Confessions of a Scoundrel (7 page)

After the wedding, Brand stayed for the reception and then went on to Lady Shelbourne's ball. Lady Shelbourne was Sir Pemberley's sister and she rather enjoyed large functions, working diligently to provide the best of everything. Even Marcus could not complain of the quality of food served or the ability of the orchestra.

It was in the early hours of the morning when Brand made his way back to his lodgings. Poole met him in the hallway, an anxious expression on his face. “Mr. St. John! Someone has come to see you.”

For some reason, Brand's thoughts immediately flew to Lady Westforth. “A woman?”

Poole shook his head. “No, sir. Lord Wycham.”

Brand swallowed a faint sense of disappointment. “How long has he been waiting?”

“Hours, sir. I tried to tell him that you weren't in, but he insisted on waiting. Something is
very
wrong, if you'll pardon my saying so.”

Brand glanced through the open door to where a red chair rested in front of the fire. Due to the high winged back and the slumped position of the person sitting, the only thing visible was a pair of spindly legs encased in blue breeches.

Empty bottles and numerous tipped-over glasses adorned the side table, testimony of how the last several hours had been spent. “You did right, Poole. Bring some tea and toast.”

“At once, my lord.”

“No, damn you!” came a raspy voice from the depths of the chair, the legs moving as if the owner were attempting to sit straighter but couldn't. “I won't have any toast. Nor tea. I ate pap when I was a child and b'God, I'll not eat it again.”

Ah, Roger was on one of his sprees, was he? Smiling to himself, Brand waved Poole on before he entered the room and crossed to the chair. His smile faded when he caught sight of Roger's haggard face. This was something far more than a dissolute spirit. “Good God, what's happened?”

Roger blinked up at him, a faint quiver passing over his pale countenance. His cravat hung about his neck in wrinkled splendor, his shirt unbuttoned. Worse, his hair was in such disarray that two curls stuck out on either side of his head like devil's horns, a strange contrast to his angelic face. “Brand, they are going to hang me.”

“You are bosky.”

“Bosky.” Roger tried to laugh, but his voice broke. “God, that's rich. I have had too much to drink, but that's nothing. Brandon, I've messed up in the worst way and if you can't help me—I don't know what I'll do.”

“I'd be glad to assist you in any way I can.”

Wycham's expression smoothed a little. “I knew you'd say that. Brandon, it's about Lady Westforth.”

Brand stilled. “Do you know her?”

“Yes. Over a month ago, I attended a dinner party at Verena's. She has them the first Tuesday of each month.”

Brand's jaw tightened. Wycham had called Lady Westforth by her Christian name. How well
did
his friend know the disreputable Verena? He managed to smile, though it cost him dearly. “I daresay she regaled you with some tale about me.”

“You? Oh. The check.” Roger waved a hand. “No, it was before that. You hadn't even met her then. Brand, I went to the dinner party to meet Humford. Did you know him?”

Humford was a minor peer of the realm, known for his shipping interests and his capacity for gossip. When tipsy, he often boasted that he dabbled in the affairs of the Home Office, though Brand found that highly unlikely. Of course, he'd since fled the continent due to his debts. He was exactly the type of person Brandon expected to meet at Verena's. “Mixing with the plebeians, were you?”

Roger flushed. “Brand, I know there is bad blood between you and Verena, but she's not what you think. She's—”

“You don't know what I think.”

“I know how you treated her when you thought Chase was enamored. I've seen the draft myself.” Roger flushed at Brand's hard gaze. “Just hear me out. You don't know Verena and yet—”

“Continue your story. We are not likely to agree on that subject.”

Roger didn't respond, but after a moment, he sighed. “Oh, very well. The night before the dinner party, I ran into Humford at White's. He'd heard I was on my way to Devonshire and asked if I would deliver something for him, a list of some sort. I—I couldn't see what the harm would be, so…I agreed.”

“Like that? Without asking any questions?”

“It seemed a harmless request.” Roger wiped a shaky hand over his face. “We were both invited to Verena's for dinner and he asked me to meet him there. I went, fully expecting him to tell me it was all a hum, but he'd already been there and left.”

Brand frowned. “He'd left?”

