss. You almost had me there.”

“Oh, Madame Zoe, you must tell me what to do! I am so confused, and time is of the essence. I shall go mad trying to figure it out myself.” The stunning blonde finished shuffling the tarot cards and slid the deck across the table to Afton.

Miss Barlow had been inconsiderately late. A quick glance at the clock displayed the hour. Half past six! Beneath the veils that hid her identity, Afton suppressed a twinge of anxiety. She should have sent the woman away to make another appointment. What demon had possessed her to agree to see Miss Barlow so late in the day? Afton would scarce have time to bathe before dressing for the evening out.

It wasn’t that she suspected Miss Barlow of having anything to do with her aunt’s death. No, it was money. Filthy lucre. Bit o’ the ready. Dianthe’s new gown. That’s what. And Beatrice Barlow deserved her money’s worth. That was only fair. “I must ’ave more information, chérie,” she said in the affected French accent. “’Ow can I ’elp if I do not know the problem?”

Miss Barlow blanched at the suggestion. “I dare not breathe another word! The entire ton says you are the absolute best! Surely you can help me without knowing the particulars.”

“Hmm,” Afton stalled deliberately. In truth, she was learning more than she cared to know about what went on behind society’s closed doors. But drawing on that knowledge did her little good. She knew nothing about Miss Beatrice Barlow other than that she had made an advantageous match and would wed soon. Whatever was troubling her would have to be solved quickly.

“Very well, chérie. You understand that it is not for the cards to make the decision, eh? That belongs to you. The cards are only a guide, n’est-ce pas?”

“Yes. Yes, of course.”

Afton dealt the cards, deciding upon a horseshoe pattern, the quickest of the tarot spreads.

Miss Barlow twisted her handkerchief and chewed her full lower lip. “Tell me everything, Madame Zoe.”

“Your first card tells past influences,” she said. She tapped the figure of an upside-down man in a belled cap. “You must guard against impetuosity, chérie, or face disaster.” Innocuous enough, and good advice under any circumstances.

“I have not been impetuous in the least. But I must be certain, and that is why I have come to you for guidance.”

“Oui. I can see that this is the critical matter.” Afton turned up the next card. “Là! The magician! You ’ave the decision to make. You must remain clear-headed, n’est-ce pas?”

“Clear-headed?” Miss Barlow appeared to be baffled.

“Oui. Do not ’urry to judgment. ’Ow you Anglaise say— ‘Act in ’aste, repent at leisure’?”

“Oh, piffle! I haven’t the time to mull things over, madame. I must decide what to do very soon.”

Another glance at the clock showed the relentless march of time. Feeling a fair amount of urgency herself, Afton turned the third card up. “The lovers! Ah, this explains everything.”

“The lovers!” Miss Barlow exclaimed, leaning forward. “Oh, I knew it! Tell me more, madame. What do you see for us?”

“He is…’andsome. ’Is coloring is—”

“Dark! Oh, yes! The most handsome of men! You are so terribly clever, madame. Tell me, is it true love?”

“The card foretells love, and a choice to be made, chérie. Between the flesh and the spirit. Not the same things, eh?”

“No!” Miss Barlow agreed. “My flesh—my heart—tells me one thing, and my spirit and good sense tell me another.”

Afton turned up another card. The moon. The card called for use of the nonrational—instinct and intuition—over rational reasoning, a poor prospect where Miss Barlow was concerned. Nevertheless, it was her fortune. “Use your instincts, chérie. Your ’eart tells you what is best.”

Miss Barlow winced. “If only I could be certain.”

Afton turned up the next card and was surprised at the way the cards were reinforcing one another. It was almost enough to make her believe in the tarot. Almost. “This—” she tapped the card with her finger “—is the chariot, chérie, and foretells travel or distance. Per’aps emotional, per’aps physical.”

“Travel! Oh, yes, madame! I shall travel, indeed. Oh, this is what I have been searching for. Now I know what I must do,” Miss Barlow resolved firmly as Afton nearly pushed her through the door of the small salon. “I shall follow my heart.”

Chapter Five

S tanding near the fireplace in the Spencer ballroom, Rob watched Miss Lovejoy dance a quadrille with Seymour. She was stunning in a willow-green gown trimmed at the bodice and hem with embroidered pink rosebuds. Her hair was secured at the crown with green satin ribbons and then fell in a shining, pale copper riot of curls to her nape. Had she splurged on ribbons for her own hair as well as her sister’s? Money well spent, he observed.

