Always a Scoundrel (22 page)

“Yes, he is,” Beth agreed, shifting away from her practically combusting brothers.

“The thing is, Beth,” Rosamund continued, “I have recently discovered the difference between wicked and monstrous. And I’m afraid that Cosgrove knows of Bram’s fondness for you and your brothers, and he may be looking to cause trouble.”

“But you and Cosgrove are friends,” Beth argued, facing Bram.

Damnation. Being good wasn’t nearly as fun as either
being bad or simply not caring. “We used to be friends,” he said slowly. “We’re not any longer. King overstepped a line not even I could cross.” He scowled. “And however surprised you may be by that, I am even more so. It’s not a challenge to how grown up you are, Beth, because you are a stunning young lady. If I wasn’t terrified of you—Well, I am, so there’s no getting around that. Be cautious of him, my dove. Keep your distance from him. Will you?”

Beth swallowed. “Yes,” she answered, her lilting voice unsteady.

The ladies excused themselves from the table after that, and Bram sent a regretful look after Rosamund. Clearly he was becoming irredeemably softheaded. As a new experience, being in love was powerful, and at the same time petrifying.

With the way he’d spent the last ten or so years of his life, someone else’s approval of his behavior or his actions—intended or already perpetrated—should have meant less than nothing. But where she was concerned, that wasn’t so. Not even nearly.

Rosamund hadn’t scoffed when he’d again offered his assistance. Nor had she thrown herself at his feet and begged for help, ever. She was more levelheaded than he, and more circumspect.
Love
. He didn’t think he’d ever said the damned word before except in the sarcastic recitation of poetry or to poke fun at others. It didn’t mean what he’d expected.

As he’d said it, he hadn’t been thinking of what
he
wanted or what
he
needed. He’d been solely and utterly concerned with the well-being, happiness, and safety of Rosamund Davies. He’d teased Phin and Sullivan about domestication and castration, but he didn’t feel weak
ened. Just the opposite. And all this without her saying that she loved him back.

An awful pain bit into his chest. Her lack of response wasn’t any of her fault, though. He was barely human, a wreck of drinking, fornicating, gambling offal. But she hadn’t run away. She’d agreed to give him the chance to save her—and thereby to save himself, as well.

“Thank you, Bram,” Quence said heavily, once the chits were out of earshot. “I don’t think Beth would have listened to anyone but you.”

Bram took a swallow of port. “It was my fault.” He stared into the glass, the slow anger he’d felt at Beth’s confession spreading through him, out to the very tips of his fingers. “You lot should keep clear of me. That’s only a warning shot where King is concerned.”

“A fairly devastating one,” Phin observed, his own expression grim.

“I say we kill the bastard.” Sullivan refilled his own glass and downed it.

“Finally a suggestion I can embrace.” Bram pushed to his feet. Games were well and good, but not when those dear to him could be hurt. He would do the deed, of course; no sense getting his friends hanged or transported. At least Rosamund would be safe. She couldn’t very well be forced to marry a dead man.

“Sit down,” the viscount ordered. “I won’t have murder plotted at my table.”

“Then we’ll go outside,” Phin retorted. “It could have been worse than a kiss, and you know it.”

“No.” Bram shook his head, seating himself again. “You lot are keeping clear of this. It’s me he’s playing with. After he sent Miranda to bait me last night I should have—”

“He what?”

Damn Phin and his need for facts
. “I enjoyed Miranda because she didn’t put any demands on my intelligence. Unfortunately she doesn’t become more brilliant in my absence. Cosgrove’s making use of her stupidity by giving her my old signet ring and having her flaunt it in front of me.”

“She’s another man’s wife, Bram.”

“And I’m no saint, William.” He took a breath. None of this was Quence’s fault. “If it makes any difference, I turned her away weeks ago—which probably made it easier for Cosgrove to get beneath her skirts. But it still comes back to me.”

“And to Lady Rose.”

Bram sent a glare at Sullivan. “She’s the only innocent party in all of this. Well, aside from Beth.”

“An innocent party to whom you proposed.”

“What?
” For one of the few times he could recall, Phin looked genuinely stunned. “I think my head’s going to explode.”

Sullivan leaned forward. “Alyse didn’t tell you? After I informed Tibby and then revived her with smelling salts, she and Alyse were all aflutter about it.”

“Will you lot stop meandering off the bloody path?” Bram growled. “I proposed; she turned me down. Hardly a surprise, given that she’s…” He trailed off. He’d nearly begun to rattle off a string of adjectives like “perfect” and “miraculous” and “magnificent,” and that would never do. “She’s good, and I’m not.”

“Bram—”

“I have ten days to either get Cosgrove ten thousand quid or spirit Rosamund away to be a governess somewhere. I’m trying to avoid the latter, because she actu
ally feels responsible for her daft family.” And because he couldn’t stand the thought of not being able to see her again.

