The Rake's Revenge

by Ranstrom, Gail

  Afton nodded, intrigued by the prospect that Mr. Renquist had news about the names on the list. She slid a wall panel back to reveal the hidden staircase. “Thank you, Marie,” she said before sliding the panel closed behind her.

  Once upstairs, she lit a candle and the fire that had been prepared on the hearth, then retreated to the small dressing room to don her disguise. Her mind was still engaged with deciphering the only connections between her aunt and James Livingston—each other. And a raven.

  She went to the mirror over the mantel and checked her appearance. She studied her reflection, trying to determine if any part of her was visible, or if there was something wrong with the disguise. No, everything was in place.

  Shaking off her brooding, she readied the room for her client—tarot cards, crystal orb and tea leaves. She placed a kettle on the hearth to heat and went to the single window overlooking the street to close the heavy velvet curtain.

  Something out of place stopped her with her hand on the drape. There, on the street below, stood Lord Glenross. His stillness was absolute, and she would not have seen him from the street level. But from her vantage above, the outline of his form stopped her. The set of the wide shoulders, the tensile readiness of his muscles, the stillness that was anything but still, betrayed his identity. But for that, he could have been any man waiting for someone’s arrival.

  Madame Zoe’s arrival.

  Very slowly, his hand came up to his mouth and the end of a cheroot glowed in the winter dusk. His head dipped in a nod to acknowledge her. He knew she was there! Her hand fluttered to her veil, reassuring herself that she would not be recognized as Afton. Before she could think, she stepped back and pressed herself against the wall, as if that would somehow save her.

  He was stalking her! He had wanted her to know he was outside, waiting to waylay her as she departed, or to follow her home. His posture promised that he would wait as long as necessary. Thank heavens she would be exiting Madame Marie’s shop instead of the public stairway to the narrow street door. Even so…would he think it too odd for coincidence that she would be in the building at the same time as Madame Zoe?

  She inched back to the side of the window and risked the slightest peek. Glenross had stopped her client, Mrs. Murray, with a hand on her arm, and was speaking with her. She listened for a moment, recoiled and turned back the way she had come.

  Blast! He was sending away the few clients Afton still had. He glanced up at the window and tipped his hat. The bounder was challenging her! Did he expect her to come out and take him to task for his interference? She would never give him the satisfaction. Actually, she didn’t dare.

  Glenross settled into the shadows again, clearly prepared to wait for her to come out, as he knew she must, sooner or later. But he was wrong. Madame Zoe would never leave this little flat. Afton Lovejoy would leave La Meilleure Robe.

  She pulled the heavy drapery over the window with an angry snap. Hurrying to the curtained-off dressing room, she began changing her clothes again. Determined to leave nothing out of place, she took the time to fold and put her disguise away in the small clothespress.

  Before she left, she blew out the candles, banked the fire and checked the bolt on the door. Satisfied that nothing was out of place, she went through the closet door and descended the steps to Madame Marie’s back dressing room.

  True to her word, the dressmaker had left a box tied with string on a fitting stool. Afton smiled, glad that she would have something to carry away. If Glenross should notice her leaving, she would have a perfect excuse for her presence at the shop.

  She stepped onto the street and pulled the hood of her cloak up to cover her hair. A moment more and she would make a clean escape, with Glenross none the wiser. She tucked the dress box under one arm while she pulled on her gloves. She had taken no more than three steps when she felt a hand on her shoulder.

  “Miss Lovejoy? Ah, I thought that was you.”

  The sound of his voice raised goose bumps on her arms. “Glenross?” She affected surprise as she turned to face him. “What a surprise to find you here.”

  “We seem to cross paths fairly often, Miss Lovejoy.”

  She tried to detect any note of sarcasm in his comment, but it seemed innocent enough. “One might begin to wonder if you are following me, my lord.”

  He grinned. “Might one?”

  She nodded and shifted the box to her other arm.

  “Allow me, Miss Lovejoy.” He reached for it. “Once again I find you without a carriage. You must allow me to give you a ride home this time. ’Tis almost dark. Winter solstice, you know.”

