Regina Scott (2 page)

The set ended far too soon for him. As the music faded, ladies curtsied and men bowed. He didn’t want to move, didn’t want the moment to pass, didn’t want to return to his dark pursuit of hunting a killer and making him pay. For these few precious seconds, he could pretend he was a typical young gentleman dancing with the loveliest lady in the room.

But he had never been typical. As if even the Mayweathers understood that, a tall, hawk-nosed female he knew to be the matriarch of the family was bearing down upon them.

“Lady Imogene,” she said in a booming voice guaranteed to draw attention. “A moment of your time.” She seized the girl’s arm as if to ensure obedience.

Imogene. It suited her. Nothing in the common way like Jane or Ann. Vaughn bowed, mouth tipping up in a half smile. Lady Imogene frowned, and he could have sworn she tried to pull away. But her hostess was having no part of it. She visibly tightened her grip on the lady’s arm and dragged her to safety.

Vaughn shook his head, turning away. Lady Imogene’s mother or sponsor might be remiss in her duties, but her friends were clearly more attentive. They recognized the danger he posed, even if the lovely Lady Imogene was oblivious. They thought they knew him. They were equally oblivious. The real Vaughn Everard lay deep inside. Only one man had ever known him, and that man was now dead.

He had to applaud his cousin Richard for trying, however. Vaughn hadn’t even crossed the floor to the door before his older cousin caught up with him. A former sea captain, Richard Everard moved with the assurance of a man used to command, though he looked the consummate gentleman in his evening black. Unfortunately for Richard, Vaughn had never been good at accepting commands.

“What was that about?” Richard demanded, taking Vaughn’s arm and drawing him aside. Around them, ladies in fine gowns strolled past, favoring them with coy smiles.

Vaughn ignored them. “There’s better sport to be had. Care to join me?”

Richard shook his russet head, though he released his grip. “I feared you’d found sport here, as well. Claire recognized your partner before I did, but I thought Samantha would go looking for your sword when she saw you dancing.”

Trust Richard’s lovely betrothed Lady Claire Winthrop to notice anything untoward. She was Samantha’s sponsor after all. Samantha, however, was far less interested in propriety when it came to those who held her loyalty. In that, as in so many things, she was like her father, a fact guaranteed to endear her to Vaughn. Every burst of fondness he felt for her only reinforced his mission. He had to learn the truth behind her father’s death, even if it meant hunting the marquess to ground.

“Neither Samantha nor your lady love have cause for concern,” Vaughn assured Richard. “It was only a dance.”

“Was it?” Richard took a step closer. “Claire cannot like your methods, and neither can I. As far as we can tell, Lady Imogene Devary is an innocent. You cannot use her to punish her father.”

He felt as if all the members of this fine company had turned and shouted in his direction. “What did you say?”

Richard’s dark eyes, so like Vaughn’s, gazed down at him. “You didn’t know who you were dancing with, did you?”

Vaughn still couldn’t believe the implication. “Devary? Related to the Devarys who hold the Widmore marquessate?”

“His daughter,” Richard said. “His only surviving child. From what I’ve seen, he dotes on the girl. As close as you were to our uncle, I’m surprised you didn’t know.”

Of course he hadn’t known. He would have used the dance to far greater advantage had he realized she was connected to the enemy who may have killed Arthur Everard, Samantha’s father.

“The marquess may have been Uncle’s closest friend,” he told Richard, “but he never had much use for me. I’ve not met his wife or daughter.” He cocked a smile. “Of course, I could say that about half the better families in London.”

Richard straightened as if believing him. “Just remember your promise. We wait for Jerome before accosting the marquess.”

Vaughn smiled. “I promised to wait until Samantha was presented to the queen to avoid any hint of scandal. She was presented two weeks ago. Widmore is mine.”

Richard shoved in front of him. His cousin was the tallest of the family, and being a captain hadn’t helped his diplomacy. “You will not touch the marquess until we talk to Jerome,” Richard commanded. “My brother is still the head of this family.”

Vaughn gazed up at him from under his brows. Richard might have the longer reach—and he certainly had experience in using the blade, having fought pirates on his travels—but Vaughn was fairly certain he could beat his cousin if it came to a duel. Richard would hesitate before wounding a man, particularly a member of the family. Vaughn wouldn’t.

“Do what you must, Cousin,” Vaughn said. “I know where my duty lies. Do you?”

