“But what does that all mean, Mr. Barlow?” Grace asked.
“That Bebe is safe and sound,” he proclaimed. “Her mother and I are overjoyed! To find that Mr. Palucci is, in fact, Comte Dante Palucci, is the very best possible news. The man is no fortune hunter at all, but a romantic Italian looking for ‘true love.’ The fool could have found himself shot had I caught them before Bebe broke the news.”
The ladies sighed and even Dianthe looked dreamy-eyed. The gentlemen exchanged suspicious glances and cast sideways looks at the McHughs.
“I came here straightaway to set Glenross’s mind at ease,” the man continued.
“Oh! This is too marvelous, Mr. Barlow,” Lady Norcroft declared. “Why, this means that dear Bebe is not ruined at all. She has managed the coup of the season!”
“Precisely,” he confirmed. “And everyone thought she was a silly chit.”
Afton’s head spun and she heard snippets of conversation around her pronouncing the whole affair wildly romantic, a true love story and an excellent argument for following one’s heart.
“Why, Madame Zoe is an absolute genius!” Lady Norcroft continued. “She knew all would come a-right. Did she not tell Bebe as much?”
“Heavens! I had forgot about that,” another guest said. “I must make an appointment with her at once.”
“Yes,” another affirmed, “and quickly, before this news gets out and one cannot secure an appointment for months!”
A murmur of agreement went up and Afton felt the walls begin to close in on her. She met Grace’s gaze across the foyer and was surprised to see something akin to panic in the usually unreadable face. The older woman shook her head quickly, as if warning Afton not to speak. Her gaze snapped toward the McHughs, and Afton followed her lead.
Douglas seemed unaffected, his attention riveted on Dianthe, who was gazing at him with a sweetly sympathetic smile. Rob looked thunderous, but tightly contained. Afton knew he would focus that fury on the hapless Madame Zoe. On her! He spun on his heel and headed for the door.
Afton lifted her hand to her throat. She could almost feel his fingers closing around it.
McHugh took the steps in the main lobby of his hotel two at a time. Fury roiled in his gut as he contemplated plans for revenge against the infamous French fraud. The fortune-teller would not get away with this latest debacle. Through some twist of fate, Beatrice’s fortune had come true, and now the swindler would benefit—but only for as long as it took him to catch up to her.
Uneasiness raised the hair on the back of his neck when he reached his room. He pushed his door open and glanced around before entering. Nothing was out of place, but the single strand of hair he’d placed in the gap between the door and the jamb was gone. Someone had entered his room in his absence. He lit the oil lamp by his bed and threw his coat over a chair.
He had selected the Pultney Hotel because of its reputation as a quiet, secure and well-run establishment, and he’d questioned the management and staff of the hotel after Douglas had charmed his way in. Rob had been assured that such an occurrence was strictly against policy and would never happen again. Nevertheless, they said, they could not guarantee a professional cracksman wouldn’t succeed in entering.
Rob opened the closet door. His few belongings were in place. He took the small wooden box down from the shelf and lifted the lid. His lock picks were missing, and two more of his raven shirt studs. He knelt to inspect his seaman’s chest. That, too, had been rifled. His midshipman’s dagger was gone. This was not good.
If he were a betting man, he’d give odds his missing items would show up very soon. At murder scenes. If any more of his enemies were murdered, he was sure to be arrested.
Enemies? He wondered if he should warn Madame Zoe. Or let her stew in her own juices.
Chapter Thirteen
Afton rubbed her temple, still feeling the effects of last night’s mulled wine as she read the letter delivered this morning by way of her factor. “…have, no doubt, heard the news about Miss Barlow by now. I must see you at once. It is urgent, and I am certain I needn’t tell you why. I shall be at your salon this evening at half past six. L.E.E.”
“Lady Eloise Enright?” Grace asked. “This will have to do with Rob McHugh, will it not?”
