Regina Scott (11 page)

The fellow shook his blond head, not even bothering to meet Vaughn’s gaze as he dropped his hands to the sides of his chamois breeches. “Surprised you’d approach me without the lady to fight your battles.”

Heat licked up him, but he held himself calm. “And here I thought you’d apologize for your churlish behavior, not compound it.”

He snorted, and the horse shied. Dismissing the groom with a wave, he turned to Vaughn, blue eyes colder than the breeze blowing through the compound. “Did it only for the lady. Father’s too important to my future.”

“Indeed.” Vaughn drew closer. “Promised to elevate you for services, is that it?”

The toad glanced in either direction as if to make sure all the men nearby were otherwise engaged, then leaned in. “Look, you insignificant insect,” he said, glaring down at Vaughn from a few inches above him. “I’ve worked too hard to gain the marquess’s trust. Won’t jeopardize it for a puffed-up poet who can’t remember to keep his blade in his sheath.”

Vaughn raised a brow. “Why, my lord, you have hidden depths.”

“More than you know.” He took a step back. “Now, sir, conversation’s done. Do not approach me again.”

Vaughn watched him stalk off. No more stilted conversations? What a pity. But he still had one clue. For some reason, Eugenie Toussel had invited him and Imogene to Vauxhall tonight. He intended to be there and to make sure Imogene stayed away. If the marquess and his followers were massing, Vaughn wanted Imogene safely elsewhere.

Unfortunately, his search for answers had made him twenty minutes late for his appointment with Imogene. He could only hope she’d be forgiving. As he stood on the steps of the Devary home, he adjusted his top hat and brought the knocker down on the polished door.

The familiar footman opened the door, an unmistakable sparkle in his eyes.

“Mr. Vaughn Everard to see Lady Imogene,” Vaughn told him.

“Mr. Everard,” he said, triumph in every syllable, “is once more unwelcome in this house.” And he slammed the door in Vaughn’s face.

Vaughn frowned. Interesting. How had he become
persona non grata
again? He took a step back and eyed the house. It was possible that Lady Imogene had tired of his company. She may have realized he was not the hero she had imagined and wisely severed their connection. But given his suspicions about her father and the man’s actions in the park the day before, it was equally possible she was in danger. He would not leave until he knew.

He considered again climbing to the withdrawing room, but he could not be sure of finding her there and he wasn’t about to risk hanging for breaking a window. He could resort to the
Romeo and Juliet
gambit again but only if he could determine which room she occupied and whether she was alone.

He descended the stairs and crossed the front lawn, a tiny scrap of green against the white of the house. The windows facing him, he was fairly certain, belonged to a sitting room for receiving casual visitors. He no longer qualified even for that, it seemed.

He turned the corner and loped down the side yard, the gravel of the carriageway crunching beneath his boots. Someone must be preparing for dinner that evening, for the savory smell of roast beef wafted from the kitchen below the house.

From his previous visits, he thought the first window on this side was the music room. His guess was confirmed when the strains of a song fell on him like a soft summer rain. He paused to listen.

She was playing with her usual precision, and he could imagine her at the keys, face alight with joy, body poised as if to run a race. This song was different somehow, as if she was pouring a part of herself into it. He recognized the melody and was surprised as the words came to his lips.

“How can it be that I should gain an interest in the Savior’s blood?”

He remembered where he’d heard it. His uncle had disappeared last Christmas Eve, and Vaughn had been hard-pressed to locate him. It wasn’t the first time. Uncle had the habit of falling into a dark mood, a period when nothing seemed to soothe him. Vaughn would rise one morning and find him missing, with no note of explanation, no word of where he’d gone or when he’d return. Vaughn would generally run his uncle to ground somewhere in London within a few days to a week.

This time had been near St. Mary’s Church in Marylebone, a few days after Christmas. Uncle had been walking along, humming the melody and occasionally breaking into song. Vaughn had been certain he was in his cups and had dragged him home to sleep it off.

But his uncle was never the same after that. He’d lost interest in his usual haunts, spent time with old friends trying to convince them to change, as well. It was as if something he’d seen, something he’d heard had affected him.

“Amazing what faith can do for a man,” Uncle had said when Vaughn had finally questioned him about his altered outlook. “Come with me to services at St. George’s next Sunday and see.”

Vaughn had refused. This so-called faith was merely Uncle’s latest whim, he was certain. Vaughn had chosen notoriety and infamy over propriety. Such choices could not be unmade, could they?