He returned to the ballroom then, at last seeing his path clearly. The Marquess of Widmore might refuse to give him the time of day, but Vaughn thought he stood a good chance of convincing the man’s daughter otherwise. He had yet to meet a lady who didn’t swoon at a well-placed verse, a lovesick smile. Much as he abhorred dragging an innocent into this business, his duty lay in solving the mystery of his uncle’s death. And Lady Imogene Devary, he very much feared, had become the key.

Chapter Two

I
mogene watched her mysterious stranger stride away, the crowds parting before him. Even if she could have escaped the tenacious grip of her hostess, she could hardly chase after him; she’d already made a spectacle of herself by insisting on a dance. And she hadn’t even learned his name!

“That was very foolish,” Elisa’s mother scolded, scanning the room. “Where is your mother? I’m certain she’ll have something to say about the company you keep.”

Imogene stilled. Mrs. Mayweather knew the man. Of course she knew the man! She’d invited him. But she didn’t seem particularly pleased by the fact. Her hostess’s face was an unbecoming shade of red that clashed with the rust-colored velvet of her ball gown. Each tightly wound gray curl, the lift of her hawkish nose, the compression of her already thin lips shouted righteous indignation. Small wonder Elisa tended to hide behind columns.

“I’m sorry if I offended you,” Imogene said. “Naturally I assumed anyone you invited would be an acceptable partner.”

The red faded, leaving Mrs. Mayweather as pale as fine muslin. “Certainly we only invite the best,” she said, dropping her grip on Imogene’s arm. “I cannot help it if some families have members who distain their honor.”

So he was dishonorable? She ought to have expected it. Certainly her father’s reaction to him had made him seem dangerous, dastardly. But that had not been her impression as they’d danced. The fire in him burned through the polite malaise of the other lords and ladies. Like a hearth on a cold day, it called to her. Oh, he was an outrageous flirt, holding her gaze and fingers far longer than needed, but nothing about his demeanor or conversation spoke of an evil lurking inside.

Lord, please help me know the truth!

“And what family would that be, precisely?” Imogene asked.

Mrs. Mayweather frowned down at her. “You didn’t know? My dear girl, you have been most shamefully used. That...that creature was none other than Mr. Vaughn Everard, who dares to call himself a poet. Surely you’ve heard of him.”

Certainly she’d heard of him. She had all three volumes of his poetry in her bedchamber, the pages dog-eared from repeated reading.
That’s
why she’d recognized his phrase about dancing! But wait. “Everard?” she asked, stomach tightening. “Then is he related to...”

“Lady Everard,” Mrs. Mayweather said, making the last name sound like something she’d found clumped to the bottom of her shoe. “Indeed, he is her cousin. I tried with the greatest tact to suggest that she leave him home, but she would hear none of it. They say she wears his heart about her neck like her pearls.”

He was also one of Lady Everard’s followers? Imogene could only feel disappointed in him; from his beautiful poetry she’d somehow thought he’d be more discriminating. In fact, for a moment on the dance floor, she’d wondered whether she’d finally found the suitor she’d been praying for—someone who could help her protect the family name, as her father’s only living child.

But why was he interested in her family? How had her father even become acquainted with one of London’s most infamous poets?

“Now, then,” Mrs. Mayweather said soothingly, evidently taking Imogene’s silence for shocked propriety, “we’ll say no more on the matter. I’m sure any of the other fine gentlemen will be only too happy to partner with you for the next set.”

Imogene thanked Mrs. Mayweather and watched her bustle away, but dancing was the last thing on her mind. She had only one goal now. How could she meet Vaughn Everard again and learn more?

* * *

In the shadow of one of the alabaster columns, Vaughn watched Lady Imogene. She’d managed to escape her diligent hostess, leaving the woman in charity with her if the smile on Mrs. Mayweather’s face was any indication. Now she flitted about the ballroom, talking to this young lady, that gentleman, a bee buzzing from flower to flower.

She was obviously as good at talking her way out of a scrape as she was getting into one. Yet why would the Marquess of Widmore’s daughter—beautiful, wealthy, charming—ask him to dance? He could find a way to put the question to the lady, along with other questions on his mind, but still he hesitated. He knew his best chance in meeting the marquess lay in charming Imogene, but he had never countenanced using others for personal gain. He’d seen firsthand the pain and devastation that followed.

