Confessions of a Scoundrel

by Karen Hawkins

  “Good God!” James rose from his chair to see the loot. Four rings, two watch fobs, an ornate snuffbox, one watch, and no less than seven cravat pins lay on the table.

  He sent an admiring glance at Herberts. “You are quite good. Have you ever thought of—Ow!” James rubbed his ribs where his sister had elbowed him. “What was that for?”

  “For what you were about to say.” Verena turned to Herberts. “You know the rules. No stealing from my guests. For penance, polish all the silver in the pantry. Twice.”

  The butler blinked rapidly. “Twiced? Don’t ye think once would do the trick?”

  “Twice,” Verena said sternly. “Or you may give your notice now and I will hire another butler in your stead.”

  Herberts straightened his shoulders, an expression of noble suffering flittering across his thin face. “Very well. Oiye’ll polish all the silver in the bloomin’ pantry. Twiced.”

  “Thank you,” Verena said. “That will be all.”

  “Oiye, m’lady.” The butler started to turn toward the door, but then he caught himself. “Blimey! Almost fergot.” He executed a nearly perfect bow, then beamed pleasantly at Verena. “Thet’ll do the knacker, won’t it, missus?” Chuckling pleasantly, the butler quit the room.

  James waited until the door closed before he burst out laughing. “Good God, where did you get that character?”

  “The Society for Wayward Women’s Servant Referral Service. Viscountess Hunterston runs it and, well, the prices are very reasonable.” Verena bit back a sigh. Being independent was a costly venture, one she’d welcomed from the beginning. But she had to admit that there were times when it was just the teensiest bit wearing. Times like…well, all of the time, if she was honest.

  Despite her disapproval of Father and his schemes, she had him to thank that she was able to make it at all. Rutland had destroyed her credit with both society and the banks when she’d come to Westforth House after Andrew’s death. Determined to keep the house from her, the old earl had hired an entire army of solicitors to make her life miserable.

  Verena had been left with no recourse but to use the skills Father had taught her—she entered the world of the demimonde and there, across the green felt tables of London’s most exclusive gambling hells, she made her living, one careful card at a time.

  She was not a flamboyant player; Verena only won enough to make her way in the world. She didn’t want the attention a winning spree would have caused and she had nothing to prove. Not anymore. But still, she itched to put her talents to the test.

  James pocketed his watch, then examined the snuffbox with a practiced eye. “Here I was, thinking you’d turned into a saint when in reality, you’ve found a better game.”

  Verena took the snuffbox from James and placed it back on the table. “I hired Herberts to serve as a butler and nothing more. If you want to know the truth, he is all I can afford. That and Viscountess Hunterston especially asked if I could take him on since his last placement didn’t take.”

  “I can’t imagine why.” James flicked an especially large ruby cravat pin on its side. “Whose are these, anyway?”

  “I have no idea.” She scraped all the items into a large pile. “Herberts arrived just a month ago. In time, I’m certain I will be able to break him of his bad habits.”

  “You can’t reform a shyster.”

  “Yes, you can. Everyone can change.” She carried Herberts’s haul to her desk. Once there, she unlocked the top drawer and placed the items inside. “What a bother. I suppose I shall have to find a way to return all of this.”

  “If you want me to take care of it for you, I’ll—”

  “No.” She locked the drawer and replaced the key in her pocket. “I’ll see to it myself.”

  James grinned as he returned to his seat and picked up the deck of cards. Verena watched how his fingers flew, the cards melding, merging, flickering from one picture to the next. He met her gaze and grinned, his teeth flashing whitely. If she had not known him so well, she would have never realized that beneath his carefree air was a hint of desperation.

  She took the chair across from him. “Is it a woman?”

  His fingers faltered and two cards flicked from the deck to land on the floor. He reddened, then picked them up and put them back in the deck. “I never could hide anything from you.”

  “I know. You were silly to even try. Now out with it.”

  His grin faded. After a long moment, he sighed and said, “Ver, I’m being blackmailed.”

