The Rake's Revenge

by Ranstrom, Gail

  He affected a wounded expression. “Never! ’Twas my feeble attempt to tease, Miss Lovejoy. You know full well that you have my deepest affection.”

  In point of fact, she was beginning to suspect the opposite. A gentleman would not have reminded her of that moment of madness under the stairs, but she did not want to argue the point now.

  He took her arm and led her toward a set of French doors leading to the terrace. “I wondered, Miss Lovejoy, if you have had time to think upon our last conversation.”

  “I have been busy,” she said evasively. How could she reject him in public? She owed him the courtesy of a private interview at the very least.

  “May I importune you to consider, Miss Lovejoy? I am eager to know your decision,” he said. “My entire future, my very happiness, depends upon your answer.”

  What had happened to his vow to give her as much time as she needed? “I…I promise I will have you an answer tomorrow, Sir Martin. I shall give the matter my full attention until then. If you would like to call at three o’clock?”

  He gave her a satisfied smile. “Excellent.” He opened the French doors and pulled her through to the terrace. “Until then, a token?”

  The rush of cold air startled her and, before she could react, Sir Martin had tugged her into his arms and pressed a gentle kiss on her lips. Though it was soft, tender and almost worshipful, the kiss still felt intrusive. She had not invited it, nor did she welcome it. Anger flashed through her and she brought her hands up to push him away.

  As quickly as he had grasped her, he let go, regarding her with a small triumphant smile. “Think of that whilst you ponder my proposal, Afton.”

  She certainly would. Sir Martin’s softness was no match for McHugh’s strength. Could she settle for less than the ecstasy she’d found in Rob’s arms?

  She did not answer Sir Martin’s challenge. Instead she whirled and slipped back through the door to go in search of her aunt and sister.

  As she hurried toward the music room, she passed Charles Fengrove and recalled that his name had appeared on her aunt’s client list. “Oh, Mr. Fengrove,” she said, stopping him in midstride.

  “Yes, Miss Lovejoy?”

  She drew him aside, thinking quickly how to question him. “I…I was chatting with a friend of yours the other day. He said to give you his regards.”

  “Indeed?” Mr. Fengrove smiled politely, while his gaze swept her with a look of appreciation. “Who might that be, Miss Lovejoy?”

  “Lord Glenross.”

  “The McHugh?” Fengrove’s expression changed to one of doubtful skepticism.

  “Yes. Your name came up in conversation with…” she reached for any possible common name “…with one of the Thayer twins. I have forgotten now whether it was Hortense or Harriett. Then Glenross said he had not seen you since his return. He said he always held you in high regard.”

  “Did he?” Fengrove’s eyebrows raised nearly to his hair-line.

  She affected a thoughtful expression. “Yes. I believe so.”

  “I did not know he noticed me. I was actually better acquainted with his wife, Lady Maeve.”

  “You were friends?”

  He laughed. “Not precisely. We did not actually care much for one another. I think she did her best to have me blacklisted from society.”

  “Heavens.” Afton frowned. This was not what she expected, but it was interesting nonetheless. “I cannot imagine why.”

  “I never speak ill of the dead, Miss Lovejoy, or I would tell you.”

  Would this make Mr. Fengrove McHugh’s enemy? The bell warning the guests to take their seats rang. She glanced toward the music room. “Well, take care, Mr. Fengrove.” Perhaps that was not a strong enough warning. “I mean, do be careful.”

  He gave her a puzzled smile. “Thank you, Miss Lovejoy. I shall have to thank Glenross after the recital.”

  And she would have to remember to warn Glenross about her latest fabrication. She found Grace and Dianthe standing in conversation with Charity Wardlow, Laura Tuxbury and Julius Lingate.

  Charity took her hand in greeting. “Heavens, Afton! You are quite chilled. Are you feeling well?”

  “I may be coming down with something,” she admitted. She drew her aunt away from the group, glancing in McHugh’s direction. “I have acquired a little cough,” she whispered. “Shall we sit in the back?”

