London's Last True Scoundrel (20 page)

Well, either she could remain here, trapped by her own fears, or she could ring for a maid to bring her water and help her dress.

She walked over to the bellpull and gave it a firm tug.

As if by magic, a maid appeared, carrying a breakfast tray. “The mistress ordered this brought to you, miss. If you’ll be so kind as to get back in bed, I’ll set it down. Or would you like to eat at the table?”

The maid gestured toward the small table by the window.

This was an unexpected honor. Ordinarily, the unmarried ladies in a household did not receive breakfast in bed.

“In bed, if you please.” Suppressing a squeal of delight, Hilary slipped back between the sheets, determined to savor the experience. “Thank you,” she murmured, sniffing the delicious, savory scents appreciatively.

The maid bobbed a curtsy. “Ring when you are ready to dress, miss, and I’ll help you.”

Thanking her again, Hilary twitched the napkin from the tray and spread it over her knees. She’d been too nervous to think about eating last night. Now her stomach growled in anticipation.

When at last she emerged from her allotted bedchamber some time later, Hilary wore a neatly pressed gown of fine navy cambric, which had been a gift from Miss Tollington, and a serviceable shawl. By some miracle, all of her gowns had been laundered and pressed overnight.

The maid had wished to style her hair in a pretty confection of curls around her face, but Hilary balked. She couldn’t afford to present a frivolous or vulgar appearance. Her usual neat bun at the nape of the neck would suffice.

Time enough for frivolity when she’d convinced her hostess to let her stay.

She wondered where Trixie was and whether her brothers had caught up with the girl. Trixie could talk her way out of most trouble, but this particular exploit might be difficult to explain away. She only hoped the girl had received Davenport’s message.

Once dressed and groomed, Hilary found her own way to the drawing room. Though luxurious, Lord Tregarth’s town abode wasn’t so large that one might become lost.

She took her time to look about her, drinking in the sight of her ancestors’ portraits as she traversed the long gallery on her way to the stairs.

“Bunch of ruffians, aren’t they?” commented a deep voice behind her. “Warriors and thieves and pirates, every one.”

She gave a start and whipped around. “Lord Davenport. Don’t creep up on me like that.”

“Sorry. I thought you’d hear me coming, but you were lost in a brown study, I gather.”

He took her elbow and guided her to the next portrait. As if she couldn’t very well walk a few paces without his assistance.

His voice was a trifle husky, but that was the only trace of evidence that he’d spent a dissipated night.

“Worse for wear this morning, are you?” she asked, wishing she might keep the waspish note from her tone.

But she couldn’t help it. He was so stomach-clenchingly handsome. Women must trip over their own feet to throw themselves at him. He’d probably forgotten her name by the time he’d danced with all those elegant ladies at the ball last night.

“I am not accustomed to rising at this hour, but I needed to speak with you before we face the others.” His gaze narrowed on her. “You seem out of sorts yourself.”

“Oh, not in the least. Whatever gave you that idea?” She moved on to a likeness of Catherine deVere, a daughter of the house whose formidable eyebrows hinted at an equally formidable temper.

“I trust you were comfortable last night?” he said. “No lumpy mattress, no ceilings falling in, that kind of thing?”

“You are hilarious,” she said. “Everything was perfect. Thank you.”

“I am delighted to hear it.”

He hesitated, making her look up at him in mute inquiry. “I have some news that you will not like.”

Her voice scraped. “Oh?”

But there was no time for him to tell her this news. At that moment, the most exquisitely lovely lady Hilary had ever seen walked into the gallery. Her palm rested lightly on her stomach in that universal, protective gesture of expectant mothers.

The newcomer did not wait for Davenport to make the introductions. “Good morning,” she said. “You must be Miss deVere. I’m Lady Tregarth, you know.”

She shook hands with Hilary, enveloping her in the golden warmth of her smile.

Lady Tregarth was not so much older than Hilary herself, which made her less of an imposing figure than Hilary had imagined. There was a decided twinkle in those deep blue eyes. Hilary liked her immediately.

“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lady Tregarth.” Hilary made a curtsy so elegant, it would have served as a model for every other curtsy ever made, but Lady Tregarth chided her for her formality, took her hands, and drew her up.

