The Rake's Redemption
November 2012 (ISBN: 978-0-373-82940-8, Love Inspired Books)
Even infamous duelist and poet Vaughn Everard has qualms about dragging an innocent lady into his quest for revenge. But Imogene Devary is the daughter of the man suspected of murdering Vaughn's uncle. Surely that makes her fair game in order to uncover the truth!
Can the man who writes such moving verse be beyond redemption? Imogene can't believe so. In taming Vaughn's heart and healing the rift between their families, she's sure she's found her calling. Then his mission to unmask a killer reveals a terrifying plot. Only together can they safeguard his legacy, their newfound love, and England's very future.
Four and a half stars from RT Book Reviews!
"With well-drawn characters and a respectable mystery, this third entry in the Everard Legacy brings alive the London of 1805, when wigs and powder were on the way out and war with Napoleon loomed."
"Scott deftly integrates flawlessly researched period details and emotionally engaging characters into the captivating plot." --John Charles, Booklist
"Romance, mystery, suspense, and drama collide to ensure that readers will never find themselves bored." --The Huntress Reviews
"There's a dark, intriguing edge to this sweet inspirational, which reprises characters from earlier series titles, provides a delightful love story, and cleverly unravels the tangled threads of the mystery that has puzzled readers throughout the trilogy. VERDICT A sprinkling of religious references keeps this title firmly within the inspirational camp, but the setting and Scott's attention to period detail make this refreshing romance a natural crossover for traditional Regency fans." -- Library Journal
London, England, Late Spring 1805
Where was he?
Lady Imogene Devary stood at the edge of the crowded ballroom, up on the toes of her white kid evening slippers. She hadn't even had a chance to dance, yet her heart was pounding in her satin-covered chest, and she could barely catch her breath.
Where was he, the stranger who had appeared at her door the past three days? Her father, Lord Widmore, had refused to see him each time, most recently so loudly the miniature of her little brother had clattered against the wall. Why did the stranger so concern him?
She peered about, twisting this way and that. The sounds of the ball brushed against her: the rise and fall of a hundred conversations, the strains of a string quartet, the dull thump of slippered pumps on hardwood and the laughter of flirtation. The Mayweathers had rented the prestigious Elysium Assembly Rooms for their annual ball. A dozen fluted columns marched down the center in Grecian elegance, and two crystal chandeliers hung from the gilded, domed ceiling above. Ladies in satins and velvets strolled past, and gentlemen nodded at Imogene in greeting. She knew almost every one of the nearly three hundred guests. How could a stranger escape notice?
Had he seen her pacing him in the ballroom when she'd first spied him earlier? She'd been shocked that anyone her father refused to acknowledge would be allowed entrance to such a fine occasion. So where had he gone now? Had he ensconced himself in the card room like her mother? Evaporated like a wisp of her imagination? Was she never to learn the truth?
And we know that all things work together for good to them that love God, to them who are called according to His purpose.
Yes, she had to hope in that verse. She had a purpose in spending her time searching the ballroom when she ought to be finding herself the perfect suitor. She loved her father too much to see him harassed. Hadn't they suffered enough? Or perhaps the stranger thought their suffering made them vulnerable. She squared her shoulders. That fellow would learn the Devary family was made of stronger stuff.
But perhaps she would not be able to convince him tonight. She puffed out a sigh and lowered herself to her heels. If she could not find him, she would have to determine another way to wrest some pleasure from the remainder of the evening. Tomorrow she could question Elisa about the guest list, perhaps identify him that way. She'd simply thought she would be better at this espionage business.
Her good friend Elisa Mayweather certainly had a talent for going unnoticed. She had pressed her back against the creamy white wall, and Imogene was certain she was strategically placed so that a column hid her from her imperious mother. As if to be certain no one would recognize her, she fluttered an ivory fan before her long face, embroidered satin skirts swinging with the motion. Another friend stood sentinel beside her.
Imogene hurried to join them. "Why aren't you dancing?" she asked, noticing their tight lips, their deep frowns.
Elisa snapped her fan shut and leveled it at a group of men crowding the far corner. "She's doing it again."
Kitty Longbourne sniffed, dark eyes narrowed to slits that made her resemble her nickname. "Rotten beau-snatcher."
"What, not you too?" Imogene whirled to join her glare to theirs. "Freddie Pulsipher has lived in your pocket the past year. Don't tell me he's defected."
"Defected and forgotten me entirely," Kitty said, her normally dulcet voice closer to a growl. She shook her pale skirts and lifted her chin as if she were well rid of the boy.
