“Ah, yes—the trappings.” Lady Enright waved impatiently. “Use the crystal orb, madame. I have no patience for shuffling and dealing today.”
This was as close to acknowledging that fortune-telling was a pretense that Lady Enright had come since Afton had taken over for her aunt. Suspecting something unusual was afoot, she took the small crystal orb from the cupboard, removed the black velvet covering, and placed the object on a little stand in the middle of the table. “Will you ’ave tea, m’lady?” she asked.
“Not today, madame. If you have a glass of sherry, I’d be very grateful.”
“But of course,” she murmured. Whatever was bothering Lady Enright must be quite out of the ordinary. Afton went to her meager cupboard, poured a rich sherry into a crystal goblet and placed it on the table in front of her patron. When she was settled in the chair opposite her, she instructed, “Make your wish, chérie.”
“Wish? To be frank, I do not know what I should wish for. Tell me what you see if, indeed, you see anything.”
Afton pretended to gaze into the ball. If she watched it steadily for a few moments without blinking, she could often conjure clouds and some vague impressions of forms and movement in the depths, a trick of the eyes due to the hypnotic effect. When that happened, she allowed her mind to put words to the impressions. “I see a man…” She waited for the inevitable response.
“Of course you do, dear.” Lady Enright sighed. “Is there not always a man, if not two?”
This was not like her client at all. Whatever was bothering her was sufficiently important that she was hesitant to discuss it. Keeping her eyes on the orb, Afton agreed, “Always, chérie. Great beauty can be a curse, n’est-ce pas?”
“Oui,” Lady Enright responded with a sigh.
No help there. Afton frowned as something dark swirled in the depths of the crystal orb. “There appears to be troubling times ahead.”
A humorless laugh met this pronouncement, so unlike Lady Enright that Afton blinked and lost the vision. “You are troubled now, chérie?”
“Troubled…” Lady Enright said the word as if she were trying it on for size. “Yes. ‘Troubled’ would be a fair assessment.”
“And it concerns a man,” Afton said. The fog in the crystal was back and the dark figure split. “Two men,” she corrected. Then one figure split again. “La! Three men?”
“Three? I can think of only two. Fie! Just what I need at the moment—another man to muddy things up.”
Afton’s head began to ache and she felt a numbing cold all the way to the bone. “M’lady, there are many forces at work in your life. Some you know, some you do not. There is a threat, and the possibility of danger. You must be very careful in your decisions. And…and in your actions.”
“Danger, yes. And betrayal.” Lady Enright pressed her fingertips to her temples and winced. “That is the very crux of the matter, dear Zoe. So many decisions looming, and no way to know the right one.”
She sighed and sipped her sherry before continuing. “You see, I have come here today because of you—because of the friendship we have forged over the past years. I shall not pretend I have not heard the gossip, and that you are out of favor with the ton. Such silly people, really. They toss this way and that with every little change in the wind.”
Afton sat back in her chair. She had not expected Lady Enright to broach the subject. And there was still another problem. “What I saw in the crystal ’ad nothing to do with me, Lady Enright,” she said, certain there was some sort of menace to her patron.
“Zoe, I do not care about the pretense. I do not care that you are a fraud. Your common sense and discretion are all I have ever expected of you. You have given me an avenue to air my most private problems, and have always tendered excellent advice. But others care. Most notably—”
“Miss Barlow’s father and ’er betrothed,” Afton finished. She nodded through her veils. “Were there a way to change things…to call back my words…I would do so in an instant. I ’ave never intended any ’arm. While I sought to reassure Miss Barlow that all would be well in ’er upcoming marriage, she was interpreting my words in quite another way. I ’ad no inkling, no warning, that she ’ad fixed ’er affections on another and would elope.”
“Oh, that.” Lady Enright waved one gloved hand in a dismissive gesture. “I never cared much for Bebe. She is a silly girl with little but a pretty face to recommend her. Not at all suitable for Douglas McHugh. No, ’tis not the broken betrothal I mind, but the foolish way another woman entirely chose to interpret your words, and the resulting danger it has brought to you.”
