She paced near the front window, waiting for a messenger or Lord Barrington himself. Finally frustrated, she wrote a quick letter to Bennett, warning him of the impeding scandal, then to his headmaster at Eton withdrawing him from classes and arranging to collect his trappings before the term reconvened. Bennett’s pride would suffer greatly if he had to face his friends once they knew that his sister had…
Afton addressed the letters and resumed her pacing. The thought of Dianthe and Bennett suffering for her heedless actions, facing ridicule and ostracism on her account, brought tears to her eyes. How, in trying to protect and preserve the family, had she gone so terribly wrong? By this time next week, the Lovejoys would be back in Little Upton with their tails between their legs, returning to London only if Afton was called upon to testify as to McHugh’s whereabouts. The future was too dismal to contemplate.
Her stomach knotted when she thought of Rob spending the night in that squalid cell in Newgate, but she abandoned hope that he would be released tonight. Surely word would have come by now. She needed to know he was free and safe, even though he would be angry with her for ignoring his demand that she keep her silence. And that was likely the least of it.
His faith in his brother was such that he believed she herself had betrayed his whereabouts to Lord Barrington. And why not? Was she not the conniving fraud he accused her of being—bilking the ton of their money? How would he punish her for that? she wondered.
A clock in some distant room chimed the hour of nine. Heavens! Dianthe and Grace had been gone only half an hour and it felt like half a day. Afton threw her hands up in disgust and headed for the door. There was no profit to be had from berating herself or pacing a path in Grace’s expensive Turkish carpet. She may as well go to Zoe’s salon and destroy the little appointment book and all the notes she had made in order to insure her clients’ confidentiality. Then she would finish packing up. Between Auntie Hen’s effects and Bennett’s things, they would have a full coach back to Wiltshire.
McHugh strode toward Bloomsbury and Grace Forbush’s home wondering how he could want to damn Afton and bless her at the same time. Amazingly, she had managed to secure his release, but at her own expense, though Barrington had been clear that he was being released only—not exonerated. If one more piece of evidence against him surfaced, he would be back in Newgate by dawn. Barrington had also told him who had informed the watch where to find him. Rob hadn’t been surprised.
After telling Barrington that he would inform Afton of his release, he’d gone to his hotel, tossed his clothes in the fireplace, bathed with a strong lye soap and shaved. Decently dressed again, he found his old clan dirk and slipped it in his boot. His midshipman’s dagger would turn up eventually, probably in someone’s back.
He stopped to gaze up at the stars and breathe deeply of the warm wind blowing in from the southwest, turning the snow to slush. For one brief moment, everything was clear and uncomplicated. He was free again. Afton would be waiting.
Then reality returned. There was still much to be done—a killer to be caught and a woman to be wed.
If there was any advantage to his imprisonment in Newgate, it was that he’d had no distractions and an excess of time to think. He knew now, with unshakable certainty, that what Afton guessed had been right. He hadn’t known all the other victims. He was just another link in that chain, the same as Afton’s Aunt Henrietta was. He hadn’t known her—as Henrietta Lovejoy or Madame Zoe—and the only thing they’d had in common was Maeve.
So there was the common denominator! Maeve. Rob had asked himself whom he’d spurned, when he should have asked himself who had spurned him. Maeve. She was the connection. Once he’d realized that, everything else fell into place. But Maeve was dead. He’d stood at her grave, and Hamish’s, in a small village outside Algiers just before the Dey’s men had caught up to him. Ah, but there was someone else. Maeve’s lover—Hamish’s father. That hadn’t been so difficult to figure out, after all.
Afton looked for the note Rob said he’d left, but it wasn’t on the table. Her gaze swept the room, stopping on the floor near the fireplace. Had an errant draft from beneath the door blown the missive there? The troubling thought of who could have betrayed McHugh’s whereabouts teased the back of her mind as she picked it up and glanced at the steady handwriting. If Douglas had hired the room and Rob had told only her, via this note, then who could have given him away?
