The Rake's Revenge

by Ranstrom, Gail

  “My attentions have been recently diverted to other areas.” Such as surviving the attempts to frame him for murder. Rob sat back and waited for the man to arrange himself.

  “Yes, well. Which information do you want first? The men or the woman?”

  “The men,” he said, deciding to save the best for last.

  Dawson rearranged the papers. “Nothing remarkable, sir. To all appearances, the first man seemed perfectly normal. But then he caught on that he was being followed and gave us the slip a time or two. The blighter’s clever, I’ll give him that.”

  “Yes, but did you find anything to implicate him in the murders?”

  “Not exactly, sir. But he went missing last night before Lady Enright was murdered, and didn’t show up again until past midnight at a gaming hell. Suspicious enough, if you ask me.”

  McHugh nodded agreement. It could have been perfectly innocent, but he was not a man who believed in coincidence. “Keep at it then, until we can eliminate him or catch him in the act. Only time will tell, and I don’t fancy another murder in the meanwhile. What about the others?”

  “As instructed, my lord, I have looked into everyone who knew about your return when you were still ‘in hospital.’”

  McHugh winced. He did not like to think of his fortnight interrogation by government officials as being in hospital. True, he had received much-needed rest and medical care for his various wounds, but the ministry’s attempt to learn anything useful from his stay at the Dey’s palace could hardly be called “in hospital.”

  He shrugged, letting it pass. “Any likely suspects there?”

  “A few. Difficult to backtrack weeks after the events, but my men are on it. The most likely are not easy targets. The first, Mr. Ethan Travis, is a savvy one. We can never tail him longer than a minute or two. He catches on too fast and gives ’em the slip.”

  “It will not be Travis. He saved my life, and I saved his. I’d trust the man before my mother.”

  “He knew you were back—”

  “Who’s next?”

  “Lord Kilgrew, of course. He knew before anyone else. And there is something suspicious about him. He comes and goes at odd hours. It appears he knew most of the victims personally.”

  Rob contemplated that. It was possible that Kilgrew was the killer, but highly unlikely. What would his motive be? Why would Kilgrew want to discredit him? But men in high places had been known to go balmy under unrelenting pressure. Rob nodded. “Keep looking into that one.”

  “Then there’s, ah, your brother, my lord.”

  “Doogie?” Rob nearly laughed outright. “What possible motive could he have?”

  “Well, er, before you returned, my lord, he came to town ready to claim your title and lands. If I understand correctly, there is no little amount of money involved?”

  “He thought I’d been executed. That’s what our agents were told by the Dey’s intelligence network.”

  “Aye, but he was preparing to go before the court of—”

  “He did not know I was back until the day I was released. The murders started when I was still in hospital.”

  Dawson fidgeted, looking uncomfortable. “There’s some speculation that your escape was not as secret as you thought. And with lands, money, title and a new fiancée at risk, a man’s apt to do anything.”

  That was a sobering thought. But Douglas a murderer? No. It would be easier to believe that Rob himself was the murderer and blanking his memory after the deed. “Am I to assume that those closest to me are most likely to be incriminating me in these killings? I can trust no one, it seems. Is that all you have in the way of suspects?”

  “Aye, sir. At the moment.”

  “Do what you must.”

  The man nodded and reshuffled his papers.

  “Shall we get on with the woman?” McHugh said, sitting back in his chair, his sense of anticipation heightening. “Tell me what you’ve got.”

  “’Tis a puzzle, sir. She does daily errands, the same as any lady’s companion. On the surface, quite ordinary.”

  “But—?”

  “But how much business can she have at a solicitor’s office in a week? Or a dressmaker’s shop? Seems she’s always one place or the other.”

  McHugh remembered the time he’d been waiting for Zoe and Afton had left the dressmaker’s, the time he’d run into her outside Mr. Evans’s office, when she’d told his fortune, the scent of lilies of the valley, and how he’d been inexplicably drawn to her, even shrouded in widow’s weeds. God, what a fool he’d been not to suspect her. But she’d seemed so damn innocent. So bloody believable.

