He bowed, as if she’d done something magnificent like beat Napoleon single-handedly. “I found the piece intriguing and its execution intoxicating. You are a gifted musician, Lady Imogene.”
She was coloring again. This time, her mother’s smile was genuine. “Yes, she is. Not many recognize that, Mr. Everard.”
“I suspect it’s because Mr. Everard has talents of his own that he’s quick to recognize them in others,” Imogene said.
His mouth quirked, but he did not manage a smile. “My talents pale before the work of a true artist. To show my gratitude for your gift, may I take you driving tomorrow?”
Imogene couldn’t help glancing at her mother. She knew how she wanted to answer. She’d have sacrificed her music for a month for a bit more time to study the poet. But she was fairly certain her mother was going to find an excuse to refuse.
“Well, Imogene,” her mother said, “don’t keep Mr. Everard waiting. I believe your afternoon is free tomorrow.”
Imogene knew her mouth was hanging open and hastily shut it. With a grin, she turned to Vaughn. “I’d be delighted to join you, Mr. Everard. Say three?”
“I shall count the moments until then,” he said. He took her hand and bowed over it, then did the same for her mother before striding from the room. Her mother’s sigh at his retreating back matched Imogene’s.
Imogene blinked. “Do you approve of him, Mother? I thought you disliked the Everards.”
Her mother patted her shoulder. “I find them presumptuous in the extreme. But I have not known you to be so willing to share your compositions, and I’ve never seen a gentleman caller more attuned to you, more appreciative of your abilities. For that, Mr. Everard deserves at least one other opportunity to impress me.”
Chapter Four
Imogene barely had time to congratulate herself on gaining another opportunity to become better acquainted with Vaughn Everard before she and her mother were besieged by callers. Elisa and Mrs. Mayweather stopped by to compare impressions from the ball the previous night; Kitty and the elderly cousin who was sponsoring her arrived to chat. Various gentlemen Imogene had met this Season and last paid their respects and angled to take her driving or walking. She put them off with encouraging excuses. At the moment, she had enough on her hands trying to determine why Mr. Everard and her father were on the outs.
Her mother had already retired to her room to change for dinner, and Imogene had just opened her book in the withdrawing room when Jenkins brought her one last caller. She managed a smile as Lord Gregory Wentworth bowed over her hand.
“Lady Imogene, radiant.”
She wasn’t entirely sure he meant the compliment for her or whether it was a compliment at all. She rather thought any radiance had seeped away over the long afternoon. But he flipped up his navy coattails, took the chair nearest her and leaned back as if well satisfied with his ability to flatter.
Because of his good looks and future earldom, any number of young ladies had set their caps at him, but Imogene had never been sure why. Lord Wentworth, she feared, was rather lacking when it came to charm and intelligence—fatal flaws in a suitor. Unfortunately, her opinion had not prevented him from calling with determined frequency.
“And how did I earn the honor of your presence today, my lord?” she asked now.
“Hoping for a word with your father,” he drawled, “but of course couldn’t leave without greeting you.”
“How kind.” She ought to find something useful to say, but she truly didn’t want to encourage him.
He tipped up his chin. “Have mutual friends, you know. Everard. Good chap.”
Imogene tried not to frown, but she found it hard to imagine the two men having anything in common. “Oh?” she said. “How are you acquainted?”
He preened as if he knew the heights to which he’d risen. “Known his family for years. Uncle had the estate near ours in Cumberland.”
So there was actually a connection between them? Why, she could use that to her advantage. Thank You, Lord, for providing this opportunity!
“How fortunate,” she said, smiling at him with considerably more warmth. “And what do you think of Mr. Everard?”
He shrugged. “Bit wild, but loyal. Clever. Your father wouldn’t think so highly of him if it weren’t true.”
Imogene cocked her head. “My father thinks highly of him?”
Lord Wentworth blinked, paling. “Doesn’t he? Good friends with the fellow’s uncle, you know. Why dislike the nephew?”
Imogene leaned closer. “So my father favors him?”
“Are you saying he doesn’t?”
They gazed at each other a moment, and Imogene was certain her face must mirror his for confusion.
Her mother joined them just then, and he climbed to his feet and bowed to her. Imogene spent the next few minutes in conversation about the weather and the latest offerings at the Theatre Royal and other such nonsense, all the while stifling an urge to reach across the space and throttle Lord Wentworth with his pretentiously tied cravat.
What did he mean making up stories about Vaughn Everard? They couldn’t be friends; surely Mr. Everard would disdain the man’s pomp, his belittling clipped sentences. In fact, it sounded as if Lord Wentworth knew less about the poet than Imogene did. Otherwise he’d know there was some difficulty between Mr. Everard and her father.
The topic must have remained on his mind as well, for he brought it up again when he took his leave a short time later.
“Hope I didn’t give impression I follow Everard,” he said with a bow over her hand. “Opinions would be swayed by your father’s, whatever they are.”
“So I’ve heard,” Imogene said brightly. “A great many people are swayed by my father.”
He looked at her askance, as if begging her to explain. It was a shame she couldn’t put the fellow out of his misery and clarify her father’s opinions on the matter, but the marquess’s attitude toward Vaughn Everard was growing more mysterious by the moment.
* * *
“You seemed a bit cool to our guest,” her mother said after the footman had seen him out and she and Imogene had repaired to the dining room. Her smile was gentle as she sat across from her daughter, the seat at the head of the table conspicuously empty. “Has he done something to offend you, dearest?”
Imogene could think of any number of annoyances but none that rose to the level of offense. She pushed her peas about on her gold-rimmed china plate. “No, Mother. I just find him a bit tiresome.”
“Unlike your Mr. Everard.”
Imogene fought a smile. “Very unlike him.”
“And why do you think you find him so interesting?” her mother persisted, reaching for her crystal goblet.
A reason suggested itself, but she shoved it away. It was far too soon to claim her heart was engaged, and she still had doubts that Mr. Everard would meet her criteria for a husband.
“Outside this business with Father, I’m not sure I know,” she replied, abandoning her peas and gazing at her mother. “When I brought up the matter of his interest in Father last night, he asked me about the third of March. Do you remember anything significant about that date?”
A slight frown marred her mother’s face in the light of the silver candelabra on the table. “March third? I believe that’s the night we arrived in London. What is the importance to Mr. Everard?”
Imogene motioned to Jenkins to come take her plate. “It appears to be the day his uncle died,”