Confessions of a Scoundrel (22 page)

She hesitated on the crest of the stairs, peering down into the gloom below and wondering how best to put Mr. St. John in his place—right on his behind. She could barely make out a faint rustle in the recesses of the sitting room. A creak sounded as if someone had rested a foot on a loose board and then hastily removed it.

Ah-ha! There he was. She lifted the front of her robe and crept down the stairs, staying to one side to avoid making any noise. A clock struck in the background. Ten chimes. It was indeed late.

She reached the door to the sitting room and stopped to listen once more. More noises were audible here—the scrap of metal on wood, the clink of a vase on the mantel, then the sound of the drawer being opened in her escritoire.

A drawer? What was he into now? She put her hand on the knob and pushed the door open slowly. The room, like the hallway behind her, was in total darkness. She crept stealthily in, staying near the wall.

She must have made some noise, for the entire room was suddenly bathed in silence. Verena crouched low, pressing a hand over her mouth to stifle a very unadult urge to giggle.

The quiet grew and stretched. Verena's legs began to ache even though her excitement increased
as the moments slid by. Finally, just as she was about to say something, the rustle of clothing to her immediate right made her turn.

A frontal attack was her only hope. She stood. “Ah-ha! I caught you now—”

Something whooshed by her face. A blinding pain exploded. She was falling. Then she saw nothing, felt nothing, but blackness.

 

Brand walked down St. James Street toward White's. Though well after dark, the street bustled as members of the
ton
strolled here and there, climbed in and out of carriages, and pulled up beside one another to talk.

He pulled out his new watch and checked the time. A quarter after ten. He was a bit early.

Brandon tucked the watch back in his coat pocket and strode on. White's had just come into sight down the street when someone grasped his arm. He turned. “Lansdowne!” He frowned. “Is something wrong?”

“I wanted to talk to you.” James gestured toward White's. “I take it you are going to the club. May I walk with you?”

“Of course.” He waited for James to fall in beside him and then they began walking. “Are you a member?”

A wry grin flickered over James's face. “I don't believe they usually allow penniless charlatans entrance into that hallowed abode.”

“You aren't a penniless charlatan. Your father is a Russian nobleman.”

“Today. But tomorrow…” James shrugged.

Brand dug his hands into his pocket. “What was it like? Living like that?”

“Exciting. Uncertain. Sometimes frightening. But it was never boring.”

“Verena seems a little resentful of her childhood.”

James came to a halt, his brown eyes fixed on Brand with unwavering regard. “My sister doesn't always know what's best for her.”

It was a warning, that much was obvious. Brandon wasn't sure how to respond.

But before he could say anything, James turned and continued to walk. “I'm glad I caught up with you. I found Lady Bessington this evening, and she remembered something. She sat beside Humford at Verena's dinner party the night he was killed.”

“What did she say?”

“That Humford drank like a fish all evening. Seemed nervous, too. Kept looking at the clock, though she said they were all doing the same thing since Viscount Wycham was late. She said Verena finally gave up on Wycham and just as they all sat down to dinner, Humford patted his coat pocket, then turned pale.”

“That's when he realized he'd lost the list.”

James nodded, his golden hair glinting in the gaslight. “I think so.”

“Did Lady Bessington remember anything else?”

“Just that he rambled on and on about how he'd just bought a new coat and new snuffbox. Seems he'd come into some money recently. She rather thought he'd had a run of luck at the tables.”

“Not according to Lady Farley,” Brand said. “He owed her establishment quite a bit of money.”

They walked in silence a moment.

“Have you put the plan in action?” Brand asked.

“All business, aren't you?”

“This is a serious matter.”

“Yes. Yes, it is. And yes, I've put the plan in action. As soon as you left, Verena and I ordered the trunks from the attic.”

He frowned. “Why did you do that?”

“Because it's what we'd do if we really did find the note.” He met Brandon's gaze head-on. “We couldn't stay, you know.”

A chill settled over Brandon's heart. “Why not?”

