London's Last True Scoundrel (18 page)

He swept her into a turn and smiled down at her. “You are feeling cross and unappreciated. I know precisely how that might be remedied.”

He leaned down and whispered in her ear. She gurgled a laugh and somehow managed to rap his wrist with her fan while never missing a step. “Flatterer!”

But he had put her in a better frame of mind with his outrageous and inappropriate remarks; he could see that. She beamed up at him, and he wondered why the laughter of a dazzling diamond such as Rosamund should have so little effect on him. When the rare smile of a certain other young lady twisted his guts in a disconcerting and unfamiliar way.

He didn’t dwell on the matter but let Rosamund turn the conversation in the direction he wished it to go.

“Griffin tells me you have a favor to ask,” she said bluntly.

“Did he? Is that all he told you?”

She rolled her eyes. “No, of course he told me everything. You know he can never keep anything from me when I’m determined to get it out of him. Where is she? And how on earth did you come to be responsible for her?”

“She is, at present, upstairs in bed,” he answered, choosing the easiest question to answer first. “As for the rest, I met her by chance, rescued her from a storm, and escorted her home. Her name’s Miss Hilary deVere. Some sort of relation of Griffin’s, you know.”

“Yes, so he said. But that doesn’t precisely recommend her, as you are very well aware.” Rosamund pursed her lips. “The deVeres are at best ramshackle, and at worst … Well, it is improper of me to speak thus of my husband’s family, but I daresay you know.”

“I know. But she’s different.”

Rosamund regarded him doubtfully. “Griffin said she was likely your fancy-piece.
Is
she your fancy-piece, Jonathon? For if you dared bring such a creature to me—”

Annoyed, Davenport frowned down at her. “Is it likely I’d do such a thing?”

“That’s just the problem,” said Rosamund. “The old Jonathon wouldn’t have dreamed of it. The man you are now…”

The trouble in her expression caught him off guard. Hell, he might be a scoundrel in any number of ways, but he’d never even contemplated corrupting the innocence of his female cousins.

“Well, dismiss the idea, Rosie. Not only would it be vulgar to bring my mistress to your house, but why would I? If she were my fancy-piece, as you call her, I’d set her up, snug as you please, in a little house in Kensington. No need to find a respectable female to chaperone her for the season.”

Her face froze. “The
season
? Are you mad?”

Really, this was coming out all wrong. He hadn’t much experience of asking favors of anyone. He’d always been self-sufficient to a fault. Then, too, he’d been alone for far too many years.

Uneasily he said, “Perhaps this wasn’t the best time to mention the subject.”

“I should think not,” said Rosamund with unwonted asperity. “You’ve gone and gotten yourself into a scrape, haven’t you, Jonathon?”

“I’m not a grubby schoolboy, you know.”

“You could have fooled me,” Rosamund muttered. “And what Cecily will say to this I dread to think.”

His dear sister would have plenty to say, he was sure. He knew Rosamund wouldn’t keep this to herself. He only hoped he might avoid a scold from Cecily while at the ball.

“I’ll explain everything to you tomorrow, when you’ve recovered from this evening,” he promised. “Please, let her stay tonight. You can throw her out tomorrow if that’s your inclination once you’ve met her, but I assure you, it won’t be.”

“She is so very different from the rest of her kin, then?” said Rosamund skeptically.

Davenport smiled. “She is a sweetheart. You’ll see.”

*   *   *

As soon as the waltz ended, Davenport tried to make good his escape from the ballroom, but a shift in the crowd brought him face-to-face with Cecily, who was talking with her husband, the Duke of Ashburn, and another couple. The second man of the party was young, auburn haired, with a nervous air, as if he was poised on the brink of running from the ballroom. The unknown lady was clearly his sister, with similar coloring and an equally nervous demeanor.

“By all that’s wonderful,” said Davenport. “Gerry Mason! What are you doing down from Cambridge?”

He leaned forward to shake his old friend’s hand and clap him on the shoulder.

Too late, he remembered. The slight stiffening of the usually pleasant fellow’s face, the perceptible pause before his hand gripped Davenport’s, told him that Gerald hadn’t forgotten anything.

Davenport made himself give an unconcerned grin. “Thought you never did the season, old fellow. Isn’t your microscope missing you?”

If Gerry were more socially adept he might have cut Davenport, but then again, he’d be a brave man to try it while Cecily and Ashburn formed part of the group.

