Always a Scoundrel (20 page)

Once there she sat at her small writing table and copied down the address of every one of her mother’s acquaintances who didn’t generally come to London for the Season. Of course she couldn’t ask a friend of either of her parents for employment for herself, but she could tell them about a friend of hers in need of employment and ask if they could recommend any family that might be seeking a governess or a companion.

Her stomach felt terribly unsettled this morning, and she’d already vomited once. At least it gave her a reason to forgo breakfast, and she sipped at her peppermint tea as she wrote. She was somewhat surprised she hadn’t already suffered an apoplexy, with the way her nerves felt stretched to breaking. Hope, despair, fright, anger—she preferred this new resolve of hers, but at the same time she wished there hadn’t been a need for it.

Bram’s words, his promises, and his touch, had made her feel special and protected. She supposed, though, that he wouldn’t have gained his reputation for being a rakehell if he hadn’t been able to charm all those other women. A tear ran down her cheek, and she brushed it away.

She wanted Bram to be the man she believed him to be now, not the one he’d been previously. But she couldn’t afford to wait and see whether he would call on her again, help her again, and whether he would be her hero or just that blasted scoundrel she’d disliked before she’d met him.

Yes, thank goodness she still had time, even if she might no longer have an ally. Brushing at another tear, Rose kept working.

There was, Bram had discovered several years ago, an art to being useless. And he’d completely mastered it. And after all that effort, he had only now begun to realize that the talent didn’t serve him well at all.

“Blast it,” he snapped, closing his newspaper and slamming the thing onto his seldom-used breakfast table.

“Ill news, my lord?” Hibble queried, leaning over to refill Bram’s coffee cup.

“No news. How the devil am I supposed to discover anything if no one is talking to anyone else? The damned wags are not doing their jobs.”

“I don’t know, my lord.”

“Well, you’re no help at all.”

“No, my lord.”

Bram looked over his shoulder at the butler, but the man seemed perfectly serious. “How long have you been in my employ, Hibble?”

“My lord?”

“You heard me. How many years?”

“Nine years, my lord.”

“Yes, nine years.” Bram turned his chair a little to face the servant. “And what would you say I’m good at?”

The butler’s cheeks paled. “I need to go polish the silver, my lord.”

“Come now, don’t be a coward. In your years of service, surely you’ve made some observations. At what activities or skills do you believe me proficient?”

“I’d prefer not to say, my lord.”

With a sigh, Bram reached into his pocket and produced a ten-pound note. “You won’t be sacked, whatever you say. And if you come up with something, this is yours.”

“You ride well,” Hibble answered after a moment.

Yes, he did, actually. “What else?”

“I believe your wagering skills are legendary.”

“You are correct. And?”

“The ladies, my lord. You’re quite popular with the ladies.”

Hm. He’d been looking to hear some revelation, some
skill he hadn’t realized he possessed. Mathematics or science or something. “Anything else, Hibble?”

“You have a very neat hand. I’ve heard several compliments to your writing. Oh, and I believe you to be a crack shot, and a fair hand with a team. And your dress has always been impecc—”

“That’ll do, Hibble.” He handed over the blunt.

The butler pocketed it. “Thank you, my lord. I hope I was of some assistance.”

“Absolutely none.”

“I—”

“Name a true gentleman,” Bram broke in again, “someone of wit and refinement and of true gentlemanly character and bearing. Respectable and respected.”

“Your brother, my lord,” the butler replied promptly. “Lord Haithe.”

“Although I’m deeply hurt that you didn’t name me, I am in agreement. Have Titan saddled.”

With a grateful sigh, Hibble practically bolted from the breakfast room. Bram sat back and toyed with the breakfast that remained on his plate. He needed some advice. A few weeks ago if one of his lovers had approached him with threats, veiled or direct, as Miranda had delivered last night, he would have seen to it that she had more public attention than she wanted. He would have been ruthless and brutal, and utterly uncaring of the consequences to her and to himself.

Last night he’d fled, keeping watch only long enough to see that, the object of her ranting gone, Miranda had left as well. Cosgrove had clearly found a way to get to him—by threatening social or physical injury not to
him, but to those for whom he cared. Anyone could be next. Phin or Sullivan, their wives—especially Alyse Bromley, who had already seen more than her share of difficulty. Phin’s brother, William, already confined to a wheeled chair, or his young sister, Beth, naive enough that she’d mooned over
him
. Cosgrove could destroy her.

