The Rake's Revenge

by Ranstrom, Gail

  “James Livingston and I were not close, Miss Lovejoy. Save your sympathy.”

  She blinked and he realized he’d been harsher than he intended. He had a regrettable habit of speaking before considering how others would interpret his words. One of his many shortcomings. He stood again and stepped away from her.

  “Oh,” she murmured. “You looked so affected that I thought you…that is, well, it is a pity, nonetheless.”

  “It is indeed,” he conceded. But not for the reason Miss Lovejoy would think. He was glad to see the color returning to her cheeks. Now he would be able to leave her and get the hell out of here. “Shall I return you to your aunt?”

  “Yes, thank you. I must speak to her at once.” When she looked up at him, her aqua eyes were luminous with unshed tears. “I fear I am still in your debt.”

  “Ah, the dance.” He regarded her somberly. “I shall put it on account.”

  Afton waited until Glenross was out of earshot before she reported the events to her aunt and finished with her latest worry. “It never occurred to me until I heard about Mr. Livingston that Auntie Hen’s killer might have happened upon her by chance. Mr. Livingston has nothing in common with Auntie Hen, and yet he was killed as randomly and in the same manner, and there was an object with a raven found at the scene. Perhaps Auntie Hen’s murderer was not one of her clients, but a common burglar or thief who was surprised to find her in residence.”

  Grace drew her eyebrows together in a frown. “Because of the value of the raven pin and the fact that she was found in the fortune-telling salon instead of her little flat, we assumed that the murderer was one of her clients.” Grace’s eyes met hers. “We must not rule anything out, Afton, least of all this new coincidence. Still, I think it far more likely that Henrietta’s killer knew her. I shall send a note to Mr. Renquist in the morning, informing him of this new development.”

  “But if the murder was random—”

  “Then you are wasting your time,” Grace finished for her. “He will not be back.”

  “And if it wasn’t?” Afton shivered, somehow doubting Auntie Hen’s murder was as random as Mr. Livingston’s.

  “Then you have barely two weeks remaining to find the villain before the Wednesday League turns this matter over to the authorities.”

  Rob locked his door and turned up the oil lamp on the bedside table. His bed had been readied, the fire in the grate had been banked and a foot warmer waited on the hearth for his use. The Pultney was known for its elegance, service and security, and that had seemed just what he needed after months in a hellhole. But perhaps all was not what it seemed.

  He shrugged out of his jacket and tossed it over the back of the desk chair. He checked his window, three stories above the street. Locked. He’d known it would be. Just as his door had been locked. He glanced at the wardrobe in one corner, feeling his anxiety rise a notch and a fine coating of sweat dew his brow.

  He poured himself a glass of brandy from the bottle on the bedside table, tossed it down in two gulps, poured another and put it on the mantel over the fireplace before crossing the room to the wardrobe. His hand shook as he reached out to turn the latch.

  “Bloody hell,” he snarled to himself, disgusted with his reaction to the small space. He feared what he might do if faced with that sort of confinement again.

  He seized the knob, turned it quickly and opened the door wide. One after another, he examined his jackets and coats. When he came to the coat he’d worn that afternoon, he clenched his jaw. The right sleeve was torn and missing a button.

  Years ago, Maeve had ordered custom buttons for his vests and jackets. The Glenross family crest included the Scottish unicorn and the Glenross raven, and Maeve had selected the raven as the emblem to be carved on buttons made of horn, bone, shell and wood.

  This was not the first personal item to disappear since his return. A number of other objects, valuable and inconsequential, were missing, too. What the hell was going on?

  A sharp rap on his door spun him around. “Who is it?” he called.

  “Douglas! Open up, Rob.”

  He shoved his jacket back into the wardrobe, and when he unlocked his door, Douglas pushed his way inside. “What is it, Doogie?”

  “’Tis women, Rob. Bebe is behaving deucedly odd.”

  “Let me get this straight.” Rob exaggerated a thoughtful pose. “You want me to explain women?”

