Regina Scott (12 page)

Vaughn narrowed his eyes at her. “I see. So because I didn’t dance attendance on your every whim, you decided to risk all our plans along with our chance to uncover the marquess’s secrets and expose him to the world.”

“I’m sorry!” Her face was puckered. “You offered for me! I thought, I hoped... Oh, never mind!” She pushed past him and ran from the room.

Vaughn did not follow her. This was one issue she’d have to work out herself. Samantha was a darling girl, but surely she knew he had not been serious in his offer of marriage. How could he offer that to anyone? Marriage required commitment and uncompromising devotion. He knew some couples who thought otherwise, but they made a mockery of the institution, just as his father and mother had made a mockery of their marriage. When he married, if he married, he intended it to last forever.

And there lay the rub. He was too like Uncle. Little held his interest for long. He craved challenges, new experiences. He’d never met a woman who could understand those needs, much less help him meet them.

Lady Imogene’s face came to mind, but he pushed the thought away. He was beginning to think she had the stamina and creativity to match him. But she deserved a better man, and they both knew it.

Still, attending Vauxhall could prove useful. He’d escort Samantha and keep an eye on the toad. But his true purpose in attending had little to do with either of them. He feared danger walked the moonlit paths of the pleasure garden. He would not allow it to harm his cousin or Imogene.

* * *

Imogene, however, had considered asking her mother to forego this trip to Vauxhall. Her heart was still bruised by the afternoon’s events. Sending Vaughn away had been the hardest thing she’d ever done. As he’d gazed up at her, she’d thought for a moment that she’d wounded him, that her opinion meant more to him than she’d have thought possible. He’d looked so penitent, so concerned, she’d nearly relented. Perhaps if she’d let him explain she would learn his cousin was wrong.

But no! She had to be strong. It was abundantly clear that he meant to harm her father. By his own admission he was using her to that end. He cared nothing for her. And so she could not afford to care for him. By spending these past few days focused on him she had failed in pursuing her goal to help her family. She must marry a man who would uphold the family honor. Vaughn, it seemed, would never fit that role, so she needed to find other prospects.

Besides, something was going to happen here at Vauxhall. Hadn’t Madame Toussel invited Imogene and Vaughn to attend tonight? French spies could be stalking the walkways. Unfortunately, she wasn’t sure how she’d know.

Vauxhall was always crowded. Anyone with a few shillings could gain entrance, stroll along the lantern-lit paths and sway to the music of the orchestra. She and her family had season tickets, and her father loved attending the concerts and events there.

She found herself missing him again as she sat beside her mother behind the table in their private box on the ground floor of one of the rows of boxes. Jenkins and one of their under footmen stood at the entrance and rear of the box to protect and serve them, their black coats and powdered wigs as elegant as the romantic oil painting of a ruined castle that hung on the back wall.

To the left of the box, the two-story tower of the Rotunda was lit from top to bottom with more than a hundred lanterns. Under their glow on the open platform of the upper story musicians plied their bows across cellos and harps or ran their fingers up and down flutes and horns.

Dozens of people milled on the grass below, shiny satins mixing with soft cotton. She’d sighted Lady Everard on Lord Wentworth’s arm, her lovely faced flushed with pleasure, and Imogene had forbid herself to think of Vaughn. Three gentlemen stopped by to pay their respects, and she’d regretted having to refuse their requests to promenade. She simply wasn’t up to it.

Other people she knew well were thronging the supper boxes that curved around the Rotunda. More strolled up and down the Grand Walk, past groves of elm, lime and sycamore and statues of famous composers and mythical figures. As twilight progressed, thousands of lanterns would be lit, setting the space to sparkling.

Her father had loved the spectacle, particularly the fireworks that exploded each night. Tonight, as if to match her feelings, the sky above was cloudy, threatening rain, and there was a chill in the spring air that made her wish she had brought a shawl to cover her white satin gown.

From the chair beside her, her mother reached out to squeeze her gloved hand. “You’ve been in the dismals all afternoon, dearest,” she murmured over the strains from the orchestra, the rise and fall of conversation around them. “What’s wrong?”

Imogene couldn’t prevent her sigh. “Mr. Everard was not the man I thought. I find that rather sad.”

Her mother gave her hand another squeeze. “I’m very sorry to hear that. I was willing to give him time to prove himself.”

“So was I,” Imogene replied, but another sigh slipped out before she could stop it.

