“I say! Lord Bram!”
Stifling a sigh, Bram turned around to see the Earl of Abernathy’s only son and heir. At least he hadn’t had to scour the rest of London for the boy. “Lester.”
The pup grinned happily. “I never expected to see you at Gentleman Jackson’s.”
Bram lifted an eyebrow. “And why is that? Do you think me incapable of defending myself in a row?”
Lord Lester flushed. “No. Of course not. It’s merely that you seem more the…sword and pistol sort.”
“Precisely so. Fisticuffs are messy.” He sent a glance past the lad at Jackson himself, and nodded. With a short smile the boxer continued with the lesson he was delivering. Bram returned his attention to the young viscount. “Since we’ve run across one another, why don’t you join me for luncheon?”
“Absolutely, old blade. Give me a moment to fetch my coat, will you?”
While the boy scampered off, Bram hoped this little play he’d discovered would be worth it. He’d originally planned to visit Miss Heloise Blanchard for a bit of sport after the actress’s morning rehearsal. He’d done this to himself, though, and he was the one person whose consequences he was willing to suffer. Even if it meant an afternoon’s celibacy so he could dine with an idiot.
“White’s?” Lester commented, as they dismounted and handed the horses over to Redding.
“They serve a fine pheasant,” Bram returned, reminding himself again that he’d instigated this. Considering that, Lester would have to behave in an even stupider manner than usual before he could let his own…displeasure be known. “Where did you think we were going?”
“I’d hoped you might take me to Jezebel’s. Cosgrove’s been singing its praises for weeks. I attempted to go last night, but apparently there’s a password or secret knock or something involved.”
Or a payment of a shilling to the fellow at the door. The viscount’s wistful look was almost amusing. “One does not go to Jezebel’s for food, James.”
“Yes, but the faro tables are legendary.”
As the doorman collected their hats and gloves, Bram felt a brush of annoyance touch him. He’d been known to wager heavily himself, but he had never lost more than he could afford. Clearly the young fool had no idea of his own limitations. “Do you think we’ll encounter your father here?” he asked offhandedly.
Lester shook his head. “No. Father’s having luncheon with Cosgrove. He forbade me to join them.” He shrugged as a waiter escorted them to a table by the front window. “I told him I should be there. Cosgrove’s my friend, after all.”
Cosgrove was no one’s friend; even knowing him for better than a decade, Bram thought of King as a mentor, but more recently as more of an acquaintance with whom he shared some interests and a general penchant for cynical observation and decadence. “Not to intrude, but what does your father want with Kingston Gore?”
For a moment Lester actually looked embarrassed. “I owe a little blunt to Cosgrove. They’re deciding the terms of payment.”
“Ah.”
“I told Father I could win the funds back, but he’d rather treat me like a bloody infant.”
Bram tried to remember when he’d been as stupidly naive as James Davies, but nothing came to mind. And any inclination to be so had vanished utterly during his sixteenth year. He even knew the date. The seventeenth of May. And he distinctly recalled that it had been two days afterward that he’d first encountered Kingston Gore and knowingly sold his soul to the devil.
Perhaps that was the difference between how he’d fared in Society’s underbelly and how young James was progressing. The viscount wanted to be seen as an adult by his family. Bram had wanted to master every vice known to man, and if possible to invent several new ones. But King’s claws were difficult to avoid, and he’d experienced that, too.
He shook himself as a waiter approached. Reminiscing left a sour taste in his mouth, and he made a point of never indulging in the practice in public. It had only been that damned conversation he’d overheard last night. The Earl of Abernathy and the Duke of Levonzy had more in common than even they probably realized.
“Your preference, my lord?”
Good God, he was still reminiscing. “The pheasant,” he said. “And a bottle of your best claret.”
The waiter bowed. “Right away, my lord.”
“What do you think of Vauxhall Gardens?” Lester asked, leaning forward on his elbows. “My father says it’s generally no place for gentlemen, but I heard that Prinny attends.”