  “Aye.” His brother nodded. “You’ve been married, which is more than I can say for most of my friends. What accounts for the female vagueness? And why are they so variable from day to day? I vow, Monday Bebe adores me. Tuesday, I am the enemy. And Wednesday she indulges me like a three-year-old. By Friday, I am the Antichrist.”

  Rob cleared his throat. “Um, well, I am certain this is a very…emotional time for the young lady.” In truth, he feared life with Bebe would always be filled with drama. But there was a greater question. “How much do you love her, Douglas? Enough to indulge her moods and whims?”

  “Aye. She’s everything to me,” his brother vowed. “All I want to do is make her happy, and I fear I’m failing miserably.”

  Rob clapped him on the back and went to his bedside table to pour him a drink. “Here,” he said, offering the glass, “you will be needing this.”

  “So what advice do you have for me?” Douglas persisted.

  Rob raised his glass in a salute. “Buy more whiskey.”

  “This is normal, then? This moodiness?”

  “How would I know what normal is, Doogie?”

  “Aye. You and Maeve were betrothed from the cradle. She had a long time to accustom herself to the thought of marrying you.” Douglas grinned. “’Tis the reason the two of you never fought. Two bodies, one mind.”

  Douglas was wrong. Rob and Maeve never fought because neither of them had cared enough to argue.

  Chapter Six

  Thursday morning found Afton brooding over her tea as she read a letter aloud to Dianthe. Outside the garden window, a cold rain replaced the earlier snow, and the whole world seemed drearier. Or was it just the news that made her feel that way?

  “I am exceedingly flattered that the invitation was extended at all, seeing that our current circumstances are not as favorable as they once were.” That was a colossal understatement, Afton thought as she turned the page over.

  “The Sheffields are in a position to improve my standing in society and such other benefits as come with the stamp of approval from a leading family. Thus, I know you and Dianthe will understand why I feel compelled to accept Charlie’s invitation.”

  “Well, I do not understand.” Dianthe pouted. “Write him, Afton, and tell him the men he would meet in London, and at Aunt Grace’s salons, would do him more good in society than any connections he could make in the country. Devonshire, indeed!”

  Ignoring Dianthe’s editorializing, Afton continued reading. “If I am to be perfectly honest, Binky, were it not as socially prominent a family as the Sheffields extending the invitation, I’d still want to accept. Christmas holiday is always more gay in the country. I miss Wiltshire diversions, and with Dianthe in London now, I do not much relish going home to an empty house, nor do I find the prospect of idling away winter days in Aunt Grace’s parlor much to my taste.”

  Dianthe harrumphed. “Apparently he has not heard of the popularity of Aunt Grace’s Friday salon. Why, two titled members of the ton came to blows over invitations!”

  Afton gave an absent nod, thinking that Bennett’s decision could work to her advantage. She had been worrying how she would entertain him as well as Dianthe and still tend to her investigation. Bennett would have insisted on knowing where Auntie Hen was, and would not have quit until he had answers. He was just like their papa in that regard.

  “Is that all he says?” Dianthe quizzed. “No tender of fond regards for his sisters? No promise to post us tokens of his regret? No apology to Auntie Grace?”

  Afton cleared her throat and continued. “I dislike tr
oubling you, Binky, but could you please send along ten pounds pocket money? Wouldn’t want to impose upon the Sheffields for incidentals. I beg you convey my regrets to Aunt Grace and Aunt Henrietta. I shall miss catching up on Aunt Henrietta’s stories of her travels abroad, but I shall send you all greetings from the countryside.”

  Dianthe brightened and clapped her hands. “Oh! D’you think Auntie Hen is coming back from Greece? How lovely it would be if she could be here for the occasion.”

  Afton’s stomach twisted and tears prickled the backs of her eyes. Not yet. “I…I would not pin my hopes upon it, Dianthe. But perhaps we shall go a-wassailing. Or caroling.”

  “I would so like Auntie Hen to meet my beaux. She is such a good judge of character that I know she could counsel me. At the very least, she could tell me who to eliminate.”