  “…background is fuzzier, sir,” Dawson was saying. “I have not gotten the reports from Wiltshire back yet, but I suspect they will be much the same. The mother died when the boy was still an infant. The father wasn’t much of a businessman, and lost what wealth there was. The land was protected, though, and survived the courts. The family has lived in genteel poverty since the father died years ago. They’ve worked hard to pay their debts and earn their own way, but they managed it. The boy is off at Eton now, and spending the holidays with friends in the country.”

  “Was there no other family but Mrs. Forbush?”

  “None but a maiden aunt by the name of Henrietta who hires out as a ladies’ traveling companion and tour guide. She’s abroad at the moment. Greece, my sources tell me.”

  Abroad? Or dead? Which was the truth? “Keep digging, Dawson. There’s got to be more. Something there doesn’t feel right.”

  Any more right than the fact that when he’d learned the truth, he had unleashed his frustrations on Miss Lovejoy. That she had been dancing with him as Afton and deceiving him as Madame Zoe infuriated him. The duplicity had been overwhelming—worse than anything Maeve had ever done to him. And when Afton had encouraged him, he’d been only too happy to give in to his baser nature. His self-disgust afterward filled him with remorse. When he’d left her at her aunt’s home and gone back to his hotel, he’d roused the staff to bring him a hot bath—as if he could ever wash away the stain of guilt for taking her maidenhead.

  He’d taken a virgin like a common prostitute. He had been Maeve’s nastiest nightmare, and probably Afton’s greatest fear. Hell, he’d been his own worst enemy. And every time he thought of her he grew stiff and ready, desirous of making amends by making love to her the way she deserved.

  No, she had lied to him, betrayed him! She didn’t deserve any softness from him. And there would never be a repeat of what had happened last night. Never.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Meet me at Zoe’s salon tonight after eight o’clock. I have information. R.M.”

  Afton could not doubt the message was from McHugh. Who else could be so imperious when making a request? She would have liked to refuse the summons, but curiosity threatened to eat her alive. Pleading a headache, she had gone up the front stairs to her room and then down the back stairs and out the garden door.

  Since Zoe’s salon was less than a mile away, Afton did not bother trying to find a coach. In a dark woolen cloak with the hood obscuring her face, she walked the distance, arriving within twenty minutes. She let herself into Madame Marie’s salon and used the secret stairs up to Zoe’s flat.

  Throwing her cloak over a chair, she stooped and struck a tinder to the fire on the hearth, then used a piece of kindling to light the oil lantern and a candle on the mantel. The damp chill of the night had gone bone deep, so she put a kettle on the fire to boil, thinking to make herself a pot of tea.

  A single solid thump on the door announced McHugh’s arrival, but she had learned nothing the night before if not to be cautious. “Who is it?” she asked.

  “McHugh.”

  Bracing herself to face him for the first time since his—her?—seduction, she undid the latch and opened the door. Something feral flickered in his eyes as his gaze swept up her form. Odd how just his glance could set her nerves to thrumming again.

  “None the worse for wear, I s
ee.”

  “Not where it shows,” she replied, strangely relieved that he would not try to ignore what had happened the previous night.

  McHugh winced as if her barb had met its mark. “Whiskey?”

  She removed a bottle of port from her little cupboard. “This is the strongest I have,” she told him. “And the glasses were broken last night.”

  He shrugged out of his coat and worked the cork from the bottle. With a crooked grin, he accepted the porcelain teacup Afton offered and filled it with port. He raised his glass in a silent toast and then drank deeply. “It’s been a hellish day.”

  Afton sat at the little table and nodded. “A little tedious for me, as well.”

  McHugh began walking the perimeter of the room. “How do you do it, Miss Lovejoy?”

  “What?” she asked.

  “How do you simply appear in the flat? I watched you let yourself into the dressmaker’s shop downstairs, but I did not see you come out again to access the stairway. So, how do you do it?” He had made his way into the small sleeping alcove, and now looked at the closet door, then back at her with a raised eyebrow.

