“Who is that?” she whispered, indicating the nearest bidder.
“Francis Henning,” Bram returned, his voice amused. “Poor fellow. That’s his horse.”
She stepped back down to the ground, not commenting when Bram kept his hand on her arm. “What?”
“He lost it in a wager last week. Now he’s trying to get her back before his grandmother arrives in Town and catches him out at gambling.”
“He shouldn’t have wagered her, then,” James said from the far side of Bram.
“He shouldn’t have gotten into a game when he couldn’t afford the loss,” Bram said in a sharper voice. “Wagering is an amusement. Anyone who does it for any other reason is a fool.”
Rose glanced from him to her brother. From his pinched expression, James had heard and understood the criticism. But if Bram was attempting to make her brother stalk off to Cosgrove’s luncheon and leave her there alone with him, she didn’t think even James was that self-absorbed.
“That don’t make sense,” her brother complained. “You win most of the time, but I’ve seen you lose.”
“I do indeed.” Bram reached into an inner pocket of his blue jacket and pulled out what looked to be fifty or so pounds. “This is the blunt I have to play with at the moment. If I lose it, my evening is finished.”
“But what if the next hand is the one that could win it all back?”
With a sigh Bram put his money away. “Since I can afford to lose it, I don’t mind letting it go. If I borrowed more and lost, I would be forced to apply to the duke for funds. Aside from the fact that I would never, ever do that, he would sooner see me clapped in irons than spend any additional blunt on me.”
“Then you don’t have a choice when you run through your money. I d—”
“No, you don’t. You will owe something to somebody. And then you have lost your freedom, or that of someone you care for.” He sent a glance at Rose. “What if Cosgrove had said the only way to make good on your debt was to shoot Earl Minster? Those two aren’t precisely friends.”
Blanching, shaking his head, James backed away. “He wouldn’t ask such a thing. King is my—”
“He’s your friend. And so he will be, until you decline to do something he asks of you, James. Trust me on this. I have been in your shoes.”
“But you and Cosgrove were still friends until…very recently,” Rose commented, not certain whether she should be intruding on this lesson, but too curious to keep silent.
Black eyes assessed her. “I did as he asked.”
James gasped. “You never killed someone.”
“Actually, I’ve killed a number of someones, but that was when I wore a uniform. No, his request was simpler than that. The ruby ring he wears on his left forefinger—do you recall it?”
Rose nodded, since he seemed to be addressing her. It was an exquisite piece, as she recalled.
“My father gave it to me on my sixteenth birthday. It had been in the Johns family for five generations. I, however, owed Cosgrove three thousand quid and had no means to pay it back.”
The ring most likely wasn’t worth three thousand pounds, but clearly that hadn’t concerned the marquis. “What did His Grace do when he found out?” she pursued.
His expression hardened. “Several choice things.”
Goodness. Was that ring the reason for the very strained relationship between father and son? It explained a great deal, but not why Bram had chosen to break with Cosgrove now. Rose studied his lean profile as he returned his attention to the bidding. The ruby hadn’t ended their friendship, but had she?
That felt very significant. And the story made her review all over again what she knew about Bram. She couldn’t imagine that he’d ever been as gullible as James was. Nor could she imagine the man she knew today ever being put in the position where he would have to do anything against his will. It must have been a very hard lesson, but he’d clearly learned it—unlike her own brother.
Heat traveled slowly through her insides, warming every corner of her being. Whoever this man was, it was becoming more and more clear that he was not a twin in either character or demeanor to Kingston Gore. And who he might be was beginning to intrigue her very, very much.
As he stood, pretending to watch the auctions, Bram couldn’t help wondering whether he’d said too much. Today had been about hopefully tempering Lester’s wagering, not about him telling tales of his own youthful stupidity. At least he hadn’t mentioned the one benefit to losing the ring; the duke had finally and clearly declared precisely what he thought of his second son. And that had truly been enlightening.
