the knob. It gave without a click. Unlocked. He distinctly recalled locking it before leaving for Mrs. Forbush’s soiree.
He bent and slid his dagger from his boot. They wouldn’t take him alive this time. A quick glance down the corridor confirmed that he was quite alone.
He gripped the dagger in his right hand and eased the door open. A faint glow from the banked fireplace barely afforded enough light to make out the form of furniture. A movement from the chair facing the fire drew his attention.
Every muscle controlled, he crept forward. He stilled his breathing as he approached the back of the chair, knowing that even the air stirred by his breath could alert a seasoned thief or a foreign assassin. Surprise was his greatest advantage.
He jerked the man’s head back, his blade pressing against the interloper’s throat before he could react. “Identify yourself,” he snarled in the man’s ear from behind.
“Gads, Robbie! It’s Doogie! D’ye not remember me?”
Rob dropped his hand and released his brother, nearly weak with relief. “Douglas! What are you doing here?”
“I got Travis’s note and I’ve been trailing your footsteps ever since, always a step behind. Thought I’d just come to your lodgings and wait. I got the maid to unlock for me.”
Rob did not even want to know how his brother had bribed the maid. Douglas had a way with women, and never had trouble getting what he wanted of them. Rob slipped the dagger back in his boot as Douglas came around the chair to embrace him.
A moment later, embarrassed by his display of emotion, his brother released him and stepped back. “Damn me, Rob, say you won’t be going abroad again. My heart canna take it.”
“I willna,” Rob promised, falling into the comfortable brogue of their youth. “I’m back to stay.”
“That’s good. I’d have made a poor laird.” Douglas went to the bureau and retrieved Rob’s bottle of Scotch whiskey. He refilled his glass and poured one for Rob. “To the return of the McHugh!”
There’d been no whiskey in Algiers or in the government hospital where he’d been held since his return. Rob drank deep, eager for the fire and pleasant lethargy that would seep through him when the Scotch did its work. Maybe tonight he’d finally be able to sleep. “To Doogie McHugh and his lady fair.”
“Ach. So you’ve heard?” Douglas grinned and sank back into his chair. “She’s an angel, Rob. I don’t deserve her.”
“I met Miss Barlow last year. She is lovely, Douglas. She’ll give you beautiful babes. Mind that the first one’s a boy, for the title.” Rob wondered how his brother could prefer bland Bebe Barlow when there were more tasty morsels about—like that appetizing little Miss Afton Lovejoy. Now there was something he could envy Douglas for. Aye, Miss Lovejoy was right to be wary of him. He’d swallow her in a single bite.
“I’ll do my duty, and wear a smile doing it,” Douglas vowed.
“I always said you were a brave lad,” Rob teased. “You’re fond of her, then? The match wasn’t for expedience?”
“Bebe is my life, Rob. She’s the reason I draw breath.” Douglas’s face sobered and he glanced down at his feet. “Sorry, Rob. I didn’t mean to remind you. But, in time, you will marry again. You’ll have the heir you always wanted.”
“I’ll leave that to you, Douglas. ’Twill be your son now who’ll bear the Glenross title.” Doogie hadn’t known that Hamish hadn’t been a McHugh by blood. No point in telling him now, Rob supposed. He had grown to love the boy and had learned to ignore Maeve’s indiscretion.
“You say that now, Rob, but some pretty face will turn your head and you’ll change your tune.”
“I’ve not got the mettle for marriage.” And he hadn’t the heart to risk deceit again. Deceit and denigration.
“’Twas none of your fault, man. Maeve’s the one who insisted she visit her sister in Venice. She was a determined woman and made her own decisions.”
Douglas was wrong. Rob didn’t blame Maeve for that particular decision. But he knew who was responsible—the damn charlatan who’d hinted that his wife’s destiny awaited her in Venice. That she should go there to escape the man who would destroy her: him. Rob would hunt Madame Zoe until he could expose her for the imposter she was, and then he’d utterly destroy her—her confidence, her trade, her income and, sweetest of all, her reputation. By the time he was finished with her, no member of society would consult her.
Ah yes. He’d learned to be a very patient man lying alone in a cramped box while oozing infection from his wounds and planning his escape. All those months in the Dey’s dungeon he’d been waiting, going slowly mad. And he’d planned. Madame Zoe would pay for destroying the McHughs.
Monday morning, in the well-appointed offices above a bank, Rob studied his fingernails in a pose of casual boredom as Mr. Evans, Madame Zoe’s factor, leafed through her appointment book with a great show of accommodation. Indeed, Rob was anything but bored. It was December 14, and by his estimation, he should be finished with Madame Zoe no later than Christmas. He studied his surroundings, imagining the sort of woman who would employ Mr. Evans.
The office was estimable in every sense of the word. Comfortable chairs sat along one wall and the factor’s desk was clean, polished and modest. Mr. Evans himself appeared to be an eminently respectable man in his middle years, and Rob wondered why he would represent a charlatan.
The London gossip mill held that Madame Zoe was a middle-aged French émigré, a fortune-teller to the French court who had foretold the rise and fall of Napoleon Bonaparte. She was a widow, ’twas told, and always wore black. Liberal use of veils prevented anyone from giving an accurate description. Some even speculated that she was a prominent member of the noble but impoverished French community in London and employed the veils to prevent recognition in that circle.
Charlatan or not, Madame Zoe was clever to have put such an elaborate process in place. Before she ever saw a new client, the person had been screened by her factor. Only then was the client given an appointment time and the address at which she could be found. What a sweet little setup.
Tired of waiting for what was essentially a simple task, Rob slouched in his chair and asked, “So you do all Madame Zoe’s procuring?”
Mr. Evans flushed. “I make appointments for consultations with Madame Zoe. I am a factor, not a flesh peddler. She is extraordinarily busy, what with the ton in town for the season.”
“I will take whatever appointment she has available.”
The man cleared his throat. “Payment in advance.”
“Payment in advance?” Rob repeated, just to be certain his displeasure was evident. What a lot of nerve—demanding to be paid in advance for a pack of lies!
“Yes, my lord. Without exception,” the man confirmed.
“What if she has nothing to tell me?”
“There are no guarantees, my lord. And no refunds.”
Rob watched the man steadily, knowing his attention was unnerving. It was a technique he frequently used when eliciting