James glinted a smile that held a touch of sadness. “We're Lansdownes, St. John. We never stay where we're not wanted. Once we pretend we've found that blasted list, the Home Office would never believe we were merely play-acting. We'd have to leave.”

“Of course.” Brandon turned back down the street, vaguely aware of a stir in the street behind him. If what James said was true, then after this coup, Verena would be gone. The thought settled behind his heart and made his entire chest ache. Good God, what would he do when—

A horse protested, its voice strident, followed by a dismayed shout. A man on the street in front of Brand glanced back over his shoulder, his gaze moving to Brandon and James, then beyond. The man's eyes widened, his expression one of frozen fear.

Brandon whirled. A carriage ran out of control, jumping the curb and heading straight for them. The horse strained, his eyes wild, his neck lathered. He ran as if pursued by the hounds of hell. It took Brand only a second to realize that the driver was hunched down, his hands still on the reins, his face obscured by a faded black hat.

He's going to kill us!
Brand grabbed James by the arm and yanked him, but he was too late.

The next moment passed in a hazed blur. The carriage bounded onto the sidewalk, but then just as suddenly veered away. The edge of the traces caught James and spun him backward. He went down in the street with a sharp cry.

The coach thundered on, people scrambling to get out of the way. The street was filled with angry shouts as Brandon knelt by James.

“My leg.” He groaned, both hands wrapped about his knee. Blood seeped through his fingers and soaked the leg of his breeches.

Brandon cursed long and low, his heart thundering in his ears. “Wait here and—”

“Brand!” It was Devon, concern etched on his face.

Chase appeared as well. “I called for a physician.”

“Thank you.” Sweat beaded Brandon's brow, his fear melting into anger. “James, we must get you out of the street. Can you move?”

James's eyes were closed, his brows lowered over the bridge of his nose. “Just…give me a moment.”

Brandon nodded. He turned to look down the street after the runaway carriage when his gaze
fell on a small urchin standing at the end of St. James's Street. It was the boy in a blue tattered coat that Brand had seen outside of Verena's only two days ago.

The boy was listening to a burly man dressed in a faded black coat and outmoded hat. The man was talking, gesticulating wildly. He turned his head just the slightest bit and Brand recognized him—it was Farragut.

Farragut pressed a coin into the child's hand, then turned to look in Brandon's direction. For one moment, their eyes met. Then Farragut yanked his hat further down over his eyes and marched off. The boy melted into the crowd.

Bloody hell, what was that all about?

“Brandon?” Chase stooped beside him.

Brand said in a low voice, “Did you see what happened?”

“Yes. Through the window at White's, but I couldn't get to the door.”

Devon nodded. “Every blasted person was crowded about, trying to see.” He gestured at the wake of destruction left behind by the carriage. “It drove right up on the sidewalk as if the bloody driver aimed for you two. My heart about stopped. If he hadn't veered at that last moment I don't think—”

“I know.” Brand's own heart was still galloping wildly, but he wasn't about to admit such a thing. “It was an unfortunate accident.”

“Accident?” Chase frowned. “I wouldn't call it—”

“Pardon me.” A thin individual in a frock coat
stood behind them. “I'm Doctor Lindson. May I examine the young man?”

“Of course,” Brandon said. He went to stand up, but James's hand clamped about his wrist.

James swallowed, obviously fighting an enormous amount of pain. “It…worked.”

Worked? What—Brand's breath froze in his throat. The plan had worked. But…so soon? How could it have—Brand closed his eyes.
My God. Verena.
His chest tightened until he could barely breathe. He stood, James's hand dropping away. He looked at Devon. “See to Mr. Lansdowne. I have to go.”

“But why? What's happening? Should I—”

But Brandon didn't answer. He was gone, racing madly down the street, his booted feet ringing loudly.
Please God, let her be safe.

B
randon raced up the steps of Westforth House. No light shone inside except for the sitting room, which was ablaze. Stifling his disquiet, he banged the brass knocker sharply.

As usual, no one appeared. Brandon knocked again, this time so loudly that the sound echoed. When no response was forthcoming, he cupped his hands about his mouth.
“Herberts! Answer the damn door!”

