Confessions of a Scoundrel (12 page)

James snorted. “I can tell you that.”

Verena's cheeks heated. “Nonsense. He has access to far too many women to be interested in me. No, I think he has another reason. I wonder if he suspects us of being involved in Humford's death.” Which was a very lowering thought indeed.

“Nonsense. He just wants an excuse to be with you. You underestimate your attractive
ness, Verena. You always have. You look just like Mother.”

“Thank you. There's no greater compliment.”

He smiled quizzically. “Do you miss them?”

“Our parents? Of course. But I wanted a different way of life and Father—” She shook her head. “He never approved of my marriage to Westforth.”

“He has high expectations. I don't think he's approved of my way of life, either.”

“That's not true. He's always said you were merely looking for the right enterprise and that once you found it, you'd excel as no one has ever excelled before.”

“I certainly hope he's right about that.” James tucked the guest list in his pocket. “I should be on my way. Humford's lodgings may yield more clues.”

“I'll go with you.”

James glanced at St. John's calling card, which she still held in her hand. “What about your meeting at six? We may not be back by then.”

“That's quite all right. I want to meet with him again, but on my terms.” She smiled to think of his irritation on returning to her house and finding that she'd just left yet again. Whatever the outcome, she was enjoying this little game. She caught James's worried expression and grinned. “Never fear. I may have married Westforth, but I was born a Lansdowne.”

“Don't make St. John wait too long. He is not the kind of man to take such maneuvering kindly. But one kiss, Verena…one
very
short kiss.”

Verena looked down at Brandon's calling card,
the smooth texture delightful on her fingertips. His signature was very like the kiss he'd given her—bold and sweeping. She wondered idly if he was even capable of something less…a warm, gentle kiss perhaps. Feathery light and—She almost smiled. She couldn't imagine Brandon St. John doing anything so tame.

She caught James's curious stare and blushed. “I suppose I could give him a very short kiss, though I fear it will make him angry. Although since people tend to blurt out the first thing on their minds when they're angry, this could work to my benefit. If he's primed just right, he'll tell us how he's involved with this mess, and then I can send him on his way.”

His brow cleared. “You remind me of mother when you talk like that.”

“Father doesn't call her his Bastion of Logic for nothing.”

James put his arm about her and gave her a hug. “You're just like her. I'd kiss your cheek but you've a smudge.”

“And you've a cobweb on your left ear.”

He wiped his ear and grinned. “I'll comb my hair if you will comb yours.”

“Done.”

Within moments, they had cleaned the cobwebs and dust the best they could.

Then they called for a carriage and embarked for Humford's lodgings, leaving Herberts and Peters to keep all intruders at bay.

 

At exactly six o'clock, Brandon St. John presented himself at the front door of the Westforth
residence. He was already in a foul mood—not only had Verena not appeared this morning, but he'd had no luck in discovering anything more about Wycham's situation. He'd gone over every scrap of information Wycham had given him. He'd even attempted to contact Sir Colburn, a gentleman Devon knew from the Home Office.

Brand glanced up at the silent house before him and frowned. It seemed quiet—almost too quiet. He sent his groom to walk the horses and then ran up the stairs. Once he reached the landing, he tucked his gloves into his pockets and rapped the knocker.

To his surprise, the door was opened before the first rap had even faded into silence. Herberts didn't answer the door, but a rather freckle-faced behemoth with a gap-toothed smile. He straightened importantly and cleared his throat. “Here, now. Whatcha wantin'?”

Brand paused. “Where's Herberts?”

“Roight here, oiye am,” Herberts replied, beaming around the giant's shoulder. “Oiye'm trainin' the new footman. Here now, Peters, stand back a bit so as oiye can see the gent.”

The footman stepped back and Herberts smiled benignly. “How're ye doin', Mr. St. John? Weather's a bit dicey, ain't it?”

The weather was no more uncertain than Brandon's temper. “I've come to see Lady Westforth.”

“Did ye now? Whot a pity.”

“A pity? Why's that?”

“She ain't here, not properly speakin'.”

Brandon's foul mood soured even more. “Did you give her my card as I requested?”

“O' course oiye did! Handed it roight to her when she and Mr. Lansdowne come home.”

