London's Last True Scoundrel (29 page)

Gritting his teeth, Davenport watched his cousin stroll off into the darkness.

He turned to climb into his carriage, only to find the steps had been pulled up, the door shut.

“Hey!” Davenport slapped the flat of his hand on the black-lacquered panel of the barouche.

Lydgate stuck his stupid fat golden head out the window. “Sorry, Davenport. This one’s full. You’ll have to go in Montford’s carriage.” He turned his head to call up to Davenport’s coachman. “Drive on!”

Without a glance in Davenport’s direction, his own bloody coachman whipped up the horses and left him in their dust.

*   *   *

The evening went on in much the same vein. Davenport’s cousins took Honey under their collective wing, introducing her to a stream of eligible men.

Despite that fright of a hairstyle, Honey attracted buckets of admiration, as he’d known she would. The party was a crush. He couldn’t get near her for most of it.

Not that he tried particularly hard. This was what he’d wanted, wasn’t it? An opportunity to hand her off to a worthier man.

Yet when he saw that it was Gerald Mason and Ashburn she now conversed with, enough was enough.

Mason had the scientific practice and respect of his peers that Davenport had once possessed, then lost. He was damned if the fellow would get Honey into the bargain. Hell, the awkward scientist had nearly tripped over his tongue salivating after Lady Maria only the night before. Now he’d set his sights on Honey.

Davenport started over to them to claim his betrothed.

“Lord Davenport.” The dulcet tones of Lady Maria reached his ear.

He was tempted to ignore her, but while he paused, debating with himself, her hand shot out to catch his arm in a pinching grip.

Davenport turned without troubling to hide his irritation. He was in no mood to deal with Lady Maria now.

“Lord Davenport,” she repeated with a hint of steel in her dulcet voice. “I must speak with you a moment.”

“My lady, now is not the time and here is not the place,” he said, quickly brushing her hold from his arm.

She licked her lips, and it struck him that she was nervous. What did she have to be nervous about?

Lady Maria’s family was affluent. Their pedigree was quite as old and illustrious as the Westruthers’. She did not exhibit the least sign of infatuation or genuine feeling for him. The truth was, she didn’t know him well enough to have fallen deep in love, in any case. They’d barely spoken beyond trivialities and spent any time alone together groping each other madly.

She was a beautiful girl. Even so, he wondered why he’d taken the risk or the trouble. Too much time on his hands and not enough good honest work, Beckenham would have said. Perhaps Beckenham would be right at that.

“Name a time and a place, then,” she said quickly when he made as if to turn away.

What he saw in her eyes made him uneasy. He’d been wrong about Lady Maria. She wasn’t nervous; she was desperate.

“Are you in some sort of trouble?” he asked her, with a quick glance around to make sure they weren’t overheard.

Her lips pressed together and her eyes grew bright. “I—I need to speak with you alone.”

It could be a trick. Most likely, it was. Only a handful of days ago she’d done her best to lure him into a compromising situation so her father might discover them together and demand that he marry her. If he agreed to meet her in private, the same result might occur.

He grimaced. “My dear girl, I’d wanted to break this to you gently, but it seems I have no choice but to tell you now. I am betrothed to another lady, Maria. That is why I will not meet you anywhere alone.”

Her hand flew to her mouth. The stark panic that pinched her features startled him. Despite her machinations to entrap him, he had a strange impulse to help her. He wasn’t stupid enough to offer assistance at the expense of his own liberty, however.

He tried another tack. “Is it something you might tell your father, perhaps?…”

“
Betrothed?
” she whispered. She’d turned as white as her gown. “To whom, pray? What lady in her right mind would take
you
for a husband?”

“That is not your affair.” He didn’t feel quite as sympathetic toward her as he had before. With a touch of indignation, he added, “You didn’t seem to mind if we were found together at the Middletons’ ball.”

“You are perfectly right,” she said in a vicious undertone. “I was insane to even think of letting you touch me. I cannot imagine why I did.”

He might have reminded her that she was the one who’d done most of the touching and that she’d started it, but that would be ungentlemanly and he didn’t want to cause a scene. Instead, he made her a careless bow in what he hoped was a final farewell.

