Confessions of a Scoundrel (21 page)

Brandon nodded thoughtfully. “We can make
something fairly close in size—no one will need to see it except from a distance. All we have to do is wave it around a bit.”

James rubbed his hands together gleefully. “We'll demand to exchange it for the letters—at
our
preferred location. That way we can control the situation, gain back those blasted letters
and
discover who is after that list in the first place.”

It was a daring plan. But a good one, providing Verena stayed far away from the exchange. Brand began to feel a little more hopeful.

James paced rapidly in front of the fireplace. “We'll need a coach and some fast horses. I brought my best pistols, but Ver, you'll need two for the carriage.”

“Of course,” she said coolly as if being told she'd need to arm herself was something she heard every day.

“Hold on a minute,” Brand said. “It's one thing for James and I to draw out the villain, and an entirely different issue for you to involve yourself in a face-to-face meeting.”

Verena frowned. “I don't see that.”

“You should. This person has killed before and will kill again. I won't allow you to take such a chance.”

Verena blinked as if amazed. She turned wide eyes his way, and Brandon could almost hear what she was thinking. Surely he hadn't forbidden her to do something. Forbidden her as if he had some sort of say in her life.

Well he did have a say in her life, damn it. “Verena, I cannot allow it.”

“That's not your decision to make.”

“Like hell. James, you tell her.”

James held up his hands. “I'm not saying a word. I've seen her temper far too often to offer my opinion.”

Bloody hell. Brandon sliced a glance at Verena where she stood in rigid disbelief. “It's dangerous.”

“It's been dangerous since Humford was given that damnable list and I, believing him to be nothing but a genial old man who told amusing stories and liked to pretend he was a government saboteur, invited him to my house for dinner.”

Brand's jaw tightened. Damn it, how could he make her see reason? He eyed James with a gloomy stare. “I take it you aren't going to help. You'd just let your sister walk into danger without saying a thing.”

James shrugged. “She's spent her entire life ignoring my advice. She's not going to start listening to me now.”

“Exactly,” Verena said with a triumphant lift of her chin. “If my involvement bothers you, St. John, then feel free to leave. James and I can carry on quite well without you.”

Brandon was trapped. If he didn't join in and help, Verena would be left to her own devices, doing God knew what, and without assistance. “Very well,” he said heavily. “I suppose we should start now.”

“What do we do?” James asked.

“Act as if we just found that bloody list.”

Verena nodded. “Since we don't know the culprit, we have to convince everyone we meet that it's real. The servants, our relatives, passersby.”

It seemed simple enough, Brandon decided. “What about the Home Office? Do we tell them the truth?”

“No,” Verena said. “Tell them that you believe I have the list, but will not tell you where.”

“I don't like deceiving them.”

Verena locked gazes with him, her brows lowered. “Who killed Humford?”

Brandon shrugged. “We don't know.”

“Exactly. But who
did
know that Humford had that list in his possession?”

The Home Office
. Brandon rubbed his forehead. Good God, the web became more tangled each day.

James cursed. “I hadn't thought of that. We have to proceed
exactly
as Verena says. We have to look excited, walk with purpose, act as if we really had that scrap of paper in our pocket.”

“We'll need a hiding place, too,” Verena said, looking at her desk. “Perhaps I shall keep it hidden in there.”

Brandon frowned. “Why do you need a hiding place for a piece of paper that doesn't exist? We'll just pretend we've got a hiding place.”

Verena barely gifted him with a glance. “If we veer from the course even a little, they will realize we are shamming.”

And someone could get killed. They were playing with fire and they all knew it. Brand caught her gaze and held it, a shivery hot hum of attraction sparking between them. He thought of her in bed, her creamy skin flushed with passion, her eyes half closed as she breathed his name in her release. His body tightened instantly.

Damn it, what was wrong with him?

Think of something else.
An image came to his mind of Humford. Of a slit throat and the drip of blood on the cobblestones. Right outside this very house. Near Verena. Brandon had to curl his hands about the arms of his chair to remain seated. “Verena, don't—”

“Brandon.” She didn't move toward him. She didn't raise her voice, or gesture threateningly. But he heard the warning nonetheless.

“I can't,” he said. “I can't assist this plot if you are going to put yourself in danger.”

Her eyes flashed, but before she could speak, James cleared his throat. “Pardon me, you two. You both seem to have forgotten one thing: there are only three of us involved. It will take all three of us working together if we're to expose whoever killed Humford.”

