The Rake's Revenge

by Ranstrom, Gail

  “Je n’ais—”

  “Enough, madame. All your denials ring false.”

  Afton’s heart beat so hard it throbbed like thunder in her ears. She took several steps backward, desperate to distance herself from McHugh, who was now standing, too. “I…I—”

  “You.” McHugh nodded. “Aye, ’twas you.”

  “What? What did I do?”

  “Does the name Maeve McHugh mean anything to you?”

  She searched her memory, trying to make a connection. How could Afton be connected to her? The woman had been gone from England for three years, and dead for at least two, although McHugh hadn’t known that until recently. But Afton had been in Wiltshire all that time.

  McHugh advanced on her, his jaw clenched. He gripped her upper arms and muttered, “Maeve, damn it. Maeve McHugh, Lady Glenross. My wife.”

  His hands tightened, cutting off her circulation and making her fingers tingle. Her mind raced, frantic for a connection. Auntie Hen! She had been in London telling fortunes at that time. “Pray, enlighten me, m’sieur,” she gasped.

  His voice became a low growl, as dark and dangerous as a wolf’s. “You advised her to travel. You said that it was urgent and that she must escape the man she loved. He was a destroyer, you told her. Her destiny awaited, you said.”

  Afton tried to back away, but McHugh followed. He leaned over her, his mere size an unspoken threat. She remembered hearing that McHugh’s wife and son had been aboard a ship captured by Barbary pirates several years ago, and that they had subsequently died of typhoid or dysentery. And Auntie Hen must have told her fortune—must have told her to go on that ill-fated trip.

  Heavens! McHugh was bent on retribution. Did he mean to kill her? Had he thought he’d killed Auntie Hen and, surprised to hear she was still alive, come back to finish the job? Another backward step landed Afton against the wall. She glanced at the bell rope across the room.

  “Well?” McHugh asked, his mouth mere inches from her ear. If he meant to intimidate her, he was succeeding. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

  What could she say? “I…I do not remember ’er,” she gasped.

  “Good God, madame! Do you ruin so many lives that you cannot keep track? Maeve and Hamish are dead, and you cannot even remember their names?”

  He moved ever closer and Afton felt the warmth of his body through her clothes, smelled the tangy scent of his shaving lotion, saw the agony in his eyes. What could she say? What could she do to ease his pain?

  “I…am sorry. ’ad I known—”

  “Precisely,” he snarled. “Is that not your business? To know? And that is the crux of the matter. You are a charlatan. A conscienceless fraud who plays with the lives of others and cannot even remember the names of the people you destroy.”

  He released her and lifted his hand, and Afton flinched, fearing the damage he could do with a single blow. When he raked his fingers through his dark hair instead, she sighed with relief. “My lord, please let me explain—”

  “No, madame. Let me explain.” He turned away and went back to the table, gathering the cards into a pile again and dropping them on the smooth surface. He began turning the cards up without looking at them, slowly, methodically, his gaze never leaving her. “There is danger from the king of swords to the queen of cups. He does not like her. He thinks she is a treacherous charlatan. I see a reversal of fortunes. I see trouble ahead, madame, and adversity. I see someone watching, waiting for you to make your next mistake. And when you do, he will be ready. You will be exposed for the fraud you are. When the Fates are done with you, not even a madman will employ you to tell a fortune. You are on borrowed time, madame. And if you ever harm anyone again, you may double everything I’ve just told you.”

  He strode to the door and unlocked it. “Oh,” he said without turning, “and remember to keep watch over your shoulder. Whenever you feel safe, whenever you think that I’ve forgotten—that’s when the ax will fall.”

  Chapter Seven

  Afton gave her report to the Wednesday League in Grace’s small private parlor while they waited for the Forbush coach to be brought around for the drive to the Woodlakes’ rout. She edited the account of her earlier meeting with Lord Glenross. If they knew the whole story, they might forbid her to go to Aunt Hen’s salon again.

  “And when I turned the cards up, they were very similar to the first time. I saw danger, deception and…and death. I have never seen a stronger caution. When I warned him, he became, well, angry, and advised me to stop telling fortunes,” she finished.