“I avoid it whenever possible. Unless your taste runs to penny-a-tumble doxies, I see little attraction.”
The viscount’s brow furrowed. “Oh. But what about—”
“How will your father settle your debts? Cosgrove’s not the only fellow you owe.” His own uncollected winnings amounted to only a few hundred quid; when Cosgrove began toying with a new pup, Bram tended to stand clear of the slaughter. But the blunt did give him a reason to ask the question.
Lester made a dismissive gesture. “Seeing that he didn’t want me included, I reckon it’s nothing that concerns me.”
“Just so.” Bram poured himself a glass of claret and took a drink. “Which soiree does your family attend next?”
“We’re all to go to Clacton House tonight. Lady Clacton’s my mother’s aunt. Dull as stones, but Father will take a stick to me if I don’t attend.”
Bloody hell. Lord and Lady Clacton. The two of them still powdered their damned hair. During a less-than-sober moment he’d made a vow once to fall on a sword before he ever attended one of their soirees. As soon as he returned home this afternoon, however, he would be sending over a belated acceptance to their invitation.
As to why, precisely, he’d decided to make such a sacrifice, he couldn’t come up with a decent explanation even for himself. He had to be missing something in all this, though, and he hated letting a mystery pass by without solution. Even when he’d probably dislike the answer.
Chapter 3
Rosamund Davies took her time choosing a gown and putting up her hair. She subscribed to the idea that a woman’s outer appearance served the same function as did a knight’s armor, and this evening she was definitely dressing for battle.
“You look lovely, Lady Rose,” her maid said with an uncomfortable-looking smile.
“Thank you, Martha. And I think I’d prefer to wear the pearls,” Rose answered, eyeing herself critically in the mirror. The faux emeralds complemented both her eyes and the light green and gray of her gown, but the pearls felt more…sophisticated. And this evening she at least wanted to appear intelligent and unruled by emotion, however scattered she felt.
She’d always been the one to see to things, to make certain that the household ran smoothly and that the family showed itself as well as possible. Most of the time they more than likely weren’t even aware of what she contributed. Choosing the daily menu, overseeing the staff, approving household purchases. And now she felt as though she’d been kicked. After twenty years, she’d abruptly become valuable in their eyes—as a bargaining chip to settle a debt. And for the first time she had to wonder whether they were asking—no, demanding—too much of her.
Her bedchamber door rattled. “Come along, Rose,” her mother called. “Your father doesn’t wish to be late.”
They were already late, though she was the only one who knew that. Rosamund didn’t answer the summons, mostly because she wanted to see whether Lady Abernathy would dare step into the room. Considering that both of her parents had been avoiding her since her father had returned from luncheon, she wasn’t surprised when her mother’s footsteps retreated in the direction of the stairs.
She sniffed. Good. It was certainly easier to be indignant and angry than to sit back and consider what lay before her. How lovely to know that in her family’s eyes she could finally serve a purpose. In a sense, though, she was glad that it hadn’t been Beatrice sent headlong into this mess; her sister could barely tolerate anyone looking at her cr
osswise. She would certainly be no match for Cosgrove.
The door shook again. “Rose?”
James. With a grimace she stood, gesturing for her white kid gloves. Yesterday her brother’s carelessness had only annoyed and appalled her. Now his actions seemed almost criminal. And he would of course be the one who escaped any consequences. Taking a breath, she pulled open her door.
Her brother blinked and took a step backward. “There you are. Thought maybe you were going to hide all night.”
“I haven’t done anything for which I need to hide.” She looked him directly in the eyes, trying to decide when his youthful obliviousness had gone from amusing to exasperating. She was unsurprised when he quickly averted his gaze. “Do you feel any responsibility at all for the mess you’ve made for this family? For me?”
Her younger sibling frowned. “Father mishandled the situation,” he muttered, falling in behind her as she descended the stairs. “He should have let me talk with Cosgrove. He’s my crony, and I could have played him for the blunt. I’m nearly unbeatable at faro. He’s told me so himself.”
