Regina Scott (7 page)

They were far more likely to think he had designs on her, but he decided not to say so.

“It’s an unusual name, Vaughn,” she continued, fingers curling her hair back away from her face. “I don’t recall hearing it before.”

“It was my mother’s maiden name,” he supplied, watching in fascination as the chestnut strands fought her efficiency. He’d had his gloves on when he’d touched them a moment ago. Were they as smooth as satin, as sleek as mink?

“When did you lose her?” she asked around the hairpin she’d stuck in her mouth.

“She isn’t dead,” he replied. When she frowned, he felt compelled to explain. “She was an actress at Covent Garden. My father married her without Grandfather’s permission. Because they were both of age, there was nothing Grandfather could do about it except insist that she go live on the Continent. She left right after birthing me.”

He was almost thankful that the bonnet was now back in place, for it obscured her face for a moment. “At least she made sure you were raised in a good family,” she said with a certain primness.

He nearly choked on the emotions that leapt up inside him. “She waited because she knew Grandfather would offer her more money to leave me behind. And the only thing good about my family was going to live with my uncle and cousins.”

The horses were fretting again, and he knew he had to master his emotions before he set the pair off once more. “If you’re ready, I’ll see you home.”

Her hand darted out and stilled his.

“I’m very sorry, Mr. Everard.” Her voice was more than contrite; it trembled with sorrow, as if she could imagine such an odd upbringing as his and truly hurt that he had been subjected to it. “I didn’t mean to pry. I’m very glad you had your uncle’s affections, and I’m very sorry my father wasn’t able to answer your questions to your satisfaction.”

“Thank you,” he replied, fully aware of the inadequacy of those words. In fact, he’d never had such trouble formulating a reply. Her kindness continued to open old wounds, ones he had thought scarred over long ago. Yet each time she opened them, her very presence and understanding helped them heal.

He didn’t want them healed. Not now. Now they fueled his desire to avenge his uncle. Without them, he’d be all too tempted to go on with life, and that would be a betrayal of his uncle’s memory.

Besides, she couldn’t know how thoroughly her father had answered his questions and confirmed his suspicions. The marquess acted like a desperate man. He might protest his innocence, but Vaughn could all but see the blood dripping from his aristocratic hands.

More was here than met the eye. Vaughn simply wasn’t sure what to do about it or about the lovely Lady Imogene and the feelings she was raising in him.

Chapter Seven

I
mogene’s bonnet might be back in place, her curls safely tucked inside and her hands folded once more in the lap of her muslin gown, but her spirits refused to calm as Vaughn returned her home. She simply could not reconcile the father she knew with the man they’d met this afternoon.

It had been years since she’d shared the kind of closeness with her father that they had enjoyed before Charles’s death, but she still felt secure as to his character. Her father had always embodied his beliefs: love of family, devotion to country, care for the less fortunate. So why had he met that veiled woman in an unfrequented part of the park, alone? What had he given her? Why would he break off his conversation with Vaughn Everard in such a dramatic fashion?

By the set of Vaughn’s mouth, Imogene thought he considered her father’s actions reckless, that the marquess had endangered Imogene’s life. There had to be another explanation. Her father loved her. When she was younger he had always taken an interest in her activities, joining her in the schoolroom to quiz her about her studies, helping her perfect her French over dinner conversations, listening with a beatific smile, eyes closed, as she played her latest composition. Now his efforts for king and country consumed him. If she saw him, it was often in passing in the corridor. She couldn’t think of a single meaningful conversation they’d had in the past two months.

She knew Napoleon was breathing down England’s neck, and every man was expected to do his duty. She also knew her duty lay in upholding the family name, in marrying well, in conducting herself as a model of Christian womanhood.

Isn’t that what You expect, too, Lord?

So how was she to respond to what she’d seen? Vaughn seemed to think her father knew more about Lord Everard’s death than he was willing to confess, that her father had wanted to harm Lady Everard, as well. She meant to extend to her father the benefit of the doubt. She would continue to believe him innocent of any wrongdoing until she had proof otherwise.

As Vaughn turned the chariot off Park Lane, she realized he had been just as silent, having said nothing since stopping to retrieve his hat. Very likely he was allowing her time to settle her emotions, and she knew he must have much on his mind, as well.

“Forgive me,” she said. “I haven’t been very engaging company.”

He offered her a smile. “On the contrary. I could never claim the afternoon was a dead bore.”

Imogene smiled in spite of herself. “It certainly wasn’t. But instead of answers we’ve only succeeded in raising more questions. For instance, who are Repton and Todd?”

“It appears to be of no consequence at the moment, as your father does not recall their circumstances.”

Was he going to be tight-lipped now, as well? How was she to discover the truth? Was it Vaughn’s veiled accusations that troubled her father, or was it something more? Imogene bit back a sigh. “And Monsieur Chevalier?”

