The Rake's Revenge

by Ranstrom, Gail

  Upon his arrival at the Forbush mansion, Grace’s man-servant had told him the ladies had gone to the masquerade ball hosted by Reginald Hunter, Lady Sarah’s brother. But when he’d arrived at the masquerade, he’d found only Grace and Dianthe. They swore they had left Afton at home, waiting for word from Lord Barrington.

  She could only have gone one place—the fortune-telling salon. He’d seized Lord Barrington’s arm on the way out Hunter’s door and pressed him into service. Once they found Afton and Rob was satisfied that she was safe, they would go after Seymour. And Rob needed a witness so he could not be charged with murdering the son of a bitch when they found him.

  His heart grew cold at the thought. He wished now that he had gone to Afton directly from Newgate, but he hadn’t wanted her to see him filthy and torn again. He’d wasted precious time making himself presentable and walking to Bloomsbury to clear his head and form his declaration. The thought of his missing dagger caused a churning in his gut. What mayhem might be planned for that? If his delay cost Afton her life, how would he ever forgive himself?

  He had spent years torturing himself because he hadn’t loved Maeve, and feared that lack was some deficiency in him. And now he loved Afton with every breath he took and still tortured himself over the tears he had caused her, the fear he had deliberately inspired, and the threats he’d made when he’d still thought she was Madame Zoe. He wanted to make it up to her. Please, God, let him make it up to her.

  The coach drew up in front of La Meilleure Robe and Rob jumped down. Barrington followed, grumbling under his breath. As Rob paid the driver, he caught the sound of a bell ringing and then falling silent from the depths of the dress shop. His pulse raced and apprehension spurred him up the stairs, with Barrington catching his urgency.

  He tried the door but it was locked. The crash of a chair overturning and the thumping of a scuffle drove him wild with anxiety. “Afton?”

  The key! He didn’t have the damn key! A muffled screech cut short drove him to throw his shoulder into the door. “Afton!” he shouted, banging on the solid panel. “Afton, answer me!”

  Barrington arrived in turn and shouted imperiously, “Open up, in the name of the king!”

  Rob would have laughed if the situation had not been so dire. He was afraid to waste precious time breaking into the dress shop downstairs and searching for the hidden door. If he couldn’t find it—if he could not get to Afton… Instead, he applied his shoulder to the portal again and was rewarded with the creak of stressed wood. Again and again he pounded the door, shouting all the while.

  The struggle inside grew louder as if edging closer. He could hear Afton gasping and Sir Martin’s cursing. “Give it up, Seymour. It’s too late. You can’t get away with it,” he shouted.

  There was a clatter, a pause and then a high-pitched scream. Desperation took hold and Rob renewed his attack on the door. Wood splintered and the hinges gave way enough to free the bolt from its catch. The door swung inward two feet before landing against something solid. He pushed again and forced enough of an opening to fit his shoulder through and gain entry.

  He stumbled over a broken chair blocking the door and took in the torn bellpull lying uselessly, and then Afton, crumpled against the wall, unconscious, her stomach stained with fresh blood. Seymour stood over her, panting, one hand concealed by his jacket.

  Broken china ground under Rob’s feet as he started for them. Heart in his throat, he hurried to her side, yelling at Barrington to secure Seymour.

  Barrington crashed through the door after him and shouted a warning just as Seymour slashed downward with Rob’s midshipman’s dagger. Rob threw himself over Afton, exposing his back to the blade.

  The thunder of a pistol shot rang out and Seymour screamed, clutching his left shoulder as the dagger clattered to the floor. Rob looked up, still gripping Afton to his chest. A stranger wearing a dressing gown stood framed by the closet door, a smoking pistol in his hand.

  Barrington cursed. “Who the hell are you?” he asked the stranger.

  “Francis Renquist,” the man replied, tucking the pistol into the sash of his robe.

  “Where did you come from?” Barrington asked.

  “I heard the bell.” Renquist crossed the room in long strides and twisted Seymour’s hands behind his back, ignoring his cries of pain. “Came up the back stairs. Anyone have some rope?”

  Rob nodded toward the now useless bellpull on the hearth. Afton moaned and stirred in his arms, disorientation showing in her eyes as she glanced at the chaos around them.

