Regina Scott (3 page)

* * *

She tried to ask her father about the problem as soon as they returned home, but Jenkins, their head footman, reported that he was still away. She hadn’t been willing to broach the subject with the marquess earlier without knowing a name. In truth, many people rapped at the door of the Marquess of Widmore: widows seeking redress from the War Office, or the Admiralty where he advised on French tactics, émigrés related to their French ancestors to request aid in rebuilding their lives in England, solicitors and land stewards needing decisions on the family investments.

Her father refused admittance to any number on a given day, depending on his plans and mood. Recently he’d been particularly difficult to pin down. He had little time for his family; he certainly had no time for strangers.

But Vaughn Everard was no longer a stranger. She had danced with him, walked with him, seen his dark eyes brighten in admiration. From his works she was certain he had a refinement of spirit that was nothing short of amazing. Why would her father have taken him in dislike?

She has missed her opportunity to find answers tonight, but that didn’t mean she had to give up. She hurried upstairs to her room, hoping for a few moments alone.

She and her mother shared a ladies’ maid, not because they couldn’t afford one for Imogene but because her mother insisted on it. Imogene thought her mother enjoyed whispering suggestions in the maid’s ear as to what gown would best suit Imogene for a particular occasion and how she should wear her hair. With Bryson busy helping her mother first, however, Imogene had time for a little more research on Vaughn Everard.

She started with Mr. Debrett’s
The Correct Peerage of England, Scotland and Ireland.
The two slim volumes listed every member of England’s most notable families. The Everard barony was one of the newer entries, unlike her father’s. He was the tenth Marquess of Widmore and likely to be the last, unless she succeeded in her plan. There were no male relations as far as anyone knew, and unlike the occasional barony and dukedom, marquessates could not be inherited by the female line. When her younger brother Peter Devary, Viscount Charles, had died a few years ago of a fever, her father had been even more devastated than Imogene and her mother, and Imogene knew that the inevitable end to their family name and heritage was part of his sorrow. If only she could find a suitor well-positioned enough to petition to have the title recreated in him!

But what was this? The book made no mention of Samantha Everard. According to it, Lord Arthur Everard had no issue. Imogene thumbed back to the title page and checked the date: 1802, only three years ago. Why hadn’t the publisher known about Lady Everard? She couldn’t be adopted—only heirs of the blood stood to inherit a title.

Imogene returned to the Everard page. It listed the heir presumptive as Jerome Everard, nephew of the late Lord Everard, with his brother Richard after him. And there—Imogene cradled the book and allowed her finger to linger on the name—was Vaughn Everard, with no wife noted. His father had been the third son of the first Baron Everard and the brother of the second.

That made him first cousin to Samantha Everard. Although it was not unheard of for first cousins to marry, particularly to keep a title or fortune in the family, it was still an uncommon practice. And with every gentleman in London gathered around her, Lady Everard had her pick of suitors. Surely she could spare her cousin.

Imogene heard the door open quietly behind her and set the book back on the shelf, wondering why she felt guilty. Bryson paused only long enough to curtsy respectively, then hurried to do her duty. The maid had raven hair held tightly back from her face and a long pointed nose. She chose to keep only the darkest dresses her mistress offered. When Imogene was little, she had once drawn Bryson as a raven.

Now the maid went to shutter the windows on either side of Imogene’s bed, her dress solemn against the soft blues of the room. She had closed the shutter on one side, each movement sharp and precise, when something rattled against the glass, and she recoiled.

“What is it?” Imogene asked, moving closer.

The maid turned to her, wide-eyed. “There’s a gentleman down in the garden. He seems to be throwing rocks!”

A gentleman? Who would be able to slip past the carriage house and stables, to avoid the notice of the footmen and butler? Frowning, Imogene ventured toward the window until she could peer down into the small garden below. In the light spilling from the windows above, she could see the carefully clipped hedges, the wrought-iron benches near the flowers, the stone-lined path to the stables beyond.

Someone was standing there, face turned up to her window, black cloak swirling around him like smoke from a blaze. Fingers shaking, she raised the sash.

“But, soft! What light through yonder window breaks?” Vaughn Everard called up. “It is the east, and Lady Imogene is the sun. Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon, who is already sick and pale with grief that thou, her maid, art far more fair than she.”

“I’ll fetch Jenkins,” Bryson said, backing from the window.

Imogene caught her arm. “Stay a moment. We’re in no danger.” As her maid frowned at her, Imogene called back. “Really, Mr. Everard, you resort to the Bard? I thought you were a man of inspiration.”

He swept her a bow, one arm wide. “I divined your room correctly, didn’t I? But alas, your beauty halts my tongue. My words could only be cursed as praise too faint.”

