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 tried to gather her wits. Madame Zoe? Men like Lord Glenross did not consult fortune-tellers. He was playing some sort of deep game and, from what she’d seen of the man, no good could come from it. She glanced at Grace, wondering how she could possibly reply to such a request.
“That is very open-minded of you, my lord,” Grace declared. “I shall have that information for you by Monday morning, latest. Shall I post the instructions to you at your hotel? Or shall I send ’round to your club?”
Afton contained her gasp of dismay even as Glenross smiled triumphantly. “Send to my hotel. I am staying at Pultney’s in Piccadilly.” That bit of business out of the way, he looked pointedly at Afton, and then back to Grace.
“Oh! I beg your pardon, my lord,” she said. “May I present my niece, Miss Afton Lovejoy? Miss Lovejoy, please meet Robert McHugh, Lord Glenross.”
“Lord Glenross,” Afton managed to acknowledge. With some trepidation, she dropped a small curtsy and offered her hand. He accepted it and lifted it to his lips. The warmth of his fingers spread through her, and when those sensual lips brushed lightly across her knuckles, his breath warmed her blood.
“Miss Afton Lovejoy?” he asked, turning back to Grace. “I could have sworn the invitation stated that you were honoring a Miss Dianthe Lovejoy.”
Grace indicated Dianthe with a wave as she waltzed by with yet another proud-looking partner. “Dianthe is Afton’s sister.”
Lord Glenross barely spared a glance for Dianthe before returning his attention to Afton. “Miss Lovejoy, I am charmed,” he said. “Have you just now come to town?”
She wet lips gone dry with anxiety. “I’ve been in London six months, my lord. As Mrs. Forbush’s companion.”
Grace interceded once again. “Afton has shunned society since coming to town, my lord. She calls herself my companion, but she is my niece by marriage, as well as a very dear friend.”
“I am pleased that you have joined society tonight, Miss Lovejoy. I would be honored if you would consent to dance the next waltz with me.”
Her heartbeat tripped. If she danced with him, would he be able to recognize her through her disguise when he met her as Madame Zoe? She could not risk such a thing. “I have promised the next waltz, my lord,” she lied.
His smile did not falter, nor did his expression change, but she felt a subtle change in him. He knew she was lying!
“I see,” he murmured. “Another time, Miss Lovejoy?” Without waiting for an answer, he bowed and departed in the direction of the game room.
Afton was appalled at the odd mixture of excitement and dread that filled her at the thought of seeing Lord Glenross again. She turned to Grace and lamented, “If there were only some way to refuse him!”
Grace looked doubtful. “If you wish, I shall tell him I could not discover how to contact Madame Zoe.”
A complete waste of time. If Glenross did not have the referral from Grace, he would acquire it elsewhere. Slowly, painfully, Afton’s heartbeat steadied. She shook her head. “Send Glenross my factor’s address, and I shall instruct Mr. Evans to grant an appointment as soon as possible. As Shakespeare said, ‘If it were done when ’tis done, then…”
“‘…’twere well it were done quickly.’” Grace finished the quote with a nod of agreement. “An excellent idea. Mr. Evans shall handle it all. He is the very personification of discretion.”
Afton steadied her nerves and gave her aunt a small smile. “I shall simply tell Lord Glenross a happy little fortune and be done with him.”
Chapter Two
S omeone was in his room…someone who didn’t belong. Key in one hand, Rob paused with his other on the knob of his hotel room door. The fine hairs on the back of his neck stirred with an uneasy prickle.
It was unlikely that the Dey would have sent men after him. Unlikely, but not impossible. And he’d damn well die fighting before undergoing the Dey’s “hospitality” again. Being locked cramped and naked for weeks on end in a box so small he could neither turn nor raise his hand to scratch an itch, being left to wallow in his own filth, freeze by night and swelter by day, had taken its toll. A good day had been when someone took pity and threw an urn of fetid water over the box, and a few drops had trickled between the slats and cooled his stinging flesh. Rob could not yet think of the bad days—days he had been manacled spread-eagled against a dank dungeon wall for whippings that tore flesh from his back, while demands for information were screamed in his ears.
But there
