Confessions of a Scoundrel (6 page)

“I'm quite capable of handling him.” Verena tilted her chin to a very impertinent angle. “Besides, Brandon St. John had better hold himself at a respectable distance in this little battle.”

“And if he doesn't?”

She picked up the bank draft and waved it in the air, smiling sweetly. “Then I will indeed cash this draft and the unfortunate man will find himself five thousand pounds poorer. At which point I win not just the battle, but the entire war.”

T
he rain came and went in the space of a day, leaving London damp and noticeably cooler. Brandon told himself that he was glad he'd sent the promised bank draft to Lady Westforth so quickly. All he had to do now was write a quick note to Marcus to confirm that all was well.

For now, Brand returned to his usual occupations. Or tried to. He found Devon at Jackson's Salon, his supposed trip miraculously cancelled. There they whiled away the rest of the afternoon, sparring in a friendly fashion that left Devon with a split lip and Brandon with a bruised cheekbone.

It would be an exaggeration to say that he thought constantly of Lady Westforth as he went through the evening. Indeed, there were long stretches of time when he didn't think of her at all—a whole hour at one point. But the meeting had colored his expectations. He found himself
noticing how banal the supposed beauties of the day seemed to be—how utterly devoid of humor, how bland, how very unlike Lady Westforth they all were.

Not a one had enough wit to make him smile, even a little. And none challenged him or even threatened him, which he found insipid. Brandon found himself wondering what Lady Westforth would say if he surprised her with a visit. The idea took hold and it was with great difficulty that he reminded himself of the type of woman she was—the exact type of woman who could be bought off for a mere five thousand pounds.

Not, of course, that five thousand pounds was a small amount. Perhaps she was facing some dire circumstances that had forced her to accept the funds. He thought about this for some time, considering all the possibilities, each more dire than the first.

Most of his imaginings had to do with orphans and paying physician bills for a variety of worthy but poor individuals. As soon as he realized what he was doing, he took his unruly imagination firmly in hand and refused to allow it any more leeway.

Lady Westforth was an example of the exact type of woman he always avoided: needy, impertinent, and—to judge by the quality of servant she had answering the door—practically insolvent. She was the kind of woman who would, without compunction, attempt to trap a man into an indiscretion for her own gain.

Still…he couldn't help but realize that she
was something more than that. There was something about her…some indefinable quality that left him edgy and intrigued. So intrigued that he found he could think of little else.

But such preoccupation was exactly the thing he'd decided would never happen. It was with a surly disposition that Brandon made his way to White's to await his friend, Wycham. By half past ten, Brand realized that Roger wasn't going to appear, which was no surprise. It was just like the flighty viscount to send an urgent message and then not show. With Roger, everything was an emergency.

But waiting had made Brandon even more impatient than usual. Something stirred within him, a sense of slow desperation. The feeling ached a path between his tense jaw and his heart. Years ago, after he'd purchased his estate and turned it into such a success, he'd faced this same feeling…of emptiness. He'd returned to London, restless once again and ready for a new challenge. But something had changed. The old amusements had paled. So, too, had his old companions. Though young at the time, he felt like a man in his dotage as he watched his erstwhile friends run the gamut of excesses. His life, which had once seemed full of amusements, now seemed empty and dull and there wasn't a damned thing he could do about it.

Except, perhaps, start a very ill-conceived flirtation with a violet-eyed beauty who promised to be a challenge…

No. Never that. He already knew the outcome of such a liaison. Brand rubbed a hand along his
jaw. He needed to get out of London. Away from Lady Westforth.

He had Poole pack his things and he went to spend the weekend at his sister's house just outside of Bath, where he played with his little niece and walked through the new wing with his brother-in-law, admiring all the improvements that were being implemented.

Before three days had gone by, Brand found that Sara's obvious wedded bliss was more than he could stand and he made his excuses and left, the old restive feeling returning in force. When he reached London that evening, he found a note from Marcus asking Brandon to meet him at Almack's. Brand changed into the required black coat and knee breeches, reaching Almack's at precisely eleven, when the doors were closed.

