Regina Scott (8 page)

“Vaughn, looking well. No new holes or scratches, I see. Samantha must be keeping you too busy to duel.”

His raven-haired cousin looked even better, Vaughn thought. Jerome had always carried himself with confidence, some would have said the Everard arrogance, but now he seemed settled in his own skin, as if the world was just as he had ordered it. His clear blue eyes seemed warmer, his smile deeper. Vaughn thought his new bride Adele might have something to do with the changes, and he envied his cousin.

“It isn’t Samantha who’s keeping him busy,” Richard said as Vaughn disengaged. “I wrote you about Chevalier. Vaughn has been stalking the Marquess of Widmore.”

“Odd,” Vaughn said to Richard. “It seems we have more than one Everard intent on literary fame. I may be a poet, but you’re remarkably set on telling tales.”

Richard’s dark eyes narrowed.

Jerome held up a hand. “Peace! I need to be aware of what’s happening so we can decide the best course of action.” He turned to Vaughn, lowering his hand. “You know you and I are in agreement that the marquess is involved somehow in the troubles plaguing us. What have you learned?”

“I finally caught up with him today,” Vaughn admitted, thinking back on the altercation in the park. “He disavowed all knowledge of Uncle’s death, any involvement in the deaths of our valet Repton or Samantha’s footman Todd. He dismissed Chevalier’s allegations of treason out of hand.”

Jerome frowned as he retook his seat and waved Vaughn into another. “Could we have been mistaken?”

Vaughn refused the offer of a chair and went to stand by the fire instead, feeling the warmth brush against his thighs. “I would be tempted to think so, save for two things. One is how we found the marquess.”

“We?” Richard interrupted, freezing in the act of sitting across from his brother.

In for a penny, in for a pound.
“I was driving with Lady Imogene Devary.”

Jerome raised his brows and glanced at Richard for confirmation. “The Marquess of Widmore’s daughter?”

Richard crossed his arms over his chest, leaning back. In their navy coats and fawn trousers, his cousins looked like two finicky gentlemen of fashion, ready to pass judgment on him for his challenge to the ordinary.

“The same,” Richard told his brother. “She seems to have taken a shine to our cousin.”

“I am honored by her friendship,” Vaughn insisted, then continued, ignoring Richard’s snort. “We came across him by accident—in an empty corner of Hyde Park with a lady.”

Jerome shook his head. “Sadly, he would not be the first to attempt a tryst in the park.”

“Indeed,” Vaughn agreed. “However, even though the lady was veiled, I recognized her. It was Eugenie Toussel, the French émigré.”

“The one rumored to spy for France?” Jerome asked with a frown.

“The same. He could have been using her to pass secrets to confuse the French,” he offered in an attempt to consider all possibilities. He owed Imogene that much, at least.

“Or communicating with old friends who would prefer not to acknowledge an English connection,” Richard mused, stroking his russet mustache. “The marquess has French ancestors, if memory serves.”

“His mother,” Jerome agreed. “Enough of a connection to the Old Regime to make him useful to the War Office in the current crisis. Too much to make Prime Minister Pitt inclined to offer him a cabinet post.”

“I tend to share the Prime Minister’s suspicions,” Vaughn told them both. “When I pressed too hard with questions today, he startled my horses and I had to contend with a runaway team.”

Jerome grinned. “He should have known better. With your skills, controlling your horses couldn’t have been difficult.”

“His actions were dishonorable,” Richard added, “but hardly lethal.”

Vaughn knew his smile was grim. “Except I wasn’t at the reins at the time. I wasn’t even in the chariot. The person in danger was Lady Imogene.”

Jerome stiffened, and Richard whistled. “He risked his own daughter?” the captain asked. “Is he mad?”

Vaughn felt chilled by the thought. “I don’t know,” he said. “But it’s one explanation for his negligence.”

“I can think of another,” Jerome said. “Desperate men take desperate actions. We may have been right about the marquess. And we may have him on the run at last.”

“He’ll be even more dangerous then,” Richard said. “Unfortunately, we still lack any real evidence to approach the magistrates.”

“Agreed.” Jerome turned to Vaughn. “It seems we must continue our quest, Cousin. What do you advise?”

