All the light left with her, it seemed. Not even in the darkest hours of his exile had he felt so alone.
* * *
Hilary was too shattered to speak once they left Mr. Mason’s house, and Beckenham did not press her. The terrors of the past few hours seemed to fade into insignificance when compared with the agony of her final talk with Davenport.
The pain was too great for anyone to bear. How would she go on without him? Worse, how could she stop wanting him, even when she knew she’d made the right choice? Hadn’t she known all along how dangerous it was to fall in love with such a man?
She might have put on a brave face with Davenport when she rejected his proposal, but now she confronted the reality of ruin, the contempt of everyone she’d ever respected and admired. She dreaded facing anyone who belonged to that world. Cecily and Rosamund would be crushingly disappointed in her. Not to mention Lady Arden and the Duke of Montford. None of them would ever speak to her again.
What an idiot she’d been. She ought to have considered all of this before she’d fallen into bed with Davenport. What had he said once? It was his job to seduce her and her job to stop him. She’d failed at her duty quite miserably, had she not?
But she hadn’t succumbed to his outrageous charm, nor had she fallen in love with a handsome face. It was his innate kindness, his understanding of human foibles, and his readiness to forgive them in others that had undone her resolve.
He’d never judged her lacking because of her family or where she lived. He’d poked gentle fun at her insecurities, inviting her to laugh at things that once had so intimidated her. He’d defended her with his words and, when necessary, with his fists. He was a hero in the unlikeliest of all packages.
That’s why it killed her to hear those precious words on his lips. He’d said he loved her, and it seemed to her that he said it more easily each time. He’d almost convinced himself it was true. But he hadn’t convinced her.
Now she must do what was best for both of them and leave London for good.
As Beckenham’s curricle drew nearer to Half Moon Street, she wondered if even the vulgar Mrs. Walker would turn her out of doors once she heard the news of her disgrace. That seemed a prospect too humiliating to contemplate.
With a dull sense of inevitability, she said, “Lord Beckenham, would you take me to my brothers’ lodgings, please? They’re in Jermyn Street.”
* * *
When all was finished with Yarmouth and Ridley and it became clear that Gerald and Lady Maria had resolved their differences, it was far too late to do anything but go home.
Before he left, Lady Maria assured him she’d said nothing to anyone about “that other matter,” by which he took her to mean that now she was happy with Gerald she no longer sought to make everyone else’s life a misery.
Hilary’s reputation was safe. He meant to make damned sure it remained so by marrying her as soon as he could get her to actually speak with him again.
He wasn’t fool enough to make any further attempts tonight. Or this morning, as it now was. When his business was finished at Mason’s house, he went to find Beckenham.
They said confession was good for the soul, but it certainly wasn’t good for one’s amour propre. When Davenport finally divulged why Hilary might choose to hide out with her brothers rather than return to Mrs. Walker’s or Rosamund’s house, Beckenham’s response had been worse than a fist in the face.
Davenport was treated, at great length and in painstaking detail, to all the reasons he was less than dirt beneath Hilary’s dancing slippers. Every one of which he already knew.
“Why don’t you marry her, then?” he demanded of Beckenham, giving voice to the jealousy that had been gnawing at him for days now.
“I?” said Beckenham, his brows knit. “You believe I have an interest in Miss deVere? I have a kindness for her, of course, but that is all.”
He appeared bewildered by the accusation, as if when it came to love he was not even in the running and no one could expect him to be.
Cecily was right. Georgie Black truly had ruined Beckenham for all other women.
For the briefest of moments, Davenport’s heart lifted. But no matter what Beckenham felt or didn’t feel, that didn’t change the essential facts.
Honey wouldn’t have him because she didn’t believe he truly loved her. She thought he acted from chivalry. Chivalry! Now that was rich.
* * *
The following morning, Davenport dragged his aching carcass up to the rooms Hilary’s brothers had hired for the duration of their London stay and banged on the door. Hilary’s brother Tom answered the door on Davenport’s third knock.