He was still disturbed by his response to her in the tearoom. When she had savored her sponge cake with a little moan and then licked the cream from her lips, she’d been completely irresistible. He’d wondered what it would be like to have Afton moan like that for him. Rob had been seized with such a strong physical response that he’d been afraid he would fall upon her like a ravenous wolf. It would seem he was inching nearer the proverbial edge.

“Lord Glenross?”

He turned to find Mrs. Forbush at his elbow. She wore a gown of silver-gray trimmed in lavender, which displayed her sultry elegance to dazzling advantage. “How are you this evening, Mrs. Forbush?”

“Quite well, thank you. I saw you standing here and thought to take this opportunity to invite you to attend my salon next Friday.”

An invitation to Mrs. Forbush’s much-vaunted and exclusive “Friday salon” was an unexpected compliment, but… “Christmas?”

“I have a number of unattached friends in London for the holiday. I thought we could make our own little family. If you’ll come ’round after church, we shall have a merry celebration. Your brother is welcome, too.”

“Douglas has accepted an invitation from his fiancée’s family,” Rob said. He suspected he would find congenial company at Mrs. Forbush’s gathering—a gathering of strays, orphans and wanderers. And Afton Lovejoy. “I, however, shall be pleased to accept,” he said, watching Miss Lovejoy curtsy to Seymour.

Mrs. Forbush followed his glance. “I’ve invited Sir Martin, as well. Do you think he is interested in my niece?”

“Miss Dianthe?”

“Miss Afton,” she said.

Rob felt a nasty flash of annoyance. “Would his interest be reciprocated?”

Mrs. Forbush smiled. “Afton is a paradox, Lord Glenross. She is uncommonly intelligent, and she can appear so worldly and wise, yet she is really quite innocent. At the moment, she is focused on family matters and does not realize the interest in her. I do not know if she would welcome attention from that quarter. I just pray she will not drift into the wrong relationship.”

“Wrong?” When the implication sank in, he turned away from the dance floor to look into Mrs. Forbush’s deep brown eyes. “Do you think Seymour is the wrong sort? Or me?”

She smiled again, an enigmatic expression rife with hidden meaning. “Oh, heavens! I would never say that Sir Martin is not the right sort. I just meant that perhaps he was…well, not the right match for Afton.”

Rob frowned. Surely Mrs. Forbush couldn’t be matchmaking. “What—who—would be the right match?” he asked.

“Someone strong enough to protect her. Someone who has the necessary depth of character to appreciate her. Someone who has a capacity for deep and abiding love. A man of honor.”

“Ah, then you cannot mean me,” he muttered, startled by the slightest twinge of disappointment. After all, it wasn’t as if he wanted to make a match.

Grace laughed. “Which of those things disqualifies you, Glenross?”

“All of them, I regret to say.” And if I had any intentions toward your niece, Mrs. Forbush, they would definitely not be honorable.

“I confess I have misread you, Glenross. I thought your interest in Afton was, perhaps, more than merely superficial. So then, what does account for your interest in her, my lord?”

He watched Seymour lift Afton’s hand to pass her beneath his arm. The willow-green fabric smoothed over her décolletage and caused the soft flesh to swell and strain against the row of rosebuds. Oh, what honeyed heaven did those rosebuds guard? He cleared his throat. “Can one not simply enjoy the scenery?”

“Indeed. As long as one does not mind a locked gate between himself and the scenery.”

“A locked gate?”

“Shortly, by virtue of the interest she is attracting, that particular scenery will belong to someone else, and trespassers will be shot.”

He studied Mrs. Forbush’s bland smile. Was she issuing a warning?

“Ah well, ’tis not of a pressing nature, my lord.” She waved her gray silk fan in a languorous arc. “I am certain you will have entire hours, perhaps even a day or two, to think on the matter.”

Entire hours? Was Seymour’s proposal that imminent? Odd how thinking of Afton as someone else’s exclusive provenance could cause Rob no little amount of irritation.

“Mmm,” he answered in a noncommittal undertone as the dance ended and Seymour began escorting Miss Lovejoy back to her aunt. “I am relieved I have entire hours to contemplate my future.”

Mrs. Forbush laughed, the sound warm, bubbling and entirely unconcerned, as if she already knew the outcome.