Giving her fingers a small squeeze, she said, “You must call me Rosamund. And I shall call you Hilary, yes?”

Hilary nodded, scarce able to believe she was being received with such affability. For a bare, frightening instant she wanted to weep.

Releasing her, Rosamund bent a minatory gaze on Davenport. “My husband has a cracking sore head this morning and refuses to leave his bed. You had a pretty batch of it last night, I hear.
After
you’d turned the head of every female in the vicinity.” She rolled her eyes. “I cannot tell you how many supposedly idle inquiries I received about the source of those bruises on your face. The silly chits are determined to make a romance of you, but I keep telling them it is nothing of the kind.”

Davenport gave a slightly contemptuous snort. “I’m obliged to you. Now, listen, Rosie. We need to discuss Miss deVere’s stay in London.”

“Yes,” said Rosamund. She turned to Hilary. “I’m afraid, my dear, that I was obliged to send for your guardian this morning.”

A sick feeling churned in Hilary’s stomach. “Oh, no,” she whispered. Her stay would be cut short immediately if deVere had any say in it.

“Hilary, you are still a minor and neither Griffin nor I can reconcile it with our consciences to keep your presence here from your guardian.”

Disappointment soured Hilary’s stomach and put a metallic taste in her mouth. She managed a smile. “My lady, of course I understand. You were right to inform Lord deVere. He would learn of my presence in Town soon enough, in any event.”

Once her brothers arrived in London, deVere would be the first person they told about her escapade.

She tried to quell the queasy pitching of her stomach. She loathed deVere’s mode of communication, which mainly consisted of strung-together insults and shouting.

Rosamund nodded her approval. “I hoped you would be sensible. Come along, both of you, to the drawing room. The family is here as well. We are having a council of war.”

“Wait.” Davenport laid a hand on her arm. “Who is there, precisely? And what does the rest of the family have to say to anything?”

Rosamund opened her eyes wide. “Cecily is here, of course, and Montford.” A small frown creased her brow. “I don’t know how the duke heard about the matter, for I did not tell him and Cecily didn’t, either, I’m sure. But he accompanied Lord deVere.”

“Damn,” muttered Davenport.

Hilary’s heart plummeted to the soles of her half boots. Being raked over the coals by her guardian, Oliver, Lord deVere, was one thing. Having him harangue her in front of all of these strangers—a duke, for goodness’ sake!—was another. Lord deVere would be sure to humiliate her.

“And Lady Arden, too,” added Rosamund serenely.

“What?” Davenport threw up his hands. “Suddenly, a matter requiring the utmost discretion has become public knowledge.”

“Not public, dear boy,” said Rosamund. “None of those present has a reason or an inclination to gossip. And you must admit, Montford and Lady Arden always exercise a civilizing effect on Lord deVere. Come, we must discuss what is to be done.”

She sailed out of the gallery, much in the manner of a captain leading a charge.

Hilary’s steps dragged. Davenport caught her elbow and turned her to face him. “You don’t have to go in there, you know.”

“Yes, I do,” she said. “I need Lord deVere’s support to make my come-out. He’s my guardian. Besides having the power to order me back to the Grange, he holds the purse strings.”

Davenport frowned, opened his mouth as if to argue, then shut it again. “Very well.”

He took her hand and drew it through his arm as they followed Rosamund. “But you are not to stand any nonsense from any of them. They can be … formidable.”

She suspected that was an understatement.

“I’m well accustomed to bluster from the likes of Lord deVere,” she replied.

His lips pressed together in a grim line. “Hmm, yes. What you’re not accustomed to is—”

He was obliged to break off, for here they were on the threshold of the drawing room.

The soaring proportions of this scarlet and gold salon had been arranged to inspire awe. They certainly inspired awe in Hilary. No less did the assembled personages daunt her.

For some reason, all of them were standing in a cluster by the fireplace at the far wall as she and Davenport followed Rosamund in. The three of them were thus obliged to traverse the entire length of the room to reach the group.

No one spoke. They all stared at the interloper in their midst. She felt their gazes like hot needles pricking her flesh. All that could be heard was her own heels and those of Rosamund and Davenport clicking on the parquetry floor, echoing through the silence,
click, click, click.

