Rob could not remember—if he had ever known—what he had done to earn Maeve’s hatred and disgust. Since she had come to him pregnant, he realized now that she must have hated him even before their wedding night. Within a few months of Hamish’s birth, she’d ceased her incessant tirades against him and grown cold and distant. It was then that she’d done the real damage, naming him “McHugh the Destroyer,” calling him an animal with intemperate, unnatural needs—accusations that had nearly destroyed him. He accepted the blame for the failure of their marriage then, because he had no way to explain how the sweet, joyful lass of his youth had turned into the cold, critical woman in his bed and in his life.
Then he’d met Afton Lovejoy. Afton, with her gentle teasing, her banked passion and her simple wisdom. As Madame Zoe, she had told him, “You ’ave not learned that dreams, no matter ’ow impossible, make dreary lives worth living, and that when ’ope dies, the ’uman spirit dies.” My God! She’d been right. He had given up on ever finding any measure of peace or contentment. But had he given up hope? Or was he just afraid to hope—afraid of the risk it implied and of the depth of emotion that might be required of him? Of the pain if he lost it?
But Afton smiled at him, challenged him and matched him measure for measure. Whatever errant spark Maeve had neglected to extinguish leaped to life, and he’d begun to want again. With wanting came desire, and from desire grew affection. He hadn’t wanted that; he’d even fought it with anger and guilt. Yes, he’d fled from the return of emotion like a stallion with a wildfire at his heels. Failing that, he’d tried to distance himself from the threat of love. He’d thought, idiot that he was, that he could separate his lust for Afton from his love for her. He’d been wrong.
Because of Afton, he understood that Maeve had been fighting her own demons. Poor Maeve. She had allowed her anger and bitterness to destroy their family. Despite what she had done to him and to Hamish, he could forgive her now, and pity her. She had never known the peace of letting go of old hurts and wrongs.
He halted outside St. James’s Palace, staring across the street at Queen’s Chapel. It had been Maeve’s favorite. She had attended Sunday services there when they’d been in London. The structure was small, built in the classical style, and beautifully elegant. Snow obscured the London grime and lent the chapel a fairy-tale appearance, befitting the occasion.
The time had come to put Maeve and Hamish to rest. He crossed the street, a strange serenity settling over him with the knowledge that he was finally ready to make the memorial arrangements.
Afton was just putting the finishing touches on her toilette when Grace’s abigail knocked softly on her door and said that Mrs. Forbush would like to see her in the morning room. Afton glanced at the little clock on her dressing table. It was only half past nine. Grace and Dianthe did not usually rise until noon after they had been out on the endless rounds of receptions, soirees, musicales and the like. Perhaps Grace wanted to discuss her plans for New Year’s Day.
Afton was a little disconcerted to find Lord Barrington in the morning room with Grace. His cheeks were still ruddy from the outdoors, and she noted his hat and coat tossed over a chair. Grace gave her a look of profound relief and went to the sideboard to pour her a cup of tea. Afton nodded to Lord Barrington in lieu of a curtsy and sat at the table, noting that Grace looked as if she had dressed quickly. Her sleek, dark hair had not been smoothed into its usual chignon, but tied at her nape with a white ribbon and left to fall to the small of her back. Afton concluded that Lord Barrington had roused Grace from her sleep and now they wanted to talk to her. This could only mean one thing.
“Thank you for joining us, dear,” Grace said, placing the cup of tea on the table in front of her.
“Of course, Aunt Grace.” She smiled and turned to their guest. “Lord Ronald, how nice to see you so early in the day. Have I forgot some appointment?”
“No, Miss Lovejoy,” the man replied. “I, ah, wondered if you might indulge me with the answer to a few questions.”
“If I am able,” she said, stirring a teaspoon of sugar and a drop of milk into her tea.
“Grace…that is, Mrs. Forbush and I have noted that Lord Glenross has demonstrated an…interest in you.”
