Regina Scott (18 page)

Dressed in a lavender wool gown that felt surprisingly good for the spring day, she hurried to the door of her father’s room. Nothing had changed since she’d visited the previous day, but then why would it? Her father was still missing. Even so, she felt as if he was watching her every move as she went to the dressing table and lifted the box.

It was cool in her grip and light. What could it hold? She’d promised Vaughn they’d open it together, but she was highly tempted to take a peek now.

“Imogene?”

At the sound of her mother’s voice, Imogene spun, box clasped behind her.

Her mother was standing in the doorway. Perhaps it was the dark colors of the room, but she seemed paler, her muslin gown a splash of white. She moved into the room as if her limbs were too heavy for her. “What are you doing in here, dearest?”

“Looking for something that would tell me where Father has gone,” Imogene said, knowing that for the truth.

Her mother smiled sadly. “Aren’t we all?”

Her depression clung to Imogene like a damp petticoat. “I only want to help, Mother. I hate that you must worry so.”

“I will survive,” her mother promised. “Forgive me for leaving you to your own devices yesterday. I trust you were able to keep busy?”

Imogene’s grip tightened on the box, which suddenly weighed heavier. “Yes, thank you.”

Her mother cocked her head. “And this morning? Bryson tells me you and Jenkins were out at dawn. A bit early for a constitutional.”

“Oh, there were more people about then you might expect,” Imogene hedged.

“And Mr. Everard is well?” her mother asked.

“Tolerably,” Imogene replied, thinking of the duel that morning.

“Odd. I thought your father was very clear when he told you to have nothing more to do with the fellow. Neither of us has had the opportunity to convince him otherwise.”

Imogene flushed. “You’re right, Mother. Forgive me. But I’m not sure I know my own mind when it comes to Mr. Everard.”

Her mother straightened with a sigh. “And I’m not certain your father knows his. Can you think of any reason he should have taken the young man in such dislike?”

A good question. Vaughn saw her father’s antipathy as a sign of guilt. Perhaps her father had guessed at Vaughn’s suspicions and refused to dignify them with a response. Either way, telling her mother about those suspicions was a sure way to hurt her.

“They disagree about his uncle’s death,” Imogene replied. “Father believes it was merely a duel. Mr. Everard fears it was murder.”

“Oh, how horrid!” Her mother pressed her fingers to her lips a moment before lowering them. “If his family has a tendency to violence, Imogene, I could not countenance an alliance.”

“I know,” Imogene murmured, dropping her gaze to the thick carpet. “But there is so much good in him, Mother!”

Her mother closed the distance between them. “That good could just as easily be swallowed by evil. It only takes one stain to ruin an entire dress.”

“But stains can be cleaned,” Imogene protested, raising her gaze, “and gowns refurbished. A man can repent and find redemption.”

“All that takes determination, Imogene, a will to change. I am not under the impression that your Mr. Everard wishes to find redemption.”

“I think you’re wrong, Mother,” Imogene said. “Something tells me he wishes it devoutly. And I intend to do all I can to help him.”

Chapter Eighteen

V
aughn took longer to return to Mayfair than Imogene. He had to make his way back up Primrose Hill to where his chariot and groom were waiting. The toad had been taken home, and all that was left was for Vaughn to pay the physician for his services, don his waistcoat and crimson coat and thank his second.

“You’re a fierce fellow, Everard,” Lord Eustace said, shaking his hand. “I’d much rather have you as a friend than an enemy.” He pulled back and tugged the sleeves of his navy coat into place. “By the way, I plan to host a house party in Devonshire after the Season ends. I hope you’ll accept my invitation to join us.”

Vaughn frowned. “You’re inviting me to your estate?”

Eustace grinned. “Why does that astonish you? If you weren’t so prickly you might see that a good number of us are in awe of you. I’m just the first brave enough to chance an acquaintance.”

Vaughn shook his head as he drove back to Everard House. He could not believe he’d brought this ostracism on himself, or that if he opened his eyes he’d find the rest of the
ton
welcoming him.

