loved her music.” She glanced at the door but heard nothing of the swish of her mother’s skirts approaching. “We only have a few moments. Perhaps you’d care to tell me why you’re so intent on calling on my father?”
His pale brows went up. “Very well. I believe he may know more about my uncle’s last moments.”
Of course! She’d read in the paper that Lord Everard had passed away, and that’s why his daughter had come to London. But why would her father refuse to see his nephew? Perhaps he did not realize that this was Mr. Everard’s purpose in calling? Did her father not know of the relationship between this man and Lord Everard? “You were close to your uncle?”
“He was father and mother to me. At times it seemed he was the very air I breathed.”
She could hear the emotion in his voice, though she thought he meant to hide it behind his fanciful words. She tried to imagine losing both her mother and father, and her spirit quailed. It had been bad enough losing little Charles.
“I’m so sorry,” she murmured. “I’m certain if Father knew something of value he’d be only too happy to tell you.”
The smile remained on his handsome face, but it seemed suddenly stiff, like a mask on display. “No doubt. But I’ll rest easier once we’ve spoken. Is he home, by any chance?”
Imogene started to explain that he’d been called to the Admiralty that morning, but her mother appeared in the doorway.
“Ah, Mr. Everard,” she said, sailing into the room in her day dress of palest silk. “To what do we owe this pleasure?”
Vaughn rose and bowed, and Imogene couldn’t help noticing that the movement didn’t have quite the same flair as the bow he’d offered her. “Lady Widmore, your servant. I believe you know that I made your lovely daughter’s acquaintance last night at the Mayweather ball. She utterly charmed me, and I could not survive a day without paying my respects.”
Imogene’s mother glanced her way, smile regal, but Imogene saw the slight narrowing of her eyes. Oh, but her mother meant to have words with her when he left. “Yes, Imogene is much sought after this Season. The knocker is rarely silent. But then I am her mother. I must take pleasure in her popularity.”
“Pride can easily be forgiven,” he replied, taking his seat as she sat beside Imogene on the settee, “when it is so amply justified.”
At his look, Imogene felt her cheeks coloring. “Mr. Everard was asking after Father, Mother. I don’t believe we expect him home until later.”
“Much later,” her mother confirmed, posture straight. “If you meant to speak with him, I fear you have made the trip for nothing, sir.”
Vaughn smiled at Imogene. “A trip is never wasted when a gentleman finds himself surrounded by beauty.”
Imogene felt her mother’s gaze on her. “And poor Imogene often finds herself surrounded by callers. I fear she has little time to herself.”
It was a pointed hint. A gentleman would beg her pardon, excuse himself immediately. Vaughn merely crossed his long legs at the ankles.
“But dear lady, how could you be so cruel as to deprive us of our source of inspiration, of light? Even the farmer welcomes the bees hovering about his flowers.”
If anything, her mother’s back was even stiffer. This was getting ridiculous, and it was getting Imogene no closer to her goal of discovering the source of her father’s antipathy for the fellow. She racked her brain for a way to converse privately with him.
“Do you enjoy music, Mr. Everard?” she tried.
She was certain of his answer. What poet wouldn’t enjoy the strains of a well-played song?
“I take pleasure in the sound of a pianoforte or a violin played with precision,” he allowed. There was the slightest crease between his brows, as if he wasn’t sure of her direction. She had to make this work. She very much doubted she’d get another chance to see him again otherwise.
Lord, help him to follow my lead!
“Then you must come hear my latest composition,” Imogene told him. She stood, forcing him to his feet while her mother went so far as to frown at her. “I’m not quite certain I’m happy with it, and I’d very much like your thoughts.”
“Delighted,” he replied.
“If you’ll just excuse us a moment, Mother,” Imogene said, heading for the door.
She heard the whisper of silk as her mother rose. “No need, my dear. I find myself quite curious about this new song, as well.”
Imogene puffed out a sigh, but she kept going.
Vaughn caught up with her easily, pacing her down the corridor and stairway for the music room. With her mother right behind, there was no time for any but the most commonplace of topics, and she thought by the stiffness of his responses that he was as frustrated by the whole affair as she was.
The music room was just off the main entry, a small, north-facing room with misty gray walls and fanciful white curls festooning the coffered ceiling. She went straight to her piano and seated herself on the bench. “Would you be so kind as to turn the pages for me, Mr. Everard?”
He stood behind her. If she had leaned back, she would have rested against him. She kept her spine straight, her gaze on the sheet music in front of her.
“It starts slowly, like this.” She began playing the piece. She already knew it by heart, she’d written it after all, so she didn’t have to keep her eyes on the music. Still, she looked up only long enough to be certain her mother had taken a seat on one of the gilded chairs near the fire.
“You see how it drifts along here?” She nodded toward the music.
Vaughn bent closer, putting his face on a level with hers. She could feel the heat of him so close, his breath as it brushed against her curls. “Encouraging and lilting, much like the beginnings of a courtship,” he said.
Oh, but her cheeks would give everything away if he continued to speak to her like that. “My father seems quite vexed with you,” Imogene whispered, trying to focus on her goal while her fingers kept moving. “Do you know why that might be?”
“I have never knowingly done anything to offend him,” he murmured back. His long-fingered hand reached past her, almost as if he meant to embrace her, then she realized he was following the notes more closely than she was and was preparing to turn the page for her. “Why would he take me in dislike?”
She wished she knew. Vaughn Everard seemed the perfect fellow: clever, talented, handsome, charming. How could anyone take him in dislike? Certainly dislike was the furthest thing from her mind. “There’s some problem.”
“Can you arrange a meeting?”
This section of the music was allegro, and she launched herself into the complicated runs. “He’s so busy. I can’t be sure of catching him.”
His whisper caressed her cheek. “But won’t you try, for me?”
Her mother rose from her seat, wandered closer, eyes narrowing. Vaughn straightened.
“And now the crescendo,” Imogene proclaimed, throwing herself into the music. Her mind moved faster than her fingers. Vaughn Everard seemed so right, the very man she’d been searching for since she’d made her debut last Season. Only the perfect husband would do for the Marquess of Widmore’s daughter. She had a family name to uphold, after all. But was she mistaken in Mr. Everard’s character?
If her father knew Vaughn Everard was a scoundrel, as his refusal to see the poet implied, Imogene would be wrong to help him, to welcome him any further into their lives.
Lord, help me know the truth! Show me Your will in this!
She finished the piece with a flourish, and Vaughn Everard joined her mother in applause. But his