Always a Scoundrel (3 page)

“Cosgrove’s reputation is nothing to brag about.”

“His reputation is horrific. But at least it will be a marriage, and we will no longer be in debt to him. Perhaps Rose will lend him some respectability. Anyway, it’s done. I’ve agreed in principle, and I’m to meet with Cosgrove tomorrow to see to the details. Just hope he agrees to the month delay, or everyone will know just how much monetary distress we’re in.”

Bram returned to the dark sitting room and sank back against the wall beside the door. So Abernathy was another man who saw his progeny as pawns and puppets. There was nothing new or unusual about that. He was one of those pawns, himself—though Levonzy would be worse than daft to attempt to use him as such now.

What struck him, though, was to hear it said so plainly, and in words that sounded so familiar. It didn’t wound, because, well, nothing did any longer, but appreciating irony as he did, he wished there was someone else to recognize that thirteen years ago when he’d heard a very similar speech, he’d gone out and found Cosgrove with whom to commiserate. And now this Lady Rose Davies was being pushed at Cosgrove because of the same sentiment.

Hm. Bram listened for another few minutes, but the lord and lady of the house seemed to have finished discussing the interesting bits. Straightening, he slipped back down the stairs and out the window through which he’d entered. He now had something on his schedule for tomorrow: Talk to Cosgrove and discover why the devil’s spawn now wanted to marry some obscure chit. And since the Black Cat’s curiosity had been roused, who knew what else he might find to do tomorrow?

“Rose, may we please go now?”

Rose finished signing her name and picked up
A History of the New World
from the counter. “Thank you, Mr. Simms,” she said. “I’ll have it back to you in a fortnight.”

The tall librarian dipped his head. “I’ll see if I can locate that book on seafaring legends for you by then. Good day, Lady Rose, Lady Margaret.”

With a pinched smile Lady Margaret Havendish led the way outside, practically dragging Rose behind her. “I did not escape tea with Mama and Aunt Joanna to go to the lending library,” she stated. “Ascott will never wish to call on me again if he thinks I’m a bluestocking.”

“Reading does not make you a bluestocking, Maggie. Quoting aloud what you’ve read makes you a bluestock
ing.” Rose smiled. “And it’s Ascott now, is it? What happened to Lord Benthem?”

Her petite cousin blushed to the roots of her fashionable blonde hair. “He begged me to address him as Ascott. I didn’t wish him to expire from despair.”

“Heavens, no. Especially if something as simple as calling him by his Christian name can save him.”

“Oh, don’t make fun.”

Rose took a breath, tucking the book beneath her arm as they strolled toward Bond Street. Brightly colored muslins and polished boots and jackets of the finest cloth thronged in front of the shops, with carriage traffic on the street slowed to a near snail’s pace. Generally she enjoyed the bustle of Mayfair, but today the crowds served to remind her that it was nearly noon. Less than an hour before her father would be sitting down to luncheon with the Marquis of Cosgrove.

It hadn’t helped at all that James had lost another forty pounds at faro last night—a small loss for him, but another blow that the family was ill-equipped to weather. She’d tried speaking with him, reasoning with him, but Cosgrove clearly had more influence over her brother than she did.

She supposed she should be grateful that the marquis had offered the family an alternative to debtors’ prison—though why he’d decided that marriage to her was worth ten thousand pounds, she had no idea. They’d met on two occasions, very briefly, and both times she’d made it clear that she despised him.

“Rose,” Maggie said, interrupting her thoughts, “Ascott’s uncle is quite wealthy. If your father can put Cosgrove off until after we’re married, Ascott could
likely persuade Lord Palbridge to loan your father the money.”

“You haven’t received a proposal yet, Maggie. You’ve only begun using his familiar name within the last day or two.”

“You think he won’t ask m—”

“All I’m saying is that Cosgrove expects my father to make good on James’s debt. At the most, Father will be able to delay a public announcement of our betrothal until the end of the month. Twenty-six days. I prefer to deal in facts rather than fairy tales. And yes, I think Ascott will offer for you.”

Her cousin’s frown smoothed away. “Very well. I’m appeased. The facts, though, can’t be very pleasing to you.”

The facts deeply troubled her. She’d lain awake all night, trying to figure a way for the family to raise ten thousand pounds. Nothing had come to mind other than selling James to pirates; amusing as that thought had been, at the moment she simply felt…overwhelmed.

“Come along, Rose. Let’s purchase some hair ribbons. That should cure your doldrums.”

A sack of money falling from the sky would cure her doldrums better. Rose nodded, pasting a smile on her face. “Yes, that’s just the th—”

The book jolted loose from her arm and fell to the ground. Opening her mouth to apologize to the man she’d bumped into, Rose turned around. And stopped.