Her mother drew back. “Now, then, you made the right decision in coming tonight, even if your father had to cry off. Here at Vauxhall we have the lovely opportunity to observe the gentlemen on parade.”

Despite her feelings, Imogene laughed. “Oh, Mother, that sounds as if we’re going shopping!”

“And so we are,” her mother said with a determined nod, “for the perfect gentleman for you. If we are successful, by the time Mr. Everard shows his face again, you will be entirely too busy with your other suitors to pay him any mind.”

Imogene smiled, but she had a feeling it would take a great deal more than a marvelous Vauxhall evening to remove Vaughn Everard from her heart.

Chapter Twelve

A
s if Imogene’s mother sensed her hesitation to start looking for another suitor at Vauxhall, she leaned closer and offered Imogene a conspiratorial wink. “Let’s make a game of it. I’ll go first.” She straightened and raised her chin as she gazed out over the passing crowd. “There, by the statue of Mr. Handel, the gentleman with the bronze waistcoat.”

Imogene glanced that way with a frown, but she easily spotted the man who had caught her mother’s eye. “Lord Sidney Pallisher. He’s gone through his entire inheritance, Elisa told me, and is looking for a wealthy bride.”

Her mother immediately refocused. “The fellow in the green coat, then, escorting the young lady to better hear the music.”

The man in question bent to whisper something in the girl’s ear. She jerked to a stop, slapped his face and marched back the way she had come.

“No,” Imogene and her mother chorused.

Imogene laughed again. “Not so easy, is it, Mother? Let me try.” She glanced around once again, seeing gentlemen of every shape and size, smiling, frowning, speaking to great purpose, listening solemnly. One was moving toward her, each step as if intent on claiming her and her alone. His pale hair and white waistcoat contrasted with his tailored black coat and breeches. Like the Vauxhall sky, Vaughn Everard was equal parts darkness and light. His gazed locked on hers. Her breath caught.

“Unfortunately,” she murmured, “I’d prefer a gentleman just like him.”

As if he knew it, Vaughn bowed before their box. His voice was as warm as the light shining from the bandstand. “I came to view all the wonders of the moonlit garden,” he said, “and here I find its two greatest treasures gathered in one spot.”

She knew another pair of ladies would have giggled a response, invited him in. Her mother drew out her fan and opened it with a snap. “Dear me, Imogene, I do believe the breeze has come up. I hear nothing but wind.”

Imogene bit her lip at the expression on Vaughn’s face, half surprise and half affront.

“Sad what passes for conversation these days,” she agreed with her mother, trying to keep the laughter from her voice.

He went down on both knees, white silk stockings pressed against the grass, and lifted clasped hands to them. “Fairest of the fair, I beseech you to have pity on me. I have clearly earned your wrath. Tell me how I may make amends.”

Imogene’s mother leaned closer to her and raised her fan to cover her conversation. “I do see why you favored him, dearest. Are you certain you cannot forgive him?”

Her mother could not know how greatly she was tempted. Those dark eyes implored her to forgive, to forget, not only his transgression but her goals. Yet even as she raised her head, telling herself to be strong, she saw another man making his way through the crowds. She gasped as she recognized him.

“Do get up, Everard,” her father said, clapping Vaughn on the shoulder. “You look like a fool.”

As Vaughn leaped nimbly to his feet, Jenkins stepped aside from the entrance of the box to admit her father. “Good evening, my dears,” the marquess said, coming around behind the damask-draped table. “Sorry I was detained.”

Her mother blushed as he bent and kissed her cheek. Imogene moved over a chair so her father could sit between them. Like Vaughn, his coat and breeches were black, but so were his waistcoat and cravat, as if he’d gone into deepest mourning. He offered Imogene a smile that faded as he glanced at Vaughn.

“Still here, Everard? A shame no one seems to care.”

Imogene frowned at her father’s cruel remark, but Vaughn took a step forward. “My uncle thought you cared, once. For his sake, walk with me. We must talk.”

Did he mean to give her father an opportunity to explain, after all? Her father showed no inclination to accept the offer. He leaned back and stretched out his arms, one around her, one around her mother. “I have been talking all day. Tonight, I intend to spend the evening with my two ladies. Perhaps another time.”

Vaughn’s jaw was tight. “Gladly. Where and when?” Again he made it sound a challenge.

Her father didn’t take it that way. “Tomorrow, ten, at my office in Whitehall,” he replied. “Now be a good lad and go enjoy your evening, even as I plan to enjoy mine.”

Vaughn bowed, but when he straightened he put both hands on the table in front of Imogene, his gaze on hers.

