Читать книгу The Rake's Redemption - Regina Scott - Страница 14

Chapter Five

Imogene was ready when Vaughn Everard called for her the next day. She was once again loitering near the landing, but she took her time descending the stair to his side. It would never do to let a gentleman think she was longing for his company or that she admired him in his high-crowned beaver, bottle-green coat and spotless boots. She tried not to blush as he took her hand and declared that the angels in heaven must be weeping for their inability to match her beauty.

But she couldn’t help exclaiming over his carriage.

It was a newer class, a “chariot” she believed she’d heard, in a shade of lacquered blue that complimented her lighter blue spencer and the velvet ribbons that crossed her white bonnet. Every sleek line said speed and power. The perfectly matched snowy-white horses waiting at its head looked capable of flying, and even her under footman holding them seemed awed by his task. She glanced at the seats in the compartment behind the high driver’s bench.

“I prefer to handle my own horses,” Vaughn said as if he’d seen her look. “I was hoping you’d join me up front.”

Imogene grinned at him. “I was hoping you’d ask.”

That smile appeared, so fleeting and yet so warming. She wondered what she’d have to do to make it remain.

He handed her up into the seat, a padded-leather perch surrounded by a brass rail, then went around to take his place beside her. Up so high, she could see down the street, across the park in the center of the square and through the trees to the more trafficked street beyond. As she glanced around, however, she noticed that the space for the footman or tiger at the back was empty, and her under footman showed no sign of climbing aboard as he released the bridles at Mr. Everard’s nod.

Of course, sitting up on the driver’s bench, everyone could see her as well, so her reputation would not suffer—at least no more than would be expected sitting next to this man.

He clucked to the horses and set them off at a good clip, the rushing air tugging at her bonnet. His hands held the great beasts lightly, and he easily threaded the horses through the traffic on Park Lane. A little thrill ran through her. She was driving with the famous Vaughn Everard! Would he speak of love, of great historical events, of the French massing on the farther shore of the Channel, ready to devour England?

“Fine day for a drive,” he ventured, gazing out over his horses.

She stared at him. Oh, she must have misunderstood. He was merely warming up, like a musician tuning his instrument before a concert. “Exceptionally fine,” she agreed, waiting for the opening bars of his solo.

“And your mother is well?”

No, no, no! That wasn’t how the ride was supposed to go. He couldn’t be as endlessly polite as her other suitors. She’d go mad. “Exceedingly,” she clipped.

“How are you enjoying your Season?”

Imogene turned to him. “Well, it was all going tremendously well until you turned into a dead bore.”

He blinked at her, then grinned, and her heart danced. “Forgive me. I should have known better than to try to impersonate a gentleman. I promise to improve once we reach the park. Which would you prefer, the carriage path along Park Lane or the one down to the Serpentine?”

The Park Lane route was the more popular, she knew. She’d been driven there by more than one suitor. The path down to the Serpentine, however, was less frequented. Gentlemen were rumored to hold trysts among the trees. She’d never driven that route.

“The Serpentine path,” she said, settling back in her seat. “And I’ll be much more in charity with you if you give me a chance at the reins.”

With a laugh, he turned the horses, and they entered Hyde Park.

The carriage path wound across the northernmost lawn and into the trees surrounding the wooden walls of the upper powder magazine. Imogene had always found it odd that the army would think Hyde Park a good place to mix and store gunpowder, but she supposed having the magazine out among the trees protected the populace and the crowded buildings of London from accidents.

Today the way toward it lay empty, but she could see crowds beginning to gather as the fashionable made their afternoon descent on the park. Couples strolled along the footpath to Kensington, carriages paused along Park Lane and gentlemen on horseback headed for Rotten Row to the south. Closer to hand, however, it was only her and Mr. Everard. As if he realized it, he slowed the horses. “Perhaps it’s time we spoke of more important matters.”

The light of the lovely spring day seemed to dim. This was not a pleasure drive, after all. He wanted information from her, and she must make her report. “You asked after my father,” she said. “Particularly what he was doing on March third.”

“Have you remembered something more about that day, then?”

She could hear the hope in his voice and chanced a glance at his face. His gaze was fixed on his horses, but she didn’t think he even noticed the actions of the snowy pair.

“A little,” she admitted. “I talked with Mother about the day. She reminded me that on March third we’d only just arrived in London. I know we spent the evening settling in and seeing everything unpacked.”