“A likely story,” Imogene said. “I do believe, sir, that you are lazy. You think to win me over with words alone.”

Straightening, he pressed his hand against his chest. “You wound me, my lady. Tell me what I must do to prove myself.”

“Go ahead,” she whispered to Bryson, who fled the room as if Imogene had put a brand to her skirts. To Vaughn she said, “Present yourself to the front door tomorrow at two, sir.”

He dropped his hand. “Alas, a dragon guards your bower, fair maiden. I have been refused entrance too many times, as I think you know.”

“And you, sir, pride yourself on your swordsmanship, I hear. Surely a dragon is no match for you.”

She thought he smiled. “Swords are messy. A whispered word from you might do the trick.”

Below, she heard the kitchen door open, saw a brighter light cut across his figure along with the shadows of Jenkins and one of the under footmen as they marched toward him.

“Consider yourself invited, Mr. Everard,” she called. “I shall expect you tomorrow at two. Do not be late.”

“I shall fly to your side,” he promised. With a swirl of his cape, he dashed off into the night, the staff right behind.

Imogene set down the sash and leaned against the glass, her breath quickly fogging the pane. Vaughn Everard was coming to call on her tomorrow. This time she intended to make sure he was allowed entrance, if she had to take on her father herself.

Chapter Three

V
aughn wanted to return to the Devary home the next day as soon as it was considered decent. Though he generally rose and retired whenever the mood struck him, spending his days and nights as he pleased, he knew the fashionable ladies of London usually did not receive guests until after noon. So he presented himself at the door at exactly two, as Lady Imogene had requested.

The house was becoming familiar after his many attempts to speak with the marquess. It was wide and squat with far too many furbelows around the windows and door, as if a wedding cake had taken up residence on a corner near Park Lane. He would have wagered the marchioness had approved the purchase, for surely no gentleman worth his salt would choose to live in such a house.

Though the day was bright, with the sun spearing through clouds and brightening the gray stone pavement, Vaughn’s mood was considerably darker. Even something so simple as a request to call on Lady Imogene had required him to enact a Cheltenham tragedy, resorting to Shakespeare, no less! A few moments away from the garden last night, and he was wondering again whether there was another way besides charming the lady to gain a moment of her father’s time.

So he’d tried accosting the Marquess of Widmore at White’s after convincing a gentleman friend of Jerome’s to bring him in as a guest, but the lord had not been on the premises of the heralded gentleman’s club on St. James’s. Discreet inquiries had only served one purpose: to garner Vaughn the attentions of Lord Gregory Wentworth.

Though he was the heir to the Earl of Kendrick, Lord Wentworth was a toad, his only purpose in life to curry favor with those more rich and powerful. Vaughn supposed he was handsome enough with his sandy hair pomaded back from a chiseled face and a cleft in his chin, but the fellow had no opinions save an extreme overestimate of his own worth. Because his family estate lay next to Samantha’s home in Cumberland, he seemed to think he ought to be good friends with the Everards.

But by far his worse fault, in Vaughn’s mind, was the affectation in his speech, recently acquired, according to Samantha. Lord Wentworth tended to clip off his sentences, as if his life and deeds were too grand for mere words to describe. Vaughn had little use for anyone with such a lack of appreciation for the beauty of language.

“Evening, Everard,” he had greeted Vaughn last night, strolling up to him through the clusters of gentlemen already crowding the club. His ingratiating smile set Vaughn’s back up even further. “Lost the marquess, eh?”

“If he is lost, he can be found,” Vaughn assured him, turning for the door.

Lord Wentworth angled himself to block Vaughn’s path, his shoulders too broad in his evening coat of navy superfine. “Heard as much. Might know where.”

Vaughn eyed him. “Then pray share your knowledge.”

Lord Wentworth glanced both ways as if to be sure the other members of the club were engrossed in their various pursuits, then leaned closer, eyes lighting. “I’ll learn more about the marquess’s plans. You put in a good word for me. Agreed?”

Vaughn very much doubted the marquess would accept his recommendation. But much as he disliked the fellow before him now, he was in no position to refuse help. “I’d be delighted to receive any information you care to pass along,” he’d said with a bow. He hadn’t been surprised to hear nothing more from the man this morning.

And so it would have to be Imogene. The lilt of her voice last night had betrayed her eagerness to have him call, to pursue their acquaintance. He felt the same eagerness, but he buried it deep. She was attracted to nothing more than the idea of him—a poet, a swordsman. Reading more into it was dangerous to them both.