Brand tore his gaze from Verena. “Exactly my point. If you want my help, you will promise to keep your sister away from harm. I will drive the coach and you can be inside. There's no need for her to even go with us.”

James hesitated, clearly divided between his masculine inclinations and his knowledge of his sister. After a long moment, he looked at Verena with an apologetic smile. “Ver, he makes good sense. You would just be a distraction.”

“Oh!” Verena plopped her fists on her hips. “I can't decide which of you vex me the most. I am perfectly capable of helping and you know it. I'm a dead-on shot and I know how to handle the horses, too!”

“I know, but I'll be worried about you and—”

“Father would let me go. He would never suggest that I be left behind.”

James stiffened at that. “Yes, well, I'm not Father.”

Brandon cleared his throat. “Verena, we only want to protect you.”

Her eyes flashed contempt. “I don't need protecting. I will go on this venture, either with you or without you.”

Brandon sighed. “We'll discuss it later. In the meantime, we all have things to do.”

She crossed her arms beneath her breasts, her jaw tight.

James cleared his throat, his gaze moving between Verena and Brandon. “Ah, pardon me for intruding, but…should we continue looking for that bloody list?”

Verena shrugged. “Why bother?”

“Because once our little contretemps is over, the Home Office will expect to get that list. I don't believe they'll accept that we were merely pretending to have it.”

She bit her lip. “You're right. We'll deal with that later. Although, it might not be a problem once—” Verena hesitated, glancing at James.

Something passed between them. Brandon sat up in his chair, frowning. What was behind that calm, almost sad look?

Whatever it was, after a moment, Verena continued smoothly, “Once we have captured the villain.”

James rubbed his hands together. “You know, Ver, I think this will work very well indeed.”

Brandon rose from his chair. He'd question Verena about it later. Right now, he had things to do. “We're agreed then. We proceed from here on out as if we have the list.”

Verena nodded. “How long will it take the villain to make his move?”

James frowned. “I'd give him two or three days. He will be cautious now. He can't afford to take any chances.”

“I hope to God you are right,” Brandon said. There was more to be said, but now was not the time. He gave James one last nod, sent a hot, telling look to Verena, then turned on his heel and left.

Once in the foyer, he paused. Damn it, he didn't like this plan one bit.

But what could he do but support it? If he didn't, Verena and James would go on without him, and he'd be damned if he'd leave Verena alone to face this mess.

“'Ere now,” Herberts said brightly, coming down the hallway, Brandon's coat over his arm. “Is ye leavin' already? Oiye was jus' brushin' yer coat, oiye was.”

Brandon took his coat from Herberts and pulled it on.

The butler scurried to open the door, standing to one side, his hand held out.

Brand stepped out the door, then stopped. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a coin, then turned and tossed it to the butler.

Herberts instinctively caught it, his eyes widening appreciatively. “A monkey! What'd ye give me that fer?”

“To keep an eye on your mistress. A very close, accurate eye.”

“Ye wants me t' put me eyes against the peephole? Oiye suppose oiye can, o' course, though there'd not be much to see since Mr. Lansdowne is Lady Westforth's brother and all they'll be doin' is talkin' 'bout the weather or som—”

“For the love of—” Brand didn't know whether to laugh or black the man's eye. “I don't want you spying on her, you lummox. I want you to keep an eye out for anything…unusual. If you find anything amiss, send word to me at once.” He pulled out one of his cards and handed it to the butler. “Do you understand?”

Herberts took the card, squinting at it with one eye. “Oiye suppose it wouldn't hurt to keep me blinkers peeled, seein' how 'tis me dooty anyway.” His smile suddenly sank. “Wait a moment, guv'nor! Do ye think something moight happen? Something bad?”

Brandon nodded. And no one would dare harm a hair on Verena's head. She might be prickly as hell and an adventuress to boot, but she was his whether she knew it or not. And the St. Johns always took care of their own, even when that someone was a beautiful, highly accomplished member of the Lansdowne family.

Brandon frowned. He was beginning to think it was imperative that he meet Verena's family. All of them, if possible. He wondered if he should look for them at Tyburn, or if they were abroad at this time of year, residing in the Bastille. “Your mistress is a very unusual woman.”

“'Deed she is.” The butler touched a finger to
the side of his nose and winked. “Haf no fear, oiye'll watch her day in and day out, oiye will. Like a hawk.”

That was all Brand needed. He gave a brief wave and was soon climbing into his phaeton.

