Confessions of a Scoundrel

by Karen Hawkins

  “Oh my God. James, you are right. We do have to find this list.” She pressed her fingertips to her temples. “But…how big is this thing? And how long? And what’s on it? Are there ten names? Or a hundred buildings? It could even be in code so that it looks like a laundry list. Or the contents of the prince’s cravat drawer, for that matter. Or even—”

  “Easy!” James gave a wry smile. “Don’t let your imagination get carried away. Our situation is difficult enough.”

  “We must try and find it.” She looked around the room. “I suppose we should start here.”

  “My thinking exactly.”

  “I’ll tell Herberts to have your carriage returned to the stables for now.”

  “Very well. I’ll start in the front hall.”

  “I’ll start in the dining room. That’s where he was when he realized this list was gone.”

  James went to the door and held it open. “After you.”

  Two hours later, they were back in the sitting room, this time Verena sat on the chair near the fire while James lay on the settee. They’d searched the house top to bottom, even peering into the attic. They were both disheveled, dust on their shoulders. A cobweb hung from James’s left ear. They’d combed the house as thoroughly as possible. They’d even involved the servants, though Verena hadn’t been able to tell them more than she’d lost a piece of paper.

  She sighed wearily and stretched her feet before her, noting that her left slipper was scuffed. A loud knock heralded the entrance of Herberts who carried a tray containing scones and a gently steaming pot of tea.

  Verena straightened thankfully. “Lovely! I am so hungry.”

  “So oiye thought, m’lady,” Herberts said setting the tray on the small table. “Oiye said to Cook, ‘None o’ us know whot they’re lookin’ fer, but take me word, they’re workin’ up a hunger.’”

  “Well, you were quite right,” Verena said.

  Herberts nodded, watching as she poured two cups of tea. He leaned toward James and said in a confidential voice, “There’s brandy in the top right-hand drawer o’ the desk. Not much, mind ye, but enough to put some flavor in that dishwater her ladyship favors.”

  James grinned and got up from the settee. “Herberts, you’re worth your weight in gold.”

  The butler’s thin cheeks stained a pleased pink and he puffed out his narrow chest. “Weel now, oiye tries me best, oiye do.” He beamed pleasantly. “Did ye find what ye were lookin’ fer, m’lady?”

  “No, I’m afraid not.”

  “Can oiye ask whot it is thet ye’re missin’? Bein’ a collector o’ sorts, there’s little thet gets by me eye.”

  Verena sent a glance at James. Should she tell the butler? James answered with a faint shrug. She looked down at the gently steaming cup and sighed. What could be the harm? “We’ve lost something very important. It’s a list.”

  “A list, eh? Of whot?”

  “I don’t know.” At his confused glance, she hurried to add, “It’s not my list, it belongs to someone else. But they lost it here and I cannot find it.”

  “Oiye take it thet this list is valuable?”

  “Very. More than I can say.”

  “Never fear, m’lady. Oiye’ll find yer list or me name ain’t Henry Harold Henry Herberts.”

  James, who was in the middle of sipping his doctored tea, choked.

  The butler nodded sagely. “’Tis a muddled name, isn’t it guv’nor? ’Tis why oiye wanted to become a butler. No one cares ’bout me Christian name—everyone jus’ calls me Herberts. ’Tis a relief in a way.” He made sure Verena had enough crème for her scone and then he went back to the door. “Call if ye needs me. Oiye’ll be in the hallway with Peters, trainin’ him on the correct way to open the door.”

  James chuckled as the butler left. “I wish Father could meet your Herberts.”

  “I don’t. Father might corrupt him.” She sank her teeth into a buttered scone, sighing with pleasure as the cake filled her mouth. It was some few moments before she could speak again. “I wonder if there aren’t some other clues to be found.”

  “Where?”

  “I don’t know…somewhere. Maybe at the dinner party.”

  James finished his scone, nodding thoughtfully. “Do you have a guest list for the night of the dinner party?”

  “Certainly.” She rose and went to the escritoire that rested in one corner of the room and opened it to reveal a messy pile of papers. She fished for a moment, then held up a much crossed piece of foolscap. “Here it is.”

