London's Last True Scoundrel (22 page)

“Quite a lot, I imagine,” responded Honey quietly. “I can see you are fond of each other.”

“Fond? Of this termagant?” Davenport shook his head. “Must have me confused with someone else.”

The Duchess of Ashburn most improperly stuck her tongue out at him and then they both broke into laughter. Her eyes twinkling merrily up at him, she said softly, “What a cawker you are, my dear.”

“Children, children! Behave.” Rosamund, ever the peacemaker, steered them back on course, and soon the conversation turned to preparing Miss deVere for the season.

Stars sparkled in Honey’s eyes as the discussion moved deeper into the waters of fashion and balls and the myriad delights of the ton. Watching her drinking in the glittering world Rosamund revealed, ably assisted by Lady Arden, Davenport struggled to harden his heart.

Honey could have her season, but he needed her promise that she’d break off the engagement before the wedding was due to take place. There was no way he’d actually marry her.

While the other ladies probed his betrothed for more information about this whirlwind courtship, his sister drew him aside.

With a gleam of humor, she said, “You got yourself into this, dear brother. Now how are you going to get yourself out?”

He lifted an eyebrow at her. “What in the world makes you think I wish to get out?”

“You might play your cards close to your chest, but I know you. You’d no notion of changing your ways and settling down when you left London. You cannot have altered that much in a matter of days.”

“But weren’t you telling me only recently about love’s transformative effect?” murmured Davenport.

“And that’s another thing,” said Cecily, ignoring the frivolous interjection. “Only one night is accounted for in your romantic tale of rescue. But you were gone for two.”

His mouth quirked in a cynical smile. “So you were in on the kidnapping plot, were you?”

“It was my idea. I needed help with the execution, of course.” Cecily threw up her hands. “We had to do something, or you would have been forced to marry Lady Maria. Yarmouth was making all sorts of veiled insinuations in that odiously unctuous, smiling way of his until Montford stepped in. Whatever else she may be, Lady Maria is not some round-heeled tavern wench, Jonathon. She’s a lady and Lord Yarmouth is a powerful man. You ought not to have seduced her. And now, just when we’d saved you from that catastrophe, you’ve gone and landed yourself in the suds again.”

“I didn’t seduce Lady Maria,” he said. “And it doesn’t become you in the least to talk that way, Cec, let me tell you.”

He hadn’t succeeded in seducing Lady Maria when he’d been shipped off to the country willy-nilly. Or rather, she hadn’t succeeded in seducing him. Despite her gentle birth and her demure demeanor, the girl was a consummate tease, with far more experience in dalliance than her adoring father knew.

Well, she could forget her ambitions to snare a tarnished earl.

At this moment, he could not quite remember what the point had been to chasing Lady Maria. Last night, he’d realized he’d never even liked her very much.

Not that any of it was Cecily’s business. “Stay out of my affairs, sister mine.”

“Yes, I see you brought me fit punishment for my meddling.” She flicked a glance at Honey.

He frowned down at her. “You are quite wrong about her, you know. Miss deVere is a woman after your own heart.”

That caught her attention. “How do you mean?”

“In the course of our acquaintance, she has pushed me off a horse, dumped water over my head, and punched me in the jaw.”

He passed a hand over the jaw in question, which had now lost its tenderness from his cousins’ pummeling. Honey’s slap had more fury than power behind it and she’d missed, but still, the sentiment was the same.

Cecily gave a ladylike snort of laughter and her dark eyes gleamed. “Did she, indeed? Well, it appears there is more to this Miss deVere than meets the eye. I reserve judgment on her character, but I still do not believe you wish for this marriage.”

That he most certainly did not.

While he exchanged a few words with Montford and Lady Arden, he wondered if Honey understood why he’d stipulated that the betrothal be kept secret. Though he’d tried to get her alone so he could make his stance clear on the point of their eventual nuptials, he couldn’t get near her once the announcement was made. The women corralled her between them.

The conversation had turned to fashion as it so often did when Cecily and Rosamund put their heads together. They deemed it vital to cart Hilary off to Bond Street without delay.

And didn’t deVere look like the cat in the cream pot? This was what he’d been angling for all along with those accusations of illicit behavior, the old Devil.

