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“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?”
“A great comfort,” she repeated with a little shiver.
Lord Glenross lifted her hood from her shoulders and settled it over her head again, arranging the fur-lined drape to frame her face. His gloved hand grazed her cheek and she caught her breath at the intimacy of the touch. He glanced at the stairway again and she suspected he was headed for Mr. Evans’s office to make another appointment. She did not envy the factor having to put Glenross off.
“Thank you for your assistance, my lord. I…I should be on my way now.” She shivered and backed away from him, anxious to clear her head.
He took her elbow once more and led her into the busy foot traffic on Fleet Street. “Where is your escort, Miss Lovejoy? Your coach?”
“I am my aunt’s employee, my lord. I have no escort, and I walked from her house.”
“Mrs. Forbush allowed—”
“She tried to send me in the coach, but I told her I could use the walk to clear my head. Sometimes she tries to do too much for me, and I have to remind her that I am in her employ.”
Snow mixed with rain began to fall, forming small pellets that made little clicking noises as they hit buildings, windowpanes and cobblestones. If the temperature dropped a few more degrees, there would be a heavy snowfall. The pavement had already grown slick as the sleet froze on the smooth surface. She shivered and drew her cloak a little closer.
Glenross’s features softened. “I believe I passed a tearoom a few doors down. I think you need to be warmed, Miss Lovejoy. Your aunt’s house is not exactly nearby.” He shook his head when she opened her mouth to protest. “I will not hear any objections. If you were found frozen tomorrow, I’d never forgive myself. Come. It is nearly tea time.”
Afton had no choice but to allow him to escort her the thirty yards or so to the small tearoom. A little bell above the door rang when they entered the shop, and a woman dressed in black with a white apron and dust cap came out of the back room.
“Welcome,” she said, her accent suggesting a hint of cockney. She led the way to a small private booth in the back, designed to protect them from curious stares. It held a small round table and two chairs. Ladies were not served with the general population and most genteel establishments had similar arrangements to accommodate just such circumstances. “You’re the first of the afternoon trade,” she said, hinting that they would not be disturbed.
Afton glanced at her escort. She’d never been to tea with a man. Country living did not lend itself to such refinements, and she had not been in such a position since arriving in London. She knew she was a country bumpkin, but she took a deep breath and decided to carry it off with as much aplomb as she could manage.
The warmth of the cozy tearoom was welcoming after the cold starkness of Mr. Evans’s office and the chill of the sleet. Lord Glenross lifted the cloak from her shoulders and hung it on a peg outside their booth. He held a chair for her and she sat. When she took her hand out of her fur muff, the folded sheets of paper fluttered to the floor. She had forgotten about Mr. Evans’s lists in the shock of colliding with Glenross.
Glenross had closed the little curtain that would shield their privacy when he turned and noted the papers on the floor. He lifted one eyebrow in question as he bent to pick them up. “Yours?”
“Oh!” she squeaked. “My…my errand list. A-and a shopping list.” She reached out to take the sheets from him. If he unfolded them, he would see the names and appointment times, and would know what she had been doing at Mr. Evans’s office.
Something of her panic must have reached him because he hesitated and gave her a curious look. “Miss Lovejoy, are you certain you are quite all right?”
“Yes, of course.” She extended her hand farther in wordless insistence.
He glanced at the papers as if he had forgotten them, then looked at her and smiled. “If it is errands, I’d do you a favor to lose them.”
“No! Please, my lord.”
“I was teasing, Miss Lovejoy. Apparently I need more practice. I would not have suspected Mrs. Forbush is such a harsh taskmaster.”
“She is not, my lord. The lists are mine. Personal.” Afton hated the panic lacing her voice, but she was growing more desperate. The knowledge that he could recognize the appointment list made her dizzy with anxiety.
Slowly, almost reluctantly, Glenross offered her the papers. She claimed them and quickly pushed them back in her muff, safely out of sight. When she glanced up again, he was studying her with a puzzled frown.
