The Rake's Revenge. Gail Ranstrom
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