Confessions of a Scoundrel (18 page)

His mood lightened. No sense in getting upset about a future that had not yet arrived. Surely he and Verena would find the list and do what must be done. And that alone would take a week or two. Suddenly feeling more hopeful, Brandon peeked out into the hallway to make certain that Herberts was not about. Then he left Verena's bedchamber and quietly let himself out of the house.

The sun had broken through the clouds and now warmed the air. Brandon paused on the bottom step, looking around the street. Everything seemed new. Fresh, somehow. He smiled to himself and tossed a coin to an urchin in a tattered blue coat who stood near his carriage.

The boy bit the edge of the coin, then pocketed it with a muffled “thankee guv'nor” and off he went.

Brandon climbed into his carriage. There was one thing he did know…so long as James was in London, Verena was in growing danger. She might not know it, but Brandon was about to become an even greater presence in her life.

Come what may, the St. Johns always took care of their own. And for this time, however brief it might be, Verena was his, every delightful inch of her.

B
rand went home where Poole, on discerning that his master's voice was not up to full strength, immediately set about making Brand's existence even more miserable by attempting to convince him to accept a mustard plaster to his chest. Brand protested as best as he could without raising his voice, though it took a good amount of growling to get Poole to leave him be.

Brandon finally escaped to White's. Once he arrived in that hallowed hall, he took up a newspaper and retired to the corner. He didn't read it, of course. His mind was too busy sifting through the situation at hand to allow for such luxury.

But the newspaper barrier protected him from the dangers of inconsequential chatter and having
to deal with all the revelry that would take place had anyone discovered his rusty voice.

After an hour of sitting and sipping tea liberally laced with brandy, Brand found that his voice had made a very minor recovery. He could at least speak a few short, pithy phrases—two or three words, providing he rested his voice between times.

That was all well and good, though it did little to assuage the feeling that he had to take some action and quick. Brand rustled the paper and stared blindly at an advertisement for shoe blacking.

Suddenly restless, Brand tossed the paper aside and stretched his legs before him. He had to find that damned list. For Verena's sake as well as Wycham's. But what to do once he had it? He frowned. Perhaps they could make a copy and—

“Brandon?”

Brand recognized Wycham's voice instantly. “Roger!” he croaked, then rubbed his throat. It was far too early for exclamations.

Roger stood before him, looking pale and wan, his cravat hastily knotted, his coat wrinkled. He raked a hand through his hair and offered Brandon a sick smile. “I know you said to stay away, but I had to come.”

Concerned, Brandon gestured to the chair opposite his.

Roger dropped into the chair then glanced around nervously. He pulled his chair further behind a plant that shadowed the table. “I just arrived in town and stopped by your lodgings. Your man said you were feeling a trifle off.” He peered anxiously at Brand. “Are you ill?”

Brandon shook his head. “Just my throat. Why are you here?”

“I couldn't stand not knowing what was happening another minute.” Roger leaned forward to say urgently, “Brand, Colburn sent a letter to my father. If I hadn't been on the lookout for it, my father might have gotten it and—”

“Colburn?”

“He's with the Home Office. He's the one who met me at Humford's. He and some other man, Farraday or Farraway or something like that. God, I don't remember!” Roger huddled forward, wetting his lips nervously, his gaze strained as he searched Brandon's face. “Have you found it yet? Do you know where it is?”

Everyone seemed to believe that it was in the Westforth townhouse, though Brand had his doubts. Verena and James had searched…but where could that damned list be if not there?

Brand pushed the thought away—he didn't want to draw more attention to Verena than necessary. She had enough problems of her own. “Need more information,” he croaked.

“More? I've already told you everything I know.” Wycham slumped miserably. “Brandon, things have gotten worse.”

Brand lifted his brows.

“I'm sorry. I don't mean to be melodramatic.” Roger rubbed his face with both hands. Though he was appropriately dressed for the club, his neckcloth was mussed, his waistcoat buttoned crooked, his hair twisted in the front as if he'd been clutching it. “The letter from the Home Office to my father—the one I intercepted. Colburn
is giving me one week to return the lost list or he is coming to arrest me.”

A week. Bloody hell. “Roger, did Humford tell you what was on this list?”

