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The Rake's Redemption
Regina Scott
LONDON'S MOST NOTORIOUS SCOUNDREL Even infamous duelist and poet Vaughn Everard has qualms about dragging an innocent lady into his quest for revenge. But Imogene Devary is the daughter of the man suspected of murdering Vaughn’s uncle. Surely that makes her fair game in order to uncover the truth! Can the man who writes such moving verse be beyond redemption?Imogene can’t believe so. In taming Vaughn’s heart and healing the rift between their families, she’s sure she’s found her calling. Then his mission to unmask a killer reveals a terrifying plot. Only together can they safeguard his legacy, their newfound love…and England’s very future. The Everard Legacy: Three cousins set out to claim their inheritance—and find love is their greatest reward


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London’s Most Notorious Scoundrel
Even infamous duelist and poet Vaughn Everard has qualms about dragging an innocent lady into his quest for revenge. But Imogene Devary is the daughter of the man suspected of murdering Vaughn’s uncle. Surely that makes her fair game
in order to uncover the truth!
Can the man who writes such moving verse be beyond redemption? Imogene can’t believe so. In taming Vaughn’s heart and healing the rift between their families, she’s sure she’s found her calling. Then his mission to unmask a killer reveals a terrifying plot. Only together can they safeguard his legacy, their newfound love...and England’s very future.
“My father seems quite vexed with you,”
Imogene whispered, trying to focus on her goal while her fingers kept moving over the keys of the piano. “Do you know why that might be?”
“I have never done anything to offend him,” Vaughn murmured back. “Why would he take me in dislike?”
She wished she knew. Vaughn Everard seemed the perfect fellow: clever, talented, handsome, charming. How could anyone take him in dislike? Certainly dislike was the farthest thing from her mind. “There’s some problem.”
“Can you arrange a meeting?”
“He’s so busy. I can’t be sure of catching him.”
“But won’t you try, for me?”
Her mother rose from her seat, wandered closer, eyes narrowing. Vaughn straightened.
“And now, the crescendo,” Imogene proclaimed, throwing herself into the music. She finished the piece with a flourish, and Vaughn Everard joined her mother in applause. But his head was cocked, his dark gaze on her as if he hadn’t truly seen her before.
About the Author
REGINA SCOTT started writing novels in the third grade. Thankfully for literature as we know it, she didn’t actually sell her first novel until she had learned a bit more about writing. Since her first book was published in 1998, her stories have traveled the globe, with translations in many languages including Dutch, German, Italian and Portuguese.
She and her husband of over twenty years reside in southeast Washington State. Regina Scott is a decent fencer; owns a historical costume collection that takes up over a third of her large closet; and is an active member of the Church of the Nazarene. Her friends and church family know that if you want something organized, you call Regina. You can find her online blogging at www.nineteenteen.blogspot.com (http://www.nineteenteen.blogspot.com). Learn more about her at www.reginascott.com (http://www.reginascott.com).



The Rake’s Redemption
Regina Scott




www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love Him, who have been called according to His purpose.
—Romans 8:28
To the heroes who leap without looking, trusting
in their skills and their Lord, especially Larry
and Edward; and to the Lord, who loves me
even when I look twice.
Contents
Chapter One (#u994559ab-28b7-53dc-8171-c4f39406b9ed)
Chapter Two (#uf40d6802-7ef8-5c23-beb9-73557c41f3d2)
Chapter Three (#ua653744a-4492-5e2b-98c8-1174523116ed)
Chapter Four (#u9f61f32e-3edc-57db-bd96-467a9aa2dddc)
Chapter Five (#ueb3abf64-d24b-53cc-9c84-f96947d0b8f9)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Dear Reader (#litres_trial_promo)
Discussion Questions (#litres_trial_promo)
Teaser Chapter (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One
London, England, spring 1805
Where was he?
Lady Imogene Devary stood at the edge of the crowded ballroom, up on the toes of her white kid evening slippers. She hadn’t even had a chance to dance, yet her heart was pounding in her satin-covered chest, and she could barely catch her breath.
Where was he, the stranger who had appeared at her door the past three days? Her father, Lord Widmore, had refused to see him each time, most recently so loudly the miniature of her little brother had clattered against the wall. Why did the stranger so concern him?
She peered about, twisting this way and that. The sounds of the ball brushed against her: the rise and fall of a hundred conversations, the strains of a string quartet, the dull thump of slippered pumps on hardwood and the laughter of flirtation. The Mayweathers had rented the prestigious Elysium Assembly Rooms for their annual ball. A dozen fluted columns marched down the center in Grecian elegance, and two crystal chandeliers hung from the gilded, domed ceiling above. Ladies in satins and velvets strolled past, and gentlemen nodded at Imogene in greeting. She knew almost every one of the nearly three hundred guests. How could a stranger escape notice?
Had he seen her pacing him in the ballroom when she’d first spied him earlier? She’d been shocked that anyone her father refused to acknowledge would be allowed entrance to such a fine occasion. So where had he gone now? Had he ensconced himself in the card room like her mother? Evaporated like a wisp of her imagination? Was she never to learn the truth?
And we know that all things work together for good to them that love God, to them who are called according to His purpose.
Yes, she had to hope in that verse. She had a purpose in spending her time searching the ballroom when she ought to be finding herself the perfect suitor. She loved her father too much to see him harassed. Hadn’t they suffered enough? Or perhaps the stranger thought their suffering made them vulnerable. She squared her shoulders. That fellow would learn the Devary family was made of stronger stuff.
But perhaps she would not be able to convince him tonight. She puffed out a sigh and lowered herself to her heels. If she could not find him, she would have to determine another way to wrest some pleasure from the remainder of the evening. Tomorrow she could question Elisa about the guest list, perhaps identify him that way. She’d simply thought she would be better at this espionage business.
Her good friend Elisa Mayweather certainly had a talent for going unnoticed. She had pressed her back against the creamy white wall, and Imogene was certain she was strategically placed so that a column hid her from her imperious mother. As if to be certain no one would recognize her, she fluttered an ivory fan before her long face, embroidered satin skirts swinging with the motion. Another friend stood sentinel beside her.
Imogene hurried to join them. “Why aren’t you dancing?” she asked, noticing their tight lips, their deep frowns.
Elisa snapped her fan shut and leveled it at a group of men crowding the far corner. “She’s doing it again.”
Kitty Longbourne sniffed, dark eyes narrowed to slits that made her resemble her nickname. “Rotten beau-snatcher.”
“What, not you, too?” Imogene whirled to join her glare to theirs. “Freddie Pulsipher has lived in your pocket the past year. Don’t tell me he’s defected.”
“Defected and forgotten me entirely,” Kitty said, her normally dulcet voice closer to a growl. She shook her pale skirts and lifted her chin as if she were well rid of the boy.
“That is the outside of enough!” Imogene started toward the group. Elisa snatched at her shoulder to pull her up, fingers biting into the lace on Imogene’s short sleeves.
“Where are you going? You can’t accost her!” Elisa’s wide brown eyes begged Imogene not to cause a scene.
But Imogene wasn’t about to stand along the wall like some hothouse palm and bemoan her fate. She might not be able to find that stranger tonight, but she could help her friends.
She patted Elisa’s hand. “There, now. I shan’t kick up a dust. But someone must put a stop to her.”
“This is her first Season,” Elisa said, dropping her hand. “She was only presented to the queen two weeks ago. Perhaps she doesn’t know the rules.”
“I understand she was raised in the back of beyond,” Kitty agreed with another sniff, this time of decided superiority.
Imogene had heard the rumors, too. The girl was an orphan with only three male cousins for guardians. That might have been enough to put Imogene in charity toward her, except her rival was also a beautiful heiress, with her own title no less, and the respected Lady Claire Winthrop was her sponsor. Where the young gentlemen of London were concerned, those factors conspired to make Samantha, Lady Everard, very popular indeed. But that her friends should be ignored while every gentleman danced attendance on the upstart—well, that was something Imogene would not tolerate.
“I don’t intend to rip out her hair,” Imogene informed them, to which Kitty muttered, “Whyever not?” Imogene shook her head. “But something must be done. Look, this set is ending, and the musicians are likely to take a short break. I for one plan to have a partner when they strike up the music again.” Before her friends could say another word to dissuade her, she lifted her white skirts and swept across the room.
Her way was impeded immediately. Couples promenaded past, gazes entwined. A collection of dowagers debated the latest fashions. Distinguished gentlemen gestured with crystal goblets, intent on making their points on politics.
But by far the largest single group, at least three deep, was clustered in the corner. Imogene couldn’t even make out the lady at the center. That truly did seem excessive. A girl on her first Season should expect a loyal group of followers but not at the expense of every other young lady on the ton.
Imogene put on her prettiest smile and tapped the rear gentleman on the shoulder. Short as she was, it was difficult to tell his identity from the back, but she recognized him the moment he turned.
“Mr. Wainsborough,” Imogene informed him, “I am quite vexed with you.”
He blinked blue eyes as if suddenly finding himself transported to the farthest reaches of the Empire. “Lady Imogene, I have no idea what I could have done, but I most sincerely beg your pardon.”
Imogene raised her chin. “You are forgiven, so long as you march yourself over to Miss Elisa Mayweather and ask her to dance.”
“Miss Mayweather?” He glanced around the room, and Imogene nudged him to the left so he could see Elisa standing against the wall. He looked back at the crowd of gentlemen, then returned his gaze to Imogene as if begging for mercy.
She narrowed her eyes at him. He slumped in defeat. “Of course. Delighted. Your servant, Lady Imogene.”
She waited only until he was on his way before tapping the next nearest fellow. “You, sir, are no gentleman.”
He jerked around, sandy brows up in surprise. “Why, Lady Imogene, what do you mean?”
Imogene put her hands on her hips. “Here you stand while my good friend Kitty Longbourne pines away for a moment on the dance floor.”
“She’s pining?” His head turned as if he expected to see Kitty reclining on a divan with a cold compress on her forehead.
Imogene caught his coat, pointed him toward Kitty and gave him a push. “Go on, now. There’s a good lad.”
As he started off, she pulled up her long gloves and tapped the next fellow.
By the time the musicians started tuning up again, she had succeeded in peeling away all but five of Lady Everard’s admirers, and every girl who needed a partner had one for the next set. All Imogene required was one for herself. She put her hand to the closest broad shoulder. The man turned.
And Imogene froze. She recognized the platinum hair held away from his lean face in an old-fashioned queue at the back of his neck, the sharp angles of cheek and chin. Instead of the black cloak that had enveloped him the last time he’d called, he wore a tailored black coat and breeches with a black-striped waistcoat and an elegantly tied cravat. Those dark eyes had looked merciless as the footman had sent him away for the third time. Now they were merely curious.
“There you are,” she exclaimed. “I believe you wanted to dance.”
One pale brow went up. “Forgive me. Have we met?”