“Verena said he suddenly got pale and began looking through his pockets as if he'd forgotten something. He left twenty minutes before I arrived.”

“I heard that he left the country shortly after that.”

“No. Brandon, he didn't go anywhere. Some time after he left Verena's, someone killed him,” Roger said in a strangled voice. “They found his body floating in the Thames. He was garroted, his tongue—” Roger looked as if he might be ill.

“Bloody hell. This is serious.”

Roger nodded, his face pale, sweat glistening on his forehead. “He left notes in his desk that mention my name. Brandon, they think I have the list but I swear he hadn't given it to me yet and had I known—”

“Wait! ‘They think?' Who are ‘they'?”

Roger took a shuddering breath. “‘They' are the ministry. And this list, whatever it is, is worth a fortune.” Roger swallowed, the noise loud in the quiet room. “Brand, I'm not sure, but perhaps it was a coded missive, something of vast import.”

Brand took the chair opposite Roger's. “If this list was so important, why would Humford give it to you in the first place?”

“I don't know. I—I just saw him in White's and
he asked—and I thought it wouldn't be much of an inconvenience. I never believed those stories of his, anyway.”

“Did you know him well?”

“We've known each other forever, though we've never been close. His father and my father were friends since they were both in short pants.”

“I still think it is strange that he asked you to assist him.”

“Lord, you don't have to tell me. I've asked myself why he did so a thousand times and all I can think of is that he already knew he was in trouble and I happened by and he knew he could trust me.”

“Did he say anything else when he asked you to meet him at Lady Westforth's? Anything of import?”

“No. He just seemed distracted. Upset.” Roger squirmed in his chair. “I didn't really pay much heed.”

Brand frowned. Something didn't add up about this story. Something…elusive. “This dinner party—the one Humford left—who was there?”

“Humford and Lady Jessup. Mr. and Mrs. Kemble. Oh, and the Oglethorpe-Whites and their daughter, Anne. And…well….”

“Don't forget the lovely Lady Westforth.”

“Leave Verena out of this.”

Brand didn't think that would be possible. “Who else was there?”

Roger wiped his brow, his hand shaking. “I don't know. I—I can't remember.”

“Sometime later today, when you can think clearer, I want a list of every person at the party. Every person, Roger. Do you understand?”

“Yes. It is a nightmare. I didn't even know about Humford's death until the day after the dinner party. I stopped by his lodgings and two men were waiting there, almost as if they knew I was coming. They told me what had happened and then—” Roger tugged on his cravat, his gaze wild. “It was horrible; they interrogated me like a criminal.”

Brand sent the younger man a frown. “Whatever they told you, they can't hang you for just offering to deliver a note of some sort.”

“They don't have to. Just being charged with such a crime will cause a huge scandal…Brand, it will kill my father. I've already disgraced him with my debts. He can't take much more.”

Roger was right—the old earl's health was indifferent at best. Brand smoothed the sleeve of his coat thoughtfully. In order to save Roger's family the embarrassment of a public inquiry, someone had to find that damn list and quickly. Somehow, some way, the frustrating Lady Westforth was involved in this. Brand would have to visit her now, to discover more about Humford, if nothing else.

A slow sense of purpose filled Brand's veins, warming him and calming the restless feeling. “Roger, go home to Devonshire. Stay with your father until I get things worked out here.”

“The ministry will come looking for me.”

“Don't tell anyone you have gone—it will take them a few days just to realize you aren't in town.
All we need to do is stall them. Meanwhile, I'll do what I can to find that list.”

“Do you think you can?”

“I hope so. But first, I want you to tell me something. Had Humford told anyone else about the list?”

Roger blanched, his gaze sliding away. “I—I don't know. I can't imagine—”

“This is important.
Did he tell anyone else?
”

“Yes. No. I mean, I'm not sure but I think…he's always been fond of Verena, you know. She never encouraged him, but he thought the world of her.”

Brand's jaw tightened. “I thought so.”

Roger struggled to his feet. He stood, swaying, his face drawn. “Brand, if you feel you must speak with Verena, I'll go with you and—”

“No. If you stay in town, the ministry might decide to take you into custody without any further ado. You will go to Devonshire and leave Verena to me.” Brand stood and placed a hand on his friend's shoulder. “Trust me with this, Roger. I will not let you down.”

