Confessions of a Scoundrel

by Karen Hawkins

  Poole handed him a short red ribbon. Brand tied the ring to the end of it, then pinned it to his coat directly above his heart. The red ribbon stood out in stark relief against his dark blue coat, the ring gleamed brightly. “There,” he said with some satisfaction. “That should make them nervous.”

  “Indeed,” Poole said, “it has the same effect on me.”

  Brand grinned, then left to join his brothers and brother-in-law in the small outer apartment of his lodgings.

  “There you are,” Anthony said from where he leaned against the mantel. “We were just—” His eyes widened. “The talisman ring.”

  Devon’s head jerked up. Perched on the edge of Brandon’s writing desk, he had been idly twirling a brass paperweight. “God, no! Brandon, don’t think you can trick me into taking that blasted thing. I won’t have it.”

  “It’s in my possession. I can wear it if I want.”

  “You’re just trying to make me nervous,” Devon said.

  “Am I?” Brandon walked past Bridgeton and Marcus, who were both seated in the matching chairs before the fireplace, and took a place on the settee.

  “You are a devil,” Devon mumbled. “I have nightmares of finding that blasted thing under my pillow.”

  “Don’t give him any ideas,” Anthony said with a twinkle.

  Brand regarded his half-brother with a flat stare. “Unlike you, my dearest brother, I have no intentions of hiding the ring in someone’s cake. It’s a wonder I didn’t break a tooth.”

  Anthony chuckled. “I just wanted to share the wealth.”

  Brandon wondered what the ring was really worth. Probably not much, though it appeared to be of some antiquity. But to the St. Johns, it was as priceless as it was annoying. None of them really wanted to keep it because of the rumors of the ring’s mystical powers. Not that they believed such nonsense…it was just the idea of what it represented that made them cringe. But since it had been Mother’s, it was far too dear to simply lock away.

  Brandon looked at the shimmering ring and tried to remember a day when she hadn’t worn it. They’d all taken turns fobbing off the blasted ring, especially his brother Chase, who always—

  Brand glanced around the room. “Where is Chase? I thought we were all supposed to attend.”

  Marcus’s frown deepened. “Chase is the reason for this little meeting.”

  Devon hefted the brass paperweight in one hand as if trying to ascertain its weight. “Our beloved brother left town two days ago.”

  Marcus nodded. “Of his own free will and in fairly good health. The problem is that I recently discovered he’s been residing in the pocket of Viscountess Westforth.”

  Westforth. Brand tried to recall the name. “I’ve heard of her. A racy piece, is she not? Part of the demimonde.”

  Marcus nodded. “That’s her.”

  “Where is Viscount Westforth?”

  Devon polished the paperweight with his sleeve. “He died four years ago, racing his curricle to Bristol.”

  “A poor whipster?”

  “A drunk one. He challenged young Oglethorpe on the Bristol Road. They were both deep in their cups; Westforth was a bit of a wild one.” Devon tossed the paperweight into the air and stretched out his hand to catch it.

  Brandon leaned out and grabbed the paperweight in midair. He then carefully placed it on the table before him, out of Devon’s reach. “Let me guess the rest of the story. Since Westforth’s death, his widow has been living off his largesse.”

  Devon shrugged. “Something like that. Westforth’s father, the Earl of Rutland, believes their daughter-in-law is to blame for Westforth’s death. He believes she encouraged her husband’s wild ways and was glad when he died. Rutland saw to it that she didn’t collect much when Westforth died, but she apparently has enough to exist. Or she did. I wonder if she’s suddenly found herself short of funds.”

  “In a word,” Marcus said, “if this history is correct, Lady Westforth may very well be a fortune hunter.”

  Brandon didn’t like the thought of his little brother in the coils of such a woman. Chase seemed vulnerable now.

  At one time, Chase had been the most lighthearted of the St. Johns—forever playing pranks on one or the other of them. All that had changed sometime last year, though no one knew exactly what had happened.

  It began rather gradually. Chase had transformed, thin layers of change at a time. Now he was bitter, seemingly filled with self-loathing and frequently drunk, even before noon.