“There’s the McHugh with your aunt,” Sir Martin said, “looking ever so fierce and forbidding.”

Afton smiled. “Fierce and forbidding are quite ordinary for Lord Glenross,” she observed.

“Do you suppose he is wooing her? She’s quite delectable, is she not?” He gave Afton a sideways glance, as if measuring her response to his comment.

Bemused by that notion, Afton tilted her head to one side and studied the casual posture of Glenross and her aunt. She’d have thought it congenial, but not romantical. And yes, Grace Forbush was “delectable.” The number of men who sent her flowers, paid calls upon her and fought over invitations to her Friday salons would attest to that. But McHugh? She couldn’t picture them together—Grace with her cool elegance and McHugh with his seething, rough-edged masculinity. A poor match, that.

She repeated Sir Martin’s word. “Wooing? Do you suppose Glenross knows how to accomplish such a task?”

“May not,” Sir Martin agreed. “Maeve was given to him like a parcel wrapped with a bow. Their families betrothed them when they were still in the nursery. He never had to woo or win her. She was always…his.”

His. Afton sighed, wondering what it would be like to be his. So, they had loved each other since childhood? What sort of woman had won and kept the love and devotion of a man like McHugh, even after death? A small flash of jealousy shot through her. “You knew her? Glenross’s wife?”

“Aye. We grew up together, an unmanageable threesome if ever there was one. Willing partners in one debacle after another until we reached adolescence.”

Afton was charmed by a sudden vision of three barefoot children roaming the Scottish countryside, causing havoc. “Indeed?”

“Aye. McHugh was our ringleader. He knew every hiding place and every forbidden door in the county, and he could pick any lock known to mankind.”

Afton met McHugh’s gaze across the distance. A provocative smile curved his lips and a thrill of excitement warmed her. “He was mischievous?”

“Larcenous.” Sir Martin grinned.

She laughed. She had always suspected McHugh would not let mere rules stand between him and a goal.

Sir Martin slowed his pace and leaned near her ear to whisper, “So, if not your aunt, Miss Lovejoy, who do you suppose the McHugh is waiting for? Your sister?”

Afton shrugged. “I promised him another waltz earlier today. Perhaps he has come to collect.”

“It would have been better if he was interested in your aunt. Since she is a widow, she is free to engage in a discreet alliance. You see, I know for a certainty that McHugh is not interested in marriage. Maeve ruined him for anyone else.”

Afton was not surprised. She had suspected as much all along. “I shall warn my sister,” she murmured.

“And you, Miss Lovejoy?”

“Me?”

“Did you have any hopes in that direction?”

Afton was startled by the question—both that Sir Martin had asked it, and that she had never contemplated it. Oh, she’d thought of McHugh often enough, but only to wonder what it would be like to kiss him, and if hands gentle enough to replace her hood and wipe away a tear would be likewise gentle in an embrace. She felt the heat of a blush creep into her cheeks at those possibilities.

But hope that he might make an offer for her? Absurd. Aside from the fact that he was still in love with his dead wife, he was far too…intense. There was an impalpable darkness that hovered about him, as if he knew that darkness intimately. As if he cherished it. Courted it.

“Miss Lovejoy?” Sir Martin repeated.

Afton shook her head to clear it of the troubling thoughts. “Hopes, Sir Martin? Nay. I am not that foolish.”

Rob wondered what the hell Seymour had said to elicit Miss Lovejoy’s delicate blush. It was all he could do to maintain his self-control as he waited for his friend to deliver her back to her aunt. Patience was not Rob’s strong point. And neither, it would seem, was sharing.

He took a deep breath and relaxed his tense muscles. What had gotten into him? He had better claim the waltz she had promised this afternoon and then be on his way. Miss Lovejoy was not for him. Too sweet. Too innocent. Too damn tempting.

“Ah, Glenross.” Miss Lovejoy offered her hand the moment Seymour released it. “Have you come to collect my debt?”

“What debt?” Seymour asked, his eyes narrowing.

“His lordship rescued me from the weather today.” Miss Lovejoy answered for him. “We waited out a fresh snowfall at Twickford’s Tearoom until duty called his lordship away. He was kind enough to order me tea and allow me time to warm up.”

Rob felt slightly smug at Seymour’s look of surprise. “Careful, Miss Lovejoy. Such reckless talk could ruin my reputation. You’ll have people thinking I am a gentleman.”

