The Rake's Revenge. Gail Ranstrom

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.”

      She took a small sip of her own tea, studying McHugh. He seemed suddenly uncomfortable. “Are you well?” she asked.

      “I have thought of something I must do, and the sooner the better.”

      “Oh?” Afton wondered if she had done something wrong. What could account for Glenross’s sudden change of mood?

      “Take your time, Miss Lovejoy. Finish your tea and I will send my coach back for you.”

      “But…ah, that is not necessary, my lord.” She groped for words. “I prefer to walk. Really.”

      He opened the little curtain across the booth a crack. “It is snowing now, Miss Lovejoy. Heavily. The streets will be muddy and unpleasant.” His voice was harsh, making it clear that he was forbidding her to walk.

      The greatest chill was coming from Glenross, she thought. “I have several errands and will be stopping frequently.”

      “Where are you going?”

      Afton recalled the list Mr. Evans had given her, and that she had a meeting scheduled with Mr. Renquist before her afternoon appointment as Madame Zoe. But she could not tell Glenross that. “Hatchard’s, the Exeter Change and…” She halted suddenly, wondering why she felt a need to explain to Glenross. “Really, my lord, I appreciate your concern, but that’s quite enough.”

      The glacial-moss look was back in his eyes. “As you say. I will pay the shopkeeper on the way out.” He stood, keeping his hat in front of him and bowing sharply at the waist. With no more explanation than that, he turned and departed. Was this another example of the infamous Glenross unpredictability?

      Breathless, Afton arrived at La Meilleure Robe at the appointed time. Mr. Renquist was waiting in one of the back fitting rooms, tapping his foot impatiently. His wife, Madame Marie, gave him a quelling glance.

      “François, you are impolite. The girl is on time. Do you attempt to intimidate ’er?”

      He looked suitably abashed. “My apologies, Miss Lovejoy. I have been anxious to know what you have for me. The ladies have been quiet of late and I had begun to think they had no further use for me.”

      She took the little list from her muff and handed it over. She had meant to recopy the names, but her encounter with McHugh had taken all her time. She had read the list, though, and would remember most of the names.

      “Interesting,” he murmured, scanning the lines. “It reads like a list of the ton’s most influential. What is it, miss?”

      Afton sighed. “Auntie Hen’s appointments for the two weeks prior to her murder.”

      Mr. Renquist smiled up at his wife. “Marie, this one has an investigator’s mind.”

      Madame Marie ruffled his hair affectionately. “But of course she does, chéri.”

      He grinned, obviously delighting in teasing his wife. He turned back to Afton. “I will look into this at once.”

      She heaved a sigh of relief. This, at least, was one thing she needn’t worry about. Mr. Renquist had handled many cases for the Wednesday League and he could be trusted implicitly. “When should we meet again, sir?”

      “I shall put one of my best men on this.” He paused, sensing her impatience. “I will leave word through my wife when I have anything to report. Never you fear, miss. We’ll find the bas…the cur who did this to Miss Henrietta.”

      “Thank you, sir. And thank you for installing the little bell in Auntie’s flat. It gives me great comfort to know I can summon help if need be.”

      “No trouble at all, miss. If anything happened to you, the ladies would skin me alive. I should set one of my men to guarding you.”

      “Entirely unnecessary, Mr. Renquist,” she said. The last thing she needed was to have some strange man following her or waiting outside Aunt Grace’s for her to leave. How would she ever explain that to Dianthe?

      “If you should change your mind, miss, just let me know. Best to be safe, eh?”

      “I am always cautious, Mr. Renquist.”

      He stared at her for a moment and then laughed. “That’s a good one, miss. You almost had me there.”

      “Oh, Madame Zoe, you must tell me what to do! I am so confused, and time is of the essence. I shall go mad trying to figure it out myself.” The stunning blonde finished shuffling the tarot cards and slid the deck across the table to Afton.

      Miss Barlow had been inconsiderately late. A quick glance at the clock displayed the hour. Half past six! Beneath the veils that hid her identity, Afton suppressed a twinge of anxiety. She should have sent the woman away to make another appointment. What demon had possessed her to agree to see Miss Barlow so late in the day? Afton would scarce have time to bathe before dressing for the evening out.

      It wasn’t that she suspected Miss Barlow of having anything to do with her aunt’s death. No, it was money. Filthy lucre. Bit o’ the ready. Dianthe’s new gown. That’s what. And Beatrice Barlow deserved her money’s worth. That was only fair. “I must ’ave more information, chérie,” she said in the affected French accent. “’Ow can I ’elp if I do not know the problem?”

      Miss Barlow blanched at the suggestion. “I dare not breathe another word! The entire ton says you are the absolute best! Surely you can help me without knowing the particulars.”

      “Hmm,” Afton stalled deliberately. In truth, she was learning more than she cared to know about what went on behind society’s closed doors. But drawing on that knowledge did her little good. She knew nothing about Miss Beatrice Barlow other than that she had made an advantageous match and would wed soon. Whatever was troubling her would have to be solved quickly.

      “Very well, chérie. You understand that it is not for the cards to make the decision, eh? That belongs to you. The cards are only a guide, n’est-ce pas?”

      “Yes. Yes, of course.”

      Afton dealt the cards, deciding upon a horseshoe pattern, the quickest of the tarot spreads.

      Miss Barlow twisted her handkerchief and chewed her full lower lip. “Tell me everything, Madame Zoe.”

      “Your