“You have a note, my lord,” Hibble said, holding out the letter salver. “It only just arrived.”
For a moment Bram thought Abernathy might have come to his senses and declined to allow his children to go about in a blackguard’s company. The keen disappointment that followed that thought surprised him, but he didn’t allow it to show on his face as he took the folded missive.
He immediately recognized the handwriting, but he wouldn’t quite have called the resulting sensation that ran through him relief. Cosgrove. With a glance at his pocket watch, he opened the note.
Bramwell, he read to himself, Do grace me with your presence tonight. We haven’t chatted for nearly a sennight, and we have a great many things about which to converse. I think three o’clock at Jezebel’s would be appropriate. Bring along as much blunt as you’d care to lose. KG.
This was interesting. He could count on one hand the number of times he’d received a summons from Cosgrove. And in this instance he would be willing to wager that the little tête-à-tête would concern Rosamund Davies. Considering that he’d already resolved to distance himself from her after tonight, anyway, the timing of his meeting with Cosgrove couldn’t have been better.
“Any difficulties, my lord?” the butler queried, Bram’s black beaver hat in his hands.
Taking a breath, Bram shoved the note into a pocket. “No more than usual. I’ll be out all night. Have Mostin set out some brandy before he retires for the evening.”
“I’ll see to it, my lord.”
Whatever he’d said to his butler, tonight didn’t feel usual. And it wasn’t simply because Cosgrove’s invitation was likely to delay the Black Cat’s visit to Lord Montgrieve’s home. Damned shame, that, but the odd anticipation making him so restless wasn’t about either King or a burglary. He didn’t know what it was, but he was fairly certain he didn’t like it.
“I don’t suppose we’ll be playing cards this evening,” Lester said without preamble as the Davies siblings met his coach at their front drive.
They were early then, as well. “Not tonight,” he answered, leaning out to offer his hand to Rosamund. In a gown of soft mauve and gray, she looked elegant. On a wispier female frame he would have described the gown as ethereal, but with her the adjective “regal” seemed a better fit. “And how are you, Lady Rosamund?” he asked, pulling her onto the seat beside him before she could join her brother, opposite.
“Quite well, thank you,” she replied.
The curve of her ear beckoned him, and to cover his sudden discomfiture he turned away and leaned out the door again. “Bromley House, Graham.”
The coach rolled back onto the street, and Bram took the moment to consider that having Rosamund sit beside him was a mistake. Not only could he practically feel the soft folds of her gown beneath his fingers, but he couldn’t look into her face when they spoke.
“I’d hoped you might give me a few more pointers, Bram,” her brother began again. “I won thirty quid from Cosgrove at luncheon today, thanks to you.”
Was that what the summons was about, then? Teaching a no-talent pup a few tricks to save himself losing a quid or two at the tables? He could hope so, but Lester seemed too trivial to both him and King to warrant a late-hour conversation. Aside from that, Bram had ceased relying on hope several years ago. Pragmatism and cynicism served him much better. And both told him that Cosgrove wanted to discuss Rosamund.
He shook himself. “Did you inform Cosgrove that I’ve been tutoring you, James?”
“He knew. I won a hand, and damn me if he didn’t sit back in that way of his and say, ‘Bramwell’s been busy, hasn’t he?’ Remarkable, the way he knows things when no one else does.”
More remarkable was the marquis’s well-placed network of spies in most of the wealthiest households within Mayfair. “Indeed. You feel at ease, then, continuing to have luncheon and wager with the man who’s to marry your sister?”
“He’ll be my brother-in-law. Who else should I be comfortable hanging about?”
“Don’t you have another brother-in-law?”
“Fishton? He’s made stones weep with boredom. I have no idea how Bea has kept from stabbing herself in the ears to escape his prattling.”
Bram sent a sideways glance at Rosamund, to find her gazing out the coach window. “I’ve never met Fishton. Is he as dull as all that?”