With a sigh, she wrapped Auntie Hen’s crystal orb in tissue paper and placed it in the wooden trunk at the foot of the bed. The small mantel clock was next, and she had to still the pendulum before wrapping it, too, in tissue. Eleven o’clock. Another hour and it would be the New Year. She prayed 1819 would bring better things than this year.
With a touch of melancholy she stripped the bedding, folded it and placed it on top of the breakable items as padding. The blanket still smelled of Rob, and would until she took it home and washed it. Or perhaps she would never wash it. She’d sleep with it every night, burying her face in his scent, remembering.
She shook off her brooding and returned to her task. Just a few items left and she’d be done—tarot cards, teacups and then the little client book waiting on the bare tabletop to be burned.
She heard footsteps on the stairs and her heart beat faster. The McHugh! She spun toward the door and crossed the room, expecting it to open. When a knock came instead, she realized that the guards must have taken his key along with his coat and jacket. “McHugh,” she said as she threw the bolt and opened the door.
But it was not him.
“Sorry to disappoint you, Miss Lovejoy. Wish I were the McHugh. He seems to have all the luck with beautiful women. But then…I’d be a murdering bastard, wouldn’t I?”
She did her best to hide her confusion. “Sir Martin. I thought…that is, I expected—” She shut her mouth before she could get into more trouble.
“Quite all right, dear girl. I’ve known for some time. Mind if I come in?”
Yes, she did, but he was already in, doffing his hat and pulling off his gloves.
“I couldn’t let the year end without bidding adieu to you as well, my dear. When I saw Miss Dianthe and your aunt arrive at the masquerade without you, I suspected where you would be. Thought I’d come and share a ‘cup o’ kindness for auld lang syne,’ as Robert Burns says. Have any whiskey?”
“I—”
“Of course you do. Must keep it on hand for the McHugh, eh?”
He knew? To hide her confusion, she turned toward the cupboard, trying to think if she had any whiskey. She knew that was a mistake when she heard the door close and a little click as the bolt was thrown. An icy chill crept up her spine.
When she turned again, he was standing by the table, lifting the tarot deck. “Ever read your own cards, m’dear?”
“No, Sir Martin. ’Tis all nonsense, you know.”
“Aye, I know.” He dropped the cards on the table and looked up at her, a relaxed smile on his face. “But damn amusing nonsense. I was laughing so hard over the Bebe Barlow affair, I thought I’d have a stroke. McHugh was fit to be tied.”
“You knew…back then?”
“I’ve known for months.”
“Months?” Then he’d known even before Auntie Hen was killed? “How did you find out?”
“Simple, really. ’Twasn’t too difficult to discover Madame Zoe’s salon. I only had to find someone who had an appointment with her, then follow them.”
“But why?”
The frozen smile on Sir Martin’s face was all the more frightening for its lack of sincerity, as if he were only maintaining it for the sake of civility. Instinct warned her not to provoke him. If what she had begun to suspect was true, she would need her wits about her. “Where’s that whiskey, Miss Lovejoy?”
She opened the small cupboard, removed the bottle of port she’d brought for McHugh and poured two teacups half-full. Taking one to Sir Martin, along with the bottle, she affected an air of relaxed unconcern.
“Because, Miss Lovejoy, I still hoped your good sense would overrule your passions. I thought I could win the whole thing if you just married me.”
“Whole thing?” she queried, making a pretense of drinking.
“McHugh,” he replied, as if that explained everything.
“You wanted me because the McHugh wanted me?”
“He always took what I wanted. Why shouldn’t I take something he wanted?”
“What did you want, Sir Martin?”
“Maeve. Little Maeve MacGuire. From the time she’d kick up her skirts to come running after us, she held my heart.”
“But she loved Rob McHugh,” Afton finished. She could easily understand the appeal a dark-haired, larger-than-life adventurer would hold for an impressionable young girl. Hadn’t she herself fallen victim to it?
