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“Do you think society is not ready for me?” Rob could not help smiling at his friend’s concern.
Ethan shot him an exasperated look. “I’d find a barber, were I you. Your locks are beyond Byronic. And your emotions are as raw as a winter day. Diplomacy has never been your strong suit. Under the circumstances, no one could fault you, but why put yourself through the whispers, the pity….”
Pity? He’d have to squelch that. He’d rather be hated than pitied. “Why the concern, Ethan? The Foreign Office has kept me in isolation since my return. Two blasted weeks of picking my brains for any scrap of information I managed to gather during my…ah, residence at the Dey’s palace. It is too early for you to have had complaints of me.”
“That is what I am trying to forestall.”
“Has anyone complained of my manners?” he asked.
“Your manners, when you choose, are impeccable, Rob. Not so your reputation. And you’ve done little to mend it. Your single-mindedness and complete lack of a conscience when pursuing a goal are legendary. But I still wouldn’t be ready to toast debutantes and make polite conversation had I been through what you have the past few years, and worse these last six months.”
Rob pushed the ache of memories back into the dark recesses of his mind. He couldn’t allow his demons to divert him from his mission tonight. “Your concern is unnecessary, Ethan.”
“I know you want to find this ‘Madame Zoe’ person and bring her down, but this is not the time for it, Rob.”
“None better,” he countered. “But have no fear. I shan’t make a scene. To the contrary, I mean to keep my intentions secret. Bad hunting strategy to sound the horn and send the fox to ground.”
Ethan cleared his throat. “Mrs. Forbush is my wife’s close personal friend. She is introducing her niece, Miss Dianthe Lovejoy, to society tonight. She would be devastated if anything should go wrong.”
“You regret obtaining the invitation for me?” he asked. “What could possibly go wrong?”
“Good God, McHugh. Can you be serious?”
Rob gave a grim laugh. “Did the Foreign Office ask you to watch me? You sound just like Lord Kilgrew. He urged me to take some time before resuming my…obligations.” Rob tugged at the crisp curls at the back of his neck and permitted himself a small sigh. He supposed Ethan was right about one thing—he should have gotten a haircut.
But Ethan Travis needn’t have worried. Rob’s incarceration in Algiers had given him time to contain his cold fury at the forces that had set him on this path. Without that control, he’d be burning a path through London society in pursuit of the information he sought.
Ethan sprang a surprise of his own. “Your brother, now,” he said in an obvious attempt to turn Rob’s attention to a less volatile subject, “makes up for your social inadequacies. He’s been making an impression on London society since arriving six weeks ago. Did you know he’s staying at Limmer’s?”
“Douglas is in London?” This was a surprise. The Foreign Office had permitted no news of the outside world during Rob’s two-week interrogation.
Ethan nodded. “Your solicitor sent for him when the news reached us that the Dey had sentenced you to death, and that you…would not be coming back.”
“Hope he’s not squandering his inheritance.” Rob grinned. “Does he know that I’m alive?”
“Not yet. But my note should be catching up to him within the hour. Be warned—he’s got himself engaged.”
“Has he now? In a month? That was quick work.”
“You’ll like her, Rob. ’Tis the Barlow girl. Do you recall Beatrice?”
Rob nodded as they entered the Forbush ballroom. If memory served, Beatrice “Bebe” Barlow was a pretty, petite blonde of about twenty-one years or so. She had engaged his attention for about two minutes before he realized she was quite ordinary—even a little flighty. That soft vagueness would appeal to Douglas, though, and Rob wished his brother well.
He noted the short hush that fell over the assembly, followed by looks of pity or common curiosity, as he entered. It would appear the news of the outcome of his mission and his escape had reached the ton even before he had. A lightning flash did not strike with the speed of London gossip. What a pity the Foreign Office could not harness that force for foreign intelligence-gathering.
He paused near the fireplace to reconnoiter. He could never enter a room without scanning it for potential hazards, enemies or traps, or identifying exits and escapes—a result of having been too long with the Foreign Office, and too long in a foreign prison. Ethan gave him a nod of support before going on alone to find his wife.
And there across the room, engaged in conversation with a stunning woman with reddish-blond hair in a pink gown, was his hostess, Mrs. Grace Forbush, a beautiful widow in her early thirties—and the very person to aid him in his quest. Mrs. Forbush, with her popular Friday afternoon salons, knew all that went on in the ton. All that mattered, that is. He assumed a pleasant smile and his best society manners, and went forward to do battle.
Grace lowered her voice to a whisper. “I am afraid for you, Afton. You have only a little more than two weeks. If you continue to pose as Madame Zoe after that, I fear that we might lose you.”