“Then your father was at home.”

She thought he sounded relieved. “For the evening, yes. I understood we were to make an early night of it, but as I was preparing to retire, I heard a noise from the gardens and looked out the window. Father was leaving on his horse. I assumed it was a summons from the War Office, and he simply didn’t want to overtire our coachman, who had just driven us to London.”

“Possibly,” he said, but his look had darkened.

The air felt cooler. She rubbed the arm of her spencer. “You think he went somewhere else, don’t you?”

He clucked to the horses as they took the turn through the tall trees past the magazine, the sunlight through the leaves striping his face with light and shadow. “My uncle fought a duel the night of the third. He lost, and we lost him forever.”

So that was how Lord Everard had died. “And you think Father was a witness.”

“I think he was there, yes. I’d like to hear his account of the event.”

Imogene put her hand on his arm and felt the tension in it, beyond what it should have taken to guide the team. She had friends who had lost loved ones—a mother to childbirth, a brother in the war. She knew each had a way of grieving all their own. Some cried, some were blue for weeks and others attacked life as if hoping to wrest every ounce of joy from the moment, never sure whether it was their last. She rather thought Mr. Everard fit the last category.

“It’s hard when someone you love dies,” she murmured. “When my brother Viscount Charles passed on I felt so confused. He was just a boy—he hadn’t even started to live! I didn’t understand how God could take him, particularly after He’d taken all the others, too.”

“Others?” He glanced her way, seeking clarification.

Imogene withdrew her hand and dropped her gaze as she smoothed down her muslin skirts. “I would have had three older sisters had they lived beyond their birth.”

“I’m so sorry.”

Other people had said those words, to her father, to her mother, to her. Never had she heard such emotion behind them, as if he understood the pain of loss better than most, as if he understood how that loss had hurt her.

“So am I,” Imogene assured him, raising her gaze. “And I regret that your uncle left you, too.”

He managed a parody of a smile. “These thoughts are entirely too melancholy for such a lovely day. May I only say that I have no doubt where you will spend eternity, Lady Imogene. Surely so pure a spirit must rejoice with the angels.”

It was a pretty compliment, one she might expect from a poet, but the sentiment did not ring true. As if he meant to distract her, he held out the reins. “Now, perhaps you’d care to demonstrate how well a pure spirit can drive.”

She knew she must be a sad trial to her mother because the gambit worked. Imogene stared at him, hopes rocketing skyward. “Truly?”

His eyes widened. “Tell me this won’t be the first time.”

She laughed at the trace of panic in his voice. “Not at all, sir! I’ve driven our gig to church at our country estate, and Father even bought me my own pony cart.”

The reins inched closer to his chest. “A chariot is a much larger vehicle.”

“Obviously,” she replied with a grin. “But with you here to advise me what could go wrong?”

One corner of his mouth lifted at that, and he offered her the strips of leather.

Imogene slipped her gloved hands over his, relishing the strength, the confidence with which he held the team. As he released the leather into her care, she felt the tug of the horses, the weight of responsibility for their guidance. A tremor started in her arm, and she forced herself to stiffen. She could do this. She was the Marquess of Widmore’s daughter.

Vaughn must have remained a little nervous for his horses, for he edged closer to her on the seat until his leg pressed against her skirts and she could feel the warmth of his body. Suddenly it was much more difficult to concentrate.

She took a deep breath. The scent of something clean and crisp drifted over her. Funny, she would have thought he’d wear some exotic cologne, but he smelled more of spring and sunlight. She wanted to close her eyes and breathe him in.

This would never do! She mustn’t be caught woolgathering while driving! She had a duty—to the horses, to him, to the other people in the park.

The horses trotted on, completely comfortable with their surroundings and seemingly oblivious to the change in leadership. She was tempted to whip them up, send them pounding down the path, but that was never wise in Hyde Park. They might meet another carriage around the next turn or come across a pedestrian. She had to be careful.

“What a splendid pair,” she told him instead. “And how well matched. Their gaits are as one.”

She didn’t dare glance Vaughn’s way, determined to drive well, but she could hear the smile in his voice. “Our Master of Horse will be pleased to hear that you approve. They were each rejected at Tattersall’s for being too unruly to pull a carriage or serve as a gentleman’s mount. I thought differently, and he proved my point.”