Mason flushed and seemed about to stammer an answer, but Cecily threw herself into the breach. “Why, Mr. Mason is being a good brother, escorting Miss Mason about town for the season, are you not?” With a smile, she turned to Gerry’s companion. “Miss Mason, may I present my brother, the Earl of Davenport? I don’t think you’ve met.”

The lady was so timid she barely squeaked a greeting before falling silent, with a scared look at her brother from her big blue eyes.

Ordinarily, Davenport wouldn’t have spared another thought for Miss Mason, but with Honey’s debut in the forefront of his mind he felt a twinge of sympathy for the awkward girl. She was all gangling limbs and freckles. Painfully shy, too.

Before he could check them, the words were out of his mouth. “Would you care to dance the next set, Miss Mason?”

Without allowing the lady herself to answer, Gerald cut in. “I should think not, Davenport.”

Very slowly, Davenport turned his head to look at Gerald.

The man swallowed hard, but he stood his ground. Brave of him.

With an unconcerned laugh, Cecily said, “I’m sure I can find you a better partner than my dull old brother, Miss Mason. Come with me and we’ll see who might be interesting.”

With a minatory look at Davenport that sent a silent command to behave himself, she led Miss Mason away, leaving him with Ashburn and Gerald.

Cecily needn’t have worried. Davenport’s anger was directed at himself, not Gerald. For a few moments, he’d forgotten he was considered to be a libertine and a rotter. He was the kind of fellow a gentleman like Gerald wouldn’t let breathe the same pure air as his virginal sister. Who could blame him? Certainly not Davenport.

Yet, when he’d seen Gerald, the years had slid back. He’d been at Cambridge again and the world was an endlessly intricate puzzle he’d set out to solve. But he couldn’t return to the innocence of those days. He ought to thank his old cohort for the reminder.

Ashburn, smoothly debonair as usual, engaged Gerald in a conversation about the younger man’s latest attempts to isolate the active ingredient in the Cinchona tree to help treat malaria. While Davenport had often staged theatrical experiments at the Royal Institution and routinely set fire to things, Gerald quietly went about finding ways to save people’s lives.

Commercially minded as usual, Ashburn was urging Gerald to patent his discoveries, but Gerald was adamant that his research should be available to all.

“At the least, you must be quicker to publish your findings,” said Ashburn, his sleek black brows drawing together. “Those damned Frenchmen keep taking all the credit.”

Gerald shrugged. “I don’t set much store by such things. The race to publication has never interested me.”

“The Institution would view you more seriously if you did take an interest in it,” said Ashburn.

Gerald’s gaze darkened. “The Royal Institution lauds all kinds of charlatans.”

Ashburn glanced at Davenport. “Quite so.”

Unreasonable to feel a gut-clenching sense of betrayal at Ashburn’s agreement. Well, what could he expect, after all?

“Good evening, gentlemen.” From behind him, a silvery feminine voice broke like the chiming of bells into their very masculine group.

A lady with glossy jet-black hair and bright blue eyes approached them on her father’s arm.

She was a vision of loveliness, from the tasteful diadem in her elegant coiffure to her satin dancing slippers. Her bosom was generous for such a slender woman, her height on the tall side, her bearing regal.

There was a cold fire in her eyes when her gaze rested on him. She’d taken their parting badly, but she was too well-bred to make a scene. Still, the night was young.

Damn.
He’d meant to escape the ballroom before he encountered her again. Too late. And not only Lady Maria but her urbanely smiling papa as well. It never rained but it poured.

Davenport said, “Lady Maria. Lord Yarmouth. You know the Duke of Ashburn, I believe.”

Ashburn bowed.

“And Mr. Mason.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” said Yarmouth in his silkiest voice. “We’ve known Gerald forever, haven’t we, my love?”

Yarmouth was a large man with a balding egg-shaped head. What was left of his hair was black as his daughter’s. The man always smiled, even when humiliating his pupils for some error or transgression.

It had been Yarmouth’s passion for chemistry that had originally infected Davenport. Gerald, too, had been a protégé of Yarmouth’s at one time.

Lady Maria’s cheeks pinked as she greeted Davenport’s companions. She hadn’t taken her attention from Davenport for an instant. He found her steady regard unnerving. She looked like a cat deciding how it would play with a mouse before the kill.

Which was ridiculous, of course.