“We must have met,” Imogene insisted, taking his arm and threading hers through it. My, but he was strong; his arm felt like a mahogany banister under hers. “How else would I know you wished to dance?”
His mouth quirked. “How else indeed.” He glanced over his shoulder at Lady Everard, then settled Imogene’s arm closer. For a moment, she had the oddest feeling of being trapped. It shouldn’t have felt so pleasant.
“Very well, then, my dear,” he said, voice low and warm, like the purr of a tiger she’d seen in the Tower zoo. “Let us rise with the notes of the song and dance upon its joy.”
The phrase sounded familiar, but she couldn’t place it. In fact, as Imogene strolled with him toward the line of dancers, she was very much aware of another sound, for her heart had started drumming again.
* * *
Vaughn Everard stood across the line from the young lady who had accosted him. It wasn’t the first time he’d been approached. He was a published poet, and some ladies imagined they had been his muse or understood his character because they’d read his work. A few even sought him for his reputation as a duelist, as if they thrilled to flirt with danger. A frown was often enough to send them scampering back to their mamas.
But not this young lady, he sensed. The look in those light jade eyes was challenging, and even the chestnut color of her curls, springing on either side of her creamy cheeks, seemed to crackle with energy. The grin on her peach-colored lips could only be called mischievous. Couple all that with a lush figure that showed to advantage in her simple, high-waisted white satin gown, and he found himself quite disposed to dance.
She looked to be a little older than his cousin Samantha, perhaps nineteen or twenty. Certainly younger than his twenty-six years and just as certainly a lady, or the high-stickler Mayweathers would never have allowed her to join them at their stuffy little ball. He had only been invited, he was sure, because he was one of three guardians to a beautiful young heiress making her debut in London Society. The Mayweathers coveted a relationship with the new Lady Everard. They were willing to suffer her ne’er-do-well cousin if necessary.
But why had this young lady insisted on a dance? She was watching him as if she wasn’t entirely sure what to do with him as he bowed and she curtsied to the first measures of the music. Testing her, he kept his gaze locked with hers until they had passed shoulder to shoulder in the center of the lines. She did not look away, but her cheeks turned the same delectable color as her lips as she moved back into place.
When she placed her hands over his for the turn, he let his fingers caress her palms. She raised her pointed chin but did not jerk away.
Interesting. If she was bent on an assignation, she should be responding in kind. If she was a green girl, she’d be dashing from the set in embarrassment. As it was, her assessing look said she didn’t intend to fall for nonsense. For some reason, that made him want to behave like a gentleman for once.
And that would be a mistake.
He had no right to the title; his grandfather and father had made that abundantly clear. And his purpose at this ball had no noble motive. He’d been sure his quarry would attend, yet he’d searched every room, and Robert Devary, the Marquess of Widmore, was nowhere to be found.
It had been the same everywhere he’d gone. The marquess was never home to callers, never at his club when he’d been expected, never at his solicitor’s place of business, Tattersall’s Horse Emporium or even Parliament when it was in session. Vaughn had hired a boy to follow him; the lad had never returned.
He’d lurked across the street from the house; his lordship went out the back. He’d loitered in the alley near the stables; the fellow escaped out the front! He’d even tried stalking the corridors of Whitehall, hoping to catch the marquess between meetings with the Admiralty or the War Office, where he advised on matters with the French, and still the man managed to avoid him. And the other members of government looked less than kindly on questions raised about their colleague.
But if he couldn’t solve the mystery of the marquess tonight, at least he might discover more about his pretty partner. When they reached the end of the line and were forced to stand out for a cycle, he said, “You, madam, are a cipher.”
She batted her cinnamon lashes. “Me? What of you, all in black? Are you a wraith, sir, flitting about the ballroom in search of prey?”
“If I was I would certainly search you out.”
“Ah, but somehow I thought you were out for something larger, an earl or a marquess, perhaps.”
Did she know? How could she? The reason for his quest was a closely held family secret, and even his family had been known to try to dissuade him from approaching the marquess. “You wouldn’t happen to have one in your pocket, would you?” he asked. “It would make my work much easier.”
She spread her hands as if to display her shiny gown to him. “No pockets, alas. And what would you want with an old marquess anyway?”
She had no idea. He leaned closer. “At the moment, I couldn’t care less. Come now, admit it. We’ve never met.”
Her light eyes twinkled as she dropped her arms. “Really, sir, I should take offense that you don’t remember me.”
Vaughn smiled as he straightened. “Forgive me. Any lady whose beauty outshines the stars should be impossible to forget.”
Her smile grew. “There now, you see what a charming gentleman you can be when you put your mind to it?”
Vaughn took her hands and pulled her back into the dance. “A momentary aberration brought about solely by your presence, my dear.”
Still, he tried to treat her with the utmost civility as they progressed back down the line. It was hard to recall his purpose in London with her gazing at him that way. She smiled with her whole body—eyes alight and crinkled around the corners, chin lifted, body leaning forward as if she were about to impart a delightful secret. He found himself leaning forward just to hear it.
The set ended far too soon for him. As the music faded, ladies curtsied and men bowed. He didn’t want to move, didn’t want the moment to pass, didn’t want to return to his dark pursuit of hunting a killer and making him pay. For these few precious seconds, he could pretend he was a typical young gentleman dancing with the loveliest lady in the room.
But he had never been typical. As if even the Mayweathers understood that, a tall, hawk-nosed female he knew to be the matriarch of the family was bearing down upon them.
“Lady Imogene,” she said in a booming voice guaranteed to draw attention. “A moment of your time.” She seized the girl’s arm as if to ensure obedience.
Imogene. It suited her. Nothing in the common way like Jane or Ann. Vaughn bowed, mouth tipping up in a half smile. Lady Imogene frowned, and he could have sworn she tried to pull away. But her hostess was having no part of it. She visibly tightened her grip on the lady’s arm and dragged her to safety.
Vaughn shook his head, turning away. Lady Imogene’s mother or sponsor might be remiss in her duties, but her friends were clearly more attentive. They recognized the danger he posed, even if the lovely Lady Imogene was oblivious. They thought they knew him. They were equally oblivious. The real Vaughn Everard lay deep inside. Only one man had ever known him, and that man was now dead.
He had to applaud his cousin Richard for trying, however. Vaughn hadn’t even crossed the floor to the door before his older cousin caught up with him. A former sea captain, Richard Everard moved with the assurance of a man used to command, though he looked the consummate gentleman in his evening black. Unfortunately for Richard, Vaughn had never been good at accepting commands.
“What was that about?” Richard demanded, taking Vaughn’s arm and drawing him aside. Around them, ladies in fine gowns strolled past, favoring them with coy smiles.
Vaughn ignored them. “There’s better sport to be had. Care to join me?”
Richard shook his russet head, though he released his grip. “I feared you’d found sport here, as well. Claire recognized your partner before I did, but I thought Samantha would go looking for your sword when she saw you dancing.”
Trust Richard’s lovely betrothed Lady Claire Winthrop to notice anything untoward. She was Samantha’s sponsor after all. Samantha, however, was far less interested in propriety when it came to those who held her loyalty. In that, as in so many things, she was like her father, a fact guaranteed to endear her to Vaughn. Every burst of fondness he felt for her only reinforced his mission. He had to learn the truth behind her father’s death, even if it meant hunting the marquess to ground.
“Neither Samantha nor your lady love have cause for concern,” Vaughn assured Richard. “It was only a dance.”
“Was it?” Richard took a step closer. “Claire cannot like your methods, and neither can I. As far as we can tell, Lady Imogene Devary is an innocent. You cannot use her to punish her father.”
He felt as if all the members of this fine company had turned and shouted in his direction. “What did you say?”
Richard’s dark eyes, so like Vaughn’s, gazed down at him. “You didn’t know who you were dancing with, did you?”
Vaughn still couldn’t believe the implication. “Devary? Related to the Devarys who hold the Widmore marquessate?”
“His daughter,” Richard said. “His only surviving child. From what I’ve seen, he dotes on the girl. As close as you were to our uncle, I’m surprised you didn’t know.”
Of course he hadn’t known. He would have used the dance to far greater advantage had he realized she was connected to the enemy who may have killed Arthur Everard, Samantha’s father.
“The marquess may have been Uncle’s closest friend,” he told Richard, “but he never had much use for me. I’ve not met his wife or daughter.” He cocked a smile. “Of course, I could say that about half the better families in London.”
Richard straightened as if believing him. “Just remember your promise. We wait for Jerome before accosting the marquess.”
Vaughn smiled. “I promised to wait until Samantha was presented to the queen to avoid any hint of scandal. She was presented two weeks ago. Widmore is mine.”
Richard shoved in front of him. His cousin was the tallest of the family, and being a captain hadn’t helped his diplomacy. “You will not touch the marquess until we talk to Jerome,” Richard commanded. “My brother is still the head of this family.”
Vaughn gazed up at him from under his brows. Richard might have the longer reach—and he certainly had experience in using the blade, having fought pirates on his travels—but Vaughn was fairly certain he could beat his cousin if it came to a duel. Richard would hesitate before wounding a man, particularly a member of the family. Vaughn wouldn’t.
“Do what you must, Cousin,” Vaughn said. “I know where my duty lies. Do you?”
He returned to the ballroom then, at last seeing his path clearly. The Marquess of Widmore might refuse to give him the time of day, but Vaughn thought he stood a good chance of convincing the man’s daughter otherwise. He had yet to meet a lady who didn’t swoon at a well-placed verse, a lovesick smile. Much as he abhorred dragging an innocent into this business, his duty lay in solving the mystery of his uncle’s death. And Lady Imogene Devary, he very much feared, had become the key.
Chapter Two
Imogene watched her mysterious stranger stride away, the crowds parting before him. Even if she could have escaped the tenacious grip of her hostess, she could hardly chase after him; she’d already made a spectacle of herself by insisting on a dance. And she hadn’t even learned his name!
“That was very foolish,” Elisa’s mother scolded, scanning the room. “Where is your mother? I’m certain she’ll have something to say about the company you keep.”
Imogene stilled. Mrs. Mayweather knew the man. Of course she knew the man! She’d invited him. But she didn’t seem particularly pleased by the fact. Her hostess’s face was an unbecoming shade of red that clashed with the rust-colored velvet of her ball gown. Each tightly wound gray curl, the lift of her hawkish nose, the compression of her already thin lips shouted righteous indignation. Small wonder Elisa tended to hide behind columns.
“I’m sorry if I offended you,” Imogene said. “Naturally I assumed anyone you invited would be an acceptable partner.”
The red faded, leaving Mrs. Mayweather as pale as fine muslin. “Certainly we only invite the best,” she said, dropping her grip on Imogene’s arm. “I cannot help it if some families have members who distain their honor.”
