Gail Ranstrom - The Rake's Revenge

There was challenge in McHugh’s voice, and insult. Yet she knew she loved him, needed him as he could never need her.

Even worse, she could not rid herself of the memory of the sensations he’d evoked. Her thoughts kept returning there, wanting more, needing more, and knowing she could never submit to such intimacies again if they did not come from him.

She lifted her chin in defiance, daring him to carry out his threat, both dreading and needing the answer to her question. What did he mean to do?

McHugh closed the remaining distance between them and pulled her roughly against him. “Damn it! You know what I want, Afton. You’ve always known, and you’ve used it against me.”

She sighed. “How could I when I wanted it, too?”

Saving Sarah

“Gail Ranstrom has written a unique story with several twists that work within the confines of Regency England…. If Ranstrom’s first book showed promise, then Saving Sarah is when Ranstrom comes of age.”

—The Romance Reader

A Wild Justice

“Gail Ranstrom certainly has both writing talent and original ideas.”

—The Romance Reader

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For Natalie, Jay and Katie, the three best things that

ever happened to me. Thank you for being my best friends

and my biggest fans. I love you

more than words can ever say.

A grateful nod to the bridge ladies

of Missoula, Montana: Shari L., Linda K., Nancy G.,

Sherry S., Nancy N., Linda C. and Judy S.

Your strength, kindness and friendship have been

an inspiration. Thank you for being with me

through the darkest times and the brightest.

And, of course, the Wednesday League—

Margaret, Cynthia and Rosanne.

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Epilogue

London, December 3, 1818

“D ead? Madame Zoe is dead?”

Nodding, Afton Lovejoy paced her aunt Grace’s parlor in wide circles and fought the lump in her throat. There was worse to come, but the Wednesday League, the group of five intrepid ladies who secretly obtained justice for wronged women, did not know that yet.

“When?” Annica Sinclair, Lady Auberville, blinked her deep green eyes and set her teacup aside.

“Yesterday morning. I cannot be certain how long she lay there, but ’twas then that I found her. She…she—” Afton paused to brace herself against the rising pain. She couldn’t give way to it. If she did, she’d never stop crying.

“Sit down, dear,” her aunt Grace said, waiting until Afton perched on the edge of a chair before continuing. “Madame Zoe was still alive when Afton arrived at her salon above La Meilleure Robe. She expired in Afton’s arms. Afton went downstairs to Madame Marie, and Marie, knowing Afton is my niece, sent for me.”

“How perfectly awful for you, Afton,” Lady Sarah Travis gasped. “Had she been ill?”

“’Twas murder,” Afton announced. “There were wounds on her temple and abdomen that had bled profusely, and bruises around her throat. Her assailant must have thought she was dead when he left.”

Charity Wardlow’s cup rattled in the saucer and she put it down before it could spill. “I always come over queer when there is a murder. Oh, dear—the gossip this will create! The ton’s premier fortune-teller dead at the hand of a murderer.”

“The ton must not find out, Charity. At least, not yet,” Grace said.

“But the constabulary will report—”

Grace shook her head. “They will report nothing. We did not tell them. Everyone believed Madame Zoe was just another French émigré—a woman who lived on the fringe of society, a woman of little consequence. And that belief is preferable to the truth.”

“What is the truth?” Lady Annica asked, leaning forward.

Grace hesitated only a moment before replying. “That Madame Zoe was, in fact, an English gentlewoman reduced to earning a living in the only way open to her, yet compelled to hide her identity to spare her family shame.”

The heat of a blush stole up Afton’s cheeks. How utterly humiliating it was to be the proverbial “poor relations.” And how scandalous to admit your family’s living was made by swindling the ton.

“You knew her? Personally?” Sarah asked.

“She was Henrietta Lovejoy,” Grace admitted. “Afton’s maiden aunt on her father’s side.”

There was a finality to hearing those words spoken aloud that Afton had been able to deny until this very minute. Auntie Hen was gone. Dead. Murdered. Buried secretly in a convent garden. Afton glanced up to see all eyes upon her. The desolation of loss spilled tears over her lashes and down her cheeks. She dashed them away with an impatient flick. Later. She’d deal with the pain later.

“How dreadful for you, Afton, and for you, Grace.” Annica stood to give them each a warm hug. “But, if you did not call the authorities…” The question hung in the air.

“We waited until dark and then hired a dray to take Henrietta’s b—remains to the nuns at St. Ann’s. Under the guise of a nun, she was buried privately with due respect and consideration this morning,” Grace explained. “Only Afton and I were present.”

Charity leaned forward in her chair. “What of her friends and family? There will be questions.”

“I fear not, Charity,” Grace said with a little sigh. “Hen did not mix in London society, and she lost touch with her friends in Wiltshire long ago. She said that was the only way to maintain her anonymity as Madame Zoe. Five years as Madame Zoe, and only Madame Marie, Afton and I knew her true identity.”

Lifting her chin with resolution, Afton said, “I have been thinking what I can do to make this right. How to…to—”

“Obtain justice for your aunt?” Annica guessed.

Afton nodded and braced herself for a storm of protest. Here, at last, was the crux of the matter. “The killer cannot be certain that Auntie Hen is dead, since she was still alive when I found her. I intend to pose as her and flush him out.”

“What! No! You cannot!” The ladies spoke as one.

Annica and Sarah exchanged concerned glances. Afton knew they had both conducted investigations with near-dire consequences, barely escaping with their lives.

“Madame Zoe was the foremost fortune-teller in London. Why, anyone of consequence has been to her salon. How can you hope to deceive the entire ton?” Sarah asked.

Afton sighed. “Auntie Hen and I both learned to read tarot cards from a gypsy camped on the Lovejoy estate one rainy summer. I scoffed, but the crone told me that magic was real and that I would learn that someday,” she said. “’Twas just a parlor game then, a lark, but ’twas great good fun, and I still remember what each of the cards mean. I intend to wear Auntie Hen’s disguise of widow’s weeds and veils, and speak in a low, damaged voice with a French accent. Sooner or later, the murderer will have to return.”