London's Last True Scoundrel (32 page)

“I can’t,” he said. “I’ve been banned.”

“Banned from Almack’s?” Hilary repeated. “Whatever for?”

“That’s quite all right,” said Lydgate, his blue eyes alight with wicked laughter. “I don’t mind squiring Miss deVere to a few balls.”

Whatever the joke was, Davenport didn’t seem to find it amusing. “Been getting in some sparring at Jackson’s lately, Lydgate?”

The viscount looked innocent. “Why should I need boxing practice to attend Almack’s?”

“You might need it sooner than you think,” said Davenport. “Next time, you won’t have Beckenham at your back.”

“Now, now, children,” said Lady Arden, holding up a finger. “Enlivening though all this masculine braggadocio might be, let us return to the subject of vouchers for Miss deVere.”

She turned to Cecily. “I believe we ought to set our sights on Lady Sefton and Lady Jersey, don’t you? Maria Sefton is a kind soul and she is a great friend of mine, so I don’t anticipate too much trouble there. Lady Jersey can be … difficult, but she is not nearly as proud as Mrs. Drummond-Burrell.”

Cecily said, “I can ask Ashburn to use his influence with her.”

“That would be welcome, but it might not be enough.” She tapped her fingertip to her lips. “Lady Jersey has a soft spot for a rake.…”

They all looked at Davenport.

“Jonathon,” said Lady Arden, “on second thoughts, I might drop a word in Lady Jersey’s ear that you are courting Miss deVere and wish to settle down. If I promise her that you will come back into the fold and behave yourself if Miss deVere is granted vouchers, she might consent to give you another chance.”

For once, Davenport’s expression was unreadable. Seconds passed and Hilary wondered if he’d even heard what Lady Arden said.

“Jonathon?” said Cecily.

He shook his head. “No. Miss deVere is perfectly capable of securing those vouchers on her own merits.”

“But my dear Jonathon, with your help—”

“Out of the question, ma’am. I do not go on bended knee to anyone, particularly not to Lady Jersey. Besides”—his gaze flickered to Honey and away—“we agreed, did we not, to keep the betrothal a secret. Lady Jersey is known as Silence for a reason. She’d never keep such a juicy tidbit to herself.”

Doubt twanged at the edge of Hilary’s mind. His arguments sounded logical, and yet …

Was it unreasonable of her to wish he’d thrown caution to the winds and laid this sacrifice at her feet?

Of course it was. She’d be spinning air dreams to believe him capable of such a selfless gesture. She would have to do this on her own, then. Or at least without his help.

So be it. That was what she’d always planned, wasn’t it? She’d come to depend on Davenport, she realized, a foolish and dangerous habit to acquire.

“We shall mount our final attack at Montford’s ball,” said Lady Arden. “That’s a week hence, which gives me time to lay the groundwork.” Her eyes sparkled. “If we can bring this off, it will be a triumph, my dears.”

Hilary thanked the others profusely for their help in establishing her in society. She only wished the task didn’t provide them with quite so much of a challenge.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Davenport wove his way through the detritus that littered the dark London back alley. The cobbles beneath his feet gleamed in the moonlight, slick with rain and refuse. The stench of open drains and rotting food permeated the air.

At his approach, a tangled mass of rubbish scuffled and seethed. With a screeching chatter, three rats broke free of the rubbish heap, scattering in different directions. One flowed over Davenport’s boot, tail twitching.

He wasn’t concerned with rats. Tonight he hunted a weasel.

He feigned a drunken stagger as the vermin scampered off into the shadows. He wanted the man who followed him to think he was vulnerable. The man might get cocky and, therefore, careless. Mustn’t overdo it, though. Even at his worst, he rarely allowed himself to reach the staggering stage. He hadn’t bragged when he’d told Honey he carried his liquor well.

The weasel shadowed him tonight. Davenport had sensed him immediately he’d set foot out of his house, although the fellow was damned good at staying out of sight.

He’d let the fellow shadow him all this time, faintly curious to see what might come of it and not caring enough about his safety or his future to eradicate the nuisance for good.

But when the man began stalking him outside Honey’s home in broad daylight, no less, the bastard had gone too far. It was time to be rid of this menace, once and for all.