Roger managed a weak smile. “Of course.”

“Stay here until my carriage is brought around. You should leave right away.”

“Brand, I don't know how to thank you—”

“Nonsense. I was nigh dying of ennui. You've given me a new purpose in life—to find that list.” And to spend time with the woman who'd disturbed his peace more than any other. Brand was certain that if he saw Verena for more than a few moments, he'd find the flaws hidden by her violet
eyes. Flaws that would end this attraction he held for her.

“What a mess,” Roger said. He rubbed his eyes as if every bone in his body ached. “I deserve to be hanged.”

“Horse whipped, perhaps.” Brand cuffed Roger on the shoulder. “But not hanged.”

“You won't…” Roger swallowed as if unsure how to continue. “Brand…no matter what, promise you won't hurt Verena.”

Brand frowned. “Exactly what is your relationship with Verena?”

“I met her a year ago and we were close, after a fashion. Oh, it was never very serious, at least not on her side.” Roger's smile twisted into a grimace. “I'm not her type, you know.”

“What is her type?” Brandon shouldn't have asked the question, but his curiosity was piqued.

“I don't know,” Roger said thoughtfully. “She's damnably independent and wants—oh, I don't know what she wants. I only know it wasn't me.”

For some reason, Brand found this bit of information far more fascinating than he should have. He forced himself to shrug. “Trust me in this, at least, I will treat Verena exactly as she deserves.” And oh, how he'd relish each and every second.

Roger didn't look very satisfied. “If Verena is involved, she must have a good reason.” He held out his hand. “I'll give you two weeks and then I'm returning to London.”

Brand shook it with a firm grip. “Fair enough. I will not fail you.” He wouldn't, either. Not only would he find a way to ward off the spell Lady
Westforth had cast over him, but he'd also discover the missing list for Wycham.

And then…he smiled, feeling genuinely alive and excited for the first time in weeks. Lady Westforth had best beware.

V
erena stood before the mirror in the drawing room, and adjusted the jeweled pin she'd set in her hair.

“Perfect.” James stood in the doorway, watching her in the mirror's reflection. “Is that a new gown?”

“Oh, no! I've had this one for two years, though the dressmaker just changed the neckline.” She turned as she spoke and faced him.

His brows went up at the sight of her décolletage. “It looks as if she left off part of it.”

“Nonsense. It's the fashion.” She noted that he looked handsome. His black coat fitted to perfection and his burgundy silk waistcoat made his eyes seem even darker than usual. He would break hearts tonight.

The door opened and Herberts stuck his head in. “M'lady? Oiye found something on the stoop.”

“What is it?”

“A rock. And stuck beneath it was this note.” He entered the room and held out a crumpled bit of paper. “It's addressed to Mr. Lansdowne.”

“Bloody hell,” James muttered. He reached out and took the dirty note and opened it.

“That will be all, Herberts,” Verena said.

He sniffed loudly, his gaze on the note. “Are ye sure ye don't want a drink afore ye—”

“No. Thank you. You may leave now.”

He slowly went to the door. “Oiye can haf cook make ye a nice pot o' tea if ye want—”

“No,” Verena said. “Call for the carriage. Mr. Lansdowne and I will be leaving soon.”

Herberts sighed then trudged from the room. The second the door closed, Verena turned to James.

“Well?”

“It's the blackmailers. Ver, they aren't asking for money.”

Verena blinked. “
What
? What do they want if not money?”

He held out the note.

She looked up at James, her brow furrowed. “What list?”

“I don't know. Who is Humford?”

“Lord Humford is a minor lord—he is a notori
ous hanger-on, but he tells the most delightful stories. Or he did. He recently left the country due to his debts.”

James looked at the note. “Are you certain? This is worded as if—” He bit his lip.

Alarm filtered through her. “James, do you think someone—surely not! I mean, we did think it was sudden, the way he just vanished, but—” She pressed a hand to her heart. “I cannot believe anyone would harm Lord Humford. He was a harmless old man.”

“To you, perhaps. But it seems he may have been a threat to someone. Verena, we have to find him.”

