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Always a Scoundrel

Page 26

by Suzanne Enoch


  “We’ll deal with that as it comes.”

  Levonzy gave a rumbling growl. “I’ll disown you, August, if you give him so much as a shilling.”

  August lifted his head. “Then you’ll be out an heir, Father.”

  “I’ll name Oscar. The dukedom will pass you by.”

  “That’s your right, of course. Though I doubt my son would refuse to give his uncle eight thousand pounds.”

  “Then I’ll cast aside the lot of you, you ungrateful, undeserving scoundrels.”

  The Marquis of Haithe shrugged. “So be it. Enjoy being the last Duke of Levonzy, Father, if you won’t open your heart enough to give Bram one last chance.”

  The duke glared from one to the other of them. Bram doubted that August would actually risk losing his entire inheritance and the ability to support his family over a declaration by his wayward younger brother, but the question was whether Levonzy believed it. Or at least believed the gesture was sincere.

  “Bah,” the duke finally muttered, waving a dismissive hand at the room in general. “Do what you will, August. I’ll not have a part in aiding the blackguard.”

  August nodded. “Then let’s be off to dinner, shall we? I’ll see you at ten o’clock tomorrow, Bram.”

  Bram recognized an exit cue when he heard one. He opened the door as his brother stepped aside. “I’ll be there.”

  “We’ll never have time to get you into a proper wedding gown now,” Lady Abernathy said with an annoyed sigh. “So I suppose you’ll get your way and have to wear something we’ve all seen you in before.”

  “Yes, Mama.” Rose finished fastening on her necklace and wished that her mother would stop hovering in her bedchamber doorway. The idea that she was somehow getting her own way in this was ridiculous—though if she had any say in the matter, she intended to do just that. In a perfect world, she wouldn’t marry Cosgrove, and she wouldn’t have to flee to the countryside.

  Except that she wasn’t entirely certain this world was anywhere near to perfection. And she did have one reason still to marry the marquis, and that was to protect Bram. She’d meant it when she’d said that she wouldn’t flee without him—whether the robberies had anything to do with her or not. He’d been hurt, and he’d reacted very, very badly to it. Surely the hope and the help he’d given her outweighed a handful of petty thefts.

  “Come along, Rose,” Beatrice called from halfway down the stairs. “When Fiona says we should arrive at seven o’clock, you know she means half six.”

  “Yes, Bea.” Fiona, Lady Thwayne, did like to pretend that her dinner parties were far more important than they were. And for the first time Rose hadn’t changed anyone’s clocks, so her mother had been ready for an hour, Bea was still changing hats in the foyer, and James was dozing in the billiards room. And she didn’t feel an ounce of guilt about any of it.

  Her mother and Bea continued chattering away as they waited in the foyer for her father to drag James down the stairs. Thankfully the two of them didn’t allow a space for anyone else to interject, because Rose was far too distracted with her own thoughts to pay much attention to their conversation.

  Only a very thin barrier of hope and faith lay between her and absolute panic. She believed that Bram would do everything possible to set things right. She still had to wonder, though, whether he could accomplish it in three days, and whether he could do so without destroying himself.

  His well-being seemed to consume her now. As much as she’d wanted to do the right thing and remain to see her own family protected, she’d ultimately decided to save herself. And now she’d turned around and put herself back into harm’s way again in order to give him the chance to prove himself—and to keep him safe. Life was a blasted, twisted muddle.

  And because she’d begun to feel unaccountably optimistic and happy at moments when she least expected either feeling, something was bound to go horribly wrong.

  At that moment she paused halfway into the coach. Out of the corner of her eye she caught sight of a shadowed form at the side of the house. He shifted a little, motioning her toward the stable yard. Bram.

  “I’ll be right back,” she said, returning to the house. “I want my other wrap.”

  “Hurry, Rose, for goodness’ sake. I don’t wish to be late.”

  “Yes, Bea.”

