London's Last True Scoundrel (16 page)

He looked down his nose at her, and now she saw the Westruther in him, the inbred arrogance that did not give a fig for anyone else’s opinion.

“Why, through the front door, of course, like everyone else.”

But Hilary’s wild survey of the grand terrace house had borne fruit. “The area steps. We’ll go down through the kitchens.”

“That we certainly shall not.” He bent a severe gaze on her. “You need to stop bowing and scraping and scuttling around like a brown mouse, hoping no one notices you. You are not a servant.”

“But look at me,” she cried. “Any self-respecting servant would rather die than appear like this. Besides, I’m not dressed for a
ball
.”

He gave her person a cursory inspection. “You look perfectly proper to me. And of course you’re not dressed for a ball, but—”

“You promised no one but your cousin would know you’d escorted me to London without chaperonage,” she hissed. “You promised my arrival would be inconspicuous.”

She clutched her reticule and swung her legs to the side. “I’m getting down here.”

They were still some distance from the front door.

“You will not,” said Davenport calmly. “You’ll wait until I’ve handed the reins to a footman and you will enter through the front door with me. Damn it, if I can carry off a bruised phiz and an evening rig I’ve worn for the past two days you can carry off a neat little traveling costume, even if it does belong to Mrs. Potter’s Daisy.”

But the last sentence was spoken to her back as she nimbly hopped down from the gig.

“Honey!” Davenport called after her, in a warning tone.

She ignored him and stepped her way through the carriage wheels, horses, and piles of manure to the pavement, making a beeline for the area steps.

The kitchens were a maelstrom of activity, in the center of which dwelled a temperamental Frenchman, the very cliché of continental chefs. He had a haughty air and pinched nostrils and a habit of abusing everyone who came within a three-foot radius of his person in a torrent of idiomatic French.

Hilary had no idea what to do, now that she’d breached the castle walls, so to speak.

Would Davenport come to find her? Or would he wash his hands of her, disgusted with her lack of backbone?

It was typical of an aristocratic male like Davenport that he wouldn’t consider other people’s opinions. He could do anything, the more outrageous the better, and still people would clamor for his notice. He was a belted earl with prosperous estates at his command, after all. He had no idea what it was like to be a poor dab of a female with no style or connections, and to be a deVere on top of that.

There was little time to be resentful or to stand about wondering where she ought to wait for him. A bustling cook maid thrust an apron into her hand.

“From the agency are you?” she said briskly. “You’re late. Not but what we can do with every pair o’ hands we can get down here.”

Before Hilary could protest or explain herself, she was holding a paring knife and a potato and adjured to peel that lot quick smart or Monsieur would have her head.

With only the smallest sigh, Hilary set to work.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Davenport was accustomed to startled looks and speculative stares wherever he went. Coming back from the dead seemed to have that effect on people, so he didn’t pay too much heed to the crowd’s reaction as he moved inexorably toward his goal.

He resisted the urge to bark at them to take themselves off out of his way. Instead, he smiled his devil-may-care smile. That, together with his raffish appearance, did much the same job.

He fought a path to the top of the stairs and entered the ballroom, where the butler gave him a slightly harried look when he refused to be announced. “Need to speak with her ladyship. Won’t be a moment,” he said as he sighted his quarry.

Rosamund, blond, exquisite, and heavy with child, stood in the receiving line, looking radiant. Her husband was nowhere to be seen, but her former guardian, the Duke of Montford, was by her side. With him, Lady Arden, matchmaker extraordinaire, smiled graciously on the guests.

“
Jonathon!
I’d no notion you’d be here tonight.” Rosamund’s deep blue eyes showed first delighted surprise, then doubt as she absorbed his appearance. “But what happened to you?”

He clasped her outstretched hands in his and said in a low, urgent tone, “I need to speak with you, Rosie. When can you get free?”

Consternation sketched across her porcelain features. “As you can see, I am somewhat in the middle of things, but … I know. Why don’t you lead me out for the first waltz?”

He grimaced. Waltzing. His idea of a hot bath, a brandy (or three), and bed seemed to recede farther into the distance.

“In the meantime, go up and ask Dearlove to see to your clothes,” Rosamund said in a lowered tone as more guests approached. “You look disgraceful, even for you, my dear.”