  Grace clasped her hands in her lap, her knuckles white against the elegant black velvet of her evening gown. “Afton, I am speechless. Did he harm you in any way?”

  “Of course not,” she hastened to assure her. “He is a gentleman. And I could tell this time that the danger is to him, not from him.” But there was more. “Aunt Grace, how much did Auntie Hen tell you about her clients?”

  “Henrietta was very closemouthed about her business, Afton. Discretion was her hallmark. She spoke in generalities, but rarely mentioned names.”

  “Then, you never heard her mention Maeve McHugh?”

  Lady Sarah’s delicate hand flew to her throat in a protective gesture. “Maeve? Good heavens! Is that why Glenross sought Madame Zoe out?”

  Afton nodded. “I am not certain what Auntie Hen said, but I believe McHugh holds her responsible for the death of his wife and son.”

  Lady Annica’s face registered anxiety. “If he holds Madame Zoe responsible, might he be the one who…that is, could Glenross be the murderer?”

  “Heaven forbid,” Afton scoffed. All the same, a shiver worked its way up her spine. McHugh was the closest she’d come to finding a suspect since beginning her investigation, and she was not so naive that she had missed the darkness beneath his civilized facade. In fact, she suspected that darkness ran very deep, indeed, and that the man who showed such gentleness and grace in a mere waltz, and in rescuing a virtual stranger from a sleet storm, wore a very thin mask.

  “Just the same, Afton, I think you should be careful of Glenross,” her aunt said.

  Afton nodded, rising from her chair to peer into the hallway and make certain Dianthe had not come downstairs to join them yet. “I went by Mr. Evans’s office this afternoon after telling Glenross’s fortune, and left a message that he was not to make any more appointments for Lord Glenross. I suspect he will claim the dance I owe him tonight and I intend to test him and make certain he cannot identify me as Madame Zoe. If he suspects any connection between us, I shall find some way to set his mind at rest.”

  Charity Wardlow gathered her paisley shawl more closely around her and stood, going to the front window to check for the arrival of their coach. “If you need assistance, Afton, I stand ready to render whatever aid you need.”

  Grace squeezed her niece’s shoulder. “I have invited Glenross to join our Christmas celebration, along with some others. I was trying my hand at matchmaking. I should have known better. I shall cancel the party, of course, begging illness.”

  Afton felt a fluttering deep inside. Matchmaking? For her and Glenross? But Glenross would never seek a lasting relationship with another woman. He was still deeply in love with his dead wife—to the point of avenging her. Any woman foolish enough to love the McHugh would be certain to lose her heart.

  “Please do not cancel, Aunt Grace. Dianthe is looking forward to it, and I cannot avoid him at all the parties and events before Lent. If he does not show any signs of recognition tonight, and if I do not meet with him again as Madame Zoe, I will be quite safe.”

  “I think, Afton, that it would be better if you desisted in telling fortunes at all,” Lady Annica advised. “We have never been entirely comfortable with this scheme, and if you can come to so much trouble over someone who is no danger to you, then I shudder to think what the real villain could do.”

  Afton’s resolve hardened. “The Wednesday League agreed to give me until the New Year—eleven
more days—to find the murderer, and I intend to use every one of them.”

  Grace threw her hands up in defeat. “Swear you will tell us if you notice any difference in his behavior toward you,” she said.

  “I swear,” Afton vowed.

  The crystal chandeliers, the perfectly tuned orchestra, the footmen circulating through the glittering crowd with trays of rum punch and hors d’oeuvres faded to insignificance. It couldn’t be true!

  “Are you quite certain, Lady Sarah?” Afton repeated for the third time. Her head spun and she clutched at her middle as if she’d been hit in the stomach. “Her pianoforte teacher?”

  “Good heavens, Afton! It is not the sort of thing I’d likely misunderstand. Miss Barlow told the Thayer twins you advised her to run off with him, and you know that Hortense and Harriett have never been able to keep a confidence. Now the whole ton is abuzz with it,” Sarah confided in an undertone.