So he was dishonorable? She ought to have expected it. Certainly her father’s reaction to him had made him seem dangerous, dastardly. But that had not been her impression as they’d danced. The fire in him burned through the polite malaise of the other lords and ladies. Like a hearth on a cold day, it called to her. Oh, he was an outrageous flirt, holding her gaze and fingers far longer than needed, but nothing about his demeanor or conversation spoke of an evil lurking inside.
Lord, please help me know the truth!
“And what family would that be, precisely?” Imogene asked.
Mrs. Mayweather frowned down at her. “You didn’t know? My dear girl, you have been most shamefully used. That...that creature was none other than Mr. Vaughn Everard, who dares to call himself a poet. Surely you’ve heard of him.”
Certainly she’d heard of him. She had all three volumes of his poetry in her bedchamber, the pages dog-eared from repeated reading. That’s why she’d recognized his phrase about dancing! But wait. “Everard?” she asked, stomach tightening. “Then is he related to...”
“Lady Everard,” Mrs. Mayweather said, making the last name sound like something she’d found clumped to the bottom of her shoe. “Indeed, he is her cousin. I tried with the greatest tact to suggest that she leave him home, but she would hear none of it. They say she wears his heart about her neck like her pearls.”
He was also one of Lady Everard’s followers? Imogene could only feel disappointed in him; from his beautiful poetry she’d somehow thought he’d be more discriminating. In fact, for a moment on the dance floor, she’d wondered whether she’d finally found the suitor she’d been praying for—someone who could help her protect the family name, as her father’s only living child.
But why was he interested in her family? How had her father even become acquainted with one of London’s most infamous poets?
“Now, then,” Mrs. Mayweather said soothingly, evidently taking Imogene’s silence for shocked propriety, “we’ll say no more on the matter. I’m sure any of the other fine gentlemen will be only too happy to partner with you for the next set.”
Imogene thanked Mrs. Mayweather and watched her bustle away, but dancing was the last thing on her mind. She had only one goal now. How could she meet Vaughn Everard again and learn more?
* * *
In the shadow of one of the alabaster columns, Vaughn watched Lady Imogene. She’d managed to escape her diligent hostess, leaving the woman in charity with her if the smile on Mrs. Mayweather’s face was any indication. Now she flitted about the ballroom, talking to this young lady, that gentleman, a bee buzzing from flower to flower.
She was obviously as good at talking her way out of a scrape as she was getting into one. Yet why would the Marquess of Widmore’s daughter—beautiful, wealthy, charming—ask him to dance? He could find a way to put the question to the lady, along with other questions on his mind, but still he hesitated. He knew his best chance in meeting the marquess lay in charming Imogene, but he had never countenanced using others for personal gain. He’d seen firsthand the pain and devastation that followed.
Besides, that smile was too knowing, too confident, and he had a feeling that jade gaze could pierce flesh and see inside him. Yet if she had seen inside him, she would never have asked him to dance. No, he’d been handed an opportunity to gain the attention of the Devary family. He’d be a fool not to take it.
Keeping her ever in sight, he moved around the edge of the ballroom. He tensed for a moment when the affable Lord Eustace bowed over her hand, but she sent him off with a wave and a laugh that sparkled as brightly as her gaze. She didn’t intend to dance, then. Odd. Why would one of the most beautiful and eligible women in the room refuse to take the floor, except on his arm? He ought to feel honored, yet he couldn’t believe honor had been her motive.
Her friend saw him before Lady Imogene did. With her coal-black hair and hawkish nose, the young lady now standing beside the marquess’s daughter was a Mayweather, he guessed, although one of the prettier ones. Her brown eyes widened, and she stopped in midsentence to flutter her ivory fan in front of her face. Lady Imogene turned, then blinked.
Vaughn bowed. “Lady Imogene, your servant. You asked me to dance earlier. I thought to return the favor.”
Her brows went up as if she had not expected him to know her name. “Mr. Everard,” she replied. “I fear dancing with you was so thrilling I haven’t been able to retake the floor since. Perhaps a promenade instead?”
Her smile told him his face had betrayed his surprise that she knew him, too. It seemed her previous invitation had not been all innocence. But a promenade would give them more of an opportunity to be alone, or at least as alone as was possible in a crowded ballroom. He offered her his arm. “Charmed.”
“Imogene.” The word was a mere whisper of anguish from her friend. She, at least, was concerned about the damage to Lady Imogene’s reputation. One interaction could be poor judgment. Two might mean poor character.
Imogene reached out a hand and patted her friend’s. “Never fear, Miss Mayweather. I’m fairly certain Mr. Everard doesn’t bite. And I’ll be back before you know it.”
With a dazzling smile that almost made Vaughn rethink his strategy yet again, Imogene put her hand on his arm, and they set off around the ballroom.
* * *
Thank You, Lord!
Imogene nearly said the praise aloud. She’d been quizzing her friends about this man, until even Kitty and Elisa were teasing her about her sudden tendre for the fellow. She could not tell them that it was hardly amour that moved her.
Oh, he was handsome enough with that white-gold hair like a yard of the finest silk and those impossibly deep brown eyes like melted chocolate. And one could hardly fault his address, standing tall and lean and so very sure of himself. He took each step as if claiming the polished wood floor for England.
But what she needed to know was his character and background. Surely they would give her some notion as to his business with her father. How wonderful that she’d been given this opportunity!
“How do you know my father?” she asked just as he said, “Is your father in attendance?”
Imogene laughed. He smiled, a warm, open smile that invited her closer, promised it was meant for her alone. Too bad it disappeared as quickly as it had come.
“Forgive me,” he said. “Ladies first.”
“My father wasn’t able to join us,” she said, answering his question. “I didn’t know you were acquainted.”
She waited, hoping for similar honesty. He turned slightly toward her, lips poised to respond, and she sighted Mrs. Mayweather headed in their direction, eyes narrowed. “Oh, dear.”
He must have seen the danger, too, for he expertly steered Imogene away. Once they had put a row of columns between them and their hostess, he said, “Your father and my uncle were good friends.”
Friends? Had she ever been introduced to an Everard old enough to be his uncle? Her confusion must have been written on her face, for he clarified. “Arthur, Lord Everard. You must have met him.”
Imogene shook her head. “I’m sorry. I don’t recall. What does he look like?”
“Tall, lean, fair-haired—a great deal like me, actually.”
Imogene beamed at him. “Forgive me. A gentleman that handsome would be difficult to forget.”
He chuckled, then stiffened and guided her behind the dowager’s circle. The older ladies batted their eyes and waved their fans as he passed, and he nodded and smiled encouragement to them.
On the opposite side of the circle, his cousin, Lady Everard, looked far less encouraging, her pretty face scrunched up in confusion. She had thick golden hair, worn up high and cascading down her back, and dark brown eyes that must run in the family, for they were very like his. Every girl in the room would be wondering how to copy that gown—clear muslin over an underskirt spotted in gold so that it sparkled as she moved.
“I fear our promenade will end all too soon,” he murmured to Imogene. “Do me the honor of answering two more questions.”
“Anything,” she said, then chided herself on her eagerness.
“First, do you remember what your father was doing the night of March third?”
What a singularly odd thing to ask! Whatever issue he had with her father must have something to do with that day. Imogene thought back. Had they been in London yet? Her father had been intent on getting them all there from their country estate. Business, he’d said, that could only be conducted in London.
Vaughn Everard was leading her toward the main entrance to the ballroom now. Framed in the doorway, her mother glanced about, obviously in search of her. Mrs. Mayweather stood beside her, foot tapping against the fine wood floor.
“I don’t remember,” Imogene said in the rush. “What’s the second question?”
“May I call on you tomorrow?”
She was so surprised she actually stopped, pulling him up short. The movement was enough for her mother to spy her and start in her direction.
“Cousin Vaughn,” Samantha Everard said behind them, her voice surprisingly hesitant for her usual confidence in the social scene. “You promised me the next dance. Have you forgotten?”
His body turned dutifully as he released Imogene, but his gaze remained on hers, waiting. She could almost see the hope.
“There you are, Imogene,” her mother said, coming up to her and taking her arm. “It’s been a long evening, dear, and I’d like to retire.”
Samantha Everard’s fingers were reaching for her cousin’s wrists even as Lady Widmore’s wrapped around her daughter’s. Before Imogene could answer him, they had parted, and she knew they would not be given the opportunity to talk again that night. She glanced at him twice as she walked with her mother to the door, but if he returned the look, she didn’t see it. Imogene felt a sigh of pure frustration escape her.
Her mother waited until they were seated in the carriage on the way home before requesting an explanation. How could Imogene refuse? Elisa Mayweather might be burdened with an overbearing mama, but Imogene knew how fortunate she was in her own mother. She hoped she’d look so lovely when she reached her mother’s age. Lady Lavinia Devary, Marchioness of Widmore, had hair that was a distinguished shade of silver, but her face was as unlined as Imogene’s, and she carried herself with an elegance her daughter envied. Even now, confronted with Imogene’s possible indiscretion, she was more concerned than censorious.
“Darling,” she said, reaching across the coach to take both of Imogene’s hands. “Why the interest in Mr. Everard? Surely you know his family is considered scandalous.”
Imogene frowned. “Are they? Why?”
Her mother’s voice was stern though her look remained concerned. “The former Lord Everard was not a gentleman, despite his title. I refused to allow him entrance to our home even though your father considered him a friend.”
Her mother was usually determined to see the best in everyone. Lord Everard must have done something terrible for her to take him in such dislike. But at least Mr. Everard had been right in calling her father and his uncle friends. “And do you find Mr. Everard so scandalous, as well? Is that why Father refuses to see him?”
Her mother squeezed her hands. “I have heard he has dueled, but I had nothing to do with your father’s decision. Still, I trust his judgment.”
“I wish I did. Something’s wrong, Mother. I can feel it.”
Her blue eyes were sad. “You are a loving daughter, Imogene, but you needn’t worry for him.”
Imogene leaned forward. “How can I not worry? He doesn’t talk to me anymore. He’s seldom home. It’s almost as bad as when Charles died.”
Her mother paled, as if even hearing the name of her lost son hurt. Imogene hurt with her.
“Your father is a very busy man,” she said, releasing Imogene’s hands, “called to serve the king in many areas. With Napoleon threatening to invade at any time, do you think something as small as a misguided poet could concern him?”
Imogene sighed. “Perhaps not, but he continues to refuse Mr. Everard entrance, even when he’s perfectly capable of receiving him. I’d like to know why.”
Her mother turned her gaze to the window. “There are a great many questions about this life that remain unanswered, Imogene. You would be wise to grow accustomed to the fact.”
She knew her mother was right. She’d never understood why her younger brother had died, why her mother had lost all the other older sisters Imogene might have had. She called Imogene her little gift from the Lord. Didn’t the fact that Imogene alone had survived and thrived mean God had some purpose for her life? Something more she was meant to do than simply dance through each Season with no thought but to her own pleasure?
