“Do you think I take this situation too seriously?”
She hesitated. “Possibly.”
No one except Travis had ever called him to account for his behavior before. “Impertinent chit.” He hid his grin.
“Perhaps I have nothing to lose, McHugh.”
He leaned closer to her face, his mouth mere inches from hers. “More than you realize, Miss Lovejoy,” he said, leaving little doubt as to his meaning.
“Do not presume to know my circumstances, McHugh.”
Was that a challenge? How interesting.
What the hell was wrong with him? He’d followed Miss Lovejoy out of the theater to apologize to her for the kiss they’d shared. He sure as hell hadn’t meant for it to happen again. And it looked as if he wasn’t going to succeed in either intention. His skin hummed in anticipation of feeling her against him.
Afton Lovejoy had the potential to make him forget himself, to make him believe that he was capable of something good again. But that was madness. She might be the only woman he’d met who’d been undaunted by his reputation, but she was also an intelligent, principled, responsible woman who’d sacrificed her own future for that of her family. A woman who would want nothing to do with him if she knew the depths to which he had sunk.
“McHugh? Lord Glenross? Are you well?”
The voice—soft, musical, genuinely concerned—stopped him. He took her arm and spun her around to face him. Startled, she dropped the paper cone and chestnuts rattled on the ground, bouncing and rolling around them. He leaned in, thinking he would steal that kiss now.
He brushed his lips against hers tentatively, hoping to keep his hunger in check even as he could feel it surging upward, demanding to be satisfied.
She gave a throaty moan as she tilted her head back farther to accommodate his kiss. The sight of her heavy-lidded gaze nearly pushed him over the brink. Had she been reclining when she’d looked at him so, she’d be impaled on his shaft by now. Instead, he gave an answering growl and tightened his arms around her as he claimed those offered lips with a ferocity that startled them both.
A party of drunken revelers rounded the corner on Long Acre, exchanging good-natured shouts and buffoonery. They staggered past them, making ribald remarks and inviting them to join their group. Rob refused with a wave of his hand.
He stepped back from Afton, his jaw tight. “What will you do when no one is near to rescue you from me, I wonder?”
She gave a short, humorless laugh. “Yes. I wonder, too.”
He hesitated when he realized that little admission could be construed as an invitation. He gave her a sideways glance as they started walking again. “I like your honesty. I value it. I have not had much of it from the fairer sex.”
She gazed up at him, a stricken look in her eyes. “Please, McHugh. I…I am not what—”
“Be glad of your principles, Miss Lovejoy. If you were not so honorable, I’d find little reason to behave myself.”
She shivered again and gathered her cloak closer before heaving a deep sigh. He’d give half his fortune to know what she was thinking.
Chapter Nine
Afton hung back near the heavy velvet draperies of the Grants’ music room. Her attention was riveted on the quartet playing on the little dais Mrs. Grant had specially constructed for the occasion. Diffused light washed the room with an ethereal quality and softened the outline of the seated guests in front of her. Standing apart from the tableau, Afton felt oddly alienated and vulnerable.
Her hand fluttered up to her coiffure, where she’d attached the onyx raven stickpin to her yellow hair ribbon, wearing it like a challenge. Come and get me, it cried. Would anyone take the bait?
She was desperate. Her time was running out, only ten days remaining before the end of the year, and she’d made no progress in finding Auntie Hen’s killer.
The air stirred beside her and a soft voice whispered in her ear. “Do you not like the music, Miss Lovejoy?”
Drats! Just Sir Martin. “It is divine,” she whispered back.
“Then you should sit and enjoy it with the others,” he said.
She turned to face him and smiled. “I think Mrs. Grant invited more guests than she could accommodate, Sir Martin. I gave my chair to Mrs. Eliot the elder.”
“Your kindness is a part of your charm, Miss Lovejoy. I believe there is still a chair next to mine,” he offered.
She muffled a little laugh. “That is very kind of you. But I think that would shock my aunt.”
“I see. You’d rather hide back here? As if you are afraid someone might notice you?”