Afton licked her lips, gone suddenly dry with anxiety. “Danger?”
“Yes, and my very presence here has brought me conflict, dear Zoe. You see, Lord Robert McHugh means to hang you out to dry. He is bringing all his resources to bear on this problem. Because of him, you are in grave danger. You stand to lose your reputation. Worse, you stand to lose your livelihood.”
Lord, was she about to lose the only client she had left? “What other woman, Lady Enright? And ’ow has my blunder caused you conflict?”
“McHugh never fails, you see. He is single-minded and quite without conscience when pursuing a goal. ‘McHugh the Destroyer,’ Maeve used to call him. Your only hope is to leave town and not return for several years.”
Years? Afton could not even contemplate such a thing. In years Dianthe would be past her prime for making a match. In years, Bennett would have been sent down from Eton for lack of tuition, and his future would be dim indeed. Most important, in years Auntie Hen’s killer and any clue to finding him would have long vanished. No. Afton could not afford to take Lady Enright’s advice.
“I would not advise you to leave if I thought there were any other way to avert this disaster,” the woman continued when she remained silent. “You have been a good friend to me, and I will miss you dreadfully. But go you must.”
Afton sighed. “’Ow has this caused you conflict, Lady Enright?”
“You may as well call me Eloise, my dear. Might as well be done with the pretense. I know you are not French. I suspect you are well educated and not foreign to society. No!” she exclaimed as Afton lifted her hand to protest. “I do not want to know who you are! You see, that is where the conflict comes. If I know, McHugh will have it out of me. I’ve never been able to resist him when he is on one of his crusades. And he has enlisted me, along with several other society matrons, to flush you out of hiding.”
“You know him well?” Afton asked, dropping her fake accent.
“As well as anyone knows him, and better than most.”
Afton’s heart began a downward spiral. Was McHugh one of Lady Enright’s discreet paramours? And why did that thought disturb her more than that he was bent on her destruction?
“I am a close friend of his family,” Lady Enright announced with a mixture of pride and regret. “His mother was my dearest friend before she died giving birth to Douglas. And I sponsored his wife, Maeve, when she came to London.”
Afton shook her head, astonished at the odd twists and turns of fate. How had she missed the Enright-McHugh connection? If only she had taken the time to go through her aunt’s older journals! Perhaps she ought to have gone out in society more. But it was too late for that now. She pulled off her dark gloves and massaged her temples through her veil. “I see. Then the other woman of whom you spoke would be Lady Maeve McHugh?”
“Yes, my dear. Robert is furious with me for recommending you to Maeve. He holds me partially responsible for what happened to her and Hamish. He believes they are dead because of my interference. And your fortune-telling, madame.”
Afton nodded. McHugh had said as much the last time he had visited her salon. Tears stung the backs of her eyes. How could she ever undo such a tragedy? How could she ever make things right again? Telling McHugh that it was her aunt who had told Maeve’s fortune would not make the man relent. She was responsible for Bebe’s fortune.
“If I am e
ver to redeem myself in his eyes,” Lady Enright continued as she stood and retrieved her hat and gloves, “I shall have to stay far away from you. I cannot come here again, but neither will I help him destroy you.”
“You are very kind,” Afton replied mechanically, analyzing her chances of preventing him from finding out if he was so bloody single-minded.
From his position in the opposite box, Rob watched as the plump soprano hit an extended high C and Miss Lovejoy pressed her fingertips to her temples. The opera had just begun, and if she was already wincing, she’d never survive the entire thing. In fact, unless he missed his guess, she’d never make it to the intermission.
On cue, she leaned toward her aunt and whispered something behind her fan. Mrs. Forbush frowned with concern and began to stand. Miss Lovejoy shook her head and held her down with a hand on her shoulder. A short discussion ensued, ending with Miss Lovejoy sweeping her green velvet cloak from the back of her chair and exiting the box. The attention of the other occupants of the box—Martin Seymour, Dianthe Lovejoy, Lord Ronald Barrington and two or three other nameless swains dancing attendance on Dianthe—remained riveted on the stage.
