Confessions of a Scoundrel (19 page)

Waited outside Lady Westforth's house
. Brand dropped his gaze to the teacup on the table before him, the words thrumming through his head. “Why do you think Wycham was involved in any of this? He is not capable of such a crime.”

Farragut gave a wide grin. “Ye don't know yer friend as well as ye think. He had both the motive and the opportunity.”

“What motive?”

Colburn answered. “Forty thousand pounds in gambling debts. Wycham is desperate. Desperate men do not always act in ways they normally would.”

Good God. Brandon wondered how Roger was going to tell his father. “I didn't know he owed that much, but he is not the type of man to murder someone.”

Farragut snorted. “Then why is he hidin' behind his father's coattails if he's so innocent?”

“He's waiting to see if I can find this list and prove his innocence.”

Colburn took a sip of tea, setting the delicate china back into the plate with a faint click. “If Wycham didn't do it himself, then it is possible that he hired someone.”

“Impossible.”

“He has been seen with some questionable men.
Men whom we have reason to suspect are attempting to do what they can to harm our country.”

“He owes money and he talks to malcontents.” Brand shrugged. “If that's all it takes to become a suspect, then you'll be interviewing at least half the
ton
.”

“Mr. St. John,” Colburn said with a frown. “I don't think you understand how serious this is. I agreed to meet you for two reasons. One, because I thought you might be able to assist us in what is a most crucial matter. And two, there is every likelihood that you, Lady Westforth, and even Wycham, if he is indeed innocent as you believe, are all in dire danger.”

Thank God Wycham was on his way back to Devonshire. But Verena…Brand thought of her, alone at Westforth House with nothing but a few servants to protect her. Brand remembered how remarkably easy it had been to enter her house undetected the night before. The shutters on the house were old and easily maneuvered.

He stirred impatiently. “What evidence do you have?”

Farragut blew out his breath, his ears red. “Against yer friend Wycham? Not as much as we'd like, but enough to lock him up until he cooperates.”

Brand fixed him with a cold gaze. “Enough to justify ruining his life?”

“Ruin?” Farragut's mouth twisted in disgust. “Ask Humford what it's like to be really ruined, him with his throat sliced open and the fish eatin' his eyes—”

“Farragut!” Colburn's voice turned brittle. “I
warned you about your manners. Perhaps you should leave us.”

The man's face grew red to match his ears. He stared challengingly at Colburn, but after a moment, he shoved back his chair and stood. “Very well. I'll go. But the gent should know we will find that list, one way or t'other.” He gave Brand a last warning look, then turned and stalked out the door, slamming it in his wake.

“You will have to forgive Farragut. He discovered Humford's body. It greatly upset him.”

Brand finished his tea. “Mr. Farragut does not approve of me.”

“Arthur?” Colburn gave Brandon a rueful smile. “He dislikes anyone who is not in the service. You should see him sneer at the prince.”

“At least I'm in good company.”

“Indeed.” Colburn's smile faded, an anxious expression entered his eyes. “Mr. St. John, I hesitate to ask you for a favor when your own position is so difficult. You are close to Wycham. I believe the two of you attended Eton together?”

Brandon nodded.

Sir Colburn ran his finger around the rim of his teacup. “I hesitate to say anything because of the delicacy of the subject. But we've noticed that you've also become close to Lady Westforth.”

Brandon nodded slowly. They must be watching her house. The thought was far from reassuring.

Damn it, this was worse than he'd realized. He wished he had the ability to spirit Verena away, to hide her until he could figure out a way to control the ugliness that was brewing. But he knew she'd never allow such a thing. “What a coil.”

A flicker of amusement brightened Colburn's faded eyes. He picked up his cup, his large, veined hand contrasting with the delicate china. “Yes, it is. A very large, sticky coil. Mr. St. John, do
you
perchance know who has the list?”

“No. No, I don't.”

Colburn's gaze never wavered. After a moment he sighed. “I didn't think you did, but I had hoped…”

“Are you certain that Humford had this list with him when he went to Lady Westforth's? Perhaps he left it somewhere else.”

“No, he had it when he entered her house. We know that much for certain.”

“How?”

Colburn smiled. “Trust me. We know for a fact he had the list on him when he entered Westforth House. After that…” He shrugged. “Our only consolation in this whole business is that apparently whomever killed Humford did not find what they were looking for, either.”

“I don't like this business.”

“Neither do we.” Colburn sighed. “I wish you would step down and let us take it from here. We could offer Lady Westforth protection, you know.”

“Like you protected Humford.”