“Oh. It’s you.” Tom leaned his significant bulk against the doorframe and crossed his arms.
“I don’t want to fight.” Davenport held up his hands in a gesture of peace. “I just want to see Miss deVere.”
“You’re too late,” said Tom, stifling a yawn. “Ben’s already taken her home.”
“What?” Turning away, Davenport raked a hand through his hair. He swung back and said, “Did she leave anything for me? A note, a message, anything?”
The other man appeared to think about this question carefully before he said, “No.” The door slammed in Davenport’s face.
His first impulse was to drive all the way to Lincolnshire to plead with Honey to take him back, but he made himself stop and think. He used to be good at thinking.
He was a coward, she’d said. Afraid to love.
He kicked at a stone that lay in his path. He wasn’t afraid to love. He loved her, didn’t he? Of course he did. The seesawing emotions he’d experienced in the last few days had to be the product of either insanity or love and he wasn’t quite ready for Bedlam yet.
He adored her. He’d told her he loved her. It hadn’t been an easy feat to force those particular words past his lips but he’d done it. Yet it seemed that wasn’t enough.
He needed some perspective, which he wouldn’t get haring off after her as soon as he could saddle a horse. He needed perspective, and he needed help.
And he knew just where he might find both.
Sighing with a mixture of inevitability and apprehension, he wrote to Cecily, Rosamund, Lydgate, Beckenham, and Xavier, requesting their presence at a council of war. On second thoughts, he sent for Lady Arden and the Duke of Montford, too.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
“Letter for you, miss.”
“Thank you, Hodgins.”
Hilary watched the manservant depart with a twinkle in her eye. Ever since she’d persuaded her brothers to purchase a new suit of clothes and give him the official title of butler, she’d noticed a marked improvement, from the way Hodgins carried himself to his manner toward her.
Hilary had made other changes around Wrotham Grange. The large pack of dogs no longer roamed the rambling mansion at will but was confined to the library, her brothers’ domain.
Since their recent sojourn, Tom and Benedict had developed a taste for London and were home less often, which suited her. Presumably, her stipulation that they might entertain women only when she was away from home might have had something to do with that.
She kept herself busy with setting the household to rights, even persuading Tom to fund the most urgent structural repairs.
There wasn’t a moment in the day she wasn’t conscious of the ache of loss. An ache that turned sharp and jagged when she knew for certain she wasn’t carrying Davenport’s child.
She ought to send up thanks to Heaven. What a calamity that would have been.
There was nothing to do but carry on and make the best of her situation. Her notoriety did not seem to have spread to this corner of the world, so she grabbed at overtures of friendship from locals with both hands.
Her London stay, brief though it had been, had taught her much. She liked to think her experience with Davenport had mellowed her; she no longer minded everything she said and did, nor did she judge others as harshly. She, of all peo
ple, knew about fallibility now.
For the first time, she had friends. True friends, who she trusted would not abandon her if news of the stain on her reputation ever spread as far as Lincolnshire. She wanted to think these good people’s friendship underscored the falsity of what she’d found with the Westruthers. She had not heard from any of them in a month. They must be snubbing her on account of her disgrace. She’d expected as much.
Yet her heart was not so cynical and refused to feel disillusioned. She still believed she’d found something special with Davenport’s family. It hurt when they abandoned her, but she understood the reason.
Using the knife in her desk, she slit open the letter Hodgins had handed her. Two smaller cards enclosed in it fluttered to the ground. The letter was from Cecily and it read:
Dear Hilary,
Davenport strictly forbade us from writing to you before now, so do forgive our silence, won’t you? We were monstrous put out that you ran off without a word, but if my dear brother was being his usual Infuriating Self, who can blame you?
