Confessions of a Scoundrel

by Karen Hawkins

  Poole looked at the coat, his entire body stiff with outrage. “Perhaps it might be more beneficial if I were to fetch your buttons. I have a few words I’d like to share with this individual. Some hints to the profession, as it were.”

  Brandon wondered if they would come to fisticuffs. That might be an enjoyment in itself. After all, Poole had a good two stones on Herberts.

  Reluctantly, Brandon shook his head. “No thank you, Poole. Though I appreciate your willingness to address this issue.” He could only imagine Verena’s reaction if his butler were to attack hers. He had a sneaking suspicion that she was rather fond of the disreputable Herberts.

  “Very well, sir. If you don’t wish me to meet this individual, then I shall remain here.” Poole repositioned the coat over his arm. “Please do try some of the rum punch. It’s my own special recipe.”

  Brand nodded. The scent was mouthwatering and he didn’t need to be reminded twice. He entered the front room where a fire burned comfortingly in the grate, the spiced punch hanging above in a kettle. Brandon ladled some into a metal mug, cinnamony steam curling from the rim.

  He took a careful sip, careful not to burn his tongue. The mixture slid down his throat and curled into a warm ball in his stomach. Bloody hell, but it felt good.

  He plopped into an overstuffed chair and placed his booted feet on the low table before him. Brandon drank his punch, ruminating on the hazards of becoming involved with an independent woman. And not your ordinary independent woman, either—Verena had an edge to her, a self-confidence he’d never before seen in anyone, male or female.

  Of course, he was beginning to realize that her strength might not have come from simply living alone these last four years. It was possible that it came from her upbringing, whatever that had entailed.

  He thought about her closed expression when James had mentioned their parents and her stammered explanation afterwards. What had it been like to have such a colorful childhood?

  He thought of his own youth, of the love and warmth and security. He’d had the best of everything, while Verena…she’d had love. He could see it in the way she and James watched out for one another. But she’d had none of the security.

  He leaned back in his chair, aware of a very unusual desire. For the first time in his life, he wanted to protect someone, make them feel safe and cherished…it was painfully obvious she’d had neither.

  Her childhood had left scars while the little he knew of Westforth didn’t lead Brandon to suppose her first marriage had been a haven of any sort. What she needed, he decided, was someone who knew how to overcome the rigid barrier she’d placed about herself. Someone who demanded that she let them in her life so they could take care of her and—

  Brand’s feet hit the floor as he lurched upright. Good God, what was he thinking? The only way he could make Verena feel as secure as he desired was…His jaw tightened. Was to marry her. And he was not the type of man to marry anyone. Hell, he wasn’t able to stay interested long enough to make it down the aisle.

  Of course, he’d known Verena for over two weeks now, he told himself. And he had been spending hours in her company. It was also true that his interest hadn’t waned one iota. If anything, it was stronger than ever.

  Wait a moment. That is only because Verena and I have been involved in this intriguing search for Humford’s list. And nothing else. Yes, that must be it. Once the list was recovered, Brand was sure that whatever feelings he thought he was having would go away—as they always did.

  For some reason, the thought was not reassuring. It made him feel a little…sad. Verena was a delight. She was lush and sensual, intelligent and capable. In fact, she was everything he’d ever desired in a lover.

  And that was all he’d ever wanted. A lover. Oh one day, he supposed he’d be forced to marry someone. But it would be someone circumspect. Someone quiet and sedate—someone like his own mother, for instance. The jumbled feelings he harbored for Verena stemmed from the fact that she was in danger. He, like all the St. Johns, had an innate desire to protect.

  He was suffering from a horrid case of chivalry and nothing more. Feeling more reassured by the moment, Brand leaned back in his seat and replaced his booted feet on the low table. It was his duty to protect Verena. And protect her, he would.

  He would move his things to Westforth House tonight—right into the master chamber. No matter what Verena said, he’d not leave until the issue of the missing list was settled.