Mr. Lansdowne. Brandon decided that he hated that name. Hated it with a passion. “I take it that Lady Westforth left after Mr. Lansdowne.”

“Oh no! They went together, they did. They've important business to attend to, ye know. Horrible business.”

Brandon frowned. “What are you talking about? What horrible business? Has something happened or—”

“Oops!” The butler bit his lip. “Oiye don't think oiye was a'posed to say anything about thet, so let's jus' pretend oiye didn't.” He looked over his shoulder at Peters, who still hovered in the background. “Ye see how oiye did thet? Oiye let some of Lady Westforth's private business out in public? Don't ever do thet. It's agin the rules.”

Herberts turned back to Brandon. “Oiye'll tell Lady W ye was here. Ye'd best get on yer way.” He peered over Brandon's shoulder at the sky and shook his head. “It do look like rain, don't it?”

Brandon followed the man's gaze to the darkening sky. “I doubt—”

Thud
! The door closed firmly, leaving Brandon standing on the landing.

By God! He was a St. John. People did
not
treat him this way.

He sucked in his breath, raked a hand through his hair. Damn it, he'd discover whatever secrets Verena was hiding, claim his bloody kiss, and show her that he was not a man to be trifled with.

Verena was about to discover the price of playing with a man born with an ill temper. He was certain it was far higher than she was willing to pay. Far, far higher.

T
he rain came with a vengeance. It slashed, thrashed, poured and pelted. Though Brandon had his hat firmly on his head, the collar of his greatcoat pulled up about his ears, cold water seeped through the heavy wool, weighting his shoulders and soaking through to his shirt.

Brand ignored it all. Every hour, on the hour, he came to the Westforth townhouse. And every hour, on the hour, Herberts trudged to the door to tell him that Verena had not yet returned.

But at eleven, something changed. Lights were on in parts of the house. Brand squinted through the rain for a long moment. Finally, he turned to his footman. “Take the carriage home.”

The man blinked, water dripping from his hat brim in a steady stream. “Home, sir?”

“Home.” With that, Brandon strode to the front door, grabbed the brass knocker and pounded on the door. After a long moment, it opened.

Herberts stood in the doorway, Peters nowhere in sight. “Bloody 'ell, guv'nor! Ye're too fine of a gent to be standin' in the rain. What do ye want now?”

“For you to open the bloody door,” Brand snapped.

“Here now, there's no need to get in a huff. Oiye came as soon as oiye could. Me room is below stairs, ye know. And 'tis a bit o' a walk.”

Rain dripped off the eaves and found Brand's collar. He swallowed, trying to control his temper. “I want to speak to Lady Westforth. Now. And don't try and tell me she's not in.”

The butler scratched his nose. “It's late, ye know. Very late. And ye're as wet as them cobblestones in the street. Ye might muss me rugs.”

Brand rubbed a wet hand over his wetter face. “I don't give a damn about your rugs.”

“If ye gets the rugs wet, ye know who'll be dryin' em out, don't ye? Me, thet's who.”

“She's in, isn't she?”

Herberts grinned, his gold tooth shining. “Aye. But now she's not receivin' company, it bein' so late and all.”

Brandon lifted his hat and raked his hair back from his face. It was a mistake, for immediately a thick stream of cold water oozed down his collar. He slapped his hat back into place. “That does it. I am no longer asking.”

“No?” Herberts glanced over his shoulder. “Oiye wonder where Peters has wondered off to?”

“Stand aside, Herberts, or I'll knock out every
tooth you have left in that empty gourd you call a head.” The butler hesitated and Brand pushed his way past the man. “I need to speak with Lady Westforth, rugs be damned.”

Herberts sighed. “Ye're askin' fer it, ye know.” At Brand's furious glare, he held up a hand. “Not from me! From Lady W. She don't go with bad manners. Hates 'em, she does.”

Brand shoved out of his coat and handed the dripping mass of wool to the butler, placing his soggy hat on top of the pile. “Tell Lady Westforth that I'm here.”

The butler laid the hat and coat on a side table where they dripped a steady stream of water on the marble floor, seeping onto the edge of the red rug that lined the hall. He shook his head disgustedly. “Oh, very weel. I'll tell her. What's yer title?”