"That is the outside of enough!" Imogene started toward the group. Elisa snatched at her shoulder to pull her up, fingers biting into the lace on Imogene's short sleeves.
"Where are you going? You can't accost her!" Elisa's wide brown eyes begged Imogene not to cause a scene.
But Imogene wasn't about to stand along the wall like some hothouse palm and bemoan her fate. She might not be able to find that stranger tonight, but she could help her friends.
She patted Elisa's hand. "There, now. I shan't kick up a dust. But someone must put a stop to her."
"This is her first Season," Elisa said, dropping her hand. "She was only presented to the queen two weeks ago. Perhaps she doesn't know the rules."
"I understand she was raised in the back of beyond," Kitty agreed with another sniff, this time of decided superiority.
Imogene had heard the rumors too. The girl was an orphan with only three male cousins for guardians. That might have been enough to put Imogene in charity toward her, except her rival was also a beautiful heiress, with her own title no less, and the respected Lady Claire Winthrop was her sponsor. Where the young gentlemen of London were concerned, those factors conspired to make Samantha, Lady Everard, very popular indeed. But that her friends should be ignored while every gentleman danced attendance on the upstart-well, that was something Imogene would not tolerate.
"I don't intend to rip out her hair," Imogene informed them, to which Kitty muttered, "Whyever not?" Imogene shook her head. "But something must be done. Look, this set is ending, and the musicians are likely to take a short break. I for one plan to have a partner when they strike up the music again." Before her friends could say another word to dissuade her, she lifted her white skirts and swept across the room.
Her way was impeded immediately. Couples promenaded past, gazes entwined. A collection of dowagers debated the latest fashions. Distinguished gentlemen gestured with crystal goblets, intent on making their points on politics.
But by far the largest single group, at least three deep, was clustered in the corner. Imogene couldn't even make out the lady at the center. That truly did seem excessive. A girl on her first Season should expect a loyal group of followers but not at the expense of every other young lady on the ton.
Imogene put on her prettiest smile and tapped the rear gentleman on the shoulder. Short as she was, it was difficult to tell his identity from the back, but she recognized him the moment he turned.
"Mr. Wainsborough," Imogene informed him, "I am quite vexed with you."
He blinked blue eyes as if suddenly finding himself transported to the farthest reaches of the Empire. "Lady Imogene, I have no idea what I could have done, but I most sincerely beg your pardon."
Imogene raised her chin. "You are forgiven, so long as you march yourself over to Miss Elisa Mayweather and ask her to dance."
"Miss Mayweather?" He glanced around the room, and Imogene nudged him to the left so he could see Elisa standing against the wall. He looked back at the crowd of gentlemen, then returned his gaze to Imogene as if begging for mercy.
She narrowed her eyes at him. He slumped in defeat. "Of course. Delighted. Your servant, Lady Imogene."
She waited only until he was on his way before tapping the next nearest fellow. "You, sir, are no gentleman."
He jerked around, sandy brows up in surprise. "Why, Lady Imogene, what do you mean?"
Imogene put her hands on her hips. "Here you stand while my good friend Kitty Longbourne pines away for a moment on the dance floor."
"She's pining?" His head turned as if he expected to see Kitty reclining on a divan with a cold compress on her forehead.
Imogene caught his coat, pointed him toward Kitty and gave him a push. "Go on, now. There's a good lad."
As he started off, she pulled up her long gloves and tapped the next fellow.
By the time the musicians started tuning up again, she had succeeded in peeling away all but five of Lady Everard's admirers, and every girl who needed a partner had one for the next set. All Imogene required was one for herself. She put her hand to the closest broad shoulder. The man turned.
And Imogene froze. She recognized the platinum hair held away from his lean face in an old-fashioned queue at the back of his neck, the sharp angles of cheek and chin. Instead of the black cloak that had enveloped him the last time he'd called, he wore a tailored black coat and breeches with a black-striped waistcoat and an elegantly tied cravat. Those dark eyes had looked merciless as the footman had sent him away for the third time. Now they were merely curious.
"There you are," she exclaimed. "I believe you wanted to dance."
One pale brow went up. "Forgive me. Have we met?"
"We must have met," Imogene insisted, taking his arm and threading hers through it. My, but he was strong; his arm felt like a mahogany banister under hers. "How else would I know you wished to dance?"
His mouth quirked. "How else indeed." He glanced over his shoulder at Lady Everard, then settled Imogene's arm closer. For a moment, she had the oddest feeling of being trapped. It shouldn't have felt so pleasant.
"Very well, then, my dear," he said, voice low and warm, like the purr of a tiger she'd seen in the Tower zoo. "Let us rise with the notes of the song and dance upon its joy."
