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BOOK: Regina Scott
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“The opera, like poetry or a novel, joins with the audience in participation,” Vaughn explained. “The words, the music, even the costumes evoke different memories in each of us. We enter into the story, as it were, empathize with the hero or heroine, feel what they feel. As their vision widens, so does ours. We become the story, if you will.”

She was regarding him with a fascination that would likely have made him preen under other circumstances. The toad merely raised a brow. “Nonsense. No idea what’s happening with the fellow on the stage. No interest in finding out.”

Vaughn glanced up at him. “Then I suspect we have nothing in common, sir.”

Wentworth nodded. “Right there. I don’t lie.”

Vaughn rose slowly, gaze fixed on the maw worm in front of him. “Are you implying that I do?”

His opponent raised his dimpled chin. “No need to imply. Statement of fact. Led me to believe you and the marquess are on good terms.”

“My father and Mr. Everard spoke only this afternoon,” Imogene informed him. “He was remarkably civil.”

For once the toad did not back down. “Not what he told me. Surprised you’d show your face here, Everard. If the marquess was in residence, you wouldn’t be welcomed.”

Vaughn took a step forward, eyes narrowing. But suddenly, a curvaceous bundle of outraged femininity stood between him and his accuser.

“How dare you!” Lady Imogene cried, head so high the curls at the back of her head teased Vaughn’s nose. “This is my family box, sirrah, and the last time I checked, you were not a member of my family. You will apologize to Mr. Everard immediately or quit my presence, and if you choose the latter, it will be a long day before you are admitted again, I promise you.”

The spitfire! Vaughn was caught between applauding her and hoping he’d never have to face her wrath.

The toad evidently had the same thought, for he washed white. “Beg pardon,” he said with a bow. “Must have misunderstood your father. Swear he said Everard was to be avoided at all costs. Forgive me.”

He’d addressed his entire speech to Imogene. Vaughn could not have cared less; he was more interested in the undertone of the words. He was fairly certain no one had seen the altercation in the park. If Lord Wentworth was suddenly aware that Imogene’s father was angry with Vaughn, he had to have spoken to the marquess since then. How had the toad managed that when it seemed even the marquess’s family didn’t warrant a conversation? And if they had spoken, why did he not know the marquess had avoided the opera?

Imogene stuck her pert nose in the air. “I should be more inclined to believe your apology, my lord, if you had directed it to Mr. Everard as I requested.”

The toad’s square jaw clamped tight as if Vaughn didn’t even deserve one of his short sentences. Lady Imogene raised a hand and pointed to the door. “Out, sirrah. Now.”

The footman threw open the portal and glared down at the recalcitrant fellow. Vaughn had to fight a smile that the look wasn’t directed at him for once.

The toad sagged. “Beg pardon,” he said, head bowed as if he spoke to the toes of Vaughn’s evening pumps. “Only have the lady’s best interest at heart.”

Imogene dropped her arm.

“There at least we can agree,” Vaughn replied. “But it seems you’ve had words with the marquess recently. Any idea how Lady Imogene and I might do the same?”

She turned to beam at him, but Lord Wentworth took a step back. “Saw him over dinner. Only a chat. Thought to learn more tonight. Not sure when we’ll next meet.” He bowed as Imogene faced him once more. “Your servant.” He straightened and hurried out. The footman remained at the open door, his look at last aimed at Vaughn.

Vaughn turned his back on the fellow.

Imogene shook her head. “I truly expected better of Lord Wentworth. Are good manners too much to expect from someone who calls himself a gentleman?”

“Civilization has surely fallen,” Vaughn replied. He took her elbow and led her back to her seat. Mindful of the footman glowering in the background, he lowered his voice.

“Forgive me for rushing you, but I expect your mother to return any moment. Do you have any news for me?”

Her face puckered. “I didn’t manage to catch my father, and I have no idea why he chose to eat dinner with Lord Wentworth when Mother and I were waiting at home. I’m so sorry.”

Though he hadn’t thought she’d be successful, he still felt the drag of disappointment. “No need to apologize. I appreciate all your help.”

Dimples popped into view on either side of her peachy lips. “Delighted as always, Mr. Everard. And perhaps I could ask a favor of you?”

