Читать книгу The Rake's Revenge - Gail Ranstrom - Страница 11

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.”

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 first card tells past influences,” she said. She tapped the figure of an upside-down man in a belled cap. “You must guard against impetuosity, chérie, or face disaster.” Innocuous enough, and good advice under any circumstances.

“I have not been impetuous in the least. But I must be certain, and that is why I have come to you for guidance.”

“Oui. I can see that this is the critical matter.” Afton turned up the next card. “Là! The magician! You ’ave the decision to make. You must remain clear-headed, n’est-ce pas?”

“Clear-headed?” Miss Barlow appeared to be baffled.

“Oui. Do not ’urry to judgment. ’Ow you Anglaise say— ‘Act in ’aste, repent at leisure’?”

“Oh, piffle! I haven’t the time to mull things over, madame. I must decide what to do very soon.”

Another glance at the clock showed the relentless march of time. Feeling a fair amount of urgency herself, Afton turned the third card up. “The lovers! Ah, this explains everything.”

“The lovers!” Miss Barlow exclaimed, leaning forward. “Oh, I knew it! Tell me more, madame. What do you see for us?”

“He is…’andsome. ’Is coloring is—”

“Dark! Oh, yes! The most handsome of men! You are so terribly clever, madame. Tell me, is it true love?”

“The card foretells love, and a choice to be made, chérie. Between the flesh and the spirit. Not the same things, eh?”

“No!” Miss Barlow agreed. “My flesh—my heart—tells me one thing, and my spirit and good sense tell me another.”

Afton turned up another card. The moon. The card called for use of the nonrational—instinct and intuition—over rational reasoning, a poor prospect where Miss Barlow was concerned. Nevertheless, it was her fortune. “Use your instincts, chérie. Your ’eart tells you what is best.”

Miss Barlow winced. “If only I could be certain.”

Afton turned up the next card and was surprised at the way the cards were reinforcing one another. It was almost enough to make her believe in the tarot. Almost. “This—” she tapped the card with her finger “—is the chariot, chérie, and foretells travel or distance. Per’aps emotional, per’aps physical.”

“Travel! Oh, yes, madame! I shall travel, indeed. Oh, this is what I have been searching for. Now I know what I must do,” Miss Barlow resolved firmly as Afton nearly pushed her through the door of the small salon. “I shall follow my heart.”