London's Last True Scoundrel (23 page)

“Ugh! Give me some credit for taste.”

“You were probably castaway,” said Beckenham, tossing back his brandy. “I’ll put a hundred on it. When do we meet this paragon of yours?” He rose, as if ready to depart now that he’d delivered various measured words of censure on Davenport’s conduct.

Davenport rubbed his nose. “Montford will decide that. What’s the bet he’ll want us all together around his table so he can intimidate the poor girl into submission?”

“What
does
the noble head of our house think of the match?” inquired Xavier, watching Davenport closely.

“Doesn’t like it,” said Davenport. “He’ll probably enlist your help to break up the engagement, only it looks like you’ve taken on the task all by yourselves.”

“Not at all,” said Xavier. “I rarely do anything to assist Montford’s schemes if I can help it.”

“Well, I don’t like it,” said Lydgate. “First, all the girls go off and get happily married, bang, bang, bang, one after another. And now you, Davenport.
You!
Where will all this falling in love end? is what I ask myself. It’s a damned epidemic, so it is.”

Beckenham looked back from the doorway. “I think you can safely say it will stop at me,” he said, and went out.

Davenport sighed. He ought to have predicted that if he offered marriage, his irritating cousins would leap to the conclusion that he was in love.

Perish the thought! His only consolation in the entire business was that Honey was equally horrified at the notion of their marriage. As for love, she’d laugh herself sick over the mere suggestion she’d fallen in love with a scoundrel like Davenport. No, Miss Hilary deVere would scour ballrooms of Mayfair and beyond for suitors to avoid marrying him.

The notion ought to have comforted him, but it didn’t. Not in the least.

*   *   *

As Lord deVere hustled her out of the carriage and up the steps to Mrs. Walker’s door, Hilary cast a critical eye about her. She had the gravest misgivings about the lady deVere had chosen to be her duenna.

She’d labeled society’s condemnation of her family as prejudice, but the truth was most deVere men
were
brutes. That’s if her father, her brothers, and Lord deVere were anything to judge by.

She hadn’t met Lord Tregarth, but from what little she’d seen and heard, she suspected he was somewhat of a brute, too. Goodness knew why a refined lady like Rosamund should love such a man, but there was no accounting for taste.

Hilary was largely unacquainted with the female members of her clan. DeVeres did not generally gather together for cozy family celebrations.

She ought to keep an open mind about Mrs. Walker, just as Hilary longed for people to keep an open mind about her. But with every yard they traveled, she could not help wishing she were back at Tregarth House.

She was so consumed by her thoughts that she did not take in her surroundings on their short journey, though she’d yearned for the city sights as long as she could remember.

She wondered if Mrs. Walker knew she was about to have a guest thrust upon her for the space of a month. Not only a guest, but a young lady who required strict chaperonage into the bargain. Hilary thought it unlikely. Surely deVere would not have had the opportunity to arrange the matter with her before his call at Lord Tregarth’s house.

Her prospective duenna’s residence was situated in Half Moon Street, an address Hilary knew must be respectable because one of her students from Miss Tollington’s lived there.

That was a good sign, wasn’t it? Her tension eased a little.

“DeVere to see Mrs. Walker,” said her guardian.

The butler mutely held out his salver and DeVere patted his coat in a fruitless search for his card case. After some fumbling and muttering, he gave up.

He glared at the butler beneath lowering brows as if daring him to ask for his calling card. “Well, come on, man. Don’t keep us standing here like dolts.”

“Very good, my lord.” The imperturbable butler must have had experience with deVere, for he didn’t turn a hair at such treatment. He ushered them in, then bowed and went in search of his mistress.

The salon they entered was an ornate drawing room, gilded and decorated in the Oriental style in an alarming combination of salmon pink, gold, and puce.

Hilary barely repressed a shudder at the décor, but at least the ceiling appeared to be in good repair. Clearly, Mrs. Walker didn’t begrudge money spent on maintenance, unlike Hilary’s brothers. That was a somewhat promising start.

“Don’t stand there gawping, girl!” DeVere gave her a shove between the shoulder blades that made her stumble farther into the room. “Sit down over there.”

Their hostess kept them waiting for so long, Hilary wondered if she was at home. She and Lord deVere sat staring glumly at each other until a trilling voice broke the silence.

“
Oliver?
Is that you?”

