Always a Scoundrel

by Suzanne Enoch

  Clearly realizing he was both outnumbered and outranked, the Runner unlocked the shackles and stepped back. “I beg your pardon, my lord. We didn’t realize this was a matter of personal animosity.”

  Bram rubbed his wrists, more to be certain he was actually free than because the shackles had hurt. “You can’t be faulted for doing your duty, sir,” he replied. “After all, I suppose I’m as likely as anyone else to be the Black Cat. And perhaps knowing how many men claim his identity will discourage him from continuing his thefts. I would say you’ve done an admirable job tonight.”

  The man bowed, clearly relieved that he and his men were being allowed to leave without suffering any repercussions. “Thank you, my lord. Good evening.” Sending a glare at Cosgrove, he and his men left the ballroom.

  King gazed for a moment between Bram and Rosamund, his expression unreadable and his face pale, before he turned on his heel and followed the Runners out the door.

  Chapter 21

  In the ensuing broil of laughter and self-congratulations from the oh-so-clever members of the ton who joined the fun of claiming to be the Black Cat because everyone else was doing it, Rose kept her attention on Bram.

  He looked dazed, as though he couldn’t quite fathom what had just happened. She wasn’t so certain, either, but tonight she meant to send up a quick prayer for everyone who’d stepped in to help. Every one of them, whether they’d done it as a jest or to preserve their own reputations or not.

  “Do you need a seat?” Phineas Bromley asked, as the group of Bram’s friends made their way outside into the small garden.

  “I need a whiskey,” Bram growled. “You risked too damned much.”

  “For a minute I thought you were going to insist on being arrested, regardless of all evidence to the contrary.” From somewhere Sullivan Waring produced a glass and handed it over.

  “I might be attempting a new path, but I’m not an idiot, either,” Bram returned, humor finally touching his voice.

  “That should shut up Cosgrove, at least,” James chortled, apparently ecstatic to be included in such a formerly notorious group of gentlemen.

  Bram sent him a glance, but didn’t say anything. The warm flutter in Rose’s stomach cooled a little. Did he think Cosgrove remained a threat? As she considered what she knew of the marquis, a public humiliation had likely done nothing but make him more determined to win this game, as he termed it. Oh, dear.

  “How did you get to Levonzy?” Bram asked, lowering his voice despite the fact that music for the next cotillion had already begun inside. In fact, the three couples and James seemed to be the only ones out of doors. Her cheeks warmed. She was part of a couple, at least for the moment—until Bram thought up some other reason he wouldn’t be good for her.

  “We didn’t,” Sullivan answered. “We spoke to August, and I went to Darshear and Phillip.”

  “I figured out what you were doing, and thought I’d best step in,” James put in again.

  “Which is what we hoped might happen,” Phineas took up. “Didn’t expect Levonzy, though. Or Abernathy.”

  Rose nodded. “I was standing beside Bram. It would have looked poorly for our family if he’d been arrested then.”

  “Which is why you were supposed to leave,” Bram murmured, reaching over for her hand and pulling her closer. “You clearly have no sense of self-preservation.” He twined his fingers with hers, looking down at their joined hands as if they fascinated him.

  “I believe the mighty have fallen,” Sullivan said quietly, amusement in his deep voice.

  “You have no idea,” Bram returned, shaking himself to glance at his friend. “Thank you. Both of you.”

  Sullivan shrugged. “You’ve helped us.” He put his arm around Tibby’s waist. “Despite what you seem to think, Bramwell, there are people about who like you.”

  “Hm.” Bram gave him a short nod before returning his gaze to Rosamund. “I would like to call on you in the morning, if I could. Would you be amenable to that?”

  Actually, she would have preferred a declaration of love and undying devotion in the middle of the Penn House garden, but evidently he had other ideas. “Yes, I would be.”

  “Good. I have one thing to see to, first, and it might take me a few hours. I will be there by noon. I promise.”

  What that thing was, she had no idea, but she’d seen the look Bram and Cosgrove had exchanged right before the marquis had left the room. “Don’t do something that will set you down the wrong path again,” she murmured.