The final notes faded, and he felt something touch his cheek. He wiped at it and realized his glove was damp. A tear? Oh, but he was slipping. He hadn’t cried since the day his father had given up on him and given him away.

But he couldn’t lose his chance now. As another melody drifted from above, he bent, snatched up a handful of gravel and tossed it at the pane. The music stopped, and he waited.

No face appeared at the window.

He scooped up another handful and threw it.

Still nothing.

“I know you’re there,” he called.

The sash flew up, and Imogene glared down at him. Her curls were barely contained by a green ribbon the color of her eyes, and her cheeks were turning red. “Hush! Oh, hush! Do you want to have to take on the footmen again?”

Vaughn put one hand on his heart. “I would brave any danger for a moment with you.”

Her eyes flashed like a sword in the morning light, and he felt the mortal wound. “Stop,” she said. “I know what you want, and I won’t let you hurt my father. Go away now before I set Jenkins on you.”

Chapter Eleven

V
aughn felt as if someone had siphoned the air from his lungs. “Forgive me,” he managed, “but what do you mean?”

Imogene glanced either way, then leaned farther out the window, until her face was only a few feet above his. Anger danced in her gaze, but he saw something else, too—pain and disappointment. Though he ought to be immune to the look after receiving it so many times from his father and grandfather, it cut into him as easily as a knife through butter.

“Your cousin was here,” she hissed. “She told me what you suspect of my father. You’re wrong, and I won’t have any part in making you think you’re right.”

She could only mean Samantha. What was the girl thinking? They had no proof; any accusations were calculated to have just this effect. Small wonder Imogene suddenly loathed him.

“Let me in, please, Imogene,” he said. “I can explain. I would never do anything to hurt you.”

For a moment, he thought she would relent. Her face softened, her lips trembled as if holding back words with effort. Then she stiffened her shoulders, pulled back and braced both hands on the sash.

“I’m afraid we have nothing more to say to each other, sir. Don’t bother calling again. And leave our rocks on the ground.” The sash slid down with a bang that rattled the pane.

Anger poked at him, forced him back from the house. Condemned men were allowed to speak, sometimes from the very steps of the scaffold! But then, his thoughts, his words, had never held any value to his father and grandfather. Perhaps that’s what had first driven him to put them down on paper. He’d been gratified when his poems proved popular. It was as if the world had finally acknowledged something of worth in him. He should not let one harsh word from Imogene, and a justified one at that, make him forget that now.

She clearly expected him to take himself off, perhaps lick his wounds. She persisted in seeing him as a gentleman who would react in a civilized fashion. He could prove otherwise. He could show her exactly how a rake and a scoundrel behaved.

But something inside him cringed at the thought as he walked away from the Devary house. Invisible hands pressed against his chest, weighing him down. He barked a laugh as he came to the corner of Park Lane, earning him a concerned frown from a passing gentleman.

It seemed that, once awakened, his conscience refused to be stilled. How ironic, and how inconvenient. His drive for revenge had led him toward honor instead. Unfortunately, the marquess must be stopped before someone else died. He would simply have to find a way to protect Imogene in the process.

Even if she refused to help him or let him help her.

His mood was dark enough that the footman scrambled aside as Vaughn entered Everard House. The fellow recovered sufficiently to point him toward the withdrawing room, where his cousin was entertaining a visitor. At least that was good news, he reflected as he climbed the stairs.

Even with Lady Claire as sponsor, some of the families of the
ton
hesitated to welcome Samantha into their midst. The fact that Uncle had kept her a secret, cloistered away in Cumberland until his death, made them doubt her legitimacy. And Uncle’s own reputation made them doubt her respectability. The ladies were slowly coming round, as her invitation to the Mayweather ball indicated, but she still had much to do if she was to fulfill the requirements of her father’s will and be welcomed in all the homes that had refused him entrance.

Of course, he supposed she could have a suitor. The gentlemen of London seemed more disposed to like her, and Vaughn didn’t think her fortune was the only lure. From her beauty to her vivacious character, Samantha Everard was a rare handful.

But the man seated beside her on the sofa did not warrant her attentions.

“What are you doing here?” Vaughn demanded, stopping in the doorway.

At his question, Lady Claire glanced at him from her seat by the fire, and Samantha turned, wide-eyed, pulling her fingers from the grip of the toad. “Cousin Vaughn, what’s wrong?”

Her visitor didn’t rise or even look in Vaughn’s direction. “Here to see Lady Everard. No business of yours.”