“That was an error.” Colburn pressed his hands together, steepling his fingers. “Lady Westforth is indeed a lovely woman. No one would argue that point. But she's not all she seems. It's only fair that I warn you. She and her brother—” Colburn clicked his tongue. “An unfortunate business, that.”

Brand said nothing. He wasn't surprised to find that there were secrets in Verena's life—he'd guessed as much already. She wasn't a simple miss straight from the schoolroom and she'd never pretended to be otherwise. She was a wildly passionate, intensely feminine woman. And behind her outwardly quiet life were all manner of untold secrets.

One day, Brandon would know them all.

Colburn leaned back, pushing his chair from the table. “I can see you're set on this course, foolish as it is. As much as I hate to say this, if the list is not found immediately, we will have to take steps.”

“Such as?”

“If necessary, we will take both Viscount Wycham
and
Lady Westforth into custody and hold them until we discover where that blasted list has gone.”

“How do you know it hasn't been…dispersed.”

“Because we know the parties interested in purchasing this list. They all wait. Since none of them have yet to leave the country, we must assume the list is still here.”

Brandon pushed back his chair and stood. “Thank you for speaking with me. You've told me far more than I'd hoped you would.”

Colburn stood as well. “We are an open book, Mr. St. John. If you have a question, call again. If it is at all possible, I will answer it.”

Brandon looked down at his empty cup, a thought dawning. “Sir Colburn, just how large is this list?”

“Large? Oh it's quite small.” He held up his
hands to indicate a very small square the size of a miniature blotter.

Brand nodded. “Thank you. I will be in touch.”

“Excellent. And Mr. St. John, if you find the list, I do hope you return it to us here.”

Brandon's jaw tightened. Finally, he sighed. “Yes. I will bring it directly to you.”

“That's all I ask.” Colburn pursed his lips, a faint frown flittering between his brows. “It would take a clever person to orchestrate this scheme. Between your friend Wycham and Lady Westforth, I believe the lady is the more clever.”

Brandon couldn't argue with that. He held out his hand.

“Best of luck, St. John,” Colburn said, shaking Brandon's hand. “I hope, for your sake, that you prove us wrong—on all accounts.”

V
erena dropped onto the settee in the sitting room, her white organdy skirts billowing about her. “I am too tired to visit anyone else. My feet hurt and my hair is falling down because of this horrid rain. If you want to see Lady Bessington, you'll have to go there by yourself.”

It had been an agonizing day spent visiting every person who'd attended that fateful dinner party. And it had all been for naught. All they'd really learned was that word of Lord Humford's death was spreading among the
ton
and everyone had a sudden memory of the man, most much kinder than the reality.

It was fortunate that current gossip hadn't also included the manner of his death, just that he was found floating in the Thames, an apparent victim of a robbery. Verena repressed a shudder. What a horrible way to die.

James paced in front of the fireplace, his hands clasped behind his back. “I'll visit Lady Bessington later this evening at the theatre. She's the last person from that damned dinner party that we have to visit. Except, of course, Viscount Wycham.”

That was strange, Wycham out of town during the season. Verena had met Wycham at a gaming hell almost two years ago and he was notoriously personable.

She wondered if Brandon knew where the young peer was. They were rumored to have been friends. She tried to picture the rather immature Wycham with Brandon, but could not quite picture it.

James rubbed a hand over his face. “We've spent the whole day searching for clues and found nothing.”

“Perhaps Lady Bessington will be the answer. Someone has to have heard Humford say something irregular.”

“I hope you're right,” James said. “I hate the theatre, but they say she never misses a performance.”

“I dislike it, myself. Father can outact any thespian to trod the boards.”

“So he can. If I can catch Lady B before the production begins, I shall make my escape forthwith.”

Verena kicked off her shoes. They'd visited no fewer than nine people today. That was nine houses, nine long inane conversations all leading back to the night of their dinner party and Lord Humford's mysterious death, and numerous glasses of tepid tea and stale cakes.

She never wanted to see another teacup for the rest of her life.

James's pacing slowed, his brow furrowed. “We must think this through. What exactly have we discovered so far?”

“That Lady Jessup is in dire need of a housekeeper and that Mr. Sinclair has the best scones. I really must get that recipe for Cook.”

He regarded her with a flat stare. “You've been in rare form today.”

She bit her lip. She had been a little flippant. It was just that she feared that if she stopped to think, then her fears for her brother would freeze her into a block of pulsing indecision.

Verena glanced at James from beneath her lashes. He was a little pale today and she suspected he was feeling a bit frantic.

