The Rake's Revenge

“And you, Miss Lovejoy?”

“Me?”

“Did you have any hopes in that direction?”

Afton was startled by the question—both that Sir Martin had asked it, and that she had never contemplated it. Oh, she’d thought of McHugh often enough, but only to wonder what it would be like to kiss him, and if hands gentle enough to replace her hood and wipe away a tear would be likewise gentle in an embrace. She felt the heat of a blush creep into her cheeks at those possibilities.

But hope that he might make an offer for her? Absurd. Aside from the fact that he was still in love with his dead wife, he was far too…intense. There was an impalpable darkness that hovered about him, as if he knew that darkness intimately. As if he cherished it. Courted it.

“Miss Lovejoy?” Sir Martin repeated.

Afton shook her head to clear it of the troubling thoughts. “Hopes, Sir Martin? Nay. I am not that foolish.”

Rob wondered what the hell Seymour had said to elicit Miss Lovejoy’s delicate blush. It was all he could do to maintain his self-control as he waited for his friend to deliver her back to her aunt. Patience was not Rob’s strong point. And neither, it would seem, was sharing.

He took a deep breath and relaxed his tense muscles. What had gotten into him? He had better claim the waltz she had promised this afternoon and then be on his way. Miss Lovejoy was not for him. Too sweet. Too innocent. Too damn tempting.

“Ah, Glenross.” Miss Lovejoy offered her hand the moment Seymour released it. “Have you come to collect my debt?”

“What debt?” Seymour asked, his eyes narrowing.

“His lordship rescued me from the weather today.” Miss Lovejoy answered for him. “We waited out a fresh snowfall at Twickford’s Tearoom until duty called his lordship away. He was kind enough to order me tea and allow me time to warm up.”

Rob felt slightly smug at Seymour’s look of surprise. “Careful, Miss Lovejoy. Such reckless talk could ruin my reputation. You’ll have people thinking I am a gentleman.”

She laughed. “I shall be more circumspect in the future.”

The orchestra began the first notes of the next dance. “As fate would have it, I have come to collect. A waltz, was it not?” Without further ado, Rob whisked his partner onto the dance floor and into his arms.

“I must admit that I am a little surprised,” Miss Lovejoy began. “I feared, when you departed so abruptly this afternoon, that I had done something to incur your displeasure.”

He gave her a wry smile. He could never admit that, amidst the pots of jam and sponge cake, he’d been about to bend her over the little table and take her then and there. Or how he’d fantasized about being the one to lick the cream from her lips while she moaned, “heavenly.” Maeve had been right about that much at least. He was an animal. “To the contrary, Miss Lovejoy, I did not find you displeasing in the least. I simply had…ah, urgent business.”

His downward glance snagged on the row of rosebuds at her décolletage. Thankfully, Miss Lovejoy did not notice, her attention drawn to the sidelines where a murmur was growing to a buzz. “I wonder what could be amiss,” she mused.

Ethan Travis, Rob’s old partner, was standing in a group of colleagues and turned to look at them. With a quick jerk of his head, he signaled them to the sidelines. Rob guided his partner off the floor.

“McHugh, did you hear? James Livingston was found murdered in a back street behind the Pultney Hotel. Is that not where you are staying?” Travis asked.

“Jamie Livingston?” Rob went still. “Shocking” news rarely affected him, but this was extraordinary. He had run into Livingston after leaving Twickford’s mere hours ago. It was no secret he and Livingston had not been on good terms since Rob had found him pulling Maeve into a night-dark garden many years ago, but he certainly would not have wished such a fate on the man. “Did they catch the murderer?”

“No. He’d been dead a few hours before he was found. The bastard took a knife to him, Rob.”

A soft intake of breath demanded his attention and reminded him that Miss Lovejoy was a witness to this unpleasantness. He looked down at her pale complexion and horrified expression. “Are you all right, Miss Lovejoy?”

“Yes.” She nodded, her eyes wide. “Please do not worry about me.”

He gave her a distracted smile and turned back to Ethan. “Are there any clues?”

“The watchman said he was clutching a button of some kind. Had a raven on it. Jamie must have grabbed for his attacker as he went down.”