 

Silence filled the sitting room. Verena found that she couldn't look at the door without her eyes watering and her throat tightening in a painful knot.

James took the chair Brandon had recently left. After a moment, he said quietly, “I'm sorry.”

Verena nodded mutely. They had no choice. Once they recovered James's letters, they would leave London. They would have to. She placed a hand on the embroidered cover of the settee and looked about her. This was her home. The only one she'd really ever had. “I suppose you are going back to Italy?”

He nodded. “Long enough to finish my investments. You will come with me.”

She didn't really care where she went. “I suppose we should write Father and tell him—” Her voice broke and she pressed her lips together in a vain effort to stop the tears.

James leaned forward and took her hand in his. “I wish there was some other way.”

So did she. God, so did she. She disengaged her hand and wiped her eyes. “What else can we do? The Home Office knows I'm a Lansdowne and will soon realize you are here as well, if they don't already. And we don't have the missing list, though they would never believe us.”

“Especially once we pretend we
do
have it. St.
John is right,” James said with a heavy sigh. “Someone will pay for that blasted list and it will be one of us.”

“Brandon thinks he can protect us.”

“To protect you.” James's frown deepened. “Ver, what's St. John to you?”

What was he? He was kind and concerned, his gruffness hiding a soul as large as any she'd ever seen. She found him irresistible and impossibly stubborn.

And she wasn't sure but that she could be beginning to care about him. Far, far more than was safe.

For a short period of time, she'd allowed herself to forget who she was. Who he was. She'd not make that mistake again.

She disengaged her hand from James's and gave her brother a smile, forced as it was. “Brandon St. John is nothing to me. A friend, perhaps. But that is all.”

And that's the way she'd keep it. There was no future for a man like him in her life. None at all.

Verena pushed away the unwelcome thoughts. She couldn't think about that now or she'd be reduced to a quavering mass of tears and recriminations. She had to focus her efforts on helping James. James and no one else.

“Come,” Verena said, rubbing her hands together with as much enthusiasm as she could muster. “There's work to be done.”

H
ours after Brandon left the Westforth residence, he found himself still mulling over their plan. He hated it, even though he could think of no alternative. They had to draw the blackmailer out. And quickly, before someone else got hurt.

But he'd be damned if he left Verena alone in that blasted house with no one but a half-cocked butler and a freckled footman to act as guards. Brandon St. John was about to become a guest at Westforth House.

He returned home to find Poole waiting anxiously. The butler peered closely at him. “Sir, how are you feeling? Your voice—”

“Has returned.” Brandon lifted his nose. Cinna
mon and lemon and all sorts of delightful scents drifted from the front room. “Hmm.”

Poole helped Brandon remove his coat. “I hope you don't mind, but I knew you wouldn't have a mustard plaster. So instead I made a nice batch of rum punch. A hot rum punch can do wonders for a putrid throat.”

Brand hoped it would help with a soured disposition, as well. “I shall have two glasses, then.” In truth, his throat was still a bit strained. The exertions of his conversation with Verena and that young hothead she had for a brother had left him more hoarse than before.

“Mr. Chase and Mr. Devon St. John called while you were out,” Poole said, smoothing Brand's coat over his arm. “They asked that you meet them for a late dinner at White's at half past ten. Shall I—Heavens! What happened?”

Brand turned to catch the butler's astounded gaze fixed on his coat. “What?”

“Your buttons, sir! They are gone.”

Brand grabbed his coat. Amulti-caped overcoat of fine Shetland wool, it was an expensive trifle. At one time, the garment had been made all the more attractive by a double row of large, expensively set brass buttons. Not a one was in evidence now. “That blasted thief! I'll strangle Herberts the next time I see him.”

“Sir?”

“The Westforths' butler, Herberts. He tends to fancy shiny objects.”

Poole's eyes seemed in eminent danger of popping from his head. “Sh-shiny objects? Like a black bird, sir?”

“Only larger. And infinitely more cunning.”

“A butler who steals!” Poole seemed to be having trouble swallowing. “Surely you jest.”

“I wish I was.” He tossed his coat back to Poole. “There's nothing for it now. Hang it up and I'll retrieve the buttons later.”

Poole looked at the coat, his entire body stiff with outrage. “Perhaps it might be more beneficial if
I
were to fetch your buttons. I have a few words I'd like to share with this individual. Some hints to the profession, as it were.”

Brandon wondered if they would come to fisticuffs. That might be an enjoyment in itself. After all, Poole had a good two stones on Herberts.

