Regina Scott (6 page)

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.”

Something flickered behind those gray eyes, but his smile remained. “And so I was, but matters grew too heated. I felt the need for some fresh air and privacy to clear my head.”

Another gentleman would have begged his pardon for intruding and whisked Imogene away. Vaughn had too many questions to accept dismissal.

“I’ll only take a moment of your time, then,” he promised. “Perhaps you’d care to drive with us. We could return you to the War Office when we’re done.”

The marquess took a step back from the carriage, as if even now determining how he might escape. “I fear I have an appointment in Kensington. Another time, perhaps.”

Vaughn was more concerned another time would never come. He handed the reins to Imogene, who raised her brows.

“If you’d be so kind,” Vaughn said.

She clutched the leather, wide-eyed, but nodded, and he jumped down to land beside her father.

“Forgive me for detaining you,” he said to the marquess, positioning himself to keep the man between him and the horses. “But I need answers. As it seems you are the only one who can give them, we must talk. Now.”

Chapter Six

I
mogene watched a frown settle on her father’s face. No one had ever talked to the Marquess of Widmore that way, she was sure. Certainly she’d never have attempted it. Yet Vaughn Everard stood with booted feet firmly planted, one placed in front of the other as if he was ready to fence. His head was high, his shoulders in his bottle-green coat solid. And his tone demanded obedience.

From anyone less than her father. “Mr. Everard,” he said, each word precise, “I had a great fondness for your uncle. Do not presume upon it.”

Imogene swallowed at the rebuke. Vaughn pulled his hat from his head, and the sun gleamed on his platinum hair. But neither his manner nor his words said he was penitent.

“It is because of that fondness that I appeal to you,” he replied. “I believe my uncle was murdered.”

Imogene gasped, then covered her mouth with her hand, slapping herself in the face with the reins in the process. She flinched, and Aeos and Aethon shifted in the traces. As if to comfort her, her father took a step closer to the carriage, forcing Vaughn to turn to meet his gaze.

“I understood the authorities ruled it a duel,” her father said, frown deepening.

Vaughn’s hand sliced the air as if he threw off such a ridiculous notion. “A duel with no seconds? No opponent who will acknowledge his part?”

Her father shrugged. “As you said, your uncle died as a result. Perhaps his opponent feared reprisal. That would not be unheard of.”

He implied that Vaughn would seek vengeance. From the tension in him, Imogene could almost believe it.

“If it was truly a duel that my uncle consented to fight,” Vaughn said, “his opponent would have nothing to fear from me.”

“I’m sure it would comfort him to know that,” her father said. “But your reputation precedes you, Mr. Everard. What is the current count, six duels fought and won?”

Six duels? Her mother had mentioned he’d dueled, but did that mean he’d killed six men? No, it couldn’t be! He must have pinked them, drawn first blood with only a scratch. That would satisfy honor on both sides.

“I fight only when necessary,” Vaughn said, easing the tightness that had gathered in her chest at the thought of men dying.

“Perhaps,” her father allowed. “In any event, I know nothing of use to you. Your uncle didn’t confide in me.” He took another step back, closer to the horses.

Vaughn paced him, quick as a dancer. “And what of Repton and Todd? Will you deny knowledge of their deaths, as well?”

More dead? The tightness returned, threatening to squeeze the breath from her lungs. She’d thought he only wanted assurance that his uncle had died well. What had she stumbled upon? She clutched the reins, and Aeos shook his head in protest, setting the tack to jingling.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” her father said. “And I am losing patience.”

“As am I,” Vaughn told him, closing the gap between them. Imogene thought her father would stand his ground, but he retreated until he was standing by Aethon’s hind quarters.

Vaughn pursued him. “You make a good case for your ignorance of my uncle’s affairs, but you cannot disclaim knowledge of Chevalier.”

Chevalier? Monsieur Chevalier, her dance master? Imogene hadn’t seen him that Season, but she’d assumed he was teaching other young ladies the latest steps. What could he have to do with all this?

“Henri Chevalier?” her father asked with as much surprise.

“The same,” Vaughn spit out. “He attempted to murder my cousin to prevent her from coming to London. He claims you paid him to do it.”

Imogene stiffened. What a preposterous story! “And you believed him?” she demanded of Vaughn.

Vaughn glanced up at her with a frown as if he’d forgotten she was there. Imogene met him look for look. He might be a poet, but he’d have to spin a better story than that if he was going to accuse her father of all people of murder.

