The Rake's Redemption

“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 bowed. “Lady Imogene, your servant. You asked me to dance earlier. I thought to return the favor.”

Her brows went up as if she had not expected him to know her name. “Mr. Everard,” she replied. “I fear dancing with you was so thrilling I haven’t been able to retake the floor since. Perhaps a promenade instead?”

Her smile told him his face had betrayed his surprise that she knew him, too. It seemed her previous invitation had not been all innocence. But a promenade would give them more of an opportunity to be alone, or at least as alone as was possible in a crowded ballroom. He offered her his arm. “Charmed.”

“Imogene.” The word was a mere whisper of anguish from her friend. She, at least, was concerned about the damage to Lady Imogene’s reputation. One interaction could be poor judgment. Two might mean poor character.

Imogene reached out a hand and patted her friend’s. “Never fear, Miss Mayweather. I’m fairly certain Mr. Everard doesn’t bite. And I’ll be back before you know it.”

With a dazzling smile that almost made Vaughn rethink his strategy yet again, Imogene put her hand on his arm, and they set off around the ballroom.

* * *

Thank You, Lord!

Imogene nearly said the praise aloud. She’d been quizzing her friends about this man, until even Kitty and Elisa were teasing her about her sudden tendre for the fellow. She could not tell them that it was hardly amour that moved her.

Oh, he was handsome enough with that white-gold hair like a yard of the finest silk and those impossibly deep brown eyes like melted chocolate. And one could hardly fault his address, standing tall and lean and so very sure of himself. He took each step as if claiming the polished wood floor for England.

But what she needed to know was his character and background. Surely they would give her some notion as to his business with her father. How wonderful that she’d been given this opportunity!

“How do you know my father?” she asked just as he said, “Is your father in attendance?”

Imogene laughed. He smiled, a warm, open smile that invited her closer, promised it was meant for her alone. Too bad it disappeared as quickly as it had come.

“Forgive me,” he said. “Ladies first.”

“My father wasn’t able to join us,” she said, answering his question. “I didn’t know you were acquainted.”

She waited, hoping for similar honesty. He turned slightly toward her, lips poised to respond, and she sighted Mrs. Mayweather headed in their direction, eyes narrowed. “Oh, dear.”

He must have seen the danger, too, for he expertly steered Imogene away. Once they had put a row of columns between them and their hostess, he said, “Your father and my uncle were good friends.”

Friends? Had she ever been introduced to an Everard old enough to be his uncle? Her confusion must have been written on her face, for he clarified. “Arthur, Lord Everard. You must have met him.”

Imogene shook her head. “I’m sorry. I don’t recall. What does he look like?”

“Tall, lean, fair-haired—a great deal like me, actually.”

Imogene beamed at him. “Forgive me. A gentleman that handsome would be difficult to forget.”

He chuckled, then stiffened and guided her behind the dowager’s circle. The older ladies batted their eyes and waved their fans as he passed, and he nodded and smiled encouragement to them.

On the opposite side of the circle, his cousin, Lady Everard, looked far less encouraging, her pretty face scrunched up in confusion. She had thick golden hair, worn up high and cascading down her back, and dark brown eyes that must run in the family, for they were very like his. Every girl in the room would be wondering how to copy that gown—clear muslin over an underskirt spotted in gold so that it sparkled as she moved.

“I fear our promenade will end all too soon,” he murmured to Imogene. “Do me the honor of answering two more questions.”

“Anything,” she said, then chided herself on her eagerness.

“First, do you remember what your father was doing the night of March third?”

What a singularly odd thing to ask! Whatever issue he had with her father must have something to do with that day. Imogene thought back. Had they been in London yet? Her father had been intent on getting them all there from their country estate. Business, he’d said, that could only be conducted in London.

Vaughn Everard was leading her toward the main entrance to the ballroom now. Framed in the doorway, her mother glanced about, obviously in search of her. Mrs. Mayweather stood beside her, foot tapping against the fine wood floor.

“I don’t remember,” Imogene said in the rush. “What’s the second question?”

“May I call on you tomorrow?”