“Miss Lovejoy,” he replied.
Mrs. Forbush cleared her throat, pulling him back from the brink of yet another scandal. He released Miss Lovejoy’s hand and turned to her, bowing at the waist.
“Mrs. Forbush. I hoped I might find you here tonight.”
“Did you?” she asked, a note of mild surprise in her voice.
“Once again, I require your assistance.” He would find some way to repay her. He did not like being in anyone’s debt.
“How, Lord Glenross?”
“You, ah, may have heard the recent rumors regarding my brother?”
“I have heard whispers,” Mrs. Forbush admitted.
“Yes? Well, I would like to change the tone of those rumors. Considerable damage could be done if the current story is allowed to run unchecked.”
“I see,” Mrs. Forbush said. “But why have you come to me?”
“Your consequence in society, Mrs. Forbush. ’Tis well known you are a woman of integrity. No one would doubt your veracity.”
Mrs. Forbush looked uncomfortable at his praise and he began to wonder if she would help him. “There is no reason they should, my lord. But how can that be of help to you?”
“I would like you to correct the current rumor to one less damaging. You may, of course, quote me as the source.”
“Correct? In what way?”
Rob shot a quick glance at Miss Lovejoy. He had never before found himself in the position of trying to manage society’s impressions, and he loathed the necessity now. “I would like you to let it be known that Miss Barlow and my brother had come to an amicable parting of ways prior to her, ah…”
“Ill-advised elopement?” Mrs. Forbush finished for him.
“Well, yes.”
“Hmm. I can see how this would mitigate the damage to Miss Barlow’s reputation, but how will it help your brother?”
“He will not seem like a fool. And perhaps my brother is at fault,” he hedged.
Mrs. Forbush gave him a stern look. “If you want my help, you will have to tell me the truth, Glenross.”
She was too perceptive by half. “Very well. There is someone at fault here, Mrs. Forbush, but it is not my brother, and it is not Miss Barlow.”
“Your brother is quite the gentleman to shoulder any part of the blame. Does he realize that Miss Barlow’s reputation will not escape blemish altogether? When all is said and done, Mr. Palucci is scarcely a suitable match, is he?”
“I have thought of that, Mrs. Forbush, but I am flummoxed. There is nothing I can do about Miss Barlow’s choice.”
She smiled at him. “My last question, Glenross. Why have you involved yourself in Miss Barlow’s bad judgment? Your brother has been betrayed, after all and, should I do as you ask, speculation will have it that Miss Barlow was on the rebound from a cruel jilt. Your brother’s reputation will suffer and he will be hard-pressed to redeem himself.”
“If we do nothing, Miss Barlow will face consequences more dire than she could have envisioned due to someone else’s machinations. Douglas is better equipped to weather this particular storm, and at least he will be spared the humiliation of having been publicly jilted.”
Grace sighed. “I have no objection to helping you salvage Miss Barlow’s reputation, but how shall I reconcile that with the unjust damage to your brother’s?”
“By knowing that it was his wish, as well as mine.”
Mrs. Forbush expelled a deeper sigh. “Very well, Glenross. You may consider it done.”
He nodded, relieved to leave it in her capable hands. He bowed to the ladies, on the verge of excusing himself when Mrs. Forbush stopped him with an astute question.
“So, Glenross, if neither your brother nor Miss Barlow are responsible for this debacle, who is?”
“That damn meddling Madame Zoe,” he growled. “She actually advised Miss Barlow to ‘follow her heart’! Run off with the foreigner! Whatever happened to duty and obligation? And what, in God’s name, does the French crone have against the McHughs?”
“I…I am sure I don’t know.” Her voice was so meek he could scarcely hear her.
He frowned, recalling his second order of business. “How can I find Madame Zoe? Do you know where she lives? I would prefer not to lurk outside her salon until she turns up.”
He intended to stalk her! Afton grew light-headed and her wineglass slipped from her hand to stain her lilac gown. Grace offered her handkerchief. “Afton dear, perhaps you should go to Lady Woodlake’s retiring room? Shall I take you there?”
Lord Glenross glanced down at her hem. “’Tis barely visible, Miss Lovejoy. No one will notice.”