“Anything,” Vaughn agreed, then immediately regretted it, as the fire kindled in those green eyes and she leaned even closer, until he could smell the lavender she must use on her hair.

“I believe the lady who met my father this afternoon is seated just a few boxes away,” she whispered with a conspiratorial grin. “Be a dear and introduce me to her.”

Chapter Nine

O
f course he disagreed. He clearly didn’t want to play a part in introducing her to a woman her father should not know. And he called himself a rake!

“You are merely delaying the inevitable,” Imogene said when he’d given several persuasive arguments on propriety and safety and efficacy of time. “The curtain will rise any second. Let us be off.”

He shook his head. “Does anyone ever refuse you anything?”

“Rarely,” Imogene replied, lifting her skirts and heading for the door. “Now hurry.”

Jenkins blocked their way. Though he said nothing, hand on the door, she could tell by the look in his eyes he thought she was making a grave mistake. Imogene merely smiled, head tilted back to meet his gaze. With a sigh he opened the door and let them out. Imogene pointed to the door to indicate he should remain behind. His jaw tightened, but he did as she bid.

If he had worried for her reputation, he had no cause for concern. She and Vaughn were hardly alone. Ladies and gentlemen strolled up and down the corridor, footmen carried refreshments to their mistresses and masters and a young boy darted past, folded note in one hand. Imogene paused only long enough to be sure her mother wasn’t in sight, then started out with Vaughn toward the other box. With each step of her satin-covered slippers, she thought she was walking toward answers.

A man responded to Vaughn’s knock at the door. He was tall and wide, and a scar crossed his bulbous nose. His hard gray eyes narrowed. Imogene smiled at him. His expression didn’t change.

“Ah, the Bull!” Vaughn declared, reaching out to clap the behemoth on a shoulder so wide it threatened the fabric of his coat. “That was an exceptional display last month, a veritable feast of power and might. I thought you had him at the end.”

The man’s face cleared, and he smiled ruefully, revealing a missing front tooth. “So did I, Mr. Everard. So did I.”

“You will prevail next time,” Vaughn assured him. “Just keep up your left, and don’t let him inside your reach.”

He nodded, head rolling forward and back on his thick neck. “Right you are, sir.”

Vaughn tipped up his chin. “May we pay our respects to the lady?”

The man’s gaze traveled back to Imogene. “She’s not in a mood to be helping any chicks at present.”

Imogene wasn’t sure what he meant by that, but Vaughn stepped between her and the boxer.

“My companion is a lady. She has no need for Madame Toussel’s protection. If I hear a word about this meeting, you can expect to meet me at Jackson’s Boxing Emporium.”

Imogene stared at him. His head was high, his shoulders stiff and arms poised. The brute in the doorway was clearly a pugilist, and he outweighed Vaughn by at least two stone. Yet the other man immediately took a step back and lowered his gaze.

“Beggin’ your pardon, ma’am, sir. But the lady is out visiting, and I’m not sure when to expect her back.”

Vaughn took Imogene’s elbow. “In that case, I wish you well.” He turned to go.

Imogene resisted. “Shouldn’t we ask to wait?”

His grip was determined. “No. We count this as a missed opportunity, and we move on.”

She allowed him to lead her back down the corridor, but her mind kept whirling, clicking through options, discarding that one as too daring, this one as too fanciful. As they reached the door of her box, she managed to draw her arm from his fingers.

“It was very kind of you to help me this evening, Mr. Everard,” she said. “I do hope I’ll have the pleasure of your company again soon.”

He leaned closer, searched her gaze. “What are you up to?”

Imogene widened her eyes. “Why, Mr. Everard, whatever do you mean?”

He chuckled, straightening. “It won’t work, you know. You’re a hideous liar.”

Imogene couldn’t help her giggle. “Well, I haven’t had much practice. And I truly didn’t intend to start. But you clearly would prefer to give up the chase, so what I do from here is my own affair.”

He raised a platinum brow. “Your mother might have something to say about that.”

“You would carry tales?”

Her surprise must have been evident from her voice, for he threw back his head and laughed. “Far be it from me to report on anyone’s misdeeds,” he said when he’d sobered. “But if you are intent on intrigue, allow me to assist.”

Imogene grinned. “I was hoping you might say that.” She leaned closer. “I think we should find this Madame Toussel and see what she’s up to.”

