London's Last True Scoundrel

by Christina Brooke

  He crossed to the brandy decanter that reposed on the gleaming sideboard. “Drink?”

  Davenport eyed it suspiciously. “Only if it’s not doctored like the last one.”

  “Drug your own brandy?” Xavier’s sneering smile tilted his lips. “My dear fellow, I wouldn’t dream of it.”

  He poured two glasses, handed one to Davenport. After he saw Xavier take a sip of the beverage, Davenport followed suit.

  “Suspicious, aren’t you?” murmured Xavier.

  “I’ve reason, haven’t I?” said Davenport. “That was a scurvy trick to play on me, Steyne, and you know it. Left Becks and Lydgate to do your dirty work for you, too.”

  “I did not think it would require three of us to subdue you.”

  Xavier glanced at his two cohorts, whose faces appeared every bit as worse for wear as did Davenport’s. “Perhaps I was wrong.” He held his arms wide. “Do you want to have a go at me now? I’m at your disposal.”

  He spoke in that maddeningly emotionless tone Davenport loathed. The urge to hit someone had passed, however. Davenport gave him a blank stare, then leaned against the mantel and savored his drink.

  “We hear you’re engaged to be married,” said Beckenham.

  “Straight to the point, as usual,” murmured Xavier.

  Ignoring him, Beckenham said, “What is this, Davenport? Did you pick up the first wench you saw and propose? Is this some sort of joke?”

  “Is she hopelessly ineligible?” Xavier looked interested. “An opera dancer, for example?”

  “She’s a deVere,” snapped Davenport.

  Lydgate slapped his palm to his forehead, wincing. “Not another one in the family. Wasn’t Tregarth bad enough?”

  Since Rosamund’s husband was possibly Lydgate’s closest friend, no one paid that comment any heed.

  “I cannot conceive how you could be dumped in a barn one day and engaged to be married the next,” said Beckenham, his brow furrowing.

  “Well, of course you couldn’t,” said Lydgate. “A man like you never does anything without due care and consideration. But this is Davenport we’re talking about. He ain’t like you, Becks.”

  “More’s the pity,” commented Xavier. “What are you going to do about her?” he asked, his gaze keen and incisive.

  “Do about her?” Davenport blinked. He had no intention of sharing his (as yet rather hazy) plans with his cousins, or the true reason for the engagement.

  “Well, obviously the two of you can’t marry,” said Lydgate. “A deVere female? Who ever heard of a Westruther heir marrying a deVere?”

  This was precisely the sort of prejudice Hilary continually faced. It was on the tip of Davenport’s tongue to say he would marry Hilary deVere and be damned to the lot of them, but he caught himself in the nick of time.

  “My dear fellows, I appreciate your concern, but the fact of the matter is, it’s none of your damned business. Now, shall we drink together in harmony or shall we strip and settle the matter with our fists?”

  They opted for the former, which suited him very well. He needed a drink or three to stave off the panic that rose in his chest at the mere thought of marriage.

  A more immediate problem occurred to him. “She wants to go to Almack’s.”

  “What woman doesn’t?” was Xavier’s cynical reply.

  “Suppose I’ll have to take her there, though.” He stared at the dregs of his glass

  “Weren’t you banned from Almack’s?” said Lydgate idly.

  Davenport straightened. “Was I? What for?”

  He hadn’t paid much attention to such things. What would he want with Almack’s? You couldn’t drink, you couldn’t game for high stakes, and you certainly couldn’t get your leg over a willing wench or two.

  “Flooring the porter when he turned you away for arriving after eleven o’clock, I expect,” said Beckenham.

  “No, I don’t think that was it.” Davenport frowned. He might be an idiot, but he didn’t go around hitting innocent employees who were only obeying orders.

  “Kissed some girl behind a potted plant?” suggested Lydgate.

  No, that didn’t ring a bell. Until Lady Maria had made such a bold play for him, he’d restricted himself to bored married ladies and women of another class entirely. He’d never needed to skulk around snatching kisses at a subscription ball.

  He shook his head. “No, it’s gone. I simply do not recall.”