She laughed. “I shall be more circumspect in the future.”

The orchestra began the first notes of the next dance. “As fate would have it, I have come to collect. A waltz, was it not?” Without further ado, Rob whisked his partner onto the dance floor and into his arms.

“I must admit that I am a little surprised,” Miss Lovejoy began. “I feared, when you departed so abruptly this afternoon, that I had done something to incur your displeasure.”

He gave her a wry smile. He could never admit that, amidst the pots of jam and sponge cake, he’d been about to bend her over the little table and take her then and there. Or how he’d fantasized about being the one to lick the cream from her lips while she moaned, “heavenly.” Maeve had been right about that much at least. He was an animal. “To the contrary, Miss Lovejoy, I did not find you displeasing in the least. I simply had…ah, urgent business.”

His downward glance snagged on the row of rosebuds at her décolletage. Thankfully, Miss Lovejoy did not notice, her attention drawn to the sidelines where a murmur was growing to a buzz. “I wonder what could be amiss,” she mused.

Ethan Travis, Rob’s old partner, was standing in a group of colleagues and turned to look at them. With a quick jerk of his head, he signaled them to the sidelines. Rob guided his partner off the floor.

“McHugh, did you hear? James Livingston was found murdered in a back street behind the Pultney Hotel. Is that not where you are staying?” Travis asked.

“Jamie Livingston?” Rob went still. “Shocking” news rarely affected him, but this was extraordinary. He had run into Livingston after leaving Twickford’s mere hours ago. It was no secret he and Livingston had not been on good terms since Rob had found him pulling Maeve into a night-dark garden many years ago, but he certainly would not have wished such a fate on the man. “Did they catch the murderer?”

“No. He’d been dead a few hours before he was found. The bastard took a knife to him, Rob.”

A soft intake of breath demanded his attention and reminded him that Miss Lovejoy was a witness to this unpleasantness. He looked down at her pale complexion and horrified expression. “Are you all right, Miss Lovejoy?”

“Yes.” She nodded, her eyes wide. “Please do not worry about me.”

He gave her a distracted smile and turned back to Ethan. “Are there any clues?”

“The watchman said he was clutching a button of some kind. Had a raven on it. Jamie must have grabbed for his attacker as he went down.”

A button? A dim memory tweaked the back of Rob’s mind.

“H-how very awful for you, to lose a friend in such a manner,” Miss Lovejoy gasped.

She looked so distressed that Rob felt the need to reassure her. Forgetting Travis in his concern, he led her toward a vacant grouping of chairs near the punch bowl. He seated her and quickly fetched a cup of punch laced with a touch of brandy.

He knelt by her chair and offered the cup. “Drink this, Miss Lovejoy. You’ll be fit as a fiddle in no time.”

She drank deeply and returned the cup with a sad smile. “Thank you, Glenross. Really, I am quite all right. ’Tis just that I lost someone dear to me in much the same manner. It is dreadful, is it not?”

“James Livingston and I were not close, Miss Lovejoy. Save your sympathy.”

She blinked and he realized he’d been harsher than he intended. He had a regrettable habit of speaking before considering how others would interpret his words. One of his many shortcomings. He stood again and stepped away from her.

“Oh,” she murmured. “You looked so affected that I thought you…that is, well, it is a pity, nonetheless.”

“It is indeed,” he conceded. But not for the reason Miss Lovejoy would think. He was glad to see the color returning to her cheeks. Now he would be able to leave her and get the hell out of here. “Shall I return you to your aunt?”

“Yes, thank you. I must speak to her at once.” When she looked up at him, her aqua eyes were luminous with unshed tears. “I fear I am still in your debt.”

“Ah, the dance.” He regarded her somberly. “I shall put it on account.”

Afton waited until Glenross was out of earshot before she reported the events to her aunt and finished with her latest worry. “It never occurred to me until I heard about Mr. Livingston that Auntie Hen’s killer might have happened upon her by chance. Mr. Livingston has nothing in common with Auntie Hen, and yet he was killed as randomly and in the same manner, and there was an object with a raven found at the scene. Perhaps Auntie Hen’s murderer was not one of her clients, but a common burglar or thief who was surprised to find her in residence.”