Vaughn raised a brow in surprise. Always before, Jerome strategized, Richard criticized and Vaughn acted. He wasn’t sure what it meant that his cousin actually asked his opinion, but he liked the feeling. He straightened away from the fire. “The marquess will be more wary of us—particularly me—in future. I doubt we’ll be given another opportunity to question him.”

“Then we’ll have to find another way to get the information,” Richard said.

Jerome nodded. “It seems he’s too good at deception. Our best hope lies with Lady Imogene. Vaughn, can you continue this friendship without risking her safety?”

Vaughn had wondered as much. He’d been ready to walk away this afternoon if it meant keeping her safe. But the look in her eyes, her sweet argument, the way she saw the good in him made him long for one more moment in her company. “I won’t see her harmed,” he vowed.

Jerome nodded again. “Then see what you can learn from her, even if that means spending every waking moment together.”

Chapter Eight

I
mogene had reached the conclusion that in Vaughn lay her best hope of proving her father innocent. She had gone over the events in Hyde Park again and again and dissected her discussions with Vaughn. He seemed to think her father was involved in any number of scandals. She had no idea how he’d reached such conclusions, but she was certain he was wrong.

Unfortunately, she had little to go on to uncover the truth. She knew a man accused generally brought authorities to attest to his innocence and character as well as witnesses to the alleged crime. She didn’t think Vaughn was willing to listen to her protests that her father was a fine man. And the only witness to any crime, so far as she could tell, was the same fellow who was apparently accusing her father: Monsieur Henri Chevalier. How could she manage a moment with the dance master?

Although the Lord had encouraged his followers to visit the poor, the sick and the imprisoned, she didn’t think her mother would be quite so understanding of a trip to Bow Street to see a man awaiting trial for attempted murder. And if Imogene was to be ready to go to the opera tonight and see Vaughn again, she certainly didn’t have time to convince her mother, have the carriage prepared, go and return.

But she could still do some good. Accordingly, she convinced Cook to make up a basket of bread, mutton and a bottle of lemonade; added her own note requesting an explanation of Monsieur Chevalier’s claims; and presented it all to Jenkins with the plea that he deliver it to the criminal.

Her normally obedient footman gazed down at her. “Does his lordship approve of this?”

Imogene stood taller. That only brought her to the chest of his tailored black coat, but it made her feel a little more authoritative. “My father is entirely too busy to be bothered with such insignificances, as is Mr. Prentice.”

At the mention of the Devary butler, the footman’s steely gaze narrowed. Imogene continued on, undaunted. “Monsieur Chevalier has given good service over the years. I’m certain Father would approve of supporting him in his time of need.”

Jenkins still looked less than sure, but he left a short time later, and Imogene was able to spend a few minutes at the piano before dinner. The footman returned with the note just before dashing off to lead the serving. Her former dance master had scribbled a response in pencil at the bottom, and the dirt on the parchment attested to the filth of his surroundings.

“Pray for me that I may be forgiven for my misdeeds,” he’d written. “And be careful. Your father has designs above his station, and you will need to protect yourself and your mother.”

Imogene frowned at the words. As a marquess with his own estate and considerable political power, her father had one of the highest positions in the land. What could possibly be higher? Was he in line for a cabinet post after all? Was that why he spent so much time at Whitehall, to convince his colleagues he was dedicated to the role? But surely such a thing could not be considered above his station, so why would she need to protect herself, much less her mother, from such an honor? And how could that be associated with the Everards?

Was Monsieur Chevalier mistaken, as well? Then where had the rumors about her father started? It seemed someone had reason to point a finger his way. Who? Her father was a strong personality; she was certain more than one lord smarted from the sting of his disdain for an ill-placed comment, a poorly conceived proposal. Could someone be trying to implicate her father in some conspiracy as revenge?

The only person who seemed to have answers was Vaughn Everard. She was fairly certain he knew more than he was letting on. The only way to prove her father’s innocence was to stick to Vaughn’s side until she learned everything.

And then she’d bring the entire matter to her father.

She dressed with care for the opera that night, choosing a white satin gown with a Vandyke collar of stiffened tulle. Satin rosebuds of the palest pink meandered down the front and edged the hem and train.

“You look lovely, dearest,” her mother said with a quick kiss on Imogene’s cheek when they met in the entryway for their cloaks. She tucked an errant curl back into the pearl-studded bandeau around Imogene’s head. “I told Bryson your hair would look splendid near your face. The style highlights your cheekbones.”