He entered the assembly room and looked for his brother, passing by a group of four or five older women standing near the door. He didn't notice them at first, for it was common practice for the chaperones to sit near the doorway so they could see who was attending and comment on the costume of whomever had the misfortune of being out of fashion.

But after a moment it became apparent that they weren't watching the door at all, but him. One of them caught his eye, turned bright red, and then clapped a hand over her mouth as if to hold in a spate of giggles.

He glanced down at his perfectly pressed breeches and cravat and shrugged. Silly chatterers. Brand returned to his quest to find his brother. Where the hell was—ah! Marcus stood in the fur
thest corner of the room, arms crossed as he regarded the staid dancing with the air of a man waiting his turn to be executed.

Brand made his way to his brother's side. “Having fun?”

Marcus didn't smile. “I was wondering when you'd return.”

“I was rusticating. However, I found that I cannot stomach more than three days of our brother-in-law's company.”

Marcus didn't even bother to agree. “I saw a friend of yours yesterday.”

“Oh?”

“Your old school friend, Viscount Wycham.”

“I was supposed to meet him before I left for Bath, but he never showed. The last time I saw him, he was in danger of being tossed into debtor's jail. He must have gotten his father to step in for him.”

Marcus's face registered disapproval. “He's a bit old to be acting like a green one, isn't he?”

“Yes, but he is the only son and the old earl has spoiled him. Did he say where he was staying?”

“I didn't speak with him. I was returning home from a meeting at the docks with the new shipmaster we just hired. I saw Wycham coming out of a tavern on the East Side.” Marcus frowned. “I don't think he was happy to see me for as soon as he caught sight of the crest on the coach, he ducked back inside. I wonder what he was doing?”

“Who knows? Wycham always walked his own path.” Brand glanced at his brother. “I'm sur
prised you're here. I thought you'd sworn off Almack's because of the stale cake.”

“Aunt Delphi came to visit and she wanted to see some of her friends.” Marcus cast a jaundiced eye toward the refreshment table. “I think they have the same exact pieces of cake that they had last time, and it has been four months.” He shifted his gaze back to Brandon. “Did you receive my note?”

“Of course. I assume Chase has returned and is not happy.”

“He did indeed return. But as to his not being happy…” Marcus eyed Brand for a moment. “When you made your visit to Lady Westforth, I seemed to have been remiss in asking you for certain details.”

A silent warning began to sound deep inside Brandon's head. “Details? What details?”

“Oh I don't know. Did the lady seem angry when you left?”

What was this all about? Brandon frowned. “Not angry, really. She wasn't happy I was there, but she seemed fine with our arrangement. Almost triumphant.”

“Hm. So you think the interview went well.”

“It went perfectly. Why? Are she and Chase still—”

“No. Nothing like that.”

Brand realized that his hands were curled into fists. He relaxed them now. “Good.”

“It's strange, but when I informed Chase that we had taken care of Lady Westforth and that she would no longer be bothering him, he had a most peculiar reaction.” Marcus pursed his lips. “He
laughed. And for a very long period of time. Apparently Lady Westforth sent him on his way a good two days before you arrived on her doorstep.”

Damn it!
She had tricked him. But despite his irritation, Brandon had to admit to a faint sense of appreciation.

Marcus's gaze narrowed. “I take it she didn't bother to inform you of that fact.”

“No.”

“You never mentioned how much it cost to win her cooperation. What did you pay her?”

Brandon hated to say, but Marcus pinned him with a determined stare. “Five thousand pounds.”

“Five—we've never had to pay more than three before. What happened?”

“She was persuasive. Very,” Brandon said. No wonder the chit had been in such high humor—she'd all but robbed him. Worse, he'd spent a good amount of time talking her into the higher amount. He'd almost insisted on it, now that he thought about it. “That little minx.”

“Oh, she didn't stop there. That's why I wanted to know your version of the meeting.”

“
My
version?” Brand blinked. “Then you've heard…
her
version?”

“Have you noticed people are staring at you?”

