The Rake's Redemption. Regina Scott
He felt as if all the members of this fine company had turned and shouted in his direction. “What did you say?”
Richard’s dark eyes, so like Vaughn’s, gazed down at him. “You didn’t know who you were dancing with, did you?”
Vaughn still couldn’t believe the implication. “Devary? Related to the Devarys who hold the Widmore marquessate?”
“His daughter,” Richard said. “His only surviving child. From what I’ve seen, he dotes on the girl. As close as you were to our uncle, I’m surprised you didn’t know.”
Of course he hadn’t known. He would have used the dance to far greater advantage had he realized she was connected to the enemy who may have killed Arthur Everard, Samantha’s father.
“The marquess may have been Uncle’s closest friend,” he told Richard, “but he never had much use for me. I’ve not met his wife or daughter.” He cocked a smile. “Of course, I could say that about half the better families in London.”
Richard straightened as if believing him. “Just remember your promise. We wait for Jerome before accosting the marquess.”
Vaughn smiled. “I promised to wait until Samantha was presented to the queen to avoid any hint of scandal. She was presented two weeks ago. Widmore is mine.”
Richard shoved in front of him. His cousin was the tallest of the family, and being a captain hadn’t helped his diplomacy. “You will not touch the marquess until we talk to Jerome,” Richard commanded. “My brother is still the head of this family.”
Vaughn gazed up at him from under his brows. Richard might have the longer reach—and he certainly had experience in using the blade, having fought pirates on his travels—but Vaughn was fairly certain he could beat his cousin if it came to a duel. Richard would hesitate before wounding a man, particularly a member of the family. Vaughn wouldn’t.
“Do what you must, Cousin,” Vaughn said. “I know where my duty lies. Do you?”
He returned to the ballroom then, at last seeing his path clearly. The Marquess of Widmore might refuse to give him the time of day, but Vaughn thought he stood a good chance of convincing the man’s daughter otherwise. He had yet to meet a lady who didn’t swoon at a well-placed verse, a lovesick smile. Much as he abhorred dragging an innocent into this business, his duty lay in solving the mystery of his uncle’s death. And Lady Imogene Devary, he very much feared, had become the key.
Chapter Two
Imogene watched her mysterious stranger stride away, the crowds parting before him. Even if she could have escaped the tenacious grip of her hostess, she could hardly chase after him; she’d already made a spectacle of herself by insisting on a dance. And she hadn’t even learned his name!
“That was very foolish,” Elisa’s mother scolded, scanning the room. “Where is your mother? I’m certain she’ll have something to say about the company you keep.”
Imogene stilled. Mrs. Mayweather knew the man. Of course she knew the man! She’d invited him. But she didn’t seem particularly pleased by the fact. Her hostess’s face was an unbecoming shade of red that clashed with the rust-colored velvet of her ball gown. Each tightly wound gray curl, the lift of her hawkish nose, the compression of her already thin lips shouted righteous indignation. Small wonder Elisa tended to hide behind columns.
“I’m sorry if I offended you,” Imogene said. “Naturally I assumed anyone you invited would be an acceptable partner.”
The red faded, leaving Mrs. Mayweather as pale as fine muslin. “Certainly we only invite the best,” she said, dropping her grip on Imogene’s arm. “I cannot help it if some families have members who distain their honor.”
So he was dishonorable? She ought to have expected it. Certainly her father’s reaction to him had made him seem dangerous, dastardly. But that had not been her impression as they’d danced. The fire in him burned through the polite malaise of the other lords and ladies. Like a hearth on a cold day, it called to her. Oh, he was an outrageous flirt, holding her gaze and fingers far longer than needed, but nothing about his demeanor or conversation spoke of an evil lurking inside.
Lord, please help me know the truth!
“And what family would that be, precisely?” Imogene asked.
Mrs. Mayweather frowned down at her. “You didn’t know? My dear girl, you have been most shamefully used. That...that creature was none other than Mr. Vaughn Everard, who dares to call himself a poet. Surely you’ve heard of him.”
Certainly she’d heard of him. She had all three volumes of his poetry in her bedchamber, the pages dog-eared from repeated reading. That’s why she’d recognized his phrase about dancing! But wait. “Everard?” she asked, stomach tightening. “Then is he related to...”
“Lady Everard,” Mrs. Mayweather said, making the last name sound like something she’d found clumped to the bottom of her shoe. “Indeed, he is her cousin. I tried with the greatest tact to suggest that she leave him home, but she would hear none of it. They say she wears his heart about her neck like her pearls.”
He was also one of Lady Everard’s followers? Imogene could only feel disappointed in him; from his beautiful poetry she’d somehow thought he’d be more discriminating. In fact, for a moment on the dance floor, she’d wondered whether she’d finally found the suitor she’d been praying for—someone who could help her protect the family name, as her father’s only living child.
But why was he interested in her family? How had her father even become acquainted with one of London’s most infamous poets?
“Now, then,” Mrs. Mayweather said soothingly, evidently taking Imogene’s silence for shocked propriety, “we’ll say no more on the matter. I’m sure any of the other fine gentlemen will be only too happy to partner with you for the next set.”
Imogene thanked Mrs. Mayweather and watched her bustle away, but dancing was the last thing on her mind. She had only one goal now. How could she meet Vaughn Everard again and learn more?
* * *
In the shadow of one of the alabaster columns, Vaughn watched Lady Imogene. She’d managed to escape her diligent hostess, leaving the woman in charity with her if the smile on Mrs. Mayweather’s face was any indication. Now she flitted about the ballroom, talking to this young lady, that gentleman, a bee buzzing from flower to flower.
She was obviously as good at talking her way out of a scrape as she was getting into one. Yet why would the Marquess of Widmore’s daughter—beautiful, wealthy, charming—ask him to dance? He could find a way to put the question to the lady, along with other questions on his mind, but still he hesitated. He knew his best chance in meeting the marquess lay in charming Imogene, but he had never countenanced using others for personal gain. He’d seen firsthand the pain and devastation that followed.
Besides, that smile was too knowing, too confident, and he had a feeling that jade gaze could pierce flesh and see inside him. Yet if she had seen inside him, she would never have asked him to dance. No, he’d been handed an opportunity to gain the attention of the Devary family. He’d be a fool not to take it.
Keeping her ever in sight, he moved around the edge of the ballroom. He tensed for a moment when the affable Lord Eustace bowed over her hand, but she sent him off with a wave and a laugh that sparkled as brightly as her gaze. She didn’t intend to dance, then. Odd. Why would one of the most beautiful and eligible women in the room refuse to take the floor, except on his arm? He ought to feel honored, yet he couldn’t believe honor had been her motive.
Her friend saw him before Lady Imogene did. With her coal-black hair and hawkish nose, the young lady now standing beside the marquess’s daughter was a Mayweather, he guessed, although one of the prettier ones. Her brown eyes widened, and she stopped in midsentence to flutter her ivory fan in front of her face. Lady Imogene turned, then blinked.
Vaughn