A warm hand closed around his arm, and he stilled. “You said before that Cosgrove has abused other of his friends. How?” Rosamund asked.
He nearly declined to answer; she certainly didn’t need another lesson about the horror that was Cosgrove. Lester still listened, though, and if Rosamund wanted her brother cured of wagering, he would do his best to see to it. “Do you know of John Easterling?”
Both of the Davies siblings shook their heads.
“He was Viscount Hammond’s oldest son.”
“‘Was’?” Rosamund repeated, astute as always.
Bram nodded. “About four years ago while I was away on the Peninsula, Cosgrove befriended Easterling, and ended up holding nearly thirty thousand quid in notes from the pup. As soon as he heard about it, Hammond disowned him, and two days later Easterling put a pistol in his mouth.”
“If you were away,” Lester demanded, his face pale, “then how do you know about this?”
“My brother was friends with Easterling.” And August had been only too happy to write him with the tale. “I can’t verify this last bit, but apparently upon learning of the lad’s death, Cosgrove said it was a damned shame because he’d thought to get several more years of fun out of him first.”
“I’m going to be ill,” Lester said, and Bram pointed him toward the side of one of the buildings.
“You made up that last bit, didn’t you?” Rosamund whispered, either unaware or uncaring that being on his arm was beginning to earn her looks from more than a few of the men and women present.
“Yes, but considering that King has yet to alter his game, I thought it plausible.”
“More than plausible.” She looked at him sideways. “And do you actually stop wagering when your pocket is to let?”
“My pocket is rarely to let, but yes, I do. I don’t like being in debt to anyone. Ever.”
He thought perhaps he’d spoken too vehemently, but Rosamund only sighed. “I wish James felt that way.”
“You’re not marrying Cosgrove.” He blurted it out with all the finesse of a rutting bull, but at least she didn’t laugh or announce that she no longer wanted his help and would make do on her own.
Her grip on his arm tightened. “I don’t intend to marry him. Not any longer. But the more awful things you tell me about him, the more I worry that he’s already anticipated all this.”
That had begun to worry him, as well. But he’d stepped into this knowingly, and the hero was supposed to bear the bother on his own shoulders. “Now I’m insulted,” he drawled aloud. “If there’s one thing at which I excel, it’s seeing trouble coming.”
“Bram Johns, you scoundrel!”
Bram tensed, instinctively moving between Rosamund and the loud male bellow. As he faced the sound, the crowd at the south side of the auction pen stirred and parted, and a pair of tall, lean men emerged, striding toward him. Immediately he relaxed again, flexing his clenched fingers. Thank Lucifer. Some people might call this trouble, but he called it providence.
“Sullivan Waring,” he said, stepping forward. “What the devil are you doing here?”
“I heard there might be trouble,” Sullivan Waring, illegitimate son of the Marquis of Dunston, grinned and gave him a hard handshake. “I didn’t want to miss it.”
Bram glanced past his friend to Phin Bromley, who looked very pleased with himself. “You sent for him.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Shifting his gaze, he nodded. “Lady Rose. Good afternoon.”
With a muffled curse Bram took Rosamund’s hand again and placed it over his arm. “Rosamund, you know Phin. This is my very good friend Sullivan Waring, the finest horse breeder in England. Sully, Lady Rosamund Davies.”
Sullivan bowed. “Lady Rosamund. Are you here alone with Bram?”
The damned nosy nag even had the presumption to frown. Abruptly not so happy to see his comrade again, Bram forced a lazy grin. “Her brother’s around the back of the building, casting up his accounts.”
“Are you here for the auctions, Mr. Waring?” Rosamund asked.
“No. I generally hire someone to bring my stock to London. I’m just here for a visit.”
Those cool green eyes beneath brown hair run through with gold looked amused—and more than likely very handsome to every chit in the area. Bram tightened his grip on Rosamund. “I assume Isabel is still at Amberglen? Isabel is expecting their first child, you know.”
“Congratulations, Mr. Waring.”
