Regina Scott (17 page)

“How long can this go on?” she whispered to Jenkins, wincing as Lord Wentworth’s blade flashed past Vaughn’s cheek.

“Two minutes,” he returned. “Then they take a break before starting again.”

Again? Her heart would never stand it! Already it demanded that she race down the slope, put herself between the two men and force them to stop.

Vaughn seemed to be losing patience, as well. “Swear to me that you’ll leave the lady alone and we can end this now,” he said, parrying a thrust that nearly reached his shoulder.

The lady? She swallowed, thinking of his golden-haired cousin.

“If even her father cannot care about her safety, why should I?” Wentworth countered, thrusting again.

Her father? Lady Everard’s father was dead. Then this duel could not be about Samantha. What other woman could have come between the two men?

Heat flushed up her and just as quickly fled. Vaughn was fighting for her. He might lose his life because of her.

She rose. “I have to get down there.”

Jenkins pulled her back down. “Are you mad? You may have to sack me, for I won’t let you do it!”

Imogene shrugged him off and glanced down at the fight.

“Her father’s actions have no part in this fight,” Vaughn was saying. “You know what is right.”

“Right?” Lord Wentworth swerved around Vaughn’s thrust. “What would an Everard understand of right?”

“Enough,” Vaughn said, “to know it when I see it.”

He leaned to the left, and his lordship shoved his blade forward. Up under his guard, Vaughn drove his point home.

Imogene cried out, feeling as if her own heart had been run through. Vaughn’s head jerked up even as he pulled back, the tip of his blade red. She could not move, could not breathe. As if Jenkins knew it, he grabbed her and dragged her down the hill, away from where Lord Wentworth’s body was falling onto the trampled ground, away from where all her hopes had been shattered.

For Vaughn Everard could not be the man she’d thought him. Lord Eustace had said the fight was to be first blood. All Vaughn had had to do was nick his opponent, scratch his arm, his finger. Instead, Vaughn had chosen to injure him, perhaps fatally. Even if he thought he was protecting her, his actions were dishonorable.

She pressed her fist against her mouth as she stumbled along beside Jenkins, trying to keep from crying out again. She was a fool! Vaughn had told her himself that he was a rake, and she’d refused to believe him. Her mother had had doubts about his constancy, and Imogene had argued for him. Elisa had implied he was a scoundrel, and she’d waved her friend away. She could no longer hide from the fact that he was not a gentleman.

But neither was Lord Wentworth. She’d considered him a fool as well, but he had a darker motive, just as likely to kill, given his threat with the carriage yesterday. She’d misjudged him and nearly lost her life in the process.

Had she been wrong about her father, as well? Did he care nothing for her and her mother? Lord Wentworth’s words seemed to imply as much, yet how could she believe him?

Were there no good men left in the world?

She wasn’t sure how she made it back to the waiting carriage. She only came to her senses when Jenkins touched her elbow and helped her inside. As he sat across from her, he thumped on the roof to tell the driver to take them home. From somewhere nearby she thought she heard her name shouted. She closed her eyes, burrowed deeper into her sodden cloak, misery clinging to her just as thoroughly.

Father, forgive me. I thought I knew better. I thought if I believed hard enough, everything would work out. Vaughn would be a gentleman. My father would still love me. I could make life easier for my mother. Now I realize I know nothing!

The comfort she craved seemed to slip further away every second. The momentum of the horses as they set out pressed her back against the seat, but it was nothing to the weight on her heart. Was there no one worth believing in? No one she could count on?

Never will I leave you; never will I forsake you.

A tear rolled down her cheek at the remembered verse, and she reached out with all she had.
Please, Father, help me! I don’t know what to do. I don’t know who to trust. Show me Your will in this.

Something landed on the roof, setting the carriage to rocking. Imogene’s eyes popped open. Hood thrown back, Jenkins glared at the ceiling, clutching the bench to stay in his seat.

With a splinter of wood, the door was wrenched open, and Vaughn swung himself inside to land on the floor in a crouch.

“Forgive the dramatic entrance,” he said, eying Imogene. “But we must talk.”