  Renquist grinned. “Good use for it, eh? You all right, Miss Lovejoy?” he asked as he tightened the bell rope around Seymour’s hands.

  Afton hesitated and then nodded. Rob looked down at her midriff and his anxiety grew again. “Let me see, Afton.”

  “Er, well, I ought to get Seymour to a surgeon, eh? You’ll see to Miss Lovejoy, McHugh?”

  “Do you need a doctor, Miss Lovejoy?” Renquist asked.

  She glanced down at her gown and shook her head. “It is Sir Martin’s blood. If he had not meant to rape me first, I would not have been able to reach it.” She unclenched her fist and dropped her little knife into Rob’s hand.

  His concern eased and a blinding fury replaced it. He turned to Barrington over his shoulder. “Get him out of my sight before I kill the bastard.”

  Seymour was muttering incomprehensively, his bound hands behind him. “All done…all gone…you can rest now, Maeve….”

  Barrington spun him around and pushed him toward the door. “Come to my office tomorrow, McHugh, and we’ll wrap this up. Good God, the man’s quite mad.”

  “Miss Lovejoy?” Mr. Renquist asked, kneeling beside her with a wary glance at Rob. “Shall I take you home?”

  Afton shook her head. “Thank you, Mr. Renquist, but McHugh will see me home. Marie will be waiting for you.”

  He nodded. “I am surprised she did not come running when she heard the shot. I had better go tell her you are safe. We’ll talk tomorrow.” He stood again and returned to the secret staircase. The closet door closed behind him with a soft click.

  Rob brushed Afton’s hair back from her cheeks and studied her face, searching for any sign that she was injured. When he’d seen the blood on her dress, he’d thought Seymour had stabbed her. He’d felt the sharp pain in his own stomach and a part of him dying with her. He couldn’t lose her. He couldn’t let her out of his sight again.

  “Rob.” She sighed and lifted her face toward his, closing her eyes, inviting a kiss.

  Anger, frustration, anxiety and love churned in a confusing mixture. He knew he didn’t dare accept that invitation or he’d take her here, on the floor in the midst of the wreckage, with the door hanging off its hinges. It was always that way with Afton—urgent, intense and uncontrolled. He needed a moment—time to compose himself and master his hunger for her.

  Rob stood and lifted her to her feet. He turned the table and unbroken chair upright and retrieved the tarot deck and a small bound volume with handwritten notes. He placed them on the table and glanced up at her.

  Afton seized the book and tossed it into the fire. “Auntie Hen’s notes,” she explained, watching the pages curl and blacken. “Now everyone is safe.”

  Everyone but her. Scandal loomed on the horizon. Within two days there would not be a single resident of London who did not know the whole sordid story. Ah, but it was worth it. The killer had been caught, the McHugh had been acquitted and Aunt Henrietta had been avenged.

  She heard shuffling and turned back to the table. Rob held the tarot deck and began turning cards up in a nonsensical pattern. “I see changes in your future, Miss Lovejoy,” he said.

  Thinking of the last time he had told her fortune, she nodded. She could only pray this one would not be so grim. “So do I, Lord Glenross.”

  “I see a change of residence,” he continued.

  “Little Upton,” she agreed.

  “No. No, it looks to be farther north. Heathe
r. Mountains covered in pine and heather. Yes, I believe it is Scotland.”

  Scotland. Her heartbeat tripped over that word. “What am I doing there?”

  He turned over three more cards. “Naked in bed, most times. Then…governess? Nanny? I see you surrounded by children.”

  She held back her smile, afraid she might be wrong. “How many?”

  He turned over three more cards, then another three. He glanced up at her, his green eyes no longer icy, but sparkling with humor. “An even dozen?”

  She went to the table and spread the cards apart, pretending to see what he saw. “Ah, then I’m opening a school for wayward Scots?”

  “The most wayward Scots of all. McHughs, every one.”

  “Am I equal to the task, my lord?”

  “You will have to be. Without you there would be no little McHughs. And no future for me.”

  She stepped closer, fitting easily within the circle of his arms. “The least you could do, my lord, is say it plainly.”