“Thank you, and no, Tibby insisted on joining me in London. We’re staying at Bromley House.” As he spoke, Sullivan returned his attention to Bram. “And what the devil are you wearing?”
Damnation. “Can’t a fellow alter his attire a fraction without causing the shift of the continents?”
“Evidently not,” Phin put in dryly.
“Gads,” Lord Lester exclaimed, rejoining them, “you’re Sullivan Waring!” He grabbed Sullivan’s hand and shook it. “Bram owns one of your horses. Prime animal, Titan.”
“Yes, one of my finest,” Sullivan said, lifting an eyebrow.
“Sully, this is Rosamund’s brother, Lord Lester.”
“Ah. You’ve finished vomiting, then.”
Lester blushed. “It weren’t my fault. Bram’s tales about Cosgrove are enough to make anyone need to lighten their ballast.” He gave an uneasy laugh. “Though Bram does like to joke about.”
All he needed was for his friends to agree with that. What he did need, though, was a moment with Sullivan. “James, Rosamund, would you be kind enough to show Phin the pair I favor?”
Rosamund stirred, stepping away from him to take her brother’s arm. “Certainly. This way, Mr. Bromley.”
“Phin, please, my lady.”
Once they were out of earshot, Bram gripped Sullivan by the shoulders. “I am glad to see you, you annoying bastard.”
“Likewise.”
“Isabel—Tibby—is well?”
“Everything’s grand, which you would know if you ever came to visit.”
“I do. It’s just that your happy domesticity rots my teeth.”
“Very amusing.”
With a glance around them, Bram led the way toward the lane and beyond the thickest part of the crowd. “Phin did write you, didn’t he?”
“What did you expect, after you stumbled into his bedchamber in the middle of the night and nearly got your head blown off?”
“I’d overindulged a bit.”
“Mm hm. What’s Cosgrove got to do with the girl and her family?”
Sullivan had never been much for dancing around a topic when he could ride straight over it. It had gotten him into trouble on more than one occasion, but Bram had always appreciated his forthright manner. His friend was much like Rosamund, actually.
Keeping his voice pitched well below the excited chattering going on at the auction behind them, Bram told Sullivan as succinctly as he could about Cosgrove befriending Lester, the ten-thousand-pound debt, and how the marquis wanted it repaid. All he left out was some of his involvement, and his refused proposal to Rosamund. When he’d finished, his friend no longer looked the least bit amused.
“And they say I’m a bastard,” he muttered. “I’ve never understood why you continue to call that barrow pig a friend, Bram. He—”
“I’ve stopped doing so,” Bram interrupted.
Sullivan looked at him. “You have?”
Shrugging, Bram kicked the toe of his Hessian boot into the dirt. “There would be no point in my telling the story if I didn’t intend to do something about it, now would there?”
“You frequently have no point.”
“True enough.” And how could he announce that he’d suddenly decided to become a hero when he’d never done such a thing before in his life, and was likely already making a muck of it? “I’m well acquainted with what King is,” he went on, “and Rosamund is a genuinely good person. He can continue to feed on the carrion of society for all I care, but I won’t let him have her.”
Sullivan looked as though he wanted to say something more, but instead he only nodded. “What can I do to help?”
Help. Bram had offered help before—had even arguably saved the lives of both Sully and Phin on several occasions. But asking for help—that smacked of debt and obligation. “I believe I have it in hand at the moment, but I’ll let you know. Of course if you should wish to remain in Town for a short time, I wouldn’t argue.”
“Fair enough. Tibby’s got another few weeks before she needs to decide where she wants to settle for her confinement. I’m half hoping we end up in Cornwall with her family, because I am already frightened to death.” Sullivan took a breath. “And what do you think you’re doing, visiting Tattersall’s when none of my animals are showing?”
“I’m not here to purchase anything,” Bram returned, grateful for the change of subject. “Cosgrove’s holding one of his orgies this afternoon, and I’m attempting to keep Lester clear of it.”
“A few more good deeds like that, and I’ll have to stop referring to you as a scoundrel.”