  It was painful watching blithe, happy-go-lucky Chase disintegrate before their very eyes. That was the reason Brandon and his brothers had begun intervening in Chase’s life—he was not himself. “How seriously is he involved?”

  Marcus’s expression darkened. “If we don’t do something soon, he may marry the chit. He obtained a special license.”

  “Bloody hell! Why would the fool want to get married?”

  Anthony raised a brow. “Some of us find the wedded state far from deplorable.”

  Brandon stifled a sigh. God save him from the cheery false happiness of a newly wedded couple. He wondered if perhaps he would ever feel that way…then decided it didn’t matter. First he had to find a woman who managed to keep him interested longer than two weeks. “Where is Chase now?”

  “Gone to make the final arrangements,” Marcus said. “We should act while he is out of town.”

  Knowing Chase’s volatile temper, that seemed to be the best way to proceed. “Something must be done at once.”

  “I’m so glad you agree,” Marcus said, a slight edge to his voice. “That is why I called for a meeting this morning.”

  Brandon met his brother’s gaze without flinching. “I overslept,” he said softly. “I will not apologize again.”

  Marcus’s mouth thinned, his jaw tightening.

  Brand didn’t back down. He met his brother’s gaze solidly.

  Anthony sighed. “Enough, you two. Brandon, you should know that we held the meeting this morning.”

  “And we made some excellent decisions.” Devon’s grin glinted.

  Brandon didn’t like the sound of that. “What decisions?”

  “Someone has to visit this woman,” Marcus said, “and ascertain her intentions. Then, if necessary, buy her off.”

  Bloody hell, surely they hadn’t—“I am not visiting Chase’s paramour. I paid off the last actress he was involved with and he nearly took my head off for it. I won’t do it again.”

  Marcus crossed his arms, a satisfied smile touching the hard line of his mouth. “You missed the meeting.”

  Brand leaned his aching head against the high back of the settee. “I wish I could assist you, but I’m busy today. Too busy to irk Chase into challenging me to a duel.”

  “If you can’t go,” Marcus said, “then ask someone else. I just want it taken care of and quickly.”

  That was a thought. Brand looked at Devon.

  “Can’t,” he said promptly. “I’m going out of town.”

  “When?”

  “As soon as possible.”

  “And I,” Anthony volunteered, “am to meet Anna at the modiste’s.”

  “Your wife can surely spare you for an hour or so,” Brand said in a surly tone.

  “You obviously have never spoken to my wife.”

  Brandon had spoken to Anna many times and he had to admit that Anthony probably had a point. Anna was just like Brandon’s sister, Sara—they possessed spines of pure steel. That was probably why they were such good friends.

  At the thought of Sara, Brandon looked at his brother-in-law and wondered if Bridgeton might be willing to assist him. The man did seem determined to get involved in family matters.

  As if he could read Brandon’s mind, Bridgeton shook his head. “It would be in bad form for someone other than a member of the family to attend to such a delicate situation.”

  Brandon glowered. “Why did you even bother to come?”

  Nick smiled gently. “To watch the festivities, of
course.”

  Brandon decided he really, really disliked his brother-in-law. “Blast you to hell.”

  “On that note, we’ll leave.” Marcus stood. “Lady Westforth is not a milquetoast female like some of Chase’s past acquaintances. I advise you to approach her carefully.”

  “She is also quite beautiful,” Devon said unexpectedly. “She has violet eyes, so pure they look as if—” He flushed when he realized everyone was looking his way. “Or so I’ve heard.”

  Brandon sighed. “Actress, opera singer, or orange seller…what difference does it make? I will offer the chit money to leave town and she’ll accept. They always do.”

  “It’s settled, then,” Anthony said. He glanced at Marcus. “Are we finished?”

  “We are. Brandon, however, has just begun.” Marcus’s hard blue eyes gleamed with humor. “Come, everyone. Our brother has a busy day ahead of him.”

  “I thought you were staying for breakfast.”