She stirred, looking at him and then away again. “I’m afraid so. The main benefit is that with only twenty-four hours in a day, he and Bea together can only talk for twelve hours each at the most. It’s reduced Bea’s conversation by half, I’m certain.”
He laughed. “You have a very delightful tongue,” he said deliberately, enjoying the sight of her soft blush.
“Fishton don’t think so,” Lester replied. “She never agrees with what he says, and he turns red as tomatoes and begins a chorus of ‘but, but, but.’”
“It’s only that he’s so certain he has the one and only solution to every difficulty.”
“Ah. Did he advise you on your upcoming marriage, then?” Bram asked more quietly, curling his fingers to keep from brushing against hers.
“Oh, yes. ‘No man can be displeased with an efficiently run household.’ And I’d apparently do well to learn Cosgrove’s favorite drink in the evening so I can prepare it for him when he returns home at night.”
“Absinthe,” Bram said. “Not anything you should be getting near.”
“I tried a bit of it once,” Lester broke in yet again. “Heady stuff. Twenty minutes later I cast up my accounts all over the street.”
“Will you teach me how to prepare it?” Rosamund asked, facing Bram full-on this time.
“No.”
“I will be near it,” she said, lowering her voice a little. “If you show me, then he won’t have to do so. I’ll take any opportunity I can to avoid conversation with him.”
“I can show you, Rose,” James offered, “though I’m a bit unsure of the sugar.”
Bram met her gaze. She seemed to be talking about more than just a potent drink, but he couldn’t question her with her damned brother sitting two feet away. “Very well,” he muttered. Staying away from her had been more about avoiding the kissing and touching, but he didn’t do well with temptation of any kind. Still, an hour of showing her how to prepare absinthe meant he could stay across a table from her. Much safer, that way.
“Thank you.”
Once the coach stopped, Lester made it to the door and hopped to the ground before Bram or Rosamund even stirred. “That pup is too impatient for everything,” he grumbled, offering his hand. “Nothing is worth looking lathered-up over.”
Rosamund wrapped her fingers around his, tighter than he expected. “I need to speak with you in private before the end of the evening,” she whispered, and brushed past him to descend the folded-down steps.
Bram held his breath for a moment, then let it out again. He knew exactly what he needed to do once he’d finished with Cosgrove tonight—go find Lady Ackley or Charlotte DuCampe or Sarah Vischer or any of the other myriad energetic females with whom he was acquainted. He hadn’t had sex in more than a week. That was the problem. The celibacy was rotting his brain, making him susceptible to the lures of a practically flat-chested, forthright young lady who would only be trouble. More trouble.
And while he generally welcomed that sort of thing, he did try to avoid it with his friends. He frowned as he stepped out of the coach. Cosgrove was a friend. After all, without his tutelage and influence, Bram’s life today would be very different. And it was only in the past few days that he’d felt any real…reservations about his friend’s actions. As if someone like him had a right to question anyone else’s motives or actions.
“Lord Bramwell,” the Bromley House butler said with a shallow bow. “You’ll find Lord Quence in the billiards room.”
“Thank you, Graves,” he replied, placing Rosamund’s fingers over his sleeve as they ascended the stairs. “Might you give me a hint?” he mur
mured, deciding the noise Lester made clomping along behind them would drown out the conversation.
“My brother brought his luncheon companion home to see me after you left,” she said in a tight, barely audible voice, “and I would like you to attempt to talk me into fleeing again so I might conjure a new reason or two to remain and do my duty. The current reasons are beginning to seem rather inadequate.”
“What?” Bram didn’t realize he’d stopped until Lester knocked into him from behind.
“Dash it, Bram, you’ve nearly made me break my nose.”
“What did he do?” Bram demanded, ignoring the pup’s wailing.
Rosamund swallowed, visibly pulling her emotions back into check. “Later,” she muttered.
Shaking off the sensation of troubled dread running through him, Bram pushed open the door to the Bromley House billiards room and stepped inside. “Be careful with that,” he said, as Phin Bromley leaned over the billiards table to take a shot. “I’ve seen him bring down a horse with a cue.”