Vaughn strode into the room. “Certainly it’s my business if a worm has the temerity to crawl across my apple.” He felt his hand going for the blade he had once worn at his side and closed his fist on air instead.

“Vaughn!” Samantha hopped to her feet, hands on her hips. “I am no one’s apple!”

“That is quite enough,” Lady Claire said, but Vaughn was surprised to find her look directed at Samantha instead of him. “My lord,” she said smoothly with a smile to their guest, “please forgive our theatrics.” She rose. “Mr. Everard, a word with you in private, if you please.”

So once again he was to be silenced. Vaughn felt himself stand taller and met her look prepared to fight. Those cool blue eyes were remarkably heated, and he knew his Cousin Richard would not thank him for taking on his betrothed. She jerked her head toward the corridor. With a shake of his own head, Vaughn followed her.

“He’s beneath her,” he said as soon as they were outside, and he didn’t much care that the fellow could likely hear him.

Lady Claire stepped right up to him. She was tall for a woman, so she didn’t have to tip back her head to meet his gaze. “Of course he’s beneath her,” she said in a furious whisper. “Did you know he once encouraged Adele and then rejected her when her father’s death robbed her of a dowry?”

Vaughn raised his brows. “No. I didn’t realize there was a connection between the families except the proximity of their estates. But if he courted Adele, that only means he’s too old for Samantha.”

“There we agree, as well,” Claire said. “Poor Adele cannot abide the sight of him, and I cannot find fault with her arguments. Unfortunately, Samantha will hear none of it. That’s why I need your help.”

“My help?” Vaughn cocked his head. “Shall it be swords at dawn or pistols at midnight?”

He thought she would take umbrage, but her crystal gaze merely narrowed. “Tempting. But that might provide the gossips with too much fodder.” She tapped a long finger against her cheek. “Perhaps you could merely be uncivil, as you are so good at doing.”

Vaughn chuckled. “You’d like me to goad him sufficiently to make him leave?” He bowed to her. “My dear, it would be a pleasure.”

She smiled. “I could not, of course, allow a guest to be abused. But I do believe we are in need of refreshments, and I will probably have to speak to our cook, Mrs. Corday, directly to ensure they are appropriate for such an honored gentleman.”

He’d always appreciated how that dulcet voice could turn iron with sarcasm. “No doubt.”

She leaned closer. “You have five minutes. Do not disappoint me.”

Vaughn grinned as she sashayed down the corridor. Then he strolled back into the withdrawing room.

“Lady Winthrop has gone to see about refreshments,” he announced to the pair seated on the sofa. “I promised to serve as chaperone while she was out.”

Neither of them looked overjoyed by the thought. The toad’s back stiffened even further, if that was possible. And a thundercloud was building on Samantha’s fair brow.

She turned to her companion. “Forgive me, my lord. I don’t know what’s gotten into my family of late.” She offered him a smile that dripped with honeyed sweetness. “Being a man of the world, I’m sure you understand.”

Of the world? As far as Vaughn knew the bumpkin shuttled between London and the family estate in Cumberland. It was his younger brother who traveled the globe in search of adventure. Considering what the brother had waiting for him at home, Vaughn could hardly blame him.

“Course,” the toad said, leaning back. “Don’t look down on you for your relatives.”

Samantha’s smile faded. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Yes, my lord,” Vaughn said, going to stand by the mantel where he could keep an eye on both of them. “Do you imply the name of Everard is somehow less than yours?”

Their guest raised a brow and glanced from Vaughn to Samantha as if surprised anyone would question the matter. “Earldom to barony. No comparison.”

Samantha looked mollified by the answer, but Vaughn pressed his point. “So you value position more than character. Better a wicked earl than a noble baron?”

Now the fellow frowned. “What’s character got to do with the matter?”

Samantha sat back. “Oh, my lord, everything!”

Vaughn smiled at her response. He was certain her sponsor and Imogene would agree.

The toad clearly had other ideas. “Goes without saying a gentleman is noble. No need to argue the point.”

Vaughn straightened away from the fire. “Ah, but I love a good argument. Nothing like sharpening the wit to engage the senses. I contend that a man may be nobly born yet still live as a scoundrel.”

Wentworth’s upper lip curled. “You would know.”

Samantha swallowed as she glanced at Vaughn, as if expecting him to make a scene.

Vaughn obligingly took a step forward. “Indeed I would. I have the very evidence before me that a nobly born gentleman can contort himself into a craven cur who courts young ladies in a vain attempt to prove himself a man.”