I know You do, Lord! I know I was meant to save my family. Surely You have a greater plan than for all to be lost when Father dies someday. Show me the man You mean to help me gain approval to carry on the title of Marquess of Widmore!
* * *
She tried to ask her father about the problem as soon as they returned home, but Jenkins, their head footman, reported that he was still away. She hadn’t been willing to broach the subject with the marquess earlier without knowing a name. In truth, many people rapped at the door of the Marquess of Widmore: widows seeking redress from the War Office, or the Admiralty where he advised on French tactics, émigrés related to their French ancestors to request aid in rebuilding their lives in England, solicitors and land stewards needing decisions on the family investments.
Her father refused admittance to any number on a given day, depending on his plans and mood. Recently he’d been particularly difficult to pin down. He had little time for his family; he certainly had no time for strangers.
But Vaughn Everard was no longer a stranger. She had danced with him, walked with him, seen his dark eyes brighten in admiration. From his works she was certain he had a refinement of spirit that was nothing short of amazing. Why would her father have taken him in dislike?
She has missed her opportunity to find answers tonight, but that didn’t mean she had to give up. She hurried upstairs to her room, hoping for a few moments alone.
She and her mother shared a ladies’ maid, not because they couldn’t afford one for Imogene but because her mother insisted on it. Imogene thought her mother enjoyed whispering suggestions in the maid’s ear as to what gown would best suit Imogene for a particular occasion and how she should wear her hair. With Bryson busy helping her mother first, however, Imogene had time for a little more research on Vaughn Everard.
She started with Mr. Debrett’s The Correct Peerage of England, Scotland and Ireland. The two slim volumes listed every member of England’s most notable families. The Everard barony was one of the newer entries, unlike her father’s. He was the tenth Marquess of Widmore and likely to be the last, unless she succeeded in her plan. There were no male relations as far as anyone knew, and unlike the occasional barony and dukedom, marquessates could not be inherited by the female line. When her younger brother Peter Devary, Viscount Charles, had died a few years ago of a fever, her father had been even more devastated than Imogene and her mother, and Imogene knew that the inevitable end to their family name and heritage was part of his sorrow. If only she could find a suitor well-positioned enough to petition to have the title recreated in him!
But what was this? The book made no mention of Samantha Everard. According to it, Lord Arthur Everard had no issue. Imogene thumbed back to the title page and checked the date: 1802, only three years ago. Why hadn’t the publisher known about Lady Everard? She couldn’t be adopted—only heirs of the blood stood to inherit a title.
Imogene returned to the Everard page. It listed the heir presumptive as Jerome Everard, nephew of the late Lord Everard, with his brother Richard after him. And there—Imogene cradled the book and allowed her finger to linger on the name—was Vaughn Everard, with no wife noted. His father had been the third son of the first Baron Everard and the brother of the second.
That made him first cousin to Samantha Everard. Although it was not unheard of for first cousins to marry, particularly to keep a title or fortune in the family, it was still an uncommon practice. And with every gentleman in London gathered around her, Lady Everard had her pick of suitors. Surely she could spare her cousin.
Imogene heard the door open quietly behind her and set the book back on the shelf, wondering why she felt guilty. Bryson paused only long enough to curtsy respectively, then hurried to do her duty. The maid had raven hair held tightly back from her face and a long pointed nose. She chose to keep only the darkest dresses her mistress offered. When Imogene was little, she had once drawn Bryson as a raven.
Now the maid went to shutter the windows on either side of Imogene’s bed, her dress solemn against the soft blues of the room. She had closed the shutter on one side, each movement sharp and precise, when something rattled against the glass, and she recoiled.
“What is it?” Imogene asked, moving closer.
The maid turned to her, wide-eyed. “There’s a gentleman down in the garden. He seems to be throwing rocks!”
A gentleman? Who would be able to slip past the carriage house and stables, to avoid the notice of the footmen and butler? Frowning, Imogene ventured toward the window until she could peer down into the small garden below. In the light spilling from the windows above, she could see the carefully clipped hedges, the wrought-iron benches near the flowers, the stone-lined path to the stables beyond.
Someone was standing there, face turned up to her window, black cloak swirling around him like smoke from a blaze. Fingers shaking, she raised the sash.
“But, soft! What light through yonder window breaks?” Vaughn Everard called up. “It is the east, and Lady Imogene is the sun. Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon, who is already sick and pale with grief that thou, her maid, art far more fair than she.”
“I’ll fetch Jenkins,” Bryson said, backing from the window.
Imogene caught her arm. “Stay a moment. We’re in no danger.” As her maid frowned at her, Imogene called back. “Really, Mr. Everard, you resort to the Bard? I thought you were a man of inspiration.”
He swept her a bow, one arm wide. “I divined your room correctly, didn’t I? But alas, your beauty halts my tongue. My words could only be cursed as praise too faint.”
“A likely story,” Imogene said. “I do believe, sir, that you are lazy. You think to win me over with words alone.”
Straightening, he pressed his hand against his chest. “You wound me, my lady. Tell me what I must do to prove myself.”
“Go ahead,” she whispered to Bryson, who fled the room as if Imogene had put a brand to her skirts. To Vaughn she said, “Present yourself to the front door tomorrow at two, sir.”
He dropped his hand. “Alas, a dragon guards your bower, fair maiden. I have been refused entrance too many times, as I think you know.”
“And you, sir, pride yourself on your swordsmanship, I hear. Surely a dragon is no match for you.”
She thought he smiled. “Swords are messy. A whispered word from you might do the trick.”
Below, she heard the kitchen door open, saw a brighter light cut across his figure along with the shadows of Jenkins and one of the under footmen as they marched toward him.
“Consider yourself invited, Mr. Everard,” she called. “I shall expect you tomorrow at two. Do not be late.”
“I shall fly to your side,” he promised. With a swirl of his cape, he dashed off into the night, the staff right behind.
Imogene set down the sash and leaned against the glass, her breath quickly fogging the pane. Vaughn Everard was coming to call on her tomorrow. This time she intended to make sure he was allowed entrance, if she had to take on her father herself.
Chapter Three
Vaughn wanted to return to the Devary home the next day as soon as it was considered decent. Though he generally rose and retired whenever the mood struck him, spending his days and nights as he pleased, he knew the fashionable ladies of London usually did not receive guests until after noon. So he presented himself at the door at exactly two, as Lady Imogene had requested.
The house was becoming familiar after his many attempts to speak with the marquess. It was wide and squat with far too many furbelows around the windows and door, as if a wedding cake had taken up residence on a corner near Park Lane. He would have wagered the marchioness had approved the purchase, for surely no gentleman worth his salt would choose to live in such a house.
Though the day was bright, with the sun spearing through clouds and brightening the gray stone pavement, Vaughn’s mood was considerably darker. Even something so simple as a request to call on Lady Imogene had required him to enact a Cheltenham tragedy, resorting to Shakespeare, no less! A few moments away from the garden last night, and he was wondering again whether there was another way besides charming the lady to gain a moment of her father’s time.
So he’d tried accosting the Marquess of Widmore at White’s after convincing a gentleman friend of Jerome’s to bring him in as a guest, but the lord had not been on the premises of the heralded gentleman’s club on St. James’s. Discreet inquiries had only served one purpose: to garner Vaughn the attentions of Lord Gregory Wentworth.
Though he was the heir to the Earl of Kendrick, Lord Wentworth was a toad, his only purpose in life to curry favor with those more rich and powerful. Vaughn supposed he was handsome enough with his sandy hair pomaded back from a chiseled face and a cleft in his chin, but the fellow had no opinions save an extreme overestimate of his own worth. Because his family estate lay next to Samantha’s home in Cumberland, he seemed to think he ought to be good friends with the Everards.
But by far his worse fault, in Vaughn’s mind, was the affectation in his speech, recently acquired, according to Samantha. Lord Wentworth tended to clip off his sentences, as if his life and deeds were too grand for mere words to describe. Vaughn had little use for anyone with such a lack of appreciation for the beauty of language.
“Evening, Everard,” he had greeted Vaughn last night, strolling up to him through the clusters of gentlemen already crowding the club. His ingratiating smile set Vaughn’s back up even further. “Lost the marquess, eh?”
“If he is lost, he can be found,” Vaughn assured him, turning for the door.
Lord Wentworth angled himself to block Vaughn’s path, his shoulders too broad in his evening coat of navy superfine. “Heard as much. Might know where.”
Vaughn eyed him. “Then pray share your knowledge.”
Lord Wentworth glanced both ways as if to be sure the other members of the club were engrossed in their various pursuits, then leaned closer, eyes lighting. “I’ll learn more about the marquess’s plans. You put in a good word for me. Agreed?”
Vaughn very much doubted the marquess would accept his recommendation. But much as he disliked the fellow before him now, he was in no position to refuse help. “I’d be delighted to receive any information you care to pass along,” he’d said with a bow. He hadn’t been surprised to hear nothing more from the man this morning.
And so it would have to be Imogene. The lilt of her voice last night had betrayed her eagerness to have him call, to pursue their acquaintance. He felt the same eagerness, but he buried it deep. She was attracted to nothing more than the idea of him—a poet, a swordsman. Reading more into it was dangerous to them both.
He reached for the knocker on the purple lacquered door and noticed the tremor in his hand. Nervous? Him? He flexed his fingers and gripped the brass, bringing the rod down once with finality.
A footman opened the door immediately, head high in his white-powdered wig, iron gaze out over the shoulder of Vaughn’s crimson coat. Only a twitch of his lips suggested he remembered seeing Vaughn there before.
“Mr. Vaughn Everard to see Lady Imogene Devary,” Vaughn said, squaring his shoulders.
The footman did not move from his place blocking the doorway, his black coat and breeches making him a dark shadow clinging to the wood. “I regret that her ladyship is not at home to visitors.”
“I think you will find you are mistaken,” Vaughn said.
The footman didn’t even blink. “The lady is unavailable, sir. Good day.”
He started to swing shut the door. Not this time. Vaughn stuck his shoulder in the gap, crowding the fellow backward. “I suggest you speak to your mistress. She will not thank you for turning away a caller she specifically requested.”
A flicker of uncertainty crossed the footman’s face, but he held his ground. “Very well, sir. If you would wait a moment, I will see if I can locate Lady Imogene.”
Vaughn waited. On the stoop. Like a penitent, not worthy to breathe the rarified air of the marquesses of Widmore. He took a step back and eyed the stone decorations around the door and windows. Easy enough to put his hands there, his toes there. How would Lady Imogene react if he climbed through her withdrawing room window and plopped himself down on her sofa?
Before he could find out, the door swung open again. “Lady Imogene will see you now,” the footman said to the air over Vaughn’s head, and he stepped out of the way to allow him entrance.
* * *
He was here! Imogene had recognized that husky purr, equal parts elegance and danger, at the bottom of the stairs. She’d been waiting, listening for it, using any excuse to loiter near the door. And she’d been highly tempted to seize the vase of lilies her mother had arranged on the table at the top of the stairs and throw it at Jenkins’s back if he’d kept Mr. Everard waiting another second.
