London's Last True Scoundrel (21 page)

Hilary gasped at the implication. She sensed the tension in Davenport and was ready when he took a hasty step forward, fists clenched. She grabbed his arm and hung on.

“Don’t, my lord,” she said. “Please. Such accusations are beneath contempt.”

To deVere, she said, “Lord Davenport is innocent of these charges, sir, but you are right to reproach me. I behaved rashly by going with Lord Davenport, but the circumstances were such that I had no choice. Perhaps, if we might discuss this in private—”

“
Damn
me, but you’re an impertinent wench,” said deVere, slapping his massive thigh. “I’m here to control the damage you’ve caused with your flighty ways and you’re giving me a lesson on propriety?

“And
you
,” he purred like a big jungle cat, turning his head to glare at Davenport. “Even if this silly chit didn’t know better,
you
did.”

Between his teeth, Davenport said, “I rescued Miss deVere from an intolerable situation. A situation she might not have been placed in if her guardian had done a better job of protecting her.”

“And you brought her to London,” said deVere, stroking his chin. One eyebrow jerked up. “For what purpose?”

“Miss deVere must have a season,” Davenport responded. “It is her due as a gentlewoman and a daughter of your noble house.”

Hilary could not help but stare to hear Davenport speak with such a haughty air. A glance at the younger members of his family told her they were equally astonished.

“Be damned to you, sir,” said deVere. “That she will not. She’ll go straight back to that infernal school and stay there until I’m ready to find a husband for her.”

“That infernal school dismissed her, or didn’t you know?” said Davenport. “For no fault on her part other than having the misfortune to be born a deVere. I discovered poor Miss deVere on the road, trudging alone through a storm. Upon escorting her home, I found her brothers engaged in an activity I cannot mention in front of ladies.”

“Oh, don’t mind us,” put in Cecily. “Were they having an orgy, Jonathon? I wonder that you didn’t join in.”

The goading sting in Cecily’s tone made Hilary cast a quick glance at her. Cecily’s dark eyes smoldered. There was something wrong here beyond the present crisis, but Hilary couldn’t fathom what.

“Cecily, do not be vulgar,” said Montford calmly. “But this is abominable, Davenport.” He turned his wide-eyed gaze to deVere. “Really, I don’t see what else my cousin could have done, do you? It appears he acted out of the purest sense of chivalry.”

Davenport narrowed his eyes at the duke, as if unsure whether to trust this unruffled declaration of support. He turned back to deVere. “The reality is that only her brothers and the people in this room know anything of the matter. If Miss deVere is seen to be in company with Lady Tregarth for the season, all will be well. It will be as if Miss deVere and I never met.”

At these words, Hilary felt the oddest sensation in the pit of her stomach. A heavy, sinking feeling she didn’t wish to examine too closely.

How many times since she’d made his acquaintance had she wished she’d never met him? And yet—

“I won’t have it,” roared deVere. He jabbed a finger in Montford’s direction, baring his teeth. “And I won’t have you encouraging the chit to defy me, either.”

“I wouldn’t do that for the world, deVere,” said Montford. “You may act as you wish regarding Miss deVere. She is your ward, after all, and wholly your concern.
My
concern is that my relative does not figure as the villainous debaucher of innocents in this piece.”

“Protecting the good name of the Westruthers, as usual,” muttered deVere.

“Precisely.”

Fear and disappointment clenched around Hilary’s heart. For a moment, she’d hoped Montford might support her. But His Grace only acted to save Davenport from an entanglement with a penniless, good-for-nothing deVere.

Once more, she was alone, at the mercy of her heritage. And of her horrid guardian.

“I don’t believe it,” rumbled deVere, glaring at Davenport from beneath lowered brows. “When did you say you made my ward’s acquaintance?”

“The day before yesterday,” lied Davenport.

“You spent the night where?” barked deVere.

Davenport looked arrogantly down his nose at deVere. “In her brother’s house.”

“While this orgy took place?”

“No, my lord. I ejected the brothers’, er, companions from the house immediately.”

DeVere’s brows lowered. “So you, the most notorious rogue in London, were alone with my ward in a house where her drunken sots of brothers were her only chaperones.”

“Yes,” said Davenport between gritted teeth.

