London's Last True Scoundrel (28 page)

“Not at all.” He glanced down at her and his expression became arrested. A slight frown gathered in his eyes. He opened his mouth as if to say something, shut it again.

“Come along, Mrs. Walker.” He tossed the words over his shoulder, drawing Hilary along with him. “If we want to turn the duke up sweet, we must not be late.”

“Can this be the greatest scoundrel in all of London talking?” Hilary teased, trying not to feel rebuffed.

He grimaced. “I can’t say that punctuality has ever been my strong point, but then I’ve never wanted a favor from His High-and-mightiness before. Montford can open all sorts of doors for you that I, the aforementioned scoundrel, cannot.”

He lowered his voice. “He is particularly adept at finding husbands for the ladies in his charge.”

Experiencing a stab of betrayal that was quite ridiculous under the circumstances, Hilary let him assist her into the carriage. She sank into the plush, velvet-covered squabs beside her chaperone and tried to forget her disquiet in her appreciation for the carriage’s luxurious appointments. A far cry from the moth-eaten, ratty old coach they’d taken from the Grange.

She didn’t want to dwell on Davenport’s determination to find her a husband. She was beginning to doubt she’d ever feel the same way about another man as she felt about him.

Foolish to entertain such thoughts, but there it was. Other men seemed to fade beside Davenport’s vibrant energy.

Then again, how many gentlemen had she met, besides the men of her own family? She ought to try to keep an open mind. That would be the sensible thing to do, not pin her hopes on a rogue like Davenport when he was obviously so eager to be rid of her.

The thought caused a hard squeeze of pain around her heart.

To take her mind off these troubles, she asked about the Westruthers, who seemed so large a part of Davenport’s history. “Rosamund mentioned that she and the Duchess of Ashburn were the duke’s wards,” said Hilary. “But you were not?”

“No, I was of age when our parents died, so I was spared that honor,” he said. “When I was presumed dead, Cecily was left alone in the world.”

His face was in shadow, so she couldn’t make out his expression, but she thought she detected a grim note in his voice.

When she said nothing, he continued. “I trusted my heir and his wife would care for her, but it turned out that they were small-minded and mercenary.”

“What happened to them?” said Hilary. “It must have been difficult for your cousin to be demoted to heir presumptive after holding the title all that time.”

“My cousin and his wife have the use and management of my estate in Wales.” Again the grim note.

“Were they unkind to Cecily?” she ventured.

“She never speaks of unkindness, so I can only guess. Fortunately, the Duke of Montford had been nominated as guardian in the case of my death and he removed Cecily from their care. He took her to live with his other wards, some of whom you will meet tonight.”

She wanted to know why he had disappeared, what he’d done in the meantime, and the reason for his return. However, this was not the time or place to drag those details out of him, so she asked, “Was your sister happy with the duke?”

There was a long pause, and then he drew a deep breath. “I don’t know. We’ve never spoken of that, either. Not in so many words. She is happy now, and that is a blessing.”

Hilary glanced at Mrs. Walker. She was quiet tonight, perhaps cowed by Davenport’s high-handed interference that morning. Or maybe she was apprehensive about meeting the famously haughty Westruthers.

Who could blame her? Hilary’s own nerves jangled.

When she entered the drawing room at Montford House on Davenport’s arm, she tried her best not to show how intimidated she felt. At least she was familiar with some of the faces now, and Rosamund gave her an encouraging smile. Cecily greeted her cordially enough, but Hilary guessed Davenport’s sister still reserved judgment on her brother’s fiancée.

Then there were the Westruther men. If Hilary were not well practiced in the art of hiding her emotions in company, she might have gaped at the wealth of masculine good looks on display.

Viscount Lydgate was a golden-haired Adonis, very precise in matters of dress. Yet he was the reverse of effeminate. He shared the same strong, determined line of jaw as the rest of his cousins and there was a shrewd alertness about his clear blue eyes, as if he was on guard for trouble, ready to respond in an instant.

She noticed that Lydgate sported a fading bruise beneath his eye that looked to be the same vintage as Davenport’s own.

The Viscount bowed over her hand. “As you see, Miss deVere, I bear the marks of your betrothed’s handiwork. Haven’t shown my face on the town in days.”

