Always a Scoundrel

by Suzanne Enoch

  Lately he’d been receiving hints—well, closer to outright statements—that his days at Lowry House were numbered. After all, his older brother, August, the Marquis of Haithe, had managed to produce a male offspring, and the Johns progeny and heir to the heir was nearing his tenth birthday. The golden child would need his own abode in a decade or so, and Lowry House was the third finest London property the family owned.

  So apparently if he wanted to avoid being removed from his own house, Bram would have to expire within the next ten years. And that happenstance wasn’t all that unlikely. On the heels of that uplifting thought, his butler pulled open the front door as Bram reached the stair landing. “Good morning, Lord Haithe,” Hibble intoned.

  Bram stopped. “Oh, good God,” he muttered, and turned on his heel, ascending the stairs again.

  “Ah, Bram. Surprised to see you up and about already,” his brother said, handing his hat to Hibble and beginning his own trot up the stairs. “I thought I’d have to sit in your morning room for hours and wait for you to come downstairs.”

  “That’s precisely what you’ll have to do, August,” Bram returned, topping the stairs and making for his bedchamber. “I’ve just returned home from last night’s festivities, and I’m off to bed. Good day.” Thankfully the door of the master bedchamber had a very sturdy lock on it. One never knew when a jealous husband might make an appearance.

  “You’re not dressed for the evening.”

  Bram glanced down at his attire, black as it always was. “How can you tell?”

  “Did you burgle Braithewaite?”

  Clenching his jaw, Bram stopped his retreat. “That depends,” he returned, facing the top of the stairs again. “Who’s asking?”

  “Father’s already convinced it was you, so I suppose I’m asking.”

  “Then yes, it was me.”

  As older brothers went, he supposed that August Johns was at least no less than average. At eleven years his junior, Bram would never have called his brother a friend. Other than the black Johns hair they’d never looked much alike, and August’s additional years and general…satisfaction with his life had rendered him five stone heavier and exceedingly smug.

  “You have to stop robbing our friends, Bram.”

  “They’re not my friends.”

  August frowned, clearly attempting to decipher him—something that Bram truly disliked. As if the pampered firstborn son would ever be able to understand what motivated the second. As if Bram knew even half the time what motivated him.

  “They may not be your friends, but they’ve certainly committed no more sins than you have,” the marquis finally decided. “And they can have you arrested if any of them realizes it’s you who’s been burgling them.”

  “I look forward to it. Was there anything else you wanted? Because I do have some plundering and pillaging on my calendar for today.”

  “Yes. Come to dinner tomorrow. The children want to see you again.”

  Bram lifted an eyebrow. “That invitation is a bit stunted, even for you.”

  “I won’t apologize for not being as glib as you are. Bring some of your cronies if that makes your attendance more likely. Just not that damned Cosgrove. I won’t have him in my home.”

  “I’ll consider it.”

  Giving a nod, August turned to descend the stairs again. Just as Bram let out his breath in relief, though, his brother stopped. “Will you answer me one question honestly, Bram?”

  “That depends on the question.”

  The Marquis of Haithe topped the stairs again. “Cosgrove. For five years, even when you weren’t at war on the Peninsula, you barely had any communication with him. Now over the past year or so you two seem to be fast friends again. Why?”

  For a moment Bram considered ignoring the question, simply retreating to his bedchamber until August left the house. If it had been his father asking, he would have said something about anything being an improvement after a conversation with Levonzy.

  “I had two very dear friends,” he said finally. “In their absence, I suppose the old saying ‘the devil you know’ applies.”

  “Your friends, did they die in the war? If I’d known, if you’d said something, I might have—”

  “A fate worse than death befell them,” Bram interrupted, unwilling to listen to August’s account of how he would have provided sage advice and brotherly affection. “They both married and became insufferably happy about it. Disgusting, really.” Even if their spouses were among the most tolerable females he’d ever met.