“She should not have come tonight,” Grace interjected. “I think she is coming down with something. She has been a little unsteady.”
Glenross tilted his head to one side. “Is that so, Miss Lovejoy?”
Afton cleared her throat. For better or worse, she had to know if McHugh suspected she might be Zoe. “I am better, Aunt Grace. Thank you for your concern, but Glenross is right. The stain is insignificant.”
“Are you up to dancing, Miss Lovejoy? I hear a waltz.”
She met her aunt’s gaze and forced a casual smile. She was about to risk the entire future of her family on a single dance. “‘If it were done when ’tis done…’”
“‘Then ’twere well it were done quickly’,” Grace answered with an unhappy look.
As Glenross led Afton onto the dance floor, he leaned toward her and spoke in a tone of confidentiality, a wicked smile on his face. “Am I something to be done with quickly, Miss Lovejoy? And here I was thinking women considered slowness a great virtue in men.”
Afton was uncertain what he meant, but suspected it was something risqué. “I referred to the dance, my lord. And my own misgivings about dancing. As your feet will attest, I am a novice. Indeed, I would be pleased to give you twice the time you request of me, since you have been my most patient partner. It was not I who ran off Saturday night.”
“Extraordinary circumstances, I assure you. I was rude, and I have no excuse.”
“But you do. It is not often that someone you have known since childhood is murdered.”
Another guest opened the French doors to the terrace, and a cool breeze made the candles in the chandelier flicker as the air around them freshened, clearing away the mingled scents of foods, flowers and exerted dancers. Chill bumps rose on Afton’s arms and she tilted her head back and laughed with exhilaration.
McHugh breathed deeply, as if to cleanse his lungs of a poison. A curious look passed over his face and he leaned closer as he led her into a turn. His breath was warm on her neck as he leaned closer still. “Now that I can sort out the smells in this closed-in room, Miss Lovejoy, I must compliment you on your perfume.”
“Thank you, my lord,” she said, feeling the heat rise in her cheeks.
“Does it have a name?”
“Vent de Lis.” She smiled, thinking McHugh did not seem like the sort of man who would remark upon a woman’s perfume.
“Ah. I knew I caught the scent of lilies,” he murmured in a husky voice. “I find I am more attuned to scent recently. When one is denied movement and light, one’s other senses become heightened. I learned to appreciate all manner of things I never used to notice at all.”
Did he refer to his captivity in Algiers? She looked down at the hand that held hers, wondering how he had come by the livid scars on them, but afraid to ask. She could only imagine what sort of horrors he must have endured in that foreign prison. She had overheard Auberville, Travis and Lord Barrington whispering about torture, deprivation and isolation. Surely such things would not leave a man unaffected.
“May I ask where you get it?”
She blinked, trying to recall the thread of their exchange. “Vent de Lis? Monsieur Le Blanc’s Perfumery, my lord.”
“In Oxford Street?”
“You know it?”
“I have seen his sign. I shall go tomorrow.”
“Are y
ou looking for a gift, McHugh?”
“You might say that.”
She realized it would have to be a gift for a female, and was annoyed by a little flash of jealousy until she recognized the absurdity of it. Had McHugh been looking for a love token, a poor relation like Afton Lovejoy of Little Upton would never have been a recipient. And had she been looking for a suitor, she would have avoided Robert McHugh like the Black Plague. He was none of the things she needed in a husband—manageable, predictable, gentle, civilized. Oh, but it was thrilling to tease him when he had no idea how he’d been tricked.
She shrugged and gave him a saucy smile. “If I can be of assistance, my lord, you need only ask.”
His lips twitched. “I shall remember the offer, Miss Lovejoy, and may prevail upon you again in the future. The very near future.”
The candlelight flickered again and dimmed. How extraordinary that the glass globes protecting the flames seemed to offer no protection from that errant wind. A soft murmur rippled through the crowd and the orchestra faltered. Glenross, however, did not falter for a second. He waltzed her toward the sidelines with an amused look on his face.
“Do you suppose anyone will think to close the doors, Miss Lovejoy?”