Reluctantly, Brandon shook his head. “No thank you, Poole. Though I appreciate your willingness to address this issue.” He could only imagine Verena's reaction if his butler were to attack hers. He had a sneaking suspicion that she was rather fond of the disreputable Herberts.

“Very well, sir. If you don't wish me to meet this individual, then I shall remain here.” Poole repositioned the coat over his arm. “Please do try some of the rum punch. It's my own special recipe.”

Brand nodded. The scent was mouthwatering and he didn't need to be reminded twice. He entered the front room where a fire burned comfortingly in the grate, the spiced punch hanging above in a kettle. Brandon ladled some into a metal mug, cinnamony steam curling from the rim.

He took a careful sip, careful not to burn his tongue. The mixture slid down his throat and curled into a warm ball in his stomach. Bloody hell, but it felt good.

He plopped into an overstuffed chair and placed his booted feet on the low table before him. Brandon drank his punch, ruminating on the hazards of becoming involved with an independent woman. And not your ordinary independent woman, either—Verena had an edge to her, a self-confidence he'd never before seen in anyone, male or female.

Of course, he was beginning to realize that her strength might not have come from simply living alone these last four years. It was possible that it came from her upbringing, whatever that had entailed.

He thought about her closed expression when James had mentioned their parents and her stammered explanation afterwards. What
had
it been like to have such a colorful childhood?

He thought of his own youth, of the love and warmth and security. He'd had the best of everything, while Verena…she'd had love. He could see it in the way she and James watched out for one another. But she'd had none of the security.

He leaned back in his chair, aware of a very unusual desire. For the first time in his life, he wanted to protect someone, make them feel safe and cherished…it was painfully obvious she'd had neither.

Her childhood had left scars while the little he knew of Westforth didn't lead Brandon to suppose her first marriage had been a haven of any sort. What she needed, he decided, was someone who knew how to overcome the rigid barrier she'd placed about herself. Someone who de
manded that she let them in her life so they could take care of her and—

Brand's feet hit the floor as he lurched upright. Good God, what was he thinking? The only way he could make Verena feel as secure as he desired was…His jaw tightened. Was to marry her. And he was not the type of man to marry anyone. Hell, he wasn't able to stay interested long enough to make it down the aisle.

Of course, he'd known Verena for over two weeks now, he told himself. And he had been spending hours in her company. It was also true that his interest hadn't waned one iota. If anything, it was stronger than ever.

Wait a moment. That is only because Verena and I have been involved in this intriguing search for Humford's list. And nothing else
. Yes, that must be it. Once the list was recovered, Brand was sure that whatever feelings he thought he was having would go away—as they always did.

For some reason, the thought was not reassuring. It made him feel a little…sad. Verena was a delight. She was lush and sensual, intelligent and capable. In fact, she was everything he'd ever desired in a lover.

And that was all he'd ever wanted. A lover. Oh one day, he supposed he'd be forced to marry someone. But it would be someone circumspect. Someone quiet and sedate—someone like his own mother, for instance. The jumbled feelings he harbored for Verena stemmed from the fact that she was in danger. He, like all the St. Johns, had an innate desire to protect.

He was suffering from a horrid case of chivalry and nothing more. Feeling more reassured by the moment, Brand leaned back in his seat and replaced his booted feet on the low table. It was his duty to protect Verena. And protect her, he would.

He would move his things to Westforth House tonight—right into the master chamber. No matter what Verena said, he'd not leave until the issue of the missing list was settled.

Act as if we already have the list in our possession.
Brandon sighed. What
would
he do if he'd really discovered something about that damned list? He mulled it over, his gaze drawn to his desk.

He would immediately write to Wycham.

Now he was deceiving his friend. “Blast it, but I don't like this,” he muttered as he carried his mug to the desk, pulled out some paper, and dipped his pen into the ink.

He hesitated. Should he mention Verena? Yes. Wouldn't that be the same as begging the killer to show up on her stoop? Of course, James was there, though not all the time. And no matter how resourceful Herberts was at snifting any small item he might find, he was no match for someone intent on causing harm. As for Peters…Brand should have taken some comfort there, for the
man was certainly formidable. But Peters also seemed naive and quite unable to handle a criminal of such cunning as Humford's murderer.

The thought was chilling. It was a damn good thing that Brandon was going to be installed in Westforth House this very evening. He dipped the tip of his quill back into the inkwell.

Brandon signed the letter, sanded and sealed it, then called for Poole.

The butler came into the room, looking pleased to see the mug by Brand's elbow.