Hilary strove for a calm demeanor. She might be nervous on the inside, but she refused to show them how intimidated she was.

Davenport found her hand and gave it a surreptitious squeeze.

No doubt he meant it to be comforting. Hilary nearly shot out of her skin. A mix of sensual shock, embarrassment, and fury surged through her.

She snatched her hand away. What did he mean to do? Show them all that he and she were on much more intimate terms than was proper? Such a display would sink her chances from the outset.

When they finally reached the group of dignitaries awaiting them, Rosamund made the introductions. Hilary swiftly gauged the mood of each member of this party.

She saw immediately the likeness between Cecily, Duchess of Ashburn, and her brother. Cecily had the same dark coloring as Davenport and the same-shaped eyes. Snapping dark eyes they were, full of animation and intelligence.

And hostility. Yes, Hilary knew precisely how the duchess viewed her: as a scheming wench bent on ensnaring her brother. The sooner she was disabused of that notion, the better.

“Your Grace,” said Hilary, making a curtsy even deeper and more elegant than the one she’d bestowed on Rosamund.

There was no invitation to call Cecily by her given name.

The duchess said, “I’d say I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, but we’d know that for the social lie it is. Suffice it to say I’m reserving judgment on you, Miss deVere. You are not what I expected.”

Hilary smiled. “While Your Grace, if you don’t mind my saying so, is precisely as Lord Davenport described you. I have been looking forward to making your acquaintance.”

Cecily blinked in surprise; then her gaze took on a hint of speculation.

Hilary lifted her chin.

“Bravo, Miss deVere.” The suave, cool comment came from an older gentleman, whom Rosamund introduced as His Grace, the Duke of Montford.

He was somewhere between forty and fifty, Hilary supposed. Yet he possessed the lithe, languid grace of a younger man. His eyes were as cold and sharp as icicles. They seemed to drill down into her innermost thoughts.

Hilary sank into a deep, deferential curtsy. She only wished the duke
could
read her mind. Surely then he’d realize she had no designs on Davenport. Heavens, hadn’t she said time and again that she couldn’t imagine a worse fate than to be married to him?

Lady Arden, by contrast, bestowed on Hilary a genuine smile. “How very interesting.” She threw an amused glance at Davenport. “Not at all in your usual style, my dear.”

A woman of mature years, Lady Arden was strikingly handsome, with a magnificent figure. Her comment and the amused familiarity that tinged her words made Hilary bristle. Had Davenport and Lady Arden…? Surely, she was much too old for him.

At least Davenport did not seem to share the lady’s amusement. “As you say.”

A deep growl emanated from the armchair in the corner. The small group parted, and all turned to look at Hilary’s guardian.

Lord deVere’s was not a handsome face, but it was arresting in a swarthy, rough-hewn way. A very different cast of man from the elegant Duke of Montford, but about the same vintage, she would guess.

“Come here, my girl,” he rumbled.

Bracing her shoulders, Hilary moved toward him and dipped a curtsy. “Lord deVere, perhaps we might meet in private. We have much to discuss.”

“Discuss?” DeVere looked around him, as if inviting the company to share his incredulity. “
Discuss?
There is nothing to discuss.
I
am going to tell you what you will do and
you,
my precious ward, will do it! Understand me? What the Devil d’you mean by coming to London, eh?”

“I wrote to you that I intended to travel to Town, my lord, for the same purpose most young ladies of my age and situation visit during the season. As you did not write to reject the proposal, I assumed you agreed with it.”

She had not written to him, in point of fact, but since she knew very well that all of her careful missives found their way directly into deVere’s fire, she was reasonably certain he wouldn’t catch her in the falsehood.

He gazed at her through half-lowered lids. “Come to catch yourself a husband, eh? Well, now, let me have a look at you.”

He eyed her up and down as if he inspected a heifer at market. She suffered his scrutiny without comment because he held her future in the palm of his big, meaty hand. She itched to box his ears, however.

“Turn around,” he ordered.

“That’s enough, I think.” Davenport ranged himself beside her. “Accord Miss deVere some respect, sir.”

“Respect?” spat deVere. “Filly runs off alone with the worst rake in Christendom and you say she’s worthy of
respect
? How many times did you
respect
her on the way to London, eh, boy?”