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.”
Chapter Five
S tanding near the fireplace in the Spencer ballroom, Rob watched Miss Lovejoy dance a quadrille with Seymour. She was stunning in a willow-green gown trimmed at the bodice and hem with embroidered pink rosebuds. Her hair was secured at the crown with green satin ribbons and then fell in a shining, pale copper riot of curls to her nape. Had she splurged on ribbons for her own hair as well as her sister’s? Money well spent, he observed.
He was still disturbed by his response to her in the tearoom. When she had savored her sponge cake with a little moan and then licked the cream from her lips, she’d been completely irresistible. He’d wondered what it would be like to have Afton moan like that for him. Rob had been seized with such a strong physical response that he’d been afraid he would fall upon her like a ravenous wolf. It would seem he was inching nearer the proverbial edge.
“Lord Glenross?”
He turned to find Mrs. Forbush at his elbow. She wore a gown of silver-gray trimmed in lavender, which displayed her sultry elegance to dazzling advantage. “How are you this evening, Mrs. Forbush?”
“Quite well, thank you. I saw you standing here and thought to take this opportunity to invite you to attend my salon next Friday.”
An invitation to Mrs. Forbush’s much-vaunted and exclusive “Friday salon” was an unexpected compliment, but… “Christmas?”
“I have a number of unattached friends in London for the holiday. I thought we could make our own little family. If you’ll come ’round after church, we shall have a merry celebration. Your brother is welcome, too.”
“Douglas has accepted an invitation from his fiancée’s family,” Rob said. He suspected he would find congenial company at Mrs. Forbush’s gathering—a gathering of strays, orphans and wanderers. And Afton Lovejoy. “I, however, shall be pleased to accept,” he said, watching Miss Lovejoy curtsy to Seymour.
Mrs. Forbush followed his glance. “I’ve invited Sir Martin, as well. Do you think he is interested in my niece?”
“Miss Dianthe?”
“Miss Afton,” she said.
Rob felt a nasty flash of annoyance. “Would his interest be reciprocated?”
Mrs. Forbush smiled. “Afton is a paradox, Lord Glenross. She is uncommonly intelligent, and she can appear so worldly and wise, yet she is really quite innocent. At the moment, she is focused on family matters and does not realize
