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The Rake's Revenge
Gail Ranstrom
THE EARL OF GLENROSS WOULD HAVE HIS REVENGE–BUT AT WHAT PRICE?Rob McHugh had survived an agonizing ordeal in foreign climes only to discover his family's tragedy was rooted in British soil. For a terrible irony revealed that Afton Lovejoy, his beautiful English rose, had dangerous thorns–and was, in fact, the very woman he'd sworn to destroy!AFTON LOVEJOY WAS BENT ON JUSTICE!Her beloved aunt had been murdered, forcing Afton to masquerade as fortune-teller to the ton to find the killer. What she found, however, was a dangerous, heady mix of intrigue and desire–for Rob McHugh, notorious womanizer, had roused her passions…and her suspicions!
“What could you possibly have to interest me?”
There was challenge in McHugh’s voice, and insult. Yet she knew she loved him, needed him as he could never need her.
Even worse, she could not rid herself of the memory of the sensations he’d evoked. Her thoughts kept returning there, wanting more, needing more, and knowing she could never submit to such intimacies again if they did not come from him.
She lifted her chin in defiance, daring him to carry out his threat, both dreading and needing the answer to her question. What did he mean to do?
McHugh closed the remaining distance between them and pulled her roughly against him. “Damn it! You know what I want, Afton. You’ve always known, and you’ve used it against me.”
She sighed. “How could I when I wanted it, too?”
Praise for Gail Ranstrom
Saving Sarah
“Gail Ranstrom has written a unique story with several twists that work within the confines of Regency England…. If Ranstrom’s first book showed promise, then Saving Sarah is when Ranstrom comes of age.”
—The Romance Reader
A Wild Justice
“Gail Ranstrom certainly has both writing talent and original ideas.”
—The Romance Reader
The Rake’s Revenge
Gail Ranstrom
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
For Natalie, Jay and Katie, the three best things that
ever happened to me. Thank you for being my best friends
and my biggest fans. I love you
more than words can ever say.
A grateful nod to the bridge ladies
of Missoula, Montana: Shari L., Linda K., Nancy G.,
Sherry S., Nancy N., Linda C. and Judy S.
Your strength, kindness and friendship have been
an inspiration. Thank you for being with me
through the darkest times and the brightest.
And, of course, the Wednesday League—
Margaret, Cynthia and Rosanne.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Epilogue
Prologue
London, December 3, 1818
“D ead? Madame Zoe is dead?”
Nodding, Afton Lovejoy paced her aunt Grace’s parlor in wide circles and fought the lump in her throat. There was worse to come, but the Wednesday League, the group of five intrepid ladies who secretly obtained justice for wronged women, did not know that yet.
“When?” Annica Sinclair, Lady Auberville, blinked her deep green eyes and set her teacup aside.
“Yesterday morning. I cannot be certain how long she lay there, but ’twas then that I found her. She…she—” Afton paused to brace herself against the rising pain. She couldn’t give way to it. If she did, she’d never stop crying.
“Sit down, dear,” her aunt Grace said, waiting until Afton perched on the edge of a chair before continuing. “Madame Zoe was still alive when Afton arrived at her salon above La Meilleure Robe. She expired in Afton’s arms. Afton went downstairs to Madame Marie, and Marie, knowing Afton is my niece, sent for me.”
“How perfectly awful for you, Afton,” Lady Sarah Travis gasped. “Had she been ill?”
“’Twas murder,” Afton announced. “There were wounds on her temple and abdomen that had bled profusely, and bruises around her throat. Her assailant must have thought she was dead when he left.”
Charity Wardlow’s cup rattled in the saucer and she put it down before it could spill. “I always come over queer when there is a murder. Oh, dear—the gossip this will create! The ton’s premier fortune-teller dead at the hand of a murderer.”
“The ton must not find out, Charity. At least, not yet,” Grace said.
“But the constabulary will report—”
Grace shook her head. “They will report nothing. We did not tell them. Everyone believed Madame Zoe was just another French émigré—a woman who lived on the fringe of society, a woman of little consequence. And that belief is preferable to the truth.”
“What is the truth?” Lady Annica asked, leaning forward.
Grace hesitated only a moment before replying. “That Madame Zoe was, in fact, an English gentlewoman reduced to earning a living in the only way open to her, yet compelled to hide her identity to spare her family shame.”
The heat of a blush stole up Afton’s cheeks. How utterly humiliating it was to be the proverbial “poor relations.” And how scandalous to admit your family’s living was made by swindling the ton.
“You knew her? Personally?” Sarah asked.
“She was Henrietta Lovejoy,” Grace admitted. “Afton’s maiden aunt on her father’s side.”
There was a finality to hearing those words spoken aloud that Afton had been able to deny until this very minute. Auntie Hen was gone. Dead. Murdered. Buried secretly in a convent garden. Afton glanced up to see all eyes upon her. The desolation of loss spilled tears over her lashes and down her cheeks. She dashed them away with an impatient flick. Later. She’d deal with the pain later.