  “Aunt Grace is equally astute,” Afton suggested. “And she has the advantage of knowing most of the men who are circling you. I wish I could be of more help.”

  “Yes, Aunt Grace is quite amazing, but Binky, you need your own counseling. Between Sir Martin and Lord Glenross, I cannot think which I’d choose. Sir Martin, most likely.”

  Despite being uneasy about her appointment with Glenross later this afternoon, Afton could not hide her astonishment. “You’d choose Sir Martin over McHugh?”

  Giggling, Dianthe slapped her knees in delight. “I knew it! You prefer Glenross. Your reaction betrays you. And, in truth, I would choose Sir Martin. Glenross is…well, not quite civilized. He is a little too honest to fare well in society. And anyone that well-favored will always bear watching lest he stray. I vow, Binky, he is just so…overpowering. And that, I think, is what makes you his match.”

  Afton sat back in surprise. “I am overpowering?”

  “No, silly. But you are the bravest woman I know, aside from Aunt Grace. I can see you as St. George to his dragon.”

  Brave? She almost laughed. She supposed she had been brave in the decision to ferret out Auntie Hen’s murderer, but she had trembled with fear every day since. Knowing that the next person she met at the little fortune-telling salon could be the assassin had begun to wear on her nerves. And each day was one less to find the killer. Only two weeks left.

  Rob McHugh took the stairs to Madame Zoe’s second-floor flat two at a time. With the circumstances of Livingston’s death and the possibility that someone was trying to implicate him, he was anxious to bring his grievance with the charlatan to a close. This was one little annoyance he should be able to handle without trouble.

  True, he hadn’t had time to gather all the facts, the names of everyone she had defrauded, all the criminally bad advice she had given, nor chronicle the harm she had done. But he had enough to make her damn uncomfortable—hopefully uncomfortable enough to quit her business and leave town. If not, he’d just have to destroy her.

  As he lifted his hand to knock on the heavy door, he recalled the slender gloved hand that had dealt the tarot cards, the husky laugh when she had teased him and her naggingly familiar and subtly arousing scent. He suspected it would have been amusing to match words and wits with her. Too bad he didn’t have more time to play.

  Or was it? After all, the sooner he put her out of business, the sooner she would be unable to misdirect and misinform gullible innocents. He could not forget that it was her advice that had sent Maeve and Hamish to their deaths. It was not just his pleasure, it was his duty to prevent Madame Zoe from giving advice that could result in the deaths of yet more innocents.

  He rapped three times, ready to put the little swindler in her place.

  Faint floral incense coupled with seven candles infused the salon with a mystical quality, warm and somehow welcoming, Afton hoped, in the twilight of early evening. As she stood aside to let McHugh enter, she noted his quick, almost habitual assessment of the room, and wondered how he had come to that sort of behavior.

  He skimmed past her, brushing against her shoulder. Was there something vaguely threatening in that action, or was it just her imagination? She closed the door and turned the lock. When she swung around, McHugh was already sitting at the table, shuffling the tarot deck.

  “Bonsoir, m’sieur,” she murmured.

  “Good evening, madame,” he replied.

  “You wish to get right to the point, yes?” She was disappointed. She had been looking forward to seeing him, to talking with him free of the constraints of the ton. Perhaps it was just as well. Since they shared the same circle of friends, they were likely to be running into one another over the next month or so, and she dared not risk him connecting her with Madame Zoe. Every little familiarity increased her chances of discovery. This would be the last time she would permit him an appointment.

  “I do, indeed,” he said. He inclined his head toward the chair opposite him. “I am ready for whatever bits of prophecy you may divine.”

  Afton slid into her chair. There was a difference about McHugh this evening. Something even more challenging than before. The icy green eyes were even speculative. Every instinct she had warned her to caution.

  She decided on the ten-card spread, the most popular of the tarot patterns. McHugh must believe he had gotten his money’s worth this time. She did not want him to have an excuse to come back again.

  She turned up the first five cards and caught her breath in surprise. The queen of cups and the king of swords stared back at her. And around them, danger in the form of the devil and the moon. His last fortune was repeating itself, but with the appearance of the devil, the danger was defined—death. And the moon would indicate deception and a false friend. James Livingston?