“Names, I suspect. Ten, maybe twelve. I don't know.” A shadow flittered over his face and for a second, he looked older than his twenty-odd years. “I must thank you for your help. You've been everything kind while I—” He managed a twisted smile. “I haven't always been what I should have been, you know. I've frittered away my life; my father is right about that. But once this is over, I will change.”

“We've all done things we've thought better of after the fact.”

Wycham wiped his hands on his breeches. “I will never again wager or touch a card. And I will visit my father more often, too. He knows something is amiss, but he hasn't said a word.”

Brand could feel the pain in Wycham's voice and he wished he knew of a way to alleviate it. “I will do what I can, Roger. We will find the list. I promise.” Every word pronounced. Thank God for hot tea. Brand's throat felt better by the second.

Roger's smile became more genuine. “You will succeed, Brandon. You always do.”

A member of the club came by and murmured a greeting to Brand, glancing curiously at Wycham.

Wycham put a self-conscious hand to his neckcloth. “I must go. If Colburn finds that I'm in town—Brand, please keep me informed. I'm going mad not knowing what's happening. Just send word to my lodgings. My manservant can get it to me quicker than the post.”

Brand nodded. “I will let you know the instant I find something.”

Wycham grabbed his hand with both of his and squeezed. “Thank you! You know I wouldn't have come except for that damned letter from Colburn to my father. I don't mean to rush you, but I'm not the one bringing everything to a point.”

Perhaps the time had come to meet this Colburn and face the Home Office officials who had the audacity to threaten the son of an earl. “Where is Colburn?”

Wycham paled. “No! You don't want to—stay away from him, Brand. He's not a nice man.”

Neither was Brand when it came to protecting his friends and family. Besides, there was a possibility that Colburn might be able to assist Verena. Whoever was blackmailing James knew all about Humford and the list. There was a connection somewhere and it was possible the Home Office already knew what it was.

It was a very slight possibility, but at this point, Brand was willing to do whatever he had to. He was still haunted by the sight of Verena's face when he told her about Humford's death.

“I must go,” Roger said. “They might send another letter to my father and I have to be there to intercept it. I think they hope to badger me into giving them what they want. But I don't have that damned list! And even if I did—” Wycham gulped, his eyes panic-filled. “Brand, did you…were you able to gain entrance into Lady Westforth's house?”

Brand nodded.

“Good, I—be careful, will you? At first, I
thought Verena was innocent, caught in the middle of this affair by the unfortunate circumstances of her dinner party and Humford's death. Now…” Wycham gave a shaky laugh. “I don't know who or what to believe anymore.”

Brand felt a surge of irritation, but he quickly suppressed it. “All will be well.”

Wycham looked grateful. “You are a far better friend than I deserve. And I'm fully aware of the debt I will owe you once this incident is over.”

“Port,” Brandon said. “Cases of it.”

Wycham managed a grin. “It's yours. Now I must go. It will take me the better part of the day to get back home. Take care, Brand. Remember what happened to Humford.”

Brand was not likely to forget—every time he thought about it, he pictured Verena's wide violet eyes. He watched as Roger quickly strode away, his head bowed, his shoulders hunched. Wycham was a fool to come to town.

Brand ordered another cup of tea laced with brandy, rubbing his throat as he did so. If he was going to face the lion in the lion's den, he would need every drop of his voice that he could find.

 

Several hours and several pots of tea later, Brandon felt much better. He grimaced to hear his own voice—it was deeper and rougher sounding, as if he'd been to sea for years on end. But it had lost its tendency to waver, so he couldn't really complain.

He entered a small office located off Timms Street and took off his greatcoat and hat. “Good day. Mr. St. John to see Sir Colburn.”

A narrow-faced young man with protuberant eyes jumped up from his desk. “Yes, sir! We received your note an hour ago. Sir Colburn has been waiting.” He escorted Brand down a high, drafty hall and stopped before a door, knocked, then opened it.

Brand entered. The room before him was cozily furnished—a faded rug softened the wood floors, the walls lined with overflowing bookshelves, books and papers stacked here and there. A large oak desk sat at the far end while several chairs were scattered about the length of the narrow office, seemingly at random.

For all that the day was overcast, the room was warmed by the yellow pool of light thrown by a bright lantern that sat on the corner of the large desk. Two men sat in the center of the room, one at the desk and one further away, hidden almost in the shadows. They both climbed to their feet on Brand's entrance.

