Confessions of a Scoundrel

by Karen Hawkins

  For some reason, that tiny bit of truth made Verena grin in return. “I don’t want to be wooed at all. But I would love to take a ride in the park if you will promise not to claim your kiss there.”

  “I have the right to demand my kiss when and where I will.”

  “I’m asking you to be a gentleman.”

  Before he could answer, the door opened and Herberts announced James. Verena’s brother’s face was rigid with disapproval, though he managed a bow in Brandon’s direction. “St. John! What a surprise—I didn’t expect to find you here.”

  Brandon lifted his brows. “Who did you expect to find? My carriage is the only one out front.”

  James’s mouth tightened and Verena hurried to intercede. “Mr. St. John, thank you so much for seeing me home. I look forward to our ride. Shall we say tomorrow at ten?”

  James didn’t look very happy to hear that, but he simply moved out of the doorway.

  Brandon eyed him a moment longer, then turned to Verena and bowed. “Until tomorrow.” He locked his gaze on her for one last moment, the gaze a promise and a threat. And then he was gone.

  Verena sank into a chair as soon as the door closed. She felt drained, exhausted. “Blast and double blast.”

  “Indeed.” James came to sit across from her. “You disappeared without leaving me word. Had it not been for Lady Farley, I would be playing yet, thinking you safe.”

  “I’m sorry. I was overcome with the heat.” And two—no, three—glasses of port, though there was no need to explain that part to her brother.

  James frowned. “What’s this about tomorrow? You aren’t going to see St. John again, are you?”

  “He wishes me to go for a ride with him, that’s all.”

  “Ha! He wants more than that.”

  “Nonsense.”

  “Verena, just look at how he stares at you. He could barely keep his eyes off of you this evening.”

  “That’s because he was trying to ascertain if I was cheating.”

  “Did you?”

  “I tried.”

  James shook his head. “I don’t trust him.”

  Neither did she. Verena pursed her lips. What was Brandon St. John after? “James, about Humford. Someone murdered him right after he left my house.”

  James froze, his eyes dark. “Murdered? Who told you this?”

  “St. John. This evening. He told me about it as if he thought I already knew.”

  “Damn.” James’s mouth thinned. “I don’t like this one bit, Verena.”

  “Nor do I. I’m going riding with St. John and see what else I can discover. Something is amiss.”

  “It could be a trap.”

  “Why would someone set a trap for me? I don’t have anything to hide.”

  He scowled. “I still don’t like it. What if he is the one looking for this list? The one who murdered Humford?”

  “He’s not.” She caught James’s disbelieving gaze and flushed. “St. John had nothing to do with Humford’s murder.”

  “I don’t know how you can be so certain.”

  “He has nothing to gain. St. John is already abominably rich. And then there’s the fact that he told me about Humford’s demise.”

  “Yes?”

  “James, everyone believes Humford fled the country. It’s the perfect way to hide a murder—no one has even looked for the poor man. No murderer would point out something that increased suspicion.”

  “I suppose you have a point.”

  “Of course I do.” Verena didn’t let James say more. Her mind whirled. Brandon St. John may not have killed Humford, but he was connected to the missing list in some way. She was sure of it. All she had to do was worm the truth out of him.

  For some reason, the idea didn’t strike fear in her heart. All it did was send a quick trill of excitement down her back and it was with a far more cheerful demeanor that she planned her route of attack. Heaven help Brandon St. John. He was going to need it.

  Chapter 9

  Men are like large, overgrown pups. They don’t know how to behave in company and have a horrible tendency to muss the rugs.

  Sir Royce Pemberley’s new wife, Liza, to Miss Devonshire, who was complaining of her brother’s sad tendency to tromp mud into the morning room

  Early the next morning—far earlier than he usually rose, Brand forced himself from bed and dressed with care. His thoughts went immediately to Verena. He would enjoy their little ride this morning. But first things first—rising at such an hour had left him with a raw hunger.

