The Rake's Revenge

“I am past my prime.”

“Au contraire,” Dianthe laughed. “Twenty and five is fully ripe. You are poised to fall from the tree.”

Afton had a sudden image of herself as an apple clinging to the tree with her last scrap of strength as Robert McHugh stood below, his hand cupped and ready to catch her. She shivered and put the distracting thought away. “No, Dianthe, you will be the one to make a match before the season ends.”

“Oh, I hope so. That is why I ordered a new ball gown when I was shopping with the Thayer twins this afternoon. Hortense and Harriett said I shall need every advantage I can secure.”

A new gown? Afton winced. Between Dianthe’s recent purchases and Auntie Hen’s death, where would she find the resources?

Dianthe’s eyes widened as she took in Afton’s expression. “Oh, dear. Should I have asked before I ordered the gown?”

She touched her sister’s cheek tenderly. Dianthe would be crushed to think she had caused a problem. “I wish I had gone with you. You know how I adore shopping.”

“Then you must come next time.” Dianthe began pulling the pins from her silken blond hair, letting it fall around her shoulders. “Why have you not entered society, Afton? Aunt Grace told me that she offered to pay your expenses and to sponsor you, but that you would not accept.”

Dianthe softened her voice. “Have you refused Aunt Grace’s offer because of Papa? You know you cannot go through life trying to make up for his shortcomings.”

“Shortcomings?” She gave a gentle laugh. “You are a master of understatement, Dianthe. Father was a pauper who borrowed from his friends and family until he had none left. People fled when they saw him coming. Do you not remember the humiliation? I will never impose in such a manner.”

“He did it for us, Binky,” Dianthe said, using Afton’s pet name.

“I’d rather have done without than live by charity,” Afton murmured.

“Never mind,” Dianthe soothed. “With hard work and determination, we have reversed the family fortunes—you, with your excellent business sense and the pay for assisting Aunt Grace, Auntie Hen hiring out to wealthy widows as a tour guide, and me with my little jams and jellies to sell at market.” She paused and gave Afton a sideways glance. “Ah, but you could make a brilliant match, Binky, and then we wouldn’t have to work so hard.”

Afton studied Dianthe’s face until she saw the twinkle of laughter in her eyes. She swung a pillow at her sister. “That’s your job, Dianthe! You make the brilliant match, then you can take care of me in my dotage.”

“I shall be delighted to do so.” Her sister sighed dreamily. “There are half a dozen men I’ve met so far to whom I could give my heart. But where is Auntie Hen? In her last letter she promised to meet us in town and help me make a choice.”

Guilt tweaked Afton and the pain crept forward. She could not give in to it yet. If Dianthe suspected the truth, she’d withdraw in mourning, and there might never be another chance to launch her in society. “She has been delayed in Greece, Dianthe. I am certain we will hear from her soon.”

“Oh, I do hope so. I miss her dreadfully and I know you and she are anxious for me to make a good match. I only wish she were here to guide me.”

Was a measure of desperation tainting Dianthe’s enjoyment of her debut? “You know I would not have you marry for advantage alone, do you not? Swear you will not marry without affection.”

“Of course not, Binky. And I do not think I will have to worry about taking care of you.” Dianthe grinned. “I saw that darkly handsome Lord Glenross dancing with you, and Sir Martin Seymour seemed quite smitten.”

Glenross. A queer shimmery sensation came over Afton when she recalled the way he’d looked at her. His quick flash of vulnerability when she’d teased him about his manners had touched her. She would have sworn that vulnerability went deeper than his wife’s death. Ah, but she would never know. Glenross was uncomfortably intense. Challenging. Exciting.

She’d had enough of that. Her father had been wildly exciting, carrying his family along in the wake of his high spirits. But his irresponsibility had cost his family their fortune and their future. After her mother had died of consumption, her father had squandered what was left of their resources to bury his grief in alcohol and games of chance. Five years later he had fallen off his horse in a drunken stupor and broken his neck, leaving Afton and his sister, Henrietta, to deal with the aftermath of his excesses.

