The Rake's Revenge. Gail Ranstrom
words. One of his many shortcomings. He stood again and stepped away from her.
“Oh,” she murmured. “You looked so affected that I thought you…that is, well, it is a pity, nonetheless.”
“It is indeed,” he conceded. But not for the reason Miss Lovejoy would think. He was glad to see the color returning to her cheeks. Now he would be able to leave her and get the hell out of here. “Shall I return you to your aunt?”
“Yes, thank you. I must speak to her at once.” When she looked up at him, her aqua eyes were luminous with unshed tears. “I fear I am still in your debt.”
“Ah, the dance.” He regarded her somberly. “I shall put it on account.”
Afton waited until Glenross was out of earshot before she reported the events to her aunt and finished with her latest worry. “It never occurred to me until I heard about Mr. Livingston that Auntie Hen’s killer might have happened upon her by chance. Mr. Livingston has nothing in common with Auntie Hen, and yet he was killed as randomly and in the same manner, and there was an object with a raven found at the scene. Perhaps Auntie Hen’s murderer was not one of her clients, but a common burglar or thief who was surprised to find her in residence.”
Grace drew her eyebrows together in a frown. “Because of the value of the raven pin and the fact that she was found in the fortune-telling salon instead of her little flat, we assumed that the murderer was one of her clients.” Grace’s eyes met hers. “We must not rule anything out, Afton, least of all this new coincidence. Still, I think it far more likely that Henrietta’s killer knew her. I shall send a note to Mr. Renquist in the morning, informing him of this new development.”
“But if the murder was random—”
“Then you are wasting your time,” Grace finished for her. “He will not be back.”
“And if it wasn’t?” Afton shivered, somehow doubting Auntie Hen’s murder was as random as Mr. Livingston’s.
“Then you have barely two weeks remaining to find the villain before the Wednesday League turns this matter over to the authorities.”
Rob locked his door and turned up the oil lamp on the bedside table. His bed had been readied, the fire in the grate had been banked and a foot warmer waited on the hearth for his use. The Pultney was known for its elegance, service and security, and that had seemed just what he needed after months in a hellhole. But perhaps all was not what it seemed.
He shrugged out of his jacket and tossed it over the back of the desk chair. He checked his window, three stories above the street. Locked. He’d known it would be. Just as his door had been locked. He glanced at the wardrobe in one corner, feeling his anxiety rise a notch and a fine coating of sweat dew his brow.
He poured himself a glass of brandy from the bottle on the bedside table, tossed it down in two gulps, poured another and put it on the mantel over the fireplace before crossing the room to the wardrobe. His hand shook as he reached out to turn the latch.
“Bloody hell,” he snarled to himself, disgusted with his reaction to the small space. He feared what he might do if faced with that sort of confinement again.
He seized the knob, turned it quickly and opened the door wide. One after another, he examined his jackets and coats. When he came to the coat he’d worn that afternoon, he clenched his jaw. The right sleeve was torn and missing a button.
Years ago, Maeve had ordered custom buttons for his vests and jackets. The Glenross family crest included the Scottish unicorn and the Glenross raven, and Maeve had selected the raven as the emblem to be carved on buttons made of horn, bone, shell and wood.
This was not the first personal item to disappear since his return. A number of other objects, valuable and inconsequential, were missing, too. What the hell was going on?
A sharp rap on his door spun him around. “Who is it?” he called.
“Douglas! Open up, Rob.”
He shoved his jacket back into the wardrobe, and when he unlocked his door, Douglas pushed his way inside. “What is it, Doogie?”
“’Tis women, Rob. Bebe is behaving deucedly odd.”
“Let me get this straight.” Rob exaggerated a thoughtful pose. “You want me to explain women?”
“Aye.” His brother nodded. “You’ve been married, which is more than I can say for most of my friends. What accounts for the female vagueness? And why are they so variable from day to day? I vow, Monday Bebe adores me. Tuesday, I am the enemy. And Wednesday she indulges me like a three-year-old. By Friday, I am the Antichrist.”
Rob cleared his throat. “Um, well, I am certain this is a very…emotional time for the young lady.” In truth, he feared life with Bebe would always be filled with drama. But there was a greater question. “How much do you love her, Douglas? Enough to indulge her moods and whims?”
“Aye. She’s everything to me,” his brother vowed. “All I want to do is make her happy, and I fear I’m failing miserably.”
Rob clapped him on the back and went to his bedside table to pour him a drink. “Here,” he said, offering the glass, “you will be needing this.”
“So what advice do you have for me?” Douglas persisted.
Rob raised his glass in a salute. “Buy more whiskey.”
“This is normal, then? This moodiness?”
“How would I know what normal is, Doogie?”
“Aye. You and Maeve were betrothed from the cradle. She had a long time to accustom herself to the thought of marrying you.” Douglas grinned. “’Tis the reason the two of you never fought. Two bodies, one mind.”
Douglas was wrong. Rob and Maeve never fought because neither of them had cared enough to argue.
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