I am, she thought, resisting the impulse to touch the raven pin again. She gave what she hoped would be an elegant shrug. “I am more concerned that people should notice Dianthe. I would like to see her satisfactorily situated.”
“Shh!”
Afton winced in response to the rebuke from the back row of guests. “Sorry,” she whispered.
Sir Martin lifted her hand and tugged her toward the corridor. “I would like to speak to you, Miss Lovejoy. Shall we have a cup of punch?”
A protest was on the tip of her tongue when she realized Sir Martin had more on his mind than a cup of punch. They had been speaking of Dianthe. Perhaps he wanted to discuss her sister. Her hopes soared. Oh, if she could just secure Dianthe’s future, half her problems would be over!
They found their way to a large reception room where buffet tables laden with punch bowls, tea-and coffeepots, tea cakes and biscuits, fruit and cheeses had been readied for the reception at the conclusion of the musicale. A few discreet servants stood ready to serve, hands clasped behind them in silent expectation.
Sir Martin waved one footman back as he helped himself to the punch. He offered the first cup to Afton and then took one for himself. With a small nod, he indicated a conversational grouping of chairs in one corner. As she followed his direction, she noted that his expression had changed.
“Is something amiss, Sir Martin?” she asked as she sat in a straight-backed chair.
“No. I was bemused. The little ornament you have on your hair ribbon gave me a moment’s pause. I know I’ve seen something like it before, but I’ve forgotten where. Doesn’t look like a woman’s geegaw.”
Afton’s heart raced and she fought to maintain her calm. “The blackbird? It was my aunt’s.”
He looked surprised and a little wary. “Mrs. Forbush’s?”
“No,” Afton admitted. “My father’s sister.”
He leaned closer to study the pin. “I’d say it was a raven, Miss Lovejoy. Raven. Hmm.”
“Yes?” she said encouragingly.
“I recollect…ah, never mind.”
He knew something! She blinked ingenuously. “Does someone you know have one similar?”
“I wouldn’t think there are many like it,” he murmured, a frown creasing his forehead.
“If you know where I could get another, I would be most grateful. Dianthe has always admired it, and I would like to give her one of her own.”
“If I recall it, I shall be happy to let you know.”
She could not risk forcing the issue. She had more to lose than gain if Sir Martin started asking her questions about her aunt or where she had acquired the pin. Afton sipped her punch. “What did you wish to discuss, Sir Martin?”
“Discuss?” he asked, as if he’d forgotten why he’d led her from the music room. He glanced at the raven pin again. “Ah, yes. I was thinking of Rob McHugh. I know he followed you from the theater last night. I think he may be, ah, misleading you.”
“Misleading?” she repeated, thinking of that extraordinary kiss outside the building. She’d wanted it to go on forever.
“Yes, Miss Lovejoy. I am sorry to be the one to tell you, but nothing can come of his interest.”
“I am aware of that,” she said, trying to keep her embarrassment under control. She did not need Sir Martin’s reminder that she was not a suitable match for McHugh. Nor that his heart still belong
ed to his deceased wife.
“You are? But that is excellent. I feared you had fallen under his influence. He has always had that effect on women. But, of course, now things are different.”
Her insides twisted when she thought of McHugh as a womanizer. Odd that she hadn’t seen evidence of that at the events they’d attended. Still, a man as good-looking as McHugh could likely have his pick of women. “Really, Sir Martin, I do not think—”
“It’s the blasted Moors, you see.” Sir Martin gave her a sideways glance.
“This is really none of my…what have the Moors got to do with McHugh’s intentions?”
“Well, nothing to do with his intentions, precisely. More a matter of the execution, if you catch my drift.”
Her curiosity aroused now, Afton leaned forward. “No, Sir Martin, I do not ‘catch your drift.’ What execution?”
“Children, of course. That and, er, marital…obligations. ’Tis why Douglas must now provide the Glenross heir. There will not be another from Robbie.”
“Heavens.” She breathed deeply as she sat back. “I knew he loved Lady Maeve deeply and was mourning her loss, but I never suspected he had lost his desire to…to…” She could feel the burning of a deep blush spreading upward from her throat. But why had he kissed her so ardently? What had been the point?