  Afton searched her memory of reading the tarot cards for Miss Barlow. “I cannot recall what I said.” She glanced around the Woodlakes’ ballroom, almost expecting to find Beatrice in the crush of pastel-clad women, of men in their elegant white vests beneath conservative jackets. “She would not give me the particulars of her dilemma so I told her that she must use her very best judgment and instincts, and that only she knew what was in her heart. You know—the usual sort of thing.”

  “Well, she took your advice seriously, my dear!” Annica whispered. “And now all hell has broken loose. Can you credit it? Bebe Barlow running off with her pianoforte instructor! And on your advice!”

  “Blast! I should have known something was amiss when she became so agitated at seeing the lovers and the chariot. Now heaven only knows where she is and if she is safe and—”

  “Oh, I think we can guess that,” Grace said. “She is apt to be halfway to Gretna Green and a preacher. And I’ll wager she is safe in all regards but her virtue! Still, there is another who might blame you, Afton.”

  “Who?”

  Lady Sarah raised her fan to cover her mouth to shield her words from strangers. “Robert McHugh, Lord Glenross. I believe you know the name.”

  “Lord Glenross.” Afton spoke it slowly, dread building in her heart. Wasn’t she already in enough trouble? “But why should he care what Miss Barlow does?”

  “Because he is devoted to his brother,” Sarah said.

  Afton frowned. “I do not understand.”

  “His brother, Douglas McHugh, was Bebe’s betrothed,” Sarah informed her. “They were to be married in January.”

  “A McHugh was affianced to Bebe? Fickle, flighty Bebe?”

  “Odd, is it not?” Grace agreed. “Yet more proof that love is blind.”

  “And yet another crime to my name,” Afton murmured, looking at Sarah questioningly. “Even so, how can he hurt me?”

  “He does not tolerate insults to his family. The Scots’ honor, you know. Aside from that, there is the matter of Maeve. And he believes Zoe is a fraud. He hates frauds. In fact, tolerance is not a virtue I would associate with Rob McHugh.”

  Afton felt slightly nauseated. Now she knew why he had behaved so strangely in the fortune-telling salon. But why hadn’t he come after her before? Then it occurred to her that he had—that very day! “I…I suppose he is very angry?”

  “That is an understatement,” Sarah said. “I have never seen him so…so furious. And so, I gather, are her father and Douglas McHugh. But this is different.” Sarah glanced away and refused to meet her gaze. “Having lost his wife and heir, Rob McHugh has little left of his former life but his fortune and his pride. He has declared that he will not marry again, thus Douglas’s children would be his heirs. That is very important to him, and your advice to Bebe has barred that door and made the McHughs look foolish. He will not forgive it.”

  Lord! They were right; she should cease telling fortunes at once! But she really had no choice. Only eleven more days, and she needed every one! Surely the culprit would come forward by then. She would avoid Glenross in the meanwhile.

  “The McHughs are relentless,” Annica agreed. “I’m of a mind to think they are the real reason Bebe ran off with Mr. Dante Palucci.”

  “I do not understand. Why would Miss Barlow flee? What did she have to fear?”

  Grace gave an odd little smile. “I do not know Douglas, but I do know Robert. I admit, Afton, Glenross has the form of a Greek god and the features of an angel, but he has a darkness to him. He is too hard, too single-minded. He can be charming, but that is merely surface.”

  Sarah nodded in agreement. “I do not think he has a frivolous fiber in him. I cannot see him reciting poetry or composing pretty speeches for his lady love. But Douglas is different. He is more vulnerable. And he will produce the Glenross heir. That is the reason Glenross will come after you, Afton.”

  She stiffened her spine and lifted her chin. Business. Heirs. Marriage always came down to that for men. “Well then, I cannot feel badly if Bebe has found something better.”

  “Better? Dante Palucci? He is an Italian wastrel! A fortune hunter. Oh, the McHughs will go after her and bring her back, but Bebe is thoroughly ruined.”

  Afton cast about for a way to salvage the situation. “Might it be possible for Douglas to wed her anyway?”

  “Never,” Grace said. She arranged the drape of her jet-black gown in preparation for rejoining the party. “Aside from the question of Bebe’s infidelity, Glenross really is not the forgiving sort. A man in his elevated position must have a care to the mother of his heir. She must be a woman who will not subject the McHugh name and title to scandal and ridicule. And he himself must be vindicated, else his public credibility will suffer. A man like McHugh sets great store on reputation and credibility.”