The curtain in the sitting room flickered a moment before the door finally opened. Herberts stood in the opening.

“Bloody hell,” Brandon said. “Didn't you hear—”

The butler's nose and eyes were red as if he'd been crying, his lips quivering piteously.

Brandon's heart thumped to a halt. “Verena—”

Herberts wiped his nose with the back of his
hand. “Th—the sittin' room.” His voice warbled, a fat tear rolling down his cheek.

Blood roared in Brandon's ears. He shoved past the butler and raced toward the sitting room, his breath caught in his chest. Dear God, was he too late?

The door to the sitting room was open, light spilling into the hallway. Brand stepped into the room and came to a halt.

Verena lay on the settee, her head wrapped in a white bandage. Brand went to her side and gazed down at her, his throat peculiarly tight.

He just stood, thankful beyond words to see her chest rising and falling, to see her hand clenched about a handkerchief. Even the frown on her lips sent a tremor of gladness through him.

Brandon glanced over his shoulder at Herberts, who stood behind him. “What happened?”

The butler gave a wet sniff. “'Twas horrible, it was. Oiye heard a noise downstairs here in the sittin' room. When oiye opened the door, oiye found the missus on the floor, crumpled like a rag.”

“Did you send for a physician?”

Verena opened her eyes into twin slits of ill humor. “I don't want a doctor. I just have a little headache, that's all.”

Though she was pale, her voice was even. The tightness about Brand's chest eased somewhat.

He knelt by the settee and took her hand in his, linking his fingers with hers. “Are you well?” He lifted the edge of the cloth and viewed the angry bruise on her forehead.

She winced. “No, I'm not well. My head hurts,
my teeth ache and my neck is stiff. How can you even ask such a question?”

Brand replaced the cloth. Damn it, this wasn't supposed to happen. They were supposed to pretend they'd found the list and the blackmailer would press for an earlier meeting. That was all.

He glanced at Herberts. “Were the door and windows locked?”

“'Deed they were! Peters and oiye checked 'em all afore bed.”

“Have you checked them since? It would be easy enough to break a window and climb in.”

Herberts shook his head, his lips quivering. “Oiye should have stayed awake. Ye tol' me something might happen.” He pulled out a handkerchief and blew his nose. As he went to stuff the handkerchief back in his pocket, Brandon caught sight of a familiar monogram—his own.

The butler caught his gaze, then looked down at the kerchief, the monogram still visible. His cheeks reddened to match his nose. “Sorry 'bout thet, guv'nor. Ye must have dropped it in the foyer.” He shook out the handkerchief and held it out to Brandon. “'Ere ye go.”

Brandon looked at the none-too-clean crumpled bit of linen. “Er, no thank you. You can keep it.”

“Thank ye, guv'nor.” Herberts wiped his nose once more and then crammed the kerchief back in his pocket. “'Tis the worst day o' me life. Oiye've failed in me dooty.”

“You didn't fail. We didn't have any way of realizing that this would happen.” Not this quickly, anyway. “Where is Peters?”

“Oiye sent him to fetch ye and then go on to find Mr. Lansdowne.”

James.
Brandon looked down at Verena's pale face. He couldn't tell her about her brother, not yet. “Once Peters returns, send him to me. Mr. Lansdowne will be coming soon. He will need a chamber prepared.”

Verena's eyes opened once again. “James is staying here? I asked him and he said he thought it would be best if he remained at the inn.”

“He changed his mind.” Brandon rubbed his thumb over the back of Verena's hand. Her eyes slid closed once again, her brows drawn, though her lashes rose just a bit when he pressed his lips to her fingers.

Slowly, her lashes lifted. Their eyes met, a wave of heat shimmering through Brand. Only this time it wasn't anger, but pure lust. Startled at the strength of the feeling, he released her. The second he did so, though, her lips began to quiver, her violet eyes filling with tears.

Brandon caught up her hand again. “Easy, sweet.”

A single tear leaked from beneath her lashes. “I don't know why I'm—my head hurts. Yes, it hurts and I'm—” She gulped a sob. “Oh, blast!”