Brand started to say no, but then he remembered the women by the door. He glanced their way now and saw that they were still looking at him, giggling behind their gloved hands, whispering furiously.

In fact, now that he took the time to peruse the ballroom, a number of people were looking at him, amused expressions on their faces. “Bloody hell.”

Marcus nodded, though a faint glimmer of a smile lit his eyes. “Lady Westforth had a little dinner party shortly after you left last week. She regaled the world with the story of how you attempted to buy her cooperation to do something she'd already done.” Marcus's smile widened. “The only good thing is that she didn't execute the draft.”

Brandon's heart gave an immediate leap. “She didn't…” Why then, had she taken the money to begin with? He wondered if she'd planned all along to use the draft to embarrass him. Part of him was furious, but a small, very quiet part was relieved. She hadn't taken the money for any reason but to mock him.

“Chase warned that she wasn't his usual fare,” Marcus said after a long silence. “I'm inclined to agree with him if her dinner party was anything like rumor has it.”

“What happened?”

“She had quite an interesting flower arrangement. Your bank draft was part of the ornamentation. It had been folded to look like a little frog. Your name, of course, was clearly visible.”

Brand could see it now. The room packed with eager guests, all hanging on Lady Westforth's every word while she amused them with her rendition of the meeting. He could almost hear her embellishments, see the laughter in her violet eyes. “How many people know?”

“Everyone. It is the talk of the town.” Marcus flicked a dark glance his way. “Did you really kiss her and tell her to consider it a bonus?”

Brand's ears burned. “That baggage!”

“Hm.” Marcus regarded him coolly.

Brandon winced. “Where's Chase?”

“At his lodgings. You know, I believe he sincerely cared for Lady Westforth. Though he laughed when I told him how we'd taken care of his little problem, there was a moment when I mentioned the special license that he looked as if he was in pain.”

Brand nodded shortly. “I am going to find Lady Westforth this very night and—”

“Get another kiss?” Marcus's gaze narrowed. “Don't be a fool. Avoid that woman like the plague. At least do so until this story has died down.”

“I can't just stand by and—”

“You have no choice. She hasn't left you any. Give it some time and soon no one will even remember the incident.”

Brand clenched his hands into fists. How the hell was he supposed to pretend that nothing was wrong when the entire
ton
was snickering behind his back? It was intolerable. Damn that woman! And damn his own stupidity for kissing her and giving her even more ammunition with which to mock him.

He slowly released his breath. Marcus was right. Brand would have nothing more to do with Lady Westforth. For now. But the moment this furor died down, he would have his revenge.

No one would be able to help Lady Westforth then.

 

Another week passed during which Brandon put up with an onslaught of whispers followed by a maelstrom of jovial comments from those who thought they knew him well enough to tease. His brothers were the worst, Chase foremost.

Brandon suffered it all with a polite, unamused smile, whiling away the time by thinking of all the vengeance he'd soon visit on the hapless head of the notorious Lady Westforth. He began to look forward to their next meeting, imagining what he'd do to put her in her place.

Overall, it wasn't the gossip that bothered him. He didn't mind being the topic of conversation—he was a St. John and he'd always been at the center of attention. What was intolerable was that, for the first time in his life, he'd been cast in a comedic manner as if he were the key actor in a farce. But slowly, just as Marcus had predicted, society's attention was directed elsewhere, mainly the marriage of Sir Royce Pemberley to Miss Elizabeth Pritchard. It was the marriage of the season since the bride was considered a bit of an eccentric.

Miss Pritchard did not disappoint. Not only did she feature nearly every possible color in her choice of gown, shoes, gloves, jewelry and accompanying flowers, but her monkey, while hopping up the aisle performing his duties as ring bearer, took exception to Lady Birlington's rather obnoxious pug dog.

The two animals took one look at one another and, barking and shrieking, met in midair. By the time Miss Pritchard hiked up her skirts and rushed to the rescue, the pug's diamond collar
had been snatched off while the monkey's little blue and orange outfit was ripped to shreds. Fortunately, other than being a bit ruffled, neither animal seemed harmed by the confrontation.