Confessions of a Scoundrel

by Karen Hawkins

  “He will seek revenge.”

  “I certainly hope so.”

  James lifted his brows. “You sound interested.”

  She shrugged. “Of course I’m not interested in Brandon St. John. I just have this overwhelming compulsion to remind him that I am not a woman to be ignored.”

  James snorted irreverently.

  “Besides,” she continued airily, “I needed more jewelry and this was amazingly inexpensive.”

  “Inexpensive? You’re wearing five thousand pounds worth.”

  “Only part of five thousand pounds. Lady Farnsworth got butter on the draft and I had to rip that portion off and toss it out.”

  “That’s what happens when you make table decorations out of an expensive item.” He shook his head. “It’s a good thing Father’s not here. He’d have had an apoplexy by now.”

  “You don’t think he’d like my necklet?”

  “He’d hate it.” James touched the heavy loop of pearls that decorated one of her wrists. “At least you have something of real value—” His smile suddenly slipped and he lifted her arm toward the light. “They’re false.”

  She pulled her arm free. “They’re paste, but they’re very well done.”

  His lips twisted with distaste. “There’s no need for you to go without necessities.”

  She burst out laughing. “Only a Lansdowne would think pearls a necessity. I suppose you would consider silk gowns and plum pudding necessities as well?”

  “But of course.” He shrugged, the graceful gesture betraying his time on the continent. “Shall we go? I’ve become quite thirsty, standing here, debating with you. And I need to find out about this Humford fellow and see what’s toward with this list. The sooner we get that issue resolved, the better I’ll like it, especially since they are involving you.”

  Verena took his arm and smiled. “I’m ready when you are.”

  Hell’s Door was the newest craze of the demimonde—the discreet gaming hell run by Lady Farley, a loquacious widow with a penchant for expensive champagne and the finest quality diamonds. Located in a small, stylishly appointed street on the edge of the fashionable part of London, the gaming hell appeared much like every other house on the street—three stories of modish stonework broken by large, imposing windows. But the interior was something more.

  No fewer than twenty gaming tables filled the front rooms, sporting Monaco, faro, and whist. Fortunes were made, though more often lost, across those baize-covered tables. The only real winner was Lady Farley who had, in less than two years time, made a sizeable fortune.

  Tonight, as all other nights, Lady Farley’s rooms sparkled with the rich gleam of silk, the flash of cravat pins and watch fobs, and the sparkle of hundreds of glasses filled with the best champagne, port, and brandy. It was, all told, a very good night to be a sinner.

  As she always did, Lady Farley strolled through the rooms, making sure the refreshments never ended, the music wasn’t too loud, the play satisfactory. She entered the main parlor, her calculating gaze immediately finding a tall, dark-haired man dressed in the height of fashion. Her glow of satisfaction increased tenfold.

  Not only had she attracted a St. John to her humble establishment, but she’d managed to lure Brandon St. John himself, London’s undisputed leader of fashion.

  It wasn’t his usual fare—the demimonde represented the fringes of polite society and as a St. John, he was far too aware of his own worth to mingle with the mere “fringes.” Yet here he was, sitting in her salon, playing faro.

  Fanny tried to hide a flush of triumph, but her burning cheeks told her that she was failing miserably. One of the ton’s most eligible and wealthiest bachelors, a man known for his fastidious tastes…it was beyond even her wildly hopeful expectations. She motioned to a servant. “Jacobs, do you see the gentleman at the faro table?”

  “There are two gentlemen at the—”

  “The handsome one.”

  The servant stiffened. “Handsome? My lady, I’m not qualified to—”

  “The dark-haired one. The one on the left.”

  “Ah. Yes, my lady.”

  “Keep his glass filled all night.”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  “Good! And if he seems to want something—anything—make sure that he gets it.”

  “Anything, my lady?”

  “Anything.”

  “Yes, my lady.” Jacobs bowed and could soon be seen hovering near St. John.

  Fanny thought she would die of pride.

  From where he sat at the faro table, Brandon was well aware of the scrutiny of his hostess, but he studiously ignored her. He was here for one reason and one reason only—to track a wily, if beautiful, vixen to her lair.