She nodded and smiled her society smile in firm dismissal and he was forced to move on to the head of the Westruther family, the Duke of Montford.

“Your Grace.” Davenport made an elegant, deeply respectful bow, allowing only the expression in his eyes to mock the courtesy. Montford had become his sister Cecily’s guardian when Davenport had been thought dead.

Unlike his Westruther cousins, Davenport had never been obliged to submit to the duke’s rule. That did not mean, however, that the duke refrained from meddling in Davenport’s affairs.

Montford had not been a party to that kidnapping the other evening, though. Of that Davenport was almost certain. The episode lacked a certain finesse that characterized the duke’s dealings. Besides, Xavier, Marquis of Steyne, would boil himself in oil before he’d do the duke’s bidding.

His Grace smiled his thin smile. “Davenport, you have outdone yourself tonight, I think.”

The suave comment was not meant as a compliment and Davenport didn’t take it as such. “This time, it was not my doing. Ask Steyne if you don’t believe me.”

The duke’s brows drew together. “It seems we must talk, you and I,” said His Grace.

Ah. So Davenport’s surmise had been correct. Montford didn’t know of the kidnapping scheme. It occurred to Davenport that in the duke he might have a powerful ally in engineering Honey’s successful debut, so he murmured assent and moved on.

“Lady Arden, a pleasure,” murmured Davenport, bowing over her extended hand.

“I wish I could say the same,” said Lady Arden, her brilliant gaze inspecting him from head to toe.

The lady was a beauty, but in the vein of Athena, rather than Aphrodite. Chiseled cheekbones and chestnut hair, a generous bosom and a queenly stature. She was generally thought to be the duke’s mistress, though if that was the case, they were both preternaturally discreet.

The two of them were renowned for making brilliant matches, strategic alliances between their respective families and other highborn young ladies and gentlemen. In her way, Lady Arden was every bit as ruthless as the duke. A woman not to be underestimated. A woman who might also be useful to Honey, should the need arise.

Davenport was not ordinarily one for the proprieties, but he knew better than to introduce the subject of Honey with either the duke or Lady Arden in the midst of a receiving line at a ball. Besides, he needed to get Rosamund on side first.

Lady Arden tapped him with her fan. “Yarmouth is here tonight with his rapacious daughter in tow. Watch yourself, Davenport, or you will end in the briars. I hear he has plans for you.”

“If he does, they are destined to remain unfulfilled,” said Davenport. He’d almost forgotten about Lady Maria and her ambitious papa. He’d been hot for the girl, hot enough to overlook certain deficiencies in her character. Now he wondered at himself.

Lady Arden waved her fan languidly to and fro. “If you’ll take my advice, you’d best make yourself scarce for a month or so, until she gets her greedy little talons stuck in some other poor man. But then,” she said, almost to herself, “when have you ever taken good advice?”

He didn’t believe in discussing any lady he’d been intimate with, so he managed to extricate himself from that conversation without comment. Still, how was it that Lady Arden had seen through the girl’s ploy when he himself had only twigged to it the night before his kidnap? A shrewd judge of character, Lady Arden.

A wise one, too. But he couldn’t take her well-meaning advice. He had to see Honey succeed with the ton.

With the aim of keeping in his cousin’s good books, he dutifully went upstairs to get Tregarth’s magician of a valet to see what he might do with his evening raiment.

He did pause to wonder what had become of Honey below stairs but decided to leave her to fend for herself for a while. If she insisted on shrinking into the background, there was no way she’d survive a London season. That was a lesson she needed to learn on her own.

Presumably, Honey wished to marry. Consigning oneself to wallflower status from the beginning was not the way to attract an eligible husband.

The notion of her finding a husband made him a trifle …
something;
he didn’t know what.

Hardly surprising, he supposed, that the idea of Honey courting another man should displease him. He might not be the most devoted fellow on the planet, but once he fixed his interest on one woman, he didn’t cheat. The idea of the reverse happening to him was not a palatable one.

Ah, well. Best not to jump that fence until he came to it.

He paused outside the dressing-room belonging to Griffin deVere, now Lord Tregarth. A yell of pure rage burst from within.