“Where are you going to get ten thousand pounds, then?” Sullivan asked. “Most of my blunt’s in livestock right now, but I can give you a thousand.”

“We can spare about the same, on short notice,” Phin put in, glancing at his older brother. Quence nodded.

So they stepped forward, when his own brother turned him away. “No. I’m not taking money you’re using elsewhere, and don’t you dare try to tell me you’re not.” Bram smiled grimly. “I think we can all agree that I’m proficient at a few things, gambling being one of them. I’ll manage it.”

“Not if you want her.”

“Yes, well, that’s the blasted rub, isn’t it, Sullivan? I damned myself years ago, and as…as much as I’d like to ride in on a white horse and win the fair maiden, all I can do at the moment is attempt a rescue the best way I know how. And hope that if I don’t cause too much destruction, maybe she’ll…I’ll…devil a bit. I don’t know. I just need to help her.”

“God, Bram.” Phin visibly shook himself. “As easy as it would be to make fun of you for finally acquiring a soul, you’re a clever bastard. Figure something out.”

“Everyone’s being so bloody helpful these days.”

“If I may,” Quence put in after a moment, “I can’t claim to have fought the French or performed suicidal acts of bravery, but—”

“William.”

“Steady, Phin. I’m making a point. I haven’t done those things, but you have. You don’t have to own a white horse. Just do the correct thing.”

If it were only that easy
. Bram frowned. “I am not—”

“Act the hero,” Quence cut in.

Sullivan sat back. “Faint heart never won fair lady.”

Phineas grinned. “Charge.”

“You lot are damned idiots. You do know that.”

“Yes, but we’re loyal ones.” Phin’s expression sobered. “Go do what you need to, but for God’s sake, remember that we’re here. Ask us for anything, and it’s yours.”

“Now you’re going to make me weep.” Standing again, Bram finished off his glass. Shoving back at an emotion that felt oddly like hope, he offered them a crisp salute. “See that she gets home safe.”

“What
are
you going to do?” Sullivan asked belatedly.

“I’m going to retrieve something that belongs to me, and then I’ll see if I can manage to act anything like a hero.”

Despite the fact that the Black Cat had emerged as the most effective way yet to aggravate the duke, Bram had to admit that he’d lost the urge to take things he neither wanted nor needed from other people’s homes. Whether this new reluctance to hurt others had anything to do with his meeting Rosamund or whether that was just a large, unlikely, tremendous coincidence, he didn’t care to debate.

The fact remained, the Cat was finished. In a week or a month his exploits would be forgotten, and some new offense would take his place in the gossip-riddled minds of his fellows.

Well, he was nearly finished, Bram amended silently. Crouching into the shadows, he tied the black half mask across his face. Whatever supposedly inspiring words with which his friends had gifted him, he needed to see
to one thing before he could set aside at least the most obvious trappings of his own villainy. After that—well, Ulysses was considered a hero, and he was exceedingly crafty. Cunning and not above tricking his enemies, even. Perhaps Bram could manage to be that sort of hero. After tonight.

The last of the lights finally went out in Lord and Lady Ackley’s rooms above stairs. Knowing Cosgrove, Miranda had probably earned the ruby signet ring rather than being gifted with it. The fact remained, though, that it hadn’t been Cosgrove’s to give her. Nor was it Miranda’s to have now, whatever position she’d lain in to receive it.

And if he could reclaim a bit of his family’s good name, perhaps he could begin to reclaim a bit of his own.

He’d stashed Titan two streets away in Lord Greethy’s old orchard, and hopefully the big fellow wouldn’t give himself a sour stomach from eating green apples. The black was nearly as recognizable as his rider, though, and neither of them could be found near a burgled property.

Jamming his fingers deeper into his black leather gloves, Bram waited another twenty minutes or so before he straightened from his hiding place and made his way closer to the house. His heartbeat quickened as he shoved at the breakfast room window and felt it give.

In addition to the satisfaction he found in annoying the duke, he enjoyed the challenge of getting in and out of somewhere he wasn’t supposed to be. Even if he might otherwise have been invited to come calling.

It was only the latest thing he’d found with which he
could amuse himself; one sin, one vice after another had fallen before him. Bram slipped in through the window and closed it again behind him. No sense letting a stray servant know something was amiss.

For once the thing he’d come to steal was his. It felt like the closing of a chapter; he would make himself whole, and then he would stop. And he wouldn’t look back. For the first time since he could remember, he had something ahead of him. Someone whose heart he wanted to win, just as she’d already won his.

Luckily in this instance not only did he know the layout of the house, but he also knew where Miranda put the little gifts she wished kept from her husband. And he knew that Lord Ackley was in Surrey—which didn’t necessarily mean Lady Ackley would be alone, but it changed the dynamics of the household.