“Then we're going to the right place; he was well known at Hell's Door.” She frowned. “What is this list? It's the strangest thing.”

“Whomever sent this believes we know what they are talking about.”

“We?”

“They sent it here, Ver. And not to my hotel.” James's frown deepened. “I don't like this at all.”

“Well, they're very wrong if they think either of us have any idea about this list. Come, we're going to be late and it looks as if we have work to do. Just promise me that you'll behave yourself this evening.”

James's expression was the epitome of guileless surprise. “I promise I won't do anything Father wouldn't approve of.”

“Oh no, you don't! I want more assurance than that. I have worked hard to establish myself here and I won't have you destroy it by drawing too much attention to yourself or me.”

“For your information,” he said in a lofty tone,
“I have no plans for this evening, but to assist you in your endeavors and now, to find this Humford fellow.”

“Assist me? I don't need any help, thank you.”

“No? I could cause a distraction so you can switch out your hand. I suppose I could faint. Or tip over the punch bowl.” He tapped his chin thoughtfully. “I know! I'll see if I can find St. John and challenge him to a duel. That should cause a stir.”

“Brandon St. John never inhabits gaming hells.” Which was a pity, in its own way. She stifled a sigh; her plans for him had gone sadly awry. It really was a pity he hadn't become so infuriated with her that he'd stormed into her house and swept her into his arms for a punishing kiss.

Oh my, that would have been something indeed
. She still tingled from his last embrace. Well, she wasn't through yet. She smoothed the bodice of her dress, enjoying the way her new necklet caught the light. Made of delicate silver wire twisted into an elegant design, the necklet framed the only scrap of St. John's draft that Verena had kept—the part with his arrogantly scrawled signature.

James groaned when he saw it. “You are determined to make him angry, aren't you?”

“The man deserves a lesson in humility, one he will not soon forget.”

“He will seek revenge.”

“I certainly hope so.”

James lifted his brows. “You sound interested.”

She shrugged. “Of course I'm not interested in Brandon St. John. I just have this overwhelming compulsion to remind him that I am not a woman to be ignored.”

James snorted irreverently.

“Besides,” she continued airily, “I needed more jewelry and this was amazingly inexpensive.”

“Inexpensive? You're wearing five thousand pounds worth.”

“Only part of five thousand pounds. Lady Farnsworth got butter on the draft and I had to rip that portion off and toss it out.”

“That's what happens when you make table decorations out of an expensive item.” He shook his head. “It's a good thing Father's not here. He'd have had an apoplexy by now.”

“You don't think he'd like my necklet?”

“He'd hate it.” James touched the heavy loop of pearls that decorated one of her wrists. “At least you have something of real value—” His smile suddenly slipped and he lifted her arm toward the light. “They're false.”

She pulled her arm free. “They're paste, but they're very well done.”

His lips twisted with distaste. “There's no need for you to go without necessities.”

She burst out laughing. “Only a Lansdowne would think pearls a necessity. I suppose you would consider silk gowns and plum pudding necessities as well?”

“But of course.” He shrugged, the graceful gesture betraying his time on the continent. “Shall we go? I've become quite thirsty, standing here, debating with you. And I need to find out about this Humford fellow and see what's toward with this list. The sooner we get that issue resolved, the better I'll like it, especially since they are involving you.”

Verena took his arm and smiled. “I'm ready when you are.”

 

Hell's Door was the newest craze of the demimonde—the discreet gaming hell run by Lady Farley, a loquacious widow with a penchant for expensive champagne and the finest quality diamonds. Located in a small, stylishly appointed street on the edge of the fashionable part of London, the gaming hell appeared much like every other house on the street—three stories of modish stonework broken by large, imposing windows. But the interior was something more.

No fewer than twenty gaming tables filled the front rooms, sporting Monaco, faro, and whist. Fortunes were made, though more often lost, across those baize-covered tables. The only real winner was Lady Farley who had, in less than two years time, made a sizeable fortune.

Tonight, as all other nights, Lady Farley's rooms sparkled with the rich gleam of silk, the flash of cravat pins and watch fobs, and the sparkle of hundreds of glasses filled with the best champagne, port, and brandy. It was, all told, a very good night to be a sinner.