“Too simple a solution, Lord Glenross.” She laughed, tilting her head back to look into his eyes. A thrill sliced though her and she caught her breath.
The look on Glenross’s face sobered and grew intense. He came to a sudden stop beside one set of closed French doors and released her hand long enough to open them wide and then innocently rejoin the dance, skirting the outer edge of the dance floor.
“What are we doing?” she asked, caught up in his little prank.
“Tempting fate,” he said in a husky drawl.
Almost immediately another blast of cold wind billowed the curtains and sent dead leaves skittering along the marble floor among the dancers. Glenross halted in a dim corner away from the fireplace just as the candles guttered and died. Afton could only distinguish his outline as voices raised in laughter and shouted directions filled the room. The orchestra, deprived of their music, waned in a discordant clash.
“And fate has taken the challenge,” he whispered. His head lowered and his breath was warm against her cheek.
Fate? Her mind whirled. She knew what was coming, and knew she should prevent it at all costs. Instead, she tilted her head back farther and parted her lips just the tiniest little bit. “Who am I to deny fate?” she asked.
“Who, indeed?”
Masked in darkness, his lips brushed hers, tentative at first, then firmer, more certain. His arms tightened and drew her up against the solid wall of his chest, her breasts aching for that contact, her thighs against his thighs, her belly against his. Something stirred in her center, turning her liquid in his embrace.
She was startled by the invasion of his tongue, at first probing, then coaxing, insisting, but she was even more startled by her own response. When she thought he would consume her, she gave him access—sustenance to his hunger, abandoning herself to the moment.
One heated hand against the small of her back held her fast, and the one that had cupped her head traveled across her shoulder and beneath her arm toward her bodice. Panic licked at the edge of reason. Though unseen, they were in public! He meant to…to—
He groaned. “The candles! Where are the damn candles?” he whispered. “If someone does not light them soon, I shall lay you on this floor, and nothing would stop me then.”
Oh, Lord! If he did, could she stop him? Would she? His fingers brushed across her breasts and her knees went weak from shock and a sweet yearning. She sagged against him and heard his curse, muffled against her throat.
A dim glow grew brighter and the room began to come into focus again as servants brought new candles to relight the lamps and chandeliers. Glenross stepped back while supporting Afton with one arm until she steadied. Laughter and banter swirled around them, but none of it made sense. As the musicians attempted to find the place they had left off, Glenross looked down at her with sharp, glittering eyes.
“Have you been warned about me, Miss Lovejoy?”
She nodded, incapable of subterfuge in the face of that extraordinary kiss.
“I am everything my detractors say, and more. If you have a care for your future, you will stay as far away from me as you can.” His voice was a harsh whisper as he added, “And do not count on me—never count on me—to rescue you from yourself. I would despoil you in an instant.”
Afton’s heart twisted when she recognized his words as the absolute truth. And given that he would treat Afton Lovejoy, who had never caused him a moment of concern, with such disregard, what might he do to Madame Zoe? Thank God he did not suspect her.
Chapter Eight
“A list?” Monsieur Le Blanc repeated. “You want a list of women ’oo purchase Vent de Lis?”
Rob jingled the coins in his pocket to make a point. “That is precisely what I want,” he confirmed.
The wraith-thin man wrung his hands and frowned. “But I do not keep lists of such things, m’sieur. Vent de Lis is not one of my more popular perfumes. The scent is too light and delicate for most of my clients.”
Damn! Now what? He couldn’t even describe Madame Zoe other than to say she wasn’t old or French. “If you do not know who, then how many?”
The man gave a typically French shrug. “Per’aps seven, per’aps ten? They are not my usual clients.”
Rob tried a different tack. “What sort of woman buys that scent?”
“Hmm.” Monsieur Le Blanc frowned and glanced at the ceiling as if consulting some astral chart. “Discriminating? Subtle? Uncomplicated? It is not my most expensive scent, but neither my least expensive. Gentility, per’aps, if not nobility.”
Rob nodded, thinking of Miss Lovejoy. That description fit her perfectly. But not Madame Zoe. She was a diametric opposite to Le Blanc’s description, being indiscriminate, cunning, deceptive, elusive and secretive. Yet she wore the same scent.
