Always a Scoundrel

by Suzanne Enoch

  “I hope it’s not too crowded tonight,” her mother was already complaining. “You know how I hate a crush.”

  “You love a crush, my dear.”

  Rose sighed. It was true that she had very little respect remaining for either of her parents, but it was also true that they’d done nothing more or less than what custom and the law dictated. She was wise enough never to expect anything more of them. Bram, however, had gone well beyond rule and custom to help her.

  And he had more than her loyalty or her friendship or her respect. He had her heart.

  He had her heart. She loved him. Rose put out a hand to steady herself against the stair balustrade.

  “Rose, are you ill?” James asked, taking her elbow.

  “No, no. I just got dizzy for a moment,” she stammered.

  Oh, goodness. Why had she just realized it? She knew she enjoyed his company, and she certainly enjoyed his attention and his touch. But somewhere in this tangle and in her dawning realization that deep down he was a decent man, a good man, with a dented but very strong moral compass, he’d become…indispensable.

  “Do you wish to stay in tonight?” her mother asked. “I can’t say I would be disappointed to avoid any chance of encountering Cosgrove and his cronies this evening.”

  “I want to go,” she said, too sharply. “We could all stand a bit of celebration tonight, don’t you think?”

  “Definitely,” James seconded, guiding her to the door.

  As the coach rolled toward Penn House and the Clement soiree, it was all Rose could do not to sit forward on her seat. She wanted to see him, wanted to know that he was safe. What a change, from being so concerned about her own future to being consumed with him and his well-being. And aside from that, she just wanted to have him gaze at her in that warm, possessive way he had when they kissed.

  The street in front of Penn House was solidly blocked with vehicles. They had to stop the coach two full streets away and walk the remainder of the way to the front door. Once inside, there was barely room to move.

  “What a crush,” her mother exclaimed. “How will they ever make room on the dance floor? I can’t even see my hand in front of my face.”

  “We’re opening a second anteroom, my lady,” a footman said, offering them selections from a platter of cheeses. “And the second ballroom, if necessary.”

  “Thank goodness for that,” Lady Abernathy returned, fanning at her face. “I suggest you do so at once.”

  Indeed, several minutes later the crowd seemed to ease a little, and they were able to make their way upstairs into the main ballroom. Rose cast her gaze in every direction, looking for Bram. This wasn’t the sort of party he enjoyed, but he had said he would attend. And he had to know she would be worried over him, blast it all.

  As she looked about, she couldn’t help noticing guests looking back at her. Men, specifically. The moment she had a chance, she glanced at herself in one of the wall mirrors. Nothing hung from her teeth, her gown remained covering all the bits it should have, and no bird or bug had set up residence in her hair. What the devil were they staring at, then?

  “Lady Rose.”

  Her heart stuttered until she realized the voice belonged neither to Bram nor to Cosgrove. She turned around. “Mr. Henning, isn’t it?”

  The rotund man smiled, sketching an elaborate bow. “Indeed. I was wondering if I might claim a spot on your dance card. There are to be two waltzes, you know.”

  And she hadn’t even procured a dance card. She rarely had enough requests to warrant one. “The first quadrille is available,” she decided. She’d seen him dance, and a waltz seemed far too dangerous an enterprise.

  “I will be honored.” With another bow he straightened, gave an uncertain smile, and wandered off into the crowd.

  “I shall have to get a dance card, apparently,” she commented.

  “I’ll fetch you one,” James said, and walked off.

  She wasn’t certain whether he was being belatedly conciliatory for the mess he’d caused, or whether he’d wanted to escape their parents’ reach, but he was gone before she could ask him. By the time he returned with a card and a pencil, though, she had three other spots taken. What in the world was going on? At most she danced a cotillion or two with elderly widowers or the chinless sons of the Earl of Banbury.

  As she scribbled down her partners’ names, the throng to her left stirred. Like the Red Sea parting, space opened up and revealed a black-and-gray-clothed Adonis. Her breath caught as his black gaze swept the room and then found her. From then it didn’t waver. Bram strolled up to her, other guests simply moving aside for him as though they sensed danger, a predator, in their midst.

