The Rake's Redemption

They were nearing the stone cottage of the Keeper’s Lodge, hidden away behind a picket fence and high hedges. Soon they’d be surrounded by other carriages and more people. She puffed out a sigh. She didn’t want the rest of the world. She knew she’d have to give him up soon enough, but right now she wanted to spend more time with him, unwrapping each layer like a birthday present swathed in tissue. She was certain that what lay beneath was nothing short of perfection.

But as they rounded the curve, she could see other carriages approaching, and she wasn’t quite ready to maneuver Aeos and Aethon among more horses.

“I think perhaps you should drive now,” she said, reluctantly offering him the reins.

“If you insist,” he said, his smile returning and warming her.

She thought he would whip them up, set the horses at a good clip again, but he kept the team at a walk, as if just as loath to rejoin society. Perhaps that was why it was so easy to spot the other couple as Imogene and Vaughn crossed a little-used path meandering over the lawns.

The man was tall and lean, his hair, now white with advancing age, peeking out of his high-crowned beaver. Imogene recognized the tailored navy coat, the tasteful gold buttons. She wasn’t close enough to see, but she knew that each one was stamped with a D for Devary. The woman beside him was buxom, and her crimson gown was cut to emphasize the fact, displaying a large beauty mark below her neck. Her bonnet, however, was veiled, the black lace tucked under her chin, and Imogene couldn’t make out her features. As she watched, her father took the woman’s gloved hand and pressed a note into it.

Imogene must have made some noise because Vaughn slowed the horses to a stop at the edge of the path.

“That was your father,” he said, and she thought she heard accusation in his voice.

“Yes, it was,” she replied. “He was supposed to be in Whitehall this afternoon, but I must have misunderstood.” A very great deal, she added silently, unwilling to believe the evidence of her eyes.

“I can see the matter concerns you. Allow me to reunite you with your father so you can discuss it with him.”

“No, please, that isn’t necessary,” Imogene said, but he flicked the reins and began to turn the team on the path. She could feel her face heating. What could she say to her father? And how would he feel to find her driving in a secluded part of the park with the man he refused to acknowledge?

“I’m afraid,” Vaughn said, eyes once more that merciless black, “that I must insist. We’ve both been denied a conversation with your father, and I plan to rectify that.”

* * *

For some reason, the usually responsive chariot felt harder to turn, but Vaughn knew it wasn’t the horses. Lady Imogene sat beside him, fingers tugging at the ribbons of her bonnet, body hunched forward as if to protect herself from attack. She didn’t want to confront her father, fearing they’d stumbled upon some indiscretion. And Vaughn could not tell her that he suspected far more than an illicit liaison was involved.

He hated hurting her, hated that he’d pulled her into this mess. But if he could get answers from the Marquess of Widmore now, Imogene would be free. She wouldn’t have to sully her reputation by spending more time with him; she could return to her Season and find the right gentleman to marry. If some part of him protested that he might be that gentleman, he wrapped it in chains and sank it deep. His duty lay in uncovering the reason behind his uncle’s untimely death. Besides, he could never be a suitable match for a woman like her. She deserved better. He righted the chariot and set the horses back toward the other path.

By the time they reached the spot where her father had been waiting, his partner had gone and his lordship was a distant figure on the way to Kensington Palace. Vaughn slapped the reins, and Aeos and Aethon sped in pursuit. Lady Imogene clamped one hand to her bonnet as if fearing the rushing wind would whip it off, but she said nothing more to dissuade him from his purpose.

Indeed, her silence goaded him. What—had he developed a conscience? It shook a fragile finger at him now, warning that nothing good could come from his actions. He had to let go of the past and move into the future.

How could he? Uncle had been the only one who had ever truly cared about him, who had seen that darkness inside him and still wished his friendship. Vaughn didn’t understand why his uncle hadn’t come to him with his troubles, why he’d gone to the duel alone.

To walk away from the murder, to pretend all was well, went against everything Vaughn believed in. And there was still the concern that England itself might be in danger from the marquess. Three weeks ago, a man connected to the marquess had warned Richard that Widmore meant to topple the crown. Vaughn wasn’t sure what to believe, but he had to learn the truth.

The marquess must have heard them coming, for he stepped to one side of the path and glanced back. At the sight of the carriage bearing down on him his head came up, and he turned from the path and set off across the grass, long legs eating up the yards.

Oh, no, it would not be so easy to escape this time. How could Vaughn not suspect him when the man went to such lengths to avoid him?

“My lord!” Vaughn called, urging the horses forward and narrowing the gap.

The marquess didn’t pause.

Lady Imogene glanced at Vaughn. Her pretty face was puckered, her brows down in a frown as if she couldn’t understand why he was so intent on pursuit. Something of his despair must have shown on his face, for she turned front once more, cupped her hands around her mouth and cried, “Father, wait!”

The marquess halted and turned, and Vaughn thought he sagged in resignation. But as the carriage drew to a stop beside him, the man’s frame was as upright as ever and a pleasant smile lit his lean face.

“Imogene and Mr. Everard. What a delightful surprise to see you out on such a lovely day.”

Vaughn was very nearly struck dumb. How could the man stand there and speak of commonplaces? He had to know Vaughn had been hounding him from pillar to post. Vaughn glanced closer.

The Marquess of Widmore had always been a striking man, with a slender body, elegant features and assessing gray eyes. Though his lips were thin, they were often curved in a smile, lighting his face. Now his tailored coat seemed too large for his frame, as if his energy had worn him thin, and Vaughn detected a tremor in one hand as the marquess stood gazing up at them.

“Father,” Imogene greeted him, fingers worrying in her lap. “I’m surprised to see you here, as well. Mother and I were under the impression that you were in Whitehall.”

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