The Rake's Redemption

Vaughn’s afternoon was far quieter, a fact designed to cause him no end of difficulties. There was nothing he liked less than indolence. He needed action, challenges, something to keep his mind and hands busy. When Uncle had been alive, they’d never lacked for diversions—wagering on impossible odds, cheering horse races and pugilistic displays and closing the gaming tables in the wee hours of the morning. He wasn’t sure when those things had begun to pale—it had begun some time before his uncle’s death, he believed—but he found he had little interest in them now.

So he sat in his room in Everard House and stared at the empty parchment in front of him. The windows were shuttered, the fire banked low. He’d had the new valet he shared with his cousin Richard remove the clock so its steady ticking would be no distraction. Everything was conducive to starting his next poem, but he found the words had dried up. It was as if everything meaningful to him had turned to dust the day Uncle had died.

He leaned back in the chair at his writing table, fixed his gaze on the pattern of the wallpaper and traced each leafy green frond back to the center. Why couldn’t he order his thoughts? Other men seemed to concentrate so easily, to shift their attentions when they wished. He found himself concentrating to the point of shutting out everything else or being unable to make his mind settle on a single topic. Even now, it flitted from problem to problem, never solving anything, merely teasing him with possibilities before moving on.

For a time after Uncle had died, only vengeance had sustained him. His cousins had been concerned for his state of mind. He’d seen the looks flashing between Jerome and Richard when they talked about what had happened the night Uncle’s body had been returned home. If he dwelled on that day now, he’d likely go mad.

He pushed back his chair and went in search of game.

Everard House ought to be crowded with him, his cousins Richard and Samantha and Lady Claire Winthrop in residence, to say nothing of his cousin Jerome and his new wife, who were expected any moment. Yet sometimes days went by without more than a chance meeting in the corridor. The others were all intent on making Samantha the toast of London, and that meant taking the girl out where she could be seen.

Today, for example, Samantha and Lady Claire, as they had all begun to call his cousin’s sponsor, were just returning from some event when he reached the stairs and gazed down into the entryway. The marble-tiled space looked remarkably empty since they had removed the massive statue of a naked Eve holding out a golden apple, one of Uncle’s mad whims. Samantha seemed entirely too small, her dainty features as animated as the hands she waved in front of her sky-blue spencer.

“But he asked to call,” she was saying breathlessly. “I thought surely you’d advise me to encourage him.”

“Anyone else, certainly,” Lady Claire replied, handing her feathered bonnet to the footman. Vaughn had been unsure of Richard’s betrothed at first. The color of her thick, wavy hair might be as warm as honey, but her blue gaze could be as cold as ice. And it didn’t help that she had thrown over Richard for a wealthy viscount years ago. He had come to realize, however, that a loving heart beat beneath those fashionable silk gowns, and her devotion to Samantha was unquestionable.

His cousin puffed out a sigh as she allowed the footman to take her bonnet. “I’m only trying to fulfill Papa’s will!”

“And with considerable style,” Vaughn called down.

Her face brightened as she looked up at him. “Cousin Vaughn! You’re home!”

“An astute observation, infant,” he replied with a smile as he descended the stairs. “And as you appear to be home as well, what say we find ourselves some mischief?”

She grinned as he reached her side. “What shall it be? Boxing? Fencing?”

Lady Claire raised a brow. “Entirely without imagination. Pugilism would ruin your gown, and you’ve already beaten him twice with the blade.”

Three times, but he was not about to admit to their bout the other morning in the stables. “I allow her to win. It inspires confidence.”

“Ha!” Samantha made a face at him. “Damages your consequence, you mean.”

“Regardless,” Lady Claire said with a twinkle in her eyes, “as we need time to prepare for a ball this evening, perhaps a short game of skittles in the library.”

Vaughn nearly made a face at that. Was this what he had fallen to for entertainment—swinging a little ball on a chain so it collided with a set of pins? Where was the adventure, the excitement?

“Lovely!” Samantha exclaimed with a clap of her hands, and he felt compelled to bow her and Lady Claire ahead of him to the library. He’d promised to support the girl in any way possible, after all. She was doing them a favor.

Uncle had written his will oddly. The law required the only legal child of his blood, Samantha, to inherit the title and the bulk of the Everard legacy—lands in six counties, shares in more than a dozen ships and money in the Exchange. But Uncle had left a sizable bequest to each of his nephews provided they help Samantha achieve three tasks. The first, being presented to the queen, had been accomplished two weeks ago, thanks to the help of Lady Claire.

The other two were more difficult. Uncle’s reputation for wildness had caused any number of families to close their homes to anyone named Everard. The will required Samantha to be welcomed in those homes. Vaughn knew he wouldn’t be much help there. Between his loyalty to his uncle and the duels he’d fought the past two years, he’d managed to lock those doors and set up an oak barricade across them. Only Samantha’s bubbly personality, beauty and barony would open them.