  “Bram, that—”

  “Good day, August. I actually do have an appointment this morning.”

  “Very well. And I expect to see you tomorrow evening, promptly at seven.”

  With a noncommittal grunt, Bram watched his brother out the front door. He gave the marquis five minutes to dilly about or think of another abysmally obvious question or observation, and then headed back downstairs.

  “I’ll be out all day, I imagine,” he informed Hibble as he pulled on his black leather gloves and black greatcoat. “If anyone calls to inquire, tell them I’ve…gone to Scandinavia.”

  The butler nodded. “Very good, my lord. Will you be returning for dinner?”

  “Doubtful. Just on the odd chance, have Cook put on a pot of something.”

  “I’ll see to it.”

  He collected Titan and rode off in the direction of Davies House. Since, as Mostin had agreed, he never did anything that didn’t have a benefit in it for himself, he merely needed to decipher what he hoped to accomplish by befriending Rosamund Davies. Last night he’d dreamed of her mouth. It had done all the things he liked female mouths to do, and very well, but more interesting had been the talking. They’d chatted about all sorts of nonsense in his dream, and he’d enjoyed it. Talking. With a female. And after having sex with her. Some very excellent sex, if he said so himself.

  Shocking. Best to become better acquainted with her and her family’s circumstances, and with the details of King’s plan, and then he could decide what it was that he wanted in all of this. Aside from bedding Rosamund Davies while wide awake, that was. And considering the circumstances and his supposed friendship with her groom-to-be, that was not going to be easy.

  “What the devil is he doing here?” the Earl of Abernathy said as he lifted the embossed calling card off the butler’s silver salver.

  Rosamund looked up from her book as her father stood. All morning, every time someone called at the front door, her heart had leaped into her throat. After four hours of it, she was surprised she could still breathe. Still, no one had yet elicited the heated response that might signify one of James’s supposed cronies. Until now.

  “Shall I inquire, my lord?” Elbon asked in his usual toneless voice.

  “No. I’ll see to—”

  “Bram Johns!” James’s excited voice came from out in the hallway. “What the devil brings you here?”

  It was amazing, Rose reflected, setting her book aside to cover the sudden shaking of her fingers, that James and her father could use nearly identical phrases and have nearly opposite sentiments behind them. As for herself, she couldn’t decide yet how she felt. Anyone with insight into Cosgrove’s character would ostensibly be welcome, but when that person had nearly as black a reputation as the marquis, the entire business became a bit muddy.

  The two men entered the room, James with sunny green eyes and light brown hair, and Bram Johns with his pale skin and midnight features and clothes. He must have had some Spanish in his blood. Mesmerizing. And dangerous. Rosamund stood when her mother did, both of them curtsying. Somewhat to her surprise, Lord Bramwell sketched a shallow bow in response. The man did have manners, whether she’d ever heard of him using them before now or not.

  Black eyes swept the room and focused on her, where they remained. “Good morning,” he said. “I thought I’d ask James if he’d care to go riding with me this morning. And perhaps Lady Rosamund might wish to take the air with us as well. It’s
a fine day.”

  “Lady Rose is to join me on Bond Street for shopping,” her mother said stiffly, disapproval in the straight line of her shoulders.

  “Oh, but Mama, James and I get to go riding together so rarely these days. And that situation is not likely to improve.” She didn’t add that after a marriage to Cosgrove none of them would likely see her very often, but hopefully they understood that.

  Her parents exchanged a glance, and then her father nodded. “Very well. At least with Rose present, James isn’t likely to step into a card game.”

  “Father,” the viscount complained, his cheeks flushing. “We have a guest.”

  By the door, Lord Bramwell flicked an imaginary speck of dust from the black sleeve of his coat. Whether he was annoyed or amused, Rose couldn’t tell. “In all honesty, James,” she ventured, hoping she wasn’t about to find herself uninvited from the outing, “I don’t think you need to dissemble. Lord Bramwell is probably quite familiar with your skills at wagering.”