  Afton’s stomach clenched again as she thought of the lives she had altered with her innocuous advice. “I will find a way to make this come a-right.”

  “A-right? Are you mad? Can you un-ruin Bebe? Or resurrect Maeve and Hamish? There’s nothing you can do, Afton. And, despite what you are feeling, it is not your fault. McHugh and Mr. Barlow must share the blame. When a woman is betrothed for convenience, she is apt to do something desperate.”

  “Convenience? But you said Douglas was fond of Bebe.”

  “He is. ’Tis her father’s convenience I mean. But really, Afton, the best thing—the only thing—for you to do is quit. Retire at once and disappear quietly.”

  Afton frowned, thinking of her family—winsome Dianthe with high hopes of making an advantageous match, and ambitious Bennett, determined to rebuild the family fortune and care for his sisters. Was there anything she would not do for them? Any risk she would not take?

  No, if she was in for a pence, she was in for a pound. “I cannot quit,” she said with desperate finality. “There is too much at stake.”

  The orchestra struck up a reel and Grace tugged her hand. “Come, then. We shall find Dianthe and pay our respects to our host. Enjoy yourself tonight, Afton. It may be your last party before Glenross calls Madame Zoe to public account.”

  It was impossible for Rob to ignore the titters and whispers behind fans and the suddenly hushed voices that followed in his wake as he crossed the ballroom toward his target. The news of Bebe’s defection was now public knowledge. He could cheerfully strangle the silly little chit for her shortsightedness. She did not have to ruin herself to escape marriage to Douglas. A simple “I’ve changed my mind” would have done the trick. A bitter blow to Douglas, perhaps, but it would have left his brother’s pride intact.

  Now Bebe’s father and Douglas were off in hot pursuit of the eloping couple. Rob prayed they would find them ere they stood before a smithy in Gretna Green. And that Douglas did not kill the Italian on the spot. Rob’s brotherly pride was pricked by Bebe’s defection and he would deal with that, but less forgivable was the insult to the McHugh name and Glenross title. Common little Bebe could have been mother to an earl, and she had thrown it all away for an anonymous Italian music teacher.
/>
  Rob needed to enlist Mrs. Forbush’s help again. If he could convince her to assist him in salvaging what was left of Bebe’s reputation, it would have been worth running the gauntlet of pitying glances. But that was only part of it. He needed to salvage what was left of the McHugh reputation, as well. He’d be damned if he’d let society pity them. He could better stomach their scorn. He could hear the gossip now. First the McHugh lets his wife and son be killed, then his younger brother is made a cuckold before his wedding! Are the McHughs so inept that they cannot keep a woman?

  A woman… And that brought him full circle to Miss Lovejoy. He wanted to see her again. He needed to know which camp she would join—the rumor mongers or the pitying sympathizers. It would be interesting to see how the ton would line up, but there had been something in Miss Lovejoy’s quiet, strong bearing that made him believe she would make her own decisions. He could not say why, but her opinion mattered to him.

  His trepidation grew when he noted that Miss Lovejoy was, indeed, with Mrs. Forbush. They were accepting wine-glasses from the tray of a liveried footman. Rob was close enough to know, even before she turned, that she was stunning. The mass of coppery-blond curls arranged at her crown exposed the graceful arch of her neck and slender line of her back. But when she actually faced him, she took his breath away. Her lilac gown was trimmed in pristine white lace, a perfect frame for her beauty. He took her politely offered hand to find it soft but not yielding. She met his gaze without flinching. There was no hint of pity or even titillated curiosity about her. To the contrary, there was something faintly challenging in her study. When she curtsied, she did not drop her gaze as was customary, but held his in open study. Her voice, when she said his name, was soft and husky, and the sound of it brought his blood up.

  “Lord Glenross,” she acknowledged.

  The stirring in his loins gave him a moment of discomfort. Unable to resist the urge to test her, he lifted the delicate hand and grazed the soft flesh with his lips. He felt, rather than heard, her intake of breath.