“Lady Imogene,” he murmured, “I beg your pardon for anything my family said that might have disturbed you. I hope you know I wish you only the best.” He released the table, stepped back and bowed once more, deeper, arm wide as if humbling himself. Then he straightened and strode away.

Her father pulled in his arms. “Singular gentleman. I hope you will understand, Imogene, when I say you are not to see him again.”

Imogene, who had been following Vaughn’s retreat with conflicted emotions, blinked. “Father?”

Her mother put a hand on her husband’s. “Mr. Everard has proven himself a great admirer,” she explained. “He seems to care for Imogene.”

“No doubt,” her father clipped. “She has a sizable dowry to commend her.”

She refused to believe that the only reason a gentleman might court her. “Do you see him as a fortune hunter, then, Father?”

His eyes narrowed as he gazed in the direction Vaughn had gone. “I fear Mr. Everard thinks only of himself, a sin of all the Everards I have met.”

“That was not my impression,” her mother assured him.

“Enough!”

Imogene’s mother recoiled at the outburst, and Imogene stiffened in her chair. Her father’s face was florid; his hands gripped the arms of the wooden chair so tightly she thought he might rip them from the supports. “I am finished discussing Mr. Everard,” he said through clenched teeth. “Imogene will have nothing further to do with him. I trust I have made myself clear.”

“Yes, dear,” her mother said, settling back in her seat and fluttering her fan before her scarlet face.

“Yes, Father,” Imogene said, watching the rapid movement of the painted silk.

“Good,” he said, and Imogene thought he was making an effort to calm himself. He took a deep breath and ran his hands back through his hair. As he lowered his arms, Imogene saw one hand was palsied. “Now,” he said with a smile as if his outburst had never happened, “let us enjoy the evening.”

Before Imogene or her mother could speak, he rose. “There goes Breckonridge. I must have a word with him. I’ll only be a moment.”

Now was her chance to talk to him without burdening her mother. Imogene scrambled to her feet. “Let me come with you, Father. I’d like your advice on a matter.”

Her father put his hand on her shoulder as if to pat it, but she felt him pressing her down, forcing her back into her seat. “I’d be delighted to discuss it with you, Imogene, when I return.” He smiled at her mother. “I’ll be back shortly.”

Imogene frowned as Jenkins stepped aside to let him out, and her father walked away. She could see the man he’d mentioned, the dark-haired Parliamentarian Malcolm Breckonridge, taking his seat in the supper box opposite them, yet her father had walked completely past the man. Instead, the marquess seemed to be heading deeper into the hedged walks.

“I don’t understand,” Imogene said. “Why promenade alone? He knows how much you enjoy the sights.”

“He doesn’t want our company.”

Her mother’s voice was so choked that Imogene immediately shifted closer again. In the shadows under the lip of the box, her mother’s face looked white.

“Mother! What’s wrong?”

Her mother bit her lips a moment before answering, as if gathering her dignity. “I’m sorry, dearest. This is a matter between your father and me. I shouldn’t trouble you with it.”

“Oh, Mother, it’s no trouble.” Imogene gripped her hands. “Please, tell me what’s bothering you.”

Her mother’s lips trembled as she lowered her voice. “These long hours, this time away from us. I begin to wonder—is there someone else?”

Like Madame Toussel? Could the French émigré have a claim on her father’s affections? No, surely he had too much honor to forsake his marriage.

“No, Mother, that cannot be,” Imogene said. “Father loves you!”

“Once,” her mother agreed with a sniff. “But that was before Charles died and I was unable to bear another heir. Your father knows everything he’s achieved, everything entrusted to him, will disappear on his death. I fear the knowledge presses on him. And he won’t talk to me.”

Imogene wanted to hug her, but she was afraid of attracting undue attention. The last thing her mother needed was an audience of gossips.

“I know, Mother,” she said. “Charles’s death changed everything. But I have a plan.”

Her mother frowned. “What do you mean?”

“You know peerages can be recreated under certain circumstances,” Imogene explained. “Our line might die out, but the crown could recreate the marquessate for someone else.”

“Certainly,” her mother replied, “but I don’t see how that does us any good. When your father passes, I’ll have my marriage portion, but the estates and house will revert to the crown.”

“Not if I marry the right man,” Imogene insisted. “If I choose someone who’s clever and popular and from a good family, Father might be able to persuade the king to make my husband the new Marquess of Widmore in the event of his death. The title won’t have to fall into abeyance, and we won’t have to scrimp to make ends meet.”