Only now we are in a quandary. Lady Arden procured these vouchers for Almack’s, as you will see.…
With a gasp, Hilary scooped up the two cards that had fallen free from the letter. The topmost one bore a blotchy red seal and the signature “M.S.”. It read:
Ladies Voucher
Deliver to:
Miss Hilary deVere
Tickets for the Balls on Wednesdays in April, 1819
There was one Wednesday left in April.…
“What’s the matter, Miss Hilary?” Trixie asked. “You look like a goose run over your grave.”
“Yes, quite well, thank you,” said Hilary absently. Dear Trixie. How she’d stare to hear they were bound for Almack’s!
She looked at the other voucher and saw Davenport’s name scrawled in spiky black ink.
“He did it.” Wonder filled her as she read the voucher over and over.
“He did it!” She jumped up and grabbed Trixie’s hands and danced her in a vigorous jig around the room.
When she let go, Trixie put her hand to her bosom, her cheeks flushed, eyes bright. “Does that mean we’re going back to London, Miss Hilary?”
At the mention of London, Hilary’s initial flush of elation gave way to caution. She tried to calm herself, but the butterflies in her stomach thrashed about with gay abandon.
“I don’t know. Wait, let me see.…”
With a shaking hand, she snatched up the letter again. Greedily she devoured the rest of Cecily’s missive:
You will be pleased to know that the Trouble we anticipated from a Certain Quarter is no longer a threat. You are free and, indeed, welcome to return to us at any time. You should not have run away, dear Hilary. If you were better acquainted with the Westruthers you would know that when we set our minds to something, we always prevail!
If you choose to attend the subscription ball next Wednesday, I do beg of you to bring Jonathon’s voucher with you and meet him outside Almack’s at ten o’clock, for they close the doors at eleven sharp and do not admit anyone after that time.
My brother could, of course, call for you in Half Moon Street, but where would be the fun in that? A rendezvous is so much more romantic, don’t you agree? Just do not get yourself kidnapped again!! I’ve heard quite enough gnashing of teeth from my male relatives over that incident to last me a lifetime.
In closing, let me remind you, my dear, of our family motto:
“To a valiant heart, nothing is impossible.”
Be valiant, dearest Hilary.…
Yours, etc.
Cecily
P.S. Rosamund says she will not speak to you ever again if you do not return to us this season.
P.P.S. Beckenham desires me to add that only your presence can make Davenport the least bit bearable, so would you please come at once.
Something inside Hilary burst open and she laughed and cried with the heady relief of it, blotching Cecily’s letter, until she was wrung out and spent. She hadn’t realized the true weight of the anxiety that had built and built inside her over her damaged reputation and the place she had lost among the affections of the Westruthers.
And Davenport! The greatest rogue in London had gone cap in hand to the Almack’s patronesses and won his way into their good graces once more.
She wondered what he’d done to demonstrate his change of heart.
Hilary bit her lip. Had he done it for the right reasons, though? She hoped he didn’t see it as some sort of test he must pass to win her. She trusted that by the end of the process he’d understood she wanted him to reclaim his place in society for his own sake, not for hers.
Almack’s.
She’d finally achieved her dream. Or part of it, anyway.
Smiling, and without even a twinge of regret, she took the voucher with her name on it, gave it a quick, smacking kiss, and threw it on the fire.
* * *
Davenport took out his timepiece and gazed at it for the hundredth time.
Five minutes to eleven and still no sign of her. Everyone knew that even the Duke of Wellington could not enter Almack’s after eleven o’clock.
Where the hell was she?
He’d moved Heaven and earth and everything in between to secure those vouchers for himself. He’d matched wits with Lady Jersey, played the prodigal son with Lady Sefton, dallied innocently with Countess Lieven, waltzed with Princess Esterhazy. He’d even expressed humble contrition for his misdeeds to Mrs. Drummond-Burrell, which had been a tricky business as he truly had no recollection of what they were.
He’d worn knee breeches this evening, for God’s sake!