“Highlighted cheekbones, a true sign of character,” Imogene teased. She glanced up the stairs. “Has Father returned home by any chance? I was hoping he might join us this evening.”

Her mother turned away. “Sadly, his presence was required in Whitehall. He sent word that we were to go without him.”

Imogene followed her mother out to the waiting carriage, but she felt frustration accompanying her. All this business could be entirely swept away, she was sure, if she could just talk to her father, hear him explain the situation in his cultured voice. And how delighted Vaughn would be if she actually had an answer for him!

He was a bit of a puzzlement, she thought as she settled in the carriage beside her mother. He was all confidence and brash swagger, yet at moments he seemed to doubt his worth. When he was intent on flirting, his voice was husky and his words colorful; she could almost smell the flowers blooming from the prose. But in a moment of crisis, his sentences were short and crisp, each word as precise as a scalpel, his manner as brisk as the military officers who called on her father. Which was the true Vaughn Everard?

She spotted him immediately after she’d taken her seat next to her mother in the Devary box. Five rows of boxes like theirs stood on either side of the opera house, stacked on top of each other like layers on a cake. The rafters above and the pit below were thronged with people, their voices rising in cacophony against their gilded surroundings.

Vaughn was standing at the side of another box along the curve of the second row, pale hair bright against his evening black. A sigh of appreciation escaped her before she could think better of it. Goodness, but she needed to guard her thoughts!

As he shifted, she caught sight of his companions. Lady Samantha Everard had been joined by two other women. Imogene recognized Lady Claire Winthrop and the man on her left, Captain Richard Everard. She wasn’t sure of the other.

Her mother must have noticed the direction of her gaze, for she leaned closer to Imogene. “I see the eldest Mr. Everard has returned to town. That must be his new bride.”

Imogene nodded, but the dark-haired beauty in the other box could only hold her attention a moment. She was far more interested in what Vaughn was up to. His head turned slowly from side to side as he gazed out over the audience. He was looking for someone. Could it be her?

“Imogene,” her mother murmured, raising her lace-edged fan and opening it with a snap. “You are staring.”

Imogene forced herself to look away. “Forgive me.”

Her mother waved the fan in front of her face. Between the numbers in attendance and the great lamps along the boxes, the opera house was already becoming warm. “I believe Mr. Everard has completely captured your imagination.”

At least her mother hadn’t said he’d captured Imogene’s heart. “I suppose he has. But I doubt I’m the only one.”

“Very likely not,” her mother agreed, and Imogene felt the comment like a blow. “Time will tell if he is sincere in his courtship. Indeed, I believe time to be your best ally when it comes to a gentleman like Mr. Everard.”

Imogene frowned as the house lights began to be extinguished and the audience quieted in anticipation. “Why do you say that?”

“Because Mr. Everard seems to be one of those gentlemen who craves variety and adventure. They love the heady pursuit of a young lady, but they lack the ability to form the consistent abiding love and commitment required of a marriage.”

Imogene leaned back in her seat, unsure which was making her more uncomfortable—the hard wood or the fact that Vaughn Everard might have a serious flaw in his character. Some part of her persisted in hoping he might be the suitor she needed.

“I thought you wanted me to be less stringent in my requirements for your future son-in-law,” she replied.

“I think you can relax your requirements for position and demeanor, yes.” Her mother tapped her fan against her amber bodice. “But it is the heart that counts, Imogene, the character of the gentleman. Never forget that.”

Imogene found it difficult to think of anything else as the music began. Usually the rich sound, the stirring solos, kept her enthralled, spurred her to compose something of equal value. Tonight, she barely heard any of it.

She had assumed Vaughn’s character was as good as his poetry. She hoped her convictions shone through her compositions. But by his words, it seemed Vaughn thought his character irreparably damaged. Certainly her mother was concerned about him. And Imogene still did not understand her father’s mind.

She had to admit, though, that while she was used to being guided by her parents’ opinions in particular, she could not agree with any of their assessments. The more she considered the matter, the more her convictions grew. Vaughn Everard was not beneath her notice; he came from an aristocratic family, and the current generation seemed set on being upstanding members of society.