So was she. Which was why she'd spent the entire day trying to stay focused on more pleasant thoughts. Like last night…the feel of Brandon's possessive hands as they'd roamed over her…the scent of his cologne on her sheets…the way his eyes gleamed when she'd pressed him to the mattress.

A pleasurable shiver traced through her. He was an amazing man; a pity he was so overbearing. Of course in bed, being overbearing could add to a talent already strong, rather than detract from it. But at the dinner table and in daily life, such a propensity would cause nothing but discord.

Discord and disappointment. Brandon St. John was made for the silks and satins of the
ton
—a place Verena had never been made welcome.

She pushed her shoes further away. It didn't really matter what the
ton
thought of her. Neither she nor Brandon had any intentions of allowing their relationship to progress past the “pleasant” stage.

And that was as it should be, she told herself severely. She adjusted the pretty garnet bracelet on her wrist in an attempt to hold a swelter of emotion at bay.

“Did you even hear me?” James asked.

She blinked at him, suddenly aware that he was speaking, and had been speaking, for some time now. “I…oh, were you talking?”

“To myself, apparently. What is wrong? You seem out of sorts. In fact,” James continued, looking at her with narrowed eyes, “you've been acting very differently today. What have you—”

A sharp rap sounded and Herberts stuck his head around the door. His gold tooth caught the light. “There ye be, missus! Ye've a visitor. Shall oiye show him in?”

“Herberts, please do not stick your head around the door like that. You look like a disembodied specter. Just come inside and say what you have to say.”

He brightened, but stayed where he was. “A specter, eh? Perhaps oiye should yell ‘Boo!' the next time oiye comes to announce a guest.” He made a horrid face, rolling his eyes back in his head. “Ooooooh!”

Verena had to swallow a grin, relieved that she could at least still smile. “Who is our guest?”

The butler's spectral mime disappeared before an arch look. “Oh, oiye thinks ye know who 'tis, missus. Ye knows him
very
well.”

Verena's heart quickened. Blast it, why did she react this way just on thinking of his name? “Mr. St. John.”

“In all his bloomin' glory. Oiye must say, 'tis refreshin' to see the man wif his shirt on.”

Verena's cheeks heated. She cast a swift glance at her brother and found him staring at the butler as if he'd suffered a severe shock.

“Show Mr. St. John in,” she said, hoping James wouldn't find his voice before Herberts could escape.

“Very well, missus. Oiye'll show him in, though oiye daresay he knows the way.” The butler winked broadly and disappeared.

“What,” James said in a voice that sounded remarkably like Father's, “was
that
all about?”

“It's Herberts, James. Who knows what he's thinking? Oh, dear! Where are my shoes?” She made a great show of finding her discarded slippers and putting them back on, tucking her toes in and bending way over to fit them over her heels. This kept James from seeing her face, which was every bit as red as the pillows on the settee.

Just as she finished, the door opened. Suddenly, Brandon was there, bowing over her hand, his blue eyes meeting hers with an intimate look that stole her breath.

He looked wonderful. Beyond wonderful. Tall and handsome, his black hair falling over his brow, his black coat fitted to perfection. “Lady Westforth,” he said, his breath brushing over her fingers as he kissed her hand.

Her entire body shivered in response. “Y-your voice is back.” Or part of it, at least. His normally
deep voice was even deeper than usual, whiskey-rough and seductively rich. Just the sound made Verena sit a little closer to the edge of her seat.

He continued to hold her hand, his thumb trailing a path over her knuckles that made her thighs quiver as if they had been stroked and not her fingers. “I can speak a little,” he said softly, “though I'm not yet up to singing.”

“Then we won't make you do so. Would you like some refreshments? I can ring for tea and cakes.”

“No, thank you. I've been drinking tea all day in an effort to keep my throat soothed. Any more and I fear my eyes will turn brown.”

She realized that his thumb was still tracing that mesmerizing path over the delicate skin on the back of her hand. His fingers still clung to hers, his skin warm.

The touch ignited a welter of feelings, none of which Verena wanted to parade before her sharp-eyed brother. James was already watching her with narrowed eyes, a frown on his face.

Blast. She really didn't need her brother to become involved in her intimate affairs. In any of her affairs, for that matter, intimate or not.

Feigning an indifference she was far from feeling, she removed her hand from Brandon's and gestured to the chair opposite the settee. “Won't you have a seat, Mr. St. John? Mr. Lansdowne and I—”

“You mean James, don't you?” Brandon took the seat offered, his broad shoulders obscuring the back of the chair from sight. “Or don't you call your brother by his Christian name?”

Verena sucked in her breath. What was he doing?

James locked a glare on Verena. “You told him.”