  She rushed through the house. Had something gone wrong? Had he come to tell her they’d run out of time and needed to flee after all? Had he decided to join her? She almost hoped so. A lifetime with Bram, even in hiding and in sin, seemed so much better than the future her parents had planned for her.

  Just outside the kitchen door, Bram grabbed her arm and turned her to face him. Before she could draw a breath, he closed his mouth over hers in a delirious, heart-stopping kiss.

  Rose leaned up into him, wrapping one hand into his lapel and tangling the other into his hair. When had it happened, that no matter what lay around her, touching Bram Johns made her heart soar?

  “Hello,” he murmured after a moment, nipping breath-stealing kisses against her lips.

  “Hello.” Oh, she didn’t want to ask if something had gone badly. “What brings you here?” she settled for.

  He kissed her again. “You do. I want you, Rosamund.”

  She shivered deliciously. “I’m expected at the coach.”

  “Yes, I saw that.” He brushed a strand of hair back behind her ear. “Good thing, since I was about to climb through your window again. Where are you off to?”

  “One of Beatrice’s friends is holding a dinner. They’re terribly pretentious, but she insisted that I come. I think Bea told her I’m to marry Cosgrove, and now Fiona feels threatened because I’ve netted a marquis, and she only managed a viscount.”

  “You are not about to marry a marquis.”

  He said it so…possessively. Coming from someone—anyone—else it would have alarmed her, but several times now she’d argued against what he wanted, and he’d given in. She didn’t think anyone had ever chosen her wants and needs over their own before. For a long moment she simply looked at him, his intelligent black eyes, lean, handsome features, the excitement and growing amusement in his gaze. Rose furrowed her brow. “What’s happened?”

  “I have the money.”

  His words took a heartbeat or two to sink in. “You have…you have the money,” she whispered, her voice suddenly shaking.

  Bram nodded, grinning. The unaccustomed expression lit up his face, lifting him from handsome to—to something that pulled at her heart. “Not all to hand, or I would have called at your front door with it. But August’s agreed to lend me eight thousand quid in the morning. With the blunt I already have, it’s enough to repay Cosgrove and whatever interest he’s likely to demand.”

  “You have the money,” she said again, more strongly. A hundred pounds of sand lifted from her shoulders. She pulled him down to kiss him over and over, the heat, the fire, rising in her.

  He’d done it. He’d saved her. Abruptly realizing what her sudden affection must seem like to a hardened rake like him, though, she pulled back.

  “I’m not kissing you because you have the money,” she stammered, flushing. “I mean, I am, but it’s not—well, it is, of course, but—”

  “You’re relieved,” he broke in, still smiling. “And you’re happy. There’s no fault in that. And frankly, Rosamund, I just enjoy kissing you.”

  Something else abruptly began to pinch at her insides. It didn’t matter, she told herself. And she didn’t need to know why. Except that apparently she did. “Why do you like kissing me?”

  One dark eyebrow arched. “Beg pardon?”

  Rose hesitated. “I am so, so grateful to you, and I will do everything I can to see that you’re repaid, but—”

  “Nonsense,” he broke in, his smile fading. “But what?”

  “I’m tall, Bram. I’m flat-chested. I have freckles. I’m not a great beauty. You’ve known a great many women more attractive than I am. And if you feel some obligation t
o show me affection, you absolutely need not. Or if it’s because you see the similarity in our relations with our parents or something, a kinship, you know, that doesn’t mean you have to—”

  “To what?” he interrupted, scowling now.

  “To say you love me. I have no expecta—”

  “Oh, that is enough of that.” Bram put his hands on her shoulders, meeting and holding her gaze as if by sheer willpower, because she truly wanted to look away. “As you said, I’m no virgin, Rosamund. I’ve seen the world, and I’ve cut quite a swath through the middle of it. I’ve bedded more women than I care to remember. Do you think my heart is swayed by obligation or pity?”

