London's Last True Scoundrel (2 page)

The smile Hilary gave her mentor felt like it would crack her face. “Please, do not distress yourself, Miss Tollington. I know you would keep me if you could.”

An idea occurred to her. “Perhaps there is some other task I might perform here besides teaching. I could … I could…”

How might she tell Miss Tollington she’d work as a scullery maid if only the headmistress would let her stay? The thought of returning to her tumbledown home in Lincolnshire and her horrid brothers made her give an inward shudder.

The headmistress was shaking her head. “I’m afraid that’s impossible, my dear.”

Hilary wondered if Lady Endicott had demanded she remove her contaminating presence from the school altogether and on the instant. The deVere men were renowned as uncouth brutes; the women, hard-riding hoydens who were loose in their morals and undiscriminating in their choices of bedmates.

A deVere female would, by her mere presence, taint the purity of the pupils at this fine establishment.

With suppressed violence, she said, “Prejudice. This is sheer prejudice.”

Her emotions needed physical outlet. Hilary jumped up from her chair to pace, casting about for a solution to save her from going back to Wrotham Grange. “If Lady Endicott would only grant me an audience, I could convince her to let me stay. I know I could.”

“I’m afraid not, Miss deVere,” said Miss Tollington gently.

The headmistress rose, too, and came around the desk to put her hands on Hilary’s shoulders. She had never touched Hilary before, and the gesture moved Hilary more than words ever could.

“My dear girl,” murmured Miss Tollington, “I am terribly sad to see you go. But Lady Endicott’s command made me see that I have been selfish in allowing you to remain here so long.”

“Selfish?”
Hilary was incredulous. “These past five years have been the happiest of my life.”

Compassion shone from the headmistress’s pale blue eyes. “I know that. And that is why I have been selfish. You need to
live,
Miss deVere.”

She gestured around her, at the chintzy, homey office that had always seemed so welcoming to Hilary. “I am obliged to make my living this way, and I am dedicated to the school because whenever I do something, I resolve to do it well. But do not fool yourself for a moment. If I had your connections, your fortune and advantages, I should not remain here a second longer than I had to.”

The swollen feeling in Hilary’s throat grew. “Forgive me, but you know very little of my situation if you think I have advantages,” she forced out. “Why, my brothers would never agree to give me a London season. Even if they did, there is no respectable matron I can think of who would take me under her wing. My guardian doesn’t know or care whether I live or die. My fortune is not large enough to interest him in making me an eligible match. And I don’t come into my money until I am one-and-twenty, so that can’t help me, either.”

With a fond smile, Miss Tollington said, “And yet, these obstacles are not insurmountable. I have written to an old acquaintance of mine, Mrs. Farrington. Her two daughters are married and off her hands now. Only last month, I heard from her that she is pining for some new diversion now that her birds have all flown the nest. I cannot promise, of course, but I think she might be willing to sponsor such a decorous, genteel young lady for the coming season.”

Hilary’s heart gave a huge bound in her chest. An emotion between elation and panic coursed through her. She could only blink and stammer her thanks, as was proper.

A London season. Balls and routs, picnics and musicales.

“
Almack’s,
” she breathed.

But she had not a stitch to wear that would be suitable in London or at an Almack’s subscription ball, for that matter. She could not possibly …

A litany of objections raised their heads, but she squared her shoulders, dismissing them. She’d grab this opportunity with both hands and refuse to let it go.

Her trustees must advance her some money from her inheritance. They’d refused her requests in the past. If she had Mrs. Farrington to help her, perhaps she might shame Lord deVere and his oily solicitor into providing for her wardrobe, at least.

She would get to London for the season or die trying.

Once she was there, she would behave with such elegance and decorum that everyone would see she did
not
belong with the deVere family. She was a rose among thorns, waiting to be plucked.

If she was very, very lucky, she might even find a husband. She squeezed her eyes shut at the thought. A quiet man, good and kind, refined, well educated. A scholar, perhaps. Nice gentry stock, comfortably situated … She wanted the exact opposite of her selfish, hard-drinking, womanizing brothers and that’s what she would find.

