London's Last True Scoundrel (33 page)

“My dear sir, Mrs. Walker is a vulgar, low-minded drunk,” she said succinctly. “Worse than that, she has execrable taste. You ought to thank your lucky stars I’ve taken your ward in hand, let me tell you.”

DeVere blustered and ranted, but he failed to cow Lady Arden, nor did she allow herself to be provoked into losing her temper by his high-handed ways. Hilary could only watch, openmouthed in astonishment, as Lady Arden deftly routed the irascible baron.

“Men are simple creatures, easily handled if one only knows the way,” confided Lady Arden as she oversaw several alterations to the gowns Hilary had ordered from Giselle. “Lord deVere has always had a
tendre
for me, you know, which makes it child’s play to get him to do as I wish.”

She smiled that secret, feminine smile Hilary had seen on Cecily’s and Rosamund’s faces at various times. How wonderful it would be to have that kind of power, she thought.

A feeling of utter inadequacy stole over her as she tried to reconcile the heat and urgency of Davenport’s lovemaking on the night of Lady Arden’s soiree with the utter dearth of communication from him since their visit to her ladyship the next day.

At first, she’d wondered if he’d met with an accident, but one of his cousins or Lady Arden was always with her. Surely they would give her such news if that were the case.

He seemed to have taken Lady Arden’s warning to heart. If he wouldn’t assist her by reforming himself and pleading with the patronesses for mercy, he should not be seen with Hilary while her chaperone angled for Almack’s vouchers.

It seemed out of character for him to docilely do Lady Arden’s bidding. He was far more likely to turn up everywhere like a bad penny, if only to tease her. And would such considerations have prevented him from stealing up to her bedchamber at night?

The nights were colder without his big body beside her, his laughter warming her from the inside. Gracious, how could he have become so essential to her happiness in such a short time?

Perhaps Trixie was right. Once a man had what he wanted from a woman, he lost interest. She bit her lip. No. That couldn’t be true. No matter how he tried to show the world he was a care-for-nothing, she knew he cared for her. He might not love her, but he wouldn’t cast her off without a word.

Something was wrong. Something had gone awry the afternoon they’d gathered at Lady Arden’s, but she could not put her finger on it.

The agony of going over and over the last day she’d seen him, trying to interpret every word and gesture, made her head spin. She tried to put him out of her mind. Yet, with his family surrounding her, the evidence of his generosity to her everywhere, and his name never far from someone’s lips, he was always in her thoughts.

Ah, who was she fooling? He would have dominated her mind if she sailed alone to Gibraltar.

She recalled the beautiful young lady who had accosted Davenport at Lady Arden’s soiree. Later she’d discovered the girl’s identity. Lady Maria Shand, Lord Yarmouth’s daughter. Her stomach churned at the thought of Davenport with another woman. It didn’t bear thinking of, yet she could contemplate little else.

“Rosamund,” she said, “what do you know about Lady Maria Shand?”

Rosamund’s head jerked up in surprise. Her lovely eyes cooled. “I only know that you need not worry about her.”

“Oh?” her voice scraped. “Is—is there a reason I
might
be worried?”

Shrugging, Rosamund looked down at her work. “She tried to get her claws into Davenport a while ago, but he was clever enough to realize what she was about.”

“I see.” Hilary hesitated, burning to know how far it had gone before Davenport saw through the girl. “She seems so … virtuous.”

“My dear, you will soon learn that in society looks are almost always deceiving. Lady Maria is the reason Xavier and the other cousins kidnapped Davenport. The plan was to send him back to his estate, but it seems they didn’t get that far.”

“Why his estate?” said Hilary. “Did they actually think he would stay there?”

“They hoped being there might bring him to a sense of his responsibilities. Then, too, his attitude to Lady Maria was such as to lead us to believe it would be a case of out of sight, out of mind. He was bored, Hilary. Lady Maria was a fleeting fancy. A diversion, nothing more.”

Was that what she’d been? she wondered dully. A diversion, easily forgotten when something new and shiny came along?

“You don’t look quite the thing today, my dear,” said Rosamund, changing the subject deliberately, Hilary thought. “Are you not sleeping well?”