DeVere’s rumbling growl cut through the female twittering. “Miss deVere will not be staying here, so you can forget about your plans for this afternoon.”

Rosamund turned to him with a supercilious lift of her brows. “I assure you, sir, I am more than happy to accommodate my cousin’s future bride.”

Keep her under scrutiny, more like, thought Davenport, eyeing his female relatives warily.

That was the trouble with women. They were so mercurial. One minute, they looked daggers at the girl; the next, they were bound and determined to take her shopping.

“Don’t make no odds if
you’re
happy,” grunted deVere, heaving his big frame out of the chair. “I am the girl’s guardian and
I
say who chaperones her while she’s in London.”

He jabbed a finger at Hilary. “The wedding will be one month from today. One month is all you get for your precious season, my girl. Then you’ll be shackled to his lordship all right and tight.”

The light in Honey’s eyes dimmed a little, but she bowed her head submissively and made a dutiful curtsy. “Yes, my lord.”

She was a bundle of suppressed excitement. Even this setback did not seem to bother her unduly.

“
Yes, my lord,
” mimicked deVere nastily. “You’ll stay with Mrs. Henry Walker. She’s a deVere by birth, some sort of cousin of mine. She will bring you out in society.”

“Yes, sir.”

Tenderhearted Rosamund was clearly troubled by this exchange. She addressed deVere, her tone frigid. “May we not entertain Miss deVere to tea today, at least?”

DeVere folded his arms. “No. I’m taking her to Mrs. Walker directly.”

Rosamund looked to the Duke of Montford, but he made no move to intervene in this scheme. He watched Honey intently. The Devil only knew what conclusions he drew about her and the reasons for this betrothal.

Davenport might have argued with deVere’s high-handedness, but he didn’t. He wasn’t acquainted with Mrs. Walker. He’d have to find out how suitable the lady was to act as Hilary’s chaperone—and how he might circumvent that matron’s watchful eye. He needed to get Honey alone, and Rosamund had proven herself far too vigilant a chaperone for his liking.

Seeing no help forthcoming from her male relatives, Rosamund took Honey’s hands and squeezed them. “You’ll come to us often, won’t you? Do not look so downcast, my dear. You will have a wonderful time in London. We’ll see to it that you are invited everywhere, won’t we, Cecily?”

“Yes, indeed,” Cecily murmured with a glance at deVere that signaled a clear challenge.

Amazing how little it had taken for Cecily to change her mind about Miss deVere. No sooner had she heard about Honey’s mistreatment of Davenport than she’d formed a favorable, if tentative, opinion of the chit.

He needed to speak with Honey before this all went too far. “I’ll call on you when you’re settled,” he told her as he took his leave.

After the cornucopia of delights the ladies had laid out for her, not even the prospect of Mrs. Walker’s dubious chaperonage could dampen Honey’s enthusiasm.

“I’ll look forward to it,” she said, smiling, giving him her hand.

She glowed up at him as if he’d hung the moon and stars for her, and a curious warmth spread through his chest. Her expression was so much in the manner of a lady regarding her sweetheart that he had to get a firm grip on himself to stop from falling into those honey brown eyes.

If anything had put that look on her face, he reminded himself, it was the prospect of a London season, not him.

The syrupy warmth turned to a burn of chagrin. His resolve hardened as he bowed over her hand.

Honey.
His Honey was getting the dearest wish of her heart, just as he’d promised. Now, he would claim his reward. It was time to take all of that sweetness and softness and make it his own.

*   *   *

When Davenport reached his own house that afternoon, his cousins were waiting for him in his book room. Obviously, they’d caught wind of the news. At this rate, the whole of London would know about his fake betrothal by the evening.

“Davenport.” Beckenham nodded a greeting. Absentmindedly he passed his palm over a series of contusions that mirrored Davenport’s own, then ran his fingers through his closely cropped black hair.

Lydgate, impeccably attired in blue superfine, high shirt points, and snowy cravat, lounged elegantly in a deep overstuffed armchair. His classical features were marred by bruising around one of his startlingly blue eyes.

“But how remiss of me, Lydgate,” Davenport drawled. “You need another black eye to go with the one I gave you. I know how you like everything to match.”

“Pax,” said Lydgate, holding up a well-manicured hand in a gesture of peace. “I haven’t been able to show my phiz abroad since you rearranged it, Cousin. I’m in no mind to spill any more blood on your account.”