She had a respectable dowry, if not a spectacular one. She might not be a beauty, but she was no antidote, either. Or, at least, she hoped not. And she knew to a nicety how to hold a household, if only she was given the chance.

The more Hilary thought about this scheme, the better she liked it. And she had Miss Tollington to thank.

Hilary threw caution to the winds. Putting her arms about the older woman, she hugged the headmistress tight.

“Thank you. Oh, thank you. I won’t disappoint you, Miss Tollington.”

Miss Tollington smiled down at her. “You never have, my dear Miss deVere.”

There and then, Hilary made a vow. She would charm Mrs. Farrington so much, the lady would be delighted to take her to London and sponsor her debut. There she would show Lady Endicott and the rest of the ton how unfair their prejudice against her was.

She would find a husband who embodied all of the qualities she most admired.

After this season, she would never go back home to Wrotham Grange again.

Ever.

*   *   *

“Damnation! Bloody, bloody hell!” A string of even fouler curses issued from Davenport’s lips as the pain in his head pounded into acute agony.

The torture wasn’t just in his head, as he discovered from a mental scan of his body. He ached all over, too.

He lay on some kind of straw pallet in some kind of barn. He had no earthly idea where he was. For several fraught seconds in which his heart stopped and his breath suspended in his lungs he thought they’d got him. Caught up with him at last.

The mysterious, nameless
they
who had been following him for some time now.

He was unbound, at least. There was no one standing guard, ready to restrain him if he tried to escape. The door to the barn lay wide open, letting in a pale, watery light.

When his breathing calmed and his mind cleared a little, he let his head fall back against the straw and blew out a breath of relief. He remembered now. Xavier and the drugged brandy, Lydgate and Beckenham smuggling him out of London.

He’d woken, taken one look at his captors, and laid into them, fists flying.

There’d been nothing stylish or controlled about that particular fight. Wouldn’t do at all in Jackson’s Boxing Saloon. He grinned as he remembered a particularly nasty uppercut to Beckenham’s jaw.

Witness the suffering in his right hand. He might well have broken it.

Experimentally, he flexed his fingers and swore again. Perhaps not
quite
broken.

Well, that was a blessing.

Of course they’d overpowered him. He wasn’t a match for two of his cousins, though he’d given a damned good account of himself for someone who’d been drugged and tossed in the back of a farmer’s cart and driven out of town.

His brow creased. Steyne hadn’t been there. Left the others to do his dirty work. Typical.

And a great pity. Davenport would have taken immense pleasure in kicking the supercilious marquis in the bollocks.

Drugged. He hadn’t seen that coming. But he should have known that when Westruthers make up their mind to do something, it gets done. More fool he, to let down his guard. He should have told them all to go to hell when they’d cornered him at Steyne’s house that night.

What time was it, anyway? It wasn’t exactly sunny, but what light there was told him it was daytime. He took out his timepiece, to discover the face had a crack in it. No doubt one more result of his set-to with Lydgate and Beckenham.

He hoped they’d suffered a fraction of his wounds. He hoped they were sore today.

He put the timepiece to his ear and heard the steady tick. Still working, then, despite the damage to the casing. He stared at the hands of the clock face. They blurred, then resolved again into a position that told him it was two o’clock. Afternoon, then.

He needed to get up, but he was reluctant to leave the dubious comfort of the sweet-smelling straw to test his body’s capabilities. He ought to be thankful, he supposed, that they had not dumped him in a pigsty or a horse trough.

Too much to hope they’d be somewhere nearby, waiting for him, ready to convey him somewhere more civilized, like Cribb’s Parlour, perhaps, or his town house in Mayfair.

He wondered where the hell he was.

In a moment, he’d get up and find out.

Just give him a moment.…

The moment in question passed all too quickly for his liking.

He closed his eyes, clenched his teeth, and defied every screaming part of his body to get to his feet.

*   *   *

A half hour later, Davenport rode through a light drizzle toward Stamford.