And there he was, proficient at one thing—scandal. Clearly he needed to…to tidy up his life. Become a better man than the one he was. And not just for Rosamund’s sake, but for his own. It had just taken becoming acquainted with a very fine, very troubled lady to finally make him realize that. He only hoped it wasn’t too late. Only eleven days and eight thousand quid remained between her and disaster, and he found himself willing to do anything to protect her. Even ask for advice from a brother who’d given up offering it.

As soon as Titan was saddled, they trotted over to Marsten House. He hadn’t bothered to check the calendar, but luckily the House of Lords didn’t meet until the afternoon and his brother was home.

The butler ushered him into the library, where August sat in a large chair, Oscar at his feet and reading aloud from
Robinson Crusoe
. It all looked so domestic that for a moment Bram stood in the doorway to watch, fascinated. Had he ever sat at the duke’s knee for any reason? He couldn’t recall a single instance, though he did remember being bent over said knee to have his arse tanned on several occasions.

“Uncle Bram!”

“Hello, Oscar,” he said with a smile. The boy scram
bled to his feet and came forward with a tight hug. Bram ruffled the lad’s dark hair. “I’m pleased to see that someone, at least, reads to your father.”

“Oh, I’m quite good at it. I shall read to you, if you like.”

The fact that Oscar had made the suggestion proved that the boy didn’t know very much about his uncle. And that was definitely for the best. “I actually need a word in private with your papa, if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all. Mrs. Edmonds is making pastries. She always wants me to sample one of them.” With a wide grin Oscar scampered through the door.

Bram closed it behind him. “Do you have a moment?”

August looked at him. “What did you do this time, and to whom?”

“Spare me. You know I never tell you ahead of the spread of the gossip. It spoils the surprise.”

“Then what is it?”

A warmer reception would have been nice, but August had certainly had his hand bitten enough that he hesitated to offer it. Bram could hardly blame him for being skeptical.

As for himself, he had no idea what he should even be asking, if anything. “I just thought we could chat,” he offered, wandering over to the window and gazing out at the street.

“About what?”

Bram frowned, his stretched temper beginning to fray. “I don’t know.”

“Then get me a whiskey, will you?”

“It’s a bit early for that, isn’t it?”

He heard August climb to his feet. “Yes, but you’re here to talk and you don’t know what about. I’ll end up with a drink eventually, so I might as well have one to hand.”

That made sense. Bram picked up the decanter and poured them each a drink. When he turned around, August was eyeing his trousers. “What?” he snapped. “They’re blue. That is not a crime.”

“I haven’t seen you wear anything but black since you took off your army uniform.”

“Perhaps I’m trying to become a new man.”

His brother took a breath. “How is the Marquis of Cosgrove?”

“Why the devil are you asking me that? You detest Cos—” He stopped. “Ah. It’s because you saw me arguing with him the other night. I’m not playing dance around the mulberry bushes. If you have a question, ask it.”

“Your conversation with him didn’t look friendly. He’s not a man to cross lightly.”

Bram snorted. “You don’t need to tell me that.”

“So you’re finished with him?”

“Yes. I’m finished with him. Except for taking measures to keep him away from me and mine. As you saw, we didn’t part well.”

“Does this have something to do with Lady Rosamund? I am aware of her family’s agreement with Cosgrove.”

Of course he would know about it; Levonzy knew, and the duke and his older son were thick as thieves. Bram shoved back his annoyance; time enough for that later. “She’s been put in an untenable position. I
am attempting to help her. Which has put me at odds with King.” He shrugged. “But if your next question is whether I’ll tire of this game and take up with Cosgrove again later, the answer is no.”

“And why is that?”

“God’s sake, August,” Bram snapped. “If you’re going to continue peppering me with the same damned questions, I’ll take myself elsewhere.”

“I’m attempting to decipher why you’ve taken yourself here if you have nothing to say.”