  Afton refused to react. In truth, she simply did not care if he discovered the secret passage. What did that matter when he knew everything else?

  He opened the closet. It took him only a moment to push the few remaining items aside and discover the spring latch that popped the wall open to reveal the dark stairway. He closed the panel and turned back to her.

  “Clever. I watched you come and go at La Meilleure Robe. I thought you were inordinately fond of new dresses or simply running errands for Mrs. Forbush, and all the time you were telling fortunes. Where does it exit?”

  She hesitated, wondering if her answer would cause problems for Madame Marie.

  “Shall I go down and find out?”

  “It opens in the closet of the back fitting room, my lord.”

  “Then Madame Marie is in league with you?”

  “No!” Afton could not allow Madame Marie or Mr. Renquist to share the blame McHugh seemed determined to assign. “She has allowed me access due to her friendship with my aunt, but she has nothing to do with my fortune-telling.”

  He nodded, looking somewhat mollified. “It appears that you have taken every precaution to protect your identity as Madame Zoe. Very clever.”

  She did not want to encourage conversation about her activities. She tried for a change of subject instead. “You said you had information, my lord?”

  “Yes. I have a list, of sorts.”

  “Of what?”

  “Possible suspects for the murders.” He strode to the table and dropped a piece of paper in front of her. “Tell me what you think.”

  She unfolded the sheet and read. Ethan Travis, Lord Kilgrew, Douglas McHugh, Martin Seymour. “These men are your friends. I cannot see any of them as a murderer, let alone deliberately trying to implicate you. There must be a mistake.”

  “I wish there were. Unfortunately, an investigation of those who knew I was back in England, and those who might wish I hadn’t returned, have turned up only these names. Nevertheless, I have been unable to determine motives, with the exception of Douglas. He is the logical culprit. With me out of the way, he would inherit the title, estates, money….”

  “I cannot believe that. He is so obviously fond of you. Dianthe says he is always singing your praises. Why, he came to blows over an insult to you.”

  A look of profound relief passed over McHugh’s face and Afton realized how heavily that suspicion must have weighed on him. “That was my opinion, also. But I cannot think why any of them would want me dead.”

  She recalled her earlier interview with Sir Martin. Surely he did not want her enough to go to such lengths…no. No, of course not. The murders had begun long before she had even met Lord Robert McHugh. But some niggling doubt remained. “Sir Martin came to see me yesterday afternoon.”

  Rob turned back to her, his eyes dark with suspicion. “I have not seen him since the night of your aunt’s Christmas soiree.”

  “He asked me about the events in the closet under the stairs.”

  McHugh resumed his pacing. “That’s none of his business. I hope you did not attempt to explain that madness.”

  “He thinks it is his business, m’lord. He wanted to know if you had despoiled me. And he warned me about you, saying that you had despoiled women before me.”

  McHugh’s upper lip curled in a sneer of self-loathing. “Aye. Martin’s got the right of it. I despoil everything I touch, Afton. Too bad he did not warn you sooner.”

  “I thought you should know what he is saying about you.”

  “Aye. Underhanded, I’ll warrant, but I suspect he has a crush on you. Men in love are apt to do and say stupid things.”

  “Yes,” she sighed. “He did.”

  McHugh stopped his pacing to look down at her again. “How stupid?”

  “He asked me to marry him.”

  He sat down opposite her, searching her face. “And how did you reply?”

  “I begged for time.”

  He nodded, his features unreadable. “Enough time to make certain you are not carrying my baby?”

  That thought had never occurred to her. The shock must have shown on her face because McHugh’s expression finally registered a hint of sympathy. “That possibility kept me awake last night. If you are breeding, Afton, I will not abandon you or the bairn. I will set you up with a house in the country—”

  A cold feeling settled in the pit of her stomach. Even though her pulse raced when McHugh came near, even though she wanted him anew every time they were together, she could not bear the thought of being secreted in the country to raise his bastard. She wanted all of him or nothing. “I do not want to discuss this.”