To that end, Davenport had made his usual rounds, which began with dining at his club, then degenerated steadily in respectability as the night wore on. Culminating in this reckless sortie into the rookeries to attend an exclusive but exceedingly nasty gaming hell.

He found the nondescript door and gave the correct knock and the right password. He was admitted by a burly red-haired individual who went by the name of Rusty Nail.

“Evening, Mr. Nail,” said Davenport. “Anyone interesting?”

“The usual, my lord. Rawling dropped a cool thousand in one sitting last week.”

“Oh?” Davenport surveyed without much interest the motley collection of hardened gamesters who had gathered in the large salon. Ordinarily, he found the mixture of risk and calculation involved in games of chance stimulating, but he had other fish to fry tonight.

Hazard was the name of the game here, and the grim, quiet air of desperation attested to the fact that this was not a club for the faint of heart or the slender of purse. The establishment catered to the Quality and thus provided excellent refreshments, but unlike other such places, it barred women from the cardroom. Not even the light-skirts who might entertain a gentleman to various exotic and perverse activities upstairs were permitted to distract these committed gamesters from the tables.

“Sir.” Nail held out his hand to take Davenport’s coat. Davenport didn’t remove it. Instead, he dropped a purse of coins into the man’s palm.

“I need you to do something for me,” he said.

Nail, who survived in his trade by being several times sharper than he looked, cocked a wary eyebrow.

“I’m not asking you to cut anyone’s throat,” said Davenport. Though he rather fancied Nail would do just that if the price was right.

“Someone is lurking outside this club. Could be an informant for the magistrate. Could be it’s someone who has a more personal interest in my movements. Either way, I want you to flush him out.”

He explained the plan to Nail, who grasped his role immediately. Calling for another heavyset employee to take his place at the door, Nail headed out into the night.

Davenport moved easily through various rooms before slipping out the back way and stepping into an even more noisome alley than the one from which he’d entered. He walked toward the front entrance of the club, where the weasel no doubt loitered.

He didn’t have long to wait. There was a muffled shout and a pelter of quick footsteps heading toward him.

Davenport flattened himself against the wall, waiting until the large figure of the weasel ran full tilt toward him.

He was fast, Davenport would give him that. With a flying tackle worthy of a Cambridge playing field, Davenport cannoned into the weasel and brought down the fleeing man.

He rolled the weasel over but only landed one good punch before the glint of moonlight on blade told him the fellow was armed and striking.

The downward thrust would have shivved Davenport between shoulder and neck, but in the nick of time he caught the weasel’s wrist in a vice-like grip. The man was strong and cunning and clearly at home with a knife.

Davenport’s face was set in a grimace of effort. He ground out, “Who sent you? Why are you following me?”

A feral smile twisted the weasel’s thin features. He didn’t answer, just renewed his effort to bore down on the back of Davenport’s neck with the knife.

On a sudden furious surge of strength, Davenport forced the weasel’s arm down hard on the ground, banged it once, twice, on the hard cobbles, finally making his grip spasm open. The blade clattered to the ground.

Davenport wanted to beat the fellow to a bloody pulp. He had to make sure this foul worm never so much as looked at Honey again. But he needed to know who’d sent him and why.

Davenport scooped the knife up and hauled the fellow to his feet. He muscled him to the wall and pinned him by his throat. Nose to nose, he spoke clearly, “You’d better start talking, because men like me do not bleat to the authorities when men like you bother them. They crush them like bugs beneath their feet.”

He eased the pressure a little from the weasel’s neck to let him talk.

Hoarsely the man said, “Someone will send you a message. No ’arm will come to the little lady if you cooperate.”

A red haze washed over Davenport’s vision and his grip tightened involuntarily on the weasel’s throat.

The fellow’s foot shot out to kick him in the shins. He clawed at Davenport’s wrists, fingernails gouging. “Kill me and you’ve got nothing,” he gasped hoarsely. “And another’ll take my place, sure as check.”

“You so much as look at the lady again and I’ll gut you,” ground out Davenport.

A faint, hoarse cry came from outside the club. Davenport heard it, but he didn’t let it draw his focus from his captive.

