The Rake's Revenge

Afton tried to gather her wits. Madame Zoe? Men like Lord Glenross did not consult fortune-tellers. He was playing some sort of deep game and, from what she’d seen of the man, no good could come from it. She glanced at Grace, wondering how she could possibly reply to such a request.

“That is very open-minded of you, my lord,” Grace declared. “I shall have that information for you by Monday morning, latest. Shall I post the instructions to you at your hotel? Or shall I send ’round to your club?”

Afton contained her gasp of dismay even as Glenross smiled triumphantly. “Send to my hotel. I am staying at Pultney’s in Piccadilly.” That bit of business out of the way, he looked pointedly at Afton, and then back to Grace.

“Oh! I beg your pardon, my lord,” she said. “May I present my niece, Miss Afton Lovejoy? Miss Lovejoy, please meet Robert McHugh, Lord Glenross.”

“Lord Glenross,” Afton managed to acknowledge. With some trepidation, she dropped a small curtsy and offered her hand. He accepted it and lifted it to his lips. The warmth of his fingers spread through her, and when those sensual lips brushed lightly across her knuckles, his breath warmed her blood.

“Miss Afton Lovejoy?” he asked, turning back to Grace. “I could have sworn the invitation stated that you were honoring a Miss Dianthe Lovejoy.”

Grace indicated Dianthe with a wave as she waltzed by with yet another proud-looking partner. “Dianthe is Afton’s sister.”

Lord Glenross barely spared a glance for Dianthe before returning his attention to Afton. “Miss Lovejoy, I am charmed,” he said. “Have you just now come to town?”

She wet lips gone dry with anxiety. “I’ve been in London six months, my lord. As Mrs. Forbush’s companion.”

Grace interceded once again. “Afton has shunned society since coming to town, my lord. She calls herself my companion, but she is my niece by marriage, as well as a very dear friend.”

“I am pleased that you have joined society tonight, Miss Lovejoy. I would be honored if you would consent to dance the next waltz with me.”

Her heartbeat tripped. If she danced with him, would he be able to recognize her through her disguise when he met her as Madame Zoe? She could not risk such a thing. “I have promised the next waltz, my lord,” she lied.

His smile did not falter, nor did his expression change, but she felt a subtle change in him. He knew she was lying!

“I see,” he murmured. “Another time, Miss Lovejoy?” Without waiting for an answer, he bowed and departed in the direction of the game room.

Afton was appalled at the odd mixture of excitement and dread that filled her at the thought of seeing Lord Glenross again. She turned to Grace and lamented, “If there were only some way to refuse him!”

Grace looked doubtful. “If you wish, I shall tell him I could not discover how to contact Madame Zoe.”

A complete waste of time. If Glenross did not have the referral from Grace, he would acquire it elsewhere. Slowly, painfully, Afton’s heartbeat steadied. She shook her head. “Send Glenross my factor’s address, and I shall instruct Mr. Evans to grant an appointment as soon as possible. As Shakespeare said, ‘If it were done when ’tis done, then…”

“‘…’twere well it were done quickly.’” Grace finished the quote with a nod of agreement. “An excellent idea. Mr. Evans shall handle it all. He is the very personification of discretion.”

Afton steadied her nerves and gave her aunt a small smile. “I shall simply tell Lord Glenross a happy little fortune and be done with him.”

Chapter Two

S omeone was in his room…someone who didn’t belong. Key in one hand, Rob paused with his other on the knob of his hotel room door. The fine hairs on the back of his neck stirred with an uneasy prickle.

It was unlikely that the Dey would have sent men after him. Unlikely, but not impossible. And he’d damn well die fighting before undergoing the Dey’s “hospitality” again. Being locked cramped and naked for weeks on end in a box so small he could neither turn nor raise his hand to scratch an itch, being left to wallow in his own filth, freeze by night and swelter by day, had taken its toll. A good day had been when someone took pity and threw an urn of fetid water over the box, and a few drops had trickled between the slats and cooled his stinging flesh. Rob could not yet think of the bad days—days he had been manacled spread-eagled against a dank dungeon wall for whippings that tore flesh from his back, while demands for information were screamed in his ears.

But there had been worse. Much worse. Bile rose in his throat as a sweat broke out on his forehead. No. He’d deal with that later. He wasn’t ready yet.

He braced himself and turned the knob. It gave without a click. Unlocked. He distinctly recalled locking it before leaving for Mrs. Forbush’s soiree.

He bent and slid his dagger from his boot. They wouldn’t take him alive this time. A quick glance down the corridor confirmed that he was quite alone.

He gripped the dagger in his right hand and eased the door open. A faint glow from the banked fireplace barely afforded enough light to make out the form of furniture. A movement from the chair facing the fire drew his attention.