“The penalty for riding a horse through an inn,” Phin returned with a grin, straightening. The scar bisecting his right eyebrow and running down his cheek made most females consider him charming and rakish. Bram had seen what happened to the French officer who’d attacked him, and had a slightly more circumspect view of his friend.
“Rosamund, James,” he said, gesturing, “my friends Lord Quence; Phin Bromley and his wife, Alyse; and Miss Beth Bromley. Bromleys, Lord Lester and his sister, Lady Rosamund Davies.”
“Welcome.” With a smile of his own, William, Lord Quence, motioned to his ever-present valet, and the man pushed his wheeled chair around the billiards table to greet them.
“Thank you for inviting us, my lord,” Rosamund said with a curtsy. “Or rather, thank you for allowing Lord Bramwell to bring us along with him.”
“Nonsense.” Phin set aside his cue to clap Bram on the shoulder and shake hands with Lester. “We only continue to invite him on the chance that he’ll introduce us to more interesting persons.”
After a few minutes the group was talking and laughing together like old friends. Despite his…unsettled gut, he supposed it was, over Rosamund’s whispered request that he talk her into fleeing, Bram felt himself relax a little. The Bromleys were good friends; he certainly felt more at ease with them than he did with his own family.
“Isn’t Lester the one who lost his inheritance to…your friend?” Phin asked in a low voice as they finished dinner and the ladies retreated to the drawing room.
“If you won’t even mention Cosgrove’s name, then I won’t answer any questions about him,” Bram said without heat, accepting a glass of port from his former comrade-in-arms.
Phin dropped into the chair beside him. “There’s no need to be sharp with me. I was merely curious. I’m behind on my gossip since you’ve been coming about less often.”
“I thought it would be cruel to remind you of the amusements you could be enjoying as a bachelor.”
His friend eyed him. “I may be married, but I’m not dead.”
“You think not? Let’s go off to the Society Club, then. Or Lord Belmont is holding one of his masqued parties tonight.”
“Bram, I don’t—”
“You don’t wish to abandon your wife while you go out and play. I have no one to neglect. If I decide then to go out, does that obligate me to go alone?”
“I fail to understand why you consider Cosgrove’s company superior to your own.”
“Bramwell,” Lord Quence broke in with his usual impeccable timing, “Lord Lester here tells me that he and his sister joined you for dinner with your brother earlier this week.”
Damnation. Why was everyone picking at his good deeds? No wonder he rarely committed them. “I thought he and Oscar could use some lessons in gambling.”
“I lost nearly a pound of shelled peanuts,” the pup contributed, showing some humor. Of course anyone who could lose ten thousand quid and not blow his own brains out probably didn’t take much very seriously.
“I’ve met Oscar,” Viscount Quence said, grinning. “In a few years he may challenge even his uncle with his wagering skills.”
“I hope he finds something better to do with his time,” Bram muttered, and pushed away from the table. “Excuse me for a moment.” He leaned over Phin. “Keep the boy here,” he whispered.
Phineas grabbed his wrist. “I’m not helping you ruin a young lady under my roof.”
“When did you become so bloody proper?”
“Bram.”
“It’s not your roof, anyway; it’s your brother’s. And I’m not ruining her. I need to ask her a question, and her brother’s an incurable wag.”
With a tight nod, Phin released him again. “Behave.”
“Almost never.”
He could have been more subtle about it, waited until later in the evening and taken her aside with no one noticing. Her request had jabbed at him all through dinner, though. Previously the chit had seemed ready to drown herself if duty demanded it. The sooner he could learn what new thing Cosgrove had done to distress her, the sooner he could find something comforting to say to her. And if he could manage a kiss, then so much the better.
Then he would meet with King and attempt to diplomatically convince the marquis to…to what? To cease tormenting Rosamund? To be kinder and realize that he could have made a far worse choice as far as a spouse was concerned? Whatever he said, he needed to extricate himself from the middle of this mess. He didn’t want the Marquis of Cosgrove for an enemy. And his encounters with Rosamund had served only to trouble his thoughts and disrupt his routine. And his sleep.