“A History of the New World
,” he read, straightening with the book in his hands.

Eyes black as pitch regarded her. She’d never seen
eyes like that before. The effect of their direct, level gaze was…unsettling. Beside her, Maggie gave a small gasp. “Thank you for retrieving my book, sir,” she said, finding that her voice wanted to quaver and fighting against it. “May I have it back?”

His head tilted a little to one side, a strand of coal black hair falling forward across his forehead. He was all in black, she realized, from his beaver hat to his gloves to the soles of his boots. Only a white shirt collar and simply tied white cravat leavened his stark appearance. No, not stark, she amended as he glanced down at the book again. Predatory. All six lean feet of him.

“Do the Americas interest you?” he asked, his voice a low, cultured drawl that seemed to resonate down her spine.

“Learning things interests me,” she replied, and held out her hand.

The corner of his mouth quirked, and he slowly placed the book into her fingers. “Well, then. I could teach you such things, Lady Rosamund,” he murmured. With a last look from those midnight eyes, he turned away and vanished into the crowd as if he’d never been there at all. As if she’d imagined him.

“Oh, my word,” Maggie whispered, and clutched her arm.

Rose jumped. “What? Do you know him?”

Blonde hair shook vigorously. “Never. I know
of
him, though. So do you.”

“Who is he, then? For heaven’s sake. He knew my name.” And the way he’d said it, and what he’d said…It had made her want to blush, but on the inside.

“Heaven has nothing to do with him. My father pointed him out to me once and told me to stay well away from him.”

“Maggie.”

“That was Lord Bramwell Lowry Johns.”

Bram flipped open his pocket watch. If Abernathy was to meet Cosgrove at noon, then he was running very late. “Up, Titan,” he ordered, nudging the black in the ribs. They moved into a canter, the fastest pace possible in the environs of Pall Mall at this hour.

If the chit hadn’t spent so long in the bloody lending library—or if he’d been able to tolerate the idea of crossing the threshold to see her up close inside, he might have saved a bit of time. There were some things, though, not even he would stoop to. And entering a lending library was one of them.

The book he’d pushed out of her hands had surprised him, when he hadn’t expected anything about her to be of much interest. He’d summed her up in advance. She would be mousy, with a weak character, close-set eyes, a dress up to her chin, a simpering laugh, no conversation, and the book would be one of those frightful gothic escapades all the young chits seemed to find so romantic.

Her eyes had not been close-set, but they annoyed him. They were green, he recalled quite clearly, complementing well her ginger hair, and they’d gazed directly at him. Women didn’t often do that. Virginal, mousy chits certainly didn’t.

Her father had been correct in saying that she wasn’t striking, for her chest was less than ample, and her
mouth a touch too wide. She stood several inches above anything that might be considered petite, and he’d spied at least a half-dozen freckles across the bridge of her nose.

As he reached the front door of the Society Club he swung down from Titan and tossed the end of the reins to the groom who came puffing up behind him. “Walk him, Redding,” he instructed. “I shan’t be long.”

“Very good, my lord.”

The doorman greeted him as he stepped inside. “Lord Bramwell. Good afternoon.”

“Jones. Is Cosgrove here?”

“In the dining room. He’s expecting g—”

“Yes, I know.” Bram walked through the square foyer and into the large, dark, wood-paneled dining room.

The place smelled of roast pheasant and red wine, and already at this early hour better than half the tables were occupied by the cream of London’s male aristocracy. Even with the growing noontime crowd, the lone figure seated at the back of the room seemed to have at least one empty table between him and the rest of the diners.

“King,” he said, taking the seat opposite the marquis. He generally didn’t like sitting with his back to the room, but Cosgrove didn’t either, and the marquis had arrived first.

“Bramwell. Surprised to see you in such proper company.” The marquis lifted the bottle of port that decorated the center of the table and poured Bram a glass.

“I could say the same about you.”

Pale blue eyes regarded him for a moment. “I’ve a luncheon engagement. Business. I’d avoid it myself, if I could.”

“Yes, you’re arranging your marriage.” Bram took a sip of the too-sweet wine, the only thing Cosgrove ever drank before nightfall. “Came to congratulate you in advance.”

Bram could count on one hand the number of times Kingston Gore had ever been truly surprised, and this was one of them. His expression didn’t change except for a slight narrowing of his eyes, but it was enough.

To anyone just setting eyes on him, the Marquis of Cosgrove looked very like an angel fallen from heaven. Unruly golden hair, fair skin, those pale blue eyes, tall, lean—poets wept for such subjects. Having been acquainted with him for thirteen years, though, Bram knew that his skin was pale both because he rarely ventured out of doors during daylight hours and because of the absinthe the marquis drank nearly nightly. The angelic features were as much a mask as anyone else would wear to a masquerade ball, and the creature that lurked behind it was both heartless and soulless, and was perfectly at ease with being so. As for his age, he’d never given it, but Bram would guess him to be somewhere in his middle thirties.