But Mr. Everard mustn’t know she was eager to see him. After confirming to Jenkins that Mr. Everard was expected, she flew from the landing to the withdrawing room and perched on the settee before the footman opened the door the second time. The room was a perfect frame for her new apricot-colored day dress for the walls were a pale green and peaches blossomed in the pattern of the carpet at her feet. On the ceiling, cherubs floated on clouds above a sunset sky. Even the furniture, done in satinwood with white-on-white upholstery, favored the reddish tones that always made her chestnut curls gleam.
She arranged her silk skirts carefully, picked up a book (not of his poetry—that would be far too obvious) and pretended to be absorbed. She counted each tread as the footman approached and found herself holding her breath when Jenkins paused in the doorway.
“Mr. Vaughn Everard to see you, Lady Imogene. Your mother will join you shortly.”
Despite her best efforts, the book tumbled into her lap and her breath left her chest in a rush. As if he knew it, Vaughn Everard sauntered into the room and swept her a bow. Oh, but he knew how to use the moment to effect. His lean arm was wide, the lace at his cuffs fluttering in his crimson sleeve; his head was bowed, allowing the sunlight from the window behind her to anoint his pale hair with gold. When he straightened, his dark gaze sought hers, as if every moment apart had been an agony. Imogene was highly tempted to applaud his performance.
“Mr. Everard,” she said instead. “How delightful of you to call. Won’t you have a seat?”
He settled himself on one of the white-on-white chairs. Goodness, but his legs were long. From his polished black leather boots up his tan chamois breeches, they stretched nearly to the tips of her apricot-colored slippers. She clasped the book closer.
“Thank you for receiving me,” he said. It was the expected response, but the depth of his voice told her he meant it.
Imogene smiled at him. “Well, I did promise. I knew I could get Jenkins to let you in.”
His lips turned up just the slightest bit, as if reluctantly, but something inside her rose with them. “To what heights have I risen that the fairest of the fair should do battle for me?”
Imogene shook her head. “Hardly a battle. I heard you at the door.”
His smile lifted. “Listening for me, were you?”
She mustn’t give him that impression. She waved a hand. “Voices carry all too easily in this house. It was built to humor my French grandmother, who loved her music.” She glanced at the door but heard nothing of the swish of her mother’s skirts approaching. “We only have a few moments. Perhaps you’d care to tell me why you’re so intent on calling on my father?”
His pale brows went up. “Very well. I believe he may know more about my uncle’s last moments.”
Of course! She’d read in the paper that Lord Everard had passed away, and that’s why his daughter had come to London. But why would her father refuse to see his nephew? Perhaps he did not realize that this was Mr. Everard’s purpose in calling? Did her father not know of the relationship between this man and Lord Everard? “You were close to your uncle?”
“He was father and mother to me. At times it seemed he was the very air I breathed.”
She could hear the emotion in his voice, though she thought he meant to hide it behind his fanciful words. She tried to imagine losing both her mother and father, and her spirit quailed. It had been bad enough losing little Charles.
“I’m so sorry,” she murmured. “I’m certain if Father knew something of value he’d be only too happy to tell you.”
The smile remained on his handsome face, but it seemed suddenly stiff, like a mask on display. “No doubt. But I’ll rest easier once we’ve spoken. Is he home, by any chance?”
Imogene started to explain that he’d been called to the Admiralty that morning, but her mother appeared in the doorway.
“Ah, Mr. Everard,” she said, sailing into the room in her day dress of palest silk. “To what do we owe this pleasure?”
Vaughn rose and bowed, and Imogene couldn’t help noticing that the movement didn’t have quite the same flair as the bow he’d offered her. “Lady Widmore, your servant. I believe you know that I made your lovely daughter’s acquaintance last night at the Mayweather ball. She utterly charmed me, and I could not survive a day without paying my respects.”
Imogene’s mother glanced her way, smile regal, but Imogene saw the slight narrowing of her eyes. Oh, but her mother meant to have words with her when he left. “Yes, Imogene is much sought after this Season. The knocker is rarely silent. But then I am her mother. I must take pleasure in her popularity.”
“Pride can easily be forgiven,” he replied, taking his seat as she sat beside Imogene on the settee, “when it is so amply justified.”
At his look, Imogene felt her cheeks coloring. “Mr. Everard was asking after Father, Mother. I don’t believe we expect him home until later.”
“Much later,” her mother confirmed, posture straight. “If you meant to speak with him, I fear you have made the trip for nothing, sir.”
Vaughn smiled at Imogene. “A trip is never wasted when a gentleman finds himself surrounded by beauty.”
Imogene felt her mother’s gaze on her. “And poor Imogene often finds herself surrounded by callers. I fear she has little time to herself.”
It was a pointed hint. A gentleman would beg her pardon, excuse himself immediately. Vaughn merely crossed his long legs at the ankles.
“But dear lady, how could you be so cruel as to deprive us of our source of inspiration, of light? Even the farmer welcomes the bees hovering about his flowers.”
If anything, her mother’s back was even stiffer. This was getting ridiculous, and it was getting Imogene no closer to her goal of discovering the source of her father’s antipathy for the fellow. She racked her brain for a way to converse privately with him.
“Do you enjoy music, Mr. Everard?” she tried.
She was certain of his answer. What poet wouldn’t enjoy the strains of a well-played song?
“I take pleasure in the sound of a pianoforte or a violin played with precision,” he allowed. There was the slightest crease between his brows, as if he wasn’t sure of her direction. She had to make this work. She very much doubted she’d get another chance to see him again otherwise.
Lord, help him to follow my lead!
“Then you must come hear my latest composition,” Imogene told him. She stood, forcing him to his feet while her mother went so far as to frown at her. “I’m not quite certain I’m happy with it, and I’d very much like your thoughts.”
“Delighted,” he replied.
“If you’ll just excuse us a moment, Mother,” Imogene said, heading for the door.
She heard the whisper of silk as her mother rose. “No need, my dear. I find myself quite curious about this new song, as well.”
Imogene puffed out a sigh, but she kept going.
Vaughn caught up with her easily, pacing her down the corridor and stairway for the music room. With her mother right behind, there was no time for any but the most commonplace of topics, and she thought by the stiffness of his responses that he was as frustrated by the whole affair as she was.
The music room was just off the main entry, a small, north-facing room with misty gray walls and fanciful white curls festooning the coffered ceiling. She went straight to her piano and seated herself on the bench. “Would you be so kind as to turn the pages for me, Mr. Everard?”
He stood behind her. If she had leaned back, she would have rested against him. She kept her spine straight, her gaze on the sheet music in front of her.
“It starts slowly, like this.” She began playing the piece. She already knew it by heart, she’d written it after all, so she didn’t have to keep her eyes on the music. Still, she looked up only long enough to be certain her mother had taken a seat on one of the gilded chairs near the fire.
“You see how it drifts along here?” She nodded toward the music.
Vaughn bent closer, putting his face on a level with hers. She could feel the heat of him so close, his breath as it brushed against her curls. “Encouraging and lilting, much like the beginnings of a courtship,” he said.
Oh, but her cheeks would give everything away if he continued to speak to her like that. “My father seems quite vexed with you,” Imogene whispered, trying to focus on her goal while her fingers kept moving. “Do you know why that might be?”
“I have never knowingly done anything to offend him,” he murmured back. His long-fingered hand reached past her, almost as if he meant to embrace her, then she realized he was following the notes more closely than she was and was preparing to turn the page for her. “Why would he take me in dislike?”
She wished she knew. Vaughn Everard seemed the perfect fellow: clever, talented, handsome, charming. How could anyone take him in dislike? Certainly dislike was the furthest thing from her mind. “There’s some problem.”
“Can you arrange a meeting?”
This section of the music was allegro, and she launched herself into the complicated runs. “He’s so busy. I can’t be sure of catching him.”
His whisper caressed her cheek. “But won’t you try, for me?”
Her mother rose from her seat, wandered closer, eyes narrowing. Vaughn straightened.
“And now the crescendo,” Imogene proclaimed, throwing herself into the music. Her mind moved faster than her fingers. Vaughn Everard seemed so right, the very man she’d been searching for since she’d made her debut last Season. Only the perfect husband would do for the Marquess of Widmore’s daughter. She had a family name to uphold, after all. But was she mistaken in Mr. Everard’s character?
If her father knew Vaughn Everard was a scoundrel, as his refusal to see the poet implied, Imogene would be wrong to help him, to welcome him any further into their lives.
Lord, help me know the truth! Show me Your will in this!
She finished the piece with a flourish, and Vaughn Everard joined her mother in applause. But his head was cocked, his dark gaze on her as if he hadn’t truly seen her before. It made her want to preen and disappear at the same time.
“So, what do you think, Mr. Everard?” she challenged.
He bowed, as if she’d done something magnificent like beat Napoleon single-handedly. “I found the piece intriguing and its execution intoxicating. You are a gifted musician, Lady Imogene.”
She was coloring again. This time, her mother’s smile was genuine. “Yes, she is. Not many recognize that, Mr. Everard.”
“I suspect it’s because Mr. Everard has talents of his own that he’s quick to recognize them in others,” Imogene said.
His mouth quirked, but he did not manage a smile. “My talents pale before the work of a true artist. To show my gratitude for your gift, may I take you driving tomorrow?”
Imogene couldn’t help glancing at her mother. She knew how she wanted to answer. She’d have sacrificed her music for a month for a bit more time to study the poet. But she was fairly certain her mother was going to find an excuse to refuse.
“Well, Imogene,” her mother said, “don’t keep Mr. Everard waiting. I believe your afternoon is free tomorrow.”
Imogene knew her mouth was hanging open and hastily shut it. With a grin, she turned to Vaughn. “I’d be delighted to join you, Mr. Everard. Say three?”
“I shall count the moments until then,” he said. He took her hand and bowed over it, then did the same for her mother before striding from the room. Her mother’s sigh at his retreating back matched Imogene’s.
Imogene blinked. “Do you approve of him, Mother? I thought you disliked the Everards.”
Her mother patted her shoulder. “I find them presumptuous in the extreme. But I have not known you to be so willing to share your compositions, and I’ve never seen a gentleman caller more attuned to you, more appreciative of your abilities. For that, Mr. Everard deserves at least one other opportunity to impress me.”
Chapter Four
Imogene barely had time to congratulate herself on gaining another opportunity to become better acquainted with Vaughn Everard before she and her mother were besieged by callers. Elisa and Mrs. Mayweather stopped by to compare impressions from the ball the previous night; Kitty and the elderly cousin who was sponsoring her arrived to chat. Various gentlemen Imogene had met this Season and last paid their respects and angled to take her driving or walking. She put them off with encouraging excuses. At the moment, she had enough on her hands trying to determine why Mr. Everard and her father were on the outs.