“Overnight, you say.”

“That is correct.”

Hilary was ready to sink into the Aubusson carpet with humiliation. When deVere shot the Duke of Montford a blazingly triumphant glance, she knew the conclusion everyone must draw.

Davenport’s voice sliced through the air, “I did not lay a hand on Miss deVere, either then or on our journey to London.”

Lady Arden frowned. “No one will believe that.” She turned to address Hilary. “My dear child, what on earth were you about to let this rapscallion escort you to London? Didn’t you know what must come of such behavior?”

“I … I…” Hilary gulped for air. This could not be happening. She was ruined. All of her dreams turned to dust.

In that moment, she hated Lord deVere with a white-hot passion. Why must he force the issue? What sort of man kept pushing and pushing until he brought the dishonor of his own ward out into the open?

She would never have her season now. Never meet that kind, gentle man of her dreams, never hold their dear, sweet babies in her arms.

She would be exiled, sent back to her brother’s house to stew in the filth and degradation of the place until she could no longer remember what proper conduct was. She’d turn into her brothers’ drudge and become a dried-up old maid or, worse, finally succumb to her fate and become the fallen woman these people clearly thought her already.

She couldn’t face it. She simply couldn’t.

Incipient tears burned at the backs of her eyes, but she’d die before she broke down and wept in front of this array of coldhearted strangers. Of them all, only Rosamund showed her any true sympathy.

After a struggle, she said, “You must not blame Lord Davenport. He has acted with the utmost nobility throughout our association. But I quite see how it might look to the outside world. I was so desperate to get to London, I did not consider all of the ramifications of the journey.”

She lifted her chin. “If it were not for your neglect, Lord deVere, and that of my brothers, I should not have been driven to this pass. No doubt you think I did wrong to travel to London with Lord Davenport. I can only say that remaining at Wrotham Grange would have been worse.”

She caught Davenport’s eye and held his gaze. “I cannot be sorry for my actions, foolhardy though they might seem in retrospect. Thank you, my lord, for your efforts on my behalf. I only regret the trouble I have caused you and your family.”

*   *   *

Fury descended before Davenport’s vision like a red haze. How
dare
deVere make such filthy accusations against Honey?

He’d thought he had himself well under control, but the valiant speech she made tore at what passed for his heart.

The words came out of his mouth before he could stop them. “My dear Miss deVere, there is no need for such tragedy. If my relations and yours are convinced I have compromised you, there is only one way to make amends. We must set a date.”

There was a collective gasp. Everyone pinned their attention on Honey, who stood frozen in place.

She eyed him as if he’d run mad. On the contrary, now that he’d committed himself he enjoyed a moment of sheer, blinding clarity. This was the only way to keep her in London. They’d pretend to be engaged.

“A—a date?” said Honey, all at sea.

He took no offense at her bewilderment. His own nearest and dearest seemed rather befuddled by this sudden attack of decency. Cecily and Rosamund regarded him with their eyes wide and their jaws slightly dropped. Even Montford appeared a little more pinched around his aristocratic nostrils than usual.

“For the wedding,” Davenport explained, beginning to rather enjoy himself. “In fact, there is quite a romantic story to all of this.” He smiled down at Honey. “Why don’t you tell them, my dear?”

The girl’s eyelids fluttered as if she might faint. In a wavering voice, she said, “Oh. Well…” She swallowed hard. “But my lord, you relate the circumstances so much better than I ever could.”

“Never say the two of you are engaged!” Rosamund exclaimed.

“But this is too fantastical,” said Lady Arden. “How comes this about?”

Honey gasped like a landed salmon and flapped her hands a little, so he manfully threw himself into the breach once more.

“You see, Miss deVere’s mother and mine were bosom bows. They arranged the match between them long ago.”

He couldn’t recall what the Devil Honey’s mother’s name was, but it made no odds. He was quite likely to forget such details even if the tale were true.

Fortunately, Lady Arden directed the obvious question to Honey herself. “Who
is
your mama, child?”

“Marigold Waterstone is—was—my mother’s maiden name,” faltered Honey, her eyes wild. “She … she died. Almost ten years ago, now.”

“Marigold Waterstone,” repeated Lady Arden slowly. “Yes, now I recall. You have the look of her, my dear.”