  “You cannot wish it away.”

  “You are premature. I am likely fine.”

  He nodded and sat back. “We shall know soon enough.”

  “I told you about Sir Martin because I wanted to warn you that I think he is not your friend. He slanders you.”

  “Because he wants to marry you.”

  “Because he says you are a despoiler of women. He earlier said you were not capable of—that is, that you could not—”

  “Underhanded, I will agree. Still, the man’s motive was not to slander me, but to protect you. Did his prediction not come true? But I will heed your warning, Afton. All the names on this list will stay there until I can prove them innocent.”

  She thought of the list of her aunt’s last clients. None of McHugh’s suspects appeared on it. She reached into the inner folds of the cloak thrown over her chair, withdrew the list she had made of the names from Mr. Evans’s appointment book, and handed it to McHugh.

  “What is this?” he asked, unfolding the paper.

  “My own list, my lord. A list of my aunt’s appointments in the weeks before her death.”

  “Her appointments?” McHugh frowned.

  “I thought it might be useful. I thought she might have known her killer. That he might have been one of her clients.”

  “Her appointments? Was your aunt Henrietta a fortune-teller, too?”

  Afton brushed away his question with a wave of her hand. “But now I see that, by virtue of the raven, her death is tied to the murders implicating you. And, as you can see, there are no names on my list that match the ones on yours.”

  McHugh tapped the paper with his index finger and narrowed his eyes. “I will grant that the blame for your aunt’s death is being laid at my door, but there still must be some connection between her and the others.”

  “You,” Afton said. “You blame her for your wife’s death. Some might say that is motive enough. That is why I suspected you. And why the police will, too.”

  “Why would I blame your aunt for Maeve’s death? I blame Madame Zoe.”

  “Yes. Precisely.”

  An oppressive silence settled around them as he studied Afton’s face. Tension crackled in the air as he began to
put the pieces of the puzzle together. He stood so quickly that his chair toppled backward. He did not stop to right it before coming around the table to lift Afton out of her chair and look into her eyes—soulful azure eyes now reddened with lack of sleep and crying over his misdeeds.

  “Are you saying you are not Madame Zoe?”

  She gazed unflinchingly into his eyes. “Madame Zoe is the fortune-teller. I have been her, and so has my aunt.”

  “Which of you told Maeve’s fortune?”

  “Does it matter, my lord?”

  It shouldn’t. Both of them had swindled the ton of their money. Both had duped and deceived innocent people looking for answers. He knew it shouldn’t matter. But it did. “Yes,” he admitted, his fingers biting into her shoulders. “It matters.”

  “Auntie Hen,” she said simply and without explanation.

  Relief mingled with betrayal. “I see.” He relaxed his grip and Afton stepped back.

  She glanced down at the lists. “So if someone killed Auntie Hen, and wanted to implicate you, it would have to be because of Maeve. That is the only connection between us.”

  There was common sense to Afton’s theory, and a new avenue of investigation. If he could establish a connection between the victims and Maeve, then what? His wife was dead, and he was still the most logical suspect. Then a more frightening thought occurred to him.

  He lifted Afton’s chin with the crook of his finger. “You set yourself up as bait for the killer, didn’t you, Afton? You thought you could catch him by luring him back to the salon.”

  She shrugged and dropped her gaze. “I did not want to report Auntie Hen’s death to the authorities. I could not risk having her identity made public. It would have ruined Dianthe’s chance for a good marriage, and Bennett would have been sent down from Eton. But I could not allow the killer to go free. Something had to be done.”

  “Are you mad?” Rob asked in a hoarse voice. “You were nearly killed.”

  “I knew the risk, McHugh.” She looked up at him again and gave him a little smile, the first since he had arrived. “And I took every reasonable precaution. Someone was always within call.” She gestured at the bellpull he had noticed on his first visit. “But last night, only Lady Enright knew I would be here. I did not think I would need help.”