“I cannot stop now, Aunt Grace. I’ve lost Mama and Papa, and Auntie Hen,” Afton whispered back. Her heart caught in her throat as she thought of all that was at stake. “I cannot lose anyone else. I do not think I’d survive it.”
She glanced to the dance floor, where her younger sister, Dianthe, waltzed by with an eligible young baron. Her blond hair shone in the candlelight and her pale blue gown was a perfect foil for her china-blue eyes. By any standard, Dianthe was an uncommon beauty. If she married well, Afton could count that one obligation met. One less task to claim her attention. One step closer to her final goal of meeting her promise to her dying father to keep the family safe and secure—a task his own incompetence had prevented him from accomplishing.
She was touched by Grace’s concern but unswayed in her determination. “If the murderer meant to kill me, he has had ten days to attempt it. Lady Annica’s rumor about Madame Zoe losing her memory must have eased his mind.”
Grace stiffened as she glanced at a point beyond Afton’s right shoulder. Judging from the expression on her face, her aunt was surprised and a little uncertain.
“Mrs. Forbush, thank you for inviting me this evening.”
Something in the deep timbre and faint Scottish brogue of that voice sent a chill up Afton’s spine. She turned to see the speaker bow over Grace’s hand and lift it to his sensual lips. A shock of dark hair fell over his brow and light sparked in eyes the shade of moss. When he straightened, he was a full six feet and more. His shoulders were broad, his features were finely chiseled and, despite his beauty, he was intensely masculine. Or was it the hint of frozen danger hovering about him like a ghostly presence that made her shiver?
“Lord Glenross! Heavens! I did not expect you to come in view of—that is—I’m delighted, but I did not hope to see you.”
Lord Glenross? The man the entire ton had been gossiping about for the past two hours? The man who had just escaped after six months in an Algerian prison under sentence of death? Ah, now she knew the reason for his detachment. And her unease. She could not even imagine what might be done to a British officer in an Algerian prison.
Lord Glenross smiled—at least Afton thought it was a smile, but it could have been a grimace—his attention still fastened on Grace. “I would not have dreamed of missing it.”
“You flatter me, Lord Glenross. I was not altogether certain you would welcome an invitation under the circumstances. That is…I thought—”
Afton could not take her eyes off the man. He turned to her as Grace continued her apology. His glance traveled from her eyes, paused in study of her mouth, then dropped farther to linger a moment at her throat before dipping to the low décolletage of her pale pink gown. Her skin tingled in the wake of that heated gaze. When he returned his attention to her face, he gave her a devastating smile that made faint dimples appear in both cheeks, and Afton could not catch her breath. His appraisal, without the final smile, would have been insulting. She might have been flattered if there had not been something cynical in his study…as if there was really nothing personal in his assessment. As if he could appreciate, but never participate.
Lord Glenross returned his attention to Grace, as if remembering her suddenly. “Thank you, Mrs. Forbush, but I am quite all right,” he said.
Grace gave him a doubtful smile. “I am glad to hear it. If there is anything I can do, my lord, you need only ask.”
He paused long enough for Afton to realize he was measuring his reply—managing the impression he gave. That knowledge set her on her guard.
He lifted one shoulder in a negligent shrug. “I’ve had time to ponder the Fates, Mrs. Forbush, and wonder what forces set us on a path.”
Fascinated by where he was headed with his conversation, Afton accepted a cup of rum punch from a passing footman’s tray and fortified herself with a deep gulp while she awaited Lord Glenross’s further explanation.
“Life is a great mystery, is it not? Any advantage one might gain would be of assistance, do you not agree?”
“Why, yes, I do,” Grace said. “I have always believed that knowledge is a powerful thing.”
“I knew you would think so, Mrs. Forbush, and that is why I have sought you out to ask how to contact a certain ‘Madame Zoe.’ Pray tell, how might I accomplish that?”
Surprise and shock made Afton choke, the punch halfway down her throat. Lord Glenross stepped forward, a concerned look on his face.
Grace intercepted him and thumped Afton on the back, glancing at her in silent desperation before answering. “Oh, Lord Glenross! How would I know such a thing?”
“You know everything worth knowing, Mrs. Forbush. And if you do not know, you know how to find out.”
Afton finally caught her breath and Grace turned her attention back to Glenross. “Well, um, yes. I suppose I could make inquiries, but I must say that I am astonished, my lord. I would never have thought you to be the sort who would traffic with psychics.”
“The collective ton says Madame Zoe is a phenomenon, Mrs. Forbush. Perhaps she will predict my future.” His expression did not change, but the corner of his right eye twitched faintly. “Or perhaps I shall predict hers,” he added.
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.