The final task he disliked the most of all. Samantha was to garner no less than three offers of marriage from eligible gentlemen. She’d already received one from an old family friend, a boy she’d known for ages. She’d refused, and the lad had been recalled home before he could press her further.

Of course, Vaughn had also offered, more in jest than anything else, though her sponsor seemed determined to count it. Samantha had known better than to accept. Though she seemed equally fond of him, she saw the similarities between him and her father and feared them. He’d always said she was a clever minx.

The next half hour proved just how clever. She won the first game handily, and he was hard-pressed to win the second. All the while she cast him glances under her golden lashes, smile playing about her rosy lips as if she knew what he was thinking. Unfortunately, he was certain his sweet little cousin might run crying from the room if she knew the darkness that sometimes threatened him.

As if he suspected Vaughn’s mood, Richard, who had wandered in during the second game, stayed behind when Lady Claire took Samantha away to change for the ball.

“I understand you’re pursuing Lady Imogene,” he said, taking Samantha’s spot across the table from Vaughn.

Vaughn continued to set the polished wood pins back in their positions on the board. “If you know only the single song, pray stop harping.”

He thought his cousin might react to the goad. In fact, a small part of him wanted a reaction, perhaps even an argument. Anything was better than staring at that blank page upstairs where his muse lay stillborn. But Richard crossed his arms over his chest, straining the shoulders of his brown coat.

“You can’t dwell on the past,” he said. “It will eat away at you.”

Vaughn knew Richard spoke from experience. He’d courted Lady Claire when they were both too young and he’d watched her wed another. Only when the now-widowed Claire had chosen to sponsor Samantha had the two worked through their differences.

“Easy for you to say,” Vaughn returned, aligning a pin into the triangle. “Your past is now your future. For me, there will be no second chance. Uncle is dead.”

“We’ll see him again someday,” Richard countered.

Something black boiled up inside him. “Men of faith go to heaven. By your theology, Uncle and I are headed somewhere else entirely.”

Richard’s long arm shot out, clasped his shoulder. “Only if you choose it. Uncle had a change of heart before he died. I see no reason not to hope for you.”

Vaughn glanced up at him, feeling the concern coiling out from Richard’s grip, seeing the worry in that tense face. With one finger, he hit the closest pin and watched as all the others tumbled, as well. “Only if your God has a sense of humor,” he said, though he felt his gut twist at the joke. He very much feared that nothing he could do would earn him a place beside his cousins when this life ended.

Richard looked ready to argue, his bearded jaw set. Vaughn rose and turned his back, striding from the room before his cousin could call him back or call him to task. He needed light, he needed air. He needed something to focus his mind!

A picture kindly presented itself, sharp and clear, and he knew exactly how to fill that waiting page. He took the stairs two at a time, shoved through the door and threw himself into the chair. The words flew from the quill, powerful, purposeful. Only when he’d filled that page and three more like it did he stop to marvel at the flow.

That the poems came so easily should not have surprised him. All he’d needed was a little inspiration. And it seemed his mind had finally deigned to fix itself on a point on the horizon: a shining star named Imogene.

Chapter Five

Imogene was ready when Vaughn Everard called for her the next day. She was once again loitering near the landing, but she took her time descending the stair to his side. It would never do to let a gentleman think she was longing for his company or that she admired him in his high-crowned beaver, bottle-green coat and spotless boots. She tried not to blush as he took her hand and declared that the angels in heaven must be weeping for their inability to match her beauty.

But she couldn’t help exclaiming over his carriage.

It was a newer class, a “chariot” she believed she’d heard, in a shade of lacquered blue that complimented her lighter blue spencer and the velvet ribbons that crossed her white bonnet. Every sleek line said speed and power. The perfectly matched snowy-white horses waiting at its head looked capable of flying, and even her under footman holding them seemed awed by his task. She glanced at the seats in the compartment behind the high driver’s bench.

“I prefer to handle my own horses,” Vaughn said as if he’d seen her look. “I was hoping you’d join me up front.”

Imogene grinned at him. “I was hoping you’d ask.”

That smile appeared, so fleeting and yet so warming. She wondered what she’d have to do to make it remain.

He handed her up into the seat, a padded-leather perch surrounded by a brass rail, then went around to take his place beside her. Up so high, she could see down the street, across the park in the center of the square and through the trees to the more trafficked street beyond. As she glanced around, however, she noticed that the space for the footman or tiger at the back was empty, and her under footman showed no sign of climbing aboard as he released the bridles at Mr. Everard’s nod.

Of course, sitting up on the driver’s bench, everyone could see her as well, so her reputation would not suffer—at least no more than would be expected sitting next to this man.

He clucked to the horses and set them off at a good clip, the rushing air tugging at her bonnet. His hands held the great beasts lightly, and he easily threaded the horses through the traffic on Park Lane. A little thrill ran through her. She was driving with the famous Vaughn Everard! Would he speak of love, of great historical events, of the French massing on the farther shore of the Channel, ready to devour England?

“Fine day for a drive,” he ventured, gazing out over his horses.