Chapter Seventeen

T
he footman recovered first. “Mr. Everard,” Jenkins said, “I will ask you to leave this coach now.”

With the carriage still bumping along the uneven ground at the base of the hill, Vaughn wondered where the fellow thought he could go. It had been hard enough climbing aboard as the carriage was starting to leave. If he hadn’t had a little height coming down the hill, he would likely have missed.

Unfortunately, Jenkins’s look brooked no nonsense. Vaughn knew the fellow was taller than he was and probably stronger. Strength and height were why footmen were chosen, after all. And he certainly owed Vaughn no favors. But the tension of the duel was still singing through Vaughn’s veins, and he thought he could topple monarchies singlehandedly if he chose.

Imogene did not look at Vaughn as she laid a hand on her man’s arm. “Stop the carriage, Jenkins.”

So she wanted Vaughn out, too. When her cry had pierced the morning, he’d looked up to see her staring down at him. Her anguished face had struck him more deeply than his opponent’s blade ever could. She had to understand, he had to make her understand, that he had a reason for his actions.

So he’d bent over Lord Wentworth where the toad lay on the ground, fingers pressed to his wounded chest. Already the physician moved forward to help. Vaughn held up a hand to stop him.

“What is Widmore planning?” he asked the toad. “You owe me that for sparing your life.”

The fellow’s face was white. “Can’t stop him. Too much at stake. New order of things.” His eyes narrowed. “You’ll pay then.” He slumped in a faint.

“Mr. Everard, please,” Lord Wentworth’s second had insisted, and Vaughn had stepped aside to allow the physician to do his work. It had been clear he would get no more from the toad in any event, and Vaughn had to reach Imogene.

Now the footman called up to the coachman, and the hired hack slowed to a stop.

“Jenkins,” Imogene said, voice as chilly as the morning, “Mr. Everard and I will take a walk. You are to watch from beside the carriage steps. If you see anything that disturbs you, you are to come to me at once.”

“Your ladyship,” he started, but she held up her hand.

“No arguments. I count on your discretion and your valor.”

He did not look appeased, but he nodded. Then he opened the door and helped Imogene down.

Vaughn followed. He wanted nothing more than to take her in his arms and promise all would be well, but he was afraid to touch her. She looked fragile standing beside the coach in the early-morning light, as if she were made of fine porcelain and would crack at the least blow. She glanced around as if unsure of her way.

The coach had stopped near a copse of trees, the leaves chattering in the breeze. The light from the rising sun gilded the branches with gold. “This way,” she said, and Vaughn joined her along the path that led away from the coach.

She said nothing, huddled in her cloak, head bowed as if she watched each step around the trees.

“I know what you saw must have upset you,” Vaughn said. “I can explain.”

“I’m listening.”

But not with an open mind. Her face, usually so eager and warm, was shut tight, pinched as if in pain. She’d already judged him and found him guilty. Was there no one who had faith in him?

Before I formed thee in the womb, I knew thee; and before thou camest forth out of the womb, I set thee apart.

A Bible verse again?
Are You trying to reach me, Lord? Forgive me, but it is both poor timing and a poor choice of words. If You know me so well, why make me different, why set me apart?

She stopped at the base of a spreading oak and turned to meet his gaze. “I said I’m listening, Mr. Everard. Have you nothing to say for yourself, after all?”

Vaughn took a deep breath. The energy of the fight was fading, leaving his limbs heavy, his mind fatigued. “I had to fight him.”

“So it appears. I suppose I should thank you for protecting my honor.”

Relief was immediate. “Then you understand.”

“Oh, no. How could I?” She peered up at him. “Did you have to kill him?”

Vaughn stiffened. “I didn’t kill him. His wound is serious, but the physician is already tending to it.”

She frowned. “You know I can verify the truth of that easily enough.”

“Certainly, but you have no need. I never lie, remember?”

Her laugh was hard. “No, only maim it seems. You’ll pardon me if I find both equally dishonorable.”

Once he would have laughed to be called dishonorable; now the appellation stung, particularly from her. “Perhaps we have different definitions of
honor,
then,” he said, trying to keep his tone light. “I won’t allow anyone to threaten those I care for.”