  “I shall start a betting book on the subject.” Lydgate took out a notebook he used for the purpose and began to scribble away. “My money is on propositioning Mrs. Drummond-Burrell.”

  “Ugh! Give me some credit for taste.”

  “You were probably castaway,” said Beckenham, tossing back his brandy. “I’ll put a hundred on it. When do we meet this paragon of yours?” He rose, as if ready to depart now that he’d delivered various measured words of censure on Davenport’s conduct.

  Davenport rubbed his nose. “Montford will decide that. What’s the bet he’ll want us all together around his table so he can intimidate the poor girl into submission?”

  “What does the noble head of our house think of the match?” inquired Xavier, watching Davenport closely.

  “Doesn’t like it,” said Davenport. “He’ll probably enlist your help to break up the engagement, only it looks like you’ve taken on the task all by yourselves.”

  “Not at all,” said Xavier. “I rarely do anything to assist Montford’s schemes if I can help it.”

  “Well, I don’t like it,” said Lydgate. “First, all the girls go off and get happily married, bang, bang, bang, one after another. And now you, Davenport. You! Where will all this falling in love end? is what I ask myself. It’s a damned epidemic, so it is.”

  Beckenham looked back from the doorway. “I think you can safely say it will stop at me,” he said, and went out.

  Davenport sighed. He ought to have predicted that if he offered marriage, his irritating cousins would leap to the conclusion that he was in love.

  Perish the thought! His only consolation in the entire business was that Honey was equally horrified at the notion of their marriage. As for love, she’d laugh herself sick over the mere suggestion she’d fallen in love with a scoundrel like Davenport. No, Miss Hilary deVere would scour ballrooms of Mayfair and beyond for suitors to avoid marrying him.

  The notion ought to have comforted him, but it didn’t. Not in the least.

  * * *

  As Lord deVere hustled her out of the carriage and up the steps to Mrs. Walker’s door, Hilary cast a critical eye about her. She had the gravest misgivings about the lady deVere had chosen to be her duenna.

  She’d labeled society’s condemnation of her family as prejudice, but the truth was most deVere men were brutes. That’s if her father, her brothers, and Lord deVere were anything to judge by.

  She hadn’t met Lord Tregarth, but from what little she’d seen and heard, she suspected he was somewhat of a brute, too. Goodness knew why a refined lady like Rosamund should love such a man, but there was no accounting for taste.

  Hilary was largely unacquainted with the female members of her clan. DeVeres did not generally gather together for cozy family celebrations.

  She ought to keep an open mind about Mrs. Walker, just as Hilary longed for people to keep an open mind about her. But with every yard they traveled, she could not help wishing she were back at Tregarth House.

  She was so consumed by her thoughts that she did not take in her surroundings on their short journey, though she’d yearned for the city sights as long as she could remember.

  She wondered if Mrs. Walker knew she was about to have a guest thrust upon her for the space of a month. Not only a guest, but a young lady who required strict chaperonage into the bargain. Hilary thought it unlikely. Surely deVere would not have had the opportunity to arrange the matter with her before his call at Lord Tregarth’s house.

  Her prospective duenna’s residence was situated in Half Moon Street, an address
Hilary knew must be respectable because one of her students from Miss Tollington’s lived there.

  That was a good sign, wasn’t it? Her tension eased a little.

  “DeVere to see Mrs. Walker,” said her guardian.

  The butler mutely held out his salver and DeVere patted his coat in a fruitless search for his card case. After some fumbling and muttering, he gave up.

  He glared at the butler beneath lowering brows as if daring him to ask for his calling card. “Well, come on, man. Don’t keep us standing here like dolts.”

  “Very good, my lord.” The imperturbable butler must have had experience with deVere, for he didn’t turn a hair at such treatment. He ushered them in, then bowed and went in search of his mistress.

  The salon they entered was an ornate drawing room, gilded and decorated in the Oriental style in an alarming combination of salmon pink, gold, and puce.

  Hilary barely repressed a shudder at the décor, but at least the ceiling appeared to be in good repair. Clearly, Mrs. Walker didn’t begrudge money spent on maintenance, unlike Hilary’s brothers. That was a somewhat promising start.

