you.”
He narrowed his eyes at the unvarnished rebuke. She had not falsely flattered him, nor couched her message in a veil of euphemisms. And her reckoning was dead-on. He hadn’t a single whimsical bone in his body. That she knew so much about him made him uncomfortable. He began to think that, however misguided, she might be sincere in her delusions of “knowing all.”
“You are loyal to your friends,” she continued, “and will not ’esitate to protect them, even from themselves. You—”
“Enough!” he snapped. She was more than a fortune-teller—she was a witch! He stood so quickly the little wooden chair tipped backward and clattered on the floor. “That is enough for today. I will be back for my money’s worth, madame. You may count on that.” Feeling as if the walls were closing in on him, he turned on his heel and headed for the door. He could have sworn he heard a muffled curse on his way out.
In all, though, his visit had been a success. He had learned a great number of interesting things about the infamous Madame Zoe. Her soft youthful voice betrayed the fact that she could not be an ancient French émigré. Unless he missed his guess, she could not be above twenty and five. Her size was another clue. Despite the mourning weeds, he could tell that her figure was more willowy than that of an aging matron, her posture straight, not hunched. Her scent, lilies of the valley with the underlying hint of greens, was unaffected and free of the cloying heavy scents of musk and rose so popular today. It was a fragrance that had brought his blood up instantly.
But even more interesting, Madame Zoe was not French at all. No, when speaking the foreign words, her accent was flawless, but when speaking English, her affected French accent was appalling. Truly one of the worst he’d ever heard.
Best of all, now he had her address. He knew where to find her when he was ready to come for her. And that would be soon.
Oh, yes. Mr. Evans had been right. She’d been worth the five pounds. And Rob would gladly pay the price again for another visit.
Chapter Three
A fton glanced around the grand ballroom of the Argyle Rooms. The elegant setting, replete with crystal chandeliers and fresco-painted walls, was like something from a fairy tale. Everything was perfect and boded well for Dianthe’s further success. It would never do to have other guests at the Lingate fete overhear their conversation and ruin it all.
She pulled her aunt toward a quiet corner. “I tell you, Aunt Grace, it was eerie,” she whispered. “I know what each of the cards is supposed to mean, but I could not make out the meaning in the way they fell. I was in his fortune, and I was a danger to him—or he to me, I could not tell which. I tried to think, but I kept hearing the word danger, and I could not banish it from my mind. I vow, for a moment I thought it was Auntie Hen whispering to me.”
Grace blanched. “You do not think—”
“No! Oh, no. Of course not,” Afton assured her. “It wasn’t real. The voice was in my head—more like a memory. But it distracted me, and Lord Glenross must think I’m quite mad. I had only started to tell his future when I…became mystified. He said he would be back.”
Grace’s clear brown eyes widened. “And so he is.”
Afton turned in the direction of Grace’s gaze. Lord Glenross, dressed in elegant eveningwear, was wending his way around groups and couples, progressing relentlessly toward them. Light-headed with anticipation, she said a quick prayer that she would do or say nothing that would betray her as Madame Zoe.
When he arrived before them, he gave a polite bow and straightened with a smile. Afton noted that he’d had a haircut since this afternoon. He now had the look of the haut monde, but there was something primitive in his bearing and his movements—as if someone had dressed a lion in a lamb disguise. She liked him better without his “civilized” veneer.
He gave a short bow. “Mrs. Forbush, I am in your debt.”
Grace tilted her head to one side and returned his smile. “Whatever for, Lord Glenross?”
“Your assistance in contacting Madame Zoe. I hope it did not inconvenience you greatly.”
“Not in the least, my lord. The information came easier than you might imagine. Were you successful?”
“Quite. I met with her this afternoon.”
The knowledge that he did not know who she was intoxicated Afton and made her feel daring. She couldn’t contain her curiosity. “Was your appointment satisfactory, my lord?”
He turned to her, looking surprised that she had addressed him. He smiled and nodded. “Miss Lovejoy, is it not? Yes, I was satisfied with the appointment. I found Madame Zoe to be quite…insightful.”
“Is she as good as the on dit has it?”
“That remains to be seen.”
Afton was about to reply when she noted Sir Martin Seymour coming their way. He was blond, tall, slender, handsome and perfectly groomed—a fair complement to Lord Glenross. He bowed to her and Grace before turning to Glenross.
“If it isn’t the McHugh, my childhood chum,” he said, grinning and embracing him. “I heard, but I dared not believe. Glad you made it back, old friend.”
Glenross clapped the other man on the back and said, “Seymour, it is good to see you. Have you been well?”
“Tolerable. And you?”
Glenross’s face clouded. “As you might expect.”
“Sorry,” Martin murmured. “I did not mean to awaken any loathsome memories.”
“There are not many of the other kind.” Glenross gave a short, self-deprecating laugh. “I do not usually indulge in self-pity. Bear with me, Seymour. I will regain my balance in another day or two.”
Afton was touched by his obvious dismay. She was certain he did not often betray himself in such a blatant manner.
“No doubt,” Martin said. He turned to her and Grace, then bent in a debonair bow. “Ladies, please excuse our lapse of good manners. The McHugh and I grew up not three miles apart, and I have not seen him since…before Algiers.”
“How nice,” Grace said. “It is always a pleasure to reacquaint oneself with old friends, is it not?”
“Without a doubt,” Seymour said. “Are you ladies enjoying yourselves?”
“We have not been here long,” Grace answered. “Mr. Julius Lingate claimed Dianthe for a waltz upon our arrival, and we have been awaiting her return to us. I believe she was claimed for another dance, but—”
“Ah, there she goes again.” Martin laughed, gesturing at the waltzing couples. He nodded toward the dance floor and reached for Afton’s hand. “We should join her, Miss Lovejoy. Since you are standing here, you cannot be spoken for.”
Afton did not like being manipulated, but she could not disengage her hand without appearing rude. “Oh, Sir Martin, I am a poor partner. You can be nothing but disappointed. I had scant opportunity to practice waltzing in Little Upton.”
“Leave it to
