Читать книгу The Rake's Redemption - Regina Scott - Страница 13

Chapter Four

Imogene barely had time to congratulate herself on gaining another opportunity to become better acquainted with Vaughn Everard before she and her mother were besieged by callers. Elisa and Mrs. Mayweather stopped by to compare impressions from the ball the previous night; Kitty and the elderly cousin who was sponsoring her arrived to chat. Various gentlemen Imogene had met this Season and last paid their respects and angled to take her driving or walking. She put them off with encouraging excuses. At the moment, she had enough on her hands trying to determine why Mr. Everard and her father were on the outs.

Her mother had already retired to her room to change for dinner, and Imogene had just opened her book in the withdrawing room when Jenkins brought her one last caller. She managed a smile as Lord Gregory Wentworth bowed over her hand.

“Lady Imogene, radiant.”

She wasn’t entirely sure he meant the compliment for her or whether it was a compliment at all. She rather thought any radiance had seeped away over the long afternoon. But he flipped up his navy coattails, took the chair nearest her and leaned back as if well satisfied with his ability to flatter.

Because of his good looks and future earldom, any number of young ladies had set their caps at him, but Imogene had never been sure why. Lord Wentworth, she feared, was rather lacking when it came to charm and intelligence—fatal flaws in a suitor. Unfortunately, her opinion had not prevented him from calling with determined frequency.

“And how did I earn the honor of your presence today, my lord?” she asked now.

“Hoping for a word with your father,” he drawled, “but of course couldn’t leave without greeting you.”

“How kind.” She ought to find something useful to say, but she truly didn’t want to encourage him.

He tipped up his chin. “Have mutual friends, you know. Everard. Good chap.”

Imogene tried not to frown, but she found it hard to imagine the two men having anything in common. “Oh?” she said. “How are you acquainted?”

He preened as if he knew the heights to which he’d risen. “Known his family for years. Uncle had the estate near ours in Cumberland.”

So there was actually a connection between them? Why, she could use that to her advantage. Thank You, Lord, for providing this opportunity!

“How fortunate,” she said, smiling at him with considerably more warmth. “And what do you think of Mr. Everard?”

He shrugged. “Bit wild, but loyal. Clever. Your father wouldn’t think so highly of him if it weren’t true.”

Imogene cocked her head. “My father thinks highly of him?”

Lord Wentworth blinked, paling. “Doesn’t he? Good friends with the fellow’s uncle, you know. Why dislike the nephew?”

Imogene leaned closer. “So my father favors him?”

“Are you saying he doesn’t?”

They gazed at each other a moment, and Imogene was certain her face must mirror his for confusion.

Her mother joined them just then, and he climbed to his feet and bowed to her. Imogene spent the next few minutes in conversation about the weather and the latest offerings at the Theatre Royal and other such nonsense, all the while stifling an urge to reach across the space and throttle Lord Wentworth with his pretentiously tied cravat.

What did he mean making up stories about Vaughn Everard? They couldn’t be friends; surely Mr. Everard would disdain the man’s pomp, his belittling clipped sentences. In fact, it sounded as if Lord Wentworth knew less about the poet than Imogene did. Otherwise he’d know there was some difficulty between Mr. Everard and her father.

The topic must have remained on his mind as well, for he brought it up again when he took his leave a short time later.

“Hope I didn’t give impression I follow Everard,” he said with a bow over her hand. “Opinions would be swayed by your father’s, whatever they are.”

“So I’ve heard,” Imogene said brightly. “A great many people are swayed by my father.”

He looked at her askance, as if begging her to explain. It was a shame she couldn’t put the fellow out of his misery and clarify her father’s opinions on the matter, but the marquess’s attitude toward Vaughn Everard was growing more mysterious by the moment.

* * *

“You seemed a bit cool to our guest,” her mother said after the footman had seen him out and she and Imogene had repaired to the dining room. Her smile was gentle as she sat across from her daughter, the seat at the head of the table conspicuously empty. “Has he done something to offend you, dearest?”

Imogene could think of any number of annoyances but none that rose to the level of offense. She pushed her peas about on her gold-rimmed china plate. “No, Mother. I just find him a bit tiresome.”

