Regina Scott (14 page)

No one seemed aware that as great a danger might lurk in the very streets of London. And there was no sign of the marquess. Vaughn’s only hope lay with Imogene.

He found himself in Hyde Park ridiculously early. The park was already crowded—it seemed everyone wanted to enjoy the balmy weather. Nurses walked while their charges scampered around them. Gentlemen rode by on prime bits of horse flesh and ladies strolled arm in arm, sharing confidences.

Yet despite the prosaic scene, he could feel the anticipation rising inside him. He caught himself brushing back his hair under his top hat and straightened his arms at his sides. Why was he always so intent on looking his best, acting his best, in front of Imogene? Despite his intentions, her good opinion had come to mean too much to him. When all this was over, he’d have to determine what to do about the matter.

He reached the path to Kensington and waited under the shade of a tree, fully expecting to see the Devary coach round the corner. Instead, a short time later, he sighted Imogene hurrying along the path, alone, satin ribbons bobbing under her velvet bonnet. Had she no care for her reputation, her safety?

He immediately shook his head at the thought. Had
he
no care? Very likely he was the one endangering both her reputation and her safety by his very presence. He came out from under the tree and went to meet her.

Her peach-colored muslin skirts swung to a stop as she paused. Her cheeks were bright from her walk, and he thought her hands trembled just the slightest as she let her arms fall. “Oh, but I’m glad to see you.”

Another time the heartfelt words would have warmed him. Now he could only think of protecting her. “Why did you come alone?” he asked. “Where’s your footman?”

She grimaced. “At home. Last night, Jenkins heard Father forbid me to see you, so I doubt he would have been delighted to accompany me today. And he’s still put out about me losing him in the garden. He’s afraid he’ll be discharged. Besides, things are at sixes and sevens at home.”

She took a breath as if to steady herself and looked him right in the eye. “My father has disappeared. Tell me you had nothing to do with it.”

Chapter Fourteen

I
mogene stood on the grass of Hyde Park, watching Vaughn’s face. She was certain she’d see the truth written on it. He wore his emotions so openly, and she believed his claim that he never lied. Still, she lifted a prayer to know the truth.

“I had no part in this,” he said, dark gaze on hers. “I promise.”

Imogene nodded, feeling as if she could take a deep breath. She’d been fairly confident that she would need more than Vaughn to solve this mystery, and it seemed she’d been right. “Thank you.”

“Tell me what happened.”

She nodded again, setting off along the path. She had to do something, even if it was only to keep moving! He fell into step, a steadying presence beside her.

“Father never returned to the box last night in Vauxhall,” she told him, the breeze darting past her bonnet to touch her heated cheeks. “Mother became sufficiently worried that she sent Jenkins to find him, again, but our footman came back alone and no wiser. Since we’d arrived on our own, we left without him. But Father never came home last night, and he sent no word.”

Outside the edge of her bonnet she could see his black-booted legs, matching her stride. His tone was more thoughtful than concerned. “Has he ever behaved this way before?”

“Once.” Imogene shuddered, remembering.

He stopped, and she turned to face him, tilting back her head to look up at him. His face was sad, as if he felt her pain. “What happened?” he murmured.

“It was when my younger brother died,” Imogene explained. She found her hand gathering up the soft folds of her muslin skirt and forced her fingers to open. “When the physician pronounced my brother dead, Father walked out of the room with no word to Mother and me. He didn’t return until the next day. Mother said he needed time to think.”

“He would leave you alone at such a time?”

Others—the physician, the vicar—had reacted in a similar manner. Oh, they would never speak against the mighty Marquess of Widmore, but their pitying looks to her mother and their tight-lipped responses about the situation told Imogene they thought her father had been lax in his duty. He was the head of the family. He should be there to console and be consoled. When she had come to realize that each person grieved in a unique way, she’d understood that what her father needed was to escape his duty.

“Mother and I managed,” she said. “I think that’s when I first appreciated that I had someone else to lean on when I was troubled.”

“Your mother,” he guessed.

She smiled. “No, my Father, my Heavenly Father.” When he frowned, she hurried on. “I know some people don’t like to admit that. But it was true for me. Prayer, comfort, they merged into one, and I’ll always thank Him for that.”

“How old were you?”

Now her fingers were tangled in the ribbons of her bonnet. She dropped them back to her sides before they untied the satin. “Fourteen. Young enough to be impressionable, I suppose. But old enough to suspect why Father left us. He wasn’t just mourning Charles. My brother was his last hope for a legacy.”

He shifted on his feet as if the idea had never occurred to him. “There are no heirs? No cousins, cadet branches?”

Imogene swallowed the lump that was rising in her throat. “None. Father had the College of Heralds make a thorough search. Unless I do something, my father will likely be the last Marquess of Widmore.”