“James, you owe him more than the value of this house. Clearly you are not unbeatable at faro. I daresay I could play the game better than you do. At the least I would have stopped when I began losing.”
“If you stop when you’re behind, you’ll never recover your losses.”
“Idiot.”
“You can’t talk like that to me, Rose,” he snapped. “I’m not fifteen any longer.”
“No, you’re eighteen. And you’re behaving like a two-year-old.”
“That is not so,” he stated. “And I don’t know why your hackles are up, anyway. Cosgrove thinks you’re worth ten thousand quid. You’re the Queen of Sheba.”
“If you think so highly of him, you marry him.”
“You don’t even know him. He’s coming to the soiree tonight, and he don’t ever do that. He wants to see you.”
A quiver of uneasiness slithered up her spine. “He wants to see me,” she repeated. “If he’d wanted to…court me, he might have called here and offered to take me driving. Not purchase me for the price of a gambling debt.”
“Father got him to agree to wait until the end of the month to announce anything, so now he can take you driving. I daresay you might even decide that you like him.”
That seemed extremely unlikely. As she reached the foyer, her father sent her a stern look and then led the way out to the waiting coach. None of them saw the true problem. Cosgrove might have agreed to forgive James’s debt, but in marrying her the marquis would secure a permanent position in her softheaded brother’s life. In all their lives. Ten thousand pounds could very well be nothing but an aperitif.
Whatever Cosgrove’s plans, though, he’d miscalculated; he could insinuate himself into their lives, but at the same time she would be in the middle of his. And however angry she might be with her family at the moment, she was still a Davies. The one who kept them all in order. And she was not about to sit by and let them be ruined. Not if she had any say at all in the matter.
She took her seat in the coach, perfectly resigned to sit in silence all the way to Clacton House. At the moment she preferred being left to stew, and imagining with some satisfaction how her parents meant to inform Mayfair at large that their daughter would be marrying a notorious blackguard after a month of supposed courtship. Yes, being affronted and indignant was much better than finally having to pause and consider that she was the daughter expected to wed that awful man.
“Rosamund,” her father said abruptly, “you know that none of us is pleased to be in this position.” He sent a glare at James, seated beside her. “But I expect you to behave, and to keep a civil tongue in your head.”
“Of course, Father.”
James shifted. “I don’t see why this is such a sacrifice for Rose, anyway. I think Cosgrove is being very generous. And he knows everything about everything.”
“Lord Cosgrove has forgiven your current debts, James,” their father grunted. “I have nothing else to give him—or anyone, so pray don’t do it again.”
“Yes, James,” Rose seconded, “nearly destroy the family a second time, and you might just have to face a consequence.”
“Ha. You think Cosgrove and his cronies have reckoned me an easy touch. Well, that’s not so. Bram Johns had me to luncheon just today, and we went to White’s. No wagering at all, and he even asked what my plans were for tonight and said he might attend, as well.”
Another shiver ran down Rose’s spine. Lord Bramwell must have met up with James immediately after their…unusual little conversation. What was he up to? She had enough trouble. All she needed was for Lord Bramwell Lowry Johns to make a few more of those comments he undoubtedly found clever and oh, so effective at stirring female hearts. Well, she might be obligated to behave toward Lord Cosgrove, but no one had made any such stipulation where Lord Bram was concerned.
Generally, attending Great Aunt and Uncle Clacton’s annual soiree was a dull chore. The staid festivities seldom attracted any but the white-haired set who all had to be home in bed by eleven o’clock in the evening at the latest. So the large crowd of vehicles lining the drive and the street outside Clacton House was something of a surprise.
“Good heavens,” her mother said as they stepped down from the coach. “Is there no other entertainment to be had tonight?”
“Apparently not,” Lord Abernathy answered, his own expression growing grimmer by the moment. And not because they were coming closer to the moment of sighting the man to whom he’d sold his daughter, but more likely because there would be more witnesses than he’d anticipated.
The harried-looking butler ushered them into the foyer. “Lord Abernathy,” he panted, gesturing to one of the dozen footmen scurrying about the entryway. “Desmond will take your wraps.”