  Act as if we already have the list in our possession. Brandon sighed. What would he do if he’d really discovered something about that damned list? He mulled it over, his gaze drawn to his desk.

  He would immediately write to Wycham.

  Now he was deceiving his friend. “Blast it, but I don’t like this,” he muttered as he carried his mug to the desk, pulled out some paper, and dipped his pen into the ink.

  Wycham,

  I haven’t much time, but I know you’re anxious to hear how things stand. I believe I know where the list is hidden. In fact, I’m sure of it.

  He hesitated. Should he mention Verena? Yes. Wouldn’t that be the same as begging the killer to show up on her stoop? Of course, James was there, though not all the time. And no matter how resourceful Herberts was at snifting any small item he might find, he was no match for someone intent on causing harm. As for Peters…Brand should have taken some comfort there, for the man was certainly formidable. But Peters also seemed naive and quite unable to handle a criminal of such cunning as Humford’s murderer.

  The thought was chilling. It was a damn good thing that Brandon was going to be installed in Westforth House this very evening. He dipped the tip of his quill back into the inkwell.

  You were right in your suspicions about Lady Westforth—she has the list. I hope to have it in my possession shortly. In the meantime, pray take care of yourself and set your father’s mind at ease.

  Brandon signed the letter, sanded and sealed it, then called for Poole.

  The butler came into the room, looking pleased to see the mug by Brand’s elbow.

  Brandon handed him the note. “Send it this evening.”

  “Yes, sir. Anything else?”

  “Yes. Pack my bags. I’m leaving in an hour.”

  Poole blinked his surprise, but bowed. “Of course, sir. Shall I pack evening clothes?”

  “Pack everything. I’ll be gone a week or two. Hopefully no longer.” He began to rise when another thought caught him. Act as if we really have it.

  He had one more letter to write. Brandon pulled out another sheet of paper, and quickly dashed off a note. “Here,” he said, sanding the note and folding it. “Have this taken to Number Two Timms Street. In care of Sir Colburn of the Home Office.”

  That done, Brand rose and went to dress for dinner.

  The moon shone brightly through the window at Westforth House. Verena sighed and turned to her side, wondering when sleep would come. She hugged the blankets closer, watching the long, pale fingers of moonlight that had slipped through the crack in the window shades trace a lacy pattern across her wall.

  This is what she got for going to bed early. She and James had passed the rest of the afternoon and early evening in preparations. They had ordered all the trunks from the attic and sent the entire household into a frenzy of packing. James reasoned that if they had indeed found the list, this would be their natural reaction—to flee once they had the letters.

  There was much left to do. Their staff had buzzed with the news that their mistress was soon to leave. Verena was certain that by morning the entire street would be talking of her eminent departure. Within two days, all of London would be conjecturing on the possible causes of her precipitate flight.

  “I’m scurrying off like a rat from a sinking ship.” Verena hugged her pillow tighter. Once again, she was a Lansdowne, without a home and on the run.

  James had stayed long enough to eat dinner, then he’d left to change for the theatre, where he planned to spread the news of he
r flight even further.

  She kicked at the covers. How she hated sleepless nights. In the long, lonely weeks after Andrew’s death, she’d laid awake night after night. At first, it had been the shock—she’d been so un-prepared for the loss. But later it had been the realization that, for the first time in her life, she was alone. Completely and utterly alone. It had been frightening in a way…freeing in another.

  Just as being with Brandon was both frightening and freeing. He challenged her, pushed her to become more. Be stronger. Verena flopped her arm over her eyes. In all the years since Andrew’s death, no one had stirred her to life the way Brandon had. Verena was beginning to realize that since her husband’s death, she’d been stagnating, hiding from life. Somehow, she’d gotten stability confused with safety.

  It wasn’t until Brandon had burst onto her horizon and shaken her from her complacency that she realized what she’d become. In her efforts to avoid becoming yet another larger-than-life Lansdowne, she’d become the opposite—a shell of a person, scarcely breathing for fear of causing a reaction of some type. She’d tried to blend in, disappear from sight. She’d almost succeeded until Brandon had ridden posthaste to save Chase from her evil clutches.