Beneath his nonchalant demeanor, he seethed. And the more he examined his reaction to Lady Maria’s scathing words, the angrier he became. Not with her, but with himself, for expecting to be treated as the man he’d once been. When would he learn?

Lady Maria had schemed to entrap him into marriage, all right. But he’d wager the reason she’d chosen him wasn’t a flattering one. She’d an ambition to become a countess, perhaps, but she was a noble lady of beauty and fortune. She could reasonably expect to wed a far more respectable, more eligible gentleman than Davenport. Why, then, would Lady Maria blatantly pursue a man she despised?

By Jupiter, he wasn’t piqued, was he? He didn’t even like the girl. Damned if he’d waste any more time speculating about her.

He realized that he’d lost sight of what Honey had been up to. Even while maintaining a proper distance he’d managed to keep an eye on her all evening, but the interlude with Lady Maria had occupied his full attention. He scanned the crowd. Where was she?

His irritation flared anew when he saw her surrounded by admiring gentlemen. She was too dashed pretty, even with that startling hair arrangement, to be left alone. Where the Hades was her chaperone? That’s what the woman was here for, wasn’t it? To guard her charge against unscrupulous bounders?

That his brother-in-law and Gerald Mason hardly qualified as bounders scarcely crossed his mind.

Honey looked so earnestly up at Ashburn that for a telling second Davenport’s hand clenched into a fist. He wanted to floor his sister’s husband, then seize Honey, hoist her over his shoulder, and carry her off.

The urge startled him as much as the unwonted violence of his emotions. He needed to get hold of himself or he’d be in danger of creating the kind of scandal that would leave him no choice but to marry the chit. That was an outcome neither of them desired.

The reflection didn’t stop him making a determined beeline for his faux fiancée.

*   *   *

Hilary experienced Davenport’s regard all evening in a hot prickle of awareness at the nape of her neck. Each time she glanced in his direction, he was watching her. The unwavering constancy of his attention made her feel as if he and she were the only people in the room. In the world, for that matter.

Conversations faded into silence, noise and movement blurred to shadow. It was just she and Lord Davenport in that salon, staring at each other from a distance, a current of heat crackling between them.

When had she changed from finding him the most infuriating, irritating man alive to feeling this unmitigated yearning for his presence above all others?

The only thing that pulled her out of this strange trance was hearing his name spoken aloud.

The redheaded Mr. Mason seemed to have trouble suppressing his resentment against Davenport. “To think that for years, that charlatan was worshiped like a god by scientists and laypeople alike. You should have seen the way even ladies who knew nothing about chemistry used to attend his lectures in droves. Byron was nothing to it. And look at him now, if you please. A laughingstock. A blot on the copybook of the institution.”

Ashburn said soothingly, “You mustn’t let it distress you, Gerald. After all, Davenport’s folly and misdemeanors—scandalous though they were—do not reflect on you.”

“Such a waste,” Mr. Mason muttered. “A waste of a brilliant mind. He didn’t have to make up those claims, you know.” He frowned. “Yarmouth agrees, and he should know, shouldn’t he? I cannot understand it. To this day, his motives are incomprehensible to me.”

“That’s because your character is quite different from Davenport’s,” said Ashburn.

Hilary turned her head sharply to regard him. Somehow, she didn’t think Ashburn meant that as a compliment to his brother-in-law. It seemed disloyal for him to speak of his wife’s brother in that vein. She’d not have believed it if she hadn’t heard him herself. He’d seemed to display a sympathetic and nuanced understanding of Davenport’s situation at dinner that evening.

Davenport moved toward them and she sought some method of changing the subject so he wouldn’t overhear her companions’ disparaging remarks. A lady in blue silk waylaid him, she saw with relief.

A most exquisitely lovely lady, Hilary thought, watching them. That tempered her relief, somewhat.

With his back to her she couldn’t see Davenport’s expression, but there passed a look over the woman’s face that made Hilary’s eyes widen. The look was desolate, appalled, furious all at the same time.

Had Davenport hurt this young woman?

They exchanged more words; then he bowed and strode toward Hilary, cutting through the crowd. The others who had joined their circle instinctively moved aside for him when he approached. She didn’t blame them, considering the fierce look on Davenport’s face.