  He smiled grimly as he walked down the street to White’s. Once there, he selected a table in the corner and made his way to it, pausing when he caught sight of a familiar face in one corner. Chase. Brand hesitated, then turned and made his way toward his brother. “There you are,” Brand said, taking a chair and looking at the dishes of eggs and ham with interest.

  Chase looked anything but pleased. “What are you doing here?”

  “I’m a member. I come here all the time.”

  “I thought you’d be out saving me from opportunistic women. Or was that just last week’s task?”

  Though he tried not to show it, Brandon’s anger flickered. Damn it, he’d worked hard not to be Marcus’s puppet. But then, this was Chase. He had a gift for spotting weaknesses and, when cornered, he never failed to attack them.

  Brandon motioned for a servant to bring him a plate. “I’m glad I found you.”

  Chase picked up his glass and took a deep drink.

  Brandon frowned at the unmistakable scent of brandy. “Bit early for that, isn’t it?”

  “It’s not early; it’s late. Unlike you, I have yet to sleep.” The gentle light of the club softened the lines about Chase’s mouth, marks of dissipation usually found in a much older man.

  Brand had to bite back the desire to say anything; Chase did not take chastisement well. A servant set a place setting before Brandon and he busied himself with filling his plate. Brandon waited for the servant to leave and then he said, “I need to speak with you about something of great import.”

  “I have nothing to say to you.”

  “Ah, but this is about Lady Westforth.”

  Chase’s gaze met Brand’s, curiosity warring with the desire to appear uninterested. Curiosity won. “Is she still tormenting you by flaunting your bank draft? Perhaps you’d like me to see if I can buy her off.” Chase leaned back in his chair, and waved his glass. “No, wait. That would only give her more St. John drafts to make her little paper animals out of, wouldn’t it? If we continue, she could end up with a menagerie.”

  Brand took a bite of ham. “I believe she’s moved on from there. Now she’s making jewelry with my name prominently displayed. Last night, she had a necklet that contained my signature.”

  Chase threw back his head and laughed. Brand wondered how long it had been since he’d heard that sound.

  “Brand, you’re going to find out that there’s only one Verena. I could have told you about her, but you didn’t see fit to ask.” His amusement faded a little. “In fact, no one conferred with me at all. When will you realize that I’m no longer nineteen years of age?”

  “When you cease to act it. Look, Chase, I’m sorry if you feel we overstepped our bounds. Perhaps we did. But your behavior has not encouraged us to do anything else.” He looked pointedly at the glass that rested at Chase’s elbow.

  “I don’t need you or Marcus,” Chase sneered, taking a defiant drink. “Stop breathing over my shoulder every time you think I might do something to disgrace the blessed St. John name, will you? I’m tired of it.”

  Brand almost winced at such obvious bitterness. What had happened to his younger brother? “Did you really ask Verena to marry you?”

  Chase stared into his glass. “What has she said?”

  “Not a word. And I wasn’t going to ask her.” Brandon helped himself to more eggs and eyed his brother thoughtfully. “Well?”

  “I don’t have to answer that.”

&n
bsp; “I know.”

  Chase sighed and set his glass on the table. “I asked her to marry me but she refused.”

  “Do you…do you care for her?” The bite of ham Brand had just eaten seemed to stick in his throat.

  “Of course not.”

  Brand swallowed. “She’s remarkably personable.”

  “She’s more than that. Verena is special, Brand. She’s honest and to the point and—”

  “She cheats at cards. I saw her do it last night.”

  Chase grinned. “So do we.”

  “Only when we play one another.”

  “How else do you think she affords her house?”

  Brand lifted his brows. “She does it for a living?”

  “Only when necessary.”

  “Did she tell you all this?”

  “No. I just watched.”

  “That’s not what I’d call honesty.”

  “No one is perfect. Not even you.”

  Brand set his fork and knife on his plate and pushed it back. “Not even I.” At one time, he and Chase had been close, almost inseparable. That had been years ago, of course. Sometimes Brand missed the old Chase, the one who laughed without rancor coloring his tone, the one who teased and enjoyed life so much.