Wonderful. Verena felt as if she were transparent, her emotions plain for the world to see. She'd wager that even now, James was looking into her soul, seeing all the sparkling glory of her late-night tryst. No doubt he was itching to get back to his lodgings so he could write Father a long, long
detailed
letter.

Blast, blast and double blast. That was the last thing she needed—Father riding up on a white horse, breathing fire and demanding justice—which is exactly what he'd do once he discovered Brandon's worth. Only Father's white horse would not be a knight's steed, but the white horse of the Apocalypse, she thought glumly. “James, I told Mr. St. John that you are my brother because he assumed that we were—” She made a vague gesture.

James glowered, but said nothing.

Brandon stretched his legs before him. “She also told me about your missing love letters. I have a few questions about that.”

Verena almost moaned aloud. What was Brandon trying to do?

James had gone rigid, his glance daggerlike. “I don't see how this is any of your concern, St. John.”

Perhaps he was trying to embarrass her. Trying to wear her down with humiliation. First, he'd embarrass her before her own brother, and then the whole town. Before long, she'd be the laughingstock of all of London.

The thought took hold and grew. Verena's back
stiffened and she wondered if James would think anything amiss if she hiked up her skirts, pounced on St. John the braggart, and pummeled him into a mass of unrecognizable arrogance with her bared fists.

The nerve of the man, coming into
her
house and then spreading all of her secrets.

“I need a drink,” James said abruptly, glaring at Brandon before marching across the room and sloshing a very generous portion of brandy into a glass.

Verena leaned toward Brandon and said in a low voice, “What are you doing?”

“I've decided we should have no more secrets.”

“Well that's lovely for you. But I like my secrets, thank you very much.”

He grinned, his teeth flashing white.

Verena narrowed her gaze. “If you continue on this course, I will never again talk to you while in bed.”

His lips quirked. “That's fine with me. Talking is the last thing I'd want to do in bed with you, anyway.”

“
Oh
!” How…intriguing. Insulting, too, in a way. But if she was honest, she could think of a lot of things she'd rather do in bed with him than talk.

In fact, now that she thought about it, talking did seem to get in the way of things. “Are you trying to embarrass me?”

“Embarr—” He frowned. “Of course not! Why would you think that? I'm merely trying to get all of our information out in the open. My father always said that a shared burden was half a burden.”

James returned with a glass of amber liquid. He glanced from Verena, to Brandon, and back. “I beg your pardon? What were you saying?”

“Nothing,” Verena said, her cheeks heating. “We were just discussing the need for discretion.”

“That's rich,” James said in a sarcastic tone. “The next time I give you a secret, I have no doubt you'll just paint it onto a sign and hang it on the front door.”

“I only told him because he—”

“Because he's fooled you into thinking he has your best interests at heart. He doesn't, you know. He has something else of yours in mind.”

“Oh, he's not that bad,” Verena said grudgingly. Not any worse than she was. If she was honest, she'd been just as much the aggressor last night. And she'd practically thrown herself on him this morning, too, though that had had quite a different outcome.

She eyed Brandon speculatively and wondered what the outcome would be if she asserted herself yet again tonight. The idea was tantalizing, but better left alone. Whatever she did now would only complicate matters, make her think even more about a relationship that was already impossible.

James eyed Brandon narrowly. “St. John, if you use my sister badly, I will have your blood.”

To Verena's dismay, Brandon looked almost pleased at the thought.

“James,” Verena said hastily, “you have it all wrong. Except for our first meeting when Mr. St. John kissed me, he has behaved fairly gentlemanly.”

James's head jerked toward her. “Kissed? When the hell did that happen?”

“Several weeks ago,” Brandon said. “Your sister kisses divinely.”

She sniffed. “I said
fairly
gentlemanly. James, he didn't come here to tease me; he came because he wants to join forces.”

“We don't need him,” James snapped.

Verena opened her mouth to agree, but stopped. Didn't they need him? They themselves were
point non plus
—there were no more clues to be had. “Perhaps. Perhaps not. He already knows everything.”

“Not quite,” Brandon said mildly. He looked at James with a curious air. “How do you hear from your blackmailers? Do they send you notes? Or does one of them visit you face-to-face?”

James's face darkened. “I'm not telling you a thing.”

Verena swallowed a sharp sigh. Lansdownes never allowed outside parties to become involved in their contretemps. But this…. She thought once again of Humford, floating facedown in the Thames. “James, let him help us. We've looked everywhere for that ridiculous list and we cannot find it.”

“We don't need any help,” James said stubbornly.

“I do,” Brandon said. “I need that bloody list, too. I've a friend who could hang for treason if I do not find it.”