Besides, that smile was too knowing, too confident, and he had a feeling that jade gaze could pierce flesh and see inside him. Yet if she had seen inside him, she would never have asked him to dance. No, he’d been handed an opportunity to gain the attention of the Devary family. He’d be a fool not to take it.

Keeping her ever in sight, he moved around the edge of the ballroom. He tensed for a moment when the affable Lord Eustace bowed over her hand, but she sent him off with a wave and a laugh that sparkled as brightly as her gaze. She didn’t intend to dance, then. Odd. Why would one of the most beautiful and eligible women in the room refuse to take the floor, except on his arm? He ought to feel honored, yet he couldn’t believe honor had been her motive.

Her friend saw him before Lady Imogene did. With her coal-black hair and hawkish nose, the young lady now standing beside the marquess’s daughter was a Mayweather, he guessed, although one of the prettier ones. Her brown eyes widened, and she stopped in midsentence to flutter her ivory fan in front of her face. Lady Imogene turned, then blinked.

Vaughn bowed. “Lady Imogene, your servant. You asked me to dance earlier. I thought to return the favor.”

Her brows went up as if she had not expected him to know her name. “Mr. Everard,” she replied. “I fear dancing with you was so thrilling I haven’t been able to retake the floor since. Perhaps a promenade instead?”

Her smile told him his face had betrayed his surprise that she knew him, too. It seemed her previous invitation had not been all innocence. But a promenade would give them more of an opportunity to be alone, or at least as alone as was possible in a crowded ballroom. He offered her his arm. “Charmed.”

“Imogene.” The word was a mere whisper of anguish from her friend. She, at least, was concerned about the damage to Lady Imogene’s reputation. One interaction could be poor judgment. Two might mean poor character.

Imogene reached out a hand and patted her friend’s. “Never fear, Miss Mayweather. I’m fairly certain Mr. Everard doesn’t bite. And I’ll be back before you know it.”

With a dazzling smile that almost made Vaughn rethink his strategy yet again, Imogene put her hand on his arm, and they set off around the ballroom.

* * *

Thank You, Lord!

Imogene nearly said the praise aloud. She’d been quizzing her friends about this man, until even Kitty and Elisa were teasing her about her sudden
tendre
for the fellow. She could not tell them that it was hardly
amour
that moved her.

Oh, he was handsome enough with that white-gold hair like a yard of the finest silk and those impossibly deep brown eyes like melted chocolate. And one could hardly fault his address, standing tall and lean and so very sure of himself. He took each step as if claiming the polished wood floor for England.

But what she needed to know was his character and background. Surely they would give her some notion as to his business with her father. How wonderful that she’d been given this opportunity!

“How do you know my father?” she asked just as he said, “Is your father in attendance?”

Imogene laughed. He smiled, a warm, open smile that invited her closer, promised it was meant for her alone. Too bad it disappeared as quickly as it had come.

“Forgive me,” he said. “Ladies first.”

“My father wasn’t able to join us,” she said, answering his question. “I didn’t know you were acquainted.”

She waited, hoping for similar honesty. He turned slightly toward her, lips poised to respond, and she sighted Mrs. Mayweather headed in their direction, eyes narrowed. “Oh, dear.”

He must have seen the danger, too, for he expertly steered Imogene away. Once they had put a row of columns between them and their hostess, he said, “Your father and my uncle were good friends.”

Friends? Had she ever been introduced to an Everard old enough to be his uncle? Her confusion must have been written on her face, for he clarified. “Arthur, Lord Everard. You must have met him.”

Imogene shook her head. “I’m sorry. I don’t recall. What does he look like?”

“Tall, lean, fair-haired—a great deal like me, actually.”

Imogene beamed at him. “Forgive me. A gentleman that handsome would be difficult to forget.”

He chuckled, then stiffened and guided her behind the dowager’s circle. The older ladies batted their eyes and waved their fans as he passed, and he nodded and smiled encouragement to them.

On the opposite side of the circle, his cousin, Lady Everard, looked far less encouraging, her pretty face scrunched up in confusion. She had thick golden hair, worn up high and cascading down her back, and dark brown eyes that must run in the family, for they were very like his. Every girl in the room would be wondering how to copy that gown—clear muslin over an underskirt spotted in gold so that it sparkled as she moved.