  Slowly she shook her head. “No. But—”

  “You are the most interesting, beautiful, and truehearted woman I have ever—ever—encountered. I like just chatting with you, and I never chat with females. You’ve been a…a candle in my darkness. And if I should ever be so lucky as to win your affection as you’ve won mine, I will…” He trailed off. “Please don’t ever belittle yourself in my presence again.”

  Goodness. “Thank you, Bram,” she whispered, tears gathering in her eyes.

  “Yes, well, thank you. And all this sincerity has made me light-headed, so unless you wish to join me in the stable for a bit of naked frolicking, you should return to your family. At once.”

  Ah, but she did want to frolic naked with him. And she wished he would propose again, because after his speech she felt very much as though she wouldn’t mind spending the remainder of her life with him, scoundrel or not. She actually liked the scoundrel bits, as a matter of fact.

  Only when she’d taken her seat in the coach with her annoyed and impatient family did it occur to her—he had the funds to help her, but he hadn’t said anything about what he meant to do to aid himself.

  Chapter 19

  Bram went out riding at first light, taking pains to avoid the usual parks and pathways he’d frequented in the past. Since Isabel Waring had been with Rosamund to hear Cosgrove’s latest threats, Sullivan and Phin would know of them now, as well. They would be plotting some sort of clever rescue for him, and frankly he didn’t want one.

  Yes, ideally this would end with Cosgrove falling into a bog or being satisfied to have his money. Bram would propose to Rosamund and she would accept, and the duke would grant him permanent use of Lowry House. Flowers and children would bloom, no one would ever confront him about his notorious past, and he would be a good lad forevermore.

  The trouble was, he felt fairly close to being the same scoundrel he’d always been. His friends had broken the law for reasons that he considered righteous. He’d done it because he found it exciting in a life growing ever more dull. The mere fact that he’d fallen in love while trying to commit a single good act hardly made up for all the ill he’d done. And Rosamund had been very correct when she’d called him trouble.

  At precisely ten o’clock he arrived at Marsten House, half surprised when he didn’t see the duke attempting to block him from the entrance. August actually had the eight thousand pounds in cash, sitting on his desk.

  “How did you manage that?” Bram asked. “I thought I would have to take your note and raid half the banks in London.”

  “I have my ways. Not as mysterious or exciting as yours, but I do have them.”

  “I’m not about to argue with that, this morning.”

  They added the blunt to the satchel where Bram already had the six thousand he’d raised. It was a damned fortune, and part of him was still tempted to snatch up Rosamund and make a run for it.

  “Now, about this Black Cat mess,” August said, settling a haunch onto one corner of his desk, which had the good manners not to creak. “Do you think—”

  “I think that you have a family and an inheritance, and that it’s nothing you should concern yourself with.”

  “Bram, you can’t mean to—”

  “I’m a scoundrel, August, as you’ve experienced firsthand. Thankfully everyone knows that I’m fairly estranged from the entire family, so any gossip or scandal shouldn’t affect you overly much. I’ll see that it doesn’t.” He climbed to his feet, slinging the strap of the satchel over his head and across one shoulder so he wouldn’t lose it. Then he stuck out his hand. “Thank you. I’ll repay you if it’s the last thing I do.”

  August shook hands with him. “I know you will. And for what it’s worth, you and Father may have your differences, but there’s no reason you and I can’t continue as we have these past few weeks.”

  No reason except a hanging or a transportation to Australia. Bram nodded. “I would like that.”

  “Be careful.”

  “Not for years.”

  By eleven o’clock he’d reached Davies House. His heartbeat increased—not because he was about to gift a large sum of money to a very proud and likely suspicious man, but because he had a chance to see Rosamund again. His Rosamund, at least for the moment.

  There was no way around the fact that he’d gone mad. And what would happen when he asked for her hand for the second and last time—if he wasn’t dead before then—he didn’t want to contemplate. Perhaps an arrest would be the lesser of two evils. At least then he could imagine that she would have accepted him.

  He rapped the brass knocker against the solid oak of the front door. Silence. For a pained moment he worried that the family had trotted off to present Cosgrove with his bride early. As he was beginning to consider kicking open the door, it opened.

