Regina Scott (10 page)

“Did you not just tell me your father is capable of fighting his own battles?”

“When he sees them coming, certainly. But I suspect he’s been too busy to realize someone is trying to blacken his name. We have to help him.”

Vaughn was fairly certain that she would not like the answers she was seeking. But again, the truth would come out. Perhaps it would be easier for her if she discovered it for herself. “What would you have of me?”

Her thankful smile fed something inside him he’d all but forgotten. “I’m not certain as yet. Give me tonight to think on it. May I ask you to call on me tomorrow, say one?”

He ought to refuse, despite his orders from Jerome. The closer he grew to Imogene, the more painful their ultimate parting. For if he proved her father a villain, he plunged her into scandal and she’d end up hating him for it. And if her father was somehow innocent, as she hoped, then the moment the marquess became aware of an abiding friendship between his darling daughter and the ne’er-do-well nephew of his old friend he would surely put a stop to it.

Yet what was one more meeting, one more hour? It would clearly please her, and it would surely do no harm, at least to Lady Imogene.

He bent over her hand and pressed a kiss against her knuckles, feeling oddly humbled. “Tomorrow, then. Every moment until then will seem an eternity.”

Chapter Ten

W
hen the knocker sounded on the front door at a quarter to one the next day, Imogene grinned. It seemed Vaughn was as eager to see her as she was to see him. She’d considered the matter of her father a great deal since returning from the opera last night, and she thought she could convince Vaughn to take her to visit Madame Toussel. He said the lady knew a great many people. With the right persuasion, the French émigré might confess who was blackening the marquess’s name.

Of course, a trip to see Madame Toussel would also give Imogene time with Vaughn. She did not have to consider why that pleased her so much. She felt alive in his company, purposeful, capable. Perhaps, oh, perhaps, he was the gentleman God intended for her. She just had to clear away all this unpleasantness, and her father could be made to see reason.

But when Jenkins paused in the doorway of the music room a few minutes later, he had other news.

“You have callers, your ladyship,” he announced. “Your mother asks you to join her in the withdrawing room.”

Callers? Then it wasn’t Vaughn. Imogene shook her head at herself as she rose and followed Jenkins from the music room. She should have expected a few visitors today. Elisa often dropped by in the afternoon, and Kitty had called earlier. The visitors waiting for her now could even be other gentlemen who had shown interest, perhaps with an apologetic Lord Gregory Wentworth in tow. She still didn’t understand the connection between that fellow and her father. Surely the marquess would see through his pretensions immediately. Vaughn certainly had.

But at the sight of the two women in the elegant withdrawing room with her mother, Imogene froze in the doorway.

“There you are, dearest,” her mother called. “Come make your curtsy to Lady Winthrop.”

Gathering her wits, Imogene politely bobbed a curtsy, spreading her green sprigged muslin skirts to the lovely blonde seated next to her mother on the settee. “Your ladyship, how nice to see you.”

“Lady Imogene, a pleasure,” she returned with a smile that warmed her pale blue eyes. Now which dressmaker had designed that frothy concoction of muslin and lace the lady was wearing?

“I believe you know my friend Samantha, Lady Everard,” she continued.

Imogene turned to the girl standing by the fireplace. Like her sponsor, Samantha Everard was all conciliatory smiles. Her golden curls were tamed back from her face to fall behind her in a contrived disarray Imogene’s maid had never mastered, her muslin gown was embroidered all over with four-leaf clovers and a double row of the fine work adorned the high waist and hem.

Imogene forced a smile. “Lady Everard, welcome.”

The girl returned her smile with far more warmth. “Thank you.”

“I asked Lady Winthrop to call today,” Imogene’s mother explained. “Our brief visit last night at the opera intermission was entirely insufficient.”

“Completely,” Lady Winthrop agreed with a nod that didn’t so much as ruffle her honey-colored curls.

“Oh, lovely,” her protégé declared. “Then you won’t mind if I spirit Lady Imogene away for a good coze, as well.”

Imogene racked her brain for a way to refuse. She highly doubted Elisa and Kitty would appreciate her making a new friend of the beautiful Lady Everard. But to her surprise, Lady Winthrop looked nearly as determined to prevent the conversation.

“No need for you to leave,” she assured the girl, reaching out to pat the seat of the chair nearest her in obvious invitation. “I’m certain Lady Widmore would be delighted to have you and Imogene join us.”

Her mother’s response dampened Imogene’s hopes. “Surely there’s no reason to bore these two young ladies with our stories. Imogene, why don’t you show Lady Everard the song you composed?”