Afton nodded. “Yes. She told me she would not come again, so this must be to warn me about him. She needn’t have bothered. I could see last night when he left so abruptly that he was enraged with the knowledge that this would enhance Madame Zoe’s reputation and business, and that he had fixed the blame for this latest development at her door.”
“What are you going to do, Afton?”
“I shall meet Lady Enright tonight, then close up the salon.”
“Can you do that?”
She nodded and winced. “I shall send a note to Mr. Evans and instruct him to cancel my appointments and refuse to make more until further notice. He can say I have returned to the Continent, or that I am overbooked. I do not care. But we shall have to find another way to track down Auntie Hen’s killer. Perhaps we should work more closely with Mr. Renquist.”
Grace let out a long sigh. “Thank heavens. I was afraid I would have to insist you quit. What with only six days remaining, I was afraid you would refuse. I am glad that you see the sense in ending the charade as Madame Zoe.”
“The charade, Aunt Grace. I value my neck. But I will not give up the investigation.”
“McHugh would not—”
“Things are worse now. I have never seen him as angry as he was last night.”
“Avoid him, Afton. I see it in your face. You are on the verge of loving him, are you not?”
On the verge? It was already too late. In fact, it had been too late from that moment in the Woodlakes’ ballroom when he had opened the French doors to blow out the candles, just to steal a kiss from her.
“If…if I were, Aunt Grace, I would soon come to my senses. And it would not matter if I were. He is devoted to his wife’s memory. And his…his injuries in Algiers left him…ah, unable to be a husband.”
Grace’s dark eyes widened. “What?”
Afton could feel heat rush to her cheeks. How could she explain to her aunt that she would know such a thing? “Sir Martin thought I might have developed a tendresse for McHugh, and he felt obligated to warn me that McHugh could not—”
Grace’s face dissolved in laughter. She covered her mouth and laughed until tears came. Dabbing delicately at her eyes with a lace handkerchief, she finally managed to say, “Oh, Afton. That is priceless. I have heard many stories of underhanded courting tricks, but this tops them all. I must congratulate Sir Martin on his ingenuity.”
Afton gasped. “You think it is untrue?”
“Society thinks I am party to privileged information, but I am simply a keen observer. My dear, I must confess that I am quite appreciative of the male form. I have observed that certain postures, actions and, ah, appearances betray what a man is thinking almost as certainly as words. Let me just say that Rob McHugh is very attracted to you, and that he is generously equipped to do something about it.”
“Are you certain? I mean, I know that he was the victim of rather vicious torture. If, in the course of it, or as a part of it, he had been emasculated, or damaged in some way…”
Composed now, Grace sat back in her chair. “I am as certain as I could be without testing the matter for myself. Still, if you think there is truth to what Sir Martin told you, perhaps there could be another problem with McHugh. But not, I think, with his, ah, ability. My observations would contradict that.”
Still doubtful, Afton thought back to their times together. There had been moments when she had entirely forgotten about his limitations, had even suspected… But then why had he always backed away? Always behaved as if he were tormented when he could have had her for the taking?
Much to Afton’s dismay, as she prepared for her meeting with Lady Enright, Dianthe came to her room to announce that Sir Martin Seymour was in the back p
arlor, requesting an interview. Afton wished there were some way to put him off, but she had known from the moment he opened the door under the stairs that this conversation would come. She needed to know what he intended to do with that knowledge.
She smoothed her hair, pinched color into her cheeks and hurried downstairs to the small parlor. Sir Martin was standing at the window overlooking the back gardens, seen now through a fringe of icicles hanging from the eaves. Afton closed the parlor door behind her, hoping Grace and Dianthe would honor that subtle request for privacy, and he turned at the sound. Preparing herself for an awkward interview, she sat in a side chair and folded her hands in her lap.
“Sir Martin?” she breathed in a soft voice. She could not meet his gaze for shame. She still could not understand what had possessed her to conduct herself in such a manner. In a closet. With a party in progress. And she certainly couldn’t lay the blame at McHugh’s door. She’d been somewhat more than a willing accomplice. She’d been the instigator of that particular episode. Mortification filled her at the thought.