Her mother had already retired to her room to change for dinner, and Imogene had just opened her book in the withdrawing room when Jenkins brought her one last caller. She managed a smile as Lord Gregory Wentworth bowed over her hand.
“Lady Imogene, radiant.”
She wasn’t entirely sure he meant the compliment for her or whether it was a compliment at all. She rather thought any radiance had seeped away over the long afternoon. But he flipped up his navy coattails, took the chair nearest her and leaned back as if well satisfied with his ability to flatter.
Because of his good looks and future earldom, any number of young ladies had set their caps at him, but Imogene had never been sure why. Lord Wentworth, she feared, was rather lacking when it came to charm and intelligence—fatal flaws in a suitor. Unfortunately, her opinion had not prevented him from calling with determined frequency.
“And how did I earn the honor of your presence today, my lord?” she asked now.
“Hoping for a word with your father,” he drawled, “but of course couldn’t leave without greeting you.”
“How kind.” She ought to find something useful to say, but she truly didn’t want to encourage him.
He tipped up his chin. “Have mutual friends, you know. Everard. Good chap.”
Imogene tried not to frown, but she found it hard to imagine the two men having anything in common. “Oh?” she said. “How are you acquainted?”
He preened as if he knew the heights to which he’d risen. “Known his family for years. Uncle had the estate near ours in Cumberland.”
So there was actually a connection between them? Why, she could use that to her advantage. Thank You, Lord, for providing this opportunity!
“How fortunate,” she said, smiling at him with considerably more warmth. “And what do you think of Mr. Everard?”
He shrugged. “Bit wild, but loyal. Clever. Your father wouldn’t think so highly of him if it weren’t true.”
Imogene cocked her head. “My father thinks highly of him?”
Lord Wentworth blinked, paling. “Doesn’t he? Good friends with the fellow’s uncle, you know. Why dislike the nephew?”
Imogene leaned closer. “So my father favors him?”
“Are you saying he doesn’t?”
They gazed at each other a moment, and Imogene was certain her face must mirror his for confusion.
Her mother joined them just then, and he climbed to his feet and bowed to her. Imogene spent the next few minutes in conversation about the weather and the latest offerings at the Theatre Royal and other such nonsense, all the while stifling an urge to reach across the space and throttle Lord Wentworth with his pretentiously tied cravat.
What did he mean making up stories about Vaughn Everard? They couldn’t be friends; surely Mr. Everard would disdain the man’s pomp, his belittling clipped sentences. In fact, it sounded as if Lord Wentworth knew less about the poet than Imogene did. Otherwise he’d know there was some difficulty between Mr. Everard and her father.
The topic must have remained on his mind as well, for he brought it up again when he took his leave a short time later.
“Hope I didn’t give impression I follow Everard,” he said with a bow over her hand. “Opinions would be swayed by your father’s, whatever they are.”
“So I’ve heard,” Imogene said brightly. “A great many people are swayed by my father.”
He looked at her askance, as if begging her to explain. It was a shame she couldn’t put the fellow out of his misery and clarify her father’s opinions on the matter, but the marquess’s attitude toward Vaughn Everard was growing more mysterious by the moment.
* * *
“You seemed a bit cool to our guest,” her mother said after the footman had seen him out and she and Imogene had repaired to the dining room. Her smile was gentle as she sat across from her daughter, the seat at the head of the table conspicuously empty. “Has he done something to offend you, dearest?”
Imogene could think of any number of annoyances but none that rose to the level of offense. She pushed her peas about on her gold-rimmed china plate. “No, Mother. I just find him a bit tiresome.”
“Unlike your Mr. Everard.”
Imogene fought a smile. “Very unlike him.”
“And why do you think you find him so interesting?” her mother persisted, reaching for her crystal goblet.
A reason suggested itself, but she shoved it away. It was far too soon to claim her heart was engaged, and she still had doubts that Mr. Everard would meet her criteria for a husband.
“Outside this business with Father, I’m not sure I know,” she replied, abandoning her peas and gazing at her mother. “When I brought up the matter of his interest in Father last night, he asked me about the third of March. Do you remember anything significant about that date?”
A slight frown marred her mother’s face in the light of the silver candelabra on the table. “March third? I believe that’s the night we arrived in London. What is the importance to Mr. Everard?”
Imogene motioned to Jenkins to come take her plate. “It appears to be the day his uncle died,” she said, thinking about their aborted conversation at the dance. He’d asked her where her father had been. Then she hadn’t been sure. But if March third was the night they arrived in London, she knew what her father had been doing, and his actions only deepened the mystery.
Her mother offered her a sad smile, nodding to the footman to remove her plate, as well. “Ah, significant indeed. I understand Mr. Everard and his uncle were close.”
“Very,” Imogene assured her. “He seems genuinely hurt by Lord Everard’s passing. I suspect Mr. Everard has great sensitivity.”
Her mother’s lips quirked as the footmen began bringing in the second course. “So it would seem. But the other gentlemen this Season are not so very lacking. I’m sure a number of young ladies find Lord Wentworth, for instance, quite presentable.”
“And I rather suspect he agrees.” She sat straighter, coloring. “Oh, Mother, forgive me! That sounded waspish. I don’t know what’s gotten into me today.”
Her mother’s look was assessing. “I fear it isn’t just today. I want the best for you, Imogene, but do you think perhaps you have set your sights too high?”
Imogene raised her chin. “I am the Marquess of Widmore’s daughter. I thought I was supposed to set my sights high!”
Her mother patted the damask cloth beside her as if she longed to pat Imogene’s hand. “I did not mean to suggest you marry the ragman, dearest. However, you seem to have high expectations of your suitors, so high that I fear no man, not even Mr. Everard, can live up to them.”
Imogene shook her head. “I would think that intelligence and charm are not too much to ask.”
Her mother smiled. “I would agree. Lord Eustace has those, yet you refused him out of hand last Season.”
Imogene remembered the enthusiastic man who had offered his heartfelt proposal on bended knee. “Lord Eustace is no more than a friend, Mother, and unfortunately addicted to whist.”
“David Willoughby, then,” her mother insisted, lifting a spoonful of the strawberry ice they had been served. “Handsome, charming, the heir to a barony. He looked crushed when you refused him.”
“He hasn’t darkened the door of a church since he reached his majority,” Imogene informed her, digging into her own ice. “I won’t have a man so lacking in devotion.”
“And Sir George Lawrence? He certainly attends services and supports any number of charitable causes.”
Imogene shuddered, swallowing the cool treat. “He also picks his teeth. With his nails. After he’s eaten enough for a regiment. He’ll die of gout before he’s thirty. I have no wish to be a widow.”
Her mother sighed. “You see? No one is perfect.”
Vaughn Everard’s face came to mind, brightened by that genuine smile she’d seen at the ball last night. His poetry proclaimed him a man of intelligence and creativity. His actions spoke of a devotion to family, of determined perseverance. But she thought she was only seeing the edges of his character.
She dropped her gaze to her lap and was surprised to find the fingers of her free hand pleating the silk of her skirt. “I know no one’s perfect, Mother. But none of those gentlemen you mentioned stirred my heart. Surely I am allowed to feel something tender for the man I’ll marry.”
“I would like that for you, dearest,” her mother murmured, “but not every bride can claim a love match, despite what the novels tell you. There are many other good reasons to wed—security, position, children.”
Saving her family from penury. Oh, but she mustn’t say that aloud. She wasn’t sure she could pull it off, and telling her mother she had a plan to prevent them from losing the marquessate and all its attendant income would only get her hopes up.
“I understand, Mother,” she said. “Please know that I will do my duty. The man I accept will be a credit to the name of Devary and the House of Widmore, I promise. I will settle for nothing less.”
* * *
Vaughn’s afternoon was far quieter, a fact designed to cause him no end of difficulties. There was nothing he liked less than indolence. He needed action, challenges, something to keep his mind and hands busy. When Uncle had been alive, they’d never lacked for diversions—wagering on impossible odds, cheering horse races and pugilistic displays and closing the gaming tables in the wee hours of the morning. He wasn’t sure when those things had begun to pale—it had begun some time before his uncle’s death, he believed—but he found he had little interest in them now.
So he sat in his room in Everard House and stared at the empty parchment in front of him. The windows were shuttered, the fire banked low. He’d had the new valet he shared with his cousin Richard remove the clock so its steady ticking would be no distraction. Everything was conducive to starting his next poem, but he found the words had dried up. It was as if everything meaningful to him had turned to dust the day Uncle had died.
He leaned back in the chair at his writing table, fixed his gaze on the pattern of the wallpaper and traced each leafy green frond back to the center. Why couldn’t he order his thoughts? Other men seemed to concentrate so easily, to shift their attentions when they wished. He found himself concentrating to the point of shutting out everything else or being unable to make his mind settle on a single topic. Even now, it flitted from problem to problem, never solving anything, merely teasing him with possibilities before moving on.
For a time after Uncle had died, only vengeance had sustained him. His cousins had been concerned for his state of mind. He’d seen the looks flashing between Jerome and Richard when they talked about what had happened the night Uncle’s body had been returned home. If he dwelled on that day now, he’d likely go mad.
He pushed back his chair and went in search of game.
Everard House ought to be crowded with him, his cousins Richard and Samantha and Lady Claire Winthrop in residence, to say nothing of his cousin Jerome and his new wife, who were expected any moment. Yet sometimes days went by without more than a chance meeting in the corridor. The others were all intent on making Samantha the toast of London, and that meant taking the girl out where she could be seen.
Today, for example, Samantha and Lady Claire, as they had all begun to call his cousin’s sponsor, were just returning from some event when he reached the stairs and gazed down into the entryway. The marble-tiled space looked remarkably empty since they had removed the massive statue of a naked Eve holding out a golden apple, one of Uncle’s mad whims. Samantha seemed entirely too small, her dainty features as animated as the hands she waved in front of her sky-blue spencer.
“But he asked to call,” she was saying breathlessly. “I thought surely you’d advise me to encourage him.”
“Anyone else, certainly,” Lady Claire replied, handing her feathered bonnet to the footman. Vaughn had been unsure of Richard’s betrothed at first. The color of her thick, wavy hair might be as warm as honey, but her blue gaze could be as cold as ice. And it didn’t help that she had thrown over Richard for a wealthy viscount years ago. He had come to realize, however, that a loving heart beat beneath those fashionable silk gowns, and her devotion to Samantha was unquestionable.
His cousin puffed out a sigh as she allowed the footman to take her bonnet. “I’m only trying to fulfill Papa’s will!”
“And with considerable style,” Vaughn called down.
Her face brightened as she looked up at him. “Cousin Vaughn! You’re home!”
“An astute observation, infant,” he replied with a smile as he descended the stairs. “And as you appear to be home as well, what say we find ourselves some mischief?”