“How dreadful for you, Afton, and for you, Grace.” Annica stood to give them each a warm hug. “But, if you did not call the authorities…” The question hung in the air.
“We waited until dark and then hired a dray to take Henrietta’s b—remains to the nuns at St. Ann’s. Under the guise of a nun, she was buried privately with due respect and consideration this morning,” Grace explained. “Only Afton and I were present.”
Charity leaned forward in her chair. “What of her friends and family? There will be questions.”
“I fear not, Charity,” Grace said with a little sigh. “Hen did not mix in London society, and she lost touch with her friends in Wiltshire long ago. She said that was the only way to maintain her anonymity as Madame Zoe. Five years as Madame Zoe, and only Madame Marie, Afton and I knew her true identity.”
Lifting her chin with resolution, Afton said, “I have been thinking what I can do to make this right. How to…to—”
“Obtain justice for your aunt?” Annica guessed.
Afton nodded and braced herself for a storm of protest. Here, at last, was the crux of the matter. “The killer cannot be certain that Auntie Hen is dead, since she was still alive when I found her. I intend to pose as her and flush him out.”
“What! No! You cannot!” The ladies spoke as one.
Annica and Sarah exchanged concerned glances. Afton knew they had both conducted investigations with near-dire consequences, barely escaping with their lives.
“Madame Zoe was the foremost fortune-teller in London. Why, anyone of consequence has been to her salon. How can you hope to deceive the entire ton?” Sarah asked.
Afton sighed. “Auntie Hen and I both learned to read tarot cards from a gypsy camped on the Lovejoy estate one rainy summer. I scoffed, but the crone told me that magic was real and that I would learn that someday,” she said. “’Twas just a parlor game then, a lark, but ’twas great good fun, and I still remember what each of the cards mean. I intend to wear Auntie Hen’s disguise of widow’s weeds and veils, and speak in a low, damaged voice with a French accent. Sooner or later, the murderer will have to return.”
“To kill you,” Charity said. “’Tis too dangerous. He will have the advantage because he knows that Zoe can identify him. But you will not know him. Oh, if we only knew more!”
Afton looked down at her closed fist. “There is more. I found this on the floor beside her.” She opened her hand to reveal a black onyx raven with a small diamond eye, mounted on a gold stickpin. The ladies leaned over her hand to study the object.
“Stunning,” Annica declared. “Quite valuable, unless I miss my guess. The murderer will be looking for Zoe, but he will also be looking for his lost pin.”
“I still cannot fathom how he gained entry,” Charity ventured. “I thought one was required to make an appointment with Madame Zoe through her factor. A man named Mr. Evans.”
“Auntie Hen had no appointments that night. The murderer either found her at her salon by chance, or stalked her until she was alone.” Afton’s voice tightened with anger.
Grace tucked a single stray strand of chestnut hair back into place and nodded. “We hope the murderer will be so mystified by Zoe’s survival that he will proceed with extreme caution. At the very least he will not be looking for Miss Afton Lovejoy from Little Upton, Wiltshire. But there will be undeniable danger when Afton is posing as Zoe in the salon above Madame Marie’s dress shop. Perhaps one of us should hide in the little dressing room whenever Afton is there.”
“I know!” Charity exclaimed. “We shall ask Mr. Renquist to install a bell rope in Zoe’s salon that rings in La Meilleure Robe’s sewing room downstairs. Then Afton could ring for help if something should go awry.”
Afton recalled that Mr. Renquist, Madame Marie’s husband, was the Wednesday League’s chief investigator and had a legion of Bow Street Runners at his disposal. She was comforted by the thought of having him within call. She might yet live through this affair.
Lady Annica leaned forward. “If you insist upon doing this, Afton, you will have our full support and assistance. I shall spread the story that Madame Zoe had an accident and cannot recall anything because of an injury to her head. Perhaps that will reassure the murderer that ‘Madame Zoe’ will not name him.”
“Still, I am uneasy….” Grace began. “Very well, but only until the end of the month, Afton. After that, we shall have to inform the authorities. This sort of villainy cannot go unreported.”
Afton took a deep breath. It was both more and less than she had hoped for—more help, less time. Thus, there was no time to lose. “I shall begin at once.”
Chapter One
London, December 12, 1818
C ould there be any greater contrast between these smells and sounds and the dank Moorish dungeon he had so recently escaped? Lord Robert McHugh, fourth earl of Glenross, shrugged out of his greatcoat and handed it to a waiting footman. The scent of evergreens mixed with spicy canapés and hot mulled wine wafted through the air. The soft strains of an orchestra and polite conversation carried from an adjacent room. Beside him, Lord Ethan Travis kept up a discourse on the many reasons Rob should reconsider attending this soiree tonight.
“You are not ready for this, McHugh. You are only a fortnight back in London. Give yourself more time before—”
“No time to spare, Travis,” he said. “It ran out in Algiers.”
“You need to reacquaint yourself with society. If you rush in where angels fear to tread—”