“You know my name and title. I'm Mr. Brandon St. John.”

“Well ye act like a bloody earl, ye do. Ye burst in here like ye was born to the purple.”

Brandon's shoulders and neck were completely wet, as was most of his back. His shirt stuck to him beneath his evening coat, and he could no longer feel his feet in his wet boots. “Either you tell Lady Westforth that I have come to call or I will personally search the house for her.” Brand leaned closer and said through his clenched teeth, “Dripping water the entire way.”

“Ugly when ye're irritated, ain't ye? Oiye suppose there's naught fer it, but to fetch m'lady.” The man's hand slid out, as stealthy as a snake.

Brand reached into his pocket and fished out a coin and then tossed it to the butler.

The man eyed the coin for a long moment, then sighed. “Very well. This way, guv'nor.” He led the way to the sitting room where he tossed open the door and said in a grand voice, “Lady Westforth, oiye fink ye've got a visitor—”

“Herberts,” Verena's exasperated voice lifted through the doorway. “I specifically told you not to allow anyone—”

Brand stepped inside.

Verena sat at a small escritoire, a quill in her hand. As soon as she saw Brand, she replaced the quill in the holder with a hard jab. She stood, her face pink. “I thought I said no visitors.”

“I didn't give him a chance.” Brandon strolled to the fire that burned merrily in the grate and held his hands to the welcome warmth.

“Oiye couldn't keep him out, missus,” Herberts said with a shake of his head. “He seems determined to see ye.”

“I am even more determined
not
to see him. Show him out.” Her eyes snapped fire at Brand. “I do not appreciate you forcing your way into my house.”

“I've thought you many things, Lady Westforth,” Brand said, noting grimly the steam rising from his clothing. “But I never thought you a welch.”

“A-a-” She couldn't even seem to say the word.

“Now jus' wait a minute,” the butler said, huffing and puffing as if someone had insulted his honor and not just his mistress's.

But Lady Westforth's reaction far surpassed his. Once she regained her breath, her mouth thinned to a single line. “A welch? I've never welched on anything in my life.”

“You will be welching if you send me away,” Brand said, “for I've come to collect my debt.” His gaze narrowed on her thoughtfully. “You do remember our wager, don't you?”

Color heated her cheeks, the sudden red making her creamy skin appear even more pale. “You wish to collect your debt now? In the middle of the night?”

“It's not that late. Only eleven, I believe. Lady Westforth, are you a woman of your word? Or not?”

Her proud chin lifted in the air and Brand felt an unusual stirring of appreciation. She was not only beautiful, but she was fiery, awash in passion. With her gold curls and wide violet eyes, she carried innocence like a fragrance. It wafted about her and soaked into the consciousness of her followers without their even being aware of it.

But Brandon was more discriminating than most of Lady Westforth's admirers and he would resist her particular brand of charm. Resist it to the death. So though he felt far from it, he grinned. “I want my kiss and I want it now.”

“That's a pity for I'm not in the mood to hand out kisses to men with no manners. It is rude of you to barge in here, unwelcome and uninvited.” She swept to her feet and walked past Herberts to the door. “Mr. St. John, it is time you left.”

“No.”

She looked at him a moment more and to his chagrin, he thought he detected a sudden hint of laughter in her eyes. All of his frustration and anger slipped away and he found himself smiling in return.

Her lips curved in response, and their anger dissipated as one. They remained that way, smiling at one another, gazes locked, for a long moment. Then, to Brand's surprise, Verena winked at him, whirled on her heel and left.

“Herberts,” her voice floated in the room after her, “would you and Peters escort Mr. St. John to the door?”

The little minx! Brand heard the fall of her footsteps on the stairs and he bolted from the room. He'd just set foot back in the foyer when a steel hand closed over his arm.

He turned around to face the new footman. “Look, Peters. I'm not in the mood to play.”

“'Ere now, guv'nor,” Herberts said from where he stood well behind the footman. “Oiye can't let ye up those steps.”

“Tell this philistine to remove his hand.”