  And a surprisingly nice lair it was, too. He’d heard of Hell’s Door, but had never attended. Unlike Chase, who lived and breathed such low amusements, Brand found empty play a bore. Any fool could count the cards. Indeed, in his youth, his brothers refused to play him, saying it was no fun to lose every hand.

  He allowed a servant to refill his glass. After his meeting with Wycham, Brand had spent the night going through the facts. Someone had stolen this mysterious list from Humford and then killed the man. And somehow, in some way, Lady Westforth was involved. But in what way? Did she know something about the incident, or was she in league with the murderer?

  He remembered her smile, the warm way she’d spoken to him. He also remembered that though he’d given her five thousand pounds in a bank draft, she’d not exchanged it. Things simply did not add up.

  It hadn’t taken him long to decide what needed to be done; first, he must gain Lady Westforth’s trust. Then he would find the answers to Wycham’s unfortunate situation. Brand thought that it would be a fairly simple thing to pretend to become an admirer. From what he’d heard, she was usually surrounded by a swarm of them anyway, unlucky bastards.

  He took a slow sip of port, thinking of his decision. It wouldn’t take much to join her court. Women like Lady Westforth expected attention. They craved it. And he would use that craving to his own benefit.

  He would pursue her, woo her, win his way into her bed. Before the week was out, she’d tell him everything he wanted to know.

  He smiled into his glass. Damn but he was excited at the prospect. Of course, once he had her to bed, the thrill would diminish, but until then…He wondered about her involvement in Humford’s death. Had she known something? Brand swirled the port in his glass, watching the rich liquid circle into a funnel.

  Poor Wycham. Ever since they’d been in school, Roger had fallen from one scrape into another. But this…Brand wondered how Roger had gotten into such a fix. It was unbelievably sad that he had no one to turn to, that he’d been forced to ask for help from an old schoolmate. Brandon couldn’t imagine life without his family, without his brothers and sister who, though impossibly interfering, still cared about him and did what they could to make his life better.

  Brandon’s hand tightened about his glass. He would help Roger any way he could.

  A slight stir arose at the door. Verena stood in the opening, dressed from head to foot in white and silver. On a normal woman, such a preponderance of brilliance would outshine any tendency toward beauty.

  But on Verena, whose smile seemed to brighten the whole room, the gown seemed fitting somehow. As if she and no other woman deserved such angelic dressing.

  But she was no angel. Brand owed her dearly for her tricks. And Humford, perhaps his very life.

  Brandon tossed back the rest of his drink, collected his money, and stood. Somehow, some way, he’d get Lady Westforth alone.

  Tonight was going to be interesting. Very interesting indeed.

  Chapter 7

  London feeds on scandal. It nourishes, sustains, contains, and invigorates her. Not that I listen to it, of course. I’m far, far above all that.

  The Dowager Duchess of Roth to Sir Royce Pemberley, while meeting that handsome scamp in the park one very damp afternoon


  Brand waited until the crowd that had gathered to greet Verena had dispersed somewhat before he moved into her line of sight. There was a moment’s hesitation, a faint coloring of her cheeks, and then she broke into that fascinating smile. Brand lifted his glass toward her in a silent toast.

  A flicker of surprise showed in her face, but no embarrassment. She even returned the favor, inclining her head in his direction. He had expected that she’d avoid him, but he’d not counted on her natural brazen temperament. She soon broke away from the small group and made her way to his side.

  “Mr. St. John. How delightful.” Her tone dripped with ill-concealed humor.

  The room seemed dressed in dark browns and reds, while Verena in her white dress drew all the light and held it. Brand couldn’t help but smile—her choice of gown was brilliant. “Lady Westforth, it is always a pleasure seeing you.” He looked down into her upturned face, aware of a stirring of unmistakable lust. Her hair was pulled back, twisted in a braid and fastened around her head like a crown. She didn’t try to ape fashions that wouldn’t compliment her, but wore what suited her.