“I fear our promenade will end all too soon,” he murmured to Imogene. “Do me the honor of answering two more questions.”

“Anything,” she said, then chided herself on her eagerness.

“First, do you remember what your father was doing the night of March third?”

What a singularly odd thing to ask! Whatever issue he had with her father must have something to do with that day. Imogene thought back. Had they been in London yet? Her father had been intent on getting them all there from their country estate. Business, he’d said, that could only be conducted in London.

Vaughn Everard was leading her toward the main entrance to the ballroom now. Framed in the doorway, her mother glanced about, obviously in search of her. Mrs. Mayweather stood beside her, foot tapping against the fine wood floor.

“I don’t remember,” Imogene said in the rush. “What’s the second question?”

“May I call on you tomorrow?”

She was so surprised she actually stopped, pulling him up short. The movement was enough for her mother to spy her and start in her direction.

“Cousin Vaughn,” Samantha Everard said behind them, her voice surprisingly hesitant for her usual confidence in the social scene. “You promised me the next dance. Have you forgotten?”

His body turned dutifully as he released Imogene, but his gaze remained on hers, waiting. She could almost see the hope.

“There you are, Imogene,” her mother said, coming up to her and taking her arm. “It’s been a long evening, dear, and I’d like to retire.”

Samantha Everard’s fingers were reaching for her cousin’s wrists even as Lady Widmore’s wrapped around her daughter’s. Before Imogene could answer him, they had parted, and she knew they would not be given the opportunity to talk again that night. She glanced at him twice as she walked with her mother to the door, but if he returned the look, she didn’t see it. Imogene felt a sigh of pure frustration escape her.

Her mother waited until they were seated in the carriage on the way home before requesting an explanation. How could Imogene refuse? Elisa Mayweather might be burdened with an overbearing mama, but Imogene knew how fortunate she was in her own mother. She hoped she’d look so lovely when she reached her mother’s age. Lady Lavinia Devary, Marchioness of Widmore, had hair that was a distinguished shade of silver, but her face was as unlined as Imogene’s, and she carried herself with an elegance her daughter envied. Even now, confronted with Imogene’s possible indiscretion, she was more concerned than censorious.

“Darling,” she said, reaching across the coach to take both of Imogene’s hands. “Why the interest in Mr. Everard? Surely you know his family is considered scandalous.”

Imogene frowned. “Are they? Why?”

Her mother’s voice was stern though her look remained concerned. “The former Lord Everard was not a gentleman, despite his title. I refused to allow him entrance to our home even though your father considered him a friend.”

Her mother was usually determined to see the best in everyone. Lord Everard must have done something terrible for her to take him in such dislike. But at least Mr. Everard had been right in calling her father and his uncle friends. “And do you find Mr. Everard so scandalous, as well? Is that why Father refuses to see him?”

Her mother squeezed her hands. “I have heard he has dueled, but I had nothing to do with your father’s decision. Still, I trust his judgment.”

“I wish I did. Something’s wrong, Mother. I can feel it.”

Her blue eyes were sad. “You are a loving daughter, Imogene, but you needn’t worry for him.”

Imogene leaned forward. “How can I not worry? He doesn’t talk to me anymore. He’s seldom home. It’s almost as bad as when Charles died.”

Her mother paled, as if even hearing the name of her lost son hurt. Imogene hurt with her.

“Your father is a very busy man,” she said, releasing Imogene’s hands, “called to serve the king in many areas. With Napoleon threatening to invade at any time, do you think something as small as a misguided poet could concern him?”

Imogene sighed. “Perhaps not, but he continues to refuse Mr. Everard entrance, even when he’s perfectly capable of receiving him. I’d like to know why.”

Her mother turned her gaze to the window. “There are a great many questions about this life that remain unanswered, Imogene. You would be wise to grow accustomed to the fact.”

She knew her mother was right. She’d never understood why her younger brother had died, why her mother had lost all the other older sisters Imogene might have had. She called Imogene her little gift from the Lord. Didn’t the fact that Imogene alone had survived and thrived mean God had some purpose for her life? Something more she was meant to do than simply dance through each Season with no thought but to her own pleasure?

I know You do, Lord! I know I was meant to save my family. Surely You have a greater plan than for all to be lost when Father dies someday. Show me the man You mean to help me gain approval to carry on the title of Marquess of Widmore!