  “Damn it, Afton, I rehearsed a tender speech. But the truth is that I’m drowning in you. My every pore is saturated with you. My blood speeds you through my veins. I cannot draw breath without you. I cannot see a future without you in it. I…I love you. Marry me?”

  She tilted her head back to look into his eyes, dark now with passion. Finally she recognized what it was that she had seen in his gaze that night in Aunt Grace’s closet when the world had faded and she’d floated among stars, moons and suns. She’d seen forever. She’d been frightened of it then, shaken by the intensity, but now she welcomed it. She smiled. “If it is in the cards, how can I deny my destiny?”

  He bowed the deck and sent the cards spraying upward. As they fell in a shower around them, he tightened his embrace and kissed her with a tender passion.

  Epilogue

  January 5, 1819

  Sunlight filtered through the barren trees, spreading a timid warmth over the intimate scene as the minister read the funeral service from the Book of Common Prayer. Afton smiled, feeling Auntie Hen’s presence. Dianthe and Bennett flanked her, holding her hands. The Wednesday League— Lady Annica, Charity, Lady Sarah and Aunt Grace—stood on the opposite side of the newly dug grave, reciting the prayers with the minister. Masses of pristine white roses covered the narrow coffin, which had been lowered into the grave.

  At last Aunt Henrietta would rest in peace, mourned by those who loved her. Afton sighed deeply, a feeling of completion sweeping away the last of her anger and fear. Only love remained, because only love endured.

  “Amen,” they intoned as the minister finished the last prayer, commending Henrietta Lovejoy to her maker.

  “Thank you,” Afton whispered to the woman who had been more than a mother to them.

  They turned to leave the cemetery and she caught a glimpse of Rob McHugh, standing by the stone arch at the entry. She excused herself from the group and went to him.

  “Why did you not join us?” she asked, taking his arm and falling into step behind the others.

  “I couldn’t be certain I’d be welcome. I said some harsh things about your aunt.” His large warm hand covered hers where it rested on his sleeve. “Are you all right?”

  She looked up at him and smiled. “Just curious. Where did you find so many roses in January?”

  He grinned. “How do you know it was me?” Faced with her stern expression, he capitulated. “Several greenhouses, and I imposed upon a few friends with conservatories.”

  “It was the perfect gesture. Aunt Henrietta would have loved them.”

  “I hope you will not be mad at me for the next gesture.”

  She furrowed her brow. “What have you done?”

  “I have written the headmaster at Eton, canceling Bennett’s withdrawal. I paid his tuition through the end of his term.”

  Now she was annoyed. “McHugh, I will gladly face any scandal with you by my side, but my siblings are not so pragmatic. They will be humiliated when the uproar occurs. Bennett would rather be home in Little Upton where he will not be the object of jokes and taunts.”

  “I spoke with Barrington earlier this morning. He does not see why anyone has to know about Madame Zoe or our…little indiscretions.”

  She smiled. McHugh’s uncharacteristic sensibility was really quite charming. “But I will have to testify—”

  “Martin Seymour has been judged insane and committed to Bethlehem Hospital. There will be no trial, just a private hearing in chambers. Since he was caught red-handed, there is enough testimony to keep him locked up for the rest of his life without dragging Madame Zoe into it.”

  “Then there will be no scandal?”

  “None.” He grinned, clearly expecting her gratitude. “No trial, no gossip.”

  “Drats!”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I was hoping to become your wife in true McHugh fashion—high passions and low expectations.”

  He threw his head back and laughed heartily, startling the crows in the trees overhead and sending them skyward. It was a sound she had heard precious little of when he’d first come back from Algiers, but one growing daily dearer to her heart.

  “Ye’ve a wicked sense of humor, Miss Lovejoy. That just might be my favorite thing about ye.” He kissed the top of her head. “And you were right about magic, Afton—it does exist.”

  Happiness filled her heart. “How do you know?”

  “Because you redeemed me from a life without laughter or passion. Because I found my own very real magic. You, Afton.”

  And when his mouth covered hers, Afton would have sworn that she could hear the laughter of that ancient gypsy from that distant summer. Oh, yes. She finally believed in magic.

  ISBN: 978-1-4592-3713-1

  THE RAKE’S REVENGE

  Copyright © 2004 by Gail Ranstrom

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