  Brandon had to agree that she looked fresh and bright, soaking the color from every woman in the room. His gaze flickered to her shoulders where they showed above the white gauze rosettes that decorated the neckline of her gown. A silver necklet rested against her throat and drew the eye. He saw the necklet and looked away, only to return his gaze immediately.

  She placed her fingers on the silver chain and dimpled up at him. “Do you like it? I had it made just last week.”

  “So that’s where my draft ended.”

  “Alas, yes. The signature was all I had left after Lady Farnsworth got butter on the rest of it.” She peeped at him from beneath her lashes, a delicious laugh gurgling in her throat.

  He should have been angry. But instead, his blood quickened. By God, he would enjoy this little contretemps. More than he’d enjoyed anything in a long, long time. “You, madam, are incorrigible.”

  “Only when forced.”

  “I’m sorry if you feel that I have forced you into anything.”

  “Ha! You’ve never been sorry for a single thing you’ve ever done. Have you?”

  “I hate apologizing so I make it a point to always be in the right.”

  She tilted her head to one side and regarded him with mock seriousness. “Mr. St. John, you are certainly taking this in good part, which is most unfortunate.”

  “How so?”

  “Because if you insist on being such a good sport, then I shall have to cease and desist in my efforts to make everyone laugh at you. I would truly hate to do that, so do you think you could work up a nice glower? Or a stern frown, like a displeased tutor? Just one will do. Then everyone who is watching to see what is going to occur between us, mortal enemies that we are, will realize that I was perfectly within my rights to mock you.”

  “Lady Westforth, I don’t know who taught you such brutal tactics, but I applaud them.” Brandon captured her hand and kissed it, brushing his lips lightly over her skin. He was aware of an instant ripple of attraction, like the hint of movement along the surface of a pond. His body heated as his attention fixed on her lower lip. God, but she was a tasty morsel. One he would enjoy devouring, one delectable inch at a time.

  It was strange, but he’d never before experienced this combination of powerful physical attraction combined with an innate appreciation for a dauntless spirit. It was disconcerting, to say the least. Not that it would interfere with his plans. Will she, nil she, the luscious Verena was about to be thoroughly and completely seduced.

  Some of his thoughts must have been visible, for her fingers trembled against his. She tugged her hand free, her color high.

  Her companion joined her then, a strikingly handsome man with gold coloring that strongly echoed her own. She turned to the man as if she were a drowning victim finding a rope within reach. “Ah! Mr. St. John, allow me to present Mr. Lansdowne. He is an acquaintance, recently come from Italy.”

  Another victim. Brand should have felt some pity for the fool, but somehow all he could think about was that the man before him was now standing beside Verena. He’d drawn her hand through his arm as if he knew her intimately.

  Irritation inched along Brandon’s shoulders. “Do you plan on staying in London long?”

  “As long as Lady Westforth allows me to.” The gentleman arched his brows toward Verena, who returned his smile.

  The bounder. “I hope you conclude your business swiftly and profitably,” Brand said. “In the meantime, perchance you will join me in a game. Faro, perhaps?”

  Lansdowne brightened, his brown eyes alight. “Faro! I’d love to play, though I’m not very good.”

  “Neither, apparently, am I. I was losing just before you entered.”

  “A temporary lapse, I’m certain.” Mr. Lansdowne was so excited by this offer that he seemed to forget Verena stood at his side. “Perhaps we can set our own terms. The house has limits, you know, but for men like you and I, there’s no need to waste our time playing for so little. We can raise the wager to—Ow!” He clutched his arm where Lady Westforth had been resting her hand.

  “Poor Mr. Lansdowne!” she said smoothly. “Is your arm acting up again?” She looked at Brandon, all innocent concern. “Gout, you know.”

  “At such a tender age? Mr. Lansdowne, I’m sorry to hear that.”

  The man rubbed his arm glumly. “Not as much as I am.”

  Lady Westforth sent him a perfunctory smile. “I suppose this means you can’t play cards. Not with your arm bothering you.”

  “Can’t play ca—Oh!” He smoothed his sleeve over his arm. “Yes, that could be difficult. Well. Mr. St. John, it was pleasant meeting you.” He bowed, sent a dark glance at Lady Westforth, and then walked away.