Briefly Hilary met Davenport’s eyes. His eyebrow quirked up and he grinned at her, making her feel the most unaccountable glow in the pit of her stomach.

“He does seem to enjoy hitting people,” she said to Lord Lydgate.

“Perhaps you might cure him of it,” said Lydgate with his flashing smile. “We should all of us be grateful, eh, Beckenham?”

Lord Beckenham loomed up beside them like a monolith. Good Heavens, he was as tall as Davenport, with a face like a handsome granite sculpture. Dark and sober, with kindness in his eyes, Beckenham said, “That our cousin is even here tonight must be due to your offices, Miss deVere.”

“Mine?” She laughed. “I did nothing, I assure you. Lord Davenport is anxious to make sure my debut is a success and means to enlist His Grace’s support. But it was all Davenport’s idea.”

The two men exchanged a glance that seemed to communicate volumes, but the volumes might have been written in Greek, for all Hilary could tell.

Was it so very significant that Davenport should join his own family for dinner? His cousins seemed to indicate that it was. Was he so desperate to marry her off to someone else that he’d alter his habits to achieve his aim?

A lowering reflection indeed.

The atmosphere was casual—or as casual as it could be in such a grandly appointed house—with Rosamund standing in as hostess. She directed Lydgate to take Mrs. Walker in to dinner, while Hilary found herself going in on the Earl of Beckenham’s arm.

“I trust you are enjoying your stay in London, Miss deVere?” Beckenham inquired in a deep, resonant voice that conveyed a sense of rock-like stability she responded to immediately.

“Yes, indeed.” She was beginning to enjoy it now that all the terrors of being sent home were behind her. The company tonight was not half as daunting as she’d expected.

With a smile, she added, “I went shopping today in Bond Street. You can have no notion how entertaining it was.”

“You forget I lived with Rosamund and Cecily for many years,” he replied. “I believe myself to be thoroughly conversant with the joys of shopping.”

She recalled Davenport’s assertion that his own talents ran more to
un
dressing a lady and blushed. “Then you are well ahead of most men in understanding,” she said. “It will stand you in good stead for marriage, my lord.”

A shadow passed over his face. “As you say.”

He studied his wine glass for a few moments. “Miss deVere, I realize we’ve only just met and it is not my place to interfere. But may I counsel you to caution? Lord Davenport has been going through a … difficult transition, shall we say. He has not yet adjusted to all of this.” He waved a hand, as if to indicate their surroundings, but Hilary knew he meant more than the family and Montford House.

“I am aware that Lord Davenport has a certain reputation, my lord,” she said, choosing her words carefully. “However, he has been all that is kind and generous toward me.”

According to Davenport’s lights, it was true. She wasn’t entirely certain why she was so quick to defend him, however. Beckenham did not mean to be spiteful or cruel.

Beckenham sipped the ruby-colored claret and set down his glass with the precision that seemed to characterize his movements. “It seems to us as if a different person returned to us from the grave. You would never think it to observe him now, but Lord Davenport was a scientist before his disappearance, wrapped up entirely in his work.”

A scientist?
Davenport?

Her astonishment must have been evident, because Beckenham answered her unspoken question. “I don’t wonder at your surprise. The change in him has us all in a puzzle. A quandary, you might say.”

She’d suspected there was more to Davenport than a charming noble ruffian, but a scientist? Hilary couldn’t wrap her mind around that concept.

“What could make any gentleman alter his ways so drastically?” she said.

Beckenham’s dark eyes met hers. “I don’t know, Miss deVere. One hopes he comes to his senses soon, before he is barred from good society altogether. There are only so many transgressions one can commit, even when one is an earl.”

Beckenham’s attention was claimed by Rosamund then, and Hilary digested the conversation, allowing herself to be served buttered asparagus spears by a liveried footman.

When the footman withdrew, she caught Davenport watching her. He sat diagonally opposite her, too far away to have heard her low-voiced conversation with Beckenham.

Yet, his jaw was set and his eyes flashed. Was he angry at her? How could he be?

She looked down anxiously at her table setting. Had she used the wrong cutlery? She knew the rules of table etiquette inside and out. Besides, she’d made sure to mirror Rosamund’s actions so as to be doubly certain.

To her right, the Duke of Ashburn murmured, “My dear girl, what
have
you done?”