She grinned as he reached her side. “What shall it be? Boxing? Fencing?”
Lady Claire raised a brow. “Entirely without imagination. Pugilism would ruin your gown, and you’ve already beaten him twice with the blade.”
Three times, but he was not about to admit to their bout the other morning in the stables. “I allow her to win. It inspires confidence.”
“Ha!” Samantha made a face at him. “Damages your consequence, you mean.”
“Regardless,” Lady Claire said with a twinkle in her eyes, “as we need time to prepare for a ball this evening, perhaps a short game of skittles in the library.”
Vaughn nearly made a face at that. Was this what he had fallen to for entertainment—swinging a little ball on a chain so it collided with a set of pins? Where was the adventure, the excitement?
“Lovely!” Samantha exclaimed with a clap of her hands, and he felt compelled to bow her and Lady Claire ahead of him to the library. He’d promised to support the girl in any way possible, after all. She was doing them a favor.
Uncle had written his will oddly. The law required the only legal child of his blood, Samantha, to inherit the title and the bulk of the Everard legacy—lands in six counties, shares in more than a dozen ships and money in the Exchange. But Uncle had left a sizable bequest to each of his nephews provided they help Samantha achieve three tasks. The first, being presented to the queen, had been accomplished two weeks ago, thanks to the help of Lady Claire.
The other two were more difficult. Uncle’s reputation for wildness had caused any number of families to close their homes to anyone named Everard. The will required Samantha to be welcomed in those homes. Vaughn knew he wouldn’t be much help there. Between his loyalty to his uncle and the duels he’d fought the past two years, he’d managed to lock those doors and set up an oak barricade across them. Only Samantha’s bubbly personality, beauty and barony would open them.
The final task he disliked the most of all. Samantha was to garner no less than three offers of marriage from eligible gentlemen. She’d already received one from an old family friend, a boy she’d known for ages. She’d refused, and the lad had been recalled home before he could press her further.
Of course, Vaughn had also offered, more in jest than anything else, though her sponsor seemed determined to count it. Samantha had known better than to accept. Though she seemed equally fond of him, she saw the similarities between him and her father and feared them. He’d always said she was a clever minx.
The next half hour proved just how clever. She won the first game handily, and he was hard-pressed to win the second. All the while she cast him glances under her golden lashes, smile playing about her rosy lips as if she knew what he was thinking. Unfortunately, he was certain his sweet little cousin might run crying from the room if she knew the darkness that sometimes threatened him.
As if he suspected Vaughn’s mood, Richard, who had wandered in during the second game, stayed behind when Lady Claire took Samantha away to change for the ball.
“I understand you’re pursuing Lady Imogene,” he said, taking Samantha’s spot across the table from Vaughn.
Vaughn continued to set the polished wood pins back in their positions on the board. “If you know only the single song, pray stop harping.”
He thought his cousin might react to the goad. In fact, a small part of him wanted a reaction, perhaps even an argument. Anything was better than staring at that blank page upstairs where his muse lay stillborn. But Richard crossed his arms over his chest, straining the shoulders of his brown coat.
“You can’t dwell on the past,” he said. “It will eat away at you.”
Vaughn knew Richard spoke from experience. He’d courted Lady Claire when they were both too young and he’d watched her wed another. Only when the now-widowed Claire had chosen to sponsor Samantha had the two worked through their differences.
“Easy for you to say,” Vaughn returned, aligning a pin into the triangle. “Your past is now your future. For me, there will be no second chance. Uncle is dead.”
“We’ll see him again someday,” Richard countered.
Something black boiled up inside him. “Men of faith go to heaven. By your theology, Uncle and I are headed somewhere else entirely.”
Richard’s long arm shot out, clasped his shoulder. “Only if you choose it. Uncle had a change of heart before he died. I see no reason not to hope for you.”
Vaughn glanced up at him, feeling the concern coiling out from Richard’s grip, seeing the worry in that tense face. With one finger, he hit the closest pin and watched as all the others tumbled, as well. “Only if your God has a sense of humor,” he said, though he felt his gut twist at the joke. He very much feared that nothing he could do would earn him a place beside his cousins when this life ended.
Richard looked ready to argue, his bearded jaw set. Vaughn rose and turned his back, striding from the room before his cousin could call him back or call him to task. He needed light, he needed air. He needed something to focus his mind!
A picture kindly presented itself, sharp and clear, and he knew exactly how to fill that waiting page. He took the stairs two at a time, shoved through the door and threw himself into the chair. The words flew from the quill, powerful, purposeful. Only when he’d filled that page and three more like it did he stop to marvel at the flow.
That the poems came so easily should not have surprised him. All he’d needed was a little inspiration. And it seemed his mind had finally deigned to fix itself on a point on the horizon: a shining star named Imogene.
Chapter Five
Imogene was ready when Vaughn Everard called for her the next day. She was once again loitering near the landing, but she took her time descending the stair to his side. It would never do to let a gentleman think she was longing for his company or that she admired him in his high-crowned beaver, bottle-green coat and spotless boots. She tried not to blush as he took her hand and declared that the angels in heaven must be weeping for their inability to match her beauty.
But she couldn’t help exclaiming over his carriage.
It was a newer class, a “chariot” she believed she’d heard, in a shade of lacquered blue that complimented her lighter blue spencer and the velvet ribbons that crossed her white bonnet. Every sleek line said speed and power. The perfectly matched snowy-white horses waiting at its head looked capable of flying, and even her under footman holding them seemed awed by his task. She glanced at the seats in the compartment behind the high driver’s bench.
“I prefer to handle my own horses,” Vaughn said as if he’d seen her look. “I was hoping you’d join me up front.”
Imogene grinned at him. “I was hoping you’d ask.”
That smile appeared, so fleeting and yet so warming. She wondered what she’d have to do to make it remain.
He handed her up into the seat, a padded-leather perch surrounded by a brass rail, then went around to take his place beside her. Up so high, she could see down the street, across the park in the center of the square and through the trees to the more trafficked street beyond. As she glanced around, however, she noticed that the space for the footman or tiger at the back was empty, and her under footman showed no sign of climbing aboard as he released the bridles at Mr. Everard’s nod.
Of course, sitting up on the driver’s bench, everyone could see her as well, so her reputation would not suffer—at least no more than would be expected sitting next to this man.
He clucked to the horses and set them off at a good clip, the rushing air tugging at her bonnet. His hands held the great beasts lightly, and he easily threaded the horses through the traffic on Park Lane. A little thrill ran through her. She was driving with the famous Vaughn Everard! Would he speak of love, of great historical events, of the French massing on the farther shore of the Channel, ready to devour England?
“Fine day for a drive,” he ventured, gazing out over his horses.
She stared at him. Oh, she must have misunderstood. He was merely warming up, like a musician tuning his instrument before a concert. “Exceptionally fine,” she agreed, waiting for the opening bars of his solo.
“And your mother is well?”
No, no, no! That wasn’t how the ride was supposed to go. He couldn’t be as endlessly polite as her other suitors. She’d go mad. “Exceedingly,” she clipped.
“How are you enjoying your Season?”
Imogene turned to him. “Well, it was all going tremendously well until you turned into a dead bore.”
He blinked at her, then grinned, and her heart danced. “Forgive me. I should have known better than to try to impersonate a gentleman. I promise to improve once we reach the park. Which would you prefer, the carriage path along Park Lane or the one down to the Serpentine?”
The Park Lane route was the more popular, she knew. She’d been driven there by more than one suitor. The path down to the Serpentine, however, was less frequented. Gentlemen were rumored to hold trysts among the trees. She’d never driven that route.
“The Serpentine path,” she said, settling back in her seat. “And I’ll be much more in charity with you if you give me a chance at the reins.”
With a laugh, he turned the horses, and they entered Hyde Park.
The carriage path wound across the northernmost lawn and into the trees surrounding the wooden walls of the upper powder magazine. Imogene had always found it odd that the army would think Hyde Park a good place to mix and store gunpowder, but she supposed having the magazine out among the trees protected the populace and the crowded buildings of London from accidents.
Today the way toward it lay empty, but she could see crowds beginning to gather as the fashionable made their afternoon descent on the park. Couples strolled along the footpath to Kensington, carriages paused along Park Lane and gentlemen on horseback headed for Rotten Row to the south. Closer to hand, however, it was only her and Mr. Everard. As if he realized it, he slowed the horses. “Perhaps it’s time we spoke of more important matters.”
The light of the lovely spring day seemed to dim. This was not a pleasure drive, after all. He wanted information from her, and she must make her report. “You asked after my father,” she said. “Particularly what he was doing on March third.”
“Have you remembered something more about that day, then?”
She could hear the hope in his voice and chanced a glance at his face. His gaze was fixed on his horses, but she didn’t think he even noticed the actions of the snowy pair.
“A little,” she admitted. “I talked with Mother about the day. She reminded me that on March third we’d only just arrived in London. I know we spent the evening settling in and seeing everything unpacked.”
“Then your father was at home.”
She thought he sounded relieved. “For the evening, yes. I understood we were to make an early night of it, but as I was preparing to retire, I heard a noise from the gardens and looked out the window. Father was leaving on his horse. I assumed it was a summons from the War Office, and he simply didn’t want to overtire our coachman, who had just driven us to London.”
“Possibly,” he said, but his look had darkened.
The air felt cooler. She rubbed the arm of her spencer. “You think he went somewhere else, don’t you?”
He clucked to the horses as they took the turn through the tall trees past the magazine, the sunlight through the leaves striping his face with light and shadow. “My uncle fought a duel the night of the third. He lost, and we lost him forever.”
So that was how Lord Everard had died. “And you think Father was a witness.”
“I think he was there, yes. I’d like to hear his account of the event.”
Imogene put her hand on his arm and felt the tension in it, beyond what it should have taken to guide the team. She had friends who had lost loved ones—a mother to childbirth, a brother in the war. She knew each had a way of grieving all their own. Some cried, some were blue for weeks and others attacked life as if hoping to wrest every ounce of joy from the moment, never sure whether it was their last. She rather thought Mr. Everard fit the last category.
“It’s hard when someone you love dies,” she murmured. “When my brother Viscount Charles passed on I felt so confused. He was just a boy—he hadn’t even started to live! I didn’t understand how God could take him, particularly after He’d taken all the others, too.”
“Others?” He glanced her way, seeking clarification.
Imogene withdrew her hand and dropped her gaze as she smoothed down her muslin skirts. “I would have had three older sisters had they lived beyond their birth.”
“I’m so sorry.”
Other people had said those words, to her father, to her mother, to her. Never had she heard such emotion behind them, as if he understood the pain of loss better than most, as if he understood how that loss had hurt her.
“So am I,” Imogene assured him, raising her gaze. “And I regret that your uncle left you, too.”
He managed a parody of a smile. “These thoughts are entirely too melancholy for such a lovely day. May I only say that I have no doubt where you will spend eternity, Lady Imogene. Surely so pure a spirit must rejoice with the angels.”