  “How long have you known him?” Brand asked as soon as the man was out of hearing.

  Verena managed a shrug, though Brandon thought he detected a faint color to her cheeks. He was just going to ask her a more pointed question when an elderly gentleman appeared at Verena’s elbow.

  “Lady Westforth and Brandon St. John! I’d have never thought to see the two of you together, especially after—well, it doesn’t matter, does it?” The old man peered from one to the other. “I take it you’ve cried peace?”

  “Indeed we have,” Brand said. “In fact, we have become so close that Lady Westforth now wears my name on her necklet.”

  Verena blinked, her fingers resting on the necklace. “Unfair,” she murmured.

  “Not in this game,” he answered beneath his smile.

  A reluctant smile touched her lips. “You’re incorrigible. I think I like that.”

  Jameson leaned closer. “Since you are friends now, I hope you are up to a game. I’ve a table saved. Mr. Cabot-Lewes is waiting us there.”

  Verena looked at Brandon, that damnable smile in her eyes, and also a touch of something else…was it triumph? “A game of cards. I would enjoy that ever so much. Shall we?”

  Brandon bowed. “Of course.”

  They were soon ensconced at Jameson’s table, which was tucked into a corner, partially hidden by a set of large, leafy plants. Mr. Cabot-Lewes was introduced and Brandon garnered that the man was a cit who’d made a huge fortune in the tea trade. The man was short and thick and completely bald except for a thick fringe of white hair. He was also effusive in his admiration of Verena to the point of idiocy.

  Brandon was beginning to realize what Marcus had meant when he suggested that Lady Westforth was the darling of the demimonde. Everyone seemed to know her, and she them.

  “Shall I deal?” she was asking now. The light from a candelabrum shone directly over her head, touching her crown with silver and limning the delicate lines of her shoulders. Her silver necklet caught the light and revealed Brand’s name and made him smile. She’d branded herself, whether she realized it or not.

  She picked up the cards, her movements graceful and unhurried, and dealt th
em.

  Lord Jameson watched her with an air of satisfaction. “Perhaps your beautiful hands will put some magic back in the cards. God knows they were going flat.”

  Mr. Cabot-Lewes nodded his approval, his fleshy chin jiggling noticeably. “Good to have you with us, Lady Westforth. And you, too, St. John. We need some fresh blood this evening.”

  Jameson chuckled. “Fresh money, you mean.” He gathered his cards and tossed a gold coin to the center of the table.

  Brandon looked at his own cards. He could feel the attention of the two men. They were like sharks circling an especially fat fish.

  Jameson played a card. “It’s an honor to be playing a St. John.”

  “Is it?” Verena said, disbelief in her voice.

  Brandon grinned at her, but she pretended not to see.

  Lord Jameson gestured at him. “St. John, tell Lady Westforth how you not only have the devil’s own luck, but you can spot a Captain Sharp a mile away.”

  Verena faltered, and a card fell from her fingers to the table. Her color high, she shook her head. “I’m sorry. It slipped.” She collected her card.

  “Don’t worry, my dear,” Jameson said. “We all make mistakes. All of us, except your friend, that is. I’d sooner try to cheat the devil at cards than Brandon St. John.”

  The faintest hint of breathlessness touched Verena’s voice as she turned to Brand. “How can you tell if someone is playing foul?”

  Cabot-Lewes cackled. “The same way we all tell when someone’s playing foul—by how often they win.”

  “If that’s the case,” Jameson replied, “then you’ve never cheated a day in your life.” He watched as Brand played his card. “What’s the real pity is that no one would ever believe that I’ve cheated a day in my life, either.”

  Verena managed a faint smile for this witticism. How she wished she’d taken James’s advice now. She’d taunted St. John into attending her only to discover that he possessed the one mystical penchant she’d rather he didn’t—that of discerning foul play.

  She glanced at him from beneath her lashes and found him watching her, his blue eyes intent. He sat slightly out of the light, as if he disliked being the center of attention, his dark hair falling over his brow in a way that made her itch to brush it back.