As she always did, Lady Farley strolled through the rooms, making sure the refreshments never ended, the music wasn't too loud, the play satisfactory. She entered the main parlor, her calculating gaze immediately finding a tall, dark-haired man dressed in the height of fashion. Her glow of satisfaction increased tenfold.

Not only had she attracted a St. John to her
humble establishment, but she'd managed to lure Brandon St. John himself, London's undisputed leader of fashion.

It wasn't his usual fare—the demimonde represented the fringes of polite society and as a St. John, he was far too aware of his own worth to mingle with the mere “fringes.” Yet here he was, sitting in
her
salon, playing faro.

Fanny tried to hide a flush of triumph, but her burning cheeks told her that she was failing miserably. One of the
ton
's most eligible and wealthiest bachelors, a man known for his fastidious tastes…it was beyond even her wildly hopeful expectations. She motioned to a servant. “Jacobs, do you see the gentleman at the faro table?”

“There are two gentlemen at the—”

“The handsome one.”

The servant stiffened. “Handsome? My lady, I'm not qualified to—”

“The dark-haired one. The one on the left.”

“Ah. Yes, my lady.”

“Keep his glass filled all night.”

“Yes, my lady.”

“Good! And if he seems to want something—anything—make sure that he gets it.”

“Anything, my lady?”

“Anything.”

“Yes, my lady.” Jacobs bowed and could soon be seen hovering near St. John.

Fanny thought she would die of pride.

From where he sat at the faro table, Brandon was well aware of the scrutiny of his hostess, but he studiously ignored her. He was here for one
reason and one reason only—to track a wily, if beautiful, vixen to her lair.

And a surprisingly nice lair it was, too. He'd heard of Hell's Door, but had never attended. Unlike Chase, who lived and breathed such low amusements, Brand found empty play a bore. Any fool could count the cards. Indeed, in his youth, his brothers refused to play him, saying it was no fun to lose every hand.

He allowed a servant to refill his glass. After his meeting with Wycham, Brand had spent the night going through the facts. Someone had stolen this mysterious list from Humford and then killed the man. And somehow, in some way, Lady Westforth was involved. But in what way? Did she know something about the incident, or was she in league with the murderer?

He remembered her smile, the warm way she'd spoken to him. He also remembered that though he'd given her five thousand pounds in a bank draft, she'd not exchanged it. Things simply did not add up.

It hadn't taken him long to decide what needed to be done; first, he must gain Lady Westforth's trust. Then he would find the answers to Wycham's unfortunate situation. Brand thought that it would be a fairly simple thing to pretend to become an admirer. From what he'd heard, she was usually surrounded by a swarm of them anyway, unlucky bastards.

He took a slow sip of port, thinking of his decision. It wouldn't take much to join her court. Women like Lady Westforth expected attention.
They craved it. And he would use that craving to his own benefit.

He would pursue her, woo her, win his way into her bed. Before the week was out, she'd tell him everything he wanted to know.

He smiled into his glass. Damn but he was excited at the prospect. Of course, once he had her to bed, the thrill would diminish, but until then…He wondered about her involvement in Humford's death. Had she known something? Brand swirled the port in his glass, watching the rich liquid circle into a funnel.

Poor Wycham. Ever since they'd been in school, Roger had fallen from one scrape into another. But this…Brand wondered how Roger had gotten into such a fix. It was unbelievably sad that he had no one to turn to, that he'd been forced to ask for help from an old schoolmate. Brandon couldn't imagine life without his family, without his brothers and sister who, though impossibly interfering, still cared about him and did what they could to make his life better.

Brandon's hand tightened about his glass. He would help Roger any way he could.

A slight stir arose at the door. Verena stood in the opening, dressed from head to foot in white and silver. On a normal woman, such a preponderance of brilliance would outshine any tendency toward beauty.

But on Verena, whose smile seemed to brighten the whole room, the gown seemed fitting somehow. As if she and no other woman deserved such angelic dressing.

But she was no angel. Brand owed her dearly for her tricks. And Humford, perhaps his very life.

Brandon tossed back the rest of his drink, collected his money, and stood. Somehow, some way, he'd get Lady Westforth alone.

Tonight was going to be interesting. Very interesting indeed.