Confessions of a Scoundrel (11 page)

“Whot if it falls open in me hands?”

“
Especially
not then.”

Herberts sighed as he set the tray beside Verena. “Gor! Ye've a rule fer everything, don't ye?” Sighing heavily, he wandered out of the room.

James chuckled as the door shut. “I do hope you'll see your way to letting him go with me when I return to Italy. He would be so much more fun than the man I have working for me now. Roberts is dreadfully correct. Almost dull.”

Verena rested her chin in her hand as she flipped through her correspondence. “You may have him with my blessing. I've thought about telling Viscountess Hunterston that while he is a dear old man, he's just too—” She picked up a letter and stared at it, then held it out to James. “It's for you.”

James's expression froze. He reached for the letter and ripped it open. His face paled as he read.

“What is it?”

He handed her the letter.

Though poorly written, the handwriting matched the first note.

Verena silently handed the letter back to James.

His brows lowered. “Bloody hell.”

She stood then, too impatient to remain seated.
“Think, James. We have to figure this out. It's almost as if they believe…” She took a quick turn about the room. “James, we know Humford was a part of this, right?”

“Yes.” He nodded slowly. “Which means we should start there.”

“Correct. He was in this house the night before he was murdered, less than a month ago. It was the week before you arrived.”

“Did you know him well?”

“Not really. He frequently accompanied Lady Jessup. I invited him because of her.”

“That evening, did he seem unusual to you?”

“He was distracted, but other than that…well…he
did
leave early.”

James blinked. “Why?”

She frowned, trying to remember. “We were all sitting in the dining room, waiting on the second course. We were late starting, because of Viscount Wycham. He didn't arrive until we were almost through with the meal.”

Verena paced back and forth, wracking her brains. “I finally gave up on Wycham and seated the guests. We were all sitting there, waiting on the second course when suddenly, Humford bolted out of his chair and ran out. It was very strange, though I—” She bit her lip. “Wait. I remember something. He patted his pockets as he went. As if he'd—”

“—lost something.” James eyes gleamed. “Verena, do you think your butler could have stolen this list from him?”

Verena went to the door. “Herberts!”

He appeared almost immediately, his head covered by an old rag, a polishing cloth in one hand, a silver spoon in the other. “Aye, missus?”

Verena tore her gaze from his headwear. “I have some questions to ask.”

Herberts saluted with the spoon. “Ask away!”

Where to start? Her gaze fell on the letter in James's hand. “The letter, the one Mr. Lansdowne is reading, did it come with the rest of the mail?”

Herberts shook his head. “No, missus. Oiye found thet letter on the stoop this mornin'. It's a wonder it didn't blow away.”

“Did you see who delivered it?”

“No. There was no one there, though oiye went to the door as soon as someone knocked.”

Verena took a calming breath. “There may be more letters like this coming. I want you to watch for me. If you see who brings them, come and tell me at once.”

“Very well, missus. Anythin' else?”

“Yes, I need you to empty your pockets.”

“Now?”

“Now.”

Herberts groaned. “M'lady, oiye think I should return to rubbin' the silver, if ye don't mind. Oiye can empty me own pockets and—”

“Herberts.” She pointed to the breakfast table.

He blew out his breath in a huge gust, set the spoon on the table and began to dig through his pockets.

James leaned forward, his eyes widening. “Good God!”

Verena looked at the glittering largesse. Four
watch fobs, three rings, two cravat pins, a large gold watch, and seventeen brass buttons winked at her from the table. “Herberts!”

“Oiye'm sorry, m'lady. They jus' fell into me pockets, they did.”

She picked up a button. “Fell?”

“Well, those oiye had to cut off, but the rest of 'em were jus' lying around.”

“In someone's pocket,” James said, trying to control his laughter. “Herberts, you are a nonpareil.”

The butler adjusted his headpiece. “Oiye'm sorry, missus. Oiye won't do it again.”

“That's what you said last time.”

“This time oiye mean it.”

James leaned forward as Verena peered through the stolen items. “Do you see anything suspicious?”

Verena shook her head.

“Bloody hell.”

Bloody hell, indeed. Verena managed to smile at Herberts. “Thank you. That will be all. And…wait.”

She marched to her desk and opened a drawer where Herberts's previous ill-gotten gains lay. She unceremoniously dumped the new loot on top of the old and then stirred a bit. Verena selected a few choice items before handing them to the astonished butler. “Here, Herberts. Take these with you.” She closed the drawer and locked it.

He brightened. “Take it wif me? Then oiye can keep all of it?”

“No. You will return them…eventually. For now, if I keep your pockets full, perhaps you won't attempt to filch anything else.”

The butler slid the items in his pockets, nodding wisely. “Thet's the knacker, missus! You'll outsmart me yet.” He picked up his serving spoon and beamed pleasantly. “Oiye'll finish the silver if ye don't need anything else.”

“One more thing,” James said. “While you were going about your duties within these last few weeks, did you happen to find a list of some sort?”