  James took the paper and read through the names. He raised his brows. “Impressive. You move in exalted company.”

  She curled her nose. “Tell Mr. Brandon St. John that, will you? He thinks me little better than a common doxy.”

  James frowned. “What are you going to do about him and the kiss you owe him?”

  Verena choked. “Good God, how did you come to hear—” She clamped her mouth closed.

  “Lady Farley,” he said succinctly.

  “I should have known. That woman is a horrid gossip.”

  “Ver, what were you thinking? I cannot believe you were so naive as to wager a kiss.”

  “I know, I know. I was a little—” She bit her lip. She was not about to admit to James that she’d had too much port. Especially not after she’d warned him so many times to be on his best behavior.

  James shook his head, a frown on his brow. “I hate to admit it, but you don’t have a choice now. St. John is the type of man that the more you thwart him, the more determined he’ll be to have you.”

  “I don’t want to kiss him.” She’d already done that. What she really wanted was for him to kiss her. But James wouldn’t understand that any better than she understood it herself.

  James regarded her for a moment, his gaze examining her narrowly. “Are you certain?”

  “Of course. Although we must discover what he knows about this. There has to be a reason he mentioned Humford’s death in such a way. It was almost as if it was a test of some sort.”

  James rubbed his chin. “You’re right. Meet with him then, but wait until I’m present.”

  “Very well. It doesn’t matter to me if, or when, I ever see him again,” Verena lied. She was fascinated and she knew it. “I have to wonder what he really wants.”

  James snorted. “I can tell you that.”

  Verena’s cheeks heated. “Nonsense. He has access to far too many women to be interested in me. No, I think he has another reason. I wonder if he suspects us of being involved in Humford’s death.” Which was a very lowering thought indeed.

  “Nonsense. He just wants an excuse to be with you. You underestimate your attractiveness, Verena. You always have. You look just like Mother.”

  “Thank you. There’s no greater compliment.”

  He smiled quizzically. “Do you miss them?”

  “Our parents? Of course. But I wanted a different way of life and Father—” She shook her head. “He never approved of my marriage to Westforth.”

  “He has high expectations. I don’t think he’s approved of my way of life, either.”

  “That’s not true. He’s always said you were merely looking for the right enterprise and that once you found it, you’d excel as no one has ever excelled before.”

  “I certainly hope he’s right about that.” James tucked the guest list in his pocket. “I should be on my way. Humford’s lodgings may yield more clues.”

  “I’ll go with you.”

  James glanced at St. John’s calling card, which she still held in her hand. “What about your meeting at six? We may not be back by then.”

  “That’s quite all right. I want to meet with him again, but on my terms.” She smiled to think of his irritation on returning to her house and finding that she’d just left yet again. Whatever the outcome, she was enjoying this little game. She caught James’s worried expression and grinned. “Never fear. I may have married Westforth, but I was born a Lansdowne.”

 
“Don’t make St. John wait too long. He is not the kind of man to take such maneuvering kindly. But one kiss, Verena…one very short kiss.”

  Verena looked down at Brandon’s calling card, the smooth texture delightful on her fingertips. His signature was very like the kiss he’d given her—bold and sweeping. She wondered idly if he was even capable of something less…a warm, gentle kiss perhaps. Feathery light and—She almost smiled. She couldn’t imagine Brandon St. John doing anything so tame.

  She caught James’s curious stare and blushed. “I suppose I could give him a very short kiss, though I fear it will make him angry. Although since people tend to blurt out the first thing on their minds when they’re angry, this could work to my benefit. If he’s primed just right, he’ll tell us how he’s involved with this mess, and then I can send him on his way.”

  His brow cleared. “You remind me of mother when you talk like that.”

  “Father doesn’t call her his Bastion of Logic for nothing.”

  James put his arm about her and gave her a hug. “You’re just like her. I’d kiss your cheek but you’ve a smudge.”

  “And you’ve a cobweb on your left ear.”

  He wiped his ear and grinned. “I’ll comb my hair if you will comb yours.”

  “Done.”

  Within moments, they had cleaned the cobwebs and dust the best they could.