As he considered it, he’d been a supreme fool, going from one unavailable woman to another ostensibly to keep himself amused, but more likely to keep from having to spend a night in his own damned company. As if dallying with married women would ever leave him anything but alone. And how interesting that lately he’d been discovering that his own company wasn’t as bad as he remembered.

At the top of the main staircase he turned down the north hallway, his boot steps silent on the long carpet runner. He couldn’t recall that Ulysses had ever stolen back a trinket from a former lover, but then Bram hadn’t given it to her. He’d lost it through being a fool, and he wanted that part of his life finished and over with. Therefore, he needed the ring back.

Miranda’s bedchamber and Ackley’s were joined by a long dressing room. Moving cautiously, he pushed
open the door to the master bedchamber. It was dark, and thankfully deserted. This was proving to be as simple as some of the break-ins that had annoyed him previously, but this time he was thankful for it.

The dressing room door stood partway open. He leaned around it to peer inside. The door to Miranda’s private rooms stood open, as well.

Bram paused, listening. After a moment he made out the distinctive panting sounds of Lady Ackley being serviced. If her visitor was Cosgrove, the task at hand became trickier—and at the same time more satisfying. Taking the chicken out from under the fox’s nose, as it were. Or the chicken feed, rather.

With a quiet breath, he lifted a pair of hatboxes from a shelf and set them aside. Behind them sat a third hatbox. Though he couldn’t make out the details in the dark, he knew it to be an unattractive shade of olive, dilapidated and peeling. To Miranda this clearly signaled that whatever was inside must be equally unappetizing. As a burglar, it would have been the first thing in the room to pique his interest—a woman as vain as Lady Ackley didn’t keep tattered boxes about unless they held something of significance.

The sounds in the bedchamber grew louder and more urgent. A few weeks ago that might have been he. Another wasted evening with someone for whom he felt a general contempt—contempt that he also felt for himself. God, what an idiot he’d been.

Was still, if he couldn’t win Rosamund. Bram shook himself. Time for self-assessments later. He was in the middle of a damned burglary, for Lucifer’s sake. Swiftly he pulled the lid from the box. Tilting the thing to try to catch some reflected moonlight, he looked inside.

It contained all the baubles Lady Ackley wished to keep from Lord Ackley’s notice. A pearl necklace, several bracelets and ivory hair clips, French perfume—an adult’s version of a child’s treasure box. And inside an enameled bowl, a trio of rings. Including his ruby signet ring.

His hand unexpectedly unsteady, Bram lifted it out of its nest. For thirteen years he’d seen it on Cosgrove’s hand, and figured he deserved the perpetual punishment. And now it was his again. He clenched his fist around it.

“You can’t be seen walking about my house in only your trousers,” Miranda’s voice came. “Ackley has a dressing robe across the foot of his bed.”

Damnation
. Moving swiftly, Bram picked up the entire hatbox, then slipped out of the dressing room. Tucking his ring into a pocket, he hurried through the master bedchamber and out into the hallway. Whether Miranda would know what had happened to her trinkets or not,
he
would greatly enjoy knowing that St. Michael’s Church had either sold them off or distributed them to the poor.

If she hadn’t given her little performance at the theater he might have forgone the theft, but any charity he’d felt toward her had vanished when she’d insulted Rosamund. She would just have to begin her collection all over again, and without his contribution to the lot.

With a grim smile he returned to the breakfast room, shoved open the window, and swiftly climbed back outside. There. One last visit to St. Michael’s and the Black Cat would finally be retired. Hopefully a hero would rise in his place.

The Marquis of Cosgrove stepped back from the breakfast room door. If he hadn’t half expected that Bramwell would attempt to retrieve his ring, he would never have noticed the two out-of-place hatboxes and the third missing one. What he hadn’t anticipated was that Lord Bramwell Johns would be wearing a black half mask, especially with rumors of the Black Cat flying everywhere. Now
that
had some distinct possibilities.

Shrugging into the shirt he carried bunched in one hand, Cosgrove padded barefoot through the back of the house and outside to where his horse waited behind the stable. Swinging up, unmindful of the chill in the air, he set off in the direction Bram had been heading.

Three minutes later he spied big Titan, Bramwell on his back, headed southwest. Cosgrove stayed well behind the horse and rider; even with the streets nearly deserted, another rider wouldn’t be unusual—unless he happened to be following the one other rider out at this hour. Moving at a slow trot, he trailed them out of Mayfair and into Knightsbridge. Wherever the troublesome lad was going, he knew the way.

Finally Bramwell stopped beside a small church and dismounted. Taking the missing hatbox down from the saddle, he climbed the stone steps and pulled one of the double doors open to slip inside. Moving just as quickly, Cosgrove caught up, leaving his horse on the far side of the building, and slipped up to one of the stained glass windows.