“Is currently residing at the Bow Street Magistrate’s Office. I suggest you apply to him if you have questions.”

Very likely he thought she wouldn’t dare approach the office or any prisoners housed there. “Then is there nothing more we can do to learn about your uncle’s death?”

He slid a glance her way, mouth tilting up. “We?”

“Certainly, Mr. Everard. I promised you I’d help, and I stand by that promise.”

He reined in the horses in front of her home. “I cannot impose myself on your good graces any further.”

“It is no imposition,” Imogene insisted as Jenkins and one of the under footmen came down the steps to assist. “After today I am in complete agreement with you that my father owes you an explanation for his actions.”

“Unfortunately, your father thinks otherwise,” he said.

Imogene made a face as the under footman positioned himself beside the team and Jenkins stood next to their seat, waiting to help her down. “So it would seem. I wish I knew someone close to him who could advise us, but my father is far too busy to cultivate close friendships. From the sound of things, your uncle was the last.”

He seemed to be focused on wrapping the reins around the brake. “Someone in Parliament, then, in Whitehall.”

Imogene shook her head. “I would have no idea who to recommend. Mr. Dundas the Secretary at War, Earl Camden the Secretary of State for War and the Colonies and Lord Barham the new First Lord of the Admiralty know him well, I’m sure, but I doubt they would part with anything of use to you, and they will have even less time to spare than my father. I’ll simply have to speak to him as soon as I see him.”

His hand came down over hers, held it tightly. “I must ask you not to do that.”

Imogene glanced at him with a frown. His jaw was tense, his profile tight, but she thought she saw some other emotion deep in his eyes. “He’s my father,” she said. “He wouldn’t hurt me. He couldn’t.”

He withdrew his hand. “As you say.” Before she could argue further, he jumped down and came around. Jenkins’s look tightened as well, but he stepped aside to allow Vaughn to help her from the chariot, then preceded them to the front door to open it.

Vaughn held her at the chariot a moment. The breeze had freshened, and a pale lock of hair brushed his cheek. She itched to stroke it back into place, but she held her hands clasped in front of her.

“Thank you for all your help, Lady Imogene,” he murmured. “If you have need of me, you have only to send word.”

Imogene blinked. “That sounds suspiciously like a dismissal, sir.”

He inclined his head. “I know how many other suitors vie for your time, your standing on the
ton.
I would not presume to intrude further.”

He
was
dismissing her! This would never do! The change in her father was somehow connected to Vaughn Everard; she was sure of it. Didn’t she and Vaughn both deserve answers?

Imogene cocked her head. “Mr. Everard, I was under the impression we were becoming friends. Have I done something to offend you?”

“Never,” he assured her. “But you must realize how unlikely our friendship would be.”

She frowned. “Why?”

He tugged at his cravat, which had lost some of its perfection from his exertions. “We don’t move in the same circles.”

So that was the problem. “I am not unknown to the literary set,” Imogene told him, nose in the air. “My father was much impressed with the poet Mr. Coleridge’s ideas, and we’ve exchanged letters since he went to Malta.”

His smile seemed reluctant. “Commendable, I’m sure. But that isn’t what I meant.” He paused to meet her gaze, and she felt herself slip a little further into those dark eyes. “I am not considered an appropriate companion for a young lady. A great many households refuse me entrance.”

“Because of a penchant for poetry?” She waved a hand. “Ridiculous! You are better off without them.”

He shook his head. “Oh, to see the world through your eyes.” He leaned forward until they were nearly nose to nose. She caught her breath at the pain on his face.

“I am a scoundrel, Imogene. Some would say a rake. I thought I could use your good opinion to reach your father. I have failed and endangered your life in the process. For your sake, we end this now.”

“Has anyone ever told you,” Imogene said, “that you can be very charming when you’re so intent?”

He reared back. Another man might have toppled over, but he caught himself. “Did you hear nothing I said?”

“That rubbish about being a scoundrel? Certainly. I am not hard of hearing, sir. I’m simply trying to determine whether you think to lie to me or yourself.”

His look darkened. “I do not lie, madam.”

“Then you are mistaken. I have not had the opportunity to meet many scoundrels, it’s true, but I would think part of the breed would be an endless selfishness, the ability to put oneself and one’s goals before all others. Surely you would agree that is also a requirement for a rake.”

He took a step back from her. “As I demonstrated by using you to get to your father.”

“Which you just confessed.”

“Because I no longer have need of you.”

“Don’t you?” Imogene closed the distance. “Only after I promised to speak to my father on your behalf did you attempt to dismiss me. And was that not, sir, because you were concerned for my safety?”

He held his ground. “That concern still stands. After your father’s actions today, I cannot feel comfortable embroiling you further.”

“And is that the decision of a rake?”

He puffed out a sigh. “You persist in seeing a hero.”

“Of course!” Imogene reached out for his arm. “Because you are a hero, whether you like it or not. Now, why don’t you join Mother and me for tea?”