Mrs. Walker paused on the threshold as if to pose for a portrait. One hand was stretched slightly above her head, caressing the doorframe, while the other fiddled with the strings of a truly scandalous robe.

The lady had red hair and brown eyes and a plump, curvaceous figure—easily discernible beneath the filmy layers of gauze that did very little to cover them.

Hilary blinked, then blushingly averted her gaze. Clearly, Lord deVere and Mrs. Walker were closer than most distant relations. Hilary wished she could make herself invisible or liquefy and melt into the floor.

DeVere launched to his feet with a muttered oath, but before he could do much more than say, “Now, Dolly, don’t—,” she hurried forward and flung her arms around him, practically scaling his large body like a buxom, red-haired monkey.

He pushed her away from him—but not before he’d had a friendly grope of her rounded bottom—and said, “Put some clothes on, m’dear. I’m not here for … ah…” He cleared his throat. “I’ve brought a lady with me.”

“What?” she demanded, her cooing turning to a scold. “I told you before I don’t like that sort of thing. If that’s what you want, sirrah, you can take yourself off.”

“Be damned to you, you harridan!” shouted deVere. “Look at her. She’s my ward. Name’s Hilary deVere, daughter of Nathaniel.”

“What?” said the lady, staring hard at Hilary. “Never say— Ah, but she has the look of her hoity-toity mama, don’t she? Well, what do you expect
me
to do with her?”

“Bring her out. Take her on the town. Chaperone her to parties. You know the style of thing.”

“Chaperone? Me?” She gave a great belly laugh. “You’re cracked, you are.”

Lord deVere’s beetling brows lowered and his bottom lip stuck out. Hastily the lady backtracked. “What I mean is, delighted, I’m sure. Er, how long am I to have the, ah, pleasure of Miss Hilary’s company?”

“A month. Maybe less. Tell ’em to make up a room for her. Everything at my expense, of course.”

Mrs. Walker’s eyes brightened at that. With a quick, shrewd glance at Hilary, she rang the bell, and the housekeeper came in answer.

“I have a young relative come to stay, Mrs. Harbury. Make up the yellow bedchamber, will you? And take Miss deVere to the upstairs parlor while I talk to his lordship.”

With a disapproving sniff, the housekeeper did as she was told. “This way, miss.”

Glad of an opportunity to escape, Hilary followed the servant upstairs. Mrs. Walker was just as she’d feared. Worse. For she was quite obviously Lord deVere’s mistress, which showed not only loose morals but also a total lack of discrimination.

Imagine being kissed and … and …
fondled
by Lord deVere!

Was this Mrs. Walker truly a deVere or was she merely some random mistress deVere thought would make a good chaperone?

Whatever the case, she doubted Mrs. Walker had ever darkened the doors of Almack’s.

Some time later, when deVere had left without saying farewell or giving Hilary the least notion of his plans for her—if, indeed, he had any—Hilary was once again called down to the drawing room.

Her hostess was clothed respectably now, in a dark cambric gown with a striped spencer and shawl. She looked like any other society matron, save for the beacon red hair. Hilary thanked Heaven for small mercies.

Now that she was able to look Mrs. Walker full in the face, she noticed the lady was somewhat older than she’d first appeared. In her bone structure Hilary detected the low brow and pugnacious chin that showed unmistakably she was a deVere.

So that, at least, was true. Hilary could only hope the lady was discreet enough in her affaires to still remain in good standing with the ton.

“Come. Sit by me, dearie,” said Mrs. Walker, patting the couch next to her. “Lord deVere has told me all about you. What an exciting time you’ve had, to be sure.”

Hilary would rather describe it as by turns frustrating, infuriating, harrowing, and humiliating, but she said cautiously, “Just so, ma’am.”

“And betrothed to the Earl of Davenport. Quick work, my girl. Clever work, too, if you got him on your hook after only one night.”

“It’s not like that,” Hilary protested.

“Oh, now, lovey, we’re family,” said Mrs. Walker with a wink. “You don’t have to pretend with me.”

“No, I mean, I truly didn’t
hook
him, ma’am. Lord Davenport is honoring a family obligation. But as I explained to Lord deVere, the earl wants me to make sure there is no other gentleman I would prefer to marry before we settle down together. That is why he wanted me to have a season.”