The phrase sounded familiar, but she couldn't place it. In fact, as Imogene strolled with him toward the line of dancers, she was very much aware of another sound, for her heart had started drumming again.
Vaughn Everard stood across the line from the young lady who had accosted him. It wasn't the first time he'd been approached. He was a published poet, and some ladies imagined they had been his muse or understood his character because they'd read his work. A few even sought him for his reputation as a duelist, as if they thrilled to flirt with danger. A frown was often enough to send them scampering back to their mamas.
But not this young lady, he sensed. The look in those light jade eyes was challenging, and even the chestnut color of her curls, springing on either side of her creamy cheeks, seemed to crackle with energy. The grin on her peach-colored lips could only be called mischievous. Couple all that with a lush figure that showed to advantage in her simple, high-waisted white satin gown, and he found himself quite disposed to dance.
She looked to be a little older than his cousin Samantha, perhaps nineteen or twenty. Certainly younger than his twenty-six years and just as certainly a lady, or the high-stickler Mayweathers would never have allowed her to join them at their stuffy little ball. He had only been invited, he was sure, because he was one of three guardians to a beautiful young heiress making her debut in London Society. The Mayweathers coveted a relationship with the new Lady Everard. They were willing to suffer her ne'er-do-well cousin if necessary.
But why had this young lady insisted on a dance? She was watching him as if she wasn't entirely sure what to do with him as he bowed and she curtsied to the first measures of the music. Testing her, he kept his gaze locked with hers until they had passed shoulder to shoulder in the center of the lines. She did not look away, but her cheeks turned the same delectable color as her lips as she moved back into place.
When she placed her hands over his for the turn, he let his fingers caress her palms. She raised her pointed chin but did not jerk away.
Interesting. If she was bent on an assignation, she should be responding in kind. If she was a green girl, she'd be dashing from the set in embarrassment. As it was, her assessing look said she didn't intend to fall for nonsense. For some reason, that made him want to behave like a gentleman for once.
And that would be a mistake.
He had no right to the title; his grandfather and father had made that abundantly clear. And his purpose at this ball had no noble motive. He'd been sure his quarry would attend, yet he'd searched every room, and Robert Devary, the Marquess of Widmore, was nowhere to be found.
It had been the same everywhere he'd gone. The marquess was never home to callers, never at his club when he'd been expected, never at his solicitor's place of business, Tattersall's Horse Emporium or even Parliament when it was in session. Vaughn had hired a boy to follow him; the lad had never returned.
He'd lurked across the street from the house; his lordship went out the back. He'd loitered in the alley near the stables; the fellow escaped out the front! He'd even tried stalking the corridors of Whitehall, hoping to catch the marquess between meetings with the Admiralty or the War Office, where he advised on matters with the French, and still the man managed to avoid him. And the other members of government looked less than kindly on questions raised about their colleague.
But if he couldn't solve the mystery of the marquess tonight, at least he might discover more about his pretty partner. When they reached the end of the line and were forced to stand out for a cycle, he said, "You, madam, are a cipher."
She batted her cinnamon lashes. "Me? What of you, all in black? Are you a wraith, sir, flitting about the ballroom in search of prey?"
"If I was I would certainly search you out."
"Ah, but somehow I thought you were out for something larger, an earl or a marquess, perhaps."
Did she know? How could she? The reason for his quest was a closely held family secret, and even his family had been known to try to dissuade him from approaching the marquess. "You wouldn't happen to have one in your pocket, would you?" he asked. "It would make my work much easier."
She spread her hands as if to display her shiny gown to him. "No pockets, alas. And what would you want with an old marquess anyway?"
She had no idea. He leaned closer. "At the moment, I couldn't care less. Come now, admit it. We've never met."
Her light eyes twinkled as she dropped her arms. "Really, sir, I should take offense that you don't remember me."
Vaughn smiled as he straightened. "Forgive me. Any lady whose beauty outshines the stars should be impossible to forget."
Her smile grew. "There now, you see what a charming gentleman you can be when you put your mind to it?"
Vaughn took her hands and pulled her back into the dance. "A momentary aberration brought about solely by your presence, my dear."
Still, he tried to treat her with the utmost civility as they progressed back down the line. It was hard to recall his purpose in London with her gazing at him that way. She smiled with her whole body-eyes alight and crinkled around the corners, chin lifted, body leaning forward as if she were about to impart a delightful secret. He found himself leaning forward just to hear it.
