Always a Scoundrel (14 page)

Bram took Rose’s elbow to help her up the pair of steps, but instead of releasing her, he tightened his grip. “Ah, Cosgrove,” he drawled. “Another friend of mine. Perhaps I shall invite myself along.”

“We’re to meet at the White Lion at one o’clock,” Rose said, before Beatrice could open her mouth to declare that the meal was for family and prospective family only.

“Then I shall see you there.”

As he closed the door and stepped back, the coach rolled off and Bea began chastising her for talking with unsavory characters. Rose barely heard it. Though Bram might be unsavory, she was rather glad he would be joining them. He seemed to be the only person who understood her revulsion for the man she was to marry, and he was certainly more qualified to stand up to Cosgrove than anyone in her party.

As for him rescuing her, she supposed he could amuse himself as he pleased, so long as he didn’t listen to the last thing she’d asked of him—that he go away.

A luncheon with Cosgrove. Bram disliked the timing, but if he meant to orchestrate his own ruin, he might as well get on with it. Aside from that, knowing Rosamund’s feelings where Cosgrove was concerned, and after his own conversation with the marquis early this morning, he…couldn’t leave her without an ally. Even an ally she didn’t particularly trust or even want about. Even an ally who didn’t have much practice in that role.

Recovering Titan, he trotted off in the direction of the White Lion, one of the tamest and most respectable public houses in Knightsbridge. He’d debated with himself all morning, and even with Cosgrove’s warnings and his own strong sense of self-preservation, the thing that had troubled him most and stayed with him
the longest had been Rosamund’s dismissal of him after he’d ruined her.

As he’d gotten older, his games had become darker and more elaborate. What he’d most been aware of had been fleeing a perpetual state of boredom, and of chasing toward the next thing that would annoy and affront his father. He hadn’t liked Cosgrove’s plans from the moment he’d gotten a whiff of them, but the more he’d learned, and the better he’d come to know Rosamund Davies, the less he’d been able to condone any of it.

But frowning about something and actively attempting to put a halt to it were two different things.
Very
different when Kingston Gore was involved. And that brought up a different question: If the woman Cosgrove had selected hadn’t been witty and forthright or hadn’t had a compelling sprinkle of freckles across her nose, would he now be attempting to play a hero?

Bram shook himself as the inn and Fishton’s coach came into view. He enjoyed the company of women for one reason, and he’d already indulged in that with Rosamund. Anything else was nonsense. And he was about to stir up enough chaos without something beyond that, something even more absurd and ridiculous and…troubling coming into play.

Lester and Cosgrove were already seated at a table at the back of the public room when Bram trailed Rosamund and her very chirpy sister into the inn.

He kept his attention on the marquis, watching as Cosgrove looked up. King’s gaze went immediately to Rosamund, and the possessive and proprietary look in his eyes made Bram clench his fists. Clearly, with his
appearance and wealth, if King had been kinder and more solicitous about it, duty-minded Rosamund might well have gone along with the wedding plans without any protest at all. And for an absurd moment Bram was glad his so-called friend had chosen to woo in the way that he had.

The marquis’s gaze moved past Rosamund, and his eyes narrowed as he spied Bram. Cosgrove would wait, though, before he acted on anything; after all, the two of them had worked schemes together in the past.

So for a moment, anyway, Bram had the advantage. Given his past actions, Cosgrove would expect that he’d decided to step back and avoid crossing his mentor. This time, however, Cosgrove was wrong.

“I say,” Lester exclaimed with a happy grin, “where did you find Bram?”

“I was looking for a gown to match my eyes,” he said dryly, deliberately taking the seat beside Rosamund. He wanted to touch her, to taste her soft lips, and with his sharp awareness of her it would be wiser to put someone else between them. At the moment, though, this was more about keeping Cosgrove from doing something else to frighten or intimidate her. “Who knew we favored the same dress shop?”

“Interesting choice of attire you’ve settled on,” Cosgrove drawled, indicating his waistcoat. “What brought this about?”

Sweet Lucifer. Simply because he’d decided this morning that perhaps he did wear black to excess, everyone thought he must be up to something. “I’m expanding my horizons,” he offered.

“Also interesting.”

“We’ve been purchasing items for Rose’s trousseau,” Lady Fishton said brightly.

The blue eyes shifted again to Rose as she occupied herself with choosing a pasty from the platter on the table. “Ah,” the marquis commented. “I’ve been purchasing some things for my wife-to-be, as well.”

“Oh, how very sweet! What things? You must tell us.”