  Then they called for a carriage and embarked for Humford’s lodgings, leaving Herberts and Peters to keep all intruders at bay.

  At exactly six o’clock, Brandon St. John presented himself at the front door of the Westforth residence. He was already in a foul mood—not only had Verena not appeared this morning, but he’d had no luck in discovering anything more about Wycham’s situation. He’d gone over every scrap of information Wycham had given him. He’d even attempted to contact Sir Colburn, a gentleman Devon knew from the Home Office.

  Brand glanced up at the silent house before him and frowned. It seemed quiet—almost too quiet. He sent his groom to walk the horses and then ran up the stairs. Once he reached the landing, he tucked his gloves into his pockets and rapped the knocker.

  To his surprise, the door was opened before the first rap had even faded into silence. Herberts didn’t answer the door, but a rather freckle-faced behemoth with a gap-toothed smile. He straightened importantly and cleared his throat. “Here, now. Whatcha wantin’?”

  Brand paused. “Where’s Herberts?”

  “Roight here, oiye am,” Herberts replied, beaming around the giant’s shoulder. “Oiye’m trainin’ the new footman. Here now, Peters, stand back a bit so as oiye can see the gent.”

  The footman stepped back and Herberts smiled benignly. “How’re ye doin’, Mr. St. John? Weather’s a bit dicey, ain’t it?”

  The weather was no more uncertain than Brandon’s temper. “I’ve come to see Lady Westforth.”

  “Did ye now? Whot a pity.”

  “A pity? Why’s that?”

  “She ain’t here, not properly speakin’.”

  Brandon’s foul mood soured even more. “Did you give her my card as I requested?”

  “O’ course oiye did! Handed it roight to her when she and Mr. Lansdowne come home.”

  Mr. Lansdowne. Brandon decided that he hated that name. Hated it with a passion. “I take it that Lady Westforth left after Mr. Lansdowne.”

  “Oh no! They went together, they did. They’ve important business to attend to, ye know. Horrible business.”

  Brandon frowned. “What are you talking about? What horrible business? Has something happened or—”

  “Oops!” The butler bit his lip. “Oiye don’t think oiye was a’posed to say anything about thet, so let’s jus’ pretend oiye didn’t.” He looked over his shoulder at Peters, who still hovered in the background. “Ye see how oiye did thet? Oiye let some of Lady Westforth’s private business out in public? Don’t ever do thet. It’s agin the rules.”

  Herberts turned back to Brandon. “Oiye’ll tell Lady W ye was here. Ye’d best get on yer way.” He peered over Brandon’s shoulder at the sky and shook his head. “It do look like rain, don’t it?”

  Brandon followed the man’s gaze to the darkening sky. “I doubt—”

  Thud! The door closed firmly, leaving Brandon standing on the landing.

  By God! He was a St. John. People did not treat him this way.

  He sucked in his breath, raked a hand through his hair. Damn it, he’d discover whatever secrets Verena was hiding, claim his bloody kiss, and show her that he was not a man to be trifled with.

  Verena was about to discover the price of playing with a man born with an ill temper. He was certain it was far higher than she was willing to pay. Far, far higher.

  Chapter 11

  In my first season, I wanted a man of wit and grace—the first son of an earl would have done. Last season I lowered my sights to the second or third son of a viscount. Now I’d settle for a man more plump in the pocket than he is in the waist.

  Miss Mitford to her mama, Mrs. Mitford, while the two were making a list of “possible suitors” for Miss Mitford’s (regrettably) third season

  The rain came with a vengeance. It slashed, thrashed, poured and pelted. Though Brandon had his hat firmly on his head, the collar of his greatcoat pulled up about his ears, cold water seeped through the heavy wool, weighting his shoulders and soaking through to his shirt.

  Brand ignored it all. Every hour, on the hour, he came to the Westforth townhouse. And every hour, on the hour, Herberts trudged to the door to tell him that Verena had not yet returned.

  But at eleven, something changed. Lights were on in parts of the house. Brand squinted through the rain for a long moment. Finally, he turned to his footman. “Take the carriage home.”

  The man blinked, water dripping from his hat brim in a steady stream. “Home, sir?”