The set ended far too soon for him. As the music faded, ladies curtsied and men bowed. He didn't want to move, didn't want the moment to pass, didn't want to return to his dark pursuit of hunting a killer and making him pay. For these few precious seconds, he could pretend he was a typical young gentleman dancing with the loveliest lady in the room.
But he had never been typical. As if even the Mayweathers understood that, a tall, hawk-nosed female he knew to be the matriarch of the family was bearing down upon them. "Lady Imogene," she said in a booming voice guaranteed to draw attention. "A moment of your time." She seized the girl's arm as if to ensure obedience.
Imogene. It suited her. Nothing in the common way like Jane or Ann. Vaughn bowed, mouth tipping up in a half smile. Lady Imogene frowned, and he could have sworn she tried to pull away. But her hostess was having no part of it. She visibly tightened her grip on the lady's arm and dragged her to safety.
Vaughn shook his head, turning away. Lady Imogene's mother or sponsor might be remiss in her duties, but her friends were clearly more attentive. They recognized the danger he posed, even if the lovely Lady Imogene was oblivious. They thought they knew him. They were equally oblivious. The real Vaughn Everard lay deep inside. Only one man had ever known him, and that man was now dead.
He had to applaud his cousin Richard for trying, however. Vaughn hadn't even crossed the floor to the door before his older cousin caught up with him. A former sea captain, Richard Everard moved with the assurance of a man used to command, though he looked the consummate gentleman in his evening black. Unfortunately for Richard, Vaughn had never been good at accepting commands.
"What was that about?" Richard demanded, taking Vaughn's arm and drawing him aside.
Around them, ladies in fine gowns strolled past, favoring them with coy smiles. Vaughn ignored them. "There's better sport to be had. Care to join me?"
Richard shook his russet head, though he released his grip. "I feared you'd found sport here as well. Claire recognized your partner before I did, but I thought Samantha would go looking for your sword when she saw you dancing."
Trust Richard's lovely betrothed Lady Claire Winthrop to notice anything untoward. She was Samantha's sponsor after all. Samantha, however, was far less interested in propriety when it came to those who held her loyalty. In that, as in so many things, she was like her father, a fact guaranteed to endear her to Vaughn. Every burst of fondness he felt for her only reinforced his mission. He had to learn the truth behind her father's death, even if it meant hunting the marquess to ground.
"Neither Samantha nor your lady love have cause for concern," Vaughn assured Richard. "It was only a dance."
"Was it?" Richard took a step closer. "Claire cannot like your methods, and neither can I. As far as we can tell, Lady Imogene Devary is an innocent. You cannot use her to punish her father."
He felt as if all the members of this fine company had turned and shouted in his direction. "What did you say?"
Richard's dark eyes, so like Vaughn's, gazed down at him. "You didn't know who you were dancing with, did you?"
Vaughn still couldn't believe the implication. "Devary? Related to the Devarys who hold the Widmore marquessate?"
"His daughter," Richard said. "His only surviving child. From what I've seen, he dotes on the girl. As close as you were to our uncle, I'm surprised you didn't know."
Of course he hadn't known. He would have used the dance to far greater advantage had he realized she was connected to the enemy who may have killed Arthur Everard, Samantha's father.
"The marquess may have been Uncle's closest friend," he told Richard, "but he never had much use for me. I've not met his wife or daughter." He cocked a smile. "Of course, I could say that about half the better families in London."
Richard straightened as if believing him. "Just remember your promise. We wait for Jerome before accosting the marquess."
Vaughn smiled. "I promised to wait until Samantha was presented to the queen to avoid any hint of scandal. She was presented two weeks ago. Widmore is mine."
Richard shoved in front of him. His cousin was the tallest of the family, and being a captain hadn't helped his diplomacy. "You will not touch the marquess until we talk to Jerome," Richard commanded. "My brother is still the head of this family."
Vaughn gazed up at him from under his brows. Richard might have the longer reach-and he certainly had experience in using the blade, having fought pirates on his travels-but Vaughn was fairly certain he could beat his cousin if it came to a duel. Richard would hesitate before wounding a man, particularly a member of the family. Vaughn wouldn't.
"Do what you must, Cousin," Vaughn said. "I know where my duty lies. Do you?"
He returned to the ballroom then, at last seeing his path clearly. The Marquess of Widmore might refuse to give him the time of day, but Vaughn thought he stood a good chance of convincing the man's daughter otherwise. He had yet to meet a lady who didn't swoon at a well-placed verse, a lovesick smile. Much as he abhorred dragging an innocent into this business, his duty lay in solving the mystery of his uncle's death. And Lady Imogene Devary, he very much feared, had become the key.