  “Good evening,” he said, stopping in front of her. Reaching out, he took both of her hands in his and brought them to his lips.

  “Bram,” she returned, her voice catching a little. She wanted to throw her arms around him to be certain he was real and he was safe. She wanted to ask whether he’d meant it when he’d said he loved her, and whether he would say it again just so she could hear it.

  “Lord Bramwell,” her father interjected, making her jump. She’d forgotten anyone else was there.

  Bram’s eyes narrowed for a moment, and then he released her fingers to shake the earl’s proffered hand. “Abernathy. I hope you had a productive day.”

  “I did indeed. And you have an angry friend.”

  “He’s no friend of mine, but thank you for the warning.” Bram inclined his head, then lifted the dance card Rose hadn’t even realized he’d taken from her. “Henning?”

  “He asked. Everyone’s been asking. I have no idea why.”

  Bram regarded her for a moment. “You don’t, do you? You’re beautiful, Rosamund. It’s just taken this long for the rabble to notice it.” He scribbled something down, then handed card and pencil back to her.

  Rose looked at the card, her cheeks warming. “You can’t take both waltzes.”

  “Watch me.” His mouth curved in a slow, heart-stopping smile. “I don’t want you in anyone else’s arms,” he murmured.

  Goodness. As lovely, heavenly, as that sounded, however, it was more than likely meant mainly to distract her from the large measure of trouble that was still dogging them. Him, specifically. “Have you seen…him?” she asked, lowering her own voice.

  “‘Him’?” he repeated. “You’re thinking about another man while I’m flirting with you? I’m pierced to the heart.”

  “Be serious, will you?” She took a step closer, unmindful of the fact that people were probably watching. People always watched Bram. “James said he was practically foaming at the mouth when they took him the money.”

  “Then we’d best not miss the first waltz.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Your quadrille is here.”

  Drat. “Please, Bram. If you see him—”

  “I’ll keep him well away from you.”

  “That is not what I m—”

  “I know what you meant.” Bram touched her cheek briefly, as though he couldn’t not touch her. “I won’t be killed or dragged off before I’ve danced with you.” His eyes went cold and serious. “I swear it.”

  That might have been a bit too vehement, Bram reflected as his Rosamund turned and stepped on the dance floor opposite the clod Francis Henning, but he very rarely swore to things. And when he did, he kept his word. Always.

  If Cosgrove knew anything, he would know that the Davies family would be in attendance at the Clement soiree. And he would then easily puzzle out that the man who’d paid off their debt would be there, as well.

  He might have stayed away and avoided Cosgrove, but that would have left Rosamund to face the bastard alone. No, this was better. More dangerous for him, but that hardly signified.

  Keeping half his attention on Rosamund, he watched the two separate entryways leading into the main ballroom. Thus far Sullivan and Phin were absent, and while he was a bit surprised that they’d listened to him, he was also glad they’d done so. He app
reciated their loyalty more than he could ever express aloud, but he didn’t know how to make any clearer the fact that they had more important concerns than protecting him from his own short-sighted stupidity.

  “Bram?”

  “What is it, James?” he asked, keeping his gaze on the flow and ebb of guests into the room.

  “I thought you should know,” Viscount Lester said, his tone uncharacteristically low and cautious, “Rose has it in her head that if Bow Street should come after you, the two of you will flee London.”

  Bram frowned. “I wouldn’t drag her off to ruin,” he muttered back, for the moment ignoring the fact that Lester seemed to know of his nefarious activities. If Rose had chosen to tell him, then she’d had a reason for doing so.

  “What bothers me is that she thinks you’d want her with you. If you’ve been leading my sister down the garden path, or worse, then I want you to know I’ll do whatever I can to see you put into gaol.”

  “I want her with me,” Bram grunted, irritated at being dressed down by a pup. “But first I want her safe. I need to see to this mess before I can do anything else.”