“Unlike your Mr. Everard.”

Imogene fought a smile. “Very unlike him.”

“And why do you think you find him so interesting?” her mother persisted, reaching for her crystal goblet.

A reason suggested itself, but she shoved it away. It was far too soon to claim her heart was engaged, and she still had doubts that Mr. Everard would meet her criteria for a husband.

“Outside this business with Father, I’m not sure I know,” she replied, abandoning her peas and gazing at her mother. “When I brought up the matter of his interest in Father last night, he asked me about the third of March. Do you remember anything significant about that date?”

A slight frown marred her mother’s face in the light of the silver candelabra on the table. “March third? I believe that’s the night we arrived in London. What is the importance to Mr. Everard?”

Imogene motioned to Jenkins to come take her plate. “It appears to be the day his uncle died,” she said, thinking about their aborted conversation at the dance. He’d asked her where her father had been. Then she hadn’t been sure. But if March third was the night they arrived in London, she knew what her father had been doing, and his actions only deepened the mystery.

Her mother offered her a sad smile, nodding to the footman to remove her plate, as well. “Ah, significant indeed. I understand Mr. Everard and his uncle were close.”

“Very,” Imogene assured her. “He seems genuinely hurt by Lord Everard’s passing. I suspect Mr. Everard has great sensitivity.”

Her mother’s lips quirked as the footmen began bringing in the second course. “So it would seem. But the other gentlemen this Season are not so very lacking. I’m sure a number of young ladies find Lord Wentworth, for instance, quite presentable.”

“And I rather suspect he agrees.” She sat straighter, coloring. “Oh, Mother, forgive me! That sounded waspish. I don’t know what’s gotten into me today.”

Her mother’s look was assessing. “I fear it isn’t just today. I want the best for you, Imogene, but do you think perhaps you have set your sights too high?”

Imogene raised her chin. “I am the Marquess of Widmore’s daughter. I thought I was supposed to set my sights high!”

Her mother patted the damask cloth beside her as if she longed to pat Imogene’s hand. “I did not mean to suggest you marry the ragman, dearest. However, you seem to have high expectations of your suitors, so high that I fear no man, not even Mr. Everard, can live up to them.”

Imogene shook her head. “I would think that intelligence and charm are not too much to ask.”

Her mother smiled. “I would agree. Lord Eustace has those, yet you refused him out of hand last Season.”

Imogene remembered the enthusiastic man who had offered his heartfelt proposal on bended knee. “Lord Eustace is no more than a friend, Mother, and unfortunately addicted to whist.”

“David Willoughby, then,” her mother insisted, lifting a spoonful of the strawberry ice they had been served. “Handsome, charming, the heir to a barony. He looked crushed when you refused him.”

“He hasn’t darkened the door of a church since he reached his majority,” Imogene informed her, digging into her own ice. “I won’t have a man so lacking in devotion.”

“And Sir George Lawrence? He certainly attends services and supports any number of charitable causes.”

Imogene shuddered, swallowing the cool treat. “He also picks his teeth. With his nails. After he’s eaten enough for a regiment. He’ll die of gout before he’s thirty. I have no wish to be a widow.”

Her mother sighed. “You see? No one is perfect.”

Vaughn Everard’s face came to mind, brightened by that genuine smile she’d seen at the ball last night. His poetry proclaimed him a man of intelligence and creativity. His actions spoke of a devotion to family, of determined perseverance. But she thought she was only seeing the edges of his character.

She dropped her gaze to her lap and was surprised to find the fingers of her free hand pleating the silk of her skirt. “I know no one’s perfect, Mother. But none of those gentlemen you mentioned stirred my heart. Surely I am allowed to feel something tender for the man I’ll marry.”

“I would like that for you, dearest,” her mother murmured, “but not every bride can claim a love match, despite what the novels tell you. There are many other good reasons to wed—security, position, children.”

Saving her family from penury. Oh, but she mustn’t say that aloud. She wasn’t sure she could pull it off, and telling her mother she had a plan to prevent them from losing the marquessate and all its attendant income would only get her hopes up.

