her heart had started drumming again.
* * *
Vaughn Everard stood across the line from the young lady who had accosted him. It wasn’t the first time he’d been approached. He was a published poet, and some ladies imagined they had been his muse or understood his character because they’d read his work. A few even sought him for his reputation as a duelist, as if they thrilled to flirt with danger. A frown was often enough to send them scampering back to their mamas.
But not this young lady, he sensed. The look in those light jade eyes was challenging, and even the chestnut color of her curls, springing on either side of her creamy cheeks, seemed to crackle with energy. The grin on her peach-colored lips could only be called mischievous. Couple all that with a lush figure that showed to advantage in her simple, high-waisted white satin gown, and he found himself quite disposed to dance.
She looked to be a little older than his cousin Samantha, perhaps nineteen or twenty. Certainly younger than his twenty-six years and just as certainly a lady, or the high-stickler Mayweathers would never have allowed her to join them at their stuffy little ball. He had only been invited, he was sure, because he was one of three guardians to a beautiful young heiress making her debut in London Society. The Mayweathers coveted a relationship with the new Lady Everard. They were willing to suffer her ne’er-do-well cousin if necessary.
But why had this young lady insisted on a dance? She was watching him as if she wasn’t entirely sure what to do with him as he bowed and she curtsied to the first measures of the music. Testing her, he kept his gaze locked with hers until they had passed shoulder to shoulder in the center of the lines. She did not look away, but her cheeks turned the same delectable color as her lips as she moved back into place.
When she placed her hands over his for the turn, he let his fingers caress her palms. She raised her pointed chin but did not jerk away.
Interesting. If she was bent on an assignation, she should be responding in kind. If she was a green girl, she’d be dashing from the set in embarrassment. As it was, her assessing look said she didn’t intend to fall for nonsense. For some reason, that made him want to behave like a gentleman for once.
And that would be a mistake.
He had no right to the title; his grandfather and father had made that abundantly clear. And his purpose at this ball had no noble motive. He’d been sure his quarry would attend, yet he’d searched every room, and Robert Devary, the Marquess of Widmore, was nowhere to be found.
It had been the same everywhere he’d gone. The marquess was never home to callers, never at his club when he’d been expected, never at his solicitor’s place of business, Tattersall’s Horse Emporium or even Parliament when it was in session. Vaughn had hired a boy to follow him; the lad had never returned.
He’d lurked across the street from the house; his lordship went out the back. He’d loitered in the alley near the stables; the fellow escaped out the front! He’d even tried stalking the corridors of Whitehall, hoping to catch the marquess between meetings with the Admiralty or the War Office, where he advised on matters with the French, and still the man managed to avoid him. And the other members of government looked less than kindly on questions raised about their colleague.
But if he couldn’t solve the mystery of the marquess tonight, at least he might discover more about his pretty partner. When they reached the end of the line and were forced to stand out for a cycle, he said, “You, madam, are a cipher.”
She batted her cinnamon lashes. “Me? What of you, all in black? Are you a wraith, sir, flitting about the ballroom in search of prey?”
“If I was I would certainly search you out.”
“Ah, but somehow I thought you were out for something larger, an earl or a marquess, perhaps.”
Did she know? How could she? The reason for his quest was a closely held family secret, and even his family had been known to try to dissuade him from approaching the marquess. “You wouldn’t happen to have one in your pocket, would you?” he asked. “It would make my work much easier.”
She spread her hands as if to display her shiny gown to him. “No pockets, alas. And what would you want with an old marquess anyway?”
She had no idea. He leaned closer. “At the moment, I couldn’t care less. Come now, admit it. We’ve never met.”
Her light eyes twinkled as she dropped her arms. “Really, sir, I should take offense that you don’t remember me.”
Vaughn smiled as he straightened. “Forgive me. Any lady whose beauty outshines the stars should be impossible to forget.”
Her smile grew. “There now, you see what a charming gentleman you can be when you put your mind to it?”
Vaughn took her hands and pulled her back into the dance. “A momentary aberration brought about solely by your presence, my dear.”
Still, he tried to treat her with the utmost civility as they progressed back down the line. It was hard to recall his purpose in London with her gazing at him that way. She smiled with her whole body—eyes alight and crinkled around the corners, chin lifted, body leaning forward as if she were about to impart a delightful secret. He found himself leaning forward just to hear it.
The set ended far too soon for him. As the music faded, ladies curtsied and men bowed. He didn’t want to move, didn’t want the moment to pass, didn’t want to return to his dark pursuit of hunting a killer and making him pay. For these few precious seconds, he could pretend he was a typical young gentleman dancing with the loveliest lady in the room.
But he had never been typical. As if even the Mayweathers understood that, a tall, hawk-nosed female he knew to be the matriarch of the family was bearing down upon them.
“Lady Imogene,” she said in a booming voice guaranteed to draw attention. “A moment of your time.” She seized the girl’s arm as if to ensure obedience.
Imogene. It suited her. Nothing in the common way like Jane or Ann. Vaughn bowed, mouth tipping up in a half smile. Lady Imogene frowned, and he could have sworn she tried to pull away. But her hostess was having no part of it. She visibly tightened her grip on the lady’s arm and dragged her to safety.
Vaughn shook his head, turning away. Lady Imogene’s mother or sponsor might be remiss in her duties, but her friends were clearly more attentive. They recognized the danger he posed, even if the lovely Lady Imogene was oblivious. They thought they knew him. They were equally oblivious. The real Vaughn Everard lay deep inside. Only one man had ever known him, and that man was now dead.
He had to applaud his cousin Richard for trying, however. Vaughn hadn’t even crossed the floor to the door before his older cousin caught up with him. A former sea captain, Richard Everard moved with the assurance of a man used to command, though he looked the consummate gentleman in his evening black. Unfortunately for Richard, Vaughn had never been good at accepting commands.
“What was that about?” Richard demanded, taking Vaughn’s arm and drawing him aside. Around them, ladies in fine gowns strolled past, favoring them with coy smiles.
Vaughn ignored them. “There’s better sport to be had. Care to join me?”
Richard shook his russet head, though he released his grip. “I feared you’d found sport here, as well. Claire recognized your partner before I did, but I thought Samantha would go looking for your sword when she saw you dancing.”
Trust Richard’s lovely betrothed Lady Claire Winthrop to notice anything untoward. She was Samantha’s sponsor after all. Samantha, however, was far less interested in propriety when it came to those who held her loyalty. In that, as in so many things, she was like her father, a fact guaranteed to endear her to Vaughn. Every burst of fondness he felt for her only reinforced his mission. He had to learn the truth behind her father’s death, even if it meant hunting the marquess to ground.
“Neither Samantha nor your lady love have cause for concern,” Vaughn assured Richard. “It was only a dance.”