  She had to grin when she thought of that first meeting, of Brandon’s expression when she’d ripped his bank draft to shreds and showered him with the pieces.

  From that first meeting, there had been a connection between them. Almost as if they recognized each other on some level. It was a delicious feeling, one she’d come to cherish, even as she acknowledged that it wasn’t enough.

  She wondered if Brandon would ever think of her after she left—worry about her safety with the same intensity he worried about his brothers. She blinked back the wetness in her eyes. She felt hollow, empty. And she had the depressing fear that it was a feeling she would just have to live with.

  “Stop it,” she muttered. They still had a few days left. A few days to enjoy each other before the inevitable happened. Perhaps Brandon would steal in the house tonight as he had done before. A pleasurable tremor rustled through her at the thought. She’d been burning for his touch ever since that one night of passion.

  She stirred restlessly and kicked at her gown where it tangled about her legs. She needed a nice hot bath and a cup of steaming chocolate, rich and strong enough to curl her toes. Perhaps that would direct her mind from other, more lascivious thoughts.

  Verena sat up, shoving her mound of pillows to one side. Yes, a large cup of rich chocolate, steaming ever so gently. If she—

  A creak filtered through the house. Verena knew that sound—it was the window in the sitting room. The hinges desperately needed oil. Someone crawling through her window—

  Brandon! She hopped out of bed and smoothed her gown, almost trembling in her excitement. Brandon was like an orange, all hard and rough on the outside, but soft and sweet on the inside.

  At least she thought he was soft and sweet on the inside. Perhaps she should peel him to be certain. She chuckled at her thoughts even as she grabbed her dressing gown and thrust her arms into it, then rammed her feet into her red velvet slippers. The door swung open silently and she made her way down the hall, stepping over the boards she thought might make a noise.

  She hesitated on the crest of the stairs, peering down into the gloom below and wondering how best to put Mr. St. John in his place—right on his behind. She could barely make out a faint rustle in the recesses of the sitting room. A creak sounded as if someone had rested a foot on a loose board and then hastily removed it.

  Ah-ha! There he was. She lifted the front of her robe and crept down the stairs, staying to one side to avoid making any noise. A clock struck in the background. Ten chimes. It was indeed late.

  She reached the door to the sitting room and stopped to listen once more. More noises were audible here—the scrap of metal on wood, the clink of a vase on the mantel, then the sound of the drawer being opened in her escritoire.

  A drawer? What was he into now? She put her hand on the knob and pushed the door open slowly. The room, like the hallway behind her, was in total darkness. She crept stealthily in, staying near the wall.

  She must have made some noise, for the entire room was suddenly bathed in silence. Verena crouched low, pressing a hand over her mouth to stifle a very unadult urge to giggle.

  The quiet grew and stretched. Verena’s legs began to ache even though her excitement increased as the moments slid by. Finally, just as she was about to say something, the rustle of clothing to her immediate right made her turn.

  A frontal attack was her only hope. She stood. “Ah-ha! I caught you now—”

  Something whooshed by her face. A blinding pain exploded. She was falling. Then she saw nothing, felt nothing, but blackness.

  Brand walked down St. James Street toward White’s. Though well after dark, the street bustled as members of the ton strolled here and there, climbed in and out of carriages, and pulled up beside one another to talk.

  He pulled out his new watch and checked the time. A quarter after ten. He was a bit early.

  Brandon tucked the watch back in his coat pocket and strode on. White’s had just come into sight down the street when someone grasped his arm. He turned. “Lansdowne!” He frowned. “Is something wrong?”

  “I wanted to talk to you.” James gestured toward White’s. “I take it you are going to the club. May I walk with you?”

  “Of course.” He waited for James to fall in beside him and then they began walking. “Are you a member?”