He leaned closer as well, until she could smell the clean scent of him. “Are you certain you wish to travel that road? You may not like what you find at the end.”

Possibly he was right. Something tugged at her, warned her this was folly, but she pushed the thought aside. That woman had some connection to her father. Imogene needed to understand it.

She linked her arm in his. “I’m certain. Where shall we start?”

“This way,” he said.

She thought perhaps he’d take her to some secret part of the opera house, where wicked men did dark deeds. Instead, he led her out onto the balcony that ran across the back of the lobby. Each row of boxes debouched onto it, with stairs leading up and down on either side. From her vantage point, she could see the crowds strolling about the lobby, procuring refreshments and comparing opinions on the music and performers, all under the glow of a crystal chandelier mounted high in the frescoed ceiling.

“There,” he said with a nod, and she sighted the lady, moving from group to group, pausing here, hurrying past there. Madame Toussel never actually stopped long enough to engage anyone in a lengthy conversation, and the men who were accompanying ladies were careful not to meet her gaze. But her head bowed close to theirs, lips moving, before she drifted on.

“She’s passing secrets!” Imogene realized. She turned to Vaughn. “We have to intercept her.”

Vaughn’s mouth quirked, but whether he was fighting a smile or a refusal she didn’t know. “There are any number of reasons for the lady to address those gentlemen. She likely knows each one. Madame Toussel hosts a well-respected salon. Gentlemen and ladies come to enjoy her wit, her hospitality and her connections.”

Imogene frowned, gaze returning to the lady below. “If all is as innocent as you say, perhaps we could ask for an invitation.”

Vaughn’s hand touched her arm, a soft brush that seemed to travel straight to her heart. “That might not be wise.”

Madame Toussel was moving closer to the stairs, apparently having completed her rounds, and Imogene could see her clearly. She had hair as dark as midnight, swept back from a patrician face. From her painted cheeks to her well-molded bosom, she was the picture of wealth and excess. As Imogene watched, the lady lifted her skirts and climbed the stairs.

Imogene elbowed Vaughn. “This is my chance to meet her.”

She thought he grumbled something about obstinacy under his breath, but he moved to intercept the lady. Her cool blue eyes looked a bit curious as Vaughn bowed over her beringed fingers.

“Madame Toussel,” he said, positioning himself to keep her from continuing down the corridor for her box. “Fortune smiles that I might find you here.”

“Mr. Everard,” she said, voice low and musical. “I have not been so fortunate this Season. I was beginning to think my salon had lost its charm.”

So he, too, had spent time with this woman? Why hadn’t Imogene ever heard of her?

“Your many admirers would surely convince you otherwise,” Vaughn replied. “I am doubly remiss, however, for I meant to thank you for the letter of condolence on my uncle’s passing.”

She inclined her head. “London will never be the same without him.”

“There we quite agree. And, alas, I will never be the same if I am denied your company another day. Can you ever forgive me?” He took her hand and pressed it close.

Imogene was not surprised to see the lady’s look soften. “Charming rogue,” Madame Toussel murmured. “How can I refuse you?”

He bowed over her hand. “You are generosity itself. I could not help noticing that you were issuing invitations just now. What must I do to earn one?”

What a clever fellow! Imogene waited for the lady to spill her secrets, but Madame Toussel’s face closed, and she drew back her hand. “A private affair, sir. You are not on the list.”

Imogene took a step closer. “Is my father on the list?”

Madame Toussel frowned as if noticing her for the first time.

“Allow me to introduce my companion,” Vaughn said reluctantly, Imogene thought. “Lady Imogene Devary, Madame Eugenie Toussel.”

Madame Toussel’s head came up, and for a moment Imogene thought she saw her diamond gaze cloud with panic. “The Marquess of Widmore’s daughter?”

“The same,” Imogene said, trying for her most winning smile. “And as I believe you know my father well, I’m sure you wouldn’t mind extending an invitation to Mr. Everard and me.”

Madame Toussel blinked, and a puzzled look came over her face. She glanced at Vaughn, then back at Imogene.

“I regret that I am not at liberty to discuss the matter. Your father was quite adamant on that point, and I would never advise you to cross him.”

A bell chimed in the lobby, and the crowds began making their way toward the stairs. The second act was about to start.