Rosamund had taken to embroidering a series of garments for the baby who would arrive in the summer. She set the tiny, exquisite stitches with such swift precision, Hilary was frankly envious. Was there nothing Rosamund could not do?

“I suppose I’m not accustomed to the noise of London,” Hilary said.

She refused to admit she lay awake in the dark night after night, her body restless and her heart aching. For Davenport.

Everything she’d ever wanted was within her grasp. Respectability, a sense of belonging. Almack’s, for Heaven’s sake! But it all seemed hollow without him.

One thing had changed. She no longer expected or even wanted that quiet, kind, gentlemanly husband she’d yearned for. The suitor of her dreams seemed weak and bland as milk against the full-bodied potency of Davenport.

How foolish of her. How utterly perverse. She would have danced with joy at her good fortune if she’d known a month before how far she’d come. Now it wasn’t enough.

She wanted more. She wanted
him
.

As well wish for the moon as pine for Davenport’s love.

“Finished.” Rosamund snipped off a thread, then folded the garment neatly and set it aside.

She lifted her face to the sunshine that poured through the drawing-room window. “This weather ought not be wasted. Shall we take a stroll in the garden, Hilary? Some fresh air might do you good.”

Hilary refrained from saying fresh air could do nothing to improve her mood. She forced a smile. “That would be very pleasant.”

Before they could rise, the knocker sounded. Moments later, they heard a heavy tread on the stairs.

Rosamund’s brows rose. “I told the butler I was not at home to visitors. It must be—”

The door opened, cutting off her prediction.

Davenport erupted into the room. “Rosie, I need to—”

On seeing Hilary, he pulled up short. Whatever he’d been about to say to Rosamund died unspoken on his lips.

His face was haggard, as drawn and tired as Hilary felt. When he first set eyes on her, he lit up. Equally swiftly, the expression was gone, leaving his features curiously wooden.

“Ah, excuse me, my dear. I didn’t know you had company.”

Rosamund laughed at his sudden formality. “Hilary is not
company,
Jonathon. But now that you’re here, perhaps you might lend me your support. Your betrothed requires fresh air and exercise. I, on the other hand, require a nap.”

She stifled a small yawn—Rosamund even yawned elegantly—then blasted Davenport with her dazzling smile. “Would you take Hilary for a turn about the garden, Jonathon? It would allow me to enjoy my siesta without feeling I am neglecting her.”

Reddening, Hilary cut in. “There is no need. Indeed, Lord Davenport obviously came to speak with you on a private matter, Rosamund. I’ll go.”

She snatched up her shawl and reticule, but the strings of her purse had tangled themselves in the fringe of the sofa cushion and she had to stop to work them free.

A sudden sheen of tears blinded her. Her fingers fumbled and her cheeks grew hotter still. If only she had a tenth of Rosamund’s poise, she could leave with her dignity intact.

“On the contrary. I’d be happy to walk with you, Miss deVere,” said Davenport. His voice held a tinge of laughter, no doubt at the confused ineptitude of her struggles with the reticule. That made her want to hit him.

When she finally disentangled her belongings and moved toward the doorway, he held out his arm. She hesitated but then took it, sweeping a glance upward beneath her lashes at him as they moved out of the room.

He was so startlingly handsome. Whenever she looked at him, she suffered a shock of awareness, one that burned through her body, setting off tiny sparks in secret places. Memories of his caresses flooded her. How utterly humiliating that simply looking at him should make her cheeks flame.

Amusement at her confusion had softened the drawn lines of his face. If she were in the business of lying to herself, she might have detected tenderness in that gentling of his expression.

But his neglect this week gave the lie to such sentiments. Unless he’d been laid up with a fever the past few days, he had no excuse for failing to call on her or at least send her word that he’d been detained.

She stole another glance at him through her lashes. Whatever he’d been doing, it hadn’t allowed him much sleep.

She squeezed her eyes shut. If he’d spent the past week in drunken debauchery, she didn’t want to know about it.

Suddenly it occurred to her that of course, that was it. A leopard didn’t change his spots no matter how gently he purred. Faced with the prospect of turning respectable for her sake, he’d immediately taken the first opportunity to prove himself unworthy. He’d gone straight to the Devil.

