Confessions of a Scoundrel (3 page)

“Don't return. Stay away from Italy until it's all blown over.”

“I can't. I have too much at stake. I was in the
middle of a project—” He glanced at her, then managed a smile. “I stand to lose far more than five thousand pounds if I stay away more than a few weeks.”

“What exactly does this blackmailer have over you?”

“Letters. Well, not letters. Poems, really.”

Verena's gaze widened. “
Love
poems?”

James managed a weak smile. “I'm quite good, you know.”

She had to chuckle at that. “I daresay you are. How did this blackmailer find the letters?”

“A month ago someone broke into Sabrina's room and stole the box where she'd been keeping the verses.”

“Did they steal anything else?”

He shook his head. “Not a blasted thing. Whomever it was had to know exactly what they were looking for.”

“Are you sure they want money? It seems ludicrous they would send you here if that was their only objective.”

James's face creased with worry. “I know. I wondered if—but no. It has to be money. What else could they want?”

He had a point. “I suppose that leaves us with the question of ‘how much?' Do you think they knew you'd come here, to my house?”

“Surely not. No one knows I'm your brother.”

“What a mess.”

“I know. If I don't pay whatever they ask, this villain will turn everything over to Sabrina's husband. There will be nowhere to hide and all my work—” He placed his elbow on the table and
rested his forehead in his hand. “Everything will be ruined. I'll be humiliated.”

“Being humiliated is the least of your worries if this man is as dangerous as you think he is.”

“He's killed three men for doing far less than what I have. The problem is that all of my capital is invested. Ver, if they ask for money, I'm sunk. Everything I have is tied up.”

“How long before they contact you?”

“It should be any day now.” He swallowed a little convulsively. “What will we do?”

“The right thing,” she said with a bravado she was far from feeling. “Perhaps, if I'm very, very lucky, I can find a wealthy suitor who will marry me and hand over a large sum as a wedding gift.”

She'd been joking, trying to lighten the moment, but he immediately brightened. “Perfect! Are there any wealthy men hanging about? One you could finagle into an engagement?”

Verena had to laugh. “James! I have no desire to sell my freedom for a few guineas. Not even for you.”

He tried to hide his disappointment. “Oh. Of course not. Although…you wouldn't have to actually marry anyone, you know. Just tempt and tease. Get him excited, then tell him you need some money for a modiste's bill or some such nonsense and—”

At her lifted brows, he managed a weak grin. “I know, I know. I'm just teasing. Father always said it would take a Greek god before you married again.”

That was sadly true. Though she had quite a few admirers, none were acceptable. Not even
handsome, urbane Chase St. John. Within moments of meeting the young peer, it had become obvious that they shared a sense of the ridiculous. They got along famously, but only because he reminded her so much of James that she could not bring herself to completely rebuff him.

“Ver, what am I going to do? I just know they will want more money than I can gather. I'm doomed.”

Verena bit her lip. How could she help James? Her coffers were rarely full. Her gaze was drawn to the table. There
was
one way to help James.

She placed her fingers on the cards and smiled as excitement trilled along her spine. She was tired of hiding, tired of barely making ends meet, tired of being careful. It was the time for bold action. Feeling more alive than she had in four years, Verena picked up the deck of cards and shuffled them, her fingers blurring with the motion.

She dealt out four hands. “Turn up the top cards.”

He did as she instructed. On the top of each pile of cards lay a queen. He grinned up at her, realization dawning. “You are the best.”

The words warmed her heart. She'd missed having her family nearby. Oh, she'd tried to compensate by developing friendships, but she found herself holding back from most overtures, a sad effect of her upbringing. She rather thought the family motto should not have been “Forever Intrepid,” but “Trust No One.”

Still…one had to have acquaintances, at least. So Verena began holding a dinner party the first Tuesday of every month. She invited a variety of
people, most of them the wittier members of the demimonde. They ate, drank, laughed and talked, and she was always careful that the food was magnificent, the wine outstanding, and the conversation never boring. Soon, invitations to her parties were treasured items.

In fact, she'd just held her last dinner party, not two weeks ago. Among her regular guests had been Lady Jessup's new admirer, Lord Humford, who had, according to the gossips, disappeared shortly thereafter. It was rumored that he owed a great deal of money for his folly at the tables and that his options were to flee the country or be tossed into debtor's prison. Verena was quite sure she'd have chosen a life of exciting travel over prison, as well.

