Regina Scott (19 page)

“Can you read French?” he asked.

She nodded. “Father insisted upon it. French blood ran in our veins, he said. We should honor it as well as our English ancestry.” She cleared her throat and made herself focus on the words.

“‘You have my solemn promise,’” she translated, “‘that you will be well rewarded when you help me defeat England.’” The signature was tall and the letters and the slash below them thick as if pressure had been put upon them to show the author’s devotion. Still she recognized the name: Napoleon.

Imogene swallowed, unable to look at Vaughn, unable to see beyond the paper. The words blurred as tears scalded her eyes.

“You were right,” she murmured. “He’s a traitor. He’s a traitor!”

She flung the note away, feeling as if it had infected her with some disease. She ought to see a dark spot on her hand, find lines crawling up her skin. The father she’d known—the loving, caring, loyal man—was a fiction. She wanted to be sick.

Lord, how can this have happened? What shall I do?

She felt Vaughn’s arms come around her.

“Don’t,” she started. “I can’t...”

“You need do nothing right now,” he said. “Only know that I’m sorry. I wanted to learn the truth, but I never wanted to hurt you.”

She allowed herself the comfort of leaning against him, of resting her head on his chest. The world was falling around her, her tears were coming faster and her breath held a sob. He said nothing, merely rubbed her back with gentle strokes. For some reason, she felt as if he was hurting along with her.

“It’s not your fault,” she managed. “He made this decision, and he carried it out. If it weren’t for your determination, no one would have known until it was too late.”

Suddenly, the full impact of her father’s deeds burst upon her. He meant to overthrow the crown, to allow the French to overrun England. Perhaps her brother’s death had changed him, perhaps he’d hidden this dream behind a fair face his whole life. She could not know his mind, but she knew what she must do.

She wrenched herself out of Vaughn’s embrace and stared up into his face.

“Oh, Vaughn,” she cried, “are we too late? Will Napoleon’s forces invade tonight?”

“It seems possible, given what we know now,” he said, but so cautiously she thought he feared for her mind.

Imogene shook her head. “Then we must find my father.”

He reached out a hand and lay it on her shoulder as if to keep her in place. “You cannot shield him, Imogene. This is proof of his villainy.”

She swallowed. “I know that. I can see that. I’m not pleading for him.”

He cocked his head. “Then what?”

“Don’t you see?” she cried. “We must stop him!”

Chapter Nineteen

V
aughn gazed at Imogene, standing there equal parts grief and righteous determination. If he had ever doubted he was in love with this woman, he was a fool. But now was no time to declare his undying devotion. She was right. They had an invasion to stop.

He bent, retrieved the note and tucked it into his waistcoat pocket for safekeeping. “Before you arrived, Hennessy said the fires along the coast would be dark tonight. He seemed to think I was part of the plan. His words could have been code, or he could have meant that England is in danger.”

She snapped a nod. “Then we must alert Whitehall.”

“Agreed.” He took a step closer, needing to touch her, to hold her, but he settled for a hand on her shoulder. “Are you certain you wish to help me? Your father will be considered suspect and very likely tried for treason. If he’s convicted, his title will be attainted and his lands confiscated and he’ll be sentenced to death.”

She was so pale he thought she might fall over. “My mother and I will be outcasts, I know. But Vaughn, think of all the people who will die if Napoleon’s army reaches the shore. Think what will happen if Britain falls!”

He pulled her into his arms again and cradled her close. “We will not let that happen. We will not bow to a tyrant.”

She clung to him a moment more, and he closed his eyes and considered a future he had never dreamed possible. She and her mother would need someone to protect them. He wanted to be that person, to hold her when the worst happened, to help her find joy again.

Lord? You keep trying to talk to me. Perhaps You’ll allow me to talk to You. I don’t know if I can be the man she needs, but I will give my last breath trying. Still, I have a feeling only You can change me. Help me.

Imogene raised her head, offering him a tremulous smile. “Let’s go tell the authorities.”

Vaughn gave her a squeeze before releasing her. “I am your humble servant.” Together, they moved for the door.

But just outside a crowd had gathered, at the head of which stood an older man and a wiry fellow in a red waistcoat. Vaughn felt his muscles tense, but Imogene brightened.

“Oh, a Bow Street Runner!” She hurried up to the man. “Sir, we have important news.”

“In a moment, miss,” he said, shoving her protectively behind him and standing taller. “Mr. Vaughn Everard, we have orders to return you to the Magistrate’s Office on suspicion of murder. Will you come along peaceably?”

Murder? What was this? He could argue, but he doubted the Runner would listen. Vaughn glanced around, weighing his options. He could back into the shop and bar the door, but if the Bow Street Runner was worth his salt, reinforcements were likely standing ready at the rear door, as well. He might be able to fight his way through using the clerk’s knife, but good men would be hurt in the process.

A month ago, he might not have cared. Now he looked at the faces of the men before him—some tight with apprehension, others bright with determination—and wondered how many were fathers whose children would cry over their loss, how many had sweethearts who would grieve.