He’d tried to fit in as a child, craving his grandfather’s approval. But something always seemed to go wrong. One Christmas, Grandfather had brought an artist in to paint a portrait of Jerome, Richard and Vaughn. Jerome and Richard had been at Eton then, with Vaughn set to start in a few terms, and they and their parents had been staying with Grandfather over the holidays.

Though Jerome had his usual charming smile in place, he kept lowering his head to consult his new pocket watch, as if he knew he had better ways to spend his time. Richard openly fidgeted in his fine clothes. Vaughn had stood still and composed, determined to prove himself. But as minutes turned to hours, his gaze had been drawn to the window. From a frozen sky came soft white flakes, drifting down. He could go sledding this afternoon!

“Mr. Everard!” the artist had cried, and Vaughn had turned to find himself at the window while his two cousins shook their heads and grinned at him and Grandfather scowled.

He found it difficult to look before he leaped, to think before he spoke. Over the years, he’d worked hard to keep his composure, to fight his urges. Only with Uncle had he felt free to be himself. Could it be there were others willing to accept him for who he was?

If thou dost well, shalt thou not be accepted?

Was that another Bible verse? He seemed determined to delve into the spiritual of late. His thoughts last night he put down to anticipation of the duel. What prompted him this morning to remember verses he hadn’t heard for years? After all this time silent, did God suddenly wish his company?

I love them that love me, and those who seek me shall find me.

Something stirred inside him. It was also a day for revelations, it seemed. He remembered making the choice to forgo attending services, to stop the staid repetition of words he had never felt. Now something seemed to whisper that he had mistaken his way. That he had been the one to walk away from God. That there was more for him, if only he would seek it. He did not have to earn his place in God’s affections but accept Him as a gift.

“Very well, then,” he said aloud. “You have my attention. What do you want of me?”

“Beg pardon, sir?” his groom called from his place at the back of the chariot.

Vaughn laughed, feeling foolish. “Nothing, Babcock. Merely talking to my horses.” Who were just as likely to answer him as God was.

He managed to return the carriage and horses to the stable behind Everard House and slip away without any of his cousins noticing. He wasn’t ready for the recriminations, the demands that he wait for the authorities to act. The authorities had washed their hands of him and his uncle years ago. And Jerome and Richard should know by now that he was never one to wait.

Bond Street was already busy as he strolled down it just before eleven. In the most fashionable shopping district in London, merchants prided themselves on their fine wares and their unstinting service. Displays in the windows beckoned the elite with bright satins, polished wood furnishings and sumptuous pastries. Ladies passed him, followed by overburdened footmen carrying their packages home.

He found Mr. Town’s shop at the upper end of the street. According to the sign over the gleaming front window, the place specialized in glassware, porcelain and fine antiquities. He pushed through the door, a brass bell overhead signaling his entrance with a merry chime.

Inside, wooden shelves lined the walls, and several wooden cases with glass tops and sides ran down the center of the room. He spotted fierce-faced dogs from China, a grinning bronze mask from Greece and something that looked suspiciously like an Egyptian sarcophagus leaning in one corner. A clerk, tall, ascetic and as elegant as the wares, came from the back of the shop.

“Good morning, sir,” he said with a bow so deep it lifted the blond hair from his head. “How may I help you?”

“I’m not entirely sure,” Vaughn admitted. “I was told to meet a friend here about a porcelain box.”

To his surprise the clerk straightened and leaned closer. “They’ve gone ahead,” he murmured as if he suspected the fellow in the sarcophagus might overhear. “The fires won’t be lit tonight.”

“Excellent,” Vaughn said, mind whirling. What had he stumbled into? Who did this man think Vaughn was? “How can I help?”

He grimaced. “You’re too late to reach the coast in time. Stay in London, and await further orders.”

“I’ve a fast horse,” Vaughn countered, trying to draw the fellow out. “Is there a spot along the coast that needs reinforcements? I might be able to make it.”