“Honor? Obligation?” Mrs. Walker laughed. “For a minute there I thought you were talking of Davenport. The greatest rogue in London, my dear. You’ll need to do better than rely on honor and obligation if you want him firmly tied to your apron strings.”

“But I don’t—”

“Come now, dearie, you can’t tell me you were on the road with the rogue all that time and he never had you. I’ve never heard of a woman—whore or lady or parson’s daughter—who could resist the Earl of Davenport.”

The dreamy look in her eye told Hilary that if Davenport’s taste ever ran to vulgar redheads past their prime there’d be a willing conquest waiting for him right here in Half Moon Street.

“Well, you have now,” said Hilary with dignity. “For your information, Lord Davenport behaved like a gentleman the entire time.”

She could not stop the betraying blush that rose to her cheeks. The heat came in waves as she recalled each and every instance where Davenport had most certainly
not
behaved as a gentleman should.

“If you say so,” said Mrs. Walker with a knowing and blatantly envious smile. “All I’m saying is, now you have the chance to snare him good and proper, you must use it. You need only tell the truth and let Lord deVere do the rest.”

Hilary argued herself hoarse, but nothing she said could shift Mrs. Walker’s stance on the issue.

The lady waved away her objections with a flick of her heavily beringed hand. “We shall ask Davenport to escort us shopping tomorrow. That ought to get him hot and bothered.”

“Good gracious, why?” said Hilary, genuinely curious.

Mrs. Walker rolled her eyes. “Saints preserve us, how did a deVere grow up so innocent? While you’re being measured and fitted, he’ll be looking at your body, of course. Imagining what you’re like naked. Get him primed in all the right places, that will.”

Heat rushed into Hilary’s face once more. “Then I beg you will not request Davenport’s escort, ma’am. I should be covered with shame to know the direction of his mind.”

Mrs. Walker shrugged. “Men are all the same, dearie. Not a one of them meets a woman without imagining her with her clothes off, mark my words.”

The notion made Hilary’s stomach flutter wildly. The shopping expedition she’d so looked forward to when Rosamund had proposed it now made her exceedingly nervous.

She was obliged to sit docilely as Mrs. Walker went through all of the invitations in her fancy card holder, revising her plans for the next month. “For the sorts of entertainments that suit me wouldn’t be right for a debutante, my duck. I shall have to send acceptances to all manner of balls I had no notion of attending.”

“I’m sorry to cause you so much trouble, ma’am,” said Hilary.

Sternly she reminded herself that Mrs. Walker had not asked for a debutante to be thrust upon her. She ought to be grateful the lady was willing to put herself out for a virtual stranger with no claim on her except a distant kinship.

“Well, I daresay that when you’re a countess you won’t forget,” said Mrs. Walker comfortably.

Hilary refrained from disabusing the lady about her future status. “Indeed, I shall never forget you, ma’am,” she said, with perfect truth.

Mrs. Walker glanced at the clock. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must rest for the evening’s engagements. You’ll be tired, I daresay, and quite happy to spend a quiet night at home.”

When the rigid housekeeper showed her to her bedchamber, Hilary found herself in a room decorated in a mixture of the Egyptian and the Chinoiserie styles made popular by the Prince Regent. Four painted and gilded palm trees formed the bedposts, while faux bamboo trellises full of birds of paradise and exotic flowers decorated the walls.

The chaise longue by the window sported crocodile feet. She hoped they were faux, too, although she rather suspected they might be real.

The room might hurt the eyes with all of its clashing splashes of color, but it was a large step up from the Grange in terms of comfort and repair, so she ought not to complain. She tried very hard not to long for the sumptuous elegance of Lady Tregarth’s home.

No, she must simply make the best of her situation. She’d evade both Lord Davenport’s attempts at seduction and her guardian and chaperone’s attempts to trap him into marriage. She would rise above the handicap of Mrs. Walker’s vulgarity and conduct herself with elegant aplomb in the hope of establishing herself and attracting an eligible suitor.

While her London season would not be the glittering debut of her dreams, she had much for which to be grateful. She owed Lord Davenport a debt she could never repay.

She remembered the warm-enough-to-burst feeling in her chest when Davenport had announced they were engaged. For a crazy instant, she’d believed he genuinely wanted to marry her. How foolish. More, for an instant, she’d longed for it to be true. That was more foolish than anything.