  But that had all changed now. And so had Chase.

  Perhaps there was something in what his brother said. Brand frowned down at his napkin, toying with the edge of it. Finally, he looked up. “Chase, something has happened, something that involves Verena.”

  “What?”

  “I will tell you, but you cannot tell a soul.”

  “Not even Marcus?”

  “No. Not yet. Not until I’ve figured it out myself.”

  Chase eyed Brandon warily. “What’s happened?”

  Brandon related to Chase all the events that had led up to the day, though he omitted the kiss he’d won from Verena in the game last night.

  In fact, he omitted quite a few things.

  Chase shook his head. “Verena would never be involved in something as horrible as a murder.”

  “Not even for the money?”

  “She didn’t cash your bloody bank draft, did she?” Chase waved a hand. “If Verena needs money, all she has to do is win it.”

  Chase had a point. And after Brandon had seen the two drunken sots they’d played with last night, he didn’t think it would be all that difficult.

  “Besides,” Chase continued, “if she’d been really strapped for funds, she could have married me.”

  Brandon tossed his napkin onto the plate before him. “You are right.”

  Chase tapped his fingers on the table, his brow folded in thought. “Brandon, have you asked Verena about this lost list?”

  “No. I just mentioned Humford.”

  “Did she know about that?”

  “I don’t think so. From her expression, she seemed stunned to discover that he’d been murdered.”

  Chase looked at Brandon thoughtfully. “You seem to be reading a lot out of her expressions, especially for someone who loathes her.”

  “I don’t loathe her; I disapprove of her.”

  “Then you like her.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Then you dislike her.”

  He didn’t dislike her, either. In fact, as much as he hated to admit it, he was beginning to develop a strong admiration for Verena, one entirely inappropriate to someone in his circumstances.

  Brandon caught Chase’s amused gaze and frowned. “Damn it, Chase, what in the hell do you want from me?”

  “Admit you are wrong about Verena. She is not what you thought.”

  “You don’t know what I thought.”

  “Everyone knows what you thought. It shows in the way you treated her, the way you marched into her house and waved your money in her face.”

  “You’re exaggerating.”

  “Am I?” Chase placed his elbows on the table and leaned forward. “You want to know what I think?”

  “No.”

  “I think you are attracted to her. I think you’ve been attracted to her since the beginning and that is why you feel you have to be such an abominable bore—to remind yourself constantly that you, a St. John, are above the lowly Lady Westforth.”

  “I am not such a pompous ass as that.”

  Chase leaned back in his chair, an expression of disbelief on his face.

  The words rankled. Verena had said almost the exact thing. “I am not pompous. I’ve never been pompous about anything.”

  Chase gave a choked laugh. “Brand, you’ve spent your whole life being so bloody perfect that the rest of us feel like toadstools.”

  “Nonsense. I am not perfect and I’d be the first to admit it. Why, I have a horrible temper. I’m always late, no matter how I try to be on time. I cannot seem to remain interested in a woman past the second week of bedding. And I cannot for the life of me tie my cravat into a mathematical.” He touched his cravat ruefully. “If you knew the times I’d tried that, you wouldn’t be sitting here telling me I’m anything close to being perfect.”

  “Just listen to you. Even your category of faults is laughable. You’re so perfect you make my teeth hurt.” The sneer returned. “You don’t even know how perfect you are, which is why people still like you even though they shouldn’t.”

  “Chase, we were talking about Verena.”

  Chase picked up his glass and examined it in the light. “I’ve already told you what I think about Verena. Like it or not, she’s not capable of such deception as you describe. If I were you, I’d tell her everything. Perhaps with her help, you can figure out a way to assist your friend.”

  Brand wished it would be that easy. “Chase, I may be guilty of thinking Verena less than acceptable, but you must admit that you are guilty of the opposite fault—you think she is a guileless innocent.”