The clerk’s face was clouding as he straightened. “What task were you given?”

Vaughn waved a hand. “Never one with enough action for me. Where’s your master? Perhaps I can appeal to him.”

The other man took a step back, hand reaching into his black coat, and Vaughn braced himself to repel a knife or pistol. The bell tinkled as the door opened, and Imogene hurried in, a bundle under the arm of her green quilted-satin pelisse. The clerk dropped his hand.

“Oh, good, you’re here,” she said to Vaughn with a smile that cried relief. She glanced at the clerk. “Mr. Hennessy, isn’t it? You’ve served my mother, Lady Widmore.”

His face was white, his smile sickly, but he bowed just the same. “Your ladyship, an honor to be sure. How might I be of service today?”

Vaughn didn’t think the man would dare harm Imogene, but he put himself in a position to intercept if needed.

“I’d like to know more about this,” she said, oblivious to the tension curling through the shop. She unwrapped the shawl covering her bundle to reveal a fine porcelain box of a brilliant shade of blue. Vaughn recognized it easily from Jerome’s description. He found himself leaning closer, fingers itching to touch it, to learn its secrets.

The clerk didn’t flinch. “A fine example of Sèvres porcelain, from perhaps five years ago by the color of the blue. A few pieces were commissioned by the First Consul when he was given the office.”

“Napoleon?” Imogene’s hands must have been trembling, for Vaughn could see the box shaking. “Then how would we know? Surely such pieces are not sent to England.”

“Very few,” the clerk acknowledged. “I believe the former Ambassador to France has a set, and Lord Fox was sent one as a token of appreciation after the late hostilities.”

Imogene cast Vaughn a look from under the brim of the feathered green velvet hat that perched on her chestnut curls. “Then an Englishman could come by it honestly.”

“Possibly,” the clerk agreed. “Though, mind you, some pieces have also been smuggled in. Not that this shop would ever deal in smuggled goods.”

“Certainly not,” Imogene said with a nod.

“Then you sold this piece to the Marquess of Widmore?” Vaughn interrupted, watching him.

The clerk adjusted his cravat. “I do not recall.”

Imogene frowned. “But you must keep a record of all sales. Could you check to see if my father purchased this?”

Vaughn could see him swallow, but he suddenly brightened. “Certainly, only there’s no need. I’ve just remembered. Your father purchased that as a gift for your mother, your ladyship. Of course, he swore us to secrecy, but I’m sure that promise did not extend to you.”

Imogene nodded, but her frown did not ease. “Thank you, Mr. Hennessy. I’ll be sure to mention you to my mother.”

He bowed. “Your servant as always, your ladyship.”

“Mr. Everard,” Imogene said, turning to Vaughn, “I have some words for you. Would you be so kind as to escort me?”

“Everard?” The clerk jerked upright, hand diving into his coat.

Vaughn shoved Imogene away from the danger and launched himself at the clerk. They hit the floor with a crash that shook the cases, and Imogene cried out. Vaughn pinned the man to the floor and held him tight. The clerk glared up at him.

“Are you mad!” Imogene cried, hurrying closer.

“Stay back!” Vaughn warned. Angling one arm to cover both shoulders and the fellow’s throat, he used his free hand to reach inside the clerk’s coat. His fingers closed on something hard. He yanked out a knife and tossed it at Imogene’s feet.

“Who is your master?” Vaughn demanded. “What’s happening on the coast tonight?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” the clerk said. He glanced at Imogene. “I swear, your ladyship, I only carry that knife to open shipments. I’ve done nothing to warrant such treatment.”

Vaughn pressed on his windpipe. “A fine story, but you know it for a lie. Tell me who you work for!”

“Mr. Town,” he wheezed. “I’m just a clerk!”

“Vaughn, please,” Imogene murmured, stepping closer again. “This isn’t necessary.”