If Rob hurried, he could intercept her at the entrance to the theater. Without apologies to his own companions, he slipped through the curtain to the mezzanine.
He found her standing on the front stairs, hugging herself against the cold. He touched her shoulder and she whirled on him, her aqua eyes wide and sparkling with unshed tears.
“Miss Lovejoy,” he said as he cupped her elbow beneath the green velvet, “are you ill?”
“No,” she gulped. “You…you just startled me.”
She was lying. Those luminous tears had not been caused by surprise. “I saw you leaving and thought you might need a ride home,” he offered cautiously.
“I am not going home,” she said as she wiped at her eyes with one gloved hand. “I hoped a short walk in the cold air would clear my fuzzy head. I promised to be back by intermission.”
He smiled. So he was supposed to ignore those tears? He could grant her that much now, but he would eventually know what had upset her. “A fuzzy head, eh? The opera has a similar effect on me. Allow me to escort you on a short stroll, Miss Lovejoy. ’Tis still early enough to avoid scandal.”
“Said the hound to the fox.” She returned his smile. “Was it not just last night that you warned me not to trust you? And that you would despoil me in an instant?”
“Hmm. Did I say that? How uncharacteristically sporting of me. But, in fact, Miss Lovejoy, I rarely ravish young ladies on dance floors. It is considered bad form in our circle.”
He was surprised when she chuckled. “I can see how such a thing might curb future invitations.”
Damn! He’d followed her to apologize for his behavior in the Woodlakes’ ballroom last night, but once again he’d let that rough edge take control. He’d have to do something about that. “So,” he asked, “since huntsmen release the fox before they release hounds, shall I give you a head start?”
“Will I need it, my lord?”
“I shall try to behave myself, but the choice is yours. Risk, madam, or safety? You cannot have both.” He offered his arm with a small bow and was just a little surprised when she took it. “So you are the adventurous sort, eh, Miss Lovejoy? Not afraid of a risk?”
She gave a choked little laugh and replied, “More adventurous than you could possibly know, my lord.”
“I had thought we were past the formalities. I’d rather you called me Rob, but I’ll settle for McHugh.”
“McHugh.” She nodded, as if remembering their agreement.
He gauged that they would have time for a stroll to Seven Dials and back before intermission, so he led the way toward the square at a leisurely pace.
They had walked in silence for a few moments when she said, “You are doing your level best to distance me, McHugh. You never miss an opportunity to warn me against you, or to attempt to shock me with some reference to your past.”
“I do?” he asked, but he knew he had.
“Why is that?” She tilted those startling eyes up to him, then veiled them again by dropping her impossibly long lashes.
“Why?” he repeated, a little bemused. He could hear Maeve’s voice in his ear. Tell her, McHugh the Destroyer. Warn her before… “I suppose it is because I have ulterior motives and, should I act on them, I would not want you to say you were not warned.”
“Ulterior, McHugh? In what way? Do you mean me harm?”
Her voice held a note of uncertainty that somehow accused and put him on the defensive. “Good God, Miss Lovejoy, you cannot be that naive.”
“There are many ways to present a danger. Prithee, McHugh, in what way are you a danger to me?”
“I’m trying to act a gentleman—not an easy task for me—”
“There! You’ve done it again. Am I now supposed to go running for safety?”
He laughed. “Would you prefer not to be warned?”
“I have been sufficiently warned, McHugh. By you, my aunt and half of society. And still I would prefer to make my own judgment. Tell me what your ulterior motives are.”
“Another of those kisses we shared in the Woodlakes’ ballroom. Quite extraordinary.” And much more than that, he thought. Next time, he would not stop at a kiss.