“Don’t you dare.”
When she, James, and Phin Bromley rejoined the two men beside the auction pen, Rose couldn’t keep her gaze off Bram. It wasn’t just that he showed exceedingly well in his dark blue jacket with its gray waistcoat and black trousers, but the way he seemed to command the attention of everyone—male and female—around him. She’d never been notorious, but he made it look like a great deal of fun.
Those striking black eyes met hers, and heat shot through her again. Why Bram Johns—a man who’d seduced and apparently abandoned countless beautiful, exotic women—had fixated on her, she had no idea. But it felt…powerful to have the attention of a man that other women clearly wanted. Even if it was only for another handful of days, and even if he had positioned himself as some sort of tutor to her brother and protector to her.
“What say we collect Isabel and Alyse, and picnic in Hyde Park?” Sullivan Waring suggested, his gaze lingering on her for just a moment. Unlike Cosgrove’s gaze, though, it didn’t feel at all predatory or threatening, but more as if he was attempting to decipher a puzzle. She wondered what Bram had said to him.
“Splendid,” James exclaimed, no doubt flattered to be included in the company of the men he had previously and repeatedly termed “notorious gentlemen” to the point that she wanted to throw things at him.
Beginning to wish she’d paid more attention to the Society pages and her brother’s gossip before her family had arrived for James’s first Season in London, Rose nodded her agreement. Anything to keep her brother and her away from Cosgrove today.
“We’ll purchase luncheon then, and meet you in the middle of the park, on the north shore of the Serpentine,” Bram said, offering her an arm.
She took it. Even if he didn’t realize that such preferential treatment from him in public could damage her reputation, she did. And she welcomed it. At this moment anything that might discourage Cosgrove was welcome. Aside from that, Bram had already done a very fine job of ruining her.
“What are you smiling at?” he murmured, as they and James made their way past the other auction attendees to his coach.
“I was just thinking that I’ve enjoyed myself this morning,” she answered. As if she would admit that she’d been remembering the weight of his naked body atop hers.
“I have, as well. Quite o
dd, really.”
“Yes? Perhaps doing good deeds suits you.”
Bram shook his head, a lock of black hair crossing the corner of one eye. “Chatting with someone who has more than half a wit suits me. But I’m in this game for the trouble it will cause.”
A few weeks ago she would have believed that claim. Now, she wasn’t nearly as certain. And nothing she witnessed over the next three hours served to convince her any further. He purchased them a splendid luncheon, better than anything she’d tasted for weeks. Far from behaving like an unrepentant, incurable rakehell, Bram was amusing, kind, and solicitous not only toward her, but toward the wives of his two closest friends, as well.
It was all blasted confusing. Which was the true Bramwell Lowry Johns—the black-hearted cynic, or the jaded but good-hearted man? And why in the world did it matter, as long as he continued helping her?
“You’re staring at me,” he said from the seat opposite her as they rode back to Davies House.
Rose blinked. “Am I?”
“Yes. I’m near to blushing from it.”
James snorted from beside her. “I’ve yet to see anything make you blush, Bram.”
“Excessive heat has done it,” Bram countered, but his gaze remained on her. “You no doubt find me fascinating, but may I ask why? Unless the reasons are too many for you to name, of course.”
“Actually, after hearing you conversing with your friends, I was wondering if there are any of the Ten Commandments you haven’t broken.”
“Number nine,” he said promptly.
“Oh, really?”
“Absolutely. And quite possibly number two. At least I don’t recall carving any statues, though I might of course have been drunk at the time.”
“Carving ain’t the sin; it’s worshipping a carved image,” James contributed. “But which one is the ninth? I get ’em confused.”
“Bearing false witness against your neighbor,” Rose supplied with a grin. “You don’t strike me as being a liar, Bram, so I can believe that.”
He inclined his head. “Thank you. That does still leave a wide swath of broken commandments and deadly sins in my wake, however.”
Always a Scoundrel Page 18