  “My lord,” the butler said, managing to look aloof and displeased at the same time. Quite a skill, that.

  “Is Lord Abernathy in this morning?”

  “If you’d care to wait in the foyer, I shall inquire.”

  Ah. Stuck into the foyer again. With a short nod Bram entered, leaning back against the interior wall and folding his arms across his chest. Leaving him to stand there was fairly presumptuous of a family about to unite themselves with a dog like Cosgrove. But perhaps after this, barring his arrest for theft, of course, he would be invited into a room with a chair.

  “What is it you want?” Abernathy asked, emerging from his office, the butler on his heels.

  “Just a word with you, my lord.”

  “I’m quite busy this morning. Perhaps you could leave your calling card and return tomorrow.”

  Bram rolled his shoulders and stepped forward. “I think you’ll want to hear this.”

  Scowling, the earl moved aside to allow Bram into his office. “Make it quick, will you? I’m on my way to Parliament.”

  “Certainly. The door, if you please.”

  Once Abernathy closed it, Bram pulled the satchel off his shoulder. Then he dumped the contents onto the earl’s desk. “That’s fourteen thousand pounds,” he said. “Cosgrove will more than likely demand twelve thousand, but you’ll be able to meet whatever he asks for.”

  The earl stared at the money. “I don’t understand.”

  “What’s to understand? Pay off Cosgrove, and distance your family from his influence.”

  “And be indebted to you instead? I fail to see how this improves anything. Rose’s marriage will erase a debt. This”—and he gestured at the mound of money—“only burdens me to a different devil.”

  Whatever had happened to the old adage of not looking a gift horse in the mouth? Much less throwing shit at him? “It’s not a loan. It’s a gift.”

  “A gift.”

  “Yes.”

  “To what purpose?”

  “Oh, for God’s sake.” Not waiting for an invitation he wasn’t likely to receive anyway, Bram went to the liquor tantalus and poured himself a glass of port. “Consider it to be my way of easing my own conscience. I did help to lead your son astray, so I must be partly responsible for his debts.”

  “Yes, but what do you want from me in return?”

  Your daughter. The same deal that Cosgrove negotiated would be nice. “Nothing.”

  “No one gives a gift of this magnitude without expecting something i
n return. Especially not someone like you.”

  Bram narrowed his eyes, considering. He disliked the notion of putting all his cards on the table, as it were, without first knowing what they were. But if Abernathy decided that selling off Rosamund was easier than a possible entanglement with him, this would all be for nothing. He’d have to put together a midnight run to Gretna Green, after all. “Very well. I have one request in exchange for the gift of the money.”

  “I knew it. Your father always said you couldn’t be trusted to look out for anything but yourself.”

  “My lord, considering what I’m attempting to do, you might wish to keep a tighter rein on your insults.” He took a breath. Fighting with his potential future father-in-law wasn’t all that wise, either. “All I ask is your permission to court your daughter.”

  “Rose?”

  “Yes, Rosamund.” He would stick a billiards cue through his head before he would voluntarily spend time with the chirpy fish woman.

  “So you want to steal her out from under Cosgrove, do you? I still see no difference between what you offer and what he does.”

  “I’m not demanding Rosamund’s hand in marriage. I want the chance to see her. Whatever she ultimately decides, whomever she wishes to marry—or not—the money is yours. The debt is erased. That is the difference.”

  “What if I say no to your…courting of Rose?”

  “The money is still yours, as long as you give it to Cosgrove and remove your daughter from the bargaining table.” He swallowed half his glass. “And if you accept, you won’t have to dine with Cosgrove, stand with him at soirees, or holiday with him about. You won’t have to suffer the humiliation of seeing him publicly flaunt his mistresses in front of your daughter, and no one will know that you sold her to cover a gambling debt.”

  “No one knows that now.”

  “They will, if you don’t agree to free your daughter from this mess. I’ll see to it. I am doing a good deed, but I never claimed to be a good man.”

 

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