He held up his hands. “You have nothing to fear from me. This is all a mistake. I’ve killed no one.”

“Tell that to Lord Kendrick,” someone called, “who’s missing an heir.”

Kendrick? Lord Wentworth’s father? Had Vaughn’s strike proved lethal, after all? He stood numb as the Bow Street Runner trotted forward and tugged Vaughn’s hands behind him. He felt the heavy iron manacles clamp over his wrists and heard the ugly murmurs of the crowd. But all he saw was Imogene’s face, staring at him as if she stood alone.

“I’m innocent!” he cried. “Imogene, I swear to you he was alive when I left him.”

“Sing away,” the Bow Street Runner advised, grabbing Vaughn’s arm and leading him forward. “You’re only calling for the noose.”

Vaughn wrenched himself from the man’s grip and darted to Imogene. “The note, my pocket—take it.” Nothing was more important right now than saving England, but he couldn’t let the Runner see the note. There was too much risk that the fellow would think Vaughn was hiding evidence. To cover his act, Vaughn bent and kissed her.

He felt her lips respond, the caress full of promise, full of faith. Her fingers ticked his stomach as she sought his waistcoat pocket.

He heard the crack of the truncheon against his skull even as pain exploded. With a gasp, he sank to his knees. Imogene reached for him, but others seized her arms and held her back.

“On your feet now,” the Bow Street Runner ordered. “And no more nonsense.”

Vaughn raised his head, every movement painful. They expected him to struggle, perhaps to curse. That was not the man Imogene deserved, the man he wanted to be, the man God expected of him. He knew that now. He bunched his muscles under him and leapt to his feet. They scattered back as if he held a weapon.

“Don’t do anything rash,” he said to Imogene before turning to the officer. “Lay on, MacDuff.”

“The name’s Dervish, not MacDuff,” he said, oblivious to the Shakespearean reference from
Macbeth.
“And I’ll only lay on if you misbehave again. Now, move.”

Vaughn set out, feeling the warm wet of blood against his ear and hearing the jeers. But Imogene held a precious scrap of paper in her hand, and as he passed her she lifted it to her lips. Then she melted into the crowd and was gone. All his hope went with her.

* * *

Imogene hurried away from Bond Street, the note marking her father a traitor tight in her grip. The image of Vaughn, pale hair streaked with blood, dark eyes strangely at peace in the midst of chaos, refused to leave her. He couldn’t have killed Lord Wentworth. He promised! She had to believe him, she had to believe in him.

Her breath caught, and a stitch poked her side. She stopped at the corner of Little Brook Street and forced air into her lungs. She should follow him to Bow Street and defend him to the magistrates, yet the note seemed to burn her fingers.

She held it up and frowned at it. She didn’t want it to be true either. She wanted back the father who’d loved her, taught her, guided her. She hadn’t realized how that man had slipped away, been eroded away, by his ambitions and his grief.

And had he never thought of the consequences? The lives that would be lost, the families torn apart? She’d heard the stories of Revolutionary France, the ravenous maw of Madame Guillotine. Did he truly want such a fate for England?

And what of his own family? Everything she’d worked to help him maintain, gone; everything she’d wished for her mother, ripped away; her own future, her chances of making a good marriage, destroyed.

Her stomach was roiling, and she swallowed to keep the bile from rising. She could not afford to grieve, not now. She had to stop him. But were her word and this note enough to turn the tide?

Don’t do anything rash,
Vaughn had said. And this from a man who acted in the blink of an eye! Yet suddenly she thought she understood why. Her family and her country were in danger, and the knowledge was like a stick in her back, shoving her forward. She was walking again before she remembered moving her foot. He’d been carrying his suspicions for weeks. How could he have waited patiently for others to act?

And how could she? Though it cost her everything, she had to see this through. But she would not lose Vaughn in the process. She was not in this alone. She knew just the person who could help.

* * *

The footman who answered her knock on the Everard House door quickly led her into a downstairs sitting room. Imogene barely had a moment to glance about at the blue-striped settee and chairs in front of a white marble fireplace before Samantha Everard, her sponsor and the dark-haired beauty who had married her oldest cousin hurried in, the rustle of their muslin gowns proclaiming their agitation.

“Lady Imogene,” Lady Winthrop cried, rushing up to her. “Are you injured?”

Imogene frowned, then noticed they were all staring at her hat. Pulling out a pin and removing it, she saw that the feather was a sad loss, and a line of rusty red marred the green velvet.

“I’m unharmed,” she assured them. “That’s merely Vaughn’s blood.”

“What!” Samantha shouted, leaping at her.

Imogene took a step back, but Lady Winthrop caught the girl and held her. “I suggest you explain. Quickly.”

“Forgive me,” Imogene told them all. “I’m just a little rattled what with the duel, the note about my father being a traitor and Vaughn’s arrest.”

“I shall kill her,” Samantha promised.