  Grace shook her head. “I think there is an advantage in putting Dianthe forward. We do want her to be seen, do we not?”

  “Yes, of course,” she said. “I forgot myself.”

  “But a cough could prove disruptive,” Grace continued, a twinkle in her dark eyes. “If you do not mind sitting alone, I am certain Dianthe and I could spare you.”

  Afton shot her a grateful look. Grace was more observant than she had suspected. She took a chair in the back row on the aisle. Within a few minutes, Hortense and Harriett took their places on the dais. Mr. Thayer clapped his hands for attention and asked the remaining guests to be seated.

  She noted McHugh’s position near the back of the room. He was standing, one shoulder propped against the door-jamb, as if he was not committed to staying. Hortense played a quick riffle on the pianoforte and then began.

  Within a few minutes, McHugh moved past Afton’s chair and touched her shoulder. A moment later, he was gone. Afton counted slowly to ten, muffled a cough and stood. She coughed again on her way to the music room doors, in the event that someone noticed her exit.

  She hurried down the corridor, trying to guess where he would be waiting. “McHugh?” she whispered.

  As she passed the parlor, he reached out and seized her arm, dragging her into the room. Excitement bubbled upward, and she smiled. He stopped and turned so quickly that Afton landed against his chest. A long moment passed as she gazed into deep green eyes. His pupils dilated, darkening his eyes further. Afton knew he was going to kiss her even before he tilted his head toward her. Heedless of the risk of being discovered, she came up on her toes to meet him, fitting herself to his chest, her breasts aching for the contact.

  His mouth covered hers, his tongue making an erotic demand. Oh! No tender intrusion here! This was wild, sweet and all-consuming. This was fire in her blood. This was the reason she would never marry Sir Martin.

  McHugh groaned and held her away. “Ye canna stay so close to me, lass. I have no willpower when it comes to you.”

  Afton sighed, thinking she had no willpower, either. But she had pride enough to keep from being second best. She smoothed her gown and cleared her throat, trying to compose herself. “You did not come to the salon tonight.”

  “No. I was looking for Martin Seymour. I’ve been one step behind him all day. I saw him with you moments ago, but now he’s nowhere to be found. Did he tell you where he was going?”

  Afton shook her head and dismissed the subject of Sir Martin with an airy wave. “Mr. Fengrove may approach you to offer his regards. I told him you were asking after him.”

  “Why?”

  “It was a pretense to question him. His name was on Auntie Hen’s list.”

  McHugh looked pensive. “Hmm.”

  “And that is not all. I must warn you that Lord Barrington came to Grace’s house this morning. He was asking questions about you, McHugh. And about our…friendship.”

  McHugh’s expression became veiled, cautious. “Did he, now? What did he want to know?”

  “He asked if I had seen you last night.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I evaded the question. He told me about Lord Kilgrew and I asked if he thought you had something to do with that. He said that the circumstances did not look good, and that there was some speculation that you might be…mad.”

  “Mad McHugh,” he repeated. “Is that how this farce is to be played out?”

  “I only know that he wants to talk to you, and he asked me to keep him informed about you.”

  “Are you going to tell him, Afton?”

  “That…that
depends upon you, McHugh. Do you want me to?”

  “No. I cannot be helped by dragging your name through the mud. If you were called to testify at a trial, you would be censured by society.”

  Afton was ashamed of the relief that washed over her, but her conscience still needled her. “I am your alibi, McHugh. They would have to acquit you if I swore that I was with you and that you did not enter that house.”

  “If they did not think that you were lying to protect your lover. Either way, Afton, your secret would become public knowledge. There is no way to hide these things in a trial. I won’t let you risk that.”

  “But—”

  He laid his finger across her lips. “Shh. No arguments. I haven’t been arrested yet.”

  “What next, McHugh?”

  “Guard yourself, Afton. Trust no one. Not even…”

  “Yes? Not even who?”

  “Not even those you have trusted in the past. And do not allow anyone to draw you away from a crowd.”