“What’s afoot tonight, Wiltern?”
“A very many last-minute acceptances to the soiree, my lord. Lord Clacton is quite put out that we shall likely run out of Madeira before the second set.”
“There’s always his wine cellar,” Rose’s father returned.
“That is what he’s afraid of.”
Before Rosamund was ready, they found themselves inside the upstairs ballroom. It was so crowded that she could barely keep her mother in view. Hope flashed through her. Perhaps Cosgrove would miss her entirely. Perhaps he’d seen the crush of vehicles in front of the house and decided to forgo the evening entirely in favor of visiting one of those infamous dens of iniquity.
Then she caught sight of him, and her heart turned to ice. He wore a light brown coat that somehow accented his golden hair, an angel’s costume concealing a demon. Dread trickled deeper through her, and involuntarily she took a step backward. The longer she could go without engaging in any conversation with him, the better.
Swiftly she turned around before he could see her—only to spy the other blackguard in the room. Lord Bramwell stood by the stairs, accompanied by two young ladies and a tall, dark-haired man with a narrow scar down his right cheek. The two ladies laughed at something the Duke of Levonzy’s second son said.
Laughing? With a glance again at Cosgrove across the room, she edged closer to the conversation. Laughter and James’s black-hearted cronies didn’t seem at all compatible.
“—don’t think you were ever afraid of me at all,” the younger of the ladies said. “Until I arrived in London, I had no idea your reputation was as awful as Phin kept telling me. You were being nice by running away from me.”
Bram Johns coughed. “I kept telling you that my reputation is abominable. And you were trying to frighten me by being…innocent. It still makes me shudder, Beth.”
“Well, I’ll never say anything bad about you, no matter how much you want me to.”
“You are a cruel chit, my dear. What about you, Alyse? Surely you can conjure something vile about me.”
“Why don’t you ask me?” the fellow with the scar put in, grinning.
&n
bsp; “Don’t interrupt, Phin.”
The second woman leaned into this Phin’s shoulder. “I’m glad to be your friend, Bram. And I’m even more glad not to be your enemy.”
Bram nodded. “That at least sounds like a backhanded compliment.”
As he spoke he caught sight of Lady Rosamund Davies. She quickly turned away, only to head off in a third direction after a glance toward Cosgrove, retreating from a man who hadn’t even seen her yet. Was it distaste, or was it fear? Either sentiment intrigued him, probably more than it should.
“Excuse me, Bromleys,” he said, and left his friends to trail after Lady Rosamund. “I wouldn’t recommend running,” he drawled from behind her. “You’re not dressed for it.”
Her shoulders stiffening, she turned around. “Lord Bramwell Johns,” she stated, her voice nearly steady.
He inclined his head. “You’ve discovered my identity.”
“Yes. Your misdeeds have made you quite famous. Or infamous, rather. I’d been hoping James would introduce us before today.”
A slight smile curved his mouth. Not fear, then. And yet she didn’t seem foolish, which she would have to be to want an acquaintance with him. “And why were you hoping for an introduction, Lady Rosamund?” he prompted, liking the way her name felt on his tongue.
“Because I wanted to punch you in the nose for encouraging my brother into a life of nonsense and depravity.”
Bramwell laughed. God, women surprised him so seldom any longer, and yet she’d managed to do so. Twice in one day, if he counted that ridiculous history tome she’d been toting about. “Nonsense, I shall admit to,” he said, continuing to chuckle. “Every man must find his own depravity. I’ll take no credit for that.”
“Do you take credit for his losses at the table?”
He shrugged. “He owes me a few hundred quid.” Cocking his head at her, he assessed his next move on this chessboard. “Do one thing for me, and I’ll erase the debt.”
Rose narrowed her eyes. “What is it, exactly, that you want from me?”
That was a more interesting question than she probably realized. And he hadn’t an answer. Not yet. He damned well meant to find one. “A dance,” he said aloud.
Always a Scoundrel Page 4