He cocked his head, gaze narrowing. “Unless
you
do something? Why does the lot fall to you?”

She bowed her head, unwilling to see his reaction to her plan. “I’m all that’s left. And titles can be recreated. My husband could be the new Marquess of Widmore.”

“And what a splendid gentleman he’ll have to be.”

She winced at the bitterness in his tone. It seemed he could not see himself in the role, and that made it harder for her to envision it.

“He will be,” she said defiantly, raising her head once more. “I have every expectation of marrying well.”

He was silent a moment, gaze going out over the grass to where the park abutted St. George’s Row and a line of houses. A lock of platinum hair teased his cheek. “I imagine you will marry very well indeed. What man wouldn’t wish to court someone so talented, kind and beautiful?”

Oh, but her cheeks were heating again. She should probably thank him for his praise, but the words seemed to stick to the roof of her mouth. Did he know that she’d hoped he might be that man?
Father, I can’t confess that. I just can’t!

As if he knew her discomfort, he dropped his gaze to hers. “So we return to your father and his sudden disappearance. Has something happened now? Anything that would drive him to despair?”

“Nothing!” Her cry must have conveyed her fears, for he reached out and drew her into his embrace.

“Easy,” he murmured against her bonnet. “I know how worried you must be. I searched every inch of London, it seemed, when Uncle disappeared.”

Imogene’s throat constricted. “But Vaughn, you found him dead!”

He rubbed his hand along her arm. “I’m certain your father is very much alive. I have a feeling he’s been planning this for a long time.”

Imogene frowned. “Planning what? To work so hard for his king that he must resort to disappearing for a moment alone?”

“No.” He pulled away, though both hands remained on her arms. “I never wanted to burden you with this, Imogene. Believe me, I fought the picture that has been painted of your father. But as each part was sketched, the outline became clearer.”

Imogene knew she was trembling. He was so sure of himself, so careful in the way he leaned forward to gaze inside her bonnet, as if weighing whether she could take the confession. He didn’t want to tell her. But she had to know.
Help me be strong, Lord!

“Tell me,” she said.

He nodded and dropped his arms to his sides, straightening as if she’d lifted a weight from his shoulders. She could almost see it hanging poised between them, ready to descend on hers.

“It is highly likely,” Vaughn said, “that your father is colluding with the French to help Napoleon invade England.”

Imogene started to shake her head in denial, but he held up a hand.

“Hear me out. Several things support the theory. For one, it appears he has held secret meetings with a group of men over the past few years.”

Imogene made a face. “Those could be efforts for the War Office.”

“Possibly,” Vaughn allowed, “but doubtful, as my uncle was involved. No one in Whitehall would have trusted him with a secret, and for good reason. He liked stories too well.”

“Then why would my father trust him with these so-called secret meetings?” Imogene demanded.

“Because your father thought he could control him. I’m not sure he succeeded. My uncle tended to dash after every whim.”

Imogene put her hands on her hips. “Another way you take after him, it seems.”

His jaw tightened. “I knew you wouldn’t like hearing this. But you did ask.”

“And if these meetings were so secret,” she challenged, “how do you know about them?”

“I didn’t,” he replied, “until Uncle died and I first met my cousin Samantha.”

Imogene’s hands fell. “You never met her until your uncle died?”

“I didn’t know she existed until the solicitor told us about Uncle’s will. We were all taken by surprise.” He shook his head as if the fact still amazed him. “She was raised in Cumberland in an old manor house. That’s where your father held his secret meetings and just might be the reason Uncle never told anyone about her.”

Imogene rolled her eyes. “So now you’d have my father colluding with your uncle, as well!”

“Oh, they were partners. I have no doubt of that. I was fourteen when they set about rescuing the French from the guillotine.” He eyed her. “Do you remember that?”

Imogene shook her head with a frown. “Father helped French aristocrats during the Revolution?”

He nodded. “He and Uncle were quite a pair, into every scrape at times. You would have been six or seven then, so I’m not surprised you didn’t know. Most people didn’t know. Uncle swore me to secrecy.”

“But if they were heroes, why do you think my father is the enemy now?” she begged, finding it all too easy to imagine her father braving death to rescue his friends in France. “If he helped the French aristocrats, why support Napoleon? He isn’t exactly a friend to the nobility.”

“And neither, I fear, is your father.” He started walking again, and she paced him, muslin brushing her ankles with each step. “We do have a scrap of evidence,” he explained. “My cousin Richard found a piece of paper remaining from a meeting. It was burned around the edges as if it had drifted from the fire. The men who met in Dallsten Manor in Cumberland wanted to hasten revolution.”