  “By whom?”

  He sent her a grateful glance for her quickness. “I don’t know. All I do know is that I made an error in Italy, one that may well cost someone their life.”

  “Someone?”

  His cheeks darkened. “I’d rather not say.”

  Verena thought about this. “I take it she’s married.”

  James’s strained expression melted into genuine concern. “It’s a mess, Ver. I’m at my wits’ end.”

  “How much do they want?”

  “I don’t know yet. I was told to come to London and they would contact me, but I expect it will be five thousand pounds at least. Perhaps more.”

  “Good God! That’s a fortune.”

  James winced. “Sabrina’s husband is…he’s very jealous.”

  “Apparently with good reason.”

  James flushed. “It wasn’t like that!”

  “It never is.”

  “That’s unfair.”

  “Hmm. Let me guess…she’s unhappy and lonely and her husband never pays her any heed. I daresay she told you that this was the first time she’d ever been unfaithful and you, being the quixotic, romantic fool that you are, believed her.”

  James rubbed a hand over his face. “At the time of the affair, I thought Sabrina was…well, I know now I was wrong. But I’m caught. Her husband knows something happened. If he discovers it was me, I’m doomed.”

  “Don’t return. Stay away from Italy until it’s all blown over.”

  “I can’t. I have too much at stake. I was in the middle of a project—” He glanced at her, then managed a smile. “I stand to lose far more than five thousand pounds if I stay away more than a few weeks.”

  “What exactly does this blackmailer have over you?”

  “Letters. Well, not letters. Poems, really.”

  Verena’s gaze widened. “Love poems?”

  James managed a weak smile. “I’m quite good, you know.”

  She had to chuckle at that. “I daresay you are. How did this blackmailer find the letters?”

  “A month ago someone broke into Sabrina’s room and stole the box where she’d been keeping the verses.”

  “Did they steal anything else?”

  He shook his head. “Not a blasted thing. Whomever it was had to know exactly what they were looking for.”

  “Are you sure they want money? It seems ludicrous they would send you here if that was their only objective.”

  James’s face creased with worry. “I know. I wondered if—but no. It has to be money. What else could they want?”

  He had a point. “I suppose that leaves us with the question of ‘how much?’ Do you think they knew you’d come here, to my house?”

  “Surely not. No one knows I’m your brother.”

  “What a mess.”

  “I know. If I don’t pay whatever they ask, this villain will turn everything over to Sabrina’s husband. There will be nowhere to hide and all my work—” He placed his elbow on the table and rested his forehead in his hand. “Everything will be ruined. I’ll be humiliated.”

  “Being humiliated is the least of your worries if this man is as dangerous as you think he is.”

  “He’s killed three men for doing far less than what I have. The problem is that all of my capital is invested. Ver, if they ask for money, I’m sunk. Everything I have is tied up.”

  “How long before they contact you?”

  “It should be any day now.” He swallowed a little co
nvulsively. “What will we do?”

  “The right thing,” she said with a bravado she was far from feeling. “Perhaps, if I’m very, very lucky, I can find a wealthy suitor who will marry me and hand over a large sum as a wedding gift.”

  She’d been joking, trying to lighten the moment, but he immediately brightened. “Perfect! Are there any wealthy men hanging about? One you could finagle into an engagement?”

  Verena had to laugh. “James! I have no desire to sell my freedom for a few guineas. Not even for you.”

  He tried to hide his disappointment. “Oh. Of course not. Although…you wouldn’t have to actually marry anyone, you know. Just tempt and tease. Get him excited, then tell him you need some money for a modiste’s bill or some such nonsense and—”

  At her lifted brows, he managed a weak grin. “I know, I know. I’m just teasing. Father always said it would take a Greek god before you married again.”

  That was sadly true. Though she had quite a few admirers, none were acceptable. Not even handsome, urbane Chase St. John. Within moments of meeting the young peer, it had become obvious that they shared a sense of the ridiculous. They got along famously, but only because he reminded her so much of James that she could not bring herself to completely rebuff him.

