The Rake's Revenge Read online

  “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

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  TITLES AVAILABLE NOW:

  #732 THE LAST HONEST OUTLAW

  Carol Finch

  #733 ONE NIGHT IN PARADISE

  Juliet Landon

  #734 MONTANA WIFE

  Jillian Hart

  THE RAKE’S REVENGE

  GAIL RANSTROM

  Available from Harlequin Historicals and GAIL RANSTROM

  A Wild Justice #617

  Saving Sarah #660

  The Christmas Visit #727

  “A Christmas Secret”

  The Rake’s Revenge #731

  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

  “Dead? 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

  Could 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—”

  “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 e
scape 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.