London's Last True Scoundrel (35 page)

No one thought it could be done safely. And even if it could, why risk one’s own reputation following in Davenport’s erratic footsteps?

Beckenham strode in, closely followed by Lydgate, who wore full evening dress. Hell, what was the time? Davenport glanced at the clock and shoved a hand through his hair. He’d be late for Montford’s ball at this rate.

“Managed to identify Weasel Face,” said Lydgate, tossing the sketch Davenport had made onto the desk in front of him. “It wasn’t easy. Name of Silas Ridley. It didn’t help us, on account of he’s flown the country.”

The expressions on his cousins’ faces told him the reason his quarry had fled.

“Jonathon,” said Beckenham quietly, “Nail is dead.”

The words crashed through Davenport, and a blistering obscenity broke from his lips. His throat burned like fire. “Because of me.”

“He’s dead because a villain stuck a knife into him,” said Lydgate impatiently.

The memory of that villain’s sneering mouth telling him he’d stuck the porter like a pig haunted his dreams.

“No.” Davenport snatched up the sketch of Ridley and crushed it in his fist. “If I hadn’t involved Nail in the business, he’d still be alive.”

“You trusted Nail to handle himself,” said Beckenham in his grave, sensible way. “He was a professional villain, just as Ridley was. You paid him handsomely and he took the job.”

Davenport set his teeth. “Much good the money will do him now.”

“He knew the risks,” said Lydgate. “He accepted them. He accepted the same risk every time he went to work in that hell. Life expectancy among porters at that place must be a year at the outside.”

Lydgate spoke with the authority of a man who risked his life in his line of work as a matter of course. But each time, Lydgate knew what he was getting into.

Even Davenport hadn’t realized what he was up against in Ridley. He might be reckless with his own safety, but he had no right to be reckless with anyone else’s. He’d held the burly porter’s life too cheaply and this was the result.

“You will, of course, provide for his family,” said Beckenham.

“Already done.”

A vicious fury overtook him. Bloody Beckenham, always meeting his obligations, never putting a foot wrong. And Lydgate, so coldly ruthless beneath the smooth façade of a Bond Street beau. All three of them in this room were privileged and wealthy, with the power of life and death over far too many people. It had been this kind of callousness he’d sacrificed his life’s work to guard against.

He turned on them both, snarling. “Oh, yes, I can toss money at them. That makes it all nice and tidy, doesn’t it? A man’s dead, a woman widowed, and their children can never have their father back, but I may buy my way free of guilt with a sum that most men like us would spend on their annual handkerchief bill.”

Beckenham flicked a glance at Lydgate, as if signaling him not to argue further.

Davenport turned his back on them rather than see pity or, worse, bewilderment in their eyes.

There was a pause. Then footsteps. A large hand settled on Davenport’s shoulder, gave it a brief squeeze.

“Get out, will you?” Davenport’s fists clenched, but even he knew his guilt and shame couldn’t be erased by physical violence. “Just leave.”

*   *   *

“Davenport’s not coming, is he, Rosamund?”

Hilary tried to swallow her disappointment, but it was too sharp and jagged to choke down. She’d hoped … What had she hoped?

That when he saw her exquisitely gowned and elegantly coiffed the scales would fall from his eyes. He would instantly declare his love, go down on one knee, and propose in truth this time.

It hurt to know how laughable that fantasy was.

“He said he’d be here,” replied Rosamund, fanning herself languidly, as if she hadn’t a care in the world. “Lydgate hasn’t arrived yet, either, so don’t panic.”

“Do you think he’s found the man who has been following him? Do you think he intends to confront whoever is behind this tonight?”

Rosamund shook her head. “They would have sent Griffin word.” She blew a breath through her pursed lips as if she needed to relieve tension. “My dear husband is spoiling for a fight. They all are.”

At least the men of this family were exceedingly good at fighting. Rosamund’s husband was a colossus of a man who used to win money in prizefights at local fairs. And of course, Hilary knew Davenport’s capabilities. Rosamund’s brother, Xavier, Marquis of Steyne, was rumored to have killed a man with his bare hands.

Hilary didn’t know whether to believe that. Having met the enigmatic marquis, she rather thought it might be true.