He removed his arm from hers but slid his hand down to cup her fingers instead. “I shouldn’t keep my horses standing. And do not go into raptures about my devotion to the beasts.”

Imogene dimpled up at him. “If you insist, though I do find it commendable.”

“And I find you utterly enchanting.” He bowed over her hand and pressed a kiss against her knuckles. The gentle pressure stopped her breath, made her heart start beating faster. His dark gaze drifted up to hers. “When may I see you again?”

She wanted to dance up and down the pavement in triumph. But she was the Marquess of Widmore’s daughter. Such displays, however gratifying, did not become her. “Do you like the opera, Mr. Everard?” she asked instead.

“A great deal,” he replied, releasing her and straightening. “And I believe we agreed on Vaughn.”

Imogene grinned. “Of course. Then perhaps you could join us this evening at the Opera House on Haymarket, Vaughn. I’ll endeavor to have more information for you then.”

* * *

What an astonishing woman! Vaughn shook his head in admiration as he guided the horses through traffic on the way back to Everard House. After today it should have been apparent to her that he was considerably beyond the pale, yet she saw him as a champion. With her gazing up at him, full of hope, full of faith, he felt himself stand taller, wanting to be that hero. The vision matched what he’d once dared to dream. Was it too late to reclaim that dream?

And when had the marquess lost his own standards? Once, he’d been a champion for both England and France, working beside Uncle to protect the innocent aristocrats threatened by the Terror, helping England stay strong against French incursion. At a confused fourteen, Vaughn had idolized the man along with Uncle.

And he had needed someone to look up to then, having just been expelled from Eton for dueling and ordered by his father to live with Uncle. His devoted
père
had been so embarrassed by the whole affair he hadn’t even gone to the school to fetch Vaughn, instead sending a junior partner of the family’s solicitor firm, letter in hand.

“You have pained me for the last time,” his father had written, the strokes sharp with agitation. “I am only thankful your grandfather has gone to his just reward and didn’t realize how far you have fallen from the ideals he set. I can think of one fitting punishment. Go live with my brother, Lord Everard. His bent is as dark as your own. Perhaps you will take a lesson from him and change your character before it is too late. If not, at least you will have company down that barren road of regrets.”

And so he’d gone to live with Uncle. Arthur Everard’s deeds had already become legend. He’d been a privateer like Grandfather before the elder fellow’s elevation for rescuing a noble lady from pirates. But unlike Grandfather, who had sailed with the notion of protecting England from its enemies, Arthur Everard had captained his ship like he did everything else, for the adventure of it. He’d taken one look at Vaughn, standing in the entryway of Everard House, trunk at his feet, sword at his hip, gaze daring anyone to look closer, and clapped him on the shoulder.

“You’ve an itch under your skin, don’t you, boy?” he’d asked. “A spirit inside you urging you to ride, to run.” He had motioned to the sword. “To fight. And keeping it silent takes too much energy.”

Vaughn had stared up at him. His uncle had the same pale hair, the same dark gaze. Could he, as Vaughn’s father had intimated, have the same longings? “How did you know?”

“Because I have the same spirit,” his uncle had confirmed. “And I can tell you the answer isn’t trying to contain it—it’s to set that spirit free and fly with it!”

Vaughn’s heart had been his uncle’s from that moment. Wherever Arthur Everard went, whatever he did, Vaughn was at his side, even if that meant going places no fourteen-year-old boy should ever see.

But never with the Marquess of Widmore. That had stung Vaughn then, though now he thought he saw the wisdom in the decision. Uncle was always delighted to tell Vaughn about his adventures with his old friend afterward, but the marquess had drawn the line about including a youth in any of their plans.

“He’s too unpredictable,” Vaughn had heard the man tell Uncle once over goblets around a crackling fire in the Everard withdrawing room. “I am not convinced I can control him. I have a hard enough time controlling you.”

The marquess had laughed then, and Uncle had laughed with him, but Vaughn couldn’t help wondering. In the end, had Uncle proved too difficult for the marquess to control? Was that why his uncle had been killed? Or had the marquess himself become the force of chaos that destroyed Uncle in the end? Had Uncle, like the dance master Henri Chevalier, who claimed to work for the marquess, realized treachery was afoot and challenged his friend? Chevalier had admitted being an agent for France—directed by the marquess he claimed. Was he telling the truth? Or had Vaughn misunderstood everything?

He reached Everard House in time to see a hired carriage pulling away. The two footmen tugging a trunk into the house gave Vaughn a clue as to the new arrivals. Leaving his horses to the care of a trusted groom, he took the steps two at a time.

He found both his male cousins in the library. Jerome and Richard seemed to feel right at home in the neatly organized space. Vaughn always wondered when the well-stocked bookcases would close in on him. But he strode to meet his cousins, and Jerome rose from his seat by the fire to shake his hand.