It was a pretty compliment, one she might expect from a poet, but the sentiment did not ring true. As if he meant to distract her, he held out the reins. “Now, perhaps you’d care to demonstrate how well a pure spirit can drive.”
She knew she must be a sad trial to her mother because the gambit worked. Imogene stared at him, hopes rocketing skyward. “Truly?”
His eyes widened. “Tell me this won’t be the first time.”
She laughed at the trace of panic in his voice. “Not at all, sir! I’ve driven our gig to church at our country estate, and Father even bought me my own pony cart.”
The reins inched closer to his chest. “A chariot is a much larger vehicle.”
“Obviously,” she replied with a grin. “But with you here to advise me what could go wrong?”
One corner of his mouth lifted at that, and he offered her the strips of leather.
Imogene slipped her gloved hands over his, relishing the strength, the confidence with which he held the team. As he released the leather into her care, she felt the tug of the horses, the weight of responsibility for their guidance. A tremor started in her arm, and she forced herself to stiffen. She could do this. She was the Marquess of Widmore’s daughter.
Vaughn must have remained a little nervous for his horses, for he edged closer to her on the seat until his leg pressed against her skirts and she could feel the warmth of his body. Suddenly it was much more difficult to concentrate.
She took a deep breath. The scent of something clean and crisp drifted over her. Funny, she would have thought he’d wear some exotic cologne, but he smelled more of spring and sunlight. She wanted to close her eyes and breathe him in.
This would never do! She mustn’t be caught woolgathering while driving! She had a duty—to the horses, to him, to the other people in the park.
The horses trotted on, completely comfortable with their surroundings and seemingly oblivious to the change in leadership. She was tempted to whip them up, send them pounding down the path, but that was never wise in Hyde Park. They might meet another carriage around the next turn or come across a pedestrian. She had to be careful.
“What a splendid pair,” she told him instead. “And how well matched. Their gaits are as one.”
She didn’t dare glance Vaughn’s way, determined to drive well, but she could hear the smile in his voice. “Our Master of Horse will be pleased to hear that you approve. They were each rejected at Tattersall’s for being too unruly to pull a carriage or serve as a gentleman’s mount. I thought differently, and he proved my point.”
“They’re darlings,” Imogene assured him. “Anyone who thought otherwise clearly lacked vision. What are their names?” She nearly closed her eyes again, this time in mortification. Did gentlemen name their carriage horses? She’d never been introduced to a team.
But he didn’t seem to find fault with her question. “Aeos on the left and Aethon on the right.”
“From the legend of Apollo’s chariot pulling the sun,” Imogene realized. And how like a poet to choose such names.
“You know your Greek mythology.”
Imogene smiled. “Father insisted on it. He said there was no reason I couldn’t be as well educated as any gentleman.”
“And better than most,” he agreed. “The Ring is coming up on your left. We’ll need to swing around it. Give Aethon his head.”
She could see the group of trees coming up and the fence that circled the remains of the old riding circle. She eased up the pressure on the left set of reins, but Aethon kept pace with his teammate. She frowned.
“May I?” Vaughn asked.
She thought he meant to take back the reins, and her spirits sank. But he leaned closer and cupped her wrists, gloved fingers glazing the bare skin between her sleeves and her gloves. A tremor shook her again, but it had nothing to do with concerns about her driving skills.
“Like this,” he said, voice purring beside her bonnet. She felt the strength as he drew back her hands. Together they guided the pair, through pressure and tension, around the trees and out onto the shaded path. The air felt cool as he pulled away, and Imogene drew in a breath, surprised to find she had been holding hers.
“Nicely done, Lady Imogene,” he said. “The next thing you know, you’ll be driving the mail.”
She highly doubted that, though a part of her preened. She’d heard that some gentlemen dressed like coachmen and even bribed the mail coach drivers to let them take a hand at the great coaches. “Have you driven a mail coach?” she asked.
His gaze was once more out over the horses. “When I wish to drive hard, I don’t need to borrow a coach. And I don’t need the approval of others to assure myself of my skills.”
That must be nice. She’d put in a great deal of effort over the years to win her father’s approval. Now it seemed as if he’d forgotten her entirely. “But you must belong to a club,” she said. “What about White’s? Surely you’re a member there.”
He stretched one leg with a grin. “They dislike fellows who rarely lose.”
“One of the other gentlemen’s clubs, then.”
“Same faces, same rules. As you said, a dead bore.”
Imogene glanced his way. His polished boot was high on the footrest, his gaze out across the trees and pathways, a smile playing about his lips.
“Do you belong nowhere, sir?” she teased.
The smile disappeared. “To nothing and no one, Lady Imogene. Count on it.”
He was trying entirely too hard. Had she goaded him into it by calling his earlier conversation boring? Surely he cared about something; his poems were evidence of that. He saw things—in nature, in people—that others missed. He must belong to someone.
Perhaps he could belong to her?
The thought came unbidden, but she couldn’t dismiss it. She imagined a great many ladies had thrown their lures at him, yet apparently he was immune. It seemed he had a devotion to his cousin, Lady Everard, if the rumors were true, but he was here with Imogene now. Was she the woman to make Vaughn Everard settle down at last? He was clearly arrogant enough to think it impossible. She was just arrogant enough to try!
They were nearing the stone cottage of the Keeper’s Lodge, hidden away behind a picket fence and high hedges. Soon they’d be surrounded by other carriages and more people. She puffed out a sigh. She didn’t want the rest of the world. She knew she’d have to give him up soon enough, but right now she wanted to spend more time with him, unwrapping each layer like a birthday present swathed in tissue. She was certain that what lay beneath was nothing short of perfection.
But as they rounded the curve, she could see other carriages approaching, and she wasn’t quite ready to maneuver Aeos and Aethon among more horses.
“I think perhaps you should drive now,” she said, reluctantly offering him the reins.
“If you insist,” he said, his smile returning and warming her.
She thought he would whip them up, set the horses at a good clip again, but he kept the team at a walk, as if just as loath to rejoin society. Perhaps that was why it was so easy to spot the other couple as Imogene and Vaughn crossed a little-used path meandering over the lawns.
The man was tall and lean, his hair, now white with advancing age, peeking out of his high-crowned beaver. Imogene recognized the tailored navy coat, the tasteful gold buttons. She wasn’t close enough to see, but she knew that each one was stamped with a D for Devary. The woman beside him was buxom, and her crimson gown was cut to emphasize the fact, displaying a large beauty mark below her neck. Her bonnet, however, was veiled, the black lace tucked under her chin, and Imogene couldn’t make out her features. As she watched, her father took the woman’s gloved hand and pressed a note into it.
Imogene must have made some noise because Vaughn slowed the horses to a stop at the edge of the path.
“That was your father,” he said, and she thought she heard accusation in his voice.
“Yes, it was,” she replied. “He was supposed to be in Whitehall this afternoon, but I must have misunderstood.” A very great deal, she added silently, unwilling to believe the evidence of her eyes.
“I can see the matter concerns you. Allow me to reunite you with your father so you can discuss it with him.”
“No, please, that isn’t necessary,” Imogene said, but he flicked the reins and began to turn the team on the path. She could feel her face heating. What could she say to her father? And how would he feel to find her driving in a secluded part of the park with the man he refused to acknowledge?
“I’m afraid,” Vaughn said, eyes once more that merciless black, “that I must insist. We’ve both been denied a conversation with your father, and I plan to rectify that.”
* * *
For some reason, the usually responsive chariot felt harder to turn, but Vaughn knew it wasn’t the horses. Lady Imogene sat beside him, fingers tugging at the ribbons of her bonnet, body hunched forward as if to protect herself from attack. She didn’t want to confront her father, fearing they’d stumbled upon some indiscretion. And Vaughn could not tell her that he suspected far more than an illicit liaison was involved.
He hated hurting her, hated that he’d pulled her into this mess. But if he could get answers from the Marquess of Widmore now, Imogene would be free. She wouldn’t have to sully her reputation by spending more time with him; she could return to her Season and find the right gentleman to marry. If some part of him protested that he might be that gentleman, he wrapped it in chains and sank it deep. His duty lay in uncovering the reason behind his uncle’s untimely death. Besides, he could never be a suitable match for a woman like her. She deserved better. He righted the chariot and set the horses back toward the other path.
By the time they reached the spot where her father had been waiting, his partner had gone and his lordship was a distant figure on the way to Kensington Palace. Vaughn slapped the reins, and Aeos and Aethon sped in pursuit. Lady Imogene clamped one hand to her bonnet as if fearing the rushing wind would whip it off, but she said nothing more to dissuade him from his purpose.
Indeed, her silence goaded him. What—had he developed a conscience? It shook a fragile finger at him now, warning that nothing good could come from his actions. He had to let go of the past and move into the future.
How could he? Uncle had been the only one who had ever truly cared about him, who had seen that darkness inside him and still wished his friendship. Vaughn didn’t understand why his uncle hadn’t come to him with his troubles, why he’d gone to the duel alone.
To walk away from the murder, to pretend all was well, went against everything Vaughn believed in. And there was still the concern that England itself might be in danger from the marquess. Three weeks ago, a man connected to the marquess had warned Richard that Widmore meant to topple the crown. Vaughn wasn’t sure what to believe, but he had to learn the truth.
The marquess must have heard them coming, for he stepped to one side of the path and glanced back. At the sight of the carriage bearing down on him his head came up, and he turned from the path and set off across the grass, long legs eating up the yards.
Oh, no, it would not be so easy to escape this time. How could Vaughn not suspect him when the man went to such lengths to avoid him?
“My lord!” Vaughn called, urging the horses forward and narrowing the gap.
The marquess didn’t pause.
Lady Imogene glanced at Vaughn. Her pretty face was puckered, her brows down in a frown as if she couldn’t understand why he was so intent on pursuit. Something of his despair must have shown on his face, for she turned front once more, cupped her hands around her mouth and cried, “Father, wait!”
The marquess halted and turned, and Vaughn thought he sagged in resignation. But as the carriage drew to a stop beside him, the man’s frame was as upright as ever and a pleasant smile lit his lean face.
“Imogene and Mr. Everard. What a delightful surprise to see you out on such a lovely day.”
Vaughn was very nearly struck dumb. How could the man stand there and speak of commonplaces? He had to know Vaughn had been hounding him from pillar to post. Vaughn glanced closer.
The Marquess of Widmore had always been a striking man, with a slender body, elegant features and assessing gray eyes. Though his lips were thin, they were often curved in a smile, lighting his face. Now his tailored coat seemed too large for his frame, as if his energy had worn him thin, and Vaughn detected a tremor in one hand as the marquess stood gazing up at them.
“Father,” Imogene greeted him, fingers worrying in her lap. “I’m surprised to see you here, as well. Mother and I were under the impression that you were in Whitehall.”

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