Glenross, too, made her feel as if she were falling through space, rushing toward the ground, never hitting bottom, but knowing it was coming. She was exhilarated but terrified, and she couldn’t bear that feeling. After the last five years of living hand to mouth, she just wanted to feel safe, free of doubt and uncertainty. She wanted security and the assurance that her life would be calm and predictable.

Sir Martin, now, was an entirely different matter. Handsome, polite, stable, uncomplicated and very civilized. Very safe. Yes. If she had to choose a man this season, it would be Martin Seymour. Life would be simpler with someone like Seymour.

Chapter Four

L oosening the strings of her green woolen cloak, Afton took the single chair in front of Mr. Evans’s desk. “Booked solid for the next few days?” She glanced at the calendar on the wall. December 15. Only sixteen more days to catch the killer.

“Yes, Miss Lovejoy. Noon through tea beginning on Monday. Only one appointment today, later this afternoon. I thought Miss Henrietta would be pleased that business is so brisk.”

“Yes.” Afton cleared her throat. “But could you leave her some spare time for the next few weeks? My sister has come to town and Aunt Henrietta would like to visit with her.”

She wished she could tell him the truth, but the Wednesday League had agreed that the fewer people who knew the truth, the better their odds of success. If word got out that her aunt was dead, the villain would never rise to the bait.

Mr. Evans gave her a deferential nod. “I shall endeavor to direct appointments to afternoons.”

Afton thought of the endless rounds of receiving and paying calls, teas, shopping and sightseeing, and relented. Someone had to keep Dianthe’s spending in check. Unfortunately, Dianthe took after their father in that regard. “Perhaps a few in the evenings and a few during the day?”

“As you wish, Miss Lovejoy.” The factor busied himself with copying a list of names and appointment times for her.

“And, um, she wants you to put off Glenross when he comes to reschedule.”

“Was there a problem with the man?”

“Not exactly. But I—she cannot decide what he wants of her.”

Mr. Evans nodded and went back to his task. As she watched him transfer the appointments to a separate sheet of paper, she was struck with an idea. “Mr. Evans? Could you…that is, my aunt noted that one of her clients left, er, dropped a possession during his last appointment, but she cannot recall who it was. It was in the last week of November or the first week of December. She has misplaced her list and asked if I could prevail upon you for a copy of her appointments during that fortnight.”

Mr. Evans looked up from the paper and pursed his lips. He gave a rather pointed glance at the clock on the shelf behind him. “It will take a few moments, Miss Lovejoy.”

“Thank you, sir. I will wait.”

She perched on the edge of her chair, as if so temporary that Mr. Evans would not be inconvenienced beyond the moment he could produce the list. The man bent to finish his current work, then flipped the pages of Henrietta’s appointment book back to the time in question and began copying the names.

Afton could not wait to tell the Wednesday League of her brilliant idea. Although Auntie Hen hadn’t had an appointment the night she’d been murdered, it was possible she had seen her killer in the recent past. If Afton could give Mr. Renquist those names, he would know who to question. Who to investigate.

And, as luck would have it, she was to meet Mr. Renquist in less than an hour at La Meilleure Robe. She could give him a copy of the list of her aunt’s appointments, and answers would not be far behind.

A few moments later, the lists tucked into her white fur muff, she descended the single flight of stairs to the street. A blast of cold air took her breath away as she rounded the corner, ran squarely into a solid mass and teetered backward.

Lord Glenross steadied her with a firm hand on her elbow. “My apologies, miss.”

Afton’s hood had fallen back and she noted that Glenross was no less surprised than she. “Glenross! How…I mean, what…oh, dear.”

He glanced at the stairway. “Are you well, Miss Lovejoy?”

“Yes, thank you,” she said, frozen in place.

He reached out to touch her cheek, and his finger came away with a tear. “I have not injured you, have I?” he asked.

“Oh, no, my lord. I just…have come from seeing my factor and…”

“You have had bad news?”

“No. Oh, no.” She gave a little laugh and shook her head. “I was just thinking of, well, of the season, and of how I wish I were back in Little Upton for the holiday.”

“Homesick, eh?” He grinned. “One’s own hearth and home is a great comfort, is it not?”