“Gads! The desire is still there. And so, to some degree, is the equipment. But the ability is gone! He cannot get a babe on any woman, Miss Lovejoy. He hasn’t got it in him. The damn Moors, you see.” Sir Martin stopped in his discourse to look over his shoulder, then leaned forward and lowered his voice. “They did things to him when he was their prisoner. Torture. The worst that can be done to a man. If, in fact, you can still call McHugh a man in the truest sense.”
Afton went cold all over. She knew the blush of a few moments ago had drained and a lump formed in her throat as the horror of Sir Martin’s words sank into her dazed mind. She could not even imagine what the poor man must have endured. It was no small wonder then that he was so…so oddly at variance—one moment kissing her as if his life depended upon it, and the next warning her to stay away, to not trust him or depend upon him. Oh, it all made perfect sense now. Tears welled in her eyes.
“There! I’ve upset you,” Sir Martin growled. “I knew you had hopes—”
“I am not upset for myself, Sir Martin, but for Lord Glenross. How awful for him to suffer such a fate. How devastating. Has he not lost enough in his family? I feel so guilty for some of the unkind things I have been thinking. I shall have to be more kind, more forgiving, for his occasional lapses in good manners.”
Sir Martin shot her a look of consternation. “I warned you of this so that you could avoid him, Miss Lovejoy. His, ah, inabilities have given him a rough edge. He could, um, snap, and I would hate to see you hurt in any way.”
“Thank you for your concern, Sir Martin, but what, really, can he do? Surely you do not think he would strike me?”
“One cannot be too sure. McHugh has always been a ruthless man, but now he is an angry man, as well. Being confined to a small box for days on end is bound to have some sort of effect on a fellow. He might be…well, unhinged.”
Unhinged? Lord! Perhaps she had not known McHugh at all. Afton placed her punch cup on the side table next to her chair and clasped her hands together to keep them from trembling. She could have wept for all that had been lost in that Moorish prison.
Douglas McHugh burst into Rob’s hotel room, his hands clenched into fists. “She’s just gone, I tell you! The little chit and her Italian paramour have disappeared off the face of the earth,” he ranted.
“Calm yourself, Doogie,” Rob cautioned, holding the door and glancing down the corridor to see if they’d been overheard. The last thing he wanted was for his brother to wake the neighboring guests with this conversation.
“I hoped I would return home to find my fiancée, abashed and repentant, in her room, begging forgiveness for her idiocy. Tell me she’s come back, Rob. Tell me this was all just a grotesque joke.” Douglas ran his fingers through his thick dark hair and fell into the club chair by the fire.
Rob glanced into the hallway again to see if Mr. Barlow had returned with Douglas. When he found no sign of the man, he closed the door, went to the small side table, poured a stiff brandy and took it to Douglas. He tightened the belt of his dressing robe and glanced at the mantel clock. Half past two in the morning. Evidently his brother had come directly to the Pultney when he’d failed to find Bebe at home.
Rob sighed. “Wish I could tell you she was jesting, Doogie, but I haven’t heard a word from her.”
“Christ! What was she thinking?” He shook his head. “This whole affair is humiliating for all of us. You are a saint, Robbie! You’ve been better to me than I deserve. To honor Bebe with your consent, and then for her to treat it with so little regard is more than an embarrassment, it’s a goddamn crime! And then to have you attempt to save her reputation is more than she deserves. How could she do that to us? She ought to be pilloried!”
That was going a little too far, Rob thought, and spoke volumes about the nature of Douglas’s devotion to his ladylove. Perhaps all love was like that—fleeting and wholly dependent upon the other person’s behavior. Since he’d never been in love, he wouldn’t know. “Calm yourself, Doogie. I will survive the insult, but will you? The match was obviously not a…a grand passion—at least on Bebe’s part. And where is Mr. Barlow? Did you leave him in Scotland?”
Douglas snorted. “Once we found they’d arrived in Gretna before us and that the deed was done, I headed back. Barlow is trying to trace them, though what good that will do now is beyond me. He said he intended to bring them back and force them to face society as if there were no shame in what they’d done.”