“So I’m told,” said Honey with an agonized glance at Davenport.

He took her hand, which lay, unresisting and cold, in his. Her creamy skin had turned pale. He trusted she wouldn’t faint. “My mother and Miss deVere’s mama settled it between them that we should be betrothed when we were older.”

“Why have I never heard anything about this?” demanded Cecily, who had at last found her voice.

Montford tilted his head. “Nothing in your parents’ effects suggested such an alliance had been made.”

However, Montford knew as well as Davenport that the former earl and his countess were prone to making unilateral arrangements for their progeny without documenting them, as in Cecily’s case.

Davenport smiled. “I knew of the arrangement from my earliest years. But then, of course, my parents were killed in a carriage accident before the betrothal could be formalized.”

Suddenly Hilary’s hand tugged and whisked from his clasp. She took a deep, shaky breath and he waited with a delicious kind of anticipation to see if she’d throw cold water on his ruse.

She gave a tremulous smile. “W-when Lord Davenport and I met by chance, it was as if Fate had brought us together, and I—
we
—realized our union was meant to be. We wished to keep our engagement secret while I came to know him a little and enjoyed my come-out, but now…”

She spread her hands and said brightly, “Surprise!”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The company was quite dazed by the end of this thrilling recital. Davenport thought they’d brushed through it remarkably well. Now he needed to get Honey alone without delay so he could make it clear to her he had no intention of actually going through with the marriage itself.

He’d taken a drastic measure to save her from returning to the Grange, but what else could he have done? DeVere had as good as called Honey a trollop, accusing them of fornicating all the way to London.

If he had any sense of chivalry, he’d have thought of this before. He’d known as soon as they were obliged to spend the night on the road without Trixie they were taking a risk.

Still, he was damned if he’d marry any lady purely to satisfy deVere’s overweening ambition. Once Honey had enjoyed her month in Town, they’d call the whole thing off. By then, she was sure to have cut a swath through the eligible bachelors of the ton.

The thought gave him pause. He wasn’t entirely sure he liked the notion of her pursuing other gentlemen while supposedly engaged to him. He’d have to warn her to be discreet.

“One thing I ought to mention,” he said, “is that we agreed the betrothal should be kept secret for the time being.”

He essayed a fond look at his new betrothed. “I want Miss deVere to enjoy her season to the full while we become rather better acquainted. Should she decide that we don’t suit, or if she receives a more advantageous offer—”

Cecily snorted. “More advantageous than the Earl of Davenport?”

“Ah. You flatter me, dear sister.” Thank God Hilary deVere’s notions of eligibility were not the same as the rest of society’s.

He continued. “Regardless, I wish you all to keep this strictly to yourselves. As you have no doubt observed, we were wholly unacquainted before two days ago. It might be that Miss deVere will change her mind when presented with the choices a London season has to offer.”

“Then she’d be a fool,” said Cecily, narrowing her eyes. “She does not look like a fool to me.”

Before he could defend her, Hilary spoke up, her cheeks a trifle flushed. “I agree with Lord Davenport. I would also like the betrothal to be kept secret. In fact, I insist upon it.”

And wasn’t that the greatest compliment he’d ever received? Despite her untenable position, Hilary deVere didn’t wish to marry him any more than he wished to marry her. Regardless of his desperate desire to remain disentangled, her eagerness for secrecy struck him as just plain insulting.

“Bollocks,” said deVere, slapping his thigh. “You’re betrothed or you’re not. This business of keeping it secret won’t wash.”

“My dear sir,” drawled Lady Arden. “I beg leave to tell you that your language belongs in the gutter. Along,” she added, “with your linen and that coat.”

DeVere muttered something under his breath, but under Lady Arden’s haughty stare he subsided.

Hilary said, “Yes, we will keep it secret, and if anyone asks me if it’s true that we’re engaged, I’ll certainly tell them it’s no such thing.”

She turned to Cecily. “So you needn’t fear your brother has been trapped, Your Grace. I know it must seem like that, but I assure you it is not.”

“My dear Miss deVere, I cannot imagine what you think I have to say in the matter of your marriage to my brother,” said Cecily with the kind of cool indifference that made Davenport want to turn her over his knee.