Every muscle controlled, he crept forward. He stilled his breathing as he approached the back of the chair, knowing that even the air stirred by his breath could alert a seasoned thief or a foreign assassin. Surprise was his greatest advantage.

He jerked the man’s head back, his blade pressing against the interloper’s throat before he could react. “Identify yourself,” he snarled in the man’s ear from behind.

“Gads, Robbie! It’s Doogie! D’ye not remember me?”

Rob dropped his hand and released his brother, nearly weak with relief. “Douglas! What are you doing here?”

“I got Travis’s note and I’ve been trailing your footsteps ever since, always a step behind. Thought I’d just come to your lodgings and wait. I got the maid to unlock for me.”

Rob did not even want to know how his brother had bribed the maid. Douglas had a way with women, and never had trouble getting what he wanted of them. Rob slipped the dagger back in his boot as Douglas came around the chair to embrace him.

A moment later, embarrassed by his display of emotion, his brother released him and stepped back. “Damn me, Rob, say you won’t be going abroad again. My heart canna take it.”

“I willna,” Rob promised, falling into the comfortable brogue of their youth. “I’m back to stay.”

“That’s good. I’d have made a poor laird.” Douglas went to the bureau and retrieved Rob’s bottle of Scotch whiskey. He refilled his glass and poured one for Rob. “To the return of the McHugh!”

There’d been no whiskey in Algiers or in the government hospital where he’d been held since his return. Rob drank deep, eager for the fire and pleasant lethargy that would seep through him when the Scotch did its work. Maybe tonight he’d finally be able to sleep. “To Doogie McHugh and his lady fair.”

“Ach. So you’ve heard?” Douglas grinned and sank back into his chair. “She’s an angel, Rob. I don’t deserve her.”

“I met Miss Barlow last year. She is lovely, Douglas. She’ll give you beautiful babes. Mind that the first one’s a boy, for the title.” Rob wondered how his brother could prefer bland Bebe Barlow when there were more tasty morsels about—like that appetizing little Miss Afton Lovejoy. Now there was something he could envy Douglas for. Aye, Miss Lovejoy was right to be wary of him. He’d swallow her in a single bite.

“I’ll do my duty, and wear a smile doing it,” Douglas vowed.

“I always said you were a brave lad,” Rob teased. “You’re fond of her, then? The match wasn’t for expedience?”

“Bebe is my life, Rob. She’s the reason I draw breath.” Douglas’s face sobered and he glanced down at his feet. “Sorry, Rob. I didn’t mean to remind you. But, in time, you will marry again. You’ll have the heir you always wanted.”

“I’ll leave that to you, Douglas. ’Twill be your son now who’ll bear the Glenross title.” Doogie hadn’t known that Hamish hadn’t been a McHugh by blood. No point in telling him now, Rob supposed. He had grown to love the boy and had learned to ignore Maeve’s indiscretion.

“You say that now, Rob, but some pretty face will turn your head and you’ll change your tune.”

“I’ve not got the mettle for marriage.” And he hadn’t the heart to risk deceit again. Deceit and denigration.

“’Twas none of your fault, man. Maeve’s the one who insisted she visit her sister in Venice. She was a determined woman and made her own decisions.”

Douglas was wrong. Rob didn’t blame Maeve for that particular decision. But he knew who was responsible—the damn charlatan who’d hinted that his wife’s destiny awaited her in Venice. That she should go there to escape the man who would destroy her: him. Rob would hunt Madame Zoe until he could expose her for the imposter she was, and then he’d utterly destroy her—her confidence, her trade, her income and, sweetest of all, her reputation. By the time he was finished with her, no member of society would consult her.

Ah yes. He’d learned to be a very patient man lying alone in a cramped box while oozing infection from his wounds and planning his escape. All those months in the Dey’s dungeon he’d been waiting, going slowly mad. And he’d planned. Madame Zoe would pay for destroying the McHughs.

Monday morning, in the well-appointed offices above a bank, Rob studied his fingernails in a pose of casual boredom as Mr. Evans, Madame Zoe’s factor, leafed through her appointment book with a great show of accommodation. Indeed, Rob was anything but bored. It was December 14, and by his estimation, he should be finished with Madame Zoe no later than Christmas. He studied his surroundings, imagining the sort of woman who would employ Mr. Evans.

The office was estimable in every sense of the word. Comfortable chairs sat along one wall and the factor’s desk was clean, polished and modest. Mr. Evans himself appeared to be an eminently respectable man in his middle years, and Rob wondered why he would represent a charlatan.

The London gossip mill held that Madame Zoe was a middle-aged French émigré, a fortune-teller to the French court who had foretold the rise and fall of Napoleon Bonaparte. She was a widow, ’twas told, and always wore black. Liberal use of veils prevented anyone from giving an accurate description. Some even speculated that she was a prominent member of the noble but impoverished French community in London and employed the veils to prevent recognition in that circle.