Well, it was time for her to put an end to this charade. If that meant the withdrawal of his family’s support and Lady Arden’s as well, so be it. She couldn’t remain tied, even as a pretense, to a man who only sought to escape.

*   *   *

Davenport fought to get himself under control. This was far more difficult than he’d thought it would be. He hadn’t expected to see her here. Hadn’t yet prepared for this meeting.

He’d tried lying to himself, tried making excuses to put off the final blow, but the truth was plain. He needed to put an end to the pretense of an engagement. So many people knew of it already, he couldn’t gamble on the truth (or the truth as his relations knew it) failing to become public.

He was no nearer to finding his nameless enemy than he’d been on the night Nail was stabbed. Nor had he received the threatened demand.

He’d come to tell Rosamund of his decision and to beg her to stand by Honey even if he could not. When he’d seen Honey there, at home in Rosamund’s drawing room, he’d been so overjoyed he’d made a great effort not to stride across the room and snatch her up in his arms. It might be a long time before he could hold her again.

The sweet confusion Honey had displayed over her recalcitrant reticule only served to remind him how dear she was to him, how much he’d miss her when he’d done what he must.

They maintained uneasy silence until they emerged into the small garden at the back of the house.

He led her to the rose arbor, where he dusted the seat for her with his handkerchief and stood while she sat and made a project out of arranging her skirts.

She’d untied and retied the ribbons of her bonnet twice before he said, “At least here, we have a modicum of privacy. What would you wager against my cousin’s watching from an upstairs window?”

She shook her head. “Rosamund would not do that.”

He gave a disbelieving snort and nipped a full-blown pink rose from the trellis that arched over their heads. He looked down at its miraculous shape, the perfect, soft petals of it, pristine and somehow innocent until bruised beneath careless fingers or trampled underfoot. With a twist to his mouth, he plucked those petals, one by one, and tossed them aside. The breeze caught them, lifting and whirling, until they fluttered to the ground some distance away.

Resentment knotted in his throat. The bright spring day seemed to sear his retinas, until he was blinded to everything but her. He longed to lay her down in the soft, scented grass and make love to her with every part of his body and a whole, untarnished heart.

He couldn’t. He’d viewed the problem from every angle, driven himself crazed with calculating ways and means. But he was no closer now to discovering the mastermind behind the threats Weasel Face had uttered than he’d been at the beginning.

He was still waiting for that communication they’d promised him.

Maybe that was it. Maybe they wanted to drive him mad with waiting. All part of the torture.

Oh, he’d find the bastard, all right, but would that be too late for Honey? Was it too much to hope that if he cooperated they wouldn’t see the need to involve her? He’d do anything to keep her safe. As it was, he’d set men to guard her, day and night.

She must have grown tired of waiting for him to continue, for she said apropos of nothing, “Lady Arden has mounted a plan of attack to win the support of the Almack’s patronesses, but she is disappointed in your refusal to help, my lord. You never did tell me why you were banned from Almack’s.”

He frowned. “I don’t remember. But that’s not important. Listen, Hilary, I must tell you something.”

He tried to breathe, but there was no air out here at all, fresh or otherwise, though the breeze stirred the curls at her nape. He wanted to press a kiss to that spot, feel her responsive shiver beneath his lips, hear her sigh. Inhale her violet scent.

She stared up at him, her eyes shadowed. “What did you just call me?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Not Honey,” she whispered. Then she nodded to herself as if that confirmed something she’d known all along.

She clasped her hands in her lap and looked at him straightly. “Perhaps I ought not to let you stand there, wondering how to phrase it so as not to hurt my feelings, my lord. It is high time, is it not, that I gave you your congé? You have served your purpose, after all.”

He blinked. “That’s not what—” Only it was. It was.

“Do not try to dissuade me.” She waved a hand. “I realize you’ve developed certain tender feelings for me. That’s only natural given our … nocturnal activities. I believe with men it is always so. They so often mistake the physical act for something deeper, poor creatures. But pray, do not regard it. I am sure we shall both find satisfaction elsewhere.”

He was too dumbfounded to respond.