  “We were,” Marcus replied coolly, “but we don’t wish to keep you from your duties. We’ll eat at White’s.”

  They filed out, all in such good spirits that Brandon was hard put not to start a brawl right on the steps of his own establishment.

  For several long moments after their merriment had faded, Brandon remained on the settee, resting his head against the pillowed back and wishing he was still asleep.

  What a morning. He was ill, tired, and in a horrid mood. His neck ached too, as if he’d slept in the wrong position. He suddenly remembered the letter and sighed. Oh yes, he also had to worry about his friend, Wycham. Worst of all, he now had to rescue a brother who, when he finally returned to town, would be angry enough to split Brandon on the end of his sword.

  It was not a good way to start the day.

  Chapter 2

  It is one of the more unpalatable facts of life that very few women gracing the ballrooms of London possess one-tenth the beauty and wit of those found in the most common gaming hell. Which is why I prize my Liza all the more.

  Sir Royce Pemberley, trying to cheer up his friend, Mr. Scrope Davies, as that gentleman morosely examined the new crop of eligible females lined up against the wall at Almack’s

  “Play at least one game. It will help keep your fingers nimble.”

  Lady Verena Westforth gazed at the cards her brother shuffled with such ease. Atiny itch rested in the palms of her hands. She curled her hand around the familiar feeling and forced her lips to curve into a faint smile. “Did you come all the way from Italy to tempt me into bad habits?”

  James grinned, his golden hair glinting in the morning light. “What you have is talent, not ‘bad habits.’ Father says—”

  “Spare me what Father says. He thinks any vice is a gift, so long as ’tis well done.”

  James’s grin widened. “There’s none like him, is there?”

  “No, thank the heavens. The world would end if two such beings existed on the same planet.”

  “You sound like Mother.” James eyed her fondly. “It’s good to see you, Ver. It has been too long.”

  She returned his smile. There was a bond between her and James that went deeper than most. A bond that stretched across the distance she’d imposed between herself and her family.

  Perhaps it was because James was her twin, though one wouldn’t credit it to look at the two of them. It was true they both had blond hair, but hers was the fine gold of a new guinea, while his was dark blond streaked liberally with brown.

  Even their eyes were different; Verena’s were violet and James’s were brown. Still, there were some similarities. They both possessed the faintly almond-shape eyes and the flyaway brows of some ancient Slavic ancestor.

  Father always said they were descended from Russian royalty. But then Father would say that. She met James’s quizzical gaze with a smile. “It’s good to see you, too, even if you did arrive in the dead of night.”

  “It wasn’t that late.”

  “It was almost dawn. And since it’s been months since I last heard from you, I can’t help but wonder if you’re in trouble.”

  His expression froze, but then he grinned at her, his brown eyes crinkling at the corners. “I am always in trouble. But don’t fret. The Lansdownes were born under a lucky star. No matter what, our paths are made.”

  Though she didn’t believe his bravado for an instant, Verena had to smile back at him. She knew his faults too well—most of them mirrored her own. Impatience, an endless thirst for excitement, and a deeply rooted dislike of being ordered about. “I wish you’d at least stay in my guest bedchamber.”

  “No one knows I’m your brother and I’d like to keep it that way. It’s for your own good.”

  “If I had a reputation to protect, I might agree with you. But I don’t, thanks to Andrew’s father.”

  James’s smile faded at the mention of the Earl of Rutland. “Is he still set on destroying your peace?”

  “Every chance he gets,” she replied lightly, though the effort cost her. She’d always known that Andrew’s father hadn’t liked her, but she hadn’t realized the extent of the old man’s feelings until after Andrew’s death. Unknown to her, Andrew had been shielding her from bitter comments, vile rumors, and more.

  Once he was gone, his father went unchecked, doing what he could to see to it that Verena became a social pariah, unwelcome except in the lowest levels of London society.

  He’d thought to chase her from town, to remove her from Westforth House. But Verena had dug in her heels and instead of fleeing, had made a place for herself among the demimonde and turned Westforth House into the home she’d never had.