  A wry grin flickered over James’s face. “I don’t believe they usually allow penniless charlatans entrance into that hallowed abode.”

  “You aren’t a penniless charlatan. Your father is a Russian nobleman.”

  “Today. But tomorrow…” James shrugged.

  Brand dug his hands into his pocket. “What was it like? Living like that?”

  “Exciting. Uncertain. Sometimes frightening. But it was never boring.”

  “Verena seems a little resentful of her childhood.”

  James came to a halt, his brown eyes fixed on Brand with unwavering regard. “My sister doesn’t always know what’s best for her.”

  It was a warning, that much was obvious. Brandon wasn’t sure how to respond.

  But before he could say anything, James turned and continued to walk. “I’m glad I caught up with you. I found Lady Bessington this evening, and she remembered something. She sat beside Humford at Verena’s dinner party the night he was killed.”

  “What did she say?”

  “That Humford drank like a fish all evening. Seemed nervous, too. Kept looking at the clock, though she said they were all doing the same thing since Viscount Wycham was late. She said Verena finally gave up on Wycham and just as they all sat down to dinner, Humford patted his coat pocket, then turned pale.”

  “That’s when he realized he’d lost the list.”

  James nodded, his golden hair glinting in the gaslight. “I think so.”

  “Did Lady Bessington remember anything else?”

  “Just that he rambled on and on about how he’d just bought a new coat and new snuffbox. Seems he’d come into some money recently. She rather thought he’d had a run of luck at the tables.”

  “Not according to Lady Farley,” Brand said. “He owed her establishment quite a bit of money.”

  They walked in silence a moment.

  “Have you put the plan in action?” Brand asked.

  “All business, aren’t you?”

  “This is a serious matter.”

  “Yes. Yes, it is. And yes, I’ve put the plan in action. As soon as you left, Verena and I ordered the trunks from the attic.”

  He frowned. “Why did you do that?”

  “Because it’s what we’d do if we really did find the note.” He met Brandon’s gaze head-on. “We couldn’t stay, you know.”

  A chill settled over Brandon’s heart. “Why not?”

  James glinted a smile that
held a touch of sadness. “We’re Lansdownes, St. John. We never stay where we’re not wanted. Once we pretend we’ve found that blasted list, the Home Office would never believe we were merely play-acting. We’d have to leave.”

  “Of course.” Brandon turned back down the street, vaguely aware of a stir in the street behind him. If what James said was true, then after this coup, Verena would be gone. The thought settled behind his heart and made his entire chest ache. Good God, what would he do when—

  A horse protested, its voice strident, followed by a dismayed shout. A man on the street in front of Brand glanced back over his shoulder, his gaze moving to Brandon and James, then beyond. The man’s eyes widened, his expression one of frozen fear.

  Brandon whirled. A carriage ran out of control, jumping the curb and heading straight for them. The horse strained, his eyes wild, his neck lathered. He ran as if pursued by the hounds of hell. It took Brand only a second to realize that the driver was hunched down, his hands still on the reins, his face obscured by a faded black hat.

  He’s going to kill us! Brand grabbed James by the arm and yanked him, but he was too late.

  The next moment passed in a hazed blur. The carriage bounded onto the sidewalk, but then just as suddenly veered away. The edge of the traces caught James and spun him backward. He went down in the street with a sharp cry.

  The coach thundered on, people scrambling to get out of the way. The street was filled with angry shouts as Brandon knelt by James.

  “My leg.” He groaned, both hands wrapped about his knee. Blood seeped through his fingers and soaked the leg of his breeches.

  Brandon cursed long and low, his heart thundering in his ears. “Wait here and—”

  “Brand!” It was Devon, concern etched on his face.

  Chase appeared as well. “I called for a physician.”

  “Thank you.” Sweat beaded Brandon’s brow, his fear melting into anger. “James, we must get you out of the street. Can you move?”

  James’s eyes were closed, his brows lowered over the bridge of his nose. “Just…give me a moment.”