“They’re darlings,” Imogene assured him. “Anyone who thought otherwise clearly lacked vision. What are their names?” She nearly closed her eyes again, this time in mortification. Did gentlemen name their carriage horses? She’d never been introduced to a team.

But he didn’t seem to find fault with her question. “Aeos on the left and Aethon on the right.”

“From the legend of Apollo’s chariot pulling the sun,” Imogene realized. And how like a poet to choose such names.

“You know your Greek mythology.”

Imogene smiled. “Father insisted on it. He said there was no reason I couldn’t be as well educated as any gentleman.”

“And better than most,” he agreed. “The Ring is coming up on your left. We’ll need to swing around it. Give Aethon his head.”

She could see the group of trees coming up and the fence that circled the remains of the old riding circle. She eased up the pressure on the left set of reins, but Aethon kept pace with his teammate. She frowned.

“May I?” Vaughn asked.

She thought he meant to take back the reins, and her spirits sank. But he leaned closer and cupped her wrists, gloved fingers glazing the bare skin between her sleeves and her gloves. A tremor shook her again, but it had nothing to do with concerns about her driving skills.

“Like this,” he said, voice purring beside her bonnet. She felt the strength as he drew back her hands. Together they guided the pair, through pressure and tension, around the trees and out onto the shaded path. The air felt cool as he pulled away, and Imogene drew in a breath, surprised to find she had been holding hers.

“Nicely done, Lady Imogene,” he said. “The next thing you know, you’ll be driving the mail.”

She highly doubted that, though a part of her preened. She’d heard that some gentlemen dressed like coachmen and even bribed the mail coach drivers to let them take a hand at the great coaches. “Have you driven a mail coach?” she asked.

His gaze was once more out over the horses. “When I wish to drive hard, I don’t need to borrow a coach. And I don’t need the approval of others to assure myself of my skills.”

That must be nice. She’d put in a great deal of effort over the years to win her father’s approval. Now it seemed as if he’d forgotten her entirely. “But you must belong to a club,” she said. “What about White’s? Surely you’re a member there.”

He stretched one leg with a grin. “They dislike fellows who rarely lose.”

“One of the other gentlemen’s clubs, then.”

“Same faces, same rules. As you said, a dead bore.”

Imogene glanced his way. His polished boot was high on the footrest, his gaze out across the trees and pathways, a smile playing about his lips.

“Do you belong nowhere, sir?” she teased.

The smile disappeared. “To nothing and no one, Lady Imogene. Count on it.”

He was trying entirely too hard. Had she goaded him into it by calling his earlier conversation boring? Surely he cared about something; his poems were evidence of that. He saw things—in nature, in people—that others missed. He must belong to someone.

Perhaps he could belong to her?

The thought came unbidden, but she couldn’t dismiss it. She imagined a great many ladies had thrown their lures at him, yet apparently he was immune. It seemed he had a devotion to his cousin, Lady Everard, if the rumors were true, but he was here with Imogene now. Was she the woman to make Vaughn Everard settle down at last? He was clearly arrogant enough to think it impossible. She was just arrogant enough to try!

They were nearing the stone cottage of the Keeper’s Lodge, hidden away behind a picket fence and high hedges. Soon they’d be surrounded by other carriages and more people. She puffed out a sigh. She didn’t want the rest of the world. She knew she’d have to give him up soon enough, but right now she wanted to spend more time with him, unwrapping each layer like a birthday present swathed in tissue. She was certain that what lay beneath was nothing short of perfection.

But as they rounded the curve, she could see other carriages approaching, and she wasn’t quite ready to maneuver Aeos and Aethon among more horses.

“I think perhaps you should drive now,” she said, reluctantly offering him the reins.

“If you insist,” he said, his smile returning and warming her.

She thought he would whip them up, set the horses at a good clip again, but he kept the team at a walk, as if just as loath to rejoin society. Perhaps that was why it was so easy to spot the other couple as Imogene and Vaughn crossed a little-used path meandering over the lawns.

The man was tall and lean, his hair, now white with advancing age, peeking out of his high-crowned beaver. Imogene recognized the tailored navy coat, the tasteful gold buttons. She wasn’t close enough to see, but she knew that each one was stamped with a D for Devary. The woman beside him was buxom, and her crimson gown was cut to emphasize the fact, displaying a large beauty mark below her neck. Her bonnet, however, was veiled, the black lace tucked under her chin, and Imogene couldn’t make out her features. As she watched, her father took the woman’s gloved hand and pressed a note into it.

