The Rake's Redemption

“Hoping for a word with your father,” he drawled, “but of course couldn’t leave without greeting you.”

“How kind.” She ought to find something useful to say, but she truly didn’t want to encourage him.

He tipped up his chin. “Have mutual friends, you know. Everard. Good chap.”

Imogene tried not to frown, but she found it hard to imagine the two men having anything in common. “Oh?” she said. “How are you acquainted?”

He preened as if he knew the heights to which he’d risen. “Known his family for years. Uncle had the estate near ours in Cumberland.”

So there was actually a connection between them? Why, she could use that to her advantage. Thank You, Lord, for providing this opportunity!

“How fortunate,” she said, smiling at him with considerably more warmth. “And what do you think of Mr. Everard?”

He shrugged. “Bit wild, but loyal. Clever. Your father wouldn’t think so highly of him if it weren’t true.”

Imogene cocked her head. “My father thinks highly of him?”

Lord Wentworth blinked, paling. “Doesn’t he? Good friends with the fellow’s uncle, you know. Why dislike the nephew?”

Imogene leaned closer. “So my father favors him?”

“Are you saying he doesn’t?”

They gazed at each other a moment, and Imogene was certain her face must mirror his for confusion.

Her mother joined them just then, and he climbed to his feet and bowed to her. Imogene spent the next few minutes in conversation about the weather and the latest offerings at the Theatre Royal and other such nonsense, all the while stifling an urge to reach across the space and throttle Lord Wentworth with his pretentiously tied cravat.

What did he mean making up stories about Vaughn Everard? They couldn’t be friends; surely Mr. Everard would disdain the man’s pomp, his belittling clipped sentences. In fact, it sounded as if Lord Wentworth knew less about the poet than Imogene did. Otherwise he’d know there was some difficulty between Mr. Everard and her father.

The topic must have remained on his mind as well, for he brought it up again when he took his leave a short time later.

“Hope I didn’t give impression I follow Everard,” he said with a bow over her hand. “Opinions would be swayed by your father’s, whatever they are.”

“So I’ve heard,” Imogene said brightly. “A great many people are swayed by my father.”

He looked at her askance, as if begging her to explain. It was a shame she couldn’t put the fellow out of his misery and clarify her father’s opinions on the matter, but the marquess’s attitude toward Vaughn Everard was growing more mysterious by the moment.

* * *

“You seemed a bit cool to our guest,” her mother said after the footman had seen him out and she and Imogene had repaired to the dining room. Her smile was gentle as she sat across from her daughter, the seat at the head of the table conspicuously empty. “Has he done something to offend you, dearest?”

Imogene could think of any number of annoyances but none that rose to the level of offense. She pushed her peas about on her gold-rimmed china plate. “No, Mother. I just find him a bit tiresome.”

“Unlike your Mr. Everard.”

Imogene fought a smile. “Very unlike him.”

“And why do you think you find him so interesting?” her mother persisted, reaching for her crystal goblet.

A reason suggested itself, but she shoved it away. It was far too soon to claim her heart was engaged, and she still had doubts that Mr. Everard would meet her criteria for a husband.

“Outside this business with Father, I’m not sure I know,” she replied, abandoning her peas and gazing at her mother. “When I brought up the matter of his interest in Father last night, he asked me about the third of March. Do you remember anything significant about that date?”

A slight frown marred her mother’s face in the light of the silver candelabra on the table. “March third? I believe that’s the night we arrived in London. What is the importance to Mr. Everard?”

Imogene motioned to Jenkins to come take her plate. “It appears to be the day his uncle died,” she said, thinking about their aborted conversation at the dance. He’d asked her where her father had been. Then she hadn’t been sure. But if March third was the night they arrived in London, she knew what her father had been doing, and his actions only deepened the mystery.

Her mother offered her a sad smile, nodding to the footman to remove her plate, as well. “Ah, significant indeed. I understand Mr. Everard and his uncle were close.”

“Very,” Imogene assured her. “He seems genuinely hurt by Lord Everard’s passing. I suspect Mr. Everard has great sensitivity.”

Her mother’s lips quirked as the footmen began bringing in the second course. “So it would seem. But the other gentlemen this Season are not so very lacking. I’m sure a number of young ladies find Lord Wentworth, for instance, quite presentable.”

“And I rather suspect he agrees.” She sat straighter, coloring. “Oh, Mother, forgive me! That sounded waspish. I don’t know what’s gotten into me today.”

Her mother’s look was assessing. “I fear it isn’t just today. I want the best for you, Imogene, but do you think perhaps you have set your sights too high?”

Imogene raised her chin. “I am the Marquess of Widmore’s daughter. I thought I was supposed to set my sights high!”

Her mother patted the damask cloth beside her as if she longed to pat Imogene’s hand. “I did not mean to suggest you marry the ragman, dearest. However, you seem to have high expectations of your suitors, so high that I fear no man, not even Mr. Everard, can live up to them.”

Imogene shook her head. “I would think that intelligence and charm are not too much to ask.”

Her mother smiled. “I would agree. Lord Eustace has those, yet you refused him out of hand last Season.”

Imogene remembered the enthusiastic man who had offered his heartfelt proposal on bended knee. “Lord Eustace is no more than a friend, Mother, and unfortunately addicted to whist.”

“David Willoughby, then,” her mother insisted, lifting a spoonful of the strawberry ice they had been served. “Handsome, charming, the heir to a barony. He looked crushed when you refused him.”

“He hasn’t darkened the door of a church since he reached his majority,” Imogene informed her, digging into her own ice. “I won’t have a man so lacking in devotion.”

“And Sir George Lawrence? He certainly attends services and supports any number of charitable causes.”

Imogene shuddered, swallowing the cool treat. “He also picks his teeth. With his nails. After he’s eaten enough for a regiment. He’ll die of gout before he’s thirty. I have no wish to be a widow.”

Her mother sighed. “You see? No one is perfect.”

Vaughn Everard’s face came to mind, brightened by that genuine smile she’d seen at the ball last night. His poetry proclaimed him a man of intelligence and creativity. His actions spoke of a devotion to family, of determined perseverance. But she thought she was only seeing the edges of his character.

She dropped her gaze to her lap and was surprised to find the fingers of her free hand pleating the silk of her skirt. “I know no one’s perfect, Mother. But none of those gentlemen you mentioned stirred my heart. Surely I am allowed to feel something tender for the man I’ll marry.”

“I would like that for you, dearest,” her mother murmured, “but not every bride can claim a love match, despite what the novels tell you. There are many other good reasons to wed—security, position, children.”

Saving her family from penury. Oh, but she mustn’t say that aloud. She wasn’t sure she could pull it off, and telling her mother she had a plan to prevent them from losing the marquessate and all its attendant income would only get her hopes up.

“I understand, Mother,” she said. “Please know that I will do my duty. The man I accept will be a credit to the name of Devary and the House of Widmore, I promise. I will settle for nothing less.”

* * *