As he stopped at the entrance to the drawing room, the three ladies were laughing over something. He paused there in the doorway. At eighteen, young Beth Bromley was all dark hair and stunning hazel eyes, the most excitable and least reserved of the three. Alyse was quiet and thoughtful with nerves of iron, the perfect counter to Phin’s well-explored wild side, the home he’d finally found to stop his wandering.
And then there was Lady Rosamund, ginger-haired and freckled, eyes the color of meadow grass after a rain. Practical, witty, and for some reason loyal to her damned family, she continued to baffle him. She deserved better than she would be receiving—both from Cosgrove and from her own blood.
She turned her head and looked at him. Drawing his thoughts back in, he nodded his chin toward the doorway. Immediately she swept to her feet. “Excuse me. I’ll be back in a moment,” she said, and he backed into the hallway to wait for her. As she emerged, he turned and led the way into the music room opposite.
“What happened?” he asked, quietly closing the door behind her as she entered the room after him.
For a long moment she looked at him, her expression tense and hesitant. “I dislike running to you every time Lord Cosgrove calls on me. I’m not some fainting flower.”
Bram shrugged. “I don’t mind.” His chest tightening a little, he forced a smile. “Not as though I’ve dire matters to attend to.” Just a few robberies and some drinking, but he could see to both of those again beginning tomorrow.
“Are you his friend?”
The question made him scowl before he could stop himself. “I’ve known him since I was sixteen. I give him some credit for making me the man I am today.”
“Yes, but are you his friend?”
He’d claimed friendship with Cosgrove before, but he’d never been asked so directly to define what it was between himself and the marquis. And he wasn’t an idiot; for some reason the answer would be significant. “I am social with him, but I wouldn’t tell him my secrets,” he said slowly. “Not any longer, at any rate. So to answer your question, yes, and no.”
Rosamund nodded. “I am somewhat relieved.”
“And why is that?”
“Lord Cosgrove spent several minutes describing his wedding night plans to me,” she said, twisting her fingers. “He means to humiliate and degrade me, and he wanted me to know it.”<
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Bram swallowed. There had been times he’d relished doing those very same things, when the female participant had shown an interest. Rosamund, though, had never been given a choice in the matter. All she’d done was catch Cosgrove’s eye at the time the marquis happened to be looking for a new game to play. Machinations, manipulations—he understood them. Hell, Cosgrove had introduced him to the twin evils, and he’d embraced them wholeheartedly. Or so he’d thought, until now.
“You asked me to say this, but in all seriousness might I suggest again that you leave London?” he said, as she continued to gaze at him. “I understand that you feel some sort of obligation to your family, but truly, Rosamund, what do you owe them that would convince you to stay about for this?”
“They gave me life.”
“So do cows to calves, every spring. The offspring don’t volunteer to walk into the slaughterhouse to spare their parents.”
“Yes, but I am not a cow.” Fleeting humor touched her eyes, then was gone again. “I take care of my family, Bram. It seems as though I always have. They’re…silly, for the most part. I’m not. And I have no idea how else they would survive this debt.”
“So they will survive, and you…pay the price.” He’d nearly said that they would survive and she wouldn’t, but she would probably accuse him of being overly dramatic.
“Someone has to pay.” She took a breath. “I know you dislike being pulled into the difficulties of others,” she continued, “but I have one last favor to ask of you.”
One last favor. It was as if she realized that he meant to remove himself from this tragedy after tonight. “What is it, then?”
“I want you to ruin me.”
Bram blinked, the clever remark he’d been about to make dying on his lips. He might have been imagining stripping her out of her proper clothes for days, but to hear someone—her—say it aloud, very simply seemed too good to be true. “While I’m happy to oblige,” he drawled, “I have to ask how my ruining you would be better for your family than your flight.”
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