  “Don’t stand there gawping, girl!” DeVere gave her a shove between the shoulder blades that made her stumble farther into the room. “Sit down over there.”

  Their hostess kept them waiting for so long, Hilary wondered if she was at home. She and Lord deVere sat staring glumly at each other until a trilling voice broke the silence.

  “Oliver? Is that you?”

  Mrs. Walker paused on the threshold as if to pose for a portrait. One hand was stretched slightly above her head, caressing the doorframe, while the other fiddled with the strings of a truly scandalous robe.

  The lady had red hair and brown eyes and a plump, curvaceous figure—easily discernible beneath the filmy layers of gauze that did very little to cover them.

  Hilary blinked, then blushingly averted her gaze. Clearly, Lord deVere and Mrs. Walker were closer than most distant relations. Hilary wished she could make herself invisible or liquefy and melt into the floor.

  DeVere launched to his feet with a muttered oath, but before he could do much more than say, “Now, Dolly, don’t—,” she hurried forward and flung her arms around him, practically scaling his large body like a buxom, red-haired monkey.

  He pushed her away from him—but not before he’d had a friendly grope of her rounded bottom—and said, “Put some clothes on, m’dear. I’m not here for … ah…” He cleared his throat. “I’ve brought a lady with me.”

  “What?” she demanded, her cooing turning to a scold. “I told you before I don’t like that sort of thing. If that’s what you want, sirrah, you can take yourself off.”

  “Be damned to you, you harridan!” shouted deVere. “Look at her. She’s my ward. Name’s Hilary deVere, daughter of Nathaniel.”

  “What?” said the lady, staring hard at Hilary. “Never say— Ah, but she has the look of her hoity-toity mama, don’t she? Well, what do you expect me to do with her?”

  “Bring her out. Take her on the town. Chaperone her to parties. You know the style of thing.”

  “Chaperone? Me?” She gave a great belly laugh. “You’re cracked, you are.”

  Lord deVere’s beetling brows lowered and his bottom lip stuck out. Hastily the lady backtracked. “What I mean is, delighted, I’m sure. Er, how long am I to have the, ah, pleasure of Miss Hilary’s company?”

  “A month. Maybe less. Tell ’em to make up a room for her. Everything at my expense, of course.”

  Mrs. Walker’s eyes brightened at that. With a quick, shrewd glance at Hilary, she rang the bell, and the housekeeper came in answer.

  “I have a young relative come to stay, Mrs. Harbury. Make up the yellow bedchamber, will you? And take Miss deVere to the upstairs parlor while I talk to his lordship.”

  With a disapproving sniff, the housekeeper did as she was told. “This way, miss.”

  Glad of an opportunity to escape, Hilary followed the servant upstairs. Mrs. Walker was just as she’d feared. Worse. For she was quite obviously Lord deVere’s mistress, which showed not only loose morals but also a total lack of discrimination.

  Imagine being kissed and … and … fondled by Lord deVere!

  Was this Mrs. Walker truly a deVere or was she merely some random mistress deVere thought would make a good chaperone?

  Whatever the case, she doubted Mrs. Walker had ever darkened the doors of Almack’s.

  Some time later, when deVere had left without saying farewell or giving Hilary the least notion of his plans for her—if, indeed, he had any—Hilary was once again called down to the drawing room.

  Her hostess was clothed respectably now, in a dark cambric gown with a striped spencer and shawl. She looked like any other society matron, save for the beacon red hair. Hilary thanked Heaven for small mercies.

  Now that she was able to look Mrs. Walker full in the face, she noticed the lady was somewhat older than she’d first appeared. In her bone structure Hilary detected the low brow and pugnacious chin that showed unmistakably she was a deVere.

  So that, at least, was true. Hilary could only hope the lady was discreet enough in her affaires to still remain in good standing with the ton.

  “Come. Sit by me, dearie,” said Mrs. Walker, patting the couch next to her. “Lord deVere has told me all about you. What an exciting time you’ve had, to be sure.”

  Hilary would rather describe it as by turns frustrating, infuriating, harrowing, and humiliating, but she said cautiously, “Just so, ma’am.”

  “And betrothed to the Earl of Davenport. Quick work, my girl. Clever work, too, if you got him on your hook after only one night.”