Briefly Bram wondered whether Lady Fishton was merely obtuse or whether she was utterly without any common sense at all. People didn’t banter with Cosgrove. Women especially. One of the marquis’s favorite ripostes was that the only opening in a woman of any interest to him was the one between her legs. Or her mouth, if it was occupied with the thing between
his
legs.

“Things that are only between a husband and his wife,” Cosgrove returned, giving a slight, brief smile that didn’t touch his eyes. “I will be happy to tell Rose all about them later.”

“Did you hear that Lady Gervais is holding one of her infamous masqued balls tonight?” Lester broke in. “Certainly you and Bram must have been invited, Cosgrove.”

“Indeed I was,” Cosgrove returned. “Do you wish to attend, James?”

“Sweet Saint Joan, yes!”

Bram felt Rosamund shift a breath closer to him on the bench. She hadn’t said a word, which in itself was unusual for her, and when her fingers brushed against his beneath the table, it felt as though lightning had struck him full in the chest. Twisting his wrist a little, he briefly squeezed her fingers. “I’ll be attending as
well, Lester,” he said aloud. “It’s to be all three of us, it seems.” That was all it took to encourage him to stand in front of a cannon, then; a single touch from a gently bred female seven years his junior.

For a time they sat and ate, Lady Fishton and Lord Lester doing most of the chatting. Rosamund had still barely said a word, and Bram began to feel somewhat frustrated that Cosgrove hadn’t uttered any blatant threats or more obvious innuendos. Her unusual silence in itself spoke volumes, though. She was not only angry at her present circumstances, but she was frightened, as well. Bram clenched his jaw.

He didn’t have much—any—practice at being a hero, but then he wasn’t one yet. The damsel was in distress, and there he sat, trying to decide how many of his cards he should lay on the table. As Rosamund hunched her shoulders, Bram took a breath. Time to fish or cut bait.

“Any luck, Lester,” he drawled, “with your father raising the ten thousand quid to pull Rosamund out of this predicament?”

Cosgrove’s eyes narrowed a fraction, but he said nothing. Viscount Lester, though, frowned. “It ain’t such a predicament, Bram. Rose is two-and-twenty. Don’t you think it’s time she married? And Cosgrove here is my friend, same as you.”

Bram reached into his pocket and pulled out the two hundred–odd pounds’ worth of notes the pup owed him. “Not quite the same,” he said, and tore them in half before he handed them to Rose.

“I say, that’s good of you, Bram.” Lord Lester reached across the table to shake his hand.

“Is it?” he returned. “I have so little experience.”

“Quite a coincidence that you happened to have those promissory notes in your pocket when you stumbled across the Davies family and invited yourself to luncheon.” Cosgrove poured himself a glass of port. “I would like to point out that being owed a debt of a few quid is much different than being owed ten thousand.”

“They might as well be the same, considering that neither of us labored very hard over gathering either amount.”

“If you’ve…feelings for the chit, Bramwell, inform me now and perhaps we might work out an arrangement.”

So Cosgrove could torment her six days out of the week and he could come calling on Tuesdays? Dismayed as the notion of the other six days left him, he wasn’t about to admit to feeling any affection for any member of the Davies family. No chinks in his armor. This was about setting Cosgrove’s attention away from Rosamund. Period. “I’m discussing easily acquired and unneeded blunt. Be a gentleman for once and let them escape.”

The marquis leaned forward, planting his elbows on the table and resting his chin on the steeple of his fingers. “No. If you’re interested in the lady, why don’t you ask her which of us she prefers?”

She prefers me
, Bram wanted to shout, but instead forced out a chuckle. “I’m discussing honor, not chits. Aside from that, with the weight of what you hold over her, it’s not precisely a fair question, is it?”

“It’s fair enough for me.” The marquis turned his gaze on Rosamund. “I would like to hear my wife-to-be answer, anyway. Whose company do you prefer, Rose?”

“My own,” she stated in a low, flat voice.

“Ah, but my dear, I wish you to say either my name or his. Tell us. Now.”

“Yours, Lord Cosgrove.”

As little as he liked the answer, Bram understood it. He reached beneath the table again for her hand, but she snatched it away.

“Please do not make things any worse,” she muttered, lowering her head.

“You see, Bramwell? The lady prefers me. And no wonder. He’s cut off, you know. Supports himself through wagering. And there he went, letting go of two hundred quid he probably needed to keep himself fed.”

“I’m cut off at least thrice a year,” Bram retorted, glad his jibes were working to focus Cosgrove’s ire on him. “I’ve become an expert at coping, if I say so, myself.”