Imogene sidestepped a tuft of grass. “But you just said Father tried to help those affected by the French Revolution.”

“Not the French Revolution,” he corrected her. “These men want revolution in England.”

Imogene jerked to a stop. “How could any Englishman countenance revolution!”

He stopped as well, hands clasped behind him as if to prevent himself from touching her. “I asked myself that, especially because Uncle seemed to be helping them. I think he saw only the glory of the fight, the idea that all men would be equal. He never particularly liked being a baron.”

Did her father like being a marquess? Most of the time it seemed the role came easily to him. But she could remember when he seemed troubled by his duties. “If we were meant to rule,” she’d heard him tell her mother once, “then it falls on us to rule well.” Surely he would never support the overthrow of the crown!

“My uncle must have disagreed with the effort in the end,” Vaughn continued, “for it seems he tried to convince your father to change and was killed for his trouble.”

Imogene took a step back from him. “This is the same nonsense your cousin told me,” she said, face hot inside her bonnet. “But that’s all it is—nonsense.”

“I wanted it to be,” Vaughn assured her. “But there’s more. The physician who returned my uncle’s body said there was one witness to my uncle’s duel, his valet, Repton. The valet disappeared that night. I tried to find him and failed. It was only after my cousin Richard went to see your father about the matter that we located the man.”

“You see?” Imogene cried. “Father helped you!”

He leaned closer again, and the look in his eyes held pity. “Repton was found dead, floating in the Thames.”

Imogene recoiled. “So you claim my father killed not once but twice?”

“Three times,” he said, as if determined to drive a blade through her heart. “A footman named Todd showed up at Dallsten Manor after Uncle died. He claimed Uncle had hired him, and his reference said he’d worked for your father. Todd attempted to murder my cousin Jerome and threatened his wife, all so he could steal a porcelain box from us. When we asked a Bow Street Runner to look into the matter, he discovered that Todd had been killed here in London, in the St. Giles area.”

Imogene couldn’t stand to look at him. She set off up the path for Kensington, feeling as if each step was an attempt to outrun the stories. “So naturally you’d suspect my father,” she shot at him as he joined her. “Wealthy marquesses usually stroll through the worst part of London, hoping to stumble upon servants to murder.”

Out of the corners of her eyes she saw him spread his hands before his green coat. “He won’t meet with me, and he risked your life to avoid my questions. Does that sound like an innocent man?”

“No, it sounds like a hunted man, a man desperate for a moment of peace.” She hadn’t realized she was walking so fast until her foot caught on a rock and she tripped. His hand was immediately at her elbow, steadying her. She pushed him away.

“You claim you had nothing to do with his disappearance,” she said, glaring up at him, “but I begin to think you drove him to it with your accusations!”

His face was pale, his eyes haunted. “I have made none—I have only asked for answers. Why do you think I never spoke of this until now? I have no useful proof to give you or the authorities. I want to be wrong! I would like nothing better than for your father to offer an explanation. But when he runs to avoid facing me, what am I to think?”

“That you have dishonored an innocent man,” Imogene insisted. “I know my father. He would never take a life, never work against the king. He’s spent his whole life protecting the innocent! You just told me yourself about the lives he saved.”

“Lives of the French,” Vaughn corrected her. “Those who share his heritage.”

Imogene stiffened. “So you see him as tainted, too, simply because his mother was born in the enemy land? For shame, Mr. Everard. You of all people should know that a man should not be judged by the blood that flows through his veins.”

He went still, as if she’d slapped him, and immediately she hurt for him. She reached out a hand, but it fell short of touching his silver-shot waistcoat.

“I’m so sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to cast aspersions on your mother.”

He puffed out a breath, head bowed so that the brim of his top hat shaded his eyes. “Why not? I certainly cast a number on your father.”

Imogene managed a smile. “We really are a pair, aren’t we?”

He took her hand and brought it to his lips. The touch only reminded her of the kiss they’d shared the night before. That moment had been full of promise. Now she feared what the future might hold.

His gaze met hers, begged for understanding. “Forgive me for troubling you. I am honored you allow me to breathe the same air, Lady Imogene.”

She clung to his fingers as he lowered her hand. “But what are we to do, Vaughn? I cannot believe my father is guilty of the crimes you suspect, and you cannot believe him innocent.”

“I am doomed to frustration unless I have proof,” he replied, cradling her hand in his.

“Yet who else wonders about his behavior?” Imogene insisted. “His friends, his colleagues at the War Office or the Admiralty?”

“They were urgently seeking him when I stopped by this morning,” Vaughn offered.

Imogene shook her head. “Something’s wrong. Perhaps there’s someone else involved, manipulating things to make it appear my father is to blame.”