“Loved him? Nay. She loved me. But the old Lord Glenross and Liam MacGuire formed a betrothal before their bairns were out of the cradle. Despite that she was untitled and he could have looked higher, their lands adjoined, you see,” he snarled, “and their fathers were comrades from the Colonial War. Liam saved the old lord’s life, and this was old McHugh’s way of paying the debt.”
Afton frowned. Maeve had loved Sir Martin? No, he must have imagined it. Was he delusional? “But you said theirs was a love match. That McHugh was devoted to her.”
Sir Martin laughed and lifted his teacup. After a deep drink, he refilled his cup and looked up at her. “Aye, that’s what I said. I was rather proud of that fabrication. I thought it would discourage you from growing closer to him.”
She recalled the veiled conversations and shook her head. “And his inability to…”
He laughed. “Nice touch, eh? That was before I found you in the closet together and realized that you must know the truth. I tried to warn you away, though.”
“He was not devoted to Maeve?”
Sir Martin shook his head. “He was not cruel, unless indifference is cruelty, but he did not love her. Even when she bore another man’s bairn as the Glenross heir, he did not divorce her. He accepted the fault as his for not winning her loyalty. And all she could see was that he did not care enough to avenge his honor.”
Afton was astonished. “Hamish was not…”
“Not McHugh’s,” Sir Martin confirmed. “He was a Seymour.”
Her knees went weak and she sat in the chair opposite Sir Martin. Grace was right. Rob hadn’t loved Maeve.
“I wanted to tell him, but Maeve would have none of it. She loved me, you see, and she was afraid McHugh would kill me. She did not want Hamish to go through life labeled a bastard. We prayed McHugh would not return from the first Algerian assignment, but he lived and came back to claim her and Hamish. Then Maeve got it into her head that if she went to her sister in Italy, I could follow and we could be together. Rent a villa in Tuscany and live as husband and wife.”
“This…this is appalling,” Afton whispered. And yet a part of her could understand. She could live with McHugh’s love, or even his hatred, but she was not certain she could bear his indifference.
“Appalling? We loved each other, Miss Lovejoy. Do you not know what that is like?”
She did. It was exalting and painful at the same time. It was soaring joy and plummeting depths. It was both irrational and the only thing that made sense in this world. Yes, she had an inkling what that was like.
“But she and Hamish never arrived in Rome. The damn Barbary pirates boarded her ship and took everyone hostage. McHugh raised heaven and hell to get them back, but when the Dey found out they were his, there was no ransom high enough. And now…” Sir Martin paused to finish the contents of his cup and pour another “…now they are dead. And someone has to pay for that, Miss Lovejoy.”
“It was you. You found the note he left me last night. You told the constable where to find him.”
He nodded. “Easy enough, and even got Barrington’s thanks.”
“How did you get in here?” But she already knew the answer to that question.
“McHugh is not the only one who knows how to pick locks, Miss Lovejoy. I’ve come and gone here as I pleased. But after tonight, I will be finished.”
“W-with what?”
“Anyone who had a part in it.”
“But it was Maeve who demanded to go. Rob tried to dissuade her. He—”
Sir Martin’s fist came down on the table with a bang and his eyes narrowed dangerously. “’Twas more than that, you silly little twit. She wouldn’t have gone if it hadn’t been for the others.”
“What others?”
“The ones who made her feel like she didn’t belong. The ones who hurt her feelings or wounded her pride. If not for them, she’d have been content to stay in London. Fengrove found out about us and insulted her, said she was a slut, and threatened to tell McHugh. Livingston tried to seduce her, caught her in a garden and claimed a kiss. He wanted more, but McHugh sent him packing when he came across them. Lady Enright, well, she encouraged Maeve to consult with Madame Zoe. And Madame Zoe told her that her destiny awaited her—but the blasted bitch didn’t tell her that her destiny was death.”