“Oh, I think you have misunderstood,” she demurred, feeling heat rushing to her cheeks. She glanced at Grace and noted the dimple in her cheek had deepened—a sure sign that her aunt was holding back an angry contradiction. Then she had not discussed Afton’s connection to McHugh. Afton turned back to Lord Barrington. “The McHugh is still grieving for his wife. If he has shown any favor to me at all, it is because of his friendship with Sir Martin Seymour. And now his brother appears to have focused his attention on my sister. I suppose we could find ourselves in-laws.”
“Hmm,” Lord Ronald intoned. “Nevertheless, he appears to converse with you quite frequently.”
Afton fidgeted with her napkin. It had never occurred to her that anyone might have observed how she spent her time. Or was it McHugh who had been observed? “Yes,” she admitted. “He and I have a certain ease in our speech.”
“What do you discuss?”
Afton’s mind went blank. What was Lord Barrington hinting at? “Many things, Lord Barrington. Could you be more specific?”
Lord Ronald looked uncomfortable. “This is a delicate matter, my dear. Have you ever discussed his association with the military?”
“Military? Ah, yes. He was in the military until very recently, was he not?”
“Actually, Lord Glenross was discharged after the Bombardment of Algiers in 1816. His return there last spring was not official and against advice to the contrary. He was acting without authority.”
“To find his wife and son,” Afton finished. “Yes, I believe I heard that somewhere. And yet I also heard that the ministry took full advantage of his return to Algiers. Was he not in government custody a full two weeks immediately upon his escape?”
Lord Barrington had the sense to look embarrassed. “Well, I suppose you could say that. Glenross cooperated, and he needed the medical care, you know. Bloody Berbers. And one in Glenross’s position is never completely done at the Foreign Office, my dear. One feels an obligation to one’s country.”
“I have admired that about Lord Glenross. Well, in answer to your question, no. He has never discussed his experiences but to say that he is recently returned from Algiers.”
“Yes, poor man,” Lord Barrington murmured. “I am surprised he is not quite mad. Of course, if what we suspect is true, he may very well be mad.”
Afton’s heart stilled and she clasped her hands tightly in her lap, out of Lord Barrington’s sight. Had they found out about the ravens and McHugh’s connection to the murders? “I have always found him to be in possession of his faculties,” she ventured.
Lord Barrington cleared his throat and straightened his cravat. “Yes, well. Has he ever mentioned anyone he held a resentment against?”
Aside from Madame Zoe, he hadn’t. But, of course, she would never admit that. She frowned, trying to look thoughtful, and shook her head.
“Perhaps an old commander? Someone who’d stood in his way or stopped him from doing something?”
“Lord Barrington, I do not mean to be rude, but why are you asking me all these questions? Lord Glenross has always been the model of…” not decorum, certainly, and not courtesy, “…civility.”
Grace coughed and Lord Barrington thumped her on the back, his attention never leaving Afton’s face. “This morning, Glenross’s former commander was found in his study by his housekeeper. He’d been murdered.”
Afton did not even try to hide her surprise. She thought of the bloody cravat McHugh had fished from the Thames. She would wager everything she had that McHugh’s former commander had lived on Downing Street. “Why, that is appalling!” she gasped.
“Did you see Glenross last night?”
God in heaven! If she admitted to being with McHugh, she would open herself to other questions, to
o. Like a house of cards, everything she and Auntie Hen had constructed so carefully would come tumbling down. Bennett would be sent down from Eton in disgrace, Dianthe would grow old and die a spinster, they would lose the estate in Little Upton.
No, she could not admit to seeing Rob without confessing where they’d been, and why. She needed to talk to him before she admitted anything. Evasion and a quick escape were the only answer. “Are you saying that…you think he had something to do with it?”
“I am only saying that circumstances do not look good for him, Miss Lovejoy. I am certain the officials in charge of the investigation will be asking him a good many questions before long, and I would like to keep this as quiet as possible. Bad press for the Foreign Office, you know, and we have an obligation to protect our operatives, especially if they’ve been driven mad.”