“No. Can't say as oiye did.”

“I see,” Verena said, her heart sinking. “Thank you, Herberts. That will be all.”

The butler left and Verena sank back into her chair. “It was a long shot.”

“But a good one.” James tapped the letter with one finger, trying to clear his thoughts. “What do we know, Ver? Father always said for us to think it through. One minute at a time.”

Verena watched him closely. Her brother's gifts were not as temporal as her own. He was a strategist. A planner. Father often called him “the general” and with reason. James never did anything without thought. From the lay of his cravat to the cut of his boots, he was a planned production, perfectly turned and ready for anything.

He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “If it was a gem or some gold they were after, I'd understand it. Instead, they send us this silly letter, everything couched in veiled terms, almost as if it's written in co—” He lifted a brow. “Damn. It couldn't be…”

She leaned forward. “What is it? What are you thinking?”

James's brow lowered in thought. “Do you know where he lived?”

“No,” Verena said, “but Lady Jessup would.”

James pursed his lips. Father had always held that it was fine to be whatever one wished, so long as one was superior at it. He then proceeded to teach his children superior skills—gambling, the rudiments of the wager, betting strategies, how to dress and talk like the best of the
ton
.

To his credit, James knew how to ride, dance, fence, exchange witticisms with princes and paupers alike. He knew how much to pay in vales at posting inns, how to find the cleanest beds and the cheapest rates among the many hotels in town. He knew how to dress fashionably even when his pockets were to let. And he knew, without thinking, that this situation required far more duplicity than Verena was capable of.

At one time, she'd been Father's chosen. He'd called her his masterpiece, for she'd inherited Mother's fair countenance coupled with Father's nimble fingers. It was, Father had said, an unbeatable combination.

But Verena hadn't been like the rest of them. Her heart had never been in the game. Then, Verena had met Viscount Westforth and she'd promptly married, much to Father's chagrin. He'd thought her capable of catching an earl, at the least. But Verena would not be gainsaid and she'd had her way in the end, marrying her pre
cious Andrew and forever turning her back on Father's way of life.

Which was a bloody good thing, to James's way of thinking. She'd been protected, or she had been until he'd arrived in her life. A line of irritation tightened across his shoulders.

He stood and tossed his napkin to the table. “I'm going to take the note and see what I can discover. Don't go anywhere until I return.”

“But St. John—”

“Is the one who told you about Humford to begin with. He's onto something, Ver. And I don't trust him.”

She was silent a moment, but then she lifted her head and sighed. “Very well. I'll stay away from him. But I'm not going to sit tamely at home while you jaunt about town.”

He tucked the letter in his pocket. “Go and visit Lady Jessup and find out where Humford lived. When I return, we'll go to his lodgings together and see what's to be found.”

She followed him to the door. “Be careful. You're the only brother I have.”

He grinned and bent to press a kiss to her forehead. “You be careful, too. If I'm not back by midnight, lock all the doors. I'll come as soon as I can.”

James gave her a last, quick wink and then he was gone. Verena heard him ask for his greatcoat, followed by Herberts's muffled reply.

The clock on the mantel chimed the hour and Verena realized that Brandon would soon arrive. She didn't have time for such nonsense now, though in her heart she knew it wasn't nonsense.
She wanted to go on that ride so badly, it frightened her. He would have to be satisfied with a note of apology.

Leaving the rest of her mail scattered on the table, she swept from the room, ordering her carriage as she went.

M
uch later in the day, Verena returned from Lady Jessup's. The poor woman had been horrified to hear of Humford's death. Horrified, but not so distraught that she couldn't take the time to garner every available detail.

Unfortunately, Verena had no real information to share, a fact Lady Jessup took as a challenge. She plainly thought Verena was holding back the juicier tidbits, hoarding them as if they were gold nuggets and nothing Verena did or said could make her change her opinion. Verena was forced to sit through what seemed like a horrid interrogation, interspersed by maudlin remembrances of Humford's many kindnesses and a litany of recalled conversations, none of which seemed to have the least purpose.

By the time Verena made good her escape, she
was exhausted. Her carriage pulled up to the front stoop just in time to see James on the steps.

He stopped on the lower stair and waited for her to join him. “Well?”

“Number 12, Dray Street.”

“Excellent. We'll take my carriage. I've ordered a change of horses and then we'll be off.” He took her arm and walked up the steps beside her.

“What did you find out?”

He gave a secretive smile and rapped the brass knocker sharply on the door. “Not as much as I'd hoped, but—”

The door opened and Herberts beamed at them pleasantly. “There ye be, m'lady and m'lord! Ah, I mean ‘sir.'” He took Verena's cloak while a rather rough-looking man with shaggy blond hair and an astonishing number of freckles took James's coat and hat.

“Who's this?” Verena asked.

The man bowed, flashing a wide smile that revealed crooked teeth and a cleft in his chin.

Herberts cleared his throat. “He don't speak much, which oiye think is a benefit. But his name is Peters. He's the new footman.”