“I understand, Mother,” she said. “Please know that I will do my duty. The man I accept will be a credit to the name of Devary and the House of Widmore, I promise. I will settle for nothing less.”

* * *

Vaughn’s afternoon was far quieter, a fact designed to cause him no end of difficulties. There was nothing he liked less than indolence. He needed action, challenges, something to keep his mind and hands busy. When Uncle had been alive, they’d never lacked for diversions—wagering on impossible odds, cheering horse races and pugilistic displays and closing the gaming tables in the wee hours of the morning. He wasn’t sure when those things had begun to pale—it had begun some time before his uncle’s death, he believed—but he found he had little interest in them now.

So he sat in his room in Everard House and stared at the empty parchment in front of him. The windows were shuttered, the fire banked low. He’d had the new valet he shared with his cousin Richard remove the clock so its steady ticking would be no distraction. Everything was conducive to starting his next poem, but he found the words had dried up. It was as if everything meaningful to him had turned to dust the day Uncle had died.

He leaned back in the chair at his writing table, fixed his gaze on the pattern of the wallpaper and traced each leafy green frond back to the center. Why couldn’t he order his thoughts? Other men seemed to concentrate so easily, to shift their attentions when they wished. He found himself concentrating to the point of shutting out everything else or being unable to make his mind settle on a single topic. Even now, it flitted from problem to problem, never solving anything, merely teasing him with possibilities before moving on.

For a time after Uncle had died, only vengeance had sustained him. His cousins had been concerned for his state of mind. He’d seen the looks flashing between Jerome and Richard when they talked about what had happened the night Uncle’s body had been returned home. If he dwelled on that day now, he’d likely go mad.

He pushed back his chair and went in search of game.

Everard House ought to be crowded with him, his cousins Richard and Samantha and Lady Claire Winthrop in residence, to say nothing of his cousin Jerome and his new wife, who were expected any moment. Yet sometimes days went by without more than a chance meeting in the corridor. The others were all intent on making Samantha the toast of London, and that meant taking the girl out where she could be seen.

Today, for example, Samantha and Lady Claire, as they had all begun to call his cousin’s sponsor, were just returning from some event when he reached the stairs and gazed down into the entryway. The marble-tiled space looked remarkably empty since they had removed the massive statue of a naked Eve holding out a golden apple, one of Uncle’s mad whims. Samantha seemed entirely too small, her dainty features as animated as the hands she waved in front of her sky-blue spencer.

“But he asked to call,” she was saying breathlessly. “I thought surely you’d advise me to encourage him.”

“Anyone else, certainly,” Lady Claire replied, handing her feathered bonnet to the footman. Vaughn had been unsure of Richard’s betrothed at first. The color of her thick, wavy hair might be as warm as honey, but her blue gaze could be as cold as ice. And it didn’t help that she had thrown over Richard for a wealthy viscount years ago. He had come to realize, however, that a loving heart beat beneath those fashionable silk gowns, and her devotion to Samantha was unquestionable.

His cousin puffed out a sigh as she allowed the footman to take her bonnet. “I’m only trying to fulfill Papa’s will!”

“And with considerable style,” Vaughn called down.

Her face brightened as she looked up at him. “Cousin Vaughn! You’re home!”

“An astute observation, infant,” he replied with a smile as he descended the stairs. “And as you appear to be home as well, what say we find ourselves some mischief?”

She grinned as he reached her side. “What shall it be? Boxing? Fencing?”

Lady Claire raised a brow. “Entirely without imagination. Pugilism would ruin your gown, and you’ve already beaten him twice with the blade.”

Three times, but he was not about to admit to their bout the other morning in the stables. “I allow her to win. It inspires confidence.”

“Ha!” Samantha made a face at him. “Damages your consequence, you mean.”

“Regardless,” Lady Claire said with a twinkle in her eyes, “as we need time to prepare for a ball this evening, perhaps a short game of skittles in the library.”

Vaughn nearly made a face at that. Was this what he had fallen to for entertainment—swinging a little ball on a chain so it collided with a set of pins? Where was the adventure, the excitement?