  “And if you’re arrested?”

  “I’m not fleeing, with or without Rosamund.” He frowned. “I don’t appreciate explaining this to you, but at least you’re finally seeing to your sister’s well-being.”

  “I think I’ve learned my lesson,” the viscount said stiffly.

  “Good. I think I’ve learned mine, as well. And I’m willing to pay for it.”

  The quadrille ended to general applause, and he walked forward to meet her for their waltz. He was willing to pay, after a dance.

  “Shall we?” He held out his hand to her.

  Rosamund wrapped her gloved fingers around his bare ones. From the look on her face she intended to begin ranting at him again about the chance he was taking by being out in public. If it helped clear any guilt from her conscience he was more than willing to listen to it, but he could think of better ways to spend the few minutes he would have in her company.

  The music began, and he slid a hand around her waist as she placed one on his shoulder. Together they swept into the waltz. “You avoided Henning’s feet with admirable skill,” he drawled.

  “Thank you.” She took a breath, her body trembling a little beneath his fingers. “I’ve been thinking.”

  “About what?”

  “About the relatively minor nature of your crimes compared with what they’re likely to do to you when they catch you.”

  “Ah. You’re going to serve as my solicitor.”

  “Don’t jest, Bram. Do you truly think your mistake is worth years in gaol or transportation or a hanging?”

  “Do you have any idea how much I want to kiss you right now?” he murmured, pulling her a breath closer.

  “I will not be distracted.”

  Of all the conversations they might have had, the question of whether he was worthy of a rescue was not one he would have chosen. “I want you to realize something, Rosamund,” he began softly, turning her to the music. “I studied under a monster on and off for more than a decade. And this past year, even when I’d made friends whom I truly value and admire, I went back to him because I was bored. Even that, though, wasn’t enough for me, and so I stole from people simply because they called my father friend. As much as I want to be the one who shares your life, I can’t do that until I’ve made some sort of amends for being the…the utter scoundrel that I have been.”

  “You are not like Cosgrove,” she returned, her voice shaking.

  “I am exactly like Cosgrove. The only difference is that I fell in love with you.”

  “You are so far apart from him that I can’t believe how thick you are not to see it.”

  “Or you’re so good-hearted that you imagine it.”

  She opened her mouth and then closed it again. “How many other of Cosgrove’s pupils have successfully completed their education under his tutelage?” she finally asked.

  The question stopped him for a moment. “I don’t know.”

  “Yes, you do. You told us about the one who killed himself. And then there’s James, who would have been lost if not for you. Who else is there?”

  He thought about it for a moment. “Roger Avelane.”

  “And where is he?”

  “A cemetery somewhere. He bedded the wrong man’s wife. Or he got the blame for it, anyway.” As far as he’d been able to tell, the straying cock had belonged to Cosgrove.

  “Heavens. That leaves you, Bram. The only one who’s seen through Cosgrove and survived him, and has decided to reclaim his own life. That’s why he’s so angry with you.”

  “Well, you make me sound quite heroic,” he commented, trying to make light of what she’d said, even though it shook him deeply. He’d never viewed his life as being a triumph simply because he’d survived it and parted ways with his mentor. “In a week you’d have me aiding orphans.”

  “Make fun if you like, but you, my friend, are a good man.”

  “Now you’re pouring the sauce on too thick.”

  “Bram, don’t make me punch you.”

  He laughed. The idea that this woman could so easily turn his life and his thinking upside down simply stunned him. “I wish I was dramatic enough to ask you to wait for me, my sweet Rose, but neither of us knows how long that will be. All I can do is ask that you find someone who makes you happy.”

  Tears filled her eyes. “You make me happy.”

  The music crashed to a close. Reluctantly he let her go to join in the applause. Even so, he couldn’t stop looking at her.

  She thought him a good man. Of course Rosamund meant it as a compliment, but now he felt the absurdly strong urge to prove her right. Stepping out of his life and closing the door behind him to begin anew—men who’d left a trail of destruction behind them as he had didn’t get to do that.