Verena frowned. “I didn't hire a new—”

“Weel there, missus. Thet's whot oiye told him, oiye did, when he walked up and begged fer a position. ‘Peters,' oiye said, ‘oiye'm not the one as hires footmen. But oiye can tell ye thet we needs ye in a very bad way.' Isn't that right, Peters?”

Peters nodded his head emphatically.

“He's in trainin', he is,” Herberts said, casting a critical eye at the man. “Oiye think he can be a good 'un with a little practice.”

James snorted.

Herberts leaned toward Verena and said in a conspiratorial voice, “An' he don't cost hardly at all.”

“Oh. Really? Perhaps, I—but no. Herberts, you can't just hire—”

“Here now, Peters!” Herberts said sternly. “Don't be holdin' his lordship's coat so that it trails the ground! Do ye want to spend the rest o' the afternoon brushin' it?”

“Aye, sir!” Peters's good-natured grin never faded, though he did lift the coat a bit higher.

“That's the natter! Now off with ye,” Herberts said, shooing the man away. “Take it to the kitchen and spread it afore the fire, just like I tol' ye.”

Peters obediently marched down the hallway.

“And see that ye don't wears it, neither,” Herberts yelled after him. “Thet's agin the rules.”

James had stopped trying to withhold his laughter.

Verena sighed. “Herberts, I cannot afford another—”

“Shush, now, missus. Oiye know how things is. Thet's why Peters will work out wonderfully. You see, oiye tol' him a little fib. Oiye tol' him that most footmen don't get paid until they've served fer a half a year at least. A trainin' period, as it were.”

“A half a—Herberts! The man will starve.”

“Nonsense. He gets room and board, jus' no more. Whot more can a feller want than that, oiye ask ye? An' if ye're worried 'bout his trainin', oiye'll do it meself, oiye will.”

“That,” James declared, “I must see.”

“I don't like this,” Verena said.

“Oh come on, Ver. You've a new footman and it will barely cost you a pence. Come, let's retire to the morning room. I want to know what Lady Jessup had to say.”

Verena sighed and pushed her hair from her neck. She supposed there wasn't any harm in trying Peters out. After all, she'd already hired a thief for a butler. “Very well. Herberts, let us know when Mr. Lansdowne's carriage arrives.”

“Yes, ma'am! Oh, and whilst ye were gone, ye had a gentleman caller.” Herberts began to dig in his pocket. “A real nice gent it was, too. Same one from the other day, it were. Tall and black-haired, though he seemed a might upset ye weren't in and—Ah! Here 'tis.” The butler produced a bent and crumpled card. “He said to give this to ye.”

Verena took the card. The St. John crest rode high on the heavy vellum, a single phrase scrawled below Brandon St. John's name.
Six o'clock
.

James plucked the card from her hand.

“James, really! Give that back. It's just—”

“I can see what it is. I don't like that bounder—” He glanced at Herberts, who stood listening, nodding his agreement.

James scowled and then grabbed her elbow and pulled her into the morning room. “That will be all, Herberts. Thank you.” He shut the door and looked at the card one last time before tossing it onto a small table by the settee.

Verena picked up the card, noting how forcefully the words “six o'clock” were written. Brandon must have been in quite a temper. That was yet another reason she should end this little flirta
tion. She had a horrid enough temper herself without complicating her life with his.

James turned to face her. “Ver, I've been thinking. We have to find that list.”

“But we don't even know what this list looks like!”

“Bloody hell,” he said, his face falling. Then, because it wasn't strong enough, he followed with a worse curse in Italian, then French, and last German.

Verena eyed him with a lifted brow. “Are you through?”

“Not yet.” He added a curse in Russian. “There.
Now
I'm done.”

“Wonderful.” Verena set Brandon's card on the table before her. “What did
you
find out?”

He was silent a moment, then he sighed. “I thought to see what I could discover about Humford. I made a guess at one thing…that since he was a bit of a gambler, I thought Lady Farley might know him.”

“Did you discover anything interesting?”

“Yes. He'd been playing at Hell's Door quite frequently in the weeks before his death. Or he was until she refused him entrance.”

“Debts?”

“Over ten thousand pounds.”

Verena gave a silent whistle. “That's interesting. So he needed money and badly.”

“Which brings me to my other conclusion. You said that he was always bragging about his connections to the Home Office.”

“Oh, he always said that. He'd been mocked quite heavily for it, too.”

“I think he was telling the truth.”

She frowned. “Humford? Working for the Home Office? Don't be silly. The man was a very nice person, but hardly what I'd call well informed.”

James shook his head. “I don't think he was doing anything of import. But perhaps he was doing enough that he managed to get his hands on something of value.” He rocked back on his heels. “A list, for example.”

Verena tilted her head to one side, considering this. After a moment, she nodded. That
was
a possibility. “If that's true then this is serious, indeed.”

James nodded grimly. “That's what I fear. If the list came from the Home Office, then there may be foreign elements involved. And someone thinks that Humford left that list here.”

“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.”