The dark-haired lady took Imogene’s arm and led her to the sofa. “I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Mrs. Jerome Everard. Sit down and tell me exactly what happened, from the beginning, if you please.”

Her brisk, no-nonsense manner calmed Imogene’s nerves, and she found herself explaining their discovery in Bond Street to a rapt audience. Samantha Everard kept exclaiming through the tale, but Lady Winthrop maintained a tight hand on her arm as if to hold her in place beside her on the settee.

“And now,” Imogene concluded, “I’m left with a note declaring my father a traitor, an invasion to prevent and Vaughn stuck at the magistrate’s office over some mistake.”

“Quite a day,” Mrs. Everard said.

“Quite a tale,” Samantha countered. “I don’t believe a word of it. Cousin Vaughn is far too clever to allow himself to be caught like this. I think you’re trying to keep us all busy so your father can escape.”

Imogene bristled, but Lady Winthrop merely rose. “Easy enough to confirm the truth.” She went to ring the bell, and a footman appeared in the doorway. “Orson, send someone to the Bow Street Magistrate’s office and see if we can locate Mr. Vaughn Everard. Have our man bring back any news immediately. And ask Mr. Marshall to meet me in the entryway, if you please.”

“Right away, your ladyship.”

Lady Winthrop returned to Imogene’s side. “Our butler, Mr. Marshall has the utmost discretion. I’d like him to take that note of yours to Whitehall.” She held out her hand.

Imogene sat straighter. This was it. Her last chance to save her father and her last chance to save England. Samantha Everard was watching her as if expecting her to refuse to put her father before Vaughn.

Imogene laid the note in Lady Winthrop’s hand, and the woman smiled at her, pale blue eyes lighting. “Well done. We’ll have this settled soon, I promise.”

She turned once more and headed for the door.

Mrs. Everard smiled at Imogene, as well. “While we wait, would you care for something to eat, perhaps some tea?”

Imogene started to decline, but her stomach protested, reminding her that she’d eaten nothing since rising before dawn. As if the woman beside her saw the answer to her question in Imogene’s face, Mrs. Everard patted her hand and rose. “I’ll just have Mrs. Corday, our cook, pull together a quick repast.” Her look to Lady Everard was pointed.

Samantha shifted in her seat as Mrs. Everard left the room. “Do not ask me about the weather, for I couldn’t care less.”

“That makes two of us,” Imogene replied. “And I fail to see why you must be so prickly. Surely you can see I’m on your side. I thought you would want to help your cousin Vaughn. And it isn’t your father who’ll be sentenced to death.”

Samantha grimaced. “Is that what they’ll do? I’m very sorry. I know what it’s like to lose a father.” She sighed. “Only pray that yours doesn’t have some will that requires you to make a fool of yourself.”

Imogene frowned. “A will? What are you talking about?”

She plucked at the embroidery running down the front of her gown. “My father was afraid I wouldn’t be accepted among the
ton,
even by my cousins. So he set up his will to require them to help me complete three tasks to earn their inheritances.” She ticked them off on her fingers. “I must be presented to the queen—done. I must be accepted in all the houses that refused my father entrance.”

“Done,” Imogene said. “You were welcomed in ours.”

She smiled. “And others. It’s amazing what declaring yourself an heiress will accomplish.”

“And the third?”

Her smile faded. “I must receive three eligible offers of marriage for my hand. My friend Toby was the first. Vaughn was the second.”

The world was tilting again, and Imogene’s hands clutched at the seat of her chair to keep herself steady. “I suppose I must wish you happy then.”

She shook her head, golden curls dancing. “I refused him. Don’t get me wrong. I’m inordinately fond of Vaughn. I suspect that’s why I was so horrid to you when we visited at your house.” She offered Imogene a smile of apology. “But I’ve come to realize that he doesn’t love me, and I’m not content to settle for crumbs. I want a husband so much in love with me that he’ll want to be with me no matter what issues and dangers come between us.”

Imogene swallowed the longing that rose up inside her. She’d never thought of love that way, but she knew she, too, would settle for nothing less—and no one else but Vaughn.

Yet how could he bear to look at her knowing her father had killed his uncle and endangered England?

Lord, please help me make this right!

Mrs. Everard returned just then and led Imogene and Samantha to the dining room where meats, cheeses and bread had been laid on the sideboard. Lady Winthrop joined them as well, explaining that the note had been sent. The fact left a rock in Imogene’s stomach.

The two women managed to keep the conversation flowing, though afterward Imogene wasn’t entirely sure what they had discussed. She was merely surprised to find that she’d eaten everything on her plate.

They were just finishing when the footman returned.

“Mr. Everard was questioned by the magistrate for the murder of Lord Gregory Wentworth,” he reported.

Samantha cried out, fork clattering to her plate. “Lord Wentworth is truly dead?”

The footman nodded. “Yes, your ladyship. Rumor has it that his valet found him in his bedchamber this morning with a great many wounds upon his body.”

“I think that’s quite enough description, Orson,” Mrs. Everard said. Samantha looked so stricken Imogene thought she might be ill.