  “Damn Rutland,” James said. “I’d skewer his gizzard on my sword if I thought it would help.” He absently dealt the cards into four hands on the small table. “Ver…are you happy?”

  “Of course I am. Why do you ask?”

  “I don’t know. It just seems that you’re…well, you’re far too much alone.” James sighed and set the cards on the table. “Do you still miss Andrew?”

  “Every day.” She said the words simply and was pleased to note that she only felt the briefest twinge of sadness. Andrew’s life had been short and brilliant, a star flashing across the sky then disappearing from sight. He’d left her very little on his death except a heart full of memories and the deed to Westforth House. But those things were worth more than she could say. “I think I miss his laughter the most of all.”

  “That’s one thing I’ll give your late husband,” James said, his voice touched with envy. “He enjoyed every minute of his life. I hope the same can be said about me once I’m gone.”

  There was something wistful about the way James said that. Verena eyed him narrowly. “That’s it. Tell me what’s wrong.”

  “Ver, don’t—”

  “Now, James. Or I’ll write to Father and tell him you seem very out of sorts and could use a visit.”

  James’s eyes flashed. “You wouldn’t!”

  “Try me.”

  He rubbed a hand over his chin, a childhood habit that usually meant he was puzzling through some thorny problem. “Perhaps I just came to see how you’re getting on.”

  “And perhaps Father really is a Russian grand duke, as he loves to tell everyone.”

  “I don’t have anything to tell you, thank you,” James said, reaching into his pocket as if to draw out his watch. “Do we have time to play a game before the carriage—” He pulled his hand from his pocket, his brow lowering. “Damn!”

  “What is it?”

  “My watch. It’s gone. I had it when I climbed from the carriage because I distinctly remember checking the time and—”

  “Blast,” Verena muttered. She marched to the bell pull and tugged it with more force than necessary.

  “Ver, what are you—”

  “Just wait.” She crossed her arms and stared at the door.

  Within seconds, a tall, cadaverously thin individual opened the door and peeked in. “Rang fer me, did ye?”
r />   “Yes. Please come in.”

  He entered the room, his wide smile accentuated with an improbably bright gold tooth. “Whot can oiye do fer ye, m’lady?”

  “Herberts, Mr. Lansdowne has lost his watch.”

  “Whot a pity.”

  James frowned. “Verena, I don’t understand why you’re telling this to your butler. He couldn’t know—”

  “Couldn’t he?” She pinned a glare on Herberts. “Well?”

  The butler sniffed. “Oiye moight know where the gent’s ticker is. And then again, oiye moight not.” He shoved his hands into his pockets and reeled back on his heels. “Mayhap the lad left it in his carriage.”

  “Mr. Lansdowne’s watch is not in his carriage and you know it.”

  “M’lady,” the butler said in an injured tone. “Oiye hope ye aren’t implyin’ anyfing unsavory about me character.”

  A choke of laughter erupted from James.

  Verena ignored him. “Herberts,” she said, only louder this time. “Return it. Now.”

  Herberts shook his head, his long, thin face folded in disapproval. “Ye’re like a rat with a bone in yer teeth, ye are. ’Tis not a pretty way fer a lady to act.”

  Verena merely raised a brow and waited.

  The butler sighed heavily. “Oh very well. Oiye pinched it. But the lad deserved it; he didn’t hand o’er so much as a ha’penny fer openin’ the door. Not a single grinder.”

  “What?” James exclaimed, all trace of amusement gone. “You expect a vale for merely opening a door?”

  The butler cast an unimpressed eye over James’s perfectly pressed eveningwear. “It’s whot the real gentry do.”

  James opened his mouth as if to retort, but Verena forestalled him. “Herberts, even if Mr. Lansdowne owed you a vale—which I question—you have no right to steal from one of my guests.” She marched to a small table by the door and pulled it out from the wall. “Empty your pockets.”

  The butler’s face turned mournful as he slowly moved to the table. Shaking his head sadly, he reached deep into his pockets and deposited a handful of objects on the table. The items flashed as they clunked into a glittering pile.