  His eyes narrowed. “There are things I’m willing to risk, and there are things I’m not willing to risk. You are one of the latter.”

  She swallowed. “That’s very nice, but I hope you will keep in mind that you are one of the things I’m not willing to risk.” Rose put a hand on his shoulder and leaned up to kiss him on the cheek. She would have preferred his mouth, but they did have company. For a moment she debated taking him aside to tell him of her suspicions about her own condition, but he didn’t need those additional complications tonight, and she didn’t want him making the wrong decisions for the wrong reasons. For both their sakes that bit of information could wait until tomorrow. “I will expect you by noon.”

  “Need any company for this outing, then?” Sullivan asked. “You know how much I enjoy Society gatherings.”

  Bram shook his head. “You’ve done enough. More than enough. And this is something I need to see to on my own, anyway.” He wrapped Rose’s hand around his forearm. “I do think I can manage one more dance first, however.”

  Worried or not, she had to admit that Bram danced magnificently. “I would be agreeable to that.” She would more than likely spend the rest of the night awake and pacing and conjuring all types of disasters, anyway. Anything that could keep Bram from calling on her tomorrow—up to and including his own poor opinion of himself.

  Bram stretched, rolling his shoulders. This was far from the first time he’d stayed awake past dawn, but he couldn’t ever recall doing so from the roof of someone’s home. Particularly not from the rooftop of the house belonging to the family of the woman he loved.

  With the sun rising, the servants down below would be stirring, the house no longer asleep and unguarded. Standing to brush off his trousers, Bram made his way to the edge of the roof and clambered over the side to descend using the drainpipe.

  At Rosamund’s window, he paused. Tempted as he was to call on her before the time he’d selected, though, he needed to move quickly now. Cosgrove had likely spent the night stewing, nursing the wounds to his pride and plotting his revenge. Since that revenge was likely to include Rosamund, the marquis needed to be stopped. Permanently.

  Once on the ground he made his way out to the street and hired a hack to return him to Lowry House. Bram ordered Titan saddled and the morning paper brought to him before he ran upstairs to change.

  “Make it quick, Mostin,” he ordered his valet as he shrugged out of last night’s clothes.

  “But you want to look presentable, my lord, do you not?”

  “Presentable, yes. Perfection isn’t required.”

  “My lord?” Hibble knocked at his door.

  “Enter.”

  The butler stepped inside, the London Times in his hands. “I haven’t had a chance yet to iron it for you, my lord. And you have a letter, from Mr. Waring, I believe.”

  “That’s fine.” He dumped Sullivan’s missive into a pocket. “No one called last night?”

  “No. We placed a watch as you requested, but nothing stirred.”

  “Good. If anyone comes by this morning, I’m not in. If it should be Cosgrove, tell him I’m aware of his…ire, and am acting accordingly.”

  “My lord?”

  Bram stomped into his boots, settling for a single knot to his cravat despite his valet’s hand wringing. “And if he tries to get past you, shoot him.”

  “I…Yes, my lord.”

  Taking the newspaper, Bram perused it quickly. There it was, on the top of
the Society page. Thank God for wags. Swiftly he pulled out a paper and dipped a pen to write out what was probably the most important bit of literature he’d ever attempted. Then, tearing out the newspaper article, he folded and stuffed it and his note into a pocket as he tromped down the stairs. “See to things, Hibble,” he said, leaving the house again to collect Titan.

  Galloping along the streets of Mayfair was both frowned upon and difficult to manage, but he didn’t much care about the former, and the latter problem at least kept his mind occupied. Finally he turned up Winsley Street to one of the smaller, older mansions at the outskirts of Mayfair. Tying Titan off, he hurried up the front steps and rapped on the door.

  After a moment he heard shuffling and grumbling, and the door opened. An ancient-looking butler still in his nightshirt and a robe blinked at him. “May I help you?”

  Bram dug into his pocket for a calling card. “I’m here to see Mr. Wyatt. Is he in?”