“I?” She gave a start, then followed the direction of his gaze toward Davenport’s glowering face. What indeed? “Why, nothing, to be sure.”

Cecily’s husband had eyes of such unusual golden hue they appeared almost feline, perceptive and penetrating. He leaned toward Hilary. “Can it be that your fiancé is jealous?”

She forced herself to look down at her meal. Deliberately, she cut into a spear of asparagus.

“Lord Beckenham and I were conversing like two rational dinner companions. Why should Davenport be jealous?” she said a little breathlessly. The asparagus rolled, refusing her attempts to stab it with her fork. “There’s no reason for him to be jealous.”

“No reason in the world,” Ashburn said, and laughed softly.

“Tell me, Miss deVere,” he added after a pause, “what would induce a lady so virtuous and sensible as you appear to be to shackle herself to a rogue like Davenport?”

Despite the trend of her discussion with Beckenham, she’d been unprepared for so direct a question and was taken aback.

Recovering her poise, she said, “It was my mama’s dearest wish that Lord Davenport and I should be wed one day. And besides,” she said, her brow furrowing, “Lord Davenport has many good qualities.”

“Such as?”

“Well, he can be lively company, and he’s kind. Oh, and he is chivalrous on occasion.” She gave a spurt of reminiscent laughter. “Even when he doesn’t mean to be.”

That Davenport’s native shrewdness was accompanied by a powerful intellect made her feel off balance. She would need time to absorb the implications of this new dimension Beckenham had described.

Ashburn set down his knife and fork to regard her. “I see.”

She abandoned the asparagus for the moment and sipped her wine. “Your Grace, Lord Beckenham has marked a vast change in Davenport since his return. What do you think? Do you happen to know the cause?”

There was a long silence while Ashburn contemplated her. Conversation buzzed around them, laughter, clinking of china and cutlery.

Finally he said, “Miss deVere, when a man loses his purpose in life, he can go one of two ways—fall into a fit of melancholia, or run headlong into dissipation. Overindulgence in vice, while deplorable, is often a sign of inner turmoil.”

Inner turmoil. When she’d first met him, she would have sworn Davenport was as three-dimensional as a paper doll, with no inner workings whatsoever. How prejudiced and wrong she had been. On closer acquaintance, she’d realized his flippant good humor was just a façade. Tonight she’d discovered he possessed hidden depths she’d never dreamed could exist.

Would she ever discover the truth about Lord Davenport?

*   *   *

After dinner there was no time for the gentlemen to linger over port or for the ladies to gossip over tea in the drawing room. Everyone climbed into their carriages and moved off to their various destinations.

Having handed the ladies into his carriage, Davenport turned to find Beckenham at his elbow.

Beckenham said, “A novel experience, seeing you behave yourself, Davenport. And in such a worthy cause, too. Is your tongue sore from licking Montford’s arse yet?”

“All but growing calluses,” he acknowledged with an insouciant grin.

His big, sober cousin had practically monopolized Honey at dinner. As Davenport had predicted, the two of them got on like a house on fire.

“Are you going to Lady Arden’s?” Davenport asked. If Beckenham did, it would be the first time he’d set foot in a ton gathering outside Montford House for years.

“Good God, no,” said his cousin. “You know how I abhor such stuff.”

Becks wasn’t so enamored of Honey as to break his drought and follow her to a soiree, then. Davenport relaxed a little.

“I’ve asked Miss deVere if she’d care to see the sights of London,” said Beckenham casually. “She said you vowed you’d rather stick needles in your eyes than visit the Tower and the Royal Exchange.”

Davenport made himself shrug. “You’re a beggar for punishment, Becks. What next will you do? Escort her to Almack’s?”

“I might at that,” said Beckenham, with an uncharacteristic grin. “You can’t do it, after all. You’re banned from Almack’s, remember?”

The smugness with which Beckenham made that remark set Davenport’s teeth on edge.

All sorts of threats ran through his mind.
Keep your hands off my betrothed or I’ll make you the last castrato in England
was uppermost among them.

Before he could voice the words, his cousin touched his hat with one fingertip in what was, for Beckenham, a jaunty salute. “’Night, Davenport. Look after Miss deVere this evening, won’t you, old fellow?”