  “Ver, what am I going to do? I just know they will want more money than I can gather. I’m doomed.”

  Verena bit her lip. How could she help James? Her coffers were rarely full. Her gaze was drawn to the table. There was one way to help James.

  She placed her fingers on the cards and smiled as excitement trilled along her spine. She was tired of hiding, tired of barely making ends meet, tired of being careful. It was the time for bold action. Feeling more alive than she had in four years, Verena picked up the deck of cards and shuffled them, her fingers blurring with the motion.

  She dealt out four hands. “Turn up the top cards.”

  He did as she instructed. On the top of each pile of cards lay a queen. He grinned up at her, realization dawning. “You are the best.”

  The words warmed her heart. She’d missed having her family nearby. Oh, she’d tried to compensate by developing friendships, but she found herself holding back from most overtures, a sad effect of her upbringing. She rather thought the family motto should not have been “Forever Intrepid,” but “Trust No One.”

  Still…one had to have acquaintances, at least. So Verena began holding a dinner party the first Tuesday of every month. She invited a variety of people, most of them the wittier members of the demimonde. They ate, drank, laughed and talked, and she was always careful that the food was magnificent, the wine outstanding, and the conversation never boring. Soon, invitations to her parties were treasured items.

  In fact, she’d just held her last dinner party, not two weeks ago. Among her regular guests had been Lady Jessup’s new admirer, Lord Humford, who had, according to the gossips, disappeared shortly thereafter. It was rumored that he owed a great deal of money for his folly at the tables and that his options were to flee the country or be tossed into debtor’s prison. Verena was quite sure she’d have chosen a life of exciting travel over prison, as well.

  She caught James’s gaze and patted his hand. “Don’t worry about the money, however much they may ask. We will find a way to raise it. But it will be my way and by my terms or not at all.”

  “Ver, thank you! Are you certain this won’t get you in trouble somehow?”

  “Surely even a Lansdowne deserves a winning streak.” Only one, of course. But one would be enough.

  Smiling to herself, she sat down with James and began to play.

  Chapter 3

  There are 365 days in a year but only seven sins. That means that one can commit each of the seven sins a total of 51 times over the course of a year and still have an entire week left for atonement. Of course, that’s if you commit only one sin a day; a really determined fellow could work in a lot more.

  Mr. Scrope Davies to Edmund Valmont, while watching a sparring match at Jackson’s Salon

  The black and yellow phaeton rolled to a stop in front of the narrow lodging on Kings Street, the matched set of grays prancing daintily. A wizened individual dressed in the buff and blue uniform of the St. Johns hopped down and raced to hold the horses.

  Brand glanced at the gray sky above with a glum glare. Damned rain. That’s all he needed to make this day a complete and utter waste.

  He glanced at the groom. “Walk the horses. I shouldn’t be above ten minutes.”

  The groom led the horses off as Brandon made his way to the front stoop. He placed his foot on the bottom step and paused to pull off his gloves as the wind tugged hard on the length of his greatcoat.

  The residence appeared presentable, which was surprising considering the type of female Chase admired. Brandon could just imagine the mysterious Lady Westforth—he had little doubt that she painted her face and wore gowns cut to her navel, if she bothered even to dress at all. Chase’s taste in women ran toward the obvious.

  Last year, when Marcus had sent Devon to pay off one of Chase’s charmers, the lady in question had held the entire interview wearing nothing more than a sheet. Devon had been thrilled.

  Brand might have enjoyed this little drama himself if only his neck didn’t ache and his eyes feel as if he’d rubbed them with sand. God knew it would make an amusing story to tell at White’s, if nothing else.

  The skies overhead rumbled threateningly. Brandon shoved his gloves into the pocket of his greatcoat. This should be relatively easy. All he had to do was convince Lady Westforth that it was in her best interests to leave Chase alone for a few weeks. His interest would wane; it always did. Brandon smiled grimly. He’d be through with this little errand before noon.