She caught James's gaze and patted his hand. “Don't worry about the money, however much they may ask. We will find a way to raise it. But it will be my way and by my terms or not at all.”

“Ver, thank you! Are you certain this won't get you in trouble somehow?”

“Surely even a Lansdowne deserves a winning streak.” Only one, of course. But one would be enough.

Smiling to herself, she sat down with James and began to play.

T
he black and yellow phaeton rolled to a stop in front of the narrow lodging on Kings Street, the matched set of grays prancing daintily. A wizened individual dressed in the buff and blue uniform of the St. Johns hopped down and raced to hold the horses.

Brand glanced at the gray sky above with a glum glare. Damned rain. That's all he needed to make this day a complete and utter waste.

He glanced at the groom. “Walk the horses. I shouldn't be above ten minutes.”

The groom led the horses off as Brandon made his way to the front stoop. He placed his foot on the bottom step and paused to pull off his gloves as the wind tugged hard on the length of his greatcoat.

The residence appeared presentable, which was surprising considering the type of female Chase admired. Brandon could just imagine the mysterious Lady Westforth—he had little doubt that she painted her face and wore gowns cut to her navel, if she bothered even to dress at all. Chase's taste in women ran toward the obvious.

Last year, when Marcus had sent Devon to pay off one of Chase's charmers, the lady in question had held the entire interview wearing nothing more than a sheet. Devon had been thrilled.

Brand might have enjoyed this little drama himself if only his neck didn't ache and his eyes feel as if he'd rubbed them with sand. God knew it would make an amusing story to tell at White's, if nothing else.

The skies overhead rumbled threateningly. Brandon shoved his gloves into the pocket of his greatcoat. This should be relatively easy. All he had to do was convince Lady Westforth that it was in her best interests to leave Chase alone for a few weeks. His interest would wane; it always did. Brandon smiled grimly. He'd be through with this little errand before noon.

Brandon walked up the steps to the wide oak door and rapped lightly. Leaves skittered by, the wind swirling them into little whirlpools of brown and gold. He shifted from one foot to the other, the cold seeping through the soles of his boots.

The sky rumbled again and the breeze stiffened, cold fingers of air ruffling his uncovered head. Why didn't someone answer the door? He grasped the brass ring and banged it firmly.

A long moment passed. Finally, shuffling foot
steps could be heard. The door opened and a tall, cadaverous individual stood in the opening, his nose suspiciously red, the faint reek of brandy sifting through the air.

The man hoisted his breeches and eyed Brand up and down before saying in an avuncular voice, “Here now, was that yew a-banging on me door?”

Brand's faint sense of irritation increased. “Yes, I knocked on the door. How else would you have known to answer it?”

The man scrunched up his nose as if considering this. “Oiye moight have known ye was here a'coss of the sound of yer carriage pullin' up.” He beamed as if he'd just explained a complicated mathematical theorem. “Didn't think o' that, did ye?”

Brand took a steadying breath, his temper on the rise. “Is Lady Westforth home? I wish to speak with her
now
, please.”

“Here now, guv'nor! There's no need to be ticky. Oiye can hear ye jus' fine without yer yelpin' like a scalded dog.”

Good lord, it was bad enough that Brandon had to consort with women the caliber of this Westforth woman, but to be subjected to her ill-trained staff was more than Brandon could handle, especially today.

He'd be damned if he'd miss another of Marcus's meetings. Ever. Hell, he might just move into Treymount House in order to ascertain that not only did he not miss a bloody meeting, but that he was the first one present.

He rubbed a hand to his forehead where a faint echoing ache was beginning to form. “Is Lady Westforth receiving callers?”

“She moight be.” The man wiped his nose with the back of his hand and gave a very wet sniff. “And then agin, she moight not. Whot's it to ye?”

If the servant was any indication of the quality of the woman of the house, then Brand's job would be quick work indeed. “Inform Lady Westforth that I am here.” He reached into his coat pocket and produced a heavy vellum card. “My name is Brandon St. John. I need only two minutes of Lady Westforth's time.” Not even that if she was as desperate for funds as her caliber of butler made it seem.