He couldn’t even go inside to drown his sorrows in the piss-weak claret cup they served because Cecily had persuaded him to send his voucher to Honey as proof of his sincerity.
She’d probably laughed herself sick and tossed it in the fire.
He’d waited almost an hour for her to come, feeling like a damned fool holding the little posy of violets Rosamund had insisted he bring to pin to her gown.
Hilary hadn’t even arrived in London when last he’d checked today. Mrs. Walker had no expectation of seeing her, and her brothers were as close as oysters on the subject.
A nearby clock began to strike the hour.
A sick feeling of dread flowed over him. He crushed the posy between his palms, rendering the air sweet with its scent, then let it fall. Then he leaned against the rail in front of the most exclusive club in London and rubbed his face with the heel of one hand.
On what must have been the fifth strike of the clock, someone tapped him on the shoulder, then thrust some sort of card under his nose.
“Sorry I’m late,” a feminine voice—her voice—said, “If you want to go inside, you’ll have to hurry, I expect.”
He looked up, hope breaking over him like spring sunshine after a bleak, endless winter. He seized Honey, swung her around and around, then crushed her to him, kissing her as if he might never stop.
“I love you,” he said to her in the shadow of Almack’s as the clock struck the ninth chime. “Quick, if we hurry we can make it through the doors in time.”
She was smiling, her eyes glimmering with tears. “I don’t want to go in there, Jonathon. Not tonight.”
For a bare, crazed instant he couldn’t decide whether to shake her or howl. All the trouble he’d gone to for those vouchers over the past month—for nothing! The calls he’d paid, the endless cups of tea he had drunk. At Beckenham’s behest, he’d sat in the House of Lords again, and wasn’t that just a barrel of laughs?
He’d even taken the first, tentative steps toward reestablishing himself as a chemist, assisting Gerald in his work.
But with sudden, belated insight he realized what he ought to have known all along. That dear, fey face with the harlot’s mouth stared up at him, willed him to understand it, to understand her.
Ever since they’d met, her sole ambition had been to attend Almack’s. What woman di
dn’t want to go there?—as Xavier had cynically remarked.
But for Honey, the frills and furbelows and fancy parties were not important for their own sake. To Hilary deVere, Almack’s meant acceptance. All she’d ever wanted was to belong.
He stared down at her, suddenly serious. “You belong with me, Honey. Tell me you know that it’s true.”
Her face lit like the fireworks at Vauxhall. “Yes,” she breathed. “Yes, Jonathon. I know it. I do.”
He hugged her to him and held her tight and kissed her lips, her eyelids, her nose, her brow. He buried his face in that silky, glorious hair and inhaled her unique, dear scent.
“Violets,” he murmured shakily, making her laugh.
Then he drew back to look at her with a mix of tenderness and awe and humble gratitude for his good fortune. “I’m a fool, Honey. It was never about Almack’s, was it?”
Shaking her head, smiling through her tears, she reached up to touch his cheek. “I love you, Jonathon. Take me home.”
Read on for an excerpt from Christina Brooke’s next novel
The Greatest Lover Ever
Coming soon from St. Martin’s Paperbacks
Georgie rattled the doorknob, knowing it would be hopeless. What in Heaven’s name was the wretched man up to now? A quick glance around showed no other possible means of escape. She had better search the room for weapons.
She discovered nothing of practical use in the sparsely furnished chamber—not even a fire iron with which to brain her host should he try to ravish her.
The minutes dragged by; she realized how foolish it had been to suppose she could rescue her sister from this kind of peril. Ten to one, Violet enjoyed the festivities, happy as a lark, watched over by her companions. While Georgie was imprisoned in a boudoir by a lecherous marquis with a grossly overblown opinion of his charms.
Fools rush in, indeed. Hadn’t Marcus always complained of her impetuousness? It seemed she still hadn’t learned her lesson.
The key turning in the lock made her stiffen, her heart bounding into her throat.
London's Last True Scoundrel Page 31