“Is that what you call it? Coping? I prefer making a plan and following it. With that in mind, I shall escort Rose to the Hampton soiree on Friday. It’s time we begin the public semblance of a courtship. Now, my dear, tell Lord Bramwell that you would like him to leave, before I become insulted that you hesitated in answering my question.”

He didn’t want to hear her say that again, coerced or not. Bram stood and stepped back from the bench. “No need. I have an appointment, anyway. Good day, all. I’ll see you tonight, King, Lester.”

“We will continue this fascinating conversation later, Bramwell,” Cosgrove said as Bram turned his back.

“Yes, we shall,” he returned. Hopefully after he had a strategy other than sitting beside Rosamund and touch
ing her whenever possible, the ungrateful chit. Because unexpectedly pleasant as that was, it made for a very poor plan. Being a damned hero was more difficult than he’d imagined.

“I do enjoy a party,” Beatrice said as the Davies and Fishton families gathered in the Davies House morning room and waited for
him
to arrive.

Him. The Marquis of Cosgrove. Rose had worn the most demure gown she owned. Sweltering as the very high neckline and long sleeves were, they provided the only portable barrier between Cosgrove and herself. If she could have managed it, she would have worn trousers, a wool shirt, and a very thick greatcoat.

“Did you have to wear that gown?” her sister asked on the tail of her thought. “You look like a governess.”

“Considering that I’ll be spending the evening in the Marquis of Cosgrove’s company, dressing conservatively seemed as though it would better serve our family.”

“She has a valid point, Lady Fishton,” Lord Fishton commented. “I’m still half convinced that being seen in close proximity with Cosgrove could jeopardize my position in the cabinet.”

As far as Rose knew, Beatrice and Peter always referred to each other as Lord and Lady Fishton. Now with her experiences expanded she wondered whether they did so in the privacy of the master bedchamber as well—though she had some difficulty imagining mild Fishton in flagrante delicto.

Once Fishton mentioned the possibility of being forced out of his employment as undersecretary to the
secretary to the minister of finance, Beatrice’s opinion of their outing changed remarkably. “You know,” her sister said, her voice pitched even higher than usual, “we can’t all possibly fit into one coach. Lord Fishton and I will go ahead and meet you at the Hamptons’ party.”

“Yes, do go,” Rose agreed. “And perhaps Mama and Papa should join you. James and I will wait for Lord Cosgrove.”

“Are you certain about that, dear?” her mother asked, though she’d already stood to leave the room. “Of course it
is
you whom he wants to see. And the reason your father asked for the delay was to avoid any gossip.”

“I know what my part in this is,” Rose returned, pushing back against the sick feeling in her stomach. Failing to deal with Cosgrove would ruin her entire family. This way, she would be the only one who would have to deal with the marquis. Overmatched as she felt, she was certainly more qualified for the task than the rest of the household.

The remainder of her family fled the house, leaving her to take a seat as far from the fireplace and its heat as she could manage, while James paced. Practically everyone had fled from her side, now. Her cousin Maggie had taken to corresponding with her, even when their two households were barely a quarter mile distant from each other. James hadn’t stood by her for any selfless reason, but because he still considered the marquis practically a god. And she hadn’t seen or heard from Bram Johns in three days.

At least he’d told the marquis to leave her alone before he’d vanished, making him the only one to
speak a word on her behalf. Why he’d done it, she wasn’t certain. Without eliminating either the debt or Cosgrove’s influence over James, it had been a futile effort. And yet since he’d left the table at the White Lion, she’d felt as though her last, best hope had gone with him. And since then she’d been very much alone.

“He’s generally late everywhere, Rose,” James said into the silence. “Makes for a grander entrance, he says. So don’t worry that he’s forgotten us.”

Nothing would please her more than to be forgotten. “You never told me, was the masqued ball at Lady Gervais’s everything you’d hoped it would be?”

Her younger brother actually blushed. “Bram said it wasn’t the sort of place to go with anyone you cared about, or if you cared for anyone. I didn’t believe him at first, but after seeing the place, it made some sense.”

“He attended, then?”

“No. Sent me a note, begging off. You’ve got him and King growling at one another.”

Despite her resolve and her firm hold on reality, her heart skipped a beat. “It’s nothing I asked him to do,” she said.

“I don’t know about that, but I ain’t even seen Bram in three days to ask him. And he ain’t exactly a hermit, you know.”

She knew that quite well. Even before their arrival in London she’d heard and read tales about him, of his outrageous wagers and conquests and how he wasn’t welcome in some houses because of his reputation. So he’d been more nuanced in person than she’d expected; no one had said he wasn’t charming.