“Oh, how marvelous!” Lady Everard proclaimed, stepping forward.

Imogene was certain her mother was trying to help her and Lady Everard become better acquainted, but she was afraid the effort would be wasted. Unfortunately, she knew what was expected. She kept her smile in place. “Certainly, Mother. If you’d join me, Lady Everard.”

The girl followed Imogene out the door. Imogene thought she’d start talking immediately. From the way she’d enthused about every statement in the withdrawing room, she could easily be one of those endlessly chatty girls who could not be content with companionable silence.

But Lady Everard said nothing as they descended the stair. In fact, Imogene caught her glancing about wide-eyed, as if the Devary household was not what she had imagined. Imogene supposed the pale blue walls, soaring ceilings, polished wood furnishings and dusky Oriental carpets were enough to impress. But surely an heiress and baroness in her own right was used to such finery.

Imogene led the girl into the music room, stopping to watch her gawk at the elegance of the Adam-style ceiling with its fanciful swirls, then headed for her piano in the corner.

Her companion put out a hand to stop her as Imogene reached for her sheet music.

“You needn’t go to any trouble,” she said. “I merely wished to speak to you in private about my cousin.”

In private? Something must be wrong. Imogene felt as if a rock had dropped into her stomach. She let the music fall back onto the rack. “Has something happened to Vaughn?”

Samantha frowned, withdrawing her hand. “Vaughn, is it? That didn’t take long.”

“He gave me leave,” Imogene said, face heating.

Her lips were tight. “After you threw yourself at him.”

Imogene’s head jerked up. “I did no such thing.”

“You most certainly did,” Samantha said. “I heard you at the ball. You asked
him
to dance.”

Imogene swallowed. “Well, yes, but I had cause.”

Samantha put her hands on her hips, fists crumpling the fine muslin. “Really? I have it on good authority you never met until that night. He didn’t even know your name until Cousin Richard told him.”

So Vaughn hadn’t known who she was when she’d approached him. He’d chosen to dance with her merely because she intrigued him.

“You have no call to smile like that,” Samantha scolded her. “This is serious.”

Imogene sobered and nodded. “I can see you are concerned. But I promise you I would never do anything to harm your cousin.”

Samantha shook her head. “I’m not sure I believe you. That’s why I encouraged Lady Claire to accept your mother’s invitation and bring me with her on this visit. I’ve heard the stories. What was it—four rejected last Season?”

The four proposals had been easy to refuse. They had come from men who would never meet her family’s needs. She could still only hope Vaughn would meet those requirements. But she had no intention of explaining that to Lady Everard.

“A lady,” Imogene replied with a lift of her chin, “does not discuss such matters.”

Samantha broke away from her to pace about the room, skirts protesting her sharp movements. “Well, I haven’t been a lady for long, but it seems to me that someone who encourages a gentleman only to drop him when his heart is engaged isn’t entitled to the name lady either.”

Imogene gripped the edge of her piano. “You presume a great deal for only having met me.”

Samantha paused to glare at her. “And you presume a great deal if you think I would allow you to use my cousin. As it is, I must ask you to stop encouraging him. Vaughn has been through enough.”

Enough? What had happened to him? Had he loved another and been rejected? She could not imagine any woman so heartless. And she was surprised to realize she may have misjudged Lady Everard, as well. The girl was clearly concerned about her cousin, and not, Imogene thought, because she wished another beau in her quiver.

“Please don’t concern yourself,” Imogene replied. “I have the utmost respect for your cousin. He is a talented poet. What lady wouldn’t be thrilled by his attentions?”

Her brow cleared, and she steepled fingers against her lips. “Oh, dear. I’m so sorry. Have I gotten this backward, then? Is he pursuing you?” When Imogene refused to answer, she shook her head. “He flirts with every lady, you know. That’s how he earned the reputation for being a rake. I know from experience that you mustn’t think you are special to him.”

Imogene flinched. No! His cousin was wrong; she had to be! Imogene hadn’t realized how much she’d come to enjoy Vaughn’s company until that moment. She liked when his gaze lit at the sight of her; she liked the way his husky voice murmured her name. She loved sharing confidences, working together to solve a greater problem, to make a difference. And she thought he felt a similar enjoyment when they were together.

She refused to believe he was only toying with her. Lady Everard had been wrong about Imogene’s intentions. She must be wrong about Vaughn’s, as well.

“My friendship with your cousin is between the two of us,” she said stiffly to Samantha. “If you are finished, I’m sure your sponsor would be delighted to have you join her and Mother.”