Dear God! Afton had been fighting the reality, but it was true. Sir Martin had to be the man who had murdered so many innocent people. That he was admitting it to her now could only mean one thing—she was next. She glanced quickly at the bellpull beside the fireplace. Was there anyone in the dress shop to hear? If she could distract him, keep him talking, perhaps she could reach it, or the little knife in the pocket of her cloak by the door.
She stood and moved toward the fireplace as if she were going to put more wood on the hearth. “But you haven’t explained Lord Kilgrew. What did he do to Maeve?”
“Refused to send another mission into Algiers. Worse, when McHugh tried to go himself, Kilgrew stalled him. In the end, McHugh went without sanction. I was glad when I heard he’d been captured. Who knew the Dey wanted to play with him? He should have killed McHugh on the spot. But never mind. It all works out better this way.”
She had to stall him, keep him talking. “What way?”
“Why, with him taking the blame. He murdered Maeve the day he put her on that ship bound for Italy. And now he’ll hang for killing you, too.”
Afton struggled to keep her voice steady. She was almost to the bellpull. “Me? What have I done, Sir Martin? I did not even know Maeve.”
“Aye, but you chose the McHugh. I gave you every reason not to. I even asked you to marry me. That would have been sweet, having you to myself. How fitting that I would have the only thing McHugh ever cared about, when he took the only thing I ever wanted.”
One too many mistakes, Zoe. You could have had it all. Fear raised chill bumps on Afton’s arms. He meant to kill her, and she knew it was not the first time he had attempted it. Standing to the side of the fireplace, she turned to face him, her hands clasped behind her. She groped for the bell rope, praying he would not notice.
“You assume the McHugh wants me, Sir Martin. I have seen no evidence that he would have a moment’s discomfort if I should live or die.”
Seymour laughed, and for the first time, Afton noted an edge of dementia in the sound. “Really, Miss Lovejoy, you are not a very good liar. Did you think I didn’t notice the way he watches you when you aren’t looking? The way he smiles when you smile? He’s smitten. Anyone with eyes would agree.”
“If that were true, Sir Martin, he would not have told me he never wanted to see me again.”
“Hmm. Very well. At the risk of vulgarity, I stood outside the door last night. I heard you moaning and urging him on. You were so engrossed in what you were doing that neither of you noticed when I picked the lock to see for myself.”
Afton burned with outrage. He had violated her privacy and sullied the beauty of that moment. How dare he intrude?
“You were wrapped around him like some wanton hussy from the docks. Not a lady at
all. No, just a common whore.”
Her fingers found the cord behind her. She pulled once, then twice. A faint tinkle sounded below them and Afton prayed he would not notice. Alas, he cocked his head to one side.
“What was that?”
“What?” she replied, hoping he would keep talking rather than focus on her.
He shrugged and then returned to his denunciation. “But after seeing you like that, I decided to change my plans. Aye. Instead of merely killing you, I would have you first. That would be fitting payment for his taking Maeve.”
“But it is too late for that, Sir Martin. Rob is in gaol. He cannot be blamed for my death, because he is locked up and under guard.” She tugged the little cord behind her again as he began his reply, hoping his voice would mask the sound.
“Then you haven’t heard? No, of course not. The McHugh was released more than an hour ago. When they find your body, m’dear…” He stood and slipped his hand into his jacket to withdraw a wicked-looking dagger already stained with blood. Firelight glinted off the edge of the blade. “McHugh’s midshipman’s dagger will be artfully displayed. Haven’t decided just how, yet, but I trust it will come to me in the process.” With a demented smile, he started for her.
How could things have gone so wrong so quickly? Rob cursed under his breath and called to the driver. “Faster!”
The black coach skidded on the ice as it rounded the narrow corner, the rear wheel slamming against the bricks of the opposite building.
“He’s bloody well going as fast as he can,” Lord Barrington shouted over the clatter of the wheels. “Any faster and we’ll be smeared on the cobbles.”
Rob didn’t bother with a reply. He knew Barrington thought he was crazed, but that didn’t matter now. Nothing mattered but finding Afton.
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