“Lady Maria.” Gerald’s voice had the bite of a whiplash as he snapped out a bow.

Her gaze flickered to him and back to Davenport. The flush on her cheeks deepened. She lifted her chin, as if in challenge.

She ought to know better than to think such tricks could reanimate Davenport’s regard. He couldn’t summon so much as a spark of interest.

The musicians struck up in the preliminary strains of a lively country dance.

“Ah,” said Lady Maria. “The set is about to form.”

Her wide blue eyes with their thick, sooty lashes took on an expectant gleam, and he knew that any gentleman worth his salt would pick up this cue.

Clearly, he wasn’t worth his salt, or any other form of seasoning, come to that. Dancing with the chit would only fuel her father’s ambitions and give credence to whatever amorphous rumors had gathered about London’s famous scoundrel and the virtuous Lady Maria Shand.

Stubbornly Davenport remained silent until Lady Maria was forced to include the other gentlemen in her faint smile.

Ashburn had developed an alarmingly keen interest in polishing his quizzing glass with his handkerchief. Rightly so. Cecily would skin him if she saw him dancing with the enemy.

Gerald reddened and took a jerky step forward. “If you’d care to dance, my lady, I should be honored.”

Poor Gerald. He’d always been awkward around females, particularly pretty ones.

A momentary tightening of her bow-shaped lips indicated her displeasure at this turn of events but she was intelligent enough to realize she’d lost this round..

With a smile that could have cut glass, Lady Maria made a curtsy and placed her hand lightly on Gerald’s proffered arm. Sparing a glance for her hapless dancing partner, she said, “Thank you, Mr. Mason.”

Gerald led Lady Maria away.

Ashburn excused himself and Davenport would have made good his escape also, but Yarmouth stayed him with an uplifted hand. “Davenport, my dear fellow. We must talk.”

“Must we?” muttered Davenport. He knew what Yarmouth would say. Since Davenport’s resurrection, his former mentor had been his greatest supporter. And thus his greatest danger.

They both watched Gerald and Lady Maria take their places in the set. The couple seemed to be having some sort of heated discussion. Oh, Maria would not even hint at such a thing by her demeanor, but Gerald’s face flamed almost as brightly as his hair.

“Poor Gerald,” murmured Yarmouth, as if reading Davenport’s thoughts. “Was he being self-righteous just now?”

“I don’t blame him,” said Davenport. “What I did was unforgivable.”

“Hmm.” Yarmouth slid a sideways glance at him. “You seem to be taking all the slings and arrows with remarkable grace. I don’t know how you stand it.”

Davenport shrugged. He wasn’t sure which was his less favorite topic: his scientific disgrace or the prospect of marrying Yarmouth’s daughter.

“I could help you clear your name,” said Yarmouth.

“Oh?” This ought to be good. “How so?”

“I have influence in many quarters. Some of them beyond even Ashburn’s reach.”

And the price for using that influence would be … wedding Lady Maria, no doubt.

Davenport switched on a smirk as genial as Yarmouth’s. “You are generous.”

“Not at all.” Somehow, the man’s relentless smile increased in brightness. “I daresay you know the favor I’d ask in return.”

Now the gloves came off. “My dear sir, I’m flattered. But let me assure you, the rumors about me are most definitely true. I’m not the youth you knew years ago.” He paused, looking down at his hands for a moment. Then he raised his gaze to look directly into Yarmouth’s eyes. “And I would make the devil of a husband.”

“You have made my daughter the object of your attentions,” said Yarmouth, a hint of steel showing beneath the smooth demeanor.

“Rest assured, I have seen the error of my ways, sir,” said Davenport, bowing. “I mean to cut her dead when next we meet.”

Davenport escaped from the ballroom as soon as he could. Cards couldn’t possibly hold his attention tonight, so he was left with the choice of going home or finding some other amusement on the town.

The contempt twisting Gerald’s face as he’d referred to Davenport’s fall from grace kept rising before his mind’s eye. They’d been friends and fierce competitors once, driving each other to new heights of discovery.

Now Davenport was a laughingstock, banned from the Royal Institution. His former cohort resented him for it, counting his demise as a personal betrayal. Another price Davenport paid for freedom.

His encounter with Lady Maria had left a sour taste in his mouth. It was as if he’d been drinking of cool spring water for the past two days, only to chase it with a dose of vinegar. The urge to see Honey again, to cleanse his palate, grew too insistent to ignore.