  “Mr. Wyatt is still to bed, my lord,” the butler returned, looking down at the card and straightening a little. “It’s barely seven o’clock.”

  “Yes, I know. This is urgent, though. Might I wait for him?”

  “I…Yes. Please, come inside. There’s a fire going in the morning room.”

  Finally, an invitation into a room with a chair. Things were definitely looking up, and in more ways than one. Of course this morning he was too restless to sit, but at least he might have if he’d wished to.

  He’d memorized the square footage of the room before the door opened again to reveal a man a year or two younger than himself, with light brown hair and bespectacled gray eyes. “Lord Bramwell Johns?”

  “Yes. You’re Thomas Wyatt.”

  “I am. What’s so urgent that you had to call on me at this hour?”

  “I don’t mean to alarm you, but several things have come to my attention, and I think it’s time they were dealt with. Might we sit down?”

  The young man gestured at the chairs on either side of the fire. “Of course.”

  “As you may know, I am a close acquaintance of your cousin.”

  Wyatt’s expression hardened a little. “Yes. I’m aware of that.”

  Bram tilted his head. “I was given the impression that your relationship is not a close one. That would be correct, I assume?”

  “Yes. What’s this about, my lord?”

  “I don’t think there’s an easy way to say this, so I’ll just come out with it.” Bram paused for effect. “I believe your cousin to be mad.”

  The young man’s brows drew together. “Kingston Gore is mad. Are you serious?”

  “I am. A few weeks ago he began a ‘game,’ as he calls it, which would have culminated with the kidnapping of a young woman of good birth for the purposes of torture and ruination.”

  “I…My God, do you have proof of this?”

  “I do. He attempted to blackmail her family into handing her over. Luckily we were able to stop him. And then last night—well, have you seen the newspaper this morning?”

  “No. My wife and I were still to bed when you—”

  “Yes, of course.” As he’d expected. Bram dug into his pocket for the article and handed it over. “You need to take a look at this.”

  Thomas Wyatt read through it, disbelief and—unless Bram was greatly mistaken—an odd satisfaction crossed his thin face. “He accused you of being a burglar.”

  “In front of half the ton, and after bringing a half-dozen Bow Street Runners into his delusion.” Bram sat forward. “You know he drinks absinthe.”

  “I’d heard that.”

  “He drinks it nightly. Never before sunset, but every night. He claims it will make him immortal.”

  “Again, you have proof of this?”

  Cosgrove had enough enemies that he could think of a dozen men who would agree they’d heard him say that. And so he willingly broke that ninth commandment, the false evidence one. “Yes. And there’s one more thing.”

  “What might that be?”

  “The lady he attempted to abduct is about to become my fiancée. I believe once he hears that she and I are to be married, he will react violently.”

  “My God.”

  Nodding solemnly, Bram settled back again. “If I’m not mistaken, you have your own worries about your cousin’s sanity.”

  “Yes. Yes, I do. His treatment of me and my family has bordered on sadistic.”

  “He’s mentioned to me that he wagers with your income each month, and only gives it to you if he wins.”

  “I’m painfully aware of that.”

  “Given that Lord Hawthorne, one of the patrons of a certain mental facility, was in attendance at the Clement soiree last night, I would imagine you have grounds to see your cousin committed.”

  Wyatt stared at him. “At Bedlam?”

  “Yes, at Bedlam. Bethlem Royal Hospital. For his own safety, your safety, and the safety of myself, my fiancée, her family, and anyone else he imagines to have wronged him.”

  Slowly the young man stood, walking over to the fireplace. “You think this…commitment should be done immediately, do you not?”

  “I believe it should be done before he has a chance to injure someone. They do say that absinthe corrodes the brain.”

  “I’m his heir, you know, since he hasn’t married or borne any children.”

  “I believe the absinthe renders him sterile.” It sounded as though it should, anyway. And Bram wouldn’t have been surprised by that fact.

  “Given your close friendship and your long acquaintance, you would attest to the fact that the Marquis of Cosgrove is unfit to maintain his position. Is this correct?”