She blushed and her hand on his arm trembled, but she did not respond. He did not speak again until they turned up Mercer Street and saw the lights of Seven Dials ahead. Guessing at the reason for her earlier tears, he asked, “Are you still missing home, Miss Lovejoy?”
She sighed. “I long for the simplicity, but I think those days are gone forever.”
It struck him that Miss Lovejoy and he were facing the same prospects, but with different expectations. “Is there nothing waiting for you in Wiltshire?”
“Nothing but memories, I fear,” she murmured. “Dianthe will marry and remove to her husband’s lands. My brother, Bennett, will finish at Eton and come home to run his estate or, if we can find the resources, will go to Oxford or Cambridge. And I…well, once I have kept my promise to my father, I will stay with Aunt Grace as long as she will have me.”
“Have you no hopes for your own future? Not to put too fine a point upon it, Miss Lovejoy, but are you so ambitious for your siblings that you do not see opportunity passing you by?” he asked. It had not occurred to him that Miss Lovejoy might not desire what he had thought every woman desired—a husband, children, her own home.
Her lashes dropped demurely and her lips curled up in an introspective smile as color suffused her cheeks. “I have noted a few opportunities, McHugh. It remains to be seen whether I shall take them.”
Martin Seymour, he thought. Miss Lovejoy and Seymour? The phrase “pearls before swine” came to mind. Something would have to be done about that. He was still pondering that problem when Miss Lovejoy changed the subject.
She clasped her gloved hands together and blew into them. “Brr,” she said with a small shiver. “I left my muff at the theater.”
A vendor wheeling a cart with a steaming brazier of hot coals pushed by them on his way to the square. “Chestnuts! Hot roasted chestnuts!”
Rob cupped her hands, small and delicate, in his and lifted them to his lips. When he blew into her palms his breath rose in a vapor. She looked up and he recognized his own uncertainty in her eyes. Neither of them, then, knew what his intentions were. One thing was certain. He was perilously close to kissing her again.
Knowing he would not be able to resist her a second longer, he turned to the chestnut vendor and called him back. He exchanged a coin for a paper cone filled with the roasted delicacies and offered it to her.
“Thank you,” she murmured, holding the warm chestnuts between her hands.
He turned and started back to the theater. He did not have to look to know Miss Lovejoy was beside him. “Would you like a little nibble, McHugh?” she asked.
Damnation! Why did she ask questions like that? He
cleared his throat and took a chestnut, relieved to find that the skin had been split and the nut slipped out easily. He heard the rustle of paper and suspected Miss Lovejoy had done the same.
“Has your brother sent news of Miss Barlow yet?” she asked conversationally.
“I expect her father and my brother back tomorrow or the day after. I hope they will have Miss Beatrice in tow or, at the very least, have news of her.”
“I pray so.” Afton expelled a soft sigh. “The whole event is so unfortunate.”
“Criminal,” he corrected. “’Tis criminal.”
“Surely not. Why, Miss Barlow is of an age of consent.”
“Indeed she is, and she consented to marry my brother, Miss Lovejoy. She is in breach of that contract.”
“Would you hold her to it?”
Would he? Likely the woman had gone too far to turn back now. Likely his brother would never be able to trust her fidelity again. Likely Douglas would not want society regarding him as a cuckold and so desperate for Beatrice, so lacking in pride, that he would take her on any terms—even unwillingly and as another man’s leavings.
Maeve’s face flashed through his mind. Maeve, who’d confessed that she’d been forced into marriage to him. “No,” Rob admitted at last. “I would not hold her to it, but I cannot speak for Douglas. Aside from that, every instinct I have demands retribution for this insult.”
“Insult, McHugh, or a prick to your family pride?”
“Are you calling my motives into question, Miss Lovejoy?” he asked, hoping the tone of his voice would be sufficient to warn her away from the topic.
“Yes, I am,” she admitted.
Taken aback, he stopped and turned to face her. “Be that as it may, I shall have my ‘pound of flesh.’”
Though her expression was solemn, there was an odd glint in her eyes. “You are an unforgiving man, McHugh.”
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