The lad was bold, to willingly enter a church with some of the deeds he’d committed. As the marquis watched, Bramwell’s dark, distorted image walked up to the front pew and set down the hatbox. Then he walked to a door behind the altar, knocked three times,
waited, rapped twice more, and exited the building again. Slowly Cosgrove returned to his own mount.

That knock had been a signal—one that he’d clearly used before. Bramwell Lowry Johns, second son of the Duke of Levonzy,
was
the Black Cat. In retrospect, it made sense, the clever bastard.

In the morning King would return to this little house of worship and have the priest sign a statement attesting to that very thing. A generous donation, or better yet, threats, would be just the thing to convince the godly fellow.

He believed in manipulating his own luck, but nothing less than providence could explain this. Because he’d expected for some time that this would end with Bramwell dead. What he hadn’t realized was that he could have the legal system of England see to it for him. And just to make things a bit more interesting, he would inform his bride-to-be tomorrow that there would be a slight change in their wedding plans.

“Are you certain you wish to walk?” Rosamund asked, taking Isabel Waring’s arm as they dismounted from the barouche they’d borrowed from Lord Quence.

“Oh, yes,” Tibby returned emphatically. “Driving has become far too bouncy for my comfort, but I can’t abide sitting about all day. I even miss horseback riding, and two years ago I was petrified of horses.”

That was interesting, considering that she’d married the foremost horse breeder in the country. Rose instructed their driver to go ahead and wait for them at the far end of the park. “I feel as though I’ve been sitting about far too much with nothing but my own addled brain for company, as well.”

“I do thank you for joining me,” Tibby said, chuckling. “Beth insisted that Alyse go shopping with her this morning. Beth shopping equals a run all the way from Marathon to Bond Street.”

Rose laughed. Her own stomach had found the barouche less than pleasing, but as they began their stroll along the pretty paths of St. James’s Park, it settled once more. Until she thought of Bram, which made her feel fluttery all over again.

He loved her. Even if by some awful chance she couldn’t escape Cosgrove’s trap, Bram Johns loved her.

“What are you smiling at?” Tibby asked, hugging Rose’s arm.

“Oh, I don’t know. I suppose I actually don’t have much to smile about, these days. But it is a pretty morning.”

“It is, indeed. And Bram is a very charming man.”

Rose blushed. “A few days ago, weren’t you attempting to caution me about him?”

“It would have been remiss of me not to. But I have to tell you the truth about something. I’ve never seen him—ever—act the way he does when he’s around you.”

Her heart skittered. “Is that a good thing?”

“Yes, I think it is. And I would hate to be the man or woman who crossed him.”

“Would you now?”

Ice went down Rose’s spine at the low drawl behind them. She wasn’t certain what frightened her more—that Cosgrove was there, or that he could find her wherever she seemed to be. “Keep walking, Tibby,” she whispered.

“Oh, I wouldn’t advise that. I would hate to see Mrs. Waring trip and fall in her delicate state.”

Immediately releasing Isabel’s arm, Rose turned to face the marquis, putting herself between him and her friend. “What do you want?” she demanded.

Angelic blue eyes leisurely looked her up and down. “I hardly think you’d approve my saying in public what it is I want of you.”

“If you’re here only for threats and innuendos, I suggest you write them all down and send them to me later, so we may continue on our walk.”

“My, my, you’re full of courage this morning. I’m glad to see it, because I have some splendid news. Well, splendid for me, at any rate.”

Isabel took Rose’s arm again. “There are witnesses here, my lord. I suggest you watch your words and your manners.”

“I find myself all aflutter.”

Cosgrove took a slow step closer, and Rose steeled herself to keep from moving backward. A casual observer would probably wonder whether the increasing frequency of her encounters with Cosgrove meant he was courting her—which was what her father had wanted. Only up close would anyone be able to sense the tension and dread in the air.

“If you won’t leave, then state your business and be done with it.”

“Careful, my dear, or I’ll begin to think you don’t like me. And with the announcement of our betrothal sent to the
Times
and scheduled to run on Saturday, we can’t have anyone thinking—”

“Saturday?
” Rose creaked. All the air felt sucked from her body. “That’s four days from now. You said—”

“Yes, I said we’d make the announcement at the end of the month, but you haven’t been very cooperative, have you? I could have arranged for the announcement to appear tomorrow.”

“Why didn’t you, then?”

“Because, my dear, half the fun is the anticipation. I wanted you and Bramwell to have a few days to consider new developments.”

Oh, God
. Could she even arrange to leave Town in under four days? She would have to flee with nothing but the clothes on her back—and nowhere to go once she left. And no Bram to talk with, to kiss, to see ever again.

“There you go,” Cosgrove said softly.

Isabel shook her shoulder, and Rose blinked.
Think
, blast it all. “You said development
s
. What else have you done?”