Rob suppressed a sharp stab of fear. Pray God that Douglas did not kill the pianoforte teacher on the spot the first time he saw him. Rob could not imagine compounding this debacle with a murder trial. Just one more tragedy to lay at Madame Zoe’s door.
“Tell me what you’ve learned, Rob. What are people saying?”
The last thing he wanted to do was add fuel to Douglas’s public humiliation, but it was late. He’d lost at faro and had too much to drink. And he’d spent the whole evening regretting not going to Mrs. Grant’s musicale, where he could have tortured himself with the sight of Afton Lovejoy.
Regardless, this conversation was bound to be painful, so he poured a glass of brandy for himself. “The gossip mill has begun to grind. I enlisted Grace Forbush and Eloise Enright to plead Beatrice’s case.”
“Has her name been removed from any guest lists?”
He shrugged. “Too soon to tell. But I believe Douglas and Rob McHugh may have been.”
“Damn it, Rob! Say you didn’t take the blame.”
He could only nod. Douglas would learn the truth by tea time tomorrow, regardless. “Shared it. That’s only fair.”
“How the hell is that fair?” his brother roared, his face suffusing with volcanic color.
“Because your proposal was a complete surprise to Bebe. It’s not as if you had been courting for a season or two. Like as not, she couldn’t think how to say no. Her recent actions show clearly enough that fondness was not her motive in accepting.”
“Just as it was not your motive in giving permission. I was the one that swore ours was a destined love. Motives are of little consequence,” Douglas pronounced with youthful sangfroid. “You were in want of an heir. I was in want of a wife. Beatrice was in want of a husband. Seemed like a logical bargain to me.” He tossed his brandy down his throat as if it was water. “Now I suppose I am persona non grata in society.”
“Do not be absurd.” Rob took a healthy swallow from his own glass. “The only persona non grata is Madame Zoe. And I intend to inform her of it very soon.”
“Have you found the crone?” Douglas asked with surprise.
“She is avoiding me,” he admitted. He took the chair facing his brother. “I
gather she has instructed her factor to refuse me an appointment. In spite of that, I will eventually catch up to her.”
“Ah. At least you are not alone in this endeavor, what with Mrs. Forbush and Lady Enright lending their influence,” Douglas muttered, his gaze fastened on his empty glass.
Rob smiled, thinking of his other ally—Miss Lovejoy. He had to agree with the French perfumer. There had to be hidden depths beneath that innocent exterior. His body stirred with the memory of how he’d been momentarily drunk from the heady intoxication of her lips. Had they been private—
“Rob?” Douglas interrupted his thoughts. “What are you thinking?”
He gave himself a mental shake. “Just that Madame Zoe is not the only one I shall investigate.”
Chapter Ten
Afton rounded the corner and headed toward Madame Marie’s dress shop, her head down as she remembered the few names of her aunt’s last appointments. Some she had heard before, some were strangers and a few were actual acquaintances. What surprised her was how many were men, and that James Livingston had been one of them. He had consulted her aunt and within weeks both were dead. Yet another coincidence?
She glanced up as she reached for the doorknob to La Meilleure Robe and caught a glimpse of a furtive movement across the street in the late afternoon shadows. A chill went through her and she stepped over the threshold and closed the door behind her.
The chime of the little bell above the door had not faded when Madame Marie hurried from a back room to greet her. “Ah, Miss Afton! You come for Miss Dianthe’s new gown, yes? I will ’ave it ready within the hour.”
Another gown? Afton bit back her dismay. She would have to have a word with Dianthe. One more gown and Afton would be trapped into telling fortunes beyond finding Auntie Hen’s killer. She forced an unconcerned smile and shook her head. “I have an appointment upstairs, madame.”
“Ah.” The woman nodded. She held open the door to a private fitting room and waited for Afton to enter. “Go on up, chérie. I will leave the gown on the little table so you will ’ave it on your way out. Oh, and my ’usband wishes to meet with you tomorrow to discuss your little list, yes? ’Ere at two o’clock?”
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