“One of these days,” Cosgrove finally said, “you’re going to tell me who you pay to get your information.”

“I keep an oracle in my wine cellar. For the price of a selection of small animals and the occasional infant she tells me everything I wish to know.”

“Mm hm. Everything?” King shifted his attention to the room, as he frequently did. He likely had more men wishing him dead than even Bram did.

Under other circumstances Bram would have found it annoying to be a runner-up at anything—wagering, sex, inappropriate conversation, unsavory habits, or friends. When the winner of the contest was Kingston Gore, however, second place was still left with enough notoriety to please Genghis Khan. Or Bram Johns. “Everything of any significance,” he said aloud.

“Then you know who’s decided to join Lord Abernathy for his luncheon appointment today.”

With a frown, Bram leaned forward. “What I want to know is why you’ve decided to marry, and why to that Davies chit?”

Cosgrove’s lips curved in a humorless smile. “Because she’s of good stock, and her family has no choice in the matter. And because she’ll give me an heir and won’t dare protest my…habitual activities.” The marquis looked past Bram again. “Abernathy, Your Grace, thank you for meeting me here. I’m afraid my schedule is frightfully tangled these days.”

Bram’s spine snapped to attention before he could stop it. Damned Cosgrove.
That
was what he’d been talking about—that the Duke of Levonzy was coming up behind him. And from the marquis’s lifted eyebrow as he gestured for the two men to sit, he knew of Bram’s abrupt discomfiture.

“I’m only here at Abernathy’s request,” the duke said, steel gray eyes passing over Bram and moving beyond him to Cosgrove. “You have a reputation for not dealing fairly.”

“A well-earned one,” Cosgrove returned easily. “Are you staying, Bramwell? I know how you detest business.”

King might have supplied him an excuse to go without losing face, but the marquis cared only for his own interests, as did Bram. He considered staying, but when he weighed that against the prospect of listening to his father discuss anything for an hour, the decision was an easy one. He pushed away from the table and stood. “I’m leaving.” Bram nodded at Abernathy. “You may sell your daughter in peace.”

The earl’s skin darkened. “I—”

“Pay that fool no mind, Lewis. He has no concept of duty or propriety.” The duke gestured for a bottle of wine.

“I can’t argue with that, except to say that I’ve never been happier not to be considered a proper gentleman. Cosgrove.” With a nod Bram made his way through the maze of tables and back outside again.

Redding trotted up, Titan in tow, and Bram swung into the saddle. The problem was, he didn’t have a destination in mind. He could go home and nap until a decent hour, or he could visit Phin and bully him into going to luncheon.

What he wanted to do, though, was have a longer chat with Lady Rosamund Davies. Nothing about this should have interested him in the least; for Lucifer’s sake, arranged marriages were older than Egypt’s pyramids. But at the same time, this one made him curious.

He understood Cosgrove and his motivations. The marquis had decided he wanted an heir of his own blood and name, which would remove his milk toast younger
cousin Thomas Wyatt from the race. Being Cosgrove, he’d chosen a wife whom he could control, and who would continue to show a respectable face while the marquis continued with his whoring and drinking and wagering unabated.

And what was wrong with that? Nothing he supposed, except that King’s betrothed-to-be borrowed books on the history of the Colonies. He was used to assessing character quickly, and even with the few words they’d exchanged, she didn’t seem the moronic, spineless chit who would acquiesce to being a laughingstock without protest. Still, he’d been wrong before. Rarely, but it did happen.

Perhaps, then, his perception of her had been wrong. Bram sent a glance back in the direction of the Society Club. He loved deciphering a mystery, and this smelled like one. After all, Cosgrove might have been a good teacher, but Bram had been an excellent student. And anything that could be turned to his advantage needed to be looked into.

He consulted his pocket watch again. Not quite half twelve. Where had that whelp James Davies said he was going today? Generally Lord Lester prattled so much that Bram ceased listening altogether. But there had been something…

“Come along, Redding,” he said over his shoulder, urging Titan into a trot. “We’re off to Gentleman Jackson’s.”

The groom didn’t even blink. “Very good, my lord.”

As he entered the boxing establishment twenty minutes later, he’d begun to question just what it was he
thought he was doing. Chasing after Cosgrove’s plots and machinations had never netted anyone a reward, and he didn’t believe in pursuing anything that held no profit for him. That damned curiosity of his, he supposed. Ah, well. A bit of knowledge rarely served him poorly.