Brandon handed him the note. “Send it this evening.”

“Yes, sir. Anything else?”

“Yes. Pack my bags. I'm leaving in an hour.”

Poole blinked his surprise, but bowed. “Of course, sir. Shall I pack evening clothes?”

“Pack everything. I'll be gone a week or two. Hopefully no longer.” He began to rise when another thought caught him.
Act as if we really have it.

He had one more letter to write. Brandon pulled out another sheet of paper, and quickly dashed off a note. “Here,” he said, sanding the note and folding it. “Have this taken to Number Two Timms Street. In care of Sir Colburn of the Home Office.”

That done, Brand rose and went to dress for dinner.

 

The moon shone brightly through the window at Westforth House. Verena sighed and turned to her side, wondering when sleep would come. She hugged the blankets closer, watching the long, pale fingers of moonlight that had slipped through the crack in the window shades trace a lacy pattern across her wall.

This is what she got for going to bed early. She and James had passed the rest of the afternoon and early evening in preparations. They had ordered all the trunks from the attic and sent the entire household into a frenzy of packing. James reasoned that if they had indeed found the list, this would be their natural reaction—to flee once they had the letters.

There was much left to do. Their staff had buzzed with the news that their mistress was soon to leave. Verena was certain that by morning the entire street would be talking of her eminent departure. Within two days, all of London would be conjecturing on the possible causes of her precipitate flight.

“I'm scurrying off like a rat from a sinking ship.” Verena hugged her pillow tighter. Once again, she was a Lansdowne, without a home and on the run.

James had stayed long enough to eat dinner, then he'd left to change for the theatre, where he planned to spread the news of her flight even further.

She kicked at the covers. How she hated sleepless nights. In the long, lonely weeks after Andrew's death, she'd laid awake night after night. At first, it had been the shock—she'd been so un-prepared for the loss. But later it had been the realization that, for the first time in her life, she was alone. Completely and utterly alone. It had been frightening in a way…freeing in another.

Just as being with Brandon was both frightening and freeing. He challenged her, pushed her to become more. Be stronger. Verena flopped her arm over her eyes. In all the years since Andrew's death, no one had stirred her to life the way Brandon had. Verena was beginning to realize that since her husband's death, she'd been stagnating, hiding from life. Somehow, she'd gotten stability confused with safety.

It wasn't until Brandon had burst onto her horizon and shaken her from her complacency that she realized what she'd become. In her efforts to avoid becoming yet another larger-than-life Lansdowne, she'd become the opposite—a shell of a person, scarcely breathing for fear of causing a reaction of some type. She'd tried to blend in, disappear from sight. She'd almost succeeded until Brandon had ridden posthaste to save Chase from her evil clutches.

She had to grin when she thought of that first meeting, of Brandon's expression when she'd ripped his bank draft to shreds and showered him with the pieces.

From that first meeting, there had been a connection between them. Almost as if they recog
nized each other on some level. It was a delicious feeling, one she'd come to cherish, even as she acknowledged that it wasn't enough.

She wondered if Brandon would ever think of her after she left—worry about her safety with the same intensity he worried about his brothers. She blinked back the wetness in her eyes. She felt hollow, empty. And she had the depressing fear that it was a feeling she would just have to live with.

“Stop it,” she muttered. They still had a few days left. A few days to enjoy each other before the inevitable happened. Perhaps Brandon would steal in the house tonight as he had done before. A pleasurable tremor rustled through her at the thought. She'd been burning for his touch ever since that one night of passion.

She stirred restlessly and kicked at her gown where it tangled about her legs. She needed a nice hot bath and a cup of steaming chocolate, rich and strong enough to curl her toes. Perhaps that would direct her mind from other, more lascivious thoughts.

Verena sat up, shoving her mound of pillows to one side. Yes, a large cup of rich chocolate, steaming ever so gently. If she—

A creak filtered through the house. Verena knew that sound—it was the window in the sitting room. The hinges desperately needed oil. Someone crawling through her window—

Brandon!
She hopped out of bed and smoothed her gown, almost trembling in her excitement. Brandon was like an orange, all hard and rough on the outside, but soft and sweet on the inside.

At least she
thought
he was soft and sweet on
the inside. Perhaps she should peel him to be certain. She chuckled at her thoughts even as she grabbed her dressing gown and thrust her arms into it, then rammed her feet into her red velvet slippers. The door swung open silently and she made her way down the hall, stepping over the boards she thought might make a noise.