He reached for the knocker on the purple lacquered door and noticed the tremor in his hand. Nervous? Him? He flexed his fingers and gripped the brass, bringing the rod down once with finality.

A footman opened the door immediately, head high in his white-powdered wig, iron gaze out over the shoulder of Vaughn’s crimson coat. Only a twitch of his lips suggested he remembered seeing Vaughn there before.

“Mr. Vaughn Everard to see Lady Imogene Devary,” Vaughn said, squaring his shoulders.

The footman did not move from his place blocking the doorway, his black coat and breeches making him a dark shadow clinging to the wood. “I regret that her ladyship is not at home to visitors.”

“I think you will find you are mistaken,” Vaughn said.

The footman didn’t even blink. “The lady is unavailable, sir. Good day.”

He started to swing shut the door. Not this time. Vaughn stuck his shoulder in the gap, crowding the fellow backward. “I suggest you speak to your mistress. She will not thank you for turning away a caller she specifically requested.”

A flicker of uncertainty crossed the footman’s face, but he held his ground. “Very well, sir. If you would wait a moment, I will see if I can locate Lady Imogene.”

Vaughn waited. On the stoop. Like a penitent, not worthy to breathe the rarified air of the marquesses of Widmore. He took a step back and eyed the stone decorations around the door and windows. Easy enough to put his hands there, his toes there. How would Lady Imogene react if he climbed through her withdrawing room window and plopped himself down on her sofa?

Before he could find out, the door swung open again. “Lady Imogene will see you now,” the footman said to the air over Vaughn’s head, and he stepped out of the way to allow him entrance.

* * *

He was here! Imogene had recognized that husky purr, equal parts elegance and danger, at the bottom of the stairs. She’d been waiting, listening for it, using any excuse to loiter near the door. And she’d been highly tempted to seize the vase of lilies her mother had arranged on the table at the top of the stairs and throw it at Jenkins’s back if he’d kept Mr. Everard waiting another second.

But Mr. Everard mustn’t know she was eager to see him. After confirming to Jenkins that Mr. Everard was expected, she flew from the landing to the withdrawing room and perched on the settee before the footman opened the door the second time. The room was a perfect frame for her new apricot-colored day dress for the walls were a pale green and peaches blossomed in the pattern of the carpet at her feet. On the ceiling, cherubs floated on clouds above a sunset sky. Even the furniture, done in satinwood with white-on-white upholstery, favored the reddish tones that always made her chestnut curls gleam.

She arranged her silk skirts carefully, picked up a book (not of his poetry—that would be far too obvious) and pretended to be absorbed. She counted each tread as the footman approached and found herself holding her breath when Jenkins paused in the doorway.

“Mr. Vaughn Everard to see you, Lady Imogene. Your mother will join you shortly.”

Despite her best efforts, the book tumbled into her lap and her breath left her chest in a rush. As if he knew it, Vaughn Everard sauntered into the room and swept her a bow. Oh, but he knew how to use the moment to effect. His lean arm was wide, the lace at his cuffs fluttering in his crimson sleeve; his head was bowed, allowing the sunlight from the window behind her to anoint his pale hair with gold. When he straightened, his dark gaze sought hers, as if every moment apart had been an agony. Imogene was highly tempted to applaud his performance.

“Mr. Everard,” she said instead. “How delightful of you to call. Won’t you have a seat?”

He settled himself on one of the white-on-white chairs. Goodness, but his legs were long. From his polished black leather boots up his tan chamois breeches, they stretched nearly to the tips of her apricot-colored slippers. She clasped the book closer.

“Thank you for receiving me,” he said. It was the expected response, but the depth of his voice told her he meant it.

Imogene smiled at him. “Well, I did promise. I knew I could get Jenkins to let you in.”

His lips turned up just the slightest bit, as if reluctantly, but something inside her rose with them. “To what heights have I risen that the fairest of the fair should do battle for me?”

Imogene shook her head. “Hardly a battle. I heard you at the door.”

His smile lifted. “Listening for me, were you?”

She mustn’t give him that impression. She waved a hand. “Voices carry all too easily in this house. It was built to humor my French grandmother, who loved her music.” She glanced at the door but heard nothing of the swish of her mother’s skirts approaching. “We only have a few moments. Perhaps you’d care to tell me why you’re so intent on calling on my father?”

His pale brows went up. “Very well. I believe he may know more about my uncle’s last moments.”

Of course! She’d read in the paper that Lord Everard had passed away, and that’s why his daughter had come to London. But why would her father refuse to see his nephew? Perhaps he did not realize that this was Mr. Everard’s purpose in calling? Did her father not know of the relationship between this man and Lord Everard? “You were close to your uncle?”