Wincing, Davenport knocked.

Tregarth’s voice growled, “I’m
coming,
damn it.”

The door opened, and a neat gentleman’s gentleman peered out. “Lord Davenport.”

The valet’s black eyes traveled quickly over Davenport’s person. He pursed his lips.

“Dearlove, I need you,” said Davenport, spreading his arms wide. “As you can see. But it seems you are otherwise occupied.”

“Davenport, is that you?” barked Tregarth. “Let him in.”

That order was succeeded by another series of oaths.

“Your ball is going on without you,” remarked Davenport, strolling in to observe his cousin Rosamund’s husband standing at the looking glass, wrestling with his cravat.

“I …
will …
get this … right.” Tregarth spoke between his teeth, lips drawn back in a feral grimace.

He was a huge man, no taller than Davenport but bulkier. Hairier, too. Tregarth’s big hands fumbled with the recalcitrant neck cloth until he gave a disgusted snort and threw it down on the knee-high pile of crumpled linen beside his feet.

“Well, be quick about it, there, Tregarth,” said Davenport. “I need Dearlove and I don’t want to loll about here all evening watching you fume over your neckwear.”

“You may take him and all his works to Hell with you,” said Tregarth, snatching another neck cloth from the pile at his elbow. “I’ll get this bloody noose around my neck if it kills me,” he muttered, as he tied the first knot.

“If I may be of assistance, my lord,” murmured the little valet to Davenport.

“Seems you have your work cut out,” said Davenport, cocking an eyebrow in Tregarth’s direction.

A gleam in the man’s eye was all the answer he made to that comment.

“A new suit of clothes.” Dearlove tapped his lips, surveying Davenport with close attention. “Evening pumps, linen, stockings. Obviously I have nothing in your size, my lord, or the task should be of the moment. However, if you care to take some brandy and remain at your ease a quarter of an hour or so, I shall endeavor.”

He grinned. “That, Dearlove, is music to my ears.”

“Very good, my lord.”

An oath, louder than the rest, punctuated Dearlove’s departure. Another cravat went by the way of its fellows.

“I can see why you keep brandy in your dressing room,” commented Davenport as he poured himself a glass. “Having you as master would drive any valet to drink.”

Tregarth growled. “He won’t leave me. Says I’m an interesting challenge, if you please.”

“I must say, he does an excellent job of keeping you in trim. Why won’t you let him tie your cravat for you?”

“Because this time, I decided to do for myself. I’ve watched him wrangle the thing on countless occasions. But his damned finicky fingers are so quick. And mine…” Tregarth held up hands the size of hams with big, thick digits. “Ah, what’s the use?”

“Pretend it’s a woman,” suggested Davenport. “Be gentle with it. Caress it into beautiful compliance.”

Then he realized Tregarth only touched one woman like this: Cousin Rosamund, and fell silent.

There was an awkward pause.

Reddening slightly, Tregarth said, “Now you’ve done it.” He sighed. “Suppose I’ll have to wait for Dearlove.”

He stomped over and poured himself a drink. “What are you doing back so soon?”

Davenport quirked an eyebrow. “So you heard about Steyne’s plot, did you?”

He ought to have guessed. Tregarth and Davenport’s cousin Lydgate were as thick as thieves. Obviously Lydgate had not known about the drugging part. That was all Steyne’s doing. But Lydgate had gone along with it once the deed was done.

Davenport grimaced. He’d punished Lydgate with his fists, and Beckenham, too. But Steyne required more subtle handling.

There would be a reckoning between them, however, and soon.

Tregarth nodded. “Told Lydgate to mind his own business. That’s the trouble with the Westruthers. So damned toplofty, they can’t stand to see their name besmirched.”

His eyes met Davenport’s over the rim of his glass. “What brings you here tonight, looking like that?”

“Just got back from my rustication,” said Davenport.

Tregarth grunted. “Shortest rustication in history.”

Davenport tilted his head in acknowledgment. “Brief though it was, my stay was thoroughly delightful. I did not get as far as Davenport, however. The journey took an interesting turn.”

“You mean you beat the living daylights out of Beckenham and Lydgate, and they dumped you in a barn to fend for yourself.”