Lady Arden came upon them, brimming with excitement. “My dears, I have happy news. Lady Sefton is all but persuaded. She told me she thought you a very pretty-behaved young lady, Miss deVere, and that you had an air of modesty she found most pleasing.”

“Well, and so she is a pretty-behaved young lady,” said Rosamund with a warm smile at Hilary. “We did not need Lady Sefton to tell us that.”

“Still,” said Lady Arden, holding up an admonitory finger. “We are not over the final hurdle yet. Lady Jersey will attend later this evening, I hear. Mark my words, she will be the tougher nut to crack.”

“My lady, you go to so much trouble on my behalf,” said Hilary. “Indeed, I thank you.”

“Oh, tosh,” said Lady Arden with a smile. “As I said, I enjoy a challenge.” She craned her neck a little. “Ah, I see Lord deVere bearing down on us. I shall head him off at the pass while you ladies make your escape. We do not wish to emphasize
that
connection any more than necessary tonight.”

She sailed off through the crowd like a warship into battle.

Hilary and Rosamund threaded their way through the guests to the other side of the room, where a group of chairs ranged against a wall.

Rosamund sank down on her chair with a small sigh of relief.

Hilary wished she might feel more enthusiasm for Lady Arden’s news. But what did Almack’s matter when she was so afraid for Davenport all the time?

Where was he?

Davenport had more important things to think of than attending a ball; she knew that. They were no longer betrothed, and he was trying to stay away from her for her own good.

Foolish of her, but those considerations didn’t make her feel better.

“There is Lydgate now,” said Rosamund on a note of relief. Her brows twitched together and her fan stilled. “But Jonathon is not with him.”

Hilary’s heart bounded into her throat. “Oh, I shall go mad, I think.”

Lydgate strolled up to them in time to hear her. His brows rose. “There is no cause for alarm, Miss deVere. Davenport is hale and hearty and shortly to arrive.” He assessed her. “What you need is a drink. Champagne. That’s the ticket. I’ll get you some.” He grinned down at Rosamund. “Feeling the heat, Rosie? Lemonade for you, I think.”

“Oh, yes,” said Rosamund. “That
is
what I need. Thank you, Lydgate.”

Despite her brothers’ hard-drinking proclivities, Hilary had never so much as tasted champagne before. She’d been careful to only drink lemonade or a few sips of wine when in company so as not to give the impression she was one of
those
deVeres. She couldn’t imagine anything worse than falling into a stupor like the one to which she’d seen Mrs. Walker succumb.

Tonight, however, she no longer cared about all of that. When Lydgate pressed the glass into her hand, she took a tentative sip and repressed a sneeze when the bubbles tickled her nose.

“Treat that with respect,” said Lydgate, laughing at her reaction. “It’s a fine drop.”

“Montford never stints when it comes to champagne,” agreed Rosamund.

“The only thing he does stint on is my quarterly allowance,” Lydgate muttered. “He’s a positive miser when it comes to doling out
other
people’s money.”

“Poor Lydgate,” teased Rosamund. “Are you short of cravats? Have you been reduced to using ordinary blacking on your boots instead of champagne?”

Hilary took another appreciative swallow of the fizzy wine. “This,” she said positively, “ought not to be wasted on shining boots.”

Lydgate had hit the mark. The champagne was just what she’d needed. As she made her way through the glass, she became conscious of relaxation slowly spreading through her body. The strict guard she usually kept on her tongue seemed to melt away. Rosamund and Lydgate seemed entertained by her chatter. For the first time that evening, the future didn’t look so bleak.

Even when Lady Maria Shand promenaded past on the arm of her partner, Hilary didn’t feel the slightest barb of jealousy.

Her glass had been empty for some time and Hilary was hoping for more when Davenport came in. His head turned sharply, as if he’d scented her on the wind. In blatant disregard of his resolve not to draw attention to their association, he made a beeline for her.

Her senses heightened instantly. Heart pounding, she set down her glass and rose at his approach.

He was so vividly handsome, everyone else in the room seemed to fade beside him. Her heart did a slow, hard tumble in her chest.

She loved this man. When she saw the toll the past few days had taken on him in his drawn face, she wanted to take him in her arms.