Sir Martin cleared his throat and took the chair opposite hers. “Miss Lovejoy…Afton, I know you must realize how, ah, fond of you I have grown over the past months. I—”
She could not let him go on. It was bound to be painful for them both. “Sir Martin, I am very much afraid you—”
“One question, please,” he interrupted.
Afton nodded, but she still couldn’t look up from her folded hands. Answering a question seemed the least she could do. And a question was bound to be less humiliating than a denunciation.
“It is McHugh. From what I saw, it would appear he had taken advantage of your innocence. If your honor should need defending…”
That brought Afton’s gaze up immediately. Sir Martin’s face was hard, as if he had been reluctant to say those words. Did he mean to fix the blame for her behavior on McHugh?
“It would not be the first time he has imposed himself on an unwilling woman. Please try to understand, I do not blame you in the least. What I must ask you, however, is somewhat indelicate, so I pray you will bear with me.”
Speechless anyway, she nodded.
“How far…that is, he did not manage to…”
Afton’s cheeks burned and she fought for control over her surging anger and indignation. “Lord Robert McHugh did not ruin me in that closet, Sir Martin,” she told him truthfully, “and this is the first I’ve heard that he is a despoiler of women.”
“But you—”
“I cannot say what incited my behavior last night, but whatever it was, McHugh forced nothing on me. Perhaps it was the wine. Perhaps the season. Whatever it was, I accept the full responsibility for my behavior.”
“Too much mulled wine—”
“I could easily have sent him away,” she insisted.
“Nevertheless,” he sighed, “I also accept a measure of the responsibility for not speaking sooner. I thought there would be time. I had no idea McHugh had set his sights on you.”
Set his sights? Heavens! McHugh had warned her away at every opportunity. He had made it glaringly clear that there would be no future with him.
“I have come today hoping it is not too late to correct my error.” Sir Martin glided effortlessly off his chair into a kneeling position before her. He took her knotted hands in his and gazed up into her eyes with something more closely resembling cunning than affection. She longed to pull away and break the contact he seemed intent on forcing.
“As I have grown to know you, Miss Lovejoy, my admiration and affection for you have also grown. You have become so much a part of my heart that I cannot imagine my life without you. Please say you will be my wife.”
Afton was astounded. Whatever she had expected when Sir Martin requested this interview, it was not a proposal. She was about to deny him outright, but then felt churlish and ungrateful for his higher emotions. He had been willing to forgive her indiscretion with McHugh. He had proposed marriage despite that indiscretion. He had been willing to defend her honor. He had declared his love and admiration, all of which she had encouraged…until she’d met Rob McHugh.
“I…I am honored by your proposal, Sir Martin,” she stammered. “However, I fear you could never fully trust me—and rightly so. If I accept your proposal now, I would be unworthy, and I cannot come to you being inferior to all you deserve.”
“I have thought of that, Miss Lovejoy, but nothing will do but that I must have you.”
Time. She needed a little time. At least the six remaining days the Wednesday League had promised. She could not even think of other matters until then. But how to divert Sir Martin?
She still believed he was good husband material, so perhaps she could transfer his attentions to Dianthe. First, she would have to shift her sister’s affections away from Douglas McHugh, who was too fickle to make a good husband. If not, through inattention, she could wean Sir Martin away from his affection for her over the next several months. By spring he would be ready to fix his attentions elsewhere. Yes, that was the solution. Delay until Sir Martin’s ardor cooled.
“I need time, Sir Martin, to sort out my thoughts and feelings. I cannot be hasty when we are speaking of our entire futures.”
The hope that filled his eyes shamed her. “I shall wait as long as it takes you to make that decision, Miss Lovejoy, and I shall pray it is in my favor.”
Although only six o’clock, it was fully dark by the time Grace’s coach dropped Afton at La Meilleure Robe. Marie was just locking up when she arrived. “Shall I stay, chérie, or ’ave François come until you are finished?”