  Had he seen Sir Martin pull her out the French doors? Was Rob warning her not to trust him?

  “Never fear. I’ll keep ahead of the authorities.” He grinned. “It is a job they trained me for.”

  She smiled at the irony. “And what shall I do?”

  “Keep watch. And meet me at the salon by half past nine tomorrow night. I should have news by then.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  All Afton’s carefully rehearsed words evaporated in an instant when Sir Martin sat down beside her in Grace’s small sitting room the next afternoon. Afraid he would try to take her hand, she poured him a cup of tea from the pot on the little tea cart in front of them to keep him occupied.

  His hand trembled slightly as he accepted the cup. “Have you made your decision, my dear?” he asked.

  She wondered if it was appropriate to smile politely when you were about to refuse someone. Quick, kind and clean, her aunt had advised. “I am afraid I—”

  Sir Martin sat forward and interrupted. “Before you answer, my dear, may I have a moment to plead my case? I fear I was not very eloquent when I first asked.”

  “You were very eloquent,” she disagreed. “I was touched by your words, and honored. But—”

  He laughed and shrugged. “And here I have been thinking what a fool I was that I neglected to mention what I can offer you, apart from my affection.

  “You see, I am sensible to the fact that you have taken responsibility for your younger sister and brother. My connections will stand them both in good stead. I know a number of people who could advance young Bennett in whatever endeavor he chooses. Should he wish to continue his education after Eton, I have excellent contacts at Cambridge. After that, I could find sponsors should he wish to stand for Parliament.”

  She sat back and studied Sir Martin’s face. How had he so unerringly found her weakness? This was a much more seductive argument than his affection. How could she refuse?

  “As for your sister…well, I think she will be ready to entertain offers very soon. When that time comes, she will need every advantage and connection at her disposal. I mean no disrespect when I remind you, Miss Lovejoy, that her marriage portion as the younger sister will not be quite up to snuff.”

  Afton was about to argue that she had always intended to add her portion to Dianthe’s but there seemed little point in that. It would never be Sir Martin’s business how large or small Dianthe’s settlement would be unless he was the groom.

  His expression sobered as he leaned forward with an air of confidentiality. “I have observed her attention to Douglas McHugh. That might have made a good alliance had it not been for Glenross. Even allowing for the fact that Doogie is the only one capable of fathering the next Lord Glenross—”

  Oh, the liar! Was he still trying to frighten her away from the McHugh? She had half a mind to tell him that she had discovered for herself that Rob McHugh was perfectly capable of fathering an heir, but how could she explain her knowledge?

  “—the impending scandal would put him quite beyond the pale,” Sir Martin finished.

  “Scandal? What scandal?” she asked before she could stop herself.

  His mouth quirked in an odd manner. “You must have heard, my dear.”

  “Heard what?”

  He met her gaze squarely and announced, “Why, the authorities are looking for McHugh. They wish to question him in regard to Charles Fengrove’s death late last night. Quite tragic. And then, of course, about Lord Kilgrew’s death and the grudge McHugh held against Kilgrew for refusing to launch a rescue mission to find Maeve.”

  Fengrove! Oh, dear Lord! What could have happened? “They cannot be serious!”

  “I assure you, they are.” Sir Martin cocked his head to one side and regarded her through narrowed eyes. “I hope you have not already consented to an alliance between Miss Dianthe and Douglas.”

  “No,” she admitted. “No, but…I—”

  “Yes, ’tis a very sad case, is it not? But not surprising it has come to this in view of McHugh’s ungovernable passions.”

  Afton felt the heat creep into her cheeks. Any sensible woman would not rise to that bait, but she was not sensible when it came to McHugh. She could not prevent the chill in her voice when she said, “Not surprising, Sir Martin? Why is that?”

  “McHugh’s volatile temper coupled with his undying devotion to the lady Maeve was bound to crush him. ’Twas just a matter of time.”

  Afton picked up her teacup again and took a sip. “Men have loved deeply before without doing violence, Sir Martin.”