“Do you have any delivery records?” he asked.
“Mais non.”
“Surely you must recall a name or two?” Rob withdrew his hand from his pocket and laid a crown on the counter.
“Hmm.” The man tapped the coin with one fingertip and slid it toward himself. “There is a woman of depth and many layers. She comes ’ere with ’er aunt. Miss Lovejoy, I think.”
Rob nodded. “She sent me here, Monsieur Le Blanc.”
“Ah, you know ’er.”
“Yes. But it is not her I seek.”
“Très bien,” Le Blanc said. “I shall make the list of those ’oo purchase Vent de Lis as they occur to me.”
“Thank you, Monsieur Le Blanc. I will pay you handsomely upon delivery.” Rob turned toward the door, anxious to get out of the impossibly small shop. The walls were beginning to pulsate around him.
The merchant beamed as he began walking Rob to the door. “You know, I ’ave considered addressing Miss Lovejoy myself.”
That piece of news stopped Rob. He studied the man with new interest. Though he was no judge of what women found attractive, he knew he wouldn’t find Le Blanc attractive if he were a woman. And Miss Lovejoy was far above the touch of an obsequious immigrant shopkeeper. Still…
“I ’ave the weakness for cheveux rouges,” Le Blanc confided.
Oddly annoyed, Rob nodded. But he wanted to encourage the man to keep talking. He might remember other names.
“Miss Lovejoy ’ides many secrets. Each time I meet ’er, she reveals a little more. I am fascinated, I confess, by ’er contradictions.”
“Contradictions? How so?”
“’Ave you ever ’ad a prostituée, my lord, and found she is a beauty when she is cleaned up? ’Ave you ever removed a woman’s rough wool gown to find a silk chemise beneath? Surprising. Erotic, eh? Miss Lovejoy is like that.”
Unaware of how close he was to a broken nose, Le Blanc continued. “’Er appearance suggests fire and passi
on, but ’er manner is cool and aloof. Beneath the surface, what will you find? Fire or ice? ’Oo knows? But there will be silk, I think. Much silk.”
Silk. A vignette of Afton Lovejoy tilting her mouth up to Rob while he brushed his hand over the exquisite softness of her breasts flashed through his mind. Then, illogically, he wondered if Madame Zoe wore silk beneath the dark widow’s weeds and veils.
Bloody hell! It was worse than he’d thought! He was teetering on a sharp edge again. His treatment of Miss Lovejoy the night before was evidence of that. The only decent thing he’d done was to warn her away from him because, God knows, he did not have the will to stay away. Her sweetness, her humor, her quiet strength and her commitment to her family all combined to make her incredibly irresistible.
His conscience, or what was left of it, had been pricking him all day. Perhaps Travis and Seymour were right—he should make use of a Covent Garden abbess to dull the edge before he did some irreversible damage.
“Oui. When next Miss Lovejoy comes with ’er tante, I will ask permission to call upon ’er. I am certain she will welcome my interest.”
“You do that,” Rob said. Damn French, he thought.
Afton dropped the veils over her face, opened the door and stood aside for Lady Enright to glide into the room on a lavender-scented cloud for her weekly visit. Eloise Enright was a well respected member of the haute ton, known for her wit and charm, and had been Aunt Henrietta’s favorite client. “Madame Zoe. So good to see you again. I confess I nearly canceled twice today. Still, I felt it was important to come.” The woman unpinned her hat and tossed it on the table, then began peeling away her white kid gloves.
Afton was grateful she hadn’t canceled. At the moment “Madame Zoe” was buried in cancellations. She had become anathema to the ton once the news of Bebe’s elopement came out. It seemed no one wanted to employ a fortune-teller who gave such ghastly advice, and the bill for Dianthe’s new gowns would be arriving any day.
According to the notes in her aunt’s most recent journal and her own observation, Lady Enright often simply wanted to talk, to air her problems and perhaps solicit a second opinion. Afton suspected the process allowed her to sort through her thoughts and put them in order in an atmosphere of confidentiality. “My pleasure, chérie,” she said in her husky French accent. “Shall we use the tarot—”
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