Something flickered across her face. Was she pleased he cared about her? “Some would call that commendable,” she said, though the tension in her voice nearly belied the statement.

Vaughn shrugged, feeling muscles beginning to tighten. “But you don’t.”

“It’s the way you protect me I find abhorrent,” she protested. “I thought you wanted answers. You’d be hard pressed to question a corpse!”

Or an insensible man, as he’d just proved. “He told me enough. Lord Wentworth is working for your father.”

She threw up her hands. “So of course you take the word of a dastard over mine.”

Vaughn shook his head. “You are not involved in your father’s plans. He is.”

“So he apparently claims, but I have seen no proof of it.” She lowered her hands to rub them along the wool of her cloak as if fighting off a chill. “In fact, I have precious little proof of anything save your ability to cause trouble. You warned me you were not a gentleman, Mr. Everard. Perhaps I should have listened sooner.”

All at once, he was tired—tired of his quest, tired of trying to live up to the expectations of others, tired of justifying his choices. He spread his arms wide, and she fetched up against the tree as if she thought he meant to strike her.

“This,” he said, “is who I am. A man sworn to love and protect those he cares for. A man who lives in the moment, never knowing what life might bring. A man with blood on his blade, but never life’s blood or the blood of innocents. I cannot be content to follow. I must do what I believe is right, no matter the consequences. If that makes me less than a gentleman, then so be it. I care nothing for what others think.”

“And here,” she murmured, gaze on his, “you claim not to lie.”

He pulled in his arms, but she strode forward and poked a finger in his chest before he could speak.

“You care entirely too much what others think,” she accused. “Oh, you hide it behind a wall of bravado and beautiful prose, but you want to be appreciated, to be admired. That is evident by your actions, by the look that comes over your face when someone wrongs you. What did you write? ‘A man is the sum of his dreams less the darkness of his deeds.’”

He felt as if she had pulled out his heart. “Do not confuse the man with his poetry.”

“Do not make the mistake of thinking you can divorce them.” She put her hands on her hips. “What am I do to with you, Vaughn Everard? I see so much that is bright and good in you, yet I cannot reconcile that with the shadows.”

He fought a smile. “Someone once said that God shines the light, and we cast the shadows.”

“Yes,” she said, dropping her hands. “The famous poet Vaughn Everard. Perhaps you’ve heard of him.”

Vaughn waved a hand. “Entirely overrated. Hackneyed phrases, misplaced meter, jumbled imagery.”

“And completely compelling, much like the man himself.”

He cocked his head. “So what would you have of me?”

Her look challenged him. “What would you offer?”

In that moment, he wanted to offer her everything: his world, his life, his heart. He could fall on one knee, beg her hand in marriage, confess he would never be whole without her. If he could make a good marriage with any woman, it would be with Imogene. But surely she deserved better.

So he bowed, deeply, arm spread like a courtier of old. “My utmost devotion, your ladyship.”

“I suppose,” she said, as he straightened, “that will have to do.”

He eyed her. The pallor had left her face, and he thought he saw a hint of the usual sparkle in her green eyes. “Then I am forgiven?”

“Does one forgive a wooden chair for being hard? A knife for being sharp? You are who you are. It seems I must accept that.”

If she accepted that, she would be the only one save his uncle. Small wonder he felt his heart stir in her presence. “Then accept this as well—Lord Wentworth has been taught a lesson, one I hope he will not soon forget.”

“And implicated my father in the process.”

He inclined his head. “I’m sorry, but yes.”

She made a face, her pert nose wrinkling. “I cannot accept that, you know. I want to prove to you that my father is innocent. What would make you doubt this theory of yours?”

She could not know how often he had doubted, that she was one of the few people who could make him abandon his quest entirely. “I’m no longer sure,” he confessed. “Once I would have settled for your father’s word, but he’s done too much to confirm my suspicions.”

“There must be something,” she pressed, gaze imploring. “Shall I bring his sword so you can see it carries no stain from your uncle’s blood?”

Vaughn smiled at her. “A good swordsman knows to clean his blade. And my uncle was shot.”

“His dueling pistols, then, to show they haven’t been fired.”

“No doubt he has more than one gun at his disposal.”