Mad? Was that what the authorities were saying? She did not want to believe it. She stood, desperate to end the interview before she gave something away. She had to find McHugh and warn him. “Sorry I couldn’t be of more help, Lord Barrington. If I should think of anything, I will let you know.”
By the time McHugh arrived at his club at noon, the place was humming with gossip. Men huddled in small clusters, speaking in undertones and shaking their heads. The folded square he had fished out of the Thames the night before felt conspicuous in his pocket, and he resisted the urge to pat it and make certain it did not show.
He strolled into the quiet billiards room and glanced around. Ethan Travis nodded to him before he separated himself from his brother-in-law, Lord Lockwood and Lord Auberville. They appeared to have been embroiled in a serious discussion.
“You’ve heard?” Ethan asked him.
Dreading the answer, McHugh answered, “No, but I can guess.”
Ethan raised an eyebrow and waited.
“Kilgrew?”
“Murdered at his home in Downing Street last night.”
“How?”
“Appears to have been stabbed. And rumor has it that there was a rope around his neck.”
McHugh groaned and shook his head. It was the same method as the others… “Damn. I was afraid of that. I was outside Kilgrew’s last night, Ethan. I saw a man run from the house and I gave chase.”
“Good God! Do you know who it was?”
He nodded. “Aye.”
“Who? Half of London is looking for the bastard.”
“I can’t be positive he was the murderer. I saw him admitted to the house, and then run out a short time later. He seemed panicked. He crossed Westminster Bridge and threw something off. I had to make a choice—go after him or find what he’d thrown away.”
Ethan’s eyes narrowed but he waited until McHugh caught his breath.
“I went in after the article.”
“I always knew you were insane,” he murmured, shaking his head. “Well, did you find it?”
McHugh patted his pocket.
“What is it?”
He led Ethan to a private alcove at the far side of the room before he pulled out the cloth. Ethan took it and unfolded the square, turning it over in his hands several times before finding the mark almost obscured by blood, and then looking up. “Your cravat?”
“It would appear so,” McHugh said. “It has my initials, does it not? And this morning I found that one of my cravats is missing.”
“I don’t understand, McHugh. Why would the murderer try to frame you, and then carry away the evidence?”
“That has me concerned, as well,” he admitted. There was always something left at the scene that would point to him. What had been left at the scene of Kilgrew’s death if not the cravat?
“Well, tell me, man. Who was it?”
He hesitated. He was not ready to share that information about Martin Seymour. Seymour had no reason to murder Lord Kilgrew. And if he’d been removing McHugh’s cravat from a murder scene staged to implicate him, he deserved McHugh’s gratitude, not an accusation. But if Seymour had wanted to frame McHugh, why hadn’t he left the cravat clutched in Kilgrew’s hand? In truth, things were looking worse for Doogie. Who else had access to McHugh’s room and personal items? Douglas could have killed Kilgrew and Seymour could have come along later and tried to remove the planted evidence.
“Tell me, McHugh. You should know the evidence is not favoring you at the moment.”
“Why in God’s name would I want to kill Lord Kilgrew?”
“It was no secret you were angry with him for not sending troops into Algiers when Maeve was kidnapped.”
“That is hardly a motive for murder.”
“Men have been murdered for less.”
“Do you think I did it?”
“Of course not,” Ethan snorted. “We may not have agreed with the man or his methods on occasion, but he always did what was best for England. I’m just warning you that the ministry’s upper circle is beginning to piece together the recent rash of deaths. Your name has been mentioned in more than a few.”
This was bad. Once the raven connection was made, an arrest warrant would be issued. “I am being framed, Ethan. Someone wants me to hang. Kilgrew was on my list of suspects because I went back to Algiers against his orders.”
Ethan nodded as if he had deduced as much. “Who hates you enough to see you hanged?”
“Damned if I know,” he muttered.
“Is there anything about the victims that could tell us who is doing this?”