That was a fair statement. And he didn’t precisely have a plentitude of time to wander about and decide how much his pride would allow him to say. Bram closed his eyes for a moment. “I find,” he began slowly, feeling as though he was picking his way through a patch of briars, “that I have been in error about some things.”

His bear of a brother started to his feet and then sank back again. “Go on.”

Bram glanced over his shoulder at August. “That’s not enough?”

“You tell me. This is your visit.”

“Bloody hell. Fine. I’ve done some things that were mainly aimed at taunting the duke. Pricking his pride, I suppose. But doing the same thing time and again is dull, so I went on to other things, and then more deeds beyond that.” He took a breath, attempting to solve the equation in his mind even as he spoke the components aloud. “The point, I suppose, is that I’m so far off the path that I have no idea what the devil I’m doing or how to return to the road again. If I want to return again.”

“Sit, Bram.”

He turned around. “Ah, you have all the solutions and want my full attention before you cure me.” Walking forward, he dropped into the chair opposite his brother. “Please proceed.”

“For years,” August began, slowly swirling the whiskey in his glass, “I have thought of you as Hal.”

Bram blinked. “Hal. You thought mother and the duke gave me the wrong name. Well, while this is highly…insightful, I really must be off.”

“Hal as in Henry. Henry the Fifth.” When Bram started to interrupt again, August pointed a finger at him. “Hal before he took the throne. When his closest adviser and confidant was Falstaff.”

“Cosgrove.”

August nodded. “Precisely.”

Actually, it wasn’t a bad analogy, at least on the surface. Falstaff, according to that Shakespeare fellow, had been the older, corrupting influence to the young prince, drawing him farther and farther away from the honorable, princely behavior he should have been demonstrating. And then Hal had stood against his old mentor, emerging as a wiser, more worldly king than he might otherwise have been
because
of what he’d experienced in Falstaff’s company.

“Except that you’re the next king or duke or whatever title fits the tale,” Bram countered after a moment. “I’m the spare. The second spare, now that you’ve Oscar to follow you.”

“I’m speaking of character, not inheritance.”

“Cosgrove’s true character has never been much of a secret. I knew what I was stepping into.” Deepening his frown, Bram emptied half the whiskey down his throat.
A few years ago it would have burned like the devil; now he barely felt it going down. “I wasn’t misguided, either. I went looking for him, as a matter of fact. No. I reject your hypothesis.”

August actually chuckled. “It’s not a hypothesis. I only said that that was how I viewed you.”

“That’s still not the least bit helpful.”

“How about this?” His brother sat forward, elbows on his knees. “You’re one of the most brilliant men I’ve ever met. Frighteningly brilliant. You have it in you to figure out what you want and how to achieve it. So do that. I certainly can’t.” He downed his own drink. “But whatever you think of my analogy, it is my dearest hope that you set Hal by the wayside right alongside Falstaff, and become Henry.”

Putting the glass aside, Bram stood again. “You’re a sentimental fool, August.”

“I’m a hopeful fool. And you’re the one who came to see me, brother. Not the other way around.”

Halfway to the library door, Bram stopped. Whatever he thought of his brother’s conclusions, he did know one thing that he wanted. “Would you lend me eight thousand pounds?”

“I can’t.”

Narrowing his eyes, Bram turned around again. “Can’t, or won’t?”

“Can’t. I’ve strict orders. If you ever come to me for money, I’m to send you on to Father.”

With a curse, Bram turned away from the door again. “I may be young Hal, but at least I’m not the duke’s damned lapdog.”

The bear rose to his feet. “Before you insult me
again for the way I’ve chosen to live my life, look at your own. If you want eight thousand pounds, ask Father.”

Bram sent his brother a two-fingered salute and stalked out the door. Hal, Falstaff, hope, and the duke’s bloody purse strings—it was all a damned cartload of shit. Yes, he wanted to change, but he couldn’t pull free from Cosgrove until Rosamund could. He wouldn’t—couldn’t—abandon her.

He wanted to see her. Immediately, and with a need that troubled him. It was entirely possible that he was losing his mind, because only around Rosamund could he seem to think rationally any longer. Just the sound of her voice filled him with all kinds of noble sentiments that previously would have had him vomiting in the gutter. He’d wandered, meandering through sin after sin, until she’d stopped him in his tracks.