  She glanced around in surprise. She’d been so consumed with her deception that she hadn’t even noticed that darkness had come on suddenly. “I…I would not want to take you away from your errand, my lord.”

  “It will wait.”

  Yes, she suspected it would. He could wait all night for Madame Zoe to come out and nothing would come of it. “The—the alterations must have taken longer than I thought. Dianthe and Aunt Grace will be expecting me,” she admitted.

  “Another good argument for accepting my offer,” he said with a slight bow.

  She smiled. “Is that McHugh the Ruthless speaking, or Glenross the Gentleman?”

  “’Tis Rob the Selfish,” he quipped. “Did you ever think I might welcome the opportunity to have you alone in a coach?”

  The memory of Sir Martin’s revelation rose to her mind. The tragedy was staggering when she saw before her the evidence of the man he could have—should have—been. She fought her pity and relinquished her package to him with a nod of consent. After all, there was nothing to fear. The little deception seemed important to him, and she would not deprive him of that. “You must not tease me so, McHugh, or I might fear for my virtue if I were to accept your offer.”

  “If you do not fear for your virtue, then I will have to try harder,” he said.

  She laughed, more comfortable with his lie than she would have been had it been the truth. Pride was not an insignificant thing, and a man like McHugh had nothing if not his pride.

  He led her around the corner to a waiting hired coach. Such a vehicle did not come cheap, and she was scandalized by the cost he had incurred to stand watch for Madame Zoe. She counted that as a measure of his determination.

  He opened the door and handed her up, calling directions to the driver. His hand, cupping her elbow, was so strong yet so gentle that she smiled. How like the man himself. In appearance and manner, he was brusque and powerful, but at heart, so peculiarly vulnerable. She wondered if he even realized it. Or was she woefully wrong?

  The coach rocked as McHugh stepped up to sit opposite her and place the box on the seat beside him. He took the lap robe from his seat and leaned forward to place it over her knees.

  “One could wish for snow,” he said.

  Afton detected an edge of self-consciousness in his words. What had changed to give her the advantage? “Yes, in the country it is often warmer when it snows. This is my first winter in the city, though. I hope I will find things much the same.”

  “You will, Miss Lovejoy. ’Tis still England, after all.”

  “Yes.” She waited for him to speak again, feeling awkward with the silence. After a scant moment, she felt a need to fill it. “Before Papa…fell on hard times, and when Bennett was still a baby, Father took us all to Spain one winter. I still recall how desperately I did not want to go, and how homesick I was for wassail, plum pudding and caroling.” She closed her eyes at the memory. “But I can still feel the warmth of the sun on my bare arms and the sand between my toes as Dianthe and I waded in the Mediterranean and hoarded pretty pink shells. Those were blissfully indolent days, and they are good memories now. I would not trade them at any price.”

  He cleared his throat as she opened her eyes again. Leaning forward, he rested his forearms on his knees. “I envy you, Miss Lovejoy. I would pay any price for the peace of pleasant memories.”

  There was n
o doubt in her mind that he was referring to his wife and son. What could she say? How could she ease his pain? “Please, McHugh, give yourself a little time. Eventually…”

  “Eventually I will heal?” he scoffed. He leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest. “I will heal, Miss Lovejoy, the moment the instigator of this travesty pays. I will find her, and when I do, I will unmask her in front of all of society so that everyone will know her for the charlatan she is.”

  Afton nodded even as her stomach clenched. She seized on the first thing that came to her mind as a change of subject. “How…how is your brother, my lord?”

  “Douglas is well. He returned from Scotland last night.”

  “Oh,” she squeaked, feeling more and more trapped. “Was he…”

  “Successful?” McHugh seemed adept at finishing her sentences. “Yes and no. Miss Barlow—now Mrs. Palucci—did not return with him. In fact, Mr. Barlow is in pursuit of the newlyweds at the moment. Douglas is attempting to salvage the remnants of his pride.”