  “It’s not like that,” Hilary protested.

  “Oh, now, lovey, we’re family,” said Mrs. Walker with a wink. “You don’t have to pretend with me.”

  “No, I mean, I truly didn’t hook him, ma’am. Lord Davenport is honoring a family obligation. But as I explained to Lord deVere, the earl wants me to make sure there is no other gentleman I would prefer to marry before we settle down together. That is why he wanted me to have a season.”

  “Honor? Obligation?” Mrs. Walker laughed. “For a minute there I thought you were talking of Davenport. The greatest rogue in London, my dear. You’ll need to do better than rely on honor and obligation if you want him firmly tied to your apron strings.”

  “But I don’t—”

  “Come now, dearie, you can’t tell me you were on the road with the rogue all that time and he never had you. I’ve never heard of a woman—whore or lady or parson’s daughter—who could resist the Earl of Davenport.”

  The dreamy look in her eye told Hilary that if Davenport’s taste ever ran to vulgar redheads past their prime there’d be a willing conquest waiting for him right here in Half Moon Street.

  “Well, you have now,” said Hilary with dignity. “For your information, Lord Davenport behaved like a gentleman the entire time.”

  She could not stop the betraying blush that rose to her cheeks. The heat came in waves as she recalled each and every instance where Davenport had most certainly not behaved as a gentleman should.

  “If you say so,” said Mrs. Walker with a knowing and blatantly envious smile. “All I’m saying is, now you have the chance to snare him good and proper, you must use it. You need only tell the truth and let Lord deVere do the rest.”

  Hilary argued herself hoarse, but nothing she said could shift Mrs. Walker’s stance on the issue.

  The lady waved away her objections with a flick of her heavily beringed hand. “We shall ask Davenport to escort us shopping tomorrow. That ought to get him hot and bothered.”

  “Good gracious, why?” said Hilary, genuinely curious.

  Mrs. Walker rolled her eyes. “Saints preserve us, how did a deVere grow up so innocent? While you’re being measured and fitted, he’ll be looking at your body, of course. Imagining what you’re like naked. Get him primed in all the right places, that will.”

 
Heat rushed into Hilary’s face once more. “Then I beg you will not request Davenport’s escort, ma’am. I should be covered with shame to know the direction of his mind.”

  Mrs. Walker shrugged. “Men are all the same, dearie. Not a one of them meets a woman without imagining her with her clothes off, mark my words.”

  The notion made Hilary’s stomach flutter wildly. The shopping expedition she’d so looked forward to when Rosamund had proposed it now made her exceedingly nervous.

  She was obliged to sit docilely as Mrs. Walker went through all of the invitations in her fancy card holder, revising her plans for the next month. “For the sorts of entertainments that suit me wouldn’t be right for a debutante, my duck. I shall have to send acceptances to all manner of balls I had no notion of attending.”

  “I’m sorry to cause you so much trouble, ma’am,” said Hilary.

  Sternly she reminded herself that Mrs. Walker had not asked for a debutante to be thrust upon her. She ought to be grateful the lady was willing to put herself out for a virtual stranger with no claim on her except a distant kinship.

  “Well, I daresay that when you’re a countess you won’t forget,” said Mrs. Walker comfortably.

  Hilary refrained from disabusing the lady about her future status. “Indeed, I shall never forget you, ma’am,” she said, with perfect truth.

  Mrs. Walker glanced at the clock. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must rest for the evening’s engagements. You’ll be tired, I daresay, and quite happy to spend a quiet night at home.”

  When the rigid housekeeper showed her to her bedchamber, Hilary found herself in a room decorated in a mixture of the Egyptian and the Chinoiserie styles made popular by the Prince Regent. Four painted and gilded palm trees formed the bedposts, while faux bamboo trellises full of birds of paradise and exotic flowers decorated the walls.

  The chaise longue by the window sported crocodile feet. She hoped they were faux, too, although she rather suspected they might be real.

  The room might hurt the eyes with all of its clashing splashes of color, but it was a large step up from the Grange in terms of comfort and repair, so she ought not to complain. She tried very hard not to long for the sumptuous elegance of Lady Tregarth’s home.