“I…I had forgot what was on the lists already, and feared I would return home with errands undone,” she said, compelled to offer an explanation for her behavior.
His expression grave, he nodded. “I have a theory about that.”
“Yes?” she asked
“If you forget, you truly do not want to remember. And if it is truly important, you will remember.”
“Yes, but I recall now that one of my errands is to buy ribbon for Dianthe’s hair for the Spencers’ ball tonight.”
He grinned as he sat across from her. “Ah. Ribbons. Important, indeed.”
The shop bell rang and the sound of another group entering the tearoom and taking seats in the main room carried to them in the back. Afton flashed Glenross a nervous smile, suddenly realizing how compromising their discovery together could be. Had she been an ordinary servant, no one would remark upon it, but since she existed on the fringe of society, her behavior should have been more circumspect. Glenross was a controversial man, and his title made him even more interesting to the ton. Ah well, too late now.
Glenross returned her nervous smile with a quirk of his own expressive mouth. She realized he was fully aware of the potential for gossip, and did not care a whit. Odd, she thought, for a man who valued his heritage and family name.
The serving girl brought a tray laden with teapot, cups, little biscuits, muffins and tea cakes, pots of jam and honey and thin cucumber sandwiches. When she’d unloaded the tray, she stepped back and asked, “Will there be anything else?”
Glenross shook his head. “No, thank you, miss. I shall ask if there is.”
She bobbed a curtsy and hurried away. After an awkward pause, Afton took charge of the pot. When she had served them both to her satisfaction, she sat back and sipped from her cup. Glenross looked completely out of place with a dainty teacup in his large scarred hand and she couldn’t help but laugh.
“I am sorry, my lord, but you do not look altogether comfortable. Which, of course, only indebts me further.”
“How so, Miss Lovejoy?”
“That you have sacrificed your comfort for mine. I do not much fancy having to repay you by bellying up to a bar with a tankard of ale, or rum, or some such beverage.”
It was his turn to laugh, a rare and unexpected sound. “I would not ask so much of you. I shall count myself well paid if you grant me another waltz.”
“Then do count upon it, Glenross,” she said, more firmly than was wise.
Conversation outside their booth stopped. His identity now known, Glenross’s assignation with an unseen woman would certainly be the topic of conversation around dinner tables and dance floors. Afton gave her companion an apologetic look.
“I am sorry,” she whispered. “I did not mean to call attention to you.”
He did not seem perturbed in the least. “This makes an excellent argument for a less formal form of address, does it not? Please forgo my title, Miss Lovejoy. Call me Rob, or McHugh. All my friends do.”
Friends! Did he really think of her as a friend? “I do not believe that would be appropriate,” she murmured in a low voice, not wanting to be overheard again.
“I insist.”
Afton opened her mouth and formed the “R” but could not bring herself to adopt the intimacy of the word. Indeed, the only male she’d ever called by his given name was Bennett. Why, even her mother had referred to her father as “Mr. Lovejoy.”
“Come now, Miss Lovejoy. It cannot be that difficult,” Lord Glenross taunted with a wicked grin.
“McHugh,” she gasped at last, finding “Rob” impossible to manage. Perhaps someday, if their acquaintance lasted that long, she could try “Lord Robert.”
He nodded his approval. “Good enough for now. Come, let’s plump you up with cake and jam.”
Using silver tongs, he placed a small slice of airy sponge cake on a plate and spooned a dollop of Devon cream and raspberry jam over the top. He placed a fork on the side of the plate and handed it to her with a flourish, as if to show her he was not lacking manners.
Catching his mood, she took a delicate bite, closed her eyes, smiled and moaned, “Mmm…heavenly,” as she licked the remaining cream from her lips.
When she opened her eyes, McHugh was looking at her as if dumbstruck. He blinked, cleared his throat and finished his cup of tea in a single gulp. “Yes. Heavenly.”