  “Oh…”

  “I say, Miss Lovejoy, do you have any personal knowledge of Madame Zoe?”

  Her heartbeat sped. “Um, who—that is, why would you think—I mean…”

  “Why ask you?” he interjected. “Because you and your aunt Grace seem to know damn near everything that goes on in the ton.”

  “Oh. Well, I know the woman is a fortune-teller. And that some of the most influential people in London frequent her salon.”

  “Have you ever consulted her, Miss Lovejoy?”

  She felt a hot blush creep up her cheeks. “I…yes. She told my fortune once a long time ago.”

  “Was it good? Did her fortune come true?”

  “I cannot recall exactly what she said.” But she did recall that distant rainy summer day quite clearly. “We…I thought it was a parlor game. Not to be taken seriously. It amazes me that anyone does.”

  “Levelheaded of you.” He smiled, leaning close enough to cause her to grow slightly dizzy. “Just one of the many things I find admirable about you.”

  She swallowed hard, uncertain how to reply to such a blatant compliment. “Really, Lord Glenross, I think—”

  “Don’t think, Afton,” he whispered, leaning closer still.

  Afton? Oh, how sweet the sound of her name from those lips. When his mouth took hers, it was unlike any of his other kisses. No challenge here, no ferocity. This was soft, cherishing, with the promise of sweetness to come. This was a kiss that revealed his vulnerability. Knowing what she knew, what Sir Martin had warned her of, how could she allow McHugh to delude himself? Her heart was breaking with the unutterable pain of his loss. Of her loss.

  The coach rolled to a stop as their lips parted and, embarrassed by the slow tears filling her eyes, she placed her palm against his chest to hold him at bay. “Please, McHugh. Do not do this to yourself. You know nothing can come of it.”

  He reeled back as if she had delivered a slap. “Nothing, eh? Very well, Miss Lovejoy. Never say I am a beggar.”

  He threw the coach door open and stepped down to give her a hand. When her feet were solidly planted on the street outside Grace’s house, he got back in and departed without another word.

  Lady Annica, Charity and Lady Sarah met Afton and Grace at La Meilleure Robe at two o’clock the following afternoon. Madame Marie’s buxom assistant led them to the back fitting room, where Mr. Renquist was waiting. A row of chairs circled a tea table holding a steaming pot and a platter of little sandwiches. Madame Marie knew how to keep her favorite clients comfortable.

  “Mr. Renquist, do you have something to report?” Grace asked when they were all seated.

  Lady Sarah arranged the drape of her gown. “I do hope so. There are only eight days remaining before we must notify the authorities of Henrietta’s death, so time is of the essence,” she said.

  Renquist regarded them all somberly. “My lack of progress is daunting. I had hoped to be further ahead by now. Instead I have precious little. The most common thread connecting these names is a high death rate and the fact that they traveled in the same circles.”

  “Anything else?” Charity asked. “Any little tidbit?”

  Mr. Renquist squirmed uneasily. “They must have had acquaintances in common. Perhaps they shopped at the same places, or employed the same person, or frequented the same establishments. I have not had time to make those connections. But they have to be there. I know it in my bones.”

  “And Auntie Hen is the link between them?” Afton asked.

  “I cannot say if she was the link, or if she was linked to someone else who is the common thread, Miss Lovejoy. There have been other deaths in London. All with the same hallmarks.”

  “What deaths?” Afton asked. “What hallmarks?”

  “The authorities have been keeping it secret. They are afraid there will be panic if it comes out. There has been a rash of murders in the upper classes. Someone is bludgeoning and stabbing victims, as if one method is not enough—”

  Afton gasped. “Like Auntie Hen.”

  “Yes, Miss Afton. And there’s another thing. I believe you said that you found a raven stickpin near your aunt?”

  She nodded.

  “All the victims have been found with some object representing a raven.”

  The raven again. Mr. Livingston had been found with a raven button. Afton frowned, trying to remember what Sir Martin had said. That he had seen carved ravens before? She must find some way to pique his memory.