And that business of him being a rake she dismissed out of hand. A rake didn’t race after speeding carriages to rescue young ladies at a disadvantage. A rake didn’t speak of family members with fondness. If he had been a rake in the past, he certainly was on the road to redemption.

You can do that, Lord. You know his heart, his intentions. And You know mine, as well. Show me what I should do to help my father and him.

She was a little surprised when the lights rose for intermission. Conversation blossomed around them, and a rumble and scrape rose from the pit. It seemed she’d been woolgathering through the entire first act! She glanced around, blinking, and her gaze lit on a box a few doors down from theirs. The lovely face of the lady was unfamiliar, but the beauty mark high on her neck, displayed to advantage by a deep-cut gown of rich emerald velvet, was all too recognizable. She was the woman who had met the marquess in the park that afternoon—Imogene was sure of it. Was her presence why her father had refused to attend?

And was the fact that Imogene noticed her a sign that she was meant to confront the woman, perhaps learn the truth?

“The company is in fine form tonight,” her mother said, and Imogene turned to her in time to see her wipe a tear from her cheek with a lawn handkerchief.

“I’m glad you enjoyed it, Mother,” Imogene said, managing a smile though her mind was a hive of buzzing possibilities.

A tap on the door signaled the arrival of their first visitor. Imogene brightened, ran her fingers into her curls and sat straighter. But she couldn’t help slumping when the footman announced Lord Wentworth.

Her mother held out her hand, and he bowed over it. “My lord, how nice to see you.”

“Lady Widmore, Lady Imogene, charmed,” he returned, straightening. His smile said he knew how delighted they must be by his company. His evening coat was of azure superfine that brought out the blue in his eyes. She found herself wondering what her mother thought of
his
character.

“But where is your husband?” he asked now. “Wanted a word with him.”

Imogene regarded him, noting the sheen of perspiration along his brow. The opera house had grown heated during the performance, but she thought something else had made his temperature rise. Interesting. This was the second time the gentleman had come seeking her father. What business could they have that would cause him to sweat?

“It’s the war,” her mother lamented. “Great men are always in demand at such times.”

“Indeed,” he agreed. He fingered the pocket of his gold-embroidered waistcoat as if yearning to consult his pocket watch. “Expect him to join you later?”

“Very likely not,” her mother said and turned to gaze out over the pit in clear dismissal.

He shuffled his feet, clearly at a loss. Imogene had pity on him. “And how are you enjoying the opera, my lord?”

“Eh?” He blinked at her a moment, then shrugged in a ripple of blue. “Never did appreciate it. All that foreign business. Can’t understand a word they say.”

“Then why attend?” Imogene asked, perplexed.

“Everyone attends the opera,” he informed her as if that should have been obvious.

“Certainly everyone with taste,” Imogene replied, unable to keep her voice from heating.

“Or imagination,” Vaughn added.

Imogene sat up in her chair as he stepped past a frowning Jenkins and entered the box. “Ladies, my lord, I thought I should pay my respects.”

Her mother turned with a smile. “Mr. Everard, welcome. I believe I saw your entire family just down the way.”

Vaughn inclined his head. “My cousin Jerome has recently returned from the country with his new wife, Adele. And of course you know my cousin Captain Everard and his betrothed, Lady Claire Winthrop. They send their regards as well and hope for an opportunity to renew the acquaintance.” He nodded to another footman who had accompanied him.

“How kind.” She rose with a hush of amber velvet. “I haven’t seen Claire in an age. I’ll just go over for a moment. I’m sure Imogene can entertain you gentlemen.”

Vaughn and Lord Wentworth bowed as she left with the Everard footman, then eyed each other. Imogene thought she’d never seen Jenkins stand so straight at the back of the box, as if hoping one of the gentlemen would do something to give offense and offer him the excuse to eject them both.

“You were saying it takes imagination to enjoy the opera, Mr. Everard,” Imogene said, leaning back in her seat. “Do explain. I’m sure his lordship would appreciate the education, and so would I.”

* * *

The minx. Vaughn could see the laughter dancing in Lady Imogene’s green eyes. He could certainly understand the contrast he and the toad must make, fire and ice, reaction and regulation. Unfortunately, in his experience, regulation was far more likely to win approval.

Nevertheless, he sat in the chair next to hers, leaned back and crossed his legs as if intent on staying for a while. Lord Wentworth frowned at him.