Grace drew her eyebrows together in a frown. “Because of the value of the raven pin and the fact that she was found in the fortune-telling salon instead of her little flat, we assumed that the murderer was one of her clients.” Grace’s eyes met hers. “We must not rule anything out, Afton, least of all this new coincidence. Still, I think it far more likely that Henrietta’s killer knew her. I shall send a note to Mr. Renquist in the morning, informing him of this new development.”

“But if the murder was random—”

“Then you are wasting your time,” Grace finished for her. “He will not be back.”

“And if it wasn’t?” Afton shivered, somehow doubting Auntie Hen’s murder was as random as Mr. Livingston’s.

“Then you have barely two weeks remaining to find the villain before the Wednesday League turns this matter over to the authorities.”

Rob locked his door and turned up the oil lamp on the bedside table. His bed had been readied, the fire in the grate had been banked and a foot warmer waited on the hearth for his use. The Pultney was known for its elegance, service and security, and that had seemed just what he needed after months in a hellhole. But perhaps all was not what it seemed.

He shrugged out of his jacket and tossed it over the back of the desk chair. He checked his window, three stories above the street. Locked. He’d known it would be. Just as his door had been locked. He glanced at the wardrobe in one corner, feeling his anxiety rise a notch and a fine coating of sweat dew his brow.

He poured himself a glass of brandy from the bottle on the bedside table, tossed it down in two gulps, poured another and put it on the mantel over the fireplace before crossing the room to the wardrobe. His hand shook as he reached out to turn the latch.

“Bloody hell,” he snarled to himself, disgusted with his reaction to the small space. He feared what he might do if faced with that sort of confinement again.

He seized the knob, turned it quickly and opened the door wide. One after another, he examined his jackets and coats. When he came to the coat he’d worn that afternoon, he clenched his jaw. The right sleeve was torn and missing a button.

Years ago, Maeve had ordered custom buttons for his vests and jackets. The Glenross family crest included the Scottish unicorn and the Glenross raven, and Maeve had selected the raven as the emblem to be carved on buttons made of horn, bone, shell and wood.

This was not the first personal item to disappear since his return. A number of other objects, valuable and inconsequential, were missing, too. What the hell was going on?

A sharp rap on his door spun him around. “Who is it?” he called.

“Douglas! Open up, Rob.”

He shoved his jacket back into the wardrobe, and when he unlocked his door, Douglas pushed his way inside. “What is it, Doogie?”

“’Tis women, Rob. Bebe is behaving deucedly odd.”

“Let me get this straight.” Rob exaggerated a thoughtful pose. “You want me to explain women?”

“Aye.” His brother nodded. “You’ve been married, which is more than I can say for most of my friends. What accounts for the female vagueness? And why are they so variable from day to day? I vow, Monday Bebe adores me. Tuesday, I am the enemy. And Wednesday she indulges me like a three-year-old. By Friday, I am the Antichrist.”

Rob cleared his throat. “Um, well, I am certain this is a very…emotional time for the young lady.” In truth, he feared life with Bebe would always be filled with drama. But there was a greater question. “How much do you love her, Douglas? Enough to indulge her moods and whims?”

“Aye. She’s everything to me,” his brother vowed. “All I want to do is make her happy, and I fear I’m failing miserably.”

Rob clapped him on the back and went to his bedside table to pour him a drink. “Here,” he said, offering the glass, “you will be needing this.”

“So what advice do you have for me?” Douglas persisted.

Rob raised his glass in a salute. “Buy more whiskey.”

“This is normal, then? This moodiness?”

“How would I know what normal is, Doogie?”

“Aye. You and Maeve were betrothed from the cradle. She had a long time to accustom herself to the thought of marrying you.” Douglas grinned. “’Tis the reason the two of you never fought. Two bodies, one mind.”

Douglas was wrong. Rob and Maeve never fought because neither of them had cared enough to argue.

Chapter Six

T hursday morning found Afton brooding over her tea as she read a letter aloud to Dianthe. Outside the garden window, a cold rain replaced the earlier snow, and the whole world seemed drearier. Or was it just the news that made her feel that way?

“I am exceedingly flattered that the invitation was extended at all, seeing that our current circumstances are not as favorable as they once were.” That was a colossal understatement, Afton thought as she turned the page over.

“The Sheffields are in a position to improve my standing in society and such other benefits as come with the stamp of approval from a leading family. Thus, I know you and Dianthe will understand why I feel compelled to accept Charlie’s invitation.”

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