The butler took the card between his fingers and squinted at it. “Mr. St. John, eh? Oiye'll tell her ye're here.” The butler peered over the card at Brandon and gave him one last suspicious look. Then, to Brandon's utter amazement, the man stepped back and shut the door firmly in his face.

In all of Brandon's years, he'd never been left to cool his heels on the front stoop like a tradesman who'd found his way to the wrong door. It was galling.

By God, he hadn't come here to be left on the stoop. His temper crackled into flames as he reached for the knocker. Before he could slam the brass ring into the wood, the door was yanked open yet again.

The butler gave him a sheepish grin, a single gold tooth glinting in the light. “The missus said ye wasn't to be left on the stoop.” He stood to one side and waved at Brandon to enter. “Oiye'm to show ye to the sittin' room. Ain't ye a lucky bloke?”

Brandon wished he could just turn and walk
away, but that would only mean delaying the inevitable. So instead, he swallowed his ire and walked into the foyer. He waited for the butler to offer to take his coat, but the man merely stood there grinning like a fool.

“It's me first week, ye know. Oiye'm not conversant with all the rules yet.”

Brand wasn't going to argue with that. He shrugged out of his greatcoat, then handed it to the butler.

“Hoo! Ye shouldn't do thet! Wish oiye could accept it but the missus'd have me hide if oiye took such a handsome gift.” The butler reluctantly handed the coat back to Brand, who was too stunned to say a word.

“There ye are, guvnor! If ye wish to reward me, all oiye want is me shillin'.”

“Shilling?”

“Fer openin' the door fer ye—”

“
Herberts!
” came a feminine voice from the stairs.

The butler snapped to attention. “Aye, missus?”

It's about damned time.
Brandon followed the butler's gaze, a half smile already carefully in place. But the moment he saw the woman who stood at the bottom of the steps, his smile froze, slipped, then disappeared altogether.

Devon had been wrong; Lady Westforth wasn't beautiful at all. Her bottom lip was too short, her chin far too determined, her figure not the thin, willowy type society favored. She
was
blonde, her hair the color of ripened winter wheat, but the strands were thick and straight with no sign of curl so favored by the women of the
ton.

Brandon's mood lifted. Perhaps Marcus had been in error. Chase could not possibly fancy himself in love with this woman. Brandon was just thinking that perhaps he was wasting his time coming here at all when the woman turned her head, her questioning gaze meeting his.

Her eyes were the deepest violet, fringed with thick lush lashes; her skin creamy white with the faintest touch of pink. But it was her smile that stole his breath.

He couldn't explain what it was, but when she looked at him like that, humor lighting her gaze, her lips curved in a smile, a deep thrum of awareness gripped him. His entire body responded as if in some way, he recognized her. Knew her…intimately.

She nodded gracefully. “Mr. St. John. I hope you will forgive Herberts. He's new and he doesn't yet understand all of his duties.”

Brandon took firm hold of his erratic thoughts. What had been in that foul concoction Poole had fixed for him this morning? Whatever it was, it had left him befuddled as if still drunk. “Lady Westforth. I hope I'm not intruding.”

“Of course not! Herberts, take Mr. St. John's coat and brush it. You may return it when he's ready to leave.”

“Yes, missus,” the butler said in a disconsolate voice as he took Brandon's coat. Herberts ran a hand over the fabric and brightened a bit. “Perhaps oiye'll wear it about a bit, jus' to see what it feels like to have such a fine piece o' workmanship on me back—”

“No!” Lady Westforth shook her head emphat
ically. “Butlers do
not
wear the coats they take to brush.”

Herberts' face fell. “Ye sure 'bout thet?”

“Positive.” She collected Brand with her gaze and flicked her hand toward a set of double doors. “This way, if you please. We can speak in here.”

Brandon followed the lady's softly rounded figure into a sitting room. He couldn't help but watch her walk, noting the way her hips swayed beneath her silk gown. She was shorter than he'd first realized, her head only reaching his shoulder, and a bit plumper than society deemed attractive.