“Oiye wishes oiye could,” the butler said honestly. He leaned forward and said in a confidential tone, “Whot's this wager ye're nappin' about?”

“A kiss.”

“Ah! And she won't pay, eh? Ain't thet just like a woman?” Herberts sighed heavily. “Ye know, if ye weren't talkin' 'bout m'lady, oiye wouldn't mind ye askin' fer a good buss on the smacker.”

Brandon looked at Herberts with a slight sense of astonishment. “You believe I'm in the right?”

“If ye won thet kiss fair and square, whot more is there to say?” Herberts rocked back on his heels a bit. “O' course, since the missus is a woman, oiye'm certain it ain't quite as simple as thet.”

Brand stood still a moment longer, considering his options, aware of the footman's steely grasp. It
wasn't just that damned kiss. That wasn't what drove him to such lengths. No, he told himself, it was for Wycham. His friend was depending on him to find that blasted list. If Brand didn't find a way into the house and soon, Wycham might grow impatient and return to town. He'd be in jail before Brand could help him.

Fortunately, there were more ways to gain entrance to a house than through the front door. Brandon yanked his arm free from Peters's hold, walked to the door, collecting his coat and hat as he went. As he opened the door, he turned and said in a voice loud enough to carry up the stairs, “I will be back.”

From where she sat, hidden around the curve of the top steps, a shiver traced through Verena. He'd been furious at her dismissal, she could see it in the hard blue blaze of his eyes, in the way his broad shoulders sat so rigid and straight. She held her breath until the door slammed shut, then she walked back down the stairs.

“Whew!” Herberts called up the stairs. “He's a very angry man, m'lady. Whatever ye done to piss him off, oiye'd be rethinkin' it. He'll not be gone long.”

Peters nodded in agreement.

Verena managed a smile. “Hopefully, I will have time to figure out how to deal with him before he returns.” Outside, the rain lashed against the windowpanes and rattled the shutters. Verena leaned against the bottom stair railing. “Herberts, I believe I'll finish the letter to my parents and then retire. It has been a long, long day.”

“Aye, m'lady. Would ye like a wee dram to
ward off the chill? Some brandy to warm yer bones.”

“No, thank you.” Verena wearily made her way to the sitting room. As rough as the butler was, he had a caring streak that greatly reconciled her to his presence in her house.

She paused by the desk. “Close and lock the doors. You needn't wait up on me.”

“Very well,” the butler said. “Oiye hopes ye don't gets too angry 'bout the mess the gentleman left in the foyer. He was drippin' like a sieve. Oiye warned him not to come in, but he wouldn't listen. He's left a trail o' water wider than me arm.”

“I'm sure it will dry by morning,” Verena said absently, looking through her note to see where she'd left off. She barely noticed the sound of the door closing or the retreating tread of the butler's footsteps. The rain tattooed against the window, pouring so hard now that it trickled down the chimney and sputtered the fire.

Verena dipped her pen into the ink and started writing again, but it was no good—her mind was too full of James's lost letters, the missing list, and worst of all, Brandon St. John. She wished she hadn't promised James that she wouldn't see St. John alone. Though after she'd seen him, wet and furious, she had to admit that it was probably safer.

She sighed wearily and replaced the pen in the holder. Nothing had gone well today. Even the visit to Humford's lodgings had been a wasted few hours. The man had lived like a monk, fastidiously clean, every shirt drawer organized. It was so neat that the entire apartment had an unlived
in feel to it. She and James had searched every nook and cranny, but had found nothing.

Verena leaned back in her chair and stretched her legs before her, mulling over the day's events. Minutes stretched and faded. Somewhere behind her, a faint creak sounded. She tilted her head to one side and frowned. The creak sounded again, only louder this time. What was that?

A waft of fresh air chilled her and the sound of the rain suddenly got louder. The lamp flickered as if a faint wind had tickled the flame and then went out.

Total darkness filled the room. Verena stood, heart pounding, the hair on the back of her neck prickling with urgency. She wasn't alone. She whirled and took a step toward the door when two huge arms wrapped about her, a large hand clapping across her mouth. Verena only managed a horrified gasp before the fingers tightened.

“I told you I'd be back,” came a deep masculine voice.