“It is absolutely necessary. Before you arrived, he was spinning tales of fires on the coastline and dark deeds tonight.” He pressed down harder. “Tell me what you know.”

“Nothing,” he rasped out, eyes bulging. “Lady Imogene, have mercy! He’s lying.”

Beside him, Imogene stiffened, and Vaughn thought he would have to fight her, as well.

“I’m afraid you’re mistaken, Mr. Hennessy,” she said. “Mr. Everard never lies. But I suspect that you do. I didn’t wish to say so in your presence, but I know this box was never given to my mother, and I’m not sure that was ever its purpose. I suggest you cooperate with Mr. Everard, or I very much fear your life may be in danger.”

Vaughn grinned. “She knows me so well.”

Panic flickered across the clerk’s face. “All right. Let me up, and I’ll show you the plans.”

Vaughn eased up on the pressure, then allowed the clerk to rise. Hennessy rubbed his throat gingerly and grimaced. “They’re at the back of the shop. If you’ll just follow—”

He jerked away from Vaughn and ran.

Vaughn gave chase.

The back of the shop was a cluttered mess of packing crates, some closed, some spilling straw onto the wooden floor. Hennessy zigzagged through the chaos, pulling down boxes and shattering glass. By the time Vaughn clambered over the obstacles, the clerk was out the rear door and disappearing into the alleys of London.

Vaughn stopped and sagged against the door frame. Yet another clue gone. If the clerk spoke the truth, a group of men plotted to damage the signal fires along the coastline tonight. Should Napoleon’s ships outwit the Navy, those fires were all that stood between England and invasion. Vaughn knew he ought to go to Whitehall and demand to see Lord Admiral Barham. But who would believe the word of a porcelain clerk or the wild Vaughn Everard?

He turned to find Imogene standing in the doorway from the display room, shawl slung over her shoulder.

“I take it he escaped,” she said.

There was no blame in her voice, but he felt the guilt nonetheless. “Yes. And with him went my last hope.”

“Not necessarily,” she said. She pulled the box from behind her and gave it a shake. “Why don’t we open it and see what’s inside?”

* * *

Why did that smile never fail to warm her? She was quite tempted to throw herself into his arms as he pushed through the fallen crates to her side. For a moment, in the shop, faced once again with brutality, her choice had been clear. She could shy away from the darkness in him, pretend she was somehow better and force him from her life. Or she could accept that he was as imperfect as she was and help him become the man God intended him to be. Guided by the longing of her heart, the decision was easy.

She led him back into the display room and handed him the box. “Will you do the honors?”

“With pleasure.” He positioned the box on the fingers of one hand and worked the clasp with the other. The lid swung back. Imogene peered inside, holding her breath.

The box was empty.

She exhaled, leaning back. “Well, piffle!”

“Not the word I would have chosen,” Vaughn replied. Though he had to be as frustrated as she was, he angled the box this way and that, looking at it from every side, the bottom, the top. Imogene watched him, fascinated.

“It’s too small to have a false bottom,” she told him. “And I can’t see how you could conceal a secret compartment under that velvet lining.”

He shot her a smile. “Inventive, aren’t you?”

She laughed. “A few too many gothic novels, I suspect.”

He held the box out at arm’s length as if distance would improve his view. “Then I must have read the same ones, for I see no sign of encrypted words or symbols. We have only one choice.” He opened his hands and let the box fall.

Imogene gasped as it hit the floor and cracked into dozens of pieces. “What have you done!”

Vaughn crouched and flicked the larger pieces aside with one finger. “Destroyed what was before us to unearth its secret.” He extracted a folded slip of paper that must have been hidden by the velvet lining and rose to offer the piece to Imogene. “Would you like to see what it says?”

Imogene stared at the note. This was it, the truth about her father; she knew it. How could she bear it if Vaughn was right? How could she ignore the note if it proved him wrong? She snatched the parchment from his grip and carefully unfolded it.

“It’s to my father, and it’s in French,” she said, voice seeming to echo in the room and inside her.