“You see?” her father said, forcing all gazes back to him. “My daughter understands the folly of your questioning. Why would I pay a dance master I haven’t seen for more than a year to murder your cousin, who I barely know?”

“You sent Chevalier to us,” Vaughn replied, but Imogene thought his voice was calmer, as if her doubts had given him pause.

“At her sponsor’s request. Lady Winthrop told me that she wished the dance master to attend Lady Everard but that he had a better paying position. Because of my friendship with her and your uncle, I intervened. If you have doubts as to Chevalier’s motives, perhaps you should question Lady Winthrop’s instead.”

Imogene knew her frown must match Vaughn’s. Lady Claire Winthrop was a good friend of her mother’s, despite the fact that the lady was closer to Imogene’s age. She was also betrothed to Vaughn’s cousin Captain Richard Everard. What possible reason could she have to harm the very girl she was sponsoring or the family she hoped to marry into?

If her father wished to point out the flaws in Vaughn’s argument, he seemed to be making headway, for the poet stepped back. “I cannot doubt Lady Winthrop’s affection for my family,” he said. “Nor do I understand why you would wish Lady Everard harm. I only know that all roads of inquiry have led to your door. Because I believe you held my uncle in esteem, I am giving you a chance to explain.”

He made the request sound like a challenge. Would he throw down his glove? Demand her father choose a weapon to defend himself? Despite her best efforts, she must have tugged on the reins, for both horses shuffled their feet and the seat shifted beneath her as the carriage wobbled.

Neither man paid her any attention, their gazes locked, their faces set.

“Your devotion to your uncle’s memory is commendable,” her father said, “but I fear it’s addled your wits.” His eyes narrowed, and Imogene had never heard his voice so hard as he said, “Arthur Everard is gone. His thoughtless actions brought his death upon his own head. I suggest you accept that fact.”

“Never!” Vaughn’s fists were clenched at his sides. “He didn’t shoot that ball into his own chest. Someone killed him. I will not rest until I know the truth.”

Imogene hurt for him. How he must have loved his uncle that the unexplained death brought such pain! She could understand his need to know why; she’d certainly asked God the same question when Charles had died. But blaming her father wasn’t going to help matters.

Her father seemed to agree. “If you cannot envision a better way to spend your time, Mr. Everard,” he said, “perhaps I should give you one.”

He reached out and slapped Aethon on the rump.

It all happened so fast Imogene couldn’t have acted to save herself. Even as she gasped, the white horse reared, cracking the traces, and one set of reins flew from her fingers. She clutched at the air, but the leather slapped the ground as the horse rushed forward, dragging Aeos with him.

The force of their run slammed Imogene back in the seat, and she grabbed at the brass railing of the driver’s bench to keep from falling under the whirling iron-bound wheels. Each bump across the grass rattled her bones, her teeth. She clung to the single set of reins, wrapped them around her fist and tugged hard.

The horses ignored her.

Fear crawled up her back and settled in her heart. She could not imagine what her father had been thinking, but she knew she had only one hope of rescue as the horses headed for the trees.

Lord, help me!

* * *

Vaughn’s hat fell from his fingers as Aethon reared and started to drag the carriage forward.

“Are you mad?” he demanded even as he raced after it. Over the rattle of tack and the crack of iron on rock he thought he heard the marquess laugh. Then there was no time to think, only to act.

Fortunately, that’s what he did best. Before the carriage could pick up speed, he launched himself at the back. His fingers snagged on the brass of the tiger’s perch, and he clung to it, feet dragging along the ground. Someone was going to owe him a new pair of boots after this! Fingers tightening, he hauled himself up onto the perch.

The carriage careened to one side and nearly bucked him off. Blood roaring louder than the wind, he pulled himself upright and hooked first one hand then the other onto the roof. The curved lacquered wood heaved like a ship in a storm. He could see Imogene’s head, bobbing along with the carriage as if she were no more than a little girl’s porcelain doll.

She was much more than that to him. He would not allow her to be harmed.

Fingers clamped to the brass on either side, he pulled himself up and crawled along the wood until he could swing himself beside Imogene.

Her bonnet was hanging down her back; her face was white. But she held on to Aeos’ reins as if it meant her life. Perhaps it did. She didn’t even glance at Vaughn as he slid in beside her.

“Easy,” he said, leaning closer. “Let me help.”

She jerked a nod as if speaking was too much. He wrapped his fingers around hers. Together they turned the left horse, forcing Aethon to match him. The pair veered in a circle, the momentum pressing Imogene against Vaughn. For a moment he fancied he could hear her heart drumming over the sound of the horses’ hooves, over the pounding of his own heart. He put his arm around her to steady her and held her tightly.