She loved him. There. After all of her struggles against it, she could finally admit that to herself.

He leaned down to kiss Rosamund’s cheek, then bowed to Hilary. “Miss deVere, would you care to dance?”

His dark eyes burned into hers, fierce and tortured and somehow pleading at the same time. Even if she’d wished to spurn him, she could not resist the need to give him everything he desired.

She placed her hand on his arm and allowed him to lead her to the floor. A waltz. It was a waltz and she went into his arms as easily and inevitably as if she were coming home.

How difficult it was to keep the proper distance when she yearned to hold him tight, to kiss away the trouble on his brow. She wanted to take him inside her and harness all the passion and fierce longing she saw in his eyes.

“I—I thought you might not come,” she said.

A quirk of the lips briefly lightened his features. “What, and miss your triumph? I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“What is it?” said Hilary. “Has something happened? You look…”
Desolate. Furious. Lost.

“Let’s not speak of it now,” he said. Leaning in, until his mouth almost brushed her ear, he said, “Honey, I need you. God, I need you so much. Let’s get away from here.”

On a gasp, she tilted her head back to stare. “Now? But … but we can’t.” Gracious, Lady Jersey would arrive soon. How could she possibly face the patroness of Almack’s after doing …
that
with Davenport?

“Tonight,” she said softly, so no one would overhear. “Later, in Half Moon Street.”

“I can’t wait that long. Can you?”

There was no wicked glint in his eye now. Gone was the laughing cavalier who shrugged life’s cares from his shoulders as easily as if they were a cloak. He was a man in pain with a great burden to bear and Hilary’s heart would need to be made of stone for her to deny him.

Her heart was his already.

“I have no right to ask; I know it,” he said huskily into her ear as he whirled her down the room. “But I want you so much I’m aching for you. I’ll die if I don’t have you. I want to be inside you, feel your hot, wet—”

“No, stop!” she hissed. How could he say such things in the midst of this elegant crowd?

Her body trembled, his urgency feeding her own. “But how?” She darted a glance around her at the crowd of dancers, spinning down the room. “Where? It’s impossible. Even you could not seduce a lady in the middle of a ball.”

With a laugh that seemed to ring hollow, he said, “My dear, sweet Honey. You should know me better than that by now.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Following Davenport’s directions, Hilary had escaped the ballroom on the pretense of finding the ladies’ retiring room and instead made her way to a little-used parlor on the first floor.

The parlor seemed to be a music room, with a harp and a pianoforte and a group of chairs. An elegant chaise with serpentine scrollwork on the back stretched languidly in the window bay.

Her heart pounded against her ribs. What she was doing now jeopardized everything she’d striven so hard for. But when she’d glimpsed Davenport’s pain, she couldn’t deny him. More than that, she wanted him with a desperation that equaled his. A thrill shivered through her body.

Minutes ticked by. She wondered if something had prevented him from coming.

Finally, the door she’d left slightly ajar opened and he walked in.

He didn’t see her at first, for the pianoforte lid obscured most of her form from that angle. After one swift glance around, he leaned his shoulders against the wall, his face drawn. His chest heaved and his throat worked, as if he found it difficult to swallow.

A wave of sorrow swept over her. He seemed so desolate, so alone.

Considerations of propriety, virtue, even plain common sense seemed paltry and trivial when the saucy pirate who had so tormented her on the journey to London could seem lost and broken.

“Did you think I would not come?” she whispered, stepping out of the shadows and moving into the circle of light cast by the candle he held.

His head jerked up. “I thought…” He blew out a breath. “It took me some time to get away. I thought you might have given me up and left. Or done the sensible thing and stayed clear altogether.”

“You thought I’d desert you when you needed me,” she corrected softly. Now she knew he needed
her
and not simply physical release. Knew with a simple, clear conviction she was loved, even if he wouldn’t admit it. Nothing else mattered to her now.

He needed her because she cared for him. He needed her because there was no one else who understood.

She thought of the way his family rallied around him. Perhaps they had tried to understand him, but he’d pushed them away, repelled them with his flippant charm. Davenport’s careless veneer was a tough one to crack.

She put a hand up to touch his cheek. “Tell me,” she whispered. “Tell me what made you look so haunted just now.”