  “That I am,” Bramwell returned easily. “And since I rarely wager during daylight hours, everyone’s purse is safe. Shall we?”

  Rosamund picked up her book, since her mother hated seeing books lying about the house. “Give me five minutes,” she said, and hurried out the morning room door without waiting for an answer.

  As she passed by Lord Bramwell, his fingers brushed hers. She didn’t know whether it had been an accident or not, but the way her pulse sped at the contact made one thing perfectly clear—she could not trust her own body where he was concerned. If he was to teach her how to deal with Cosgrove, she needed to realize her own odd…susceptibility to him. If there was one thing she didn’t need, it was more trouble where James’s cronies were concerned.

  As soon as she fastened the last button of her gray riding jacket, she hurried down the stairs again. She could see James and his friend through the open front door, and when a hand grabbed her arm and yanked her sideways back into the morning room, she nearly shrieked.

  “Mama!”

  “Hush, Rose. We only have a moment.”

  She frowned. “What is it?”

  “That man’s reputation is as tarnished as Lord Cosgrove’s. Attempting to play one man against the other will only ruin you and send this family to the poorhouse.”

  Rosamund shrugged free of her mother’s too-tight grip. “I’m not playing at anything,” she returned. “Instead of censuring me for wishing to go riding, you might have tried speaking with James before he lost ten thousand pounds he didn’t have.”

  “Mind your duty,” Lady Abernathy hissed after her as she left the house.

  As if she needed to be reminded. She was the one who saw to everyone else’s. What they would begin to do without her, she had no idea.

  “I do wish you’d let me ride him once,” James was saying, his admiring gaze on Lord Bramwell’s enormous black stallion. “Titan is stellar. Might I?”

  “No,” Bramwell returned smoothly, walking over to help Rosamund onto her chestnut mare, Birdie, when her brother showed no inclination to do so.

  She held her breath as Lord Bramwell slid his hands around her waist and lifted her. His hands remained there for a heartbeat, warm and intimate, before he released her to swing up onto his own mount.

  A day ago she’d wanted to punch him in the nose. He had a reputation for being charming when he wished to be, but she knew that. And she didn’t feel as though he was attempting to trick her into liking him. At the same time, she should be hating him for his role in helping to lead James astray. And she wasn’t. “Thank you, my lord,” she said belatedly.

  “Bram,” he responded, circling his horse to bring it even with hers.

  She nodded. “Br—”

  “Your Titan makes my Swift look dull as rocks,” James complained from beyond Bram. “I’ll wager you for him.”

  “No.”

  “But he’s from Waring’s stable, ain’t he?”

  “Yes. Sullivan Waring is my good friend. Ride on your sister’s other side.”

  “But—”

  “A lady should always be protected. And I don’t want you gawking at my damned horse all morning.”

  With clear reluctance James moved to her right, so she had one of them on either side of her. Whether Lord Bramwell—Bram—was attempting to show her respect or whether James’s pestering did bother him, she didn’t know, but she appreciated the gesture. And she liked the way he claimed Sullivan Waring as a friend. He said it plainly, as a fact not to be questioned. Simple, brief as it was, it spoke well of him. And that was something she’d never expected.

  “When you returned my book to me,” she began conversationally, “you said you could teach me a great many things. I assume those things were not what you were referring to when you made that same offer again last night.”

  Obsidian eyes met hers, unreadable and assessing. Men didn’t generally pay her much attention except to make an even number in a dance. And now she had a secret nearly-betrothed and a supposed teacher, one who looked like an angel and one a devil, and both with awful reputations. Best to remember that neither of them likely had anything good in mind for her.

  “So today you’re unblushing and unafraid?” he asked after a moment, using the same low tone that she had. “Wise to the ways of men and unable to be shocked?”

  “Given my present circumstances, I prefer to think of it as being practical.”

  He nudged his big black a breath closer. “Do you think you can stand toe-to-toe with me, Lady Rosamund?”