  Bram pulled another piece of paper from his pocket. “I’ve already put it in writing.”

  Reading through it, Wyatt stared into the fire for a long moment. “He’s an evil man, you know.”

  “I’m aware of that. I’ve witnessed it.” As for his own activities, this was about survival. And he’d survived. And he’d chosen to become a better man. Cosgrove would only grow into a worse one, if given the chance.

  “I wouldn’t wish Bedlam on anyone, but I have two young children to think of. Frankly, having him put somewhere where he can’t hurt anyone else would be a relief.”

  “I agree.”

  Thomas faced him again. “You wouldn’t happen to know Lord Hawthorne’s address, would you?”

  “I’ll accompany you there, if you wish.”

  “Give me a few minutes to dress and inform my wife.”

  As Bram had anticipated, Hawthorne was another of the many men who’d grown tired of the machinations of the Marquis of Cosgrove, as were the additional witnesses he’d decided on. By ten o’clock they had a warrant ordering the marquis delivered to Bedlam.

  “You’d best not be with us, my lord,” Mr. Wyatt said as they approached Gore House. “We don’t want a fight if we can avoid one, and you are very likely to set him off.”

  “As you wish. Best of luck, Mr. Wyatt.”

  Damnation. He wanted to be there, to see the look on Kingston’s face when they came to cart him away. It made sense, though, damn it all, considering that the purpose of all this was to protect Rosamund’s future, whatever she decided about him.

  Being the cynic that he was, though, he did want to make certain Cosgrove’s removal actually happened. He waited, positioning himself down the street close enough to see and hear but hopefully to be unseen, himself. Five minutes after Wyatt and his fellows entered Gore House he heard arguing and yelling and glass breaking. With a frown he urged Titan a little closer. If Cosgrove escaped, he would be out for blood.

  The sounds became more muffled and then subsided. A few minutes after that, a half-dozen men emerged from Gore House, Wyatt at their front and Lord Hawthorne behind. In the middle and securely bound, a gag across his mouth, was Cosgrove.

  He fought, but they pushed him to the waiting coach. As they hoisted him up, he sent a frantic glance around him—and saw Bram.

  Bram
met his gaze, resisting the urge to smirk or salute or wave. After all, he’d just condemned a man to a fate worse than death. Given that he knew Cosgrove probably better than any man alive he couldn’t regret it, but neither could he rejoice. If not for meeting Rosamund, that might one day have been his own family getting rid of him.

  Once the coach rolled out of sight, he drew in the reins and sent Titan to Davies House. He checked his pocket watch as he topped the steps. Five minutes of noon. Apparently he’d become prompt as well as benevolent.

  “If you’ll wait in the foyer, my lord,” the butler said.

  Oh, damn. Back to that again. “Very well.”

  While he kicked his heels and waited to see whether Rosamund had come to her senses and changed her mind about him, he reached into his pocket for Sullivan’s letter. The former soldier in him found it rather amusing that out of everything he’d done over the past weeks, this moment of this morning was the one that terrified him.

  “Don’t be foolish simply because you’re grateful to him,” Rose’s father said. “If he even makes an appearance.”

  “Isn’t that why we’re all hiding in the library?” Rose returned. “Because you think he will make an appearance?”

  “Tell her what you told me, Lewis. About his prospects.” Lady Abernathy returned to her embroidery.

  “Levonzy cut him off four months ago. Unless he makes his living from wagering, he’ll be destitute by the end of the year.”

  “Especially since he gave you eight thousand pounds!” Rose retorted. What hypocrisy. So Cosgrove had been acceptable despite his monstrous behavior simply because he had wealth. And a title, of course.

  “The fact remains, he has a terrible reputation, no hope of inheriting a title or a fortune, and his one source of income has been removed.”

  Elbon knocked at the door and leaned in. “My lord, you wished to be informed when Lord Bramwell Johns arrived. He is here.”

  Rose’s heart skittered. He’d come. And on time. The craving to see him had been growing in her since they’d parted company at the soiree last night. Now, knowing he was just downstairs, all she wanted to do was flee the room and go to him.