Of course, society was rarely right about such things. Celeste was thought to be the perfect woman—people fawned over her, women sought out her company, men wrote sonnets to her eyes. Brandon, meanwhile, could barely contain a yawn at the thought of carrying on a two-minute conversation with the chit.

Lady Westforth sank into a chair and gestured to the one opposite hers. “Pray have a seat.”

Brand started to refuse, for he had no intention of staying long. But somehow, looking down into her face and noting the warmth of her expression and the way her eyes crinkled at the corners when she smiled, he found himself sitting, his lips almost curved in response.

Damn it, what was he doing? He was supposed to pay this woman to remove herself from Chase's life, not have tea with her. He cast a cursory glance about the room, surprised to discover that it was elegantly appointed, though small. The furniture was so closely placed that his knees almost touched hers.

She regarded him steadily, her gaze never wavering. “You look very much like your brother, only…” She tilted her head to one side, a thick lock of hair falling over her shoulder. “You're taller.”

“I'm also older than Chase.”
And I don't play the fool for anyone. Especially Cyprians like you.

She colored as if she'd heard his thoughts. “He spoke of you often. I know he is quite fond of you and your brothers.”

So Chase had been sharing family confidences, had he? Blast it, what was his brother thinking? This woman was everything a man of means should avoid—the only way she could support herself was to find someone willing to pay for the pleasure of her company. She was no better than the shallow females who flung themselves onto the marriage mart every year, trolling the bachelo-real waters for an unsuspecting male capable of supplying endless pin money and a house in London for the season.

Brandon knew all about the avarice of women. During his first year on the town, he'd become embroiled with a seemingly naive innocent. He'd been enthralled. She'd been equally taken, though only with his bank account and family name.

By the time Brand realized his error, she'd almost managed to capture him. Had it not been for his friend, Roger Carrington, Viscount Wycham, Brand would have ended up yoked to the girl for life. But escape he had. After that distasteful episode, he'd been cautious to eschew virgins, unmarried women, and any other female who might need funding. Which was why Celeste should
have been a more amusing companion—she didn't need his name or his money. It was a pity she hadn't been interesting enough to hold his attention past their first bedding.

Lady Westforth clasped her hands in her lap. “Mr. St. John, how may I assist you?” She settled in her seat, her knees moving just out of touch of his. “I must apologize for Herberts. I hope you haven't allowed his inefficiency to put you out of sorts.”

“Of course not.”

“I'm glad. I think he will do well once he learns all the rules. Part of it is my fault. I didn't think to tell him not to leave someone standing outside.” She shook her head ruefully, a sparkle in her violet eyes. “I have to remember that what is obvious to me, may not be so obvious to him.”

Brandon answered with a faint smile, aware that he was having the oddest urge to agree with her. To agree with everything she said.

What was it about this woman that made him feel instantly at ease? Was it the intimate way she spoke—as if she already knew him well and accepted him as he was? Or was it the way she met his glance head-on, unflinching and unapologetic? Perhaps it was simply the humor that softened her expression, or the sensual line of her mouth. Whatever it was, he found it incredibly appealing and he suddenly realized the danger Chase had been in.

She possessed the kind of allure few women possessed—a natural charm that went beyond beauty. And an intangible physical presence. He could almost feel the attraction thrumming through the air between them.

No wonder Marcus had been so determined that the woman be dealt with quickly. Brandon, even with his head and neck aching, his eyes grit filled, and pure irritation pounding through his blood, found his gaze locked on her. His heart pounded a slow, determined beat as he wondered at the fullness of her curves, at the smile that lurked in her amazing eyes.

What would she be like in bed? Would she be as uninhibited and natural as she was now? His body heated treacherously at the thought. She would be wanton between the sheets, he knew it. Knew without words, without reason, that she would give as good as she got.

For the space of an instant, Brandon envied his own brother for possessing the woman who sat across from him. The idea irked him and he scowled.

“Mr. St. John? Is something wrong?”

Yes, there was. Everything was wrong. She was wrong—wrong for Chase. And especially wrong for him.

She regarded him with a questioning lift to her brows. “Mr. St. John, is there something I—”

“I daresay you know why I've come.” The sooner the interview was over, the better.

Her frown lasted only a moment, realization lighting her amazing violet eyes with hints of blue. She nodded once, firmly and without compunction. “Your brother.”