The horses slowed, walked, then stood. The carriage rolled to a stop at nearly right angles to the team. Another few seconds, and the chariot would have tipped over. Vaughn released Imogene and watched as she took a shaky breath.

“Really, Mr. Everard,” she said. “You go to great lengths to put your arm around me.”

Vaughn chuckled at her wit, even after nearly losing her life. She met his gaze with a watery smile, then burst into tears.

He put both arms around her then, holding her close and murmuring comfort. He couldn’t have said afterward what words he used, but they had seemed right at the time. All he felt was an overwhelming gratitude that she was safe.

After a time, she pulled away and wiped at her eyes with her fingers.

“I fear I am no proper gentleman,” he said, hoping to coax a smile from her. “I have no handkerchief to offer you.”

She sniffed. “Then I’m no lady, for I have no idea what happened to mine.” She sighed. “Nor do I know why my father would do that. I expect he thought I could handle the horses, but surely he knew your carriage might be damaged or your team injured.”

The marquess hadn’t cared about the carriage or horses. Despite Imogene’s protest, Vaughn thought he hadn’t cared whether his daughter was hurt either, and the fact chilled him. The Marquess of Widmore had gambled Imogene’s life on the possibility that Vaughn was honorable enough, and quick and clever enough, to catch her. It was a slimmer chance than he could have known.

“Thank you,” she murmured in the silence. “You saved my life. That was an answer to a prayer and the most heroic thing I’ve ever seen.”

She would have him a saint in a moment. “I had to save my horses,” he said. “They’ve come to mean a great deal to me.”

She beamed at him as if he’d said something remarkably clever. “Of course they have! I just thank God for giving you the presence of mind to act.”

Yes, Lord. Thank You for saving her.

Where had that thought come from? He hadn’t prayed since he was a child and his grandfather had sat beside him and ordered him to speak to the Lord. Grandfather seemed to think he had to guide Vaughn in everything, including prayer. He’d impatiently corrected the words Vaughn had said aloud over folded hands before retiring. Grandfather had had a firm conviction in how one approached the Almighty and who was allowed to do so, and Vaughn challenged both.

Beside him, Imogene bowed her head and closed her eyes a moment. Her peachy lips twitched as if moving to words from her heart. Her curls were wild about her face, her cheeks still bright from the excitement. Her innocent devotion held him pinned to the seat, unable to look away. It was almost as if he could see the love glowing about her, her faith in the One who could keep her safe, meet every need.

Even for a sinner like him?

No, that was too much to ask. He knew that, had been told that in word and deed too many times. Before she could open her eyes, he jumped down from the seat and went to check the horses. Stroking their glossy flanks, telling them how proud he was of them felt no more foolish than wishing to be someone he wasn’t.

“Are they all right?” she called from the driver’s seat.

Though they still trembled from their exertions and Aethon’s eye showed white, Vaughn knew the horses had sustained no lasting harm. “They’ll be fine,” he replied. He walked the circumference of the carriage and squatted to inspect the axles. The chariot was also undamaged. Too bad he couldn’t say the same for his state of mind.

He retrieved the other pair of reins, threaded them back to the bench, then climbed up beside her. She smiled at him. “Perhaps,” she said, “you should take me home. You can handle the reins.”

He ought to do just that—take her home and refuse to see her ever again. Just being with him endangered her life. That had never been his intent, but it had been the consequence nonetheless.

He reached out and touched a strand of chestnut hanging beside her face. “You might want to put your bonnet back on. I wouldn’t want your mother’s worst thoughts of me confirmed.”

One hand flew to her curls, but her eyes widened. “Mother! Oh, what shall I tell her?”

He was fairly certain she was thinking beyond the incident and the current state of her coiffure. “Perhaps the less said the better,” he replied, gathering up the reins with care.

She nodded. “You’re right. In any event, I can’t find an explanation for half of what happened this afternoon, even to my own satisfaction. Thank you again, Mr. Everard.”

Vaughn grimaced. Growing up there had been a few too many Mr. Everards in the household, with his cousins Jerome and Richard also being raised by Uncle after their parents’ deaths. “Perhaps,” he said, “after what we’ve been through, you could call me Vaughn.”

Her cheeks darkened even further. “I’d be honored, but only in private, Mr....Vaughn. I wouldn’t want your family to think I had designs on you.”