Sir Colburn had the appearance of a benevolent grandfather. His white hair gleamed softly in the gloom, his eyes crinkling into an instant smile. “Mr. St. John. I hope you don't mind, but when I received your request for a meeting, I asked Farragut to join us. He has a special interest in the matter you wished to discuss.”

Mr. Farragut bowed. He was a shorter, balding man with piercing dark eyes and a thick neck. “St. John.”

Brand inclined his head. “Farragut. Sir Colburn. I hope you will forgive my voice.”

“Bit scratchy, eh? Had the same problem myself about a month ago. Perhaps you would like some
brandy for your throat? Or some hot tea? I have tea every day at four sharp. Does the constitution wonders.”

Brand thought he'd float away if he had to drink one more cup of tea, but it was possible he'd need it before the meeting was over. “Tea would be fine.”

Colburn immediately went to a tea set that sat on the large desk. He poured two cups, adding a dash of brandy before he brought them back to the table, setting one in front of Brandon and the other in front of a large winged back chair that headed the table.

“Thank you,” Brandon murmured. He had just picked up the cup when he caught Farragut's gaze on him, a condescending look on the man's rather square face. “You don't drink tea, Mr. Farragut?”

A faint sneer touched his thick face. “Tea is fer women and nabobs as walk around with their noses in the air.”

Colburn winced a bit, then cast a deprecating glance at Brand. “Though Mr. Farragut lacks certain social skills, he is one of my best agents, which is why I've had him on this case.”

“Case?”

The old man set down his cup and sighed heavily. “Yes. It has become that, I'm afraid. Let's get to business, shall we? Mr. St. John, I was surprised to receive your request for this meeting. I probably should have known you'd ask for it—the St. Johns are not known to be cowardly and a frontal attack is always the most successful.”

“You know why I'm here.”

“Your friend, Viscount Wycham.”

Brand set down his cup. “Roger is not involved in this business. I fear you've made an error.”

“An error?” Farragut said. He gave a short, ugly laugh. “We don't make errors, St. John. Wycham is as guilty as—”

“Arthur.” Colburn shook his head.

Farragut's mouth worked as if he would argue, but he subsided, satisfying himself by glaring at Brandon.

Colburn sighed. “It's a sad business. I know you come in an effort to clear your friend's name, but things are desperate. We've lost something. Something worth a lot of money to the right people, though we want it for another reason—to save lives.”

“Whose lives?”

Colburn's mouth lifted in a faint smile. “The lives of some very important people are at risk. The list we've lost is of some of our top agents in various ports about the continent. We must recover it. If it falls into the wrong hands, our people will die.” He shook his head, his blue eyes genuinely troubled.

“I thought it was something serious, but this…”

“It gets worse. We are not the only ones after it. Someone else has been pursuing it, someone willing to kill if necessary.”

Brand took a drink. “Like they killed Humford?”

Colburn hesitated, then nodded. “We didn't foresee that. Of course, it's partly his fault this entire situation came into being.”

“He worked for you?”

Colburn and Farragut exchanged glances. Colburn placed the tips of his fingers together. “Occasionally, when we had minor issues, we'd use Humford as a courier—”

“Only when forced,” Farragut added, a curl to his lip. It was obvious he thought very little of Humford. In fact, Brand was beginning to believe the man thought very little of everyone.

“We gave him only very unimportant errands,” Colburn said, then gave a deprecating smile. “We wouldn't have used him at all, but his uncle is a man of some influence in the House of Lords. Our funding is dependent on such connections.”

“What happened to Humford?”

“He made a very foolish error. Two weeks ago, one of our regular operatives disappeared. We were astounded, for the woman in question had served us for years. Out of desperation, we used Humford. We did not tell him how serious a job he was given. We thought that if he didn't know, he wouldn't make any errors.” Colburn shook his head. “I'm afraid our thinking worked a little too well.”

Farragut snorted. “The man was a fool. Whoever garrotted him wasted their time—he was almost too drunk to stand. A good shove into the Thames would have served just as well, and been neater, to boot.”

Colburn cast a severe glance at Farragut. “Whatever Humford's personal problems, we are indeed sorry that he was killed.”

“I'm not,” Farragut growled. “Good riddance, I say.”

Colburn ignored him. “We think Humford told someone about his mission. Someone who realized the value of what he carried.” The old gentleman paused. “We believe this person laid in wait for him outside of Lady Westforth's house, then they dragged him into an alley, and did the deed there.”