“Lovely!” Samantha exclaimed with a clap of her hands, and he felt compelled to bow her and Lady Claire ahead of him to the library. He’d promised to support the girl in any way possible, after all. She was doing them a favor.

Uncle had written his will oddly. The law required the only legal child of his blood, Samantha, to inherit the title and the bulk of the Everard legacy—lands in six counties, shares in more than a dozen ships and money in the Exchange. But Uncle had left a sizable bequest to each of his nephews provided they help Samantha achieve three tasks. The first, being presented to the queen, had been accomplished two weeks ago, thanks to the help of Lady Claire.

The other two were more difficult. Uncle’s reputation for wildness had caused any number of families to close their homes to anyone named Everard. The will required Samantha to be welcomed in those homes. Vaughn knew he wouldn’t be much help there. Between his loyalty to his uncle and the duels he’d fought the past two years, he’d managed to lock those doors and set up an oak barricade across them. Only Samantha’s bubbly personality, beauty and barony would open them.

The final task he disliked the most of all. Samantha was to garner no less than three offers of marriage from eligible gentlemen. She’d already received one from an old family friend, a boy she’d known for ages. She’d refused, and the lad had been recalled home before he could press her further.

Of course, Vaughn had also offered, more in jest than anything else, though her sponsor seemed determined to count it. Samantha had known better than to accept. Though she seemed equally fond of him, she saw the similarities between him and her father and feared them. He’d always said she was a clever minx.

The next half hour proved just how clever. She won the first game handily, and he was hard-pressed to win the second. All the while she cast him glances under her golden lashes, smile playing about her rosy lips as if she knew what he was thinking. Unfortunately, he was certain his sweet little cousin might run crying from the room if she knew the darkness that sometimes threatened him.

As if he suspected Vaughn’s mood, Richard, who had wandered in during the second game, stayed behind when Lady Claire took Samantha away to change for the ball.

“I understand you’re pursuing Lady Imogene,” he said, taking Samantha’s spot across the table from Vaughn.

Vaughn continued to set the polished wood pins back in their positions on the board. “If you know only the single song, pray stop harping.”

He thought his cousin might react to the goad. In fact, a small part of him wanted a reaction, perhaps even an argument. Anything was better than staring at that blank page upstairs where his muse lay stillborn. But Richard crossed his arms over his chest, straining the shoulders of his brown coat.

“You can’t dwell on the past,” he said. “It will eat away at you.”

Vaughn knew Richard spoke from experience. He’d courted Lady Claire when they were both too young and he’d watched her wed another. Only when the now-widowed Claire had chosen to sponsor Samantha had the two worked through their differences.

“Easy for you to say,” Vaughn returned, aligning a pin into the triangle. “Your past is now your future. For me, there will be no second chance. Uncle is dead.”

“We’ll see him again someday,” Richard countered.

Something black boiled up inside him. “Men of faith go to heaven. By your theology, Uncle and I are headed somewhere else entirely.”

Richard’s long arm shot out, clasped his shoulder. “Only if you choose it. Uncle had a change of heart before he died. I see no reason not to hope for you.”

Vaughn glanced up at him, feeling the concern coiling out from Richard’s grip, seeing the worry in that tense face. With one finger, he hit the closest pin and watched as all the others tumbled, as well. “Only if your God has a sense of humor,” he said, though he felt his gut twist at the joke. He very much feared that nothing he could do would earn him a place beside his cousins when this life ended.

Richard looked ready to argue, his bearded jaw set. Vaughn rose and turned his back, striding from the room before his cousin could call him back or call him to task. He needed light, he needed air. He needed something to focus his mind!

A picture kindly presented itself, sharp and clear, and he knew exactly how to fill that waiting page. He took the stairs two at a time, shoved through the door and threw himself into the chair. The words flew from the quill, powerful, purposeful. Only when he’d filled that page and three more like it did he stop to marvel at the flow.

That the poems came so easily should not have surprised him. All he’d needed was a little inspiration. And it seemed his mind had finally deigned to fix itself on a point on the horizon: a shining star named Imogene.