Imogene must have made some noise because Vaughn slowed the horses to a stop at the edge of the path.

“That was your father,” he said, and she thought she heard accusation in his voice.

“Yes, it was,” she replied. “He was supposed to be in Whitehall this afternoon, but I must have misunderstood.” A very great deal, she added silently, unwilling to believe the evidence of her eyes.

“I can see the matter concerns you. Allow me to reunite you with your father so you can discuss it with him.”

“No, please, that isn’t necessary,” Imogene said, but he flicked the reins and began to turn the team on the path. She could feel her face heating. What could she say to her father? And how would he feel to find her driving in a secluded part of the park with the man he refused to acknowledge?

“I’m afraid,” Vaughn said, eyes once more that merciless black, “that I must insist. We’ve both been denied a conversation with your father, and I plan to rectify that.”

* * *

For some reason, the usually responsive chariot felt harder to turn, but Vaughn knew it wasn’t the horses. Lady Imogene sat beside him, fingers tugging at the ribbons of her bonnet, body hunched forward as if to protect herself from attack. She didn’t want to confront her father, fearing they’d stumbled upon some indiscretion. And Vaughn could not tell her that he suspected far more than an illicit liaison was involved.

He hated hurting her, hated that he’d pulled her into this mess. But if he could get answers from the Marquess of Widmore now, Imogene would be free. She wouldn’t have to sully her reputation by spending more time with him; she could return to her Season and find the right gentleman to marry. If some part of him protested that he might be that gentleman, he wrapped it in chains and sank it deep. His duty lay in uncovering the reason behind his uncle’s untimely death. Besides, he could never be a suitable match for a woman like her. She deserved better. He righted the chariot and set the horses back toward the other path.

By the time they reached the spot where her father had been waiting, his partner had gone and his lordship was a distant figure on the way to Kensington Palace. Vaughn slapped the reins, and Aeos and Aethon sped in pursuit. Lady Imogene clamped one hand to her bonnet as if fearing the rushing wind would whip it off, but she said nothing more to dissuade him from his purpose.

Indeed, her silence goaded him. What—had he developed a conscience? It shook a fragile finger at him now, warning that nothing good could come from his actions. He had to let go of the past and move into the future.

How could he? Uncle had been the only one who had ever truly cared about him, who had seen that darkness inside him and still wished his friendship. Vaughn didn’t understand why his uncle hadn’t come to him with his troubles, why he’d gone to the duel alone.

To walk away from the murder, to pretend all was well, went against everything Vaughn believed in. And there was still the concern that England itself might be in danger from the marquess. Three weeks ago, a man connected to the marquess had warned Richard that Widmore meant to topple the crown. Vaughn wasn’t sure what to believe, but he had to learn the truth.

The marquess must have heard them coming, for he stepped to one side of the path and glanced back. At the sight of the carriage bearing down on him his head came up, and he turned from the path and set off across the grass, long legs eating up the yards.

Oh, no, it would not be so easy to escape this time. How could Vaughn not suspect him when the man went to such lengths to avoid him?

“My lord!” Vaughn called, urging the horses forward and narrowing the gap.

The marquess didn’t pause.

Lady Imogene glanced at Vaughn. Her pretty face was puckered, her brows down in a frown as if she couldn’t understand why he was so intent on pursuit. Something of his despair must have shown on his face, for she turned front once more, cupped her hands around her mouth and cried, “Father, wait!”

The marquess halted and turned, and Vaughn thought he sagged in resignation. But as the carriage drew to a stop beside him, the man’s frame was as upright as ever and a pleasant smile lit his lean face.

“Imogene and Mr. Everard. What a delightful surprise to see you out on such a lovely day.”

Vaughn was very nearly struck dumb. How could the man stand there and speak of commonplaces? He had to know Vaughn had been hounding him from pillar to post. Vaughn glanced closer.

The Marquess of Widmore had always been a striking man, with a slender body, elegant features and assessing gray eyes. Though his lips were thin, they were often curved in a smile, lighting his face. Now his tailored coat seemed too large for his frame, as if his energy had worn him thin, and Vaughn detected a tremor in one hand as the marquess stood gazing up at them.

“Father,” Imogene greeted him, fingers worrying in her lap. “I’m surprised to see you here, as well. Mother and I were under the impression that you were in Whitehall.”