  “Again, m’sieur, I…I think you are in grave danger. I cannot be certain, but every indication—”

  McHugh’s lips curled into a sideways grin. “Ah, that’s very good, madame. Could you be any more vague?”

  Afton glanced up into the handsome face. Thank heavens for the veils that hid the heat that crept into her cheeks. “M’sieur?”

  “Is this how you tell fortunes, madame? ‘I think?’ ‘I cannot be certain?’ ‘Every indication?’ You certainly allow yourself a wide margin. Three disclaimers in one sentence.”

  “M’sieur, nothing is certain. Choice always lies within us. If you could not change your future, there would be no need of fortune-tellers. No need to look ahead at all. Everything would be predestined and unchangeable. It is only in knowing what may lie ahead that one can make choices to change it.”

  “Interesting that you do not subscribe to destiny,” he muttered, then lowered his voice in a dark challenge. “Then do you accept responsibility for the choices your patrons make based upon your fortune-telling?”

  A chill ran up Afton’s spine, the first uneasy stirrings of menace. He was leading her—but where? “I accept responsibility for the telling of the cards, m’sieur, but not for the choices others make.”

  “Choices made based upon your telling of the cards,” he pressed.

  She put the tarot deck down on the table and folded her hands in her lap. “Are you accusing me of something, m’sieur?” she asked.

  McHugh sat back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. “I scarcely know where to begin.”

  “The beginning? Do you blame me because I could not define the danger at our last meeting?”

  A muscle in his cheek jumped as his jaw tightened, and Afton realized the depth of his anger. She swallowed hard, casting about in her mind for the details of their previous meeting in the little room. “I…I warned you of danger, m’sieur, but I could not tell if it was to you or from you. ’Ow ’as that ’armed you?”

  He sat forward and swept the tarot cards into a single pile again. “Allow me to tell your fortune, madame. I warrant I’ll do as good a job as you. Better, perhaps, since I have the advantage of knowing what lies ahead for you.”

  Afton inclined her head at the deck of cards, knowing she had just stepped into his trap, but feeling powerless to escape it. She barely breathed. “By all means, m’si
eur.”

  McHugh made a show of shuffling. He placed the deck faceup on the table and fanned the cards across the expanse. He pulled the queen of cups out and tossed it toward her. “You, I believe?”

  She nodded. “Oui.”

  “Me?” he asked, pulling the king of swords from the pile.

  “Oui,” she replied.

  He frowned, as if trying to remember something. After a moment, he pulled the queen of wands from the deck. “The cause of my ’eartbreak, I believe?” He mimicked her accent.

  “Ça va,” she said, growing colder.

  He uncovered the nine of pentacles and tapped it, lifting his gaze to study her reaction behind the veils. “Danger.”

  She nodded.

  “I see cause and effect between these cards. They are closely related, though virtual strangers,” he said. “The queen of cups has accused the king of swords of being a destroyer, yet it is she who has destroyed.” He slid the nine of pentacles from the deck and tossed it atop the queen of cups.

  Afton remained silent. She knew he would take his time before explaining. She recognized now the smoldering anger behind the ice-cold eyes, but could not think what she might have done to cause it.

  He sought another card and lifted the crowned figure of a female holding the scales of justice. “Justice, madame. There has been a wrong that is about to be avenged.”

  No! Dear Lord, not McHugh! He cannot have been Auntie Hen’s killer! But what is all his talk of vengeance and justice? And why did he connect himself with her? Afton’s mind raced even as her body seemed mired in quicksand. “M-m’sieur, I do not comprehend.”

  “Aye, it took me awhile, too. But I had time to puzzle it out. A veritable wealth of time. Countless hours in a solitary box. Days on end manacled to a wall.”

  She swallowed hard and ignored her shaking knees to stand. “What wrong ’ave I done you?”

  “You ’ave altered the course of my life.” He mocked her accent again. “And not for the better.”