“Herberts, is there any laudanum in the house?”

“Oiye already brought it but the missus wouldn't touch it.” Herberts shook his head. “She's a stubborn wench.”

“I still don't want it,” she said, though her voice seemed weaker.

Herberts picked up a small brown bottle and a spoon that rested on a nearby table and handed them to Brand. “Mayhap ye can get her to take a good dose. There's no reason fer her to be a hurtin' so.”

“Fetch some water.”

The butler immediately scurried off. He returned almost immediately, a glass in his hand. Brand pulled the cork from the bottle and poured some of the thick brown liquid into a spoon.

He held it before Verena. “Open.”

“No.” She turned away a little, one hand pressed to the cloth on her head, the other balled into a fist on her stomach.

“It will make your head feel better.”

“So would dying, but I don't want to try that, either.”

Brand quirked a brow. “Don't make me pour this down your throat.”

Her eyes flew open. “You wouldn't da—”

Brandon slipped the spoon between her parted lips. She choked, pressed a hand to her mouth, then swallowed, glaring at him the whole time.

Brandon placed the glass of water in her hand and then gave the bottle and spoon to Herberts. “That should do the trick.”

“I wish you would go away,” Verena snapped. She gulped the water, her mouth still twisted in disgust. “That is the most vile stuff.”

“I am not leaving you alone.” Ever. Brandon
wanted her safe. Warm. In his arms. Where she belonged.

“Lud, guv'nor. Oiye cannot believe someone would hurt a fine lady like the missus. 'Tis a crime.”

Verena wrinkled her nose, an accusing note in her voice as she peered up at Brandon. “I need a cup of chocolate. Something to get this foul taste from my mouth.”

Herberts looked skeptical. “Do ye think chocolate is a good idea after ye've knocked yer noggin? Oiye think perhaps some nice cabbage soup moight be more the thing.”

Even with a bandage on her head, Verena managed a very quelling look at her butler. “I don't want cabbage soup, thank you. But I
do
want chocolate. Now, if you please.”

Brandon thought he'd never seen a more adorably ill-tempered patient. He pressed her fingers to his mouth, her fingertips trembling against his lips. She was so damnably brave. Most women he knew would be bawling, sobbing hysterically. Verena merely used her injury as an excuse to procure hot chocolate.

He glanced at Herberts. “Hot chocolate, Herberts. Now.”

The butler stuffed his handkerchief into his pocket. “Won't cure her head pain none.”

“That's for her to decide. Now fetch some chocolate and be quick about it.”

“Very well.” He straightened his shoulders and marched from the room.

As soon as the door closed, Brandon released her hand and stood. “I'm going to carry you to your room. You'll be more comfortable in bed.”

She lifted up on her elbows. “I can walk, thank you very much.”

“Really?” He scooped Verena into his arms. “Not while I'm carrying you.”

“You're despicable.”

“And you need to be in bed.” He didn't wait another moment, but carried her upstairs.

The bed was mussed. Brand set her on the edge of the mattress while he straightened the sheets. She waited patiently, her eyes never leaving him.

When he had everything ready, he slid his arms beneath her and laid her gently on her pillows. “There,” he said, wondering why he felt so helpless. His heart was doing strange things, aching as if he'd already lost something.

“Don't move.” Brand went to the door and yelled for Herberts.

The butler pounded up the stairs almost immediately. “Sir?”

“Bring some cold water and some fresh cloths.”

Herberts nodded. “The chocolate's almost ready, too.” He turned and clomped back down the steps.

Brand returned to Verena. She had closed her eyes and a slow tear trickled down her cheek. He sighed and sat on the edge of the bed. “Verena. It's all right. I think I'd be crying, too.”

She looked at him, her violet eyes dark as if they, too, were bruised. Brandon'd had only one sister. But that one sister had taught him many things. He reached out and gathered Verena to him. “Easy, sweetheart. Easy.”

The tears came and he held her, rubbing his cheek against her hair, stroking her back. But even as he comforted her, he thought of all the ways he wanted to kill the man who had harmed her.