  “I think she is a woman. A genuine, gentle, considerate woman who showed me compassion at a time when I—” Chase clamped his mouth closed.

  Brandon reached across the table and gripped Chase’s wrist. “When what? Chase, what happened to make you so bitter?”

  For an instant, he thought his brother would tell him. But then Chase shoved himself from the table. The demons were back, his eyes shadowed.

  “Damn it, Chase. You have to tell me. You have to tell someone.”

  Their gazes locked for a fleeting second and Brand almost flinched at the pain he saw there. But then it was gone, hidden behind the twisted smile.

  Chase pulled his arm free. “It’s something only I can face. I made a mistake, Brand. The worst one you can make. And I have to pay for it.”

  “Just tell me—”

  “No. Because then you’d try to fix everything and you can’t. Not this time.”

  “Try me.”

  Chase’s gaze fixed on Brandon’s face. “If I tell you my sins, will you promise to leave them alone? It’s my duty to repair the harm I’ve done.”

  “Harm? Chase, what—”

  “Promise.”

  The quiet word filled the space between them. Brandon took a slow breath. If he didn’t promise, Chase would never tell him what had occurred. But if he did promise, his hands were as good as tied—he couldn’t help Chase no matter how much he needed it.

  After a long moment, Brandon shook his head. “I can’t promise that. You know I can’t.”

  Chase’s gaze seemed to burn into his. After a long moment, he looked away. “I didn’t think you could.”

  “You knew I couldn’t. Chase, whatever has happened, you have to tell someone.”

  “I know.” Chase sighed heavily, then managed a twisted smile. “I’d love to stay and chat, but I must be off. I’m a St. John, you know. I’ve brandy to drink, cards to play, women to bed. That sort of thing.”

  “Whatever is bothering you, drinking and whoring will not help.”

  “No, but it might pass the time until I grow enough courage to do what I must.” He gave Brand a mocking salute and walked aw
ay.

  Brand watched him go. Whatever was wrong with Chase, no one could help him until he was ready. It was painful to admit.

  In the meantime, Brandon could help Wycham, who must be pulling out his hair while waiting for news. It was imperative that he let Roger know what was occurring. And then, once that was accomplished, Brand would visit Verena and take her for the promised ride through the park. He’d have her alone then, with no interruptions.

  Impatient to be on his way, Brand called for pen and paper and hurriedly composed a letter to his friend.

  “Please pass the butter.”

  Verena handed her brother the butter dish, watching morosely as he prepared his toast. “I don’t know how you can eat at a time like this.”

  “Eating helps me think.”

  She eyed his trim figure. “Apparently you don’t do much thinking.”

  “Only when forced by necessity.” He took a bite of toast, his gaze already unfocused.

  She had to smile, even though it was the last thing she felt like doing. Memories from last night burned in her mind. Had she really sat in St. John’s lap and kissed him with such wanton abandon?

  Verena pressed her fingertips to her lips. How…thrilling. She hadn’t felt so free since Andrew had been alive. It was a pity she felt that way about Brandon St. John. Any relationship she may have with him would not be of the long-standing variety. Their lives were too disparate, too different to allow such luxury of thought. Besides, Verena had been shunned once by the ton, she’d be damned if she’d open the door to allow such a thing to happen again.

  The door opened and Herberts entered. “Halloo, m’lady! Yer lordship.”

  “Herberts, Mr. Lansdowne is not a lord. You should address him as ‘sir.’”

  “Sir, eh? Oiye’ll try and ’member that, oiye will.”

  “Thank you. Did you want something?”

  “Yer mail arrived.” Herberts picked up a letter from the top of the pile and held it toward the light streaming from the front window. “Looks as if Lady Burton’s havin’ another ball. Didn’t she have one not a week ago? Seems as if she’s got nothin’ better to do than have parties.”

  “Herberts,” Verena said in a voice of long suffering. “You are not to read my mail, nor attempt to read my mail at any time.”