  “All the victims, you say?” Lady Annica asked. “How many might that be, Mr. Renquist?”

  “Seven.”

  Seven? Good heavens! Afton glanced around the circle to see the other ladies’ eyes widening. This was worse than they had thought. “When did the killings start, Mr. Renquist? Seven victims since when?”

  “The first of December,” he admitted.

  “Then Auntie Hen was one of the first?”

  “Yes, Miss Lovejoy.”

  Lady Sarah leaned forward and asked, “If you cannot find an association between the victims other than the manner of their deaths, could it be a madman on the loose?”

  “Undoubtedly it is a madman, Lady Sarah. There does seem to be a pattern, but I cannot quite make it out yet. The deeper I look, the more I will know. I hope to have more for you by next week. In the meantime, I thought it best to warn you.”

  “Warn?” Grace asked. “What an odd word. Whatever do you mean?”

  “The victims cross boundaries of wealth and gender, but they have all been members of polite society. I must conclude that no one in your circle is safe. And you, dear ladies, are in the gravest danger, because you are on the murderer’s trail.”

  Afton fought to clear the lump in her throat. Had she drawn the entire Wednesday League into danger?

  Chapter Eleven

  Lord Millerton was noted for his exclusive little dinner parties. To be invited to a Christmas Eve supper was a stamp of approval within the ton, and Afton had been pleased when the Lovejoys had been included in Grace’s invitation. Now Dianthe would be seen as even more desirable.

  After dinner, when the men had rejoined the women after their secret male rituals in the library, Afton scanned the gathering, picking out various young men who had shown interest in Dianthe. Here a baron and an earl, there a wealthy shipper and a banker’s scion. Her sister’s prospects were good indeed.

  As for Afton’s prospects, here was Sir Martin and there was…no. Lord Glenross was not a prospect. She suspected she could have loved him anyway, devoid of the physical aspects of the married state, but she knew a man of his mettle could never settle for half a marriage. Nor would he marry a pale copy of his beloved first wife. And Afton would never be content to live in Lady Maeve’s shadow.

  Glenross’s intense eyes met hers across the room and a thrill went through her. He gave her a polite nod—cordial, no more—but his gaze was so piercing she felt as if she had been undressed. Her hand came up to check the row of tiny glass bu
ttons running from her décolletage to the hem of her overdress. His last words to her echoed in her mind, as they often had since he’d spoken them. Never say I am a beggar. No, she would never say that. She was the beggar.

  They hadn’t been seated near one another at dinner, Glenross’s position being above the salt, while she and Dianthe were far down the table. But Afton had caught him looking in her direction three or four times, while she had watched him every opportunity she had. The woman to his left, Lady Enright, and Glenross bowed their heads together to share a few whispered words. She was pleased for Lady Enright that they were mending their rift.

  “A penny for your thoughts, Miss Lovejoy,” a voice whispered in her ear.

  A guilty heat burned her cheeks. “Too high a price, Sir Martin,” she answered. At that moment, McHugh turned toward her and a flash of annoyance crossed his face. Perversely, Afton returned her attention to Sir Martin and beamed her brightest smile. “But I would be delighted to bore you to stupefaction with them, if you wish.”

  “You could never bore me, Miss Lovejoy. Put me to the test,” he invited, gallant to a fault.

  She took his arm and allowed him to lead her toward the large front parlor, where guests were gathering for a game of charades. She hoped McHugh noted her preoccupation with his friend. She did not want him to think she was pining away for want of him.

  She gave Sir Martin a sideways glance, measuring his sincerity. “Stop me when you’ve heard enough, my lord. I was thinking that we might be receiving an offer for Dianthe soon. I then tallied the interest in her, trying to determine who will offer, and which offer I should consider most seriously. Upon deciding that, I pondered if Dianthe has a preference, and if we would agree, or if I am in for a struggle. I then considered the most advantageous time of year for the wedding, and wondered if I might be able to put an anxious swain off until autumn, which would be most convenient for me to put a wedding together in Little Upton.”