The toad rose, eyes narrowing, and Vaughn widened his stance, ready for the challenge. Samantha hopped to her feet and stood between the two of them, facing her guest. “What an interesting tale. He’s a poet, you know. Such an imagination.”

She turned her back on the fellow a moment to glare at Vaughn, but when she returned her look to the toad again, her voice had warmed. “But a gentleman of your renown surely has no time for tales.” She took his arm and led him toward the door. “Or for prolonged visits. And I have much to do if I’m to be ready for our evening.”

“Course,” he said, his voice equally warm. “Until then.” He bowed over Samantha’s hand, laying a kiss against her knuckles. Straightening, he sauntered out the door.

“I can hear your teeth grinding,” Samantha informed Vaughn as she turned.

Vaughn forced his jaw to relax. “Why would you encourage that cretin?”

She raised her chin. “I don’t think he’s stupid. He’s handsome, wealthy and, as he pointed out, the heir to an earl. And he lives right next to us in Cumberland.”

So that was the attraction. Samantha loved her home—the chance of a marriage that would return her so close to it would hold a definite appeal. “A gentleman needs more than geographic affinity to be a husband,” Vaughn pointed out.

“Well,” she returned, “I think he has potential.”

“As a door stop.” Vaughn shook his head. “You must know you were meant for better.”

“Perhaps.” She dropped her gaze, and even in his frustration he could hear her sigh as she returned to her seat.

Frowning, he went to sit beside her. “What’s this? Did the belle of the ball lose her luster?”

She managed a smile. “Don’t you find all this a bit...tedious? The balls, the routs, the musicales. They all seem to run together after a while.”

Vaughn tweaked one of her golden curls. “Spoken like a true campaigner. I’d be more inclined to believe you, infant, if you’d been at this more than a few weeks.”

Her smile widened. “Perhaps I overstated. But I am determined to meet the requirements of Father’s will, and for that I must have one more eligible offer before the Season ends.”

“You have another month or more,” Vaughn said. “You needn’t curry the attentions of that creature.”

She made a face, hands rubbing at the muslin of her gown. “He isn’t a creature. But I’ll leave Adele at home tonight when we go to Vauxhall so she won’t have to stomach his company.”

Vaughn rose, unable to keep his seat. “Vauxhall? The toad is taking you to Vauxhall tonight?”

Samantha clapped her hand over her mouth as if to hold back laughter at his name for her suitor, but she nodded.

This could not be good. He had to dissuade her for her own safety. He crossed his arms over his chest.

“You intend to allow him to take you off to the pleasure garden in the dark? That’s asking for trouble.”

She dropped her hand, gaze turning mulish. “It’s perfectly acceptable! Everyone goes to Vauxhall!”

Especially tonight of all nights, it seemed. “Too true,” Vaughn admitted. “For the price of a few shillings, any man, woman or child, be they saint or hardened sinner, can have the pleasure of viewing the gardens.”

Samantha raised her chin a notch. “I’ll have you know the Devarys are going to be there. Lord Wentworth said so. Even Lady Imogene will attend!”

Something tightened inside him, and he turned for the fire. He’d have to protect both Samantha and Imogene, then. “Interesting,” he drawled, putting a hand on the mantel to keep his fingers from clenching. “If Vauxhall is such a marvelous place, perhaps I should accompany you.”

“Oh, no!” Samantha leaped to her feet and closed the distance between them. “I will not have you picking fights. You leave my suitor alone!”

“Delighted,” Vaughn returned, straightening to meet her look for look. “So long as you do the same with Lady Imogene.”

She stilled. “Oh. She told you I was by, is that it?”

The pain of their parting was still lodged inside him. “She refused to see me. Ever again, it seems. What exactly did you say to her?”

Samantha wrung her hands and began to pace the room. The long strides, so like her father’s—and his, for that matter—snapped the muslin against her ankles. “I may have mentioned our suspicions about her father.”

Vaughn shook his head. “Why? You’d only anger her, and if she takes the tale to her father, he may well gain the advantage over us.”

She glanced up. “I never thought of that.”

Vaughn threw up his hands. “At the moment you don’t seem to be thinking at all! What possessed you to approach Lady Imogene to begin with?”

She stopped, dark eyes begging for his understanding. “Well, you were spending an inordinate amount of time with her.”

“Because she is the surest way to her father.”

Now her voice pleaded, as well. “Was that the only reason?”

How could he answer her? He scarcely knew his feelings for the fair Imogene. “If I had other reasons, they are no affair of yours.”

Her voice was small and quiet. “Perhaps not. But I thought you should be spending more time with me.”