“He was father and mother to me. At times it seemed he was the very air I breathed.”

She could hear the emotion in his voice, though she thought he meant to hide it behind his fanciful words. She tried to imagine losing both her mother and father, and her spirit quailed. It had been bad enough losing little Charles.

“I’m so sorry,” she murmured. “I’m certain if Father knew something of value he’d be only too happy to tell you.”

The smile remained on his handsome face, but it seemed suddenly stiff, like a mask on display. “No doubt. But I’ll rest easier once we’ve spoken. Is he home, by any chance?”

Imogene started to explain that he’d been called to the Admiralty that morning, but her mother appeared in the doorway.

“Ah, Mr. Everard,” she said, sailing into the room in her day dress of palest silk. “To what do we owe this pleasure?”

Vaughn rose and bowed, and Imogene couldn’t help noticing that the movement didn’t have quite the same flair as the bow he’d offered her. “Lady Widmore, your servant. I believe you know that I made your lovely daughter’s acquaintance last night at the Mayweather ball. She utterly charmed me, and I could not survive a day without paying my respects.”

Imogene’s mother glanced her way, smile regal, but Imogene saw the slight narrowing of her eyes. Oh, but her mother meant to have words with her when he left. “Yes, Imogene is much sought after this Season. The knocker is rarely silent. But then I am her mother. I must take pleasure in her popularity.”

“Pride can easily be forgiven,” he replied, taking his seat as she sat beside Imogene on the settee, “when it is so amply justified.”

At his look, Imogene felt her cheeks coloring. “Mr. Everard was asking after Father, Mother. I don’t believe we expect him home until later.”

“Much later,” her mother confirmed, posture straight. “If you meant to speak with him, I fear you have made the trip for nothing, sir.”

Vaughn smiled at Imogene. “A trip is never wasted when a gentleman finds himself surrounded by beauty.”

Imogene felt her mother’s gaze on her. “And poor Imogene often finds herself surrounded by callers. I fear she has little time to herself.”

It was a pointed hint. A gentleman would beg her pardon, excuse himself immediately. Vaughn merely crossed his long legs at the ankles.

“But dear lady, how could you be so cruel as to deprive us of our source of inspiration, of light? Even the farmer welcomes the bees hovering about his flowers.”

If anything, her mother’s back was even stiffer. This was getting ridiculous, and it was getting Imogene no closer to her goal of discovering the source of her father’s antipathy for the fellow. She racked her brain for a way to converse privately with him.

“Do you enjoy music, Mr. Everard?” she tried.

She was certain of his answer. What poet wouldn’t enjoy the strains of a well-played song?

“I take pleasure in the sound of a pianoforte or a violin played with precision,” he allowed. There was the slightest crease between his brows, as if he wasn’t sure of her direction. She had to make this work. She very much doubted she’d get another chance to see him again otherwise.

Lord, help him to follow my lead!

“Then you must come hear my latest composition,” Imogene told him. She stood, forcing him to his feet while her mother went so far as to frown at her. “I’m not quite certain I’m happy with it, and I’d very much like your thoughts.”

“Delighted,” he replied.

“If you’ll just excuse us a moment, Mother,” Imogene said, heading for the door.

She heard the whisper of silk as her mother rose. “No need, my dear. I find myself quite curious about this new song, as well.”

Imogene puffed out a sigh, but she kept going.

Vaughn caught up with her easily, pacing her down the corridor and stairway for the music room. With her mother right behind, there was no time for any but the most commonplace of topics, and she thought by the stiffness of his responses that he was as frustrated by the whole affair as she was.

The music room was just off the main entry, a small, north-facing room with misty gray walls and fanciful white curls festooning the coffered ceiling. She went straight to her piano and seated herself on the bench. “Would you be so kind as to turn the pages for me, Mr. Everard?”

He stood behind her. If she had leaned back, she would have rested against him. She kept her spine straight, her gaze on the sheet music in front of her.

“It starts slowly, like this.” She began playing the piece. She already knew it by heart, she’d written it after all, so she didn’t have to keep her eyes on the music. Still, she looked up only long enough to be certain her mother had taken a seat on one of the gilded chairs near the fire.

“You see how it drifts along here?” She nodded toward the music.

Vaughn bent closer, putting his face on a level with hers. She could feel the heat of him so close, his breath as it brushed against her curls. “Encouraging and lilting, much like the beginnings of a courtship,” he said.

Oh, but her cheeks would give everything away if he continued to speak to her like that. “My father seems quite vexed with you,” Imogene whispered, trying to focus on her goal while her fingers kept moving. “Do you know why that might be?”