The Renquists lived in the first-floor flat adjacent to the shop. They would hear the emergency bell, so there was no reason for Mr. Renquist to sit in the fitting room beneath the salon. “No need for concern, madame. I have only one appointment, with a long valued client, and shall be leaving shortly after. I will be closing the salon until further notice. I am afraid it has become too dangerous to continue.”
“Dangerous, chérie?”
“Oh, do not be alarmed. Please tell Mr. Renquist that the ladies will be contacting him tomorrow for a meeting to discuss our plans to proceed.”
“Oui. Oh, I meant to tell you, chérie. There was a Lord Glenross ’ere the other day. ’E was asking questions about you.”
“Me?” Afton gasped. “What did you tell him?”
“Not you, chérie. Madame Zoe. I told ’im that I pay little attention to my neighbors, and that you are very quiet and cause no trouble.”
“Thank you, Marie.” She breathed a little easier.
“That one.” The dressmaker smiled with worldly wisdom. “’E is much man, eh? If not for François…”
Much man, perhaps, but one bent on her destruction. Now he was questioning Madame Marie. How long would it be before he discovered the truth?
“Take care, eh?”
“Oui,” Afton responded, already on her way to the hidden closet that led to her salon.
Once she had a lantern lit and the fire crackling on the hearth, she hurriedly donned her disguise. Though Lady Enright knew she was not what she seemed, Afton still felt the ruse necessary to maintain anonymity. She was bound to be introduced to her one day, and did not fancy an awkward recognition.
The little mantel clock chimed the half hour and Afton glanced out the window. No carriage in the street below, and no sign of anyone with Lady Enright’s prominence. She frowned. The woman was always on time. Still, the weather might have delayed her.
Deciding not to waste the time merely waiting, Afton lifted her veil back, put a kettle on the hearth to warm and went to the alcove that held the cot and small bureau. She opened a small portmanteau stowed beneath the cot and began to fold the contents of the drawer and pack them away. She intended to leave no trace of Henrietta or Madame Zoe when she locked the door tonight.
As she lifted a small stack of hankies from a drawer, a whiff of Henrietta’s lilac eau de toilette swept her back to her childhood�
��memories of sitting in a soft lap, nestled against a fichu of linen bearing that scent. A rush of emotion too long suppressed caught Afton by surprise. Tears flooded her eyes and a sob burst from the depths of her soul. She sank to her knees and gave herself over to the grief, truly feeling it for the first time. She leaned her forehead against the edge of the cot and cried until she could cry no more, finally slowing to an occasional shuddering hiccup.
She was so absorbed by her grief that she was not aware she was no longer alone until hands closed around her throat and a voice rasped, “One mistake too many, Zoe.”
Afton clawed at the hands, but her attacker wore thick leather gloves. The fingers tightened, crushing her windpipe. She twisted and flailed, trying to break the assailant’s grip, but it was ungiving.
She had not unlocked the door, but had undone the bolt in preparation for Lady Enright’s arrival. Had he picked the lock? Was that how he had he gotten in? She opened her mouth to scream but could make no sound.
“You could have had it all,” the rasping voice taunted.
She made one final effort to reach the bell rope, knowing her life was at stake, yet fearing the bell would not be heard as far as the Renquists’ flat, despite her assurances to Madame Marie. But it was her last, her only, chance. Desperation lent her unnatural strength and she managed to dislodge the man’s fingers. She lunged for the rope, coughing and gulping for air.
Before she could reach it he tackled her, bringing her down with bruising force, rolling sideways, his arms around her knees. The weight of their bodies falling sounded unnaturally loud in the silent room and rattled the teacups on the wooden table. A chair toppled as her attacker’s leg slipped outward.
Afton rolled over to face the man who meant to kill her, but her veil fell back over her face. She tried to free her arms and legs from the tangle of cloth to clear her vision.
“What the hell?” a muffled voice snarled from the direction of the doorway. Had Mr. Renquist been alerted by the noise and come to investigate?
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