  Brandon walked up the steps to the wide oak door and rapped lightly. Leaves skittered by, the wind swirling them into little whirlpools of brown and gold. He shifted from one foot to the other, the cold seeping through the soles of his boots.

  The sky rumbled again and the breeze stiffened, cold fingers of air ruffling his uncovered head. Why didn’t someone answer the door? He grasped the brass ring and banged it firmly.

  A long moment passed. Finally, shuffling footsteps could be heard. The door opened and a tall, cadaverous individual stood in the opening, his nose suspiciously red, the faint reek of brandy sifting through the air.

  The man hoisted his breeches and eyed Brand up and down before saying in an avuncular voice, “Here now, was that yew a-banging on me door?”

  Brand’s faint sense of irritation increased. “Yes, I knocked on the door. How else would you have known to answer it?”

  The man scrunched up his nose as if considering this. “Oiye moight have known ye was here a’coss of the sound of yer carriage pullin’ up.” He beamed as if he’d just explained a complicated mathematical theorem. “Didn’t think o’ that, did ye?”

  Brand took a steadying breath, his temper on the rise. “Is Lady Westforth home? I wish to speak with her now, please.”

  “Here now, guv’nor! There’s no need to be ticky. Oiye can hear ye jus’ fine without yer yelpin’ like a scalded dog.”

  Good lord, it was bad enough that Brandon had to consort with women the caliber of this Westforth woman, but to be subjected to her ill-trained staff was more than Brandon could handle, especially today.

  He’d be damned if he’d miss another of Marcus’s meetings. Ever. Hell, he might just move into Treymount House in order to ascertain that not only did he not miss a bloody meeting, but that he was the first one present.

  He rubbed a hand to his forehead where a faint echoing ache was beginning to form. “Is Lady Westforth receiving callers?”

  “She moight be.” The man wiped his nose with the back of his hand and gave a very wet sniff. “And then agin, she moight not. Whot’s it to ye?”

  If the servant was any indication of the quality of the woman of the house, then Brand’s job would be quick work indeed. “Inform Lady Westforth that I am here.
” He reached into his coat pocket and produced a heavy vellum card. “My name is Brandon St. John. I need only two minutes of Lady Westforth’s time.” Not even that if she was as desperate for funds as her caliber of butler made it seem.

  The butler took the card between his fingers and squinted at it. “Mr. St. John, eh? Oiye’ll tell her ye’re here.” The butler peered over the card at Brandon and gave him one last suspicious look. Then, to Brandon’s utter amazement, the man stepped back and shut the door firmly in his face.

  In all of Brandon’s years, he’d never been left to cool his heels on the front stoop like a tradesman who’d found his way to the wrong door. It was galling.

  By God, he hadn’t come here to be left on the stoop. His temper crackled into flames as he reached for the knocker. Before he could slam the brass ring into the wood, the door was yanked open yet again.

  The butler gave him a sheepish grin, a single gold tooth glinting in the light. “The missus said ye wasn’t to be left on the stoop.” He stood to one side and waved at Brandon to enter. “Oiye’m to show ye to the sittin’ room. Ain’t ye a lucky bloke?”

  Brandon wished he could just turn and walk away, but that would only mean delaying the inevitable. So instead, he swallowed his ire and walked into the foyer. He waited for the butler to offer to take his coat, but the man merely stood there grinning like a fool.

  “It’s me first week, ye know. Oiye’m not conversant with all the rules yet.”

  Brand wasn’t going to argue with that. He shrugged out of his greatcoat, then handed it to the butler.

  “Hoo! Ye shouldn’t do thet! Wish oiye could accept it but the missus’d have me hide if oiye took such a handsome gift.” The butler reluctantly handed the coat back to Brand, who was too stunned to say a word.

  “There ye are, guvnor! If ye wish to reward me, all oiye want is me shillin’.”

  “Shilling?”

  “Fer openin’ the door fer ye—”

  “Herberts!” came a feminine voice from the stairs.