“Your servant, Miss deVere.” He bowed to her, then nodded in the gentlemen’s direction. “Gerald. Ashburn. No doubt the two of you have been wringing your hands over me.”

“Not a bit,” said Ashburn easily.

“Excuse me,” said Mr. Mason. He turned on his heel and stalked away.

“You’ll find Lady Maria on the terrace, I daresay,” Davenport called after him.

To Ashburn, he said, “Mason making trouble, is he?”

“I handled it,” said Ashburn. He inclined his head. “Will you excuse me, Miss deVere? I see my wife trying to claim my attention.”

The glare Davenport gave the other men in the vicinity made them disperse like spillikins. “I suppose I can guess the topic of conversation before I arrived.”

An uncharacteristic bitterness tinged his tone.

“I confess, I didn’t understand what they were talking about.” Hilary paused. “Why did you never mention you are a scientist?”

He shrugged. “I keep forgetting you have not been privy to all the gossip. It was quite a scandal, even amongst the ton.”

“He called you a charlatan.” She’d believe many things of Davenport, but not that. She did not believe he would lie or cheat. There must have been some mistake.

He stared down at her and for a moment she thought he wouldn’t answer. “I must show you the gallery, Miss deVere,” he said, holding out his arm. “Lady Arden owns a collection of Canalletos that you might enjoy.”

She wasn’t sure about this. She ought not to go anywhere alone with him. Merely talking with him too long would set gossiping tongues wagging.

“Come with me, Honey,” he said in a low, intense voice that thrilled down her spine. “I want you.”

She gasped. Her gaze flew to his. “What, here?”

“Yes. Here.” His dark eyes burned into hers. Her breath grew choppy and the knowledge of what he intended heated her blood, made parts of her tingle with anticipation.

“But I—I can’t.” What he wanted was wholly out of the question. The consequences if they were caught did not bear thinking of. Even now, she risked her reputation speaking so long and intimately with him. She glanced around, to see if anyone might have overheard his outrageous suggestion.

“I know of a place we can go,” he said.

That made her think of all of the other ladies he must have lured from parties like this. Oh, yes, he’d know all the discreet little alcoves where one might dally in seclusion.

“Of course I cannot go anywhere private with you,” she said. “I have too much care for my reputation.”

His regard was so intense, she thought it might burn a hole through her beautiful new gown.

“Don’t,” she said softly. “Don’t look at me like that. Everyone will see. They will know.”

“What, Honey? That I had one taste of you and now I’m addicted? That I can’t sleep at night for thinking of ways to be inside you?”

“You must not speak to me like this,” she said in a stifled voice. “We are not truly betrothed, remember? In a month, we will never see one another again.”

At that reminder, the shutters closed over his expression.

His wariness made her angry. “Ruin me, my lord, and you forsake your own liberty. I think it’s clear that one more false step will have us at a church with Lord deVere’s pistol to your head.”

“Do not pretend you would relish that prospect any more than I,” said Davenport coolly.

She only wished he were correct on that point.

But he didn’t press her again. The mere talk of marriage with her had put a damper on his ardor, it seemed. She’d rejoice in the circumstance if it didn’t give her such a queer, hollow sensation in her stomach.

Denying him made her feel irritated and prickly and somehow thwarted. She wished he’d not had the opportunity to proposition her. The exchange had almost ruined her evening. If Mrs. Walker had done a proper job of chaperoning her, this wouldn’t have happened.

Where was her duenna? “Do you see Mrs. Walker anywhere?” she said to Davenport as she scanned the crowds.

“Last I saw, she was in the refreshments parlor. I suppose you want to find her, do you?” He blew out a breath and she couldn’t tell whether it was exasperation or some stronger emotion. “Come along, then.”

*   *   *

Mrs. Walker was drunk. Being well-versed in various manifestations of inebriation, Davenport knew the signs. Judging from Honey’s stupefied expression, she did not immediately comprehend what ailed her chaperone. Probably just as well.

The woman sat alone on a low cushioned bench with her head lolling against the wall behind her and a glass of champagne tipping precariously in her slackened grasp.