He’d borrowed a stocky big gelding from the farmer in whose barn he’d been dumped and requested directions to the nearest posting inn.

They’d left him in the middle of Lincolnshire, miles from his estate, with no funds and no means of transport. In the condition he was in, battered, bruised, and covered in bits of straw, it had taken a hell of a lot of toploftiness, charm, and persuasion to make that farmer part with his nag.

Davenport would be true to his word, however. He had a few coins in his pockets, and he’d pay some ostler or other to ride the horse back to the farm.

A cursory scan of the surrounding countryside didn’t yield any glimpse of the man who had followed him in London. Maybe the fellow had been caught napping by the Westruther cousins’ sudden kidnapping of his quarry. Wouldn’t that be the ultimate irony?

He couldn’t shake a nagging sense of unease, however. In the years since he’d disappeared from society, he’d learned to trust his instincts.

Davenport urged his horse into a canter. He’d be damned if he’d return meekly to Davenport, whether someone followed him or not. If he let his cousins interfere in his pleasures now, there’d be no getting rid of them. They’d have him sober as a judge and married to some straitlaced heiress as quick as he could stare. The mere thought of marriage to a proper English miss made him shudder.

He hadn’t reached the village before he noted a figure coming toward him. Little and bedraggled, it was, on foot and lugging a pair of bandboxes.

And female. Yes, most definitely female. Slender, but rounded in all the places where a female should be round.

With a click of his tongue, he slowed his mount to a walk.

“Ho, there!” he called. “Might I be of assistance, miss?”

The rain had thickened; it dotted her face as she lifted it to peer up at him.

Woebegone little features showed beneath the soggy straw bonnet. They were finely wrought features, delicate in a way that reminded one of storybook pictures of woodland fairies. A plush, full-lipped mouth made her face oddly unbalanced, as if the mouth had come from another place entirely.
That
feature made him think of bordellos and sin.

She gave a start when she took in his face. Inwardly, he grimaced. No doubt the bruising made him look ghastly.

“No, I thank you, sir.” Her voice was crisp, cultured. One of those prim females he so disliked.

Despite the pressing need to get to London, he could not leave a lady alone in this predicament.

“Let me take you where you need to go.” He gestured down at his horse. “He is big enough for two, you must agree. You will still be drenched, I’m afraid, but at least you will be home in less time.”

He smiled at her, wondering precisely how horrible he looked. “Don’t be afraid. I met with an, er, accident, but I wouldn’t harm you.”

She looked at him straightly. “I know precisely what those bruises on your face mean. You were drunk and fell into a bout of fisticuffs. By the looks of you, you got the worst of it.”

“Well, there
were
two of them,” he murmured, after a moment of stunned surprise. What did this delicate chit know of drunken brawls?

She set her luscious little mouth in a stubborn line. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to get home before the storm breaks.”

She stepped around him and continued trudging.

He saw no alternative but to turn his horse and follow.

He called after her, “How far is your home?”

She ignored him. Trudge, trudge, trudge.

The wind had picked up, making the rain slant into their faces. Davenport shivered. He still wore his evening kit and his bloody cousins hadn’t done him the courtesy of leaving him with so much as a driving coat to shield him from the elements. It was spring, but you wouldn’t know it, the way the rain had turned to icy needles.

The girl’s slim shoulders remained erect as a sergeant major’s as she battled into the gale. Her hat drooped about her ears; her drab pelisse was dark with damp. Rats’ tails of honey blond hair snaked down her back, whipped free from her tight, proper bun by the wind.

Lightning streaked across the horizon. Thunder cracked, making her halt in her tracks.

But she didn’t look back. She lifted her chin, squared her shoulders, and marched on.

“This is madness,” he said, pulling alongside her. “Don’t be such a little fool.”

He reached down to her, even though she still did not look at him. “Give me the bandboxes.”

Her straight white teeth sank into the cushion of her lower lip. He became acutely conscious of a desire to soothe that beleaguered feature. Preferably with his tongue.

He blinked, cleared his throat. “Come, ma’am. Surely a short ride with me is preferable to getting caught in this storm.”