Moments later, Herberts entered the room carrying a bowl of water, a pitcher, and a cup of steaming chocolate. He paused on seeing Verena in Brand's arms, but only for a minute. “'Ere now, a good cry is jus' what ye need, missus. Oiye brought ye some extra cloths, too, so ye can wash yer face when yer finished. Ye don't want a red nose, do ye?”

Verena didn't think she really cared what color her nose was, so long as Brandon didn't release her. It was heavenly, being held, nothing expected, nothing given. Just shared. Perhaps it was the laudanum, but she didn't want to feel anything beyond this moment.

Herberts clumped about a bit more, rambling about how he'd been searching the downstairs windows for signs of entry. A yell from Peters sent him out the door.

The instant he was gone, Brandon chuckled, the sound rumbling beneath Verena's ear in a comforting manner. “You should see what he's done to your night table.”

Verena risked a peek. Herberts, in his desire to be of service, had folded all the extra cloths into large, sloppy, flower-shaped bundles. “Where did he learn that?” she asked, amazed.

“I don't know, but you should have seen him. He had to do each one four or five times before he
was satisfied.” Brand brushed the hair back from her face. “We need to wash your bruise. Think we can manage it ourselves?”

Verena nodded. She wasn't better at all, though that no longer seemed to matter. Thank heavens for the laudanum. The pleasantly numbing sensation was slowly spreading through her and in a moment, she wouldn't even be able to feel her tongue.

She cast about for something bright and witty to say—something to offset her horribly red nose. “I suppose our plan is working.”

Brand's mouth thinned. “Don't get me started. Can you sit on your own?”

She nodded once, then winced. Her head still ached, but from a distance now. She allowed Brandon to arrange her pillows into a huge wall of comfort. Then he gently undid the bandage around her forehead.

She watched him as he worked. He was the most handsome man in the world. And he was sitting on the edge of
her
bed. She wished she had a whole group of friends to whom she could brag. It was rather sad that she didn't. Not even one, really. Oh, she
knew
a lot of people, of course. But not well enough to confide in any of them.

Verena supposed that was yet another sign that she'd forgotten how to live.

Brandon set the bandage aside, his gaze fastened on her forehead, his mouth thinned.

“What's it look like?”

“Blue. Very blue.”

She put her fingertips to the bump. “Ouch!”

His face softened. “Don't touch it if it hurts.”

Verena giggled. “I shan't touch it at all.
You
can touch it. In fact,” she made a huge gesture that almost sent her tumbling to one side, “
you
may touch all of me.”

A glimmer lit his eyes. “You're laudanum-drunk.” But he smiled and ran his thumb over her chin. “Let me get some cold cloths on your head.”

She caught his hand and pressed it to her cheek, looking at him with all the longing she felt inside. “You aren't going to leave me?”

He cupped her cheek. “Never.”

“Ever?”

He bent until his face was even with hers, his blue eyes seeming to burn. “Verena, I promise to stay as long as you'll have me plus one day.”

“One day?”

“A very, very long day.” He straightened. “Let me get the cloth.”

She reluctantly released his hand. The second he stepped from the bed, she felt alone again. Alone and uncertain, afraid. But not of being hurt or meeting up with her attacker. Her fear had to do with Brandon. With losing him. Losing herself.

He returned to the bed with some cool cloths and carefully bathed her forehead. Only once did it cause her any pain, and he immediately stopped. When he finished, he said quietly, “There. That should do it.”

Brandon returned the cloth to the bowl and came back to the bed with the cup of chocolate. “I believe this will cure any further ills you may have.”

Verena took the cup in both hands and inhaled deeply. The heavenly aroma sent a pleasurable
shiver down her spine. She put the cup to her lips and let the creamy liquid slide down her throat. It was heavenly. She closed her eyes and let the bittersweet taste fill her with a delicious peacefulness.

Suddenly, she realized how ridiculous she must look to Brandon, getting blissful over a cup of chocolate. She peeped at him. “Sorry,” she said, with an uncertain laugh. “I didn't ask if you wanted any. I could pour half of this into another cup, if you'd like.”