Samantha grinned, reminding Imogene suddenly of Vaughn, as she returned to Imogene’s side. “Leave just when we’re becoming acquainted? How silly.”

Imogene stared at her. “You are a strange girl.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.” She picked up Imogene’s latest work and glanced over it. “Did you really compose this?”

My, but her ideas jumped from one to the next. Imogene didn’t know whether she was expected to order her from the room or share her deepest feelings. “Yes, that’s my work.”

Samantha stuck out her lower lip. “It looks rather good. I’d love to hear it. Only don’t ask me to attempt it. I can manage a song on the pianoforte, but I’m no genius like you obviously are.”

Imogene frowned at her. “I don’t understand. One moment you’re warning me to leave your cousin alone, the next not to take him seriously, and now you praise me?”

Samantha set the music down. “I tend to speak my mind, a mortal failing in society, I’m learning. And I would be delighted to be your friend, but I’m concerned your father’s dark deeds might come between us.”

Realization struck, and Imogene gasped. “So you’re the one spreading the rumors!”

Samantha frowned. “It’s not a rumor. It’s the truth. Your father challenged mine to a duel, and mine came away dead.”

Imogene felt cold all over. “My father would never kill anyone.”

Samantha’s face was sad as she tidied the pages. “I said the same thing about mine when Vaughn first told me my father dueled. But that’s what a duel means, you know. Two men fight until honor is satisfied, and sometimes honor is only satisfied when the other man is dead.”

“I understand the meaning of a duel,” Imogene told her. “But you’re wrong. My father doesn’t duel.”

“It seems to be an aberration,” she agreed, gaze remaining on the notes as if they somehow held answers. “As far as I can tell, he always had my father deal with anything he wanted settled in that way.”

“That can’t be true,” Imogene argued. “You don’t know my father.”

She glanced up then with a frown. “Certainly I know your father. He visited Dallsten Manor where I live in Cumberland every summer. A shame he never brought you. I imagine we could have had some fun.”

Imogene shook her head, not to deny the suggestion but to clear the thoughts that swirled around her like crows intent on carrion. “My father never spoke of Cumberland. And he certainly never spoke of some anger for your father that would have caused him to challenge him to a duel.”

Her face scrunched. “I was certain I had all that right.” She leaned closer. “They don’t like to worry me, but I overhear my cousins talking, and I can put together the pieces.”

“Well, you obviously put them together in the wrong order this time,” Imogene said.

She straightened. “Did I? I’m fairly sure Vaughn sees the same. This issue has been his burning purpose for weeks—to learn your father’s reasoning and expose him. He must have discussed this with you, considering you’re friends and all.”

Imogene felt behind her for the wall, braced her shaking limbs against it. Could this be true? Could that have been Vaughn’s purpose all along? His questions, to her, to her father, must take on a whole new meaning if Lady Everard spoke the truth.

He had confessed he thought to use Imogene to reach her father, but she had assumed that was to learn the truth about his uncle’s death, not to seek proof of his theory that her father was the cause!

“We’ve spoken about your father’s death,” Imogene told Samantha. “But I can’t accept your word that my father is a killer. You can’t understand him like I do.”

Samantha sighed as if she pitied Imogene. “I didn’t really know my father until after he died. Be thankful you still have an opportunity to help yours.”

She was extremely thankful. Because they had to be wrong, all of them. And she’d prove it, if it was the last thing she did.

* * *

Vaughn had one goal that day before meeting with Imogene: to discover the marquess’s whereabouts. After leaving Imogene at the opera, he’d attempted to intercept one of the men to whom Eugenie Toussel had spoken. As a man, they had left the opera after the intermission, in some cases abandoning their families. Even the French émigré’s box was empty as the second act began, as if she had fled after Vaughn and Imogene had accosted her.

Whose summons had they received? Whose call did they hurry to answer? He feared it was the marquess’s.

He also feared none of them would be willing to discuss the matter the next day. But he tried to locate a few of them, and his card was refused at every door. However, though the marquess and his minions might have gone to ground, the toad would find it more difficult to go missing, Vaughn thought, given the fellow’s personality and presence in society. Vaughn located him easily at Tattersall’s.

The Horse Repository was thronged with gentlemen, as it generally was the day before an auction. They came to look over the latest acquisitions, hoping to determine which riding horse, hunter or racer to bid on. The toad was standing under the arched portico, hands behind the back of his navy coat as if making sure he wouldn’t touch the bay mare being paraded past by a helpful groom.

“Good morning, my lord,” Vaughn drawled, strolling up to him. “Care to explain your remarks last night?”