She frowned. “Well, not knowing where he is, I can hardly have him sign a statement protesting his innocence. Have you no other ideas?”

Vaughn shrugged again. “The only evidence we ever had was a box, royal-blue Sèvres porcelain, and it was stolen from us.”

She paled and took a step back from him, eyes widening. “About this big?” she asked, hands held six inches apart and trembling.

“So I understand,” Vaughn replied with a frown. “Do you have a similar piece?”

She nodded as she lowered her hands. “It appears we do. I saw it yesterday, in a place of honor on my father’s dressing table.”

* * *

Imogene felt as if she’d been pulled into a windstorm, her emotions tossed about like fallen leaves. She’d only just decided to trust Vaughn, trust her feelings for him, when she realized she knew where to find the evidence that could well prove her father’s guilt.

He must have realized it as well, for he grabbed both of her arms and held her tight. “Take me to it now.”

A movement caught her attention. Jenkins had evidently seen Vaughn’s touch as an attack, for he was striding toward them, face set. She ought to run to him, run away from the knowledge that had burst upon her. How could she bear to learn her father was a fraud?

Yet what proved guilt could as easily prove innocence.

“I’ll bring it to you,” she told Vaughn, slipping from his grip. “And we’ll open it together. Meet me at Mr. Town’s shop on Bond Street at eleven.”

He nodded and pulled back to raise his hands in surrender. “I have no claim on your lady, Jenkins.”

“Glad I am to hear that, sir,” the footman replied, moving between them. “I should hate to have to oppose you.”

“It’s all right, Jenkins,” Imogene said. “We can go now. Good-day, Mr. Everard.”

He bowed. “Your servant as always, Lady Imogene.”

They were words any gentleman might say, yet she thought she heard so much more beneath the common phrase. It spoke of devotion, of willingness to lay down his life for her. She had to force herself to turn her back and walk away. Perhaps that was why her feet moved faster with each step.

“Are you all right, your ladyship?” Jenkins murmured beside her as they approached the waiting carriage.

“Yes, thank you,” Imogene replied, but she knew it wasn’t completely true. She was considerably better then when she’d seen Lord Wentworth fall, but she feared what she’d find when she returned home.

The carriage ride back to Mayfair at least gave her a little time to get her thoughts in order. For the moment, she would take Vaughn at his word that Lord Wentworth was only wounded. What was more difficult were her feelings for Vaughn. He was right—she had tried to force him into an image she had crafted. She’d wanted a hero, a dashing fellow who embodied the poetry she’d read. The real man was far more complex.

He claimed to prefer his world chaotic, full of variety, surprises, adventure. She had been raised to routine, discipline. Admittedly, she’d already grown weary of attending the same balls, dancing to the same music, facing the same partners who knew her no better than the day they had first been introduced. He brought a sweetness of spontaneity to her life, like rich custard after roast beef.

A shame one could not live on custard. And a man of such varying interests wasn’t likely to excel in one sufficiently to please the gentlemen in Parliament. In short, it was unlikely that she could have her father’s title recreated for him.

He was not the man she had planned for, and she’d been following that plan since Charles’s death. Giving up Vaughn Everard should have been easy. But the very thought raised such anguish, such fierce refusal! Her heart fought with her mind, and she was fairly certain which would win.

Lord, what should I do? You say honor your father and your mother. How can I help either of them if I marry the wrong man?

Therefore shall a man leave his father and mother and shall cleave unto his wife and they shall be one flesh.

She’d heard that verse before, during a wedding of a friend last Season. But though it talked of a man, the same could be said for the woman. She’d been thinking about what it would mean to bring her husband into her family. Perhaps God meant her to think about starting her own family.

She wasn’t certain about the answer any more than she was certain about her choices now. She’d left her father’s room yesterday with the feeling that she had somehow betrayed him. That fear returned even stronger when she approached his room again later that morning.

Her mother had been eating breakfast when Imogene arrived home, but Imogene had hurried upstairs to change before her mother could wonder at the state of her clothes. As it was, her maid Bryson tsked as she took away the damp cloak and gown, and Imogene was certain the tale would reach her mother only too soon.