“Is that why you’re so careful in choosing a suitor?” Her mother shook her head. “Oh, Imogene, you mustn’t marry for your father’s sake or mine.”

Imogene touched her mother’s cheek, where tears were sparkling. “Now, then, I didn’t mean to make you cry! I know this is the right thing to do, Mother. It will ease Father’s concerns and ensure that you never lose your place in society. And if I find the right man, he’ll be someone I can love, as well.”

“Like your Mr. Everard?” her mother asked, watching her.

Once more the words felt like a blow. “Mr. Everard is charming and handsome, but we both know he’s unlikely to appeal to the king or Parliament.”

Her mother waved her handkerchief. “I would not be so sure. His family may be on the scandalous side, but he is noble. And you cannot deny his popularity.”

Imogene’s heart gave a lurch, as if in violent agreement. “I don’t recall a poet being given more than a knighthood.”

Her mother tucked away her handkerchief and faced front as if the matter was decided. “I would leave that to your father.”

“Easier said than done,” Imogene replied. “First we must convince him to let me see Mr. Everard at all!”

Her mother nodded. “We’ll succeed. The matter is too important.” She seemed to relax after that. Imogene faced forward, smiling at the people passing, but her mind would not be still. She’d thought she could go forward with her plan without Vaughn, but it seemed her heart was set on him. Convincing him that her father was innocent would be difficult. But she thought convincing her father to allow her to associate with Vaughn would be harder still.

For no matter what she’d said to her mother, she knew something was wrong with her father. His actions tonight reminded her of the days leading up to Charles’s death. Then it had been as if he’d lost his heart. What troubled him now?

When friends stopped by to visit with her mother, she knew what she must do. She stood and approached Jenkins as he waited at the entrance to the box.

“I need your help,” she murmured.

“Whatever you wish, your ladyship.”

She glanced up his tall frame. His steely gaze was out over her head, his shoulders broad and powerful in his black coat. “I need to find my father.”

His gaze lowered to hers, darkened. “Vauxhall can be a dangerous place for a lady alone.”

Imogene swallowed. “That’s why you’re coming with me.”

She thought he might argue or at least ask her mother’s permission before moving. But Jenkins motioned, and their under footman, who had been waiting at the back of the box to help serve supper, took Jenkins’s place at the entrance.

“I’ll protect you, your ladyship,” Jenkins promised. He retrieved the cloak she’d left in his care and draped it about her shoulders.

“You’re a rather handy fellow to have around, Mr. Jenkins,” she said.

He bowed her ahead of him. “It is my honor to serve, your ladyship. I believe he went that way.”

Hoping Jenkins’s presence would be enough to deter any ruffians, Imogene slipped out into the Vauxhall crowds.

* * *

A short while later Vaughn leaned against a tree and braced one foot back on the bark. This night was not turning out as he’d planned. He hadn’t been able to spot Eugenie Toussel or any of the men from the opera in the crowds. Worse, he hadn’t managed to convince Imogene of his regrets before the marquess had dismissed him. He intended to make that appointment tomorrow morning, but he could not believe his lordship would be so accommodating.

He’d tried keeping an eye on the three Devarys from a distance, only to see his lordship leave almost immediately. Odd to abandon his wife and daughter when his only stated goal for coming to Vauxhall was to enjoy their company. Vaughn had followed him, but he’d lost the marquess among the shadows, as if the man’s evening black had been chosen for concealment.

Vaughn refused to return to his own box where the odious Lord Wentworth was casting sheep’s eyes at Samantha. He wanted more to return to Imogene’s side, beg her to speak to him, ease her concerns. And that kept him planted with the tree.

He could see the Devary box now, the lords and ladies laughing with the marchioness. While he’d been following her father, Lady Imogene had left. Very likely some savvy fellow had requested her hand in a promenade. Vaughn could picture her strolling through the moonlight, eyes laughing up at the gentleman, lips murmuring the secrets of her heart. If it had been him, he’d have found the perfect spot—a rose arbor perhaps, the perfume scenting the air, or a vantage point overlooking the Cascade, the waterfall that would shortly be lit in shining glory. He’d touch her silky cheek, draw her gaze to his, bend his head and caress those lips with his own.

But it wasn’t to be him. He shook off the vision. Moonlit kisses were for rakes who didn’t care the cost or besotted gentlemen ready to offer marriage. At the moment he was neither, and it remained to be seen what he would be.