“I haven’t found a pattern yet. There has to be something that links them together. I cannot believe this is random. Like Kilgrew, I have had disputes with most of the victims, but I haven’t even known them all.”
“Disputes, eh? So someone is ridding you of your enemies? Does that mean the killer is your friend?”
Ethan smiled at the thought. “A friend who leaves my belongings at the scene of his murders?”
Ethan looked over his shoulder and then gripped McHugh’s arms. “Madame Zoe! Is she safe?”
Rob could not answer that question. The first Madame Zoe had been killed, and the second Zoe was none too safe. “For the moment, yes.”
“You would not—”
“No. We have…come to terms. I have warned her to use every caution.”
“Who else, McHugh? Who else do you have a grudge against? We must warn them immediately.”
“I’ve racked my brain trying to guess who would be next, but it eludes me. I never suspected Kilgrew would be in the mix at all.”
“Is there anything I can do to help?”
McHugh clapped Ethan on the back affectionately. “Keep your eyes and ears open. See if you can discover if anything of mine was found at Kilgrew’s house.”
“Aye.” Ethan nodded. “That should be easy enough.”
“Do you know who will be appointed to Kilgrew’s post at the ministry?”
“Auberville’s name has been mentioned, as well as Lord Barrington’s and Lord Lockwood’s. They are young for the position, except for Barrington, but entirely competent and qualified.”
Good. That would give Ethan easy access to information. “Warn me if you get wind of anything from those ‘upper circles.’”
Afton loosened the string at the neck of her cloak and smiled indulgently as Dianthe prattled on about who she would dance with tonight, and if Douglas McHugh would be in attendance. Grace winked at Afton, and she knew her aunt, too, was amused by Dianthe’s youthful joie de vivre.
“Do you think he will have that devastating brother with him?” Dianthe asked with a sideways glance at Afton. “You know, the one that seems smitten with you, Binky.”
“They are occasionally together,” she allowed.
She hoped she would see McHugh at the recital. She had gone to the salon to meet him at the appointed time, but McHugh had not come. She had waited as long as she could but she had promised Aunt Grace and Dianthe that she would accompany them to the private recital of nocturnes performed by Hortense and Harriett Thayer, after which there would be dancing and refreshm
ents. The Thayers were a force to be reckoned with in London money circles, so Afton knew attendance would be excellent exposure for Dianthe.
When they arrived at the Thayer home, she was relieved to see Rob McHugh standing in conversation with their host. He turned slightly, as if sensing her presence, and acknowledged her with a nod. Yes, he would find a moment to speak with her. She nodded back and followed the other guests to the music room, where chairs had been set up facing a small raised dais holding a pianoforte and a violin.
Sir Martin Seymour was engrossed in a conversation with a group of giggling women, and Afton recalled his statement that he was very popular. She found herself wondering what he saw in an impoverished, untitled spinster like herself. He could do much better.
He looked over at her and smiled. With a few words of apology, he disengaged himself and came to join them. “Ah, Mrs. Forbush and the Misses Lovejoy. How nice to see you. I fear I missed you at your entertainments last night. I hope you were well.”
“Oh, yes,” Dianthe said. “Afton did not come out with us, but Grace and I had a very nice time.”
“I am pleased to hear it,” he replied. He turned to Afton with a look of concern. “Does London society pall, my dear Miss Lovejoy, or were you simply indulging your natural reserve?”
“Indulging,” she laughed.
“And yet you appear to enjoy party games. I suspect you must be very good at them.” He delivered the line with a smoothness that belied the meaning beneath the words. Was he referring to the game of hide-and-seek at Grace’s Christmas gathering?
“Some games, Sir Martin,” she admitted. “Others can get out of hand.”
Grace cleared her throat and took Dianthe by the arm. “We shall leave you to discuss the relative virtue of party games while we go find chairs.”
“Thank you, Aunt Grace,” Afton said, her gaze never leaving Sir Martin. The moment they were out of hearing, she asked, “Were you going to give me away, my lord?”
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