  And if he’d been content to remain a damned scoundrel, he wouldn’t have hesitated to leave his troubles behind and abscond with Rosamund Davies to live a life of lust and sin. Damnation. Being bad definitely had some advantages. “I’d best get you back to your parents,” he muttered.

  As he turned around, he stopped in mid-step. The Marquis of Cosgrove stood just inside the ballroom doorway, his angelic blue eyes focused directly on Bram. Ranged around him, unmistakable in their crimson waistcoats, were a half-dozen Bow Street Runners. He meant to do it tonight, then. In front of everyone.

  “Bram,” Rosamund whispered, digging her fingers into his forearm.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered back, pulling his arm free. “Forgive me.” He moved away, leaving her standing.

  “You don’t need my for—”

  “There he is,” Cosgrove said in a carrying voice, attracting the attention of the few people at the edges of the room who hadn’t noticed the uninvited guests in the doorway.

  The largest of the six men stepped forward, a pair of wrist irons in his hands. “Lord Bramwell Lowry Johns,” he enunciated, in the too-loud voice of someone who wasn’t certain of his welcome and wanted everyone to know he had a legitimate reason to be where he was, “you are under arrest. Please come peaceably and we can be out of here without too much fuss.”

  Frowning with the effort of keeping himself still when all he wanted to do was begin throwing punches, Bram nodded. At the Runner’s gesture he held out his hands. “Go back to your parents, Rosamund,” he murmured as the shackles clicked shut. She seemed inclined to stand in the middle of the floor, far too close to him, whatever anyone said.

  “What are the charges?” someone from the crowd called. Someone who sounded suspiciously like Phineas Bromley. Damn it all, he’d told them to stay away.

  “Lord Bramwell Lowry Johns is accused of being the Black Cat burglar. Now everyone please move aside and let us do our job.”

  “That’s impossible,” Sullivan Waring’s voice came from another part of the room, unlikely as it was that he would ever attend a Society event. “I’m the Black Cat
burglar.” And then Lord Dunston’s illegitimate son stepped forward.

  Bram grimaced. For God’s sake, Sully had a pregnant wife. “Leave off, Sullivan,” he ordered.

  “Excuse me, but you’re not the Black Cat. I am.” Phin moved to the front of the crowd.

  “I don’t know what you lads are talking about.” August emerged onto the cleared dance floor. “I am certainly the Black Cat.”

  Good God.

  “Say whatever you like,” Cosgrove broke in with his silky voice, “but I have proof. A signed declaration from Father John of St. Michael’s Church stating that Bramwell Johns regularly delivered stolen goods there for distribution to the poor.”

  A deep, cynical laugh sounded from Bram’s left. “Bram Johns couldn’t step through the doors of a church without being struck by lightning.” The Duke of Levonzy came forward. “I’m as likely to be the Black Cat as he is.”

  Murmured agreement and a scattering of laughter sounded around the room. Bram, though, couldn’t take his eyes off the duke. The man hadn’t precisely lied for him, but he had definitely dissembled. Levonzy. For him.

  “I’m the Black Cat!” James Davies appeared, taking Rosamund’s hand, but not attempting to lead her away.

  Abernathy walked onto the dance floor, as well. “We’re both the Black Cat. We work together.”

  A heartbeat later, amid a chorus of male voices proclaiming themselves the Black Cat, he heard another round of declarations from the direction of the refreshment table, led by Lord Darshear and his older son, Phillip—Sullivan’s in-laws.

  Viscount Bromley rolled forward in his wheeled chair. “You seem to have a problem, sir,” he stated to the lead Runner, “because I am the Black Cat.”

  “But m’lord, you’re crippled.”

  “Nevertheless, I am the Black Cat. And given these confessions, I suggest you either arrest half the House of Lords or release Lord Bramwell.” He turned his attention to Cosgrove. “And you, my lord, had best find a better way to vent your jealousies.”