The Rake's Redemption. Regina Scott

well until you turned into a dead bore.”

      He blinked at her, then grinned, and her heart danced. “Forgive me. I should have known better than to try to impersonate a gentleman. I promise to improve once we reach the park. Which would you prefer, the carriage path along Park Lane or the one down to the Serpentine?”

      The Park Lane route was the more popular, she knew. She’d been driven there by more than one suitor. The path down to the Serpentine, however, was less frequented. Gentlemen were rumored to hold trysts among the trees. She’d never driven that route.

      “The Serpentine path,” she said, settling back in her seat. “And I’ll be much more in charity with you if you give me a chance at the reins.”

      With a laugh, he turned the horses, and they entered Hyde Park.

      The carriage path wound across the northernmost lawn and into the trees surrounding the wooden walls of the upper powder magazine. Imogene had always found it odd that the army would think Hyde Park a good place to mix and store gunpowder, but she supposed having the magazine out among the trees protected the populace and the crowded buildings of London from accidents.

      Today the way toward it lay empty, but she could see crowds beginning to gather as the fashionable made their afternoon descent on the park. Couples strolled along the footpath to Kensington, carriages paused along Park Lane and gentlemen on horseback headed for Rotten Row to the south. Closer to hand, however, it was only her and Mr. Everard. As if he realized it, he slowed the horses. “Perhaps it’s time we spoke of more important matters.”

      The light of the lovely spring day seemed to dim. This was not a pleasure drive, after all. He wanted information from her, and she must make her report. “You asked after my father,” she said. “Particularly what he was doing on March third.”

      “Have you remembered something more about that day, then?”

      She could hear the hope in his voice and chanced a glance at his face. His gaze was fixed on his horses, but she didn’t think he even noticed the actions of the snowy pair.

      “A little,” she admitted. “I talked with Mother about the day. She reminded me that on March third we’d only just arrived in London. I know we spent the evening settling in and seeing everything unpacked.”

      “Then your father was at home.”

      She thought he sounded relieved. “For the evening, yes. I understood we were to make an early night of it, but as I was preparing to retire, I heard a noise from the gardens and looked out the window. Father was leaving on his horse. I assumed it was a summons from the War Office, and he simply didn’t want to overtire our coachman, who had just driven us to London.”

      “Possibly,” he said, but his look had darkened.

      The air felt cooler. She rubbed the arm of her spencer. “You think he went somewhere else, don’t you?”

      He clucked to the horses as they took the turn through the tall trees past the magazine, the sunlight through the leaves striping his face with light and shadow. “My uncle fought a duel the night of the third. He lost, and we lost him forever.”

      So that was how Lord Everard had died. “And you think Father was a witness.”

      “I think he was there, yes. I’d like to hear his account of the event.”

      Imogene put her hand on his arm and felt the tension in it, beyond what it should have taken to guide the team. She had friends who had lost loved ones—a mother to childbirth, a brother in the war. She knew each had a way of grieving all their own. Some cried, some were blue for weeks and others attacked life as if hoping to wrest every ounce of joy from the moment, never sure whether it was their last. She rather thought Mr. Everard fit the last category.

      “It’s hard when someone you love dies,” she murmured. “When my brother Viscount Charles passed on I felt so confused. He was just a boy—he hadn’t even started to live! I didn’t understand how God could take him, particularly after He’d taken all the others, too.”

      “Others?” He glanced her way, seeking clarification.

      Imogene withdrew her hand and dropped her gaze as she smoothed down her muslin skirts. “I would have had three older sisters had they lived beyond their birth.”

      “I’m so sorry.”

      Other people had said those words, to her father, to her mother, to her. Never had she heard such emotion behind them, as if he understood the pain of loss better than most, as if he understood how that loss had hurt her.

      “So am I,” Imogene assured him, raising her gaze. “And I regret that your uncle left you, too.”

      He managed a parody of a smile. “These thoughts are entirely too melancholy for such a lovely day. May I only say that I have no doubt where you will spend eternity, Lady Imogene. Surely so pure a spirit must rejoice with the angels.”

      It was a pretty compliment, one she might expect from a poet, but the sentiment did not ring true. As if he meant to distract her, he held out the reins. “Now, perhaps you’d care to demonstrate how well a pure spirit can drive.”

      She knew she must be a sad trial to her mother because the gambit worked. Imogene stared at him, hopes rocketing skyward. “Truly?”

      His eyes widened. “Tell me this won’t be the first time.”

      She laughed at the trace of panic in his voice. “Not at all, sir! I’ve driven our gig to church at our country estate, and Father even bought me my own pony cart.”

      The reins inched closer to his chest. “A chariot is a much larger vehicle.”

      “Obviously,” she replied with a grin. “But with you here to advise me what could go wrong?”

      One corner of his mouth lifted at that, and he offered her the strips of leather.

      Imogene slipped her gloved hands over his, relishing the strength, the confidence with which he held the team. As he released the leather into her care, she felt the tug of the horses, the weight of responsibility for their guidance. A tremor started in her arm, and she forced herself to stiffen. She could do this. She was the Marquess of Widmore’s daughter.

      Vaughn must have remained a little nervous for his horses, for he edged closer to her on the seat until his leg pressed against her skirts and she could feel the warmth of his body. Suddenly it was much more difficult to concentrate.

      She took a deep breath. The scent of something clean and crisp drifted over her. Funny, she would have thought he’d wear some exotic cologne, but he smelled more of spring and sunlight. She wanted to close her eyes and breathe him in.

      This would never do! She mustn’t be caught woolgathering while driving! She had a duty—to the horses, to him, to the other people in the park.

      The horses trotted on, completely comfortable with their surroundings and seemingly oblivious to the change in leadership. She was tempted to whip them up, send them pounding down the path, but that was never wise in Hyde Park. They might meet another carriage around the next turn or come across a pedestrian. She had to be careful.

      “What a splendid pair,” she told him instead. “And how well matched. Their gaits are as one.”

      She didn’t dare glance Vaughn’s way, determined to drive well, but she could hear the smile in his voice. “Our Master of Horse will be pleased to hear that you approve. They were each rejected at Tattersall’s for being too unruly to pull a carriage or serve as a gentleman’s mount. I thought differently, and he proved my point.”

      “They’re darlings,” Imogene assured him. “Anyone who thought otherwise clearly lacked vision. What are their names?” She nearly closed her eyes again, this time in mortification. Did gentlemen name their carriage horses? She’d never been introduced to a team.

      But he didn’t seem to find fault with her question. “Aeos on the left and Aethon on the right.”