“We hear you are to be congratulated,” said Xavier, emerging from the shadows. The only one of them without a mark on his face.

He crossed to the brandy decanter that reposed on the gleaming sideboard. “Drink?”

Davenport eyed it suspiciously. “Only if it’s not doctored like the last one.”

“Drug your own brandy?” Xavier’s sneering smile tilted his lips. “My dear fellow, I wouldn’t dream of it.”

He poured two glasses, handed one to Davenport. After he saw Xavier take a sip of the beverage, Davenport followed suit.

“Suspicious, aren’t you?” murmured Xavier.

“I’ve reason, haven’t I?” said Davenport. “That was a scurvy trick to play on me, Steyne, and you know it. Left Becks and Lydgate to do your dirty work for you, too.”

“I did not think it would require three of us to subdue you.”

Xavier glanced at his two cohorts, whose faces appeared every bit as worse for wear as did Davenport’s. “Perhaps I was wrong.” He held his arms wide. “Do you want to have a go at me now? I’m at your disposal.”

He spoke in that maddeningly emotionless tone Davenport loathed. The urge to hit someone had passed, however. Davenport gave him a blank stare, then leaned against the mantel and savored his drink.

“We hear you’re engaged to be married,” said Beckenham.

“Straight to the point, as usual,” murmured Xavier.

Ignoring him, Beckenham said, “What is this, Davenport? Did you pick up the first wench you saw and propose? Is this some sort of joke?”

“Is she hopelessly ineligible?” Xavier looked interested. “An opera dancer, for example?”

“She’s a deVere,” snapped Davenport.

Lydgate slapped his palm to his forehead, wincing. “Not another one in the family. Wasn’t Tregarth bad enough?”

Since Rosamund’s husband was possibly Lydgate’s closest friend, no one paid that comment any heed.

“I cannot conceive how you could be dumped in a barn one day and engaged to be married the next,” said Beckenham, his brow furrowing.

“Well, of course you couldn’t,” said Lydgate. “A man like you never does anything without due care and consideration. But this is Davenport we’re talking about. He ain’t like you, Becks.”

“More’s the pity,” commented Xavier. “What are you going to do about her?” he asked, his gaze keen and incisive.

“Do about her?” Davenport blinked. He had no intention of sharing his (as yet rather hazy) plans with his cousins, or the true reason for the engagement.

“Well, obviously the two of you can’t marry,” said Lydgate. “A deVere female? Who ever heard of a Westruther heir marrying a deVere?”

This was precisely the sort of prejudice Hilary continually faced. It was on the tip of Davenport’s tongue to say he
would
marry Hilary deVere and be damned to the lot of them, but he caught himself in the nick of time.

“My dear fellows, I appreciate your concern, but the fact of the matter is, it’s none of your damned business. Now, shall we drink together in harmony or shall we strip and settle the matter with our fists?”

They opted for the former, which suited him very well. He needed a drink or three to stave off the panic that rose in his chest at the mere thought of marriage.

A more immediate problem occurred to him. “She wants to go to Almack’s.”

“What woman doesn’t?” was Xavier’s cynical reply.

“Suppose I’ll have to take her there, though.” He stared at the dregs of his glass

“Weren’t you banned from Almack’s?” said Lydgate idly.

Davenport straightened. “Was I? What for?”

He hadn’t paid much attention to such things. What would he want with Almack’s? You couldn’t drink, you couldn’t game for high stakes, and you certainly couldn’t get your leg over a willing wench or two.

“Flooring the porter when he turned you away for arriving after eleven o’clock, I expect,” said Beckenham.

“No, I don’t think that was it.” Davenport frowned. He might be an idiot, but he didn’t go around hitting innocent employees who were only obeying orders.

“Kissed some girl behind a potted plant?” suggested Lydgate.

No, that didn’t ring a bell. Until Lady Maria had made such a bold play for him, he’d restricted himself to bored married ladies and women of another class entirely. He’d never needed to skulk around snatching kisses at a subscription ball.

He shook his head. “No, it’s gone. I simply do not recall.”

“I shall start a betting book on the subject.” Lydgate took out a notebook he used for the purpose and began to scribble away. “My money is on propositioning Mrs. Drummond-Burrell.”