  “Your compassion does you credit, Miss Lovejoy. I shall pray you are right. McHugh and I have been friends for a very long time, and I would be distraught indeed if he has done something ill-advised. Meantime, of course, it would be prudent to avoid him whenever possible.”

  “You think he loved Maeve so deeply that he would kill for her, even after she was gone?” she asked.

  Sir Martin’s face took on a distant look, as if he were focusing on some long-ago time. “When we were younger, he was always playing the knight-errant. Maeve thought him quite dashing. We all did. But he never grew out of that passion for fighting lost causes, whether for a peasant’s rights or the king’s rights. McHugh has never known when to give up. Maeve grew bitter because he had more time for his causes than he had for her.” His voice broke and he stopped to clear his throat. “And when he had time for her, he claimed her body and soul.”

  Afton studied Sir Martin’s face, startled to see the raw emotion there, and suddenly, the subtle clues fell into place. “You loved her, too.”

  Sir Martin blinked and a guilty flush tinged his cheeks. “Everyone loved her. And Hamish. Such a fine young lad. Sharp as a tack and filled with promise.”

  “How sad,” she mused.

  “Aye,” Sir Martin agreed. “And now McHugh’s remorse drives him to another sort of excess.”

  “What sort?” Afton asked, caught up in Sir Martin’s story.

  “Revenge.”

  No. McHugh might devote himself to Maeve’s memory until the day he died, but he would not begin killing people against whom he held a grudge. Held a grudge? But there were some victims that McHugh hadn’t even known.

  Some detail called to her. Something just out of reach. Some piece of the puzzle teasing her.

  “But how have we digressed?” Sir Martin asked, shaking off his brooding. “Ah, yes. Miss Dianthe. Well, I am glad to hear that you have not agreed to any alliance, at least for the time being. And, you see, here is another instance of what a great help I can be to you.”

  “No,” Afton murmured, lost in her own thoughts, trying to grasp the elusive connection between the murders.

  “No? I cannot be of help to you?”

  “No, I cannot marry you,” she said.

  Sir Martin put his cup down and stood. He straightened his jacket, almost as if he were gathering the remnants of his pride, and she regretted blurting her answer in such a way.

  “Ah, wel
l.” He sighed. “I was afraid that might be the case, Miss Lovejoy, but I had to give you one last chance to come to your senses.”

  Afton was still mulling over that statement when she heard the front door close behind him.

  A cold wind whipped up St. Martin’s Street from the Thames. Somewhere nearby the watch called the hour of eight. The street was still crowded with vendors and people hurrying about their business, and the closer the chase led her to Seven Dials, the more crowded the streets became and the more difficult it was to keep her target in sight.

  She did not know if she would glean any information from following Douglas McHugh, but she had to try. There was only tonight and tomorrow left before the New Year and the end of her investigation. After Sir Martin had departed, she’d spent the remaining afternoon trying to grasp the clue that kept eluding her. At last she thought she might have identified the missing piece. It was so simple, really, and yet quite complicated.

  McHugh swore he did not even know all the victims and that he might not have liked the ones he did know, but he hadn’t disliked them enough to kill them. Perhaps, then, the murders and McHugh were separate items connected only by a single common link—the murderer. Someone who was killing for his own reasons but could gain something if McHugh was made to take the blame.

  When she had finished her shopping and had seen Douglas McHugh on the street, the temptation to follow him had been too great to resist. Though she’d defended Douglas to Sir Martin, there was a tiny part of her that acknowledged how much he had to gain if Rob was out of the way.

  She shifted the parcel she carried to her other arm and slipped around the corner. Douglas was just disappearing into a tavern. She would have to look for a darkened mew or doorway to hide in until he came out. She stepped sideways into the stairwell of a tenement building, spurred on by the sound of footsteps behind her.

  “’Ere now,” a rough voice growled. “Where d’ye think ye’re goin’?”

  Afton did not respond, certain the stranger could not be talking to her until he stepped into the shadows beside her and seized her right arm, dragging her backward, deeper into the stairwell.