A button? A dim memory tweaked the back of Rob’s mind.

“H-how very awful for you, to lose a friend in such a manner,” Miss Lovejoy gasped.

She looked so distressed that Rob felt the need to reassure her. Forgetting Travis in his concern, he led her toward a vacant grouping of chairs near the punch bowl. He seated her and quickly fetched a cup of punch laced with a touch of brandy.

He knelt by her chair and offered the cup. “Drink this, Miss Lovejoy. You’ll be fit as a fiddle in no time.”

She drank deeply and returned the cup with a sad smile. “Thank you, Glenross. Really, I am quite all right. ’Tis just that I lost someone dear to me in much the same manner. It is dreadful, is it not?”

“James Livingston and I were not close, Miss Lovejoy. Save your sympathy.”

She blinked and he realized he’d been harsher than he intended. He had a regrettable habit of speaking before considering how others would interpret his words. One of his many shortcomings. He stood again and stepped away from her.

“Oh,” she murmured. “You looked so affected that I thought you…that is, well, it is a pity, nonetheless.”

“It is indeed,” he conceded. But not for the reason Miss Lovejoy would think. He was glad to see the color returning to her cheeks. Now he would be able to leave her and get the hell out of here. “Shall I return you to your aunt?”

“Yes, thank you. I must speak to her at once.” When she looked up at him, her aqua eyes were luminous with unshed tears. “I fear I am still in your debt.”

“Ah, the dance.” He regarded her somberly. “I shall put it on account.”

Afton waited until Glenross was out of earshot before she reported the events to her aunt and finished with her latest worry. “It never occurred to me until I heard about Mr. Livingston that Auntie Hen’s killer might have happened upon her by chance. Mr. Livingston has nothing in common with Auntie Hen, and yet he was killed as randomly and in the same manner, and there was an object with a raven found at the scene. Perhaps Auntie Hen’s murderer was not one of her clients, but a common burglar or thief who was surprised to find her in residence.”

Grace drew her eyebrows together in a frown. “Because of the value of the raven pin and the fact that she was found in the fortune-telling salon instead of her little flat, we assumed that the murderer was one of her clients.” Grace’s eyes met hers. “We must not rule anything out, Afton, least of all this new coincidence. Still, I think it far more likely that Henrietta’s killer knew her. I shall send a note to Mr. Renquist in the morning, informing him of this new development.”

“But if the murder was random—”

“Then you are wasting your time,” Grace finished for her. “He will not be back.”

“And if it wasn’t?” Afton shivered, somehow doubting Auntie Hen’s murder was as random as Mr. Livingston’s.

“Then you have barely two weeks remaining to find the villain before the Wednesday League turns this matter over to the authorities.”

Rob locked his door and turned up the oil lamp on the bedside table. His bed had been readied, the fire in the grate had been banked and a foot warmer waited on the hearth for his use. The Pultney was known for its elegance, service and security, and that had seemed just what he needed after months in a hellhole. But perhaps all was not what it seemed.

He shrugged out of his jacket and tossed it over the back of the desk chair. He checked his window, three stories above the street. Locked. He’d known it would be. Just as his door had been locked. He glanced at the wardrobe in one corner, feeling his anxiety rise a notch and a fine coating of sweat dew his brow.

He poured himself a glass of brandy from the bottle on the bedside table, tossed it down in two gulps, poured another and put it on the mantel over the fireplace before crossing the room to the wardrobe. His hand shook as he reached out to turn the latch.

“Bloody hell,” he snarled to himself, disgusted with his reaction to the small space. He feared what he might do if faced with that sort of confinement again.

He seized the knob, turned it quickly and opened the door wide. One after another, he examined his jackets and coats. When he came to the coat he’d worn that afternoon, he clenched his jaw. The right sleeve was torn and missing a button.

Years ago, Maeve had ordered custom buttons for his vests and jackets. The Glenross family crest included the Scottish unicorn and the Glenross raven, and Maeve had selected the raven as the emblem to be carved on buttons made of horn, bone, shell and wood.

This was not the first personal item to disappear since his return. A number of other objects, valuable and inconsequential, were missing, too. What the hell was going on?