Madame Toussel took a step away. “A pleasure to meet you, Lady Imogene, and to see you again, Mr. Everard. Perhaps I shall run across you both in Vauxhall tomorrow night.” Neither Imogene nor Vaughn moved to stop her as she swept past them for the corridor to the boxes.

* * *

Vaughn frowned after their quarry then turned his gaze on the lady beside him. Eugenie Toussel could be a difficult lady, yet Imogene had stood her ground, clearheaded and confident. Now he could almost see the thoughts churning beneath her curls.

“What are you thinking?” he asked.

She shook her head. “I don’t know. She made it sound as if Father was directing her, yet to what purpose? And what was that business about Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens?” She glanced at Vaughn. “You apparently know her. What do you think she was doing tonight, this afternoon?”

“I’m not entirely certain,” he replied, choosing his words with more than his usual care. He knew what Jerome expected, but every moment in Imogene’s company and he felt her being drawn deeper into the darkness.

As if she could see the struggle inside him, she put a hand on his arm. “Tell me.”

Vaughn eyed her. Her chin was tilted up, lips trembling. Everything about her begged for the truth. Who was he to deny it?

“Very well,” he said. “There have been rumors that she is a French spy.”

He thought she might gasp, perhaps deny the possibility or the implication to her father’s reputation. To his surprise, she grinned, the smile lighting her face. “Well, that explains everything!”

Vaughn raised his brows. “Then explain it to me, for I confess I do not see the picture so clearly.”

“Don’t you?” She shook her head in obvious wonder. “I’m amazed I never considered it before. We do have a war on, you know.”

Vaughn quirked a smile. “Yes, so I understand. But what has that to do with your father’s actions?”

She glanced at the people passing and motioned him closer. Her eyes positively sparkled in the shadows along the wall. “I think Madame Toussel
is
a French spy, and Father is trying to trap her, to learn what she knows. She may even be involved in your uncle’s death.” She sagged against the wall. “What an answer to a prayer! At last we know the truth.”

Vaughn would have been only too glad to agree with her, if he had believed her assessment. Unfortunately, he thought there was another explanation for the marquess’s involvement with the French émigré and her mysterious messages. The men Madame Toussel had approached had one thing in common: their ambitions overreached their abilities. Such men could be dangerous, but to France or England?

He couldn’t burden Imogene with his suspicions, not until he had proof and then only to protect her. If her father was the man Vaughn feared, only heartache lay ahead for the marquess’s family.

He took her arm and walked with her to the door to her box. “You have your answer, then. I’m glad it pleases you.”

She stopped outside the box, cocking her head. “Why do I sense that it doesn’t please you? My father is very clever, Vaughn. You needn’t worry for him. He’ll find the person who killed your uncle.”

It was not her father’s safety that concerned him but hers. He offered her a bow. “How could the sparrow assail the mighty oak? It seems I can leave everything in your father’s capable hands. With that happy thought, I wish you a pleasant evening, Lady Imogene.”

“Not so fast, sir,” she said as he straightened. “While I am certain my father can deal with the French, I am less certain he can deal with the person attempting to darken his name.”

Did she suspect his motives? He held himself still, watching her. “And who would dare sully the scion of the Marquess of Widmore?”

She puffed out a sigh of pure vexation. “That’s what I cannot determine! I wrote to Monsieur Chevalier, and he was no help.”

“A shame,” Vaughn agreed, warring between pride at her ingenuity and dismay that his suggestion had put her in touch with the criminal.

“A great shame,” she said. “I’m obviously still missing an important piece of this puzzle. I wish I were as good at this espionage business as you are!”

He smiled at a passing couple and stepped closer to Imogene. “I would not say that word so loudly in this climate.”

“Oh.” She flushed the most appealing color. He wanted to reach out and touch her cheeks, feel them warm against his skin. He held his hands at his sides.

“You’re quite right,” she said. “Forgive me. I merely meant that you see things I do not.”

For good reason. She chose to see only the bright spots in the world. He’d seen enough of the darkness to appreciate the bright but too much to fully believe that the bright could overcome it for long. “Perhaps you’ll believe me, then, when I say that the matter is best left to others.”

She frowned. “Not at all! Who will speak for my father? The War Office? They are far too busy. The Admiralty? For all I know, one of their spies is behind it!”

BOOK: Regina Scott
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