  “Home.” With that, Brandon strode to the front door, grabbed the brass knocker and pounded on the door. After a long moment, it opened.

  Herberts stood in the doorway, Peters nowhere in sight. “Bloody ’ell, guv’nor! Ye’re too fine of a gent to be standin’ in the rain. What do ye want now?”

  “For you to open the bloody door,” Brand snapped.

  “Here now, there’s no need to get in a huff. Oiye came as soon as oiye could. Me room is below stairs, ye know. And ’tis a bit o’ a walk.”

  Rain dripped off the eaves and found Brand’s collar. He swallowed, trying to control his temper. “I want to speak to Lady Westforth. Now. And don’t try and tell me she’s not in.”

  The butler scratched his nose. “It’s late, ye know. Very late. And ye’re as wet as them cobblestones in the street. Ye might muss me rugs.”

  Brand rubbed a wet hand over his wetter face. “I don’t give a damn about your rugs.”

  “If ye gets the rugs wet, ye know who’ll be dryin’ em out, don’t ye? Me, thet’s who.”

  “She’s in, isn’t she?”

  Herberts grinned, his gold tooth shining. “Aye. But now she’s not receivin’ company, it bein’ so late and all.”

  Brandon lifted his hat and raked his hair back from his face. It was a mistake, for immediately a thick stream of cold water oozed down his collar. He slapped his hat back into place. “That does it. I am no longer asking.”

  “No?” Herberts glanced over his shoulder. “Oiye wonder where Peters has wondered off to?”

  “Stand aside, Herberts, or I’ll knock out every tooth you have left in that empty gourd you call a head.” The butler hesitated and Brand pushed his way past the man. “I need to speak with Lady Westforth, rugs be damned.”

  Herberts sighed. “Ye’re askin’ fer it, ye know.” At Brand’s furious glare, he held up a hand. “Not from me! From Lady W. She don’t go with bad manners. Hates ’em, she does.”

  Brand shoved out of his coat and handed the dripping mass of wool to the butler, placing his soggy hat on top of the pile. “Tell Lady Westforth that I’m here.”

  The butler l
aid the hat and coat on a side table where they dripped a steady stream of water on the marble floor, seeping onto the edge of the red rug that lined the hall. He shook his head disgustedly. “Oh, very weel. I’ll tell her. What’s yer title?”

  “You know my name and title. I’m Mr. Brandon St. John.”

  “Well ye act like a bloody earl, ye do. Ye burst in here like ye was born to the purple.”

  Brandon’s shoulders and neck were completely wet, as was most of his back. His shirt stuck to him beneath his evening coat, and he could no longer feel his feet in his wet boots. “Either you tell Lady Westforth that I have come to call or I will personally search the house for her.” Brand leaned closer and said through his clenched teeth, “Dripping water the entire way.”

  “Ugly when ye’re irritated, ain’t ye? Oiye suppose there’s naught fer it, but to fetch m’lady.” The man’s hand slid out, as stealthy as a snake.

  Brand reached into his pocket and fished out a coin and then tossed it to the butler.

  The man eyed the coin for a long moment, then sighed. “Very well. This way, guv’nor.” He led the way to the sitting room where he tossed open the door and said in a grand voice, “Lady Westforth, oiye fink ye’ve got a visitor—”

  “Herberts,” Verena’s exasperated voice lifted through the doorway. “I specifically told you not to allow anyone—”

  Brand stepped inside.

  Verena sat at a small escritoire, a quill in her hand. As soon as she saw Brand, she replaced the quill in the holder with a hard jab. She stood, her face pink. “I thought I said no visitors.”

  “I didn’t give him a chance.” Brandon strolled to the fire that burned merrily in the grate and held his hands to the welcome warmth.

  “Oiye couldn’t keep him out, missus,” Herberts said with a shake of his head. “He seems determined to see ye.”

  “I am even more determined not to see him. Show him out.” Her eyes snapped fire at Brand. “I do not appreciate you forcing your way into my house.”

  “I’ve thought you many things, Lady Westforth,” Brand said, noting grimly the steam rising from his clothing. “But I never thought you a welch.”