  Oh, dear. “I think words are just words. Air with sound.”

  He continued to gaze at her levelly. “If you think that,” he finally said, his voice a low, sensual murmur, “then you don’t know the same words I do.”

  “I assure you, I am quite well edu—”

  “Fuck, for example,” he interrupted. “Or cunt.”

  Bramwell said the words so…matter-of-factly that it stunned her. Rose took a breath. If this was how he meant to proceed, then, well, she would simply be above it. “The vocabulary of fishmongers and whores doesn’t impress me.”

  “It’s not meant to impress you, Rosamund.”

  “Then what, precisely, is it meant to do?”

  Bram looked beyond her, at her idiot brother who’d gotten her into this quagmire and didn’t seem to care a whit about what he’d done. And however sophisticated she played at being, those two words had obviously nearly given her an apoplexy. Cosgrove wouldn’t even need the six months he’d boasted it would take to destroy her. And that wasn’t taking into account what the marquis would do to her in bed.

  “Well?” she prompted. “Or are those words all you have to offer?”

  “It was a demonstration,” he returned, annoyed that the abrupt image of her in Cosgrove’s bed angered him. More than angered him. Infuriated him. He set his reaction aside for later consideration. “Put a princess among pigs, and eventually she’ll smell like one of them.”

  “But she’ll still sound like a princess rather than a pig. And even a pig can learn to do tricks.”

  “And a princess can be made to walk on all fours and squeal. Pretty tones or not, she still becomes a pig. Or worse.”

  Rosamund blushed. “I will not become a pig. Or worse.”

  “I’ve seen pretty princesses once Cosgrove has finished with them. And they began with more experience about men than you have.”

  Fear flickered in her grass green eyes, and he told himself that was a good thing. She needed to understand the facts of what lay before her if she meant to survive Cosgrove with any bit of herself left at all. And so he wasn’t angry with himself for frightening her; he was angry with her for being so naive that she required his assistance.

  “If I’m to be forced to…wallow in the mud, then what can you possibly say that will help me?”

  Sweet Lucifer, she had spleen. He glanced at her brother again, but now that they’d reached Hyde Park the pup seemed absorbed by all the carriages and p
retty colors. “I would say once again that perhaps you might consider taking the air in a place other than London,” he whispered.

  He didn’t need or want Cosgrove for an enemy. Apparently, though, he’d just discovered that there was at least one line he wouldn’t cross—or allow her to cross. Not without saying something, at any rate. How far his convictions would carry him next, he had no idea.

  “You were being serious?” She looked truly shocked for the second time that morning. “What good would that possibly do?”

  “It would keep you from having to marry Cosgrove. If you’re as well-educated as you claim, I could find you employment as a governess somewhere. I know a handful of people who aren’t completely despicable.”

  “And Cosgrove would attempt to collect the ten thousand pounds from my family, and they would be twice ruined. Once by James’s actions, and once by mine.”

  “Yes, well, it could all actually be traced back to James. His actions force you to react to save yourself.”

  “What of my parents, then?”

  He blinked. “They’ve sold you to a monster. They can go hang themselves.”

  Rosamund gazed at him, meeting his eyes in that disconcertingly direct way she had. The expression on her face puzzled him. What was that? Pity? For herself, or for him?

  “I hadn’t realized the help you offered was to advise me to do something that would harm and betray my family,” she said softly. “I won’t do that, so thank you for your time, but I cannot use your assistance.”

  The twists and cankerous pits of human nature rarely surprised Bram any longer. This surprised him. She surprised him. “You’re a fool, Rosamund.”

  “Perhaps. But I’m a loyal fool. Even if I had no obligation to my parents for raising me, I have a sister and brother-in-law, and a young niece and nephew back in Somerset. They would pay for my selfishness, more than I would. And you must agree that while Cosgrove may attempt to…alter my character, I have an equal chance of altering his.”