The man sneered, his teeth an uneven white flash, and jerked his head toward the club. “Stuck your mate like a pig, I did. You Quality, you’re all the same. Don’t give a toss about the feller back there bleedin’ out in the gutter, do yer?”

For the first time, Davenport noticed the dark, irregular patch on the weasel’s coat. The sweet stench of blood was on him, too.

Bloody hell.
Davenport glanced back along the alley, seeking the large shape in the gloom.

That second of inattention was enough. With a twisting, wrenching motion, the weasel got free.

Cursing viciously, Davenport let him go. He raced along the alley and fell to his knees beside the big porter, who was lying on the stones clutching his side with a dark pool of blood around him.

On a string of oaths, Davenport bent to half-lift the man from the noisome ground, supporting his torso. Giving a sharp shout for assistance, he took out his handkerchief and did his best to stanch the wound.

“You need a doctor,” he said to Nail, his heart pounding. There was a sick roil in his stomach. Dear God, what had he done?

“Just a scratch, guv’nor,” gasped Nail. “I’ll be … right as a trivet.…”

The big man sagged in Davenport’s arms.

*   *   *

Dawn crept across the sky as Davenport walked home from the aftermath of that terrible night. He was covered in blood and the unidentifiable slime of the cobbles on which he’d knelt to help Nail. He reeked of those substances, but the scent that filled his nostrils, seeped into his brain, was the clammy stench of fear.

That bastard had threatened Hilary. His Honey.

How could he have so underestimated his opponent? He’d never dreamed that after months of following him that passive and silent shadow would lash out with threats against the woman he … Against Honey, a gently born lady who had nothing to do with any of this.

How could he have guessed the fellow would be so good with a knife?

And Nail. God Almighty, if Nail died, it would be his fault.

The burden of that guilt weighted his shoulders even while the need to get to Honey quickened his steps.

But he couldn’t go to her in this state, at this hour. His body was filthy, and there was a growing stain on his soul. As soon as he’d taken care of Nail, Davenport would send someone to make sure Honey was all right and stay there until he could arrange for a replacement. He’d post a guard around the clock to keep her safe.

The weasel had said Davenport would hear from them. The implication was that there’d be a demand, that if he didn’t meet it they’d harm Honey.

He ground his teeth until his jaw ached. He’d hand that bloody formula to the Devil himself before he’d let anything happen to her.

But no, he realized. He’d be damned if he’d do either. He was going to find the bastard behind all of this and he was going to destroy him. And he’d take great pleasure in crushing that vicious weasel beneath the heel of his boot.

In the meantime, he needed to fight the instinct that made him want to guard Honey every minute of the day and night. If they saw how important she was to him, their plan to use her would gain strength.

He ought to end the pretense of their betrothal. Too many people knew of it already. There was no guarantee the news would remain within their family circle. DeVere, for one, had an interest in making the engagement public in order to force Davenport’s hand.

He hissed out a breath. Honey hadn’t secured those vaunted Almack’s vouchers yet. It went against the grain with him to deny Honey her heart’s desire. He’d just have to make sure his family stood by her, even if he couldn’t. Better for her if he stayed away. Hadn’t Lady Arden said as much before she’d come up with that crackbrained scheme to reinstate him with the patronesses?

Inside him, cold rage howled like a blizzard. He loathed the idea of hurting Honey, but it had to be done. He had to make a break with her. Not forever, just long enough for him to find and deal with the man responsible for threatening her. Even if the weasel’s employer wasn’t deceived by his ruse, Davenport had to do everything in his power to protect her while he dealt with this new menace.

He hoped to Hell it would be enough.

*   *   *

Hilary scarcely set eyes on Davenport for days after their call on Lady Arden. That lady had appointed herself in charge of Hilary’s debut and kept her busy from noon until the small hours with social calls and carefully orchestrated appearances at various balls and parties.

Mrs. Walker seemed happy to be relieved of responsibility, but Lord deVere was not so sanguine. He was, however, no match for Hilary’s steely-eyed mentor.

Lady Arden gave Lord deVere a fine trimming when he stormed in one day to protest her usurpation of his kinswoman’s authority.