Always a Scoundrel Read online

  And she had certainly heard of Lord Bramwell Lowry Johns. From the reverence with which her brother had spoken of him over the past month, he seemed more of a myth than a man. At the least she couldn’t recall ever setting eyes on him. If she ever did, she would be very much inclined to punch this Hercules of scandal in the nose for being such a successful blackguard that an idiotic young man with no Town bronze would want to emulate his awful behavior.

  Desiccated old Lord Ogilvy creaked through the substantial crowd and stopped in front of her. “May I have this dance, Lady Rosamund?” he rasped.

  Only if you promise not to expire in the middle of it. “Of course, my lord,” she said aloud, forcing a smile. At least a dance would distract her from the volcanic destruction in which James, and by extension the rest of her family, seemed determined to be swept away. Setting clocks clearly wouldn’t suffice here, but she still hadn’t found the appropriate lure to keep her younger brother out of trouble. And she needed to discover it quickly.

  Because as much as she dreaded whatever tales of loss her brother would share with her tomorrow, part of her almost hoped that he would run across Lord Bramwell Johns at Jezebel’s. At least there were still some unknowns to the equation that was Johns. The man James was more likely to run into meant definite trouble. She could only hope that even Jezebel’s Club had become too tame this evening for the Marquis of Cosgrove. For all their sakes.

  Lord Bramwell Lowry Johns straightened his coat and strolled back into the ballroom. Lord and Lady Ackley’s soirees were always well attended, and tonight the crowd had nearly been reduced to adopting the tactics of fish in a barrel—all having to swim in the same direction in order for them to make any headway at all.

  As fish were wont to do, however, when they came upon a predator they broke apart and swam well around before re-forming their school. And so a pocket of space remained directly around Bram. The closest of the brightly colored fish sent him nervous glances, undoubtedly fearing his appetite. This particular shark, though, had just fed, and at the moment more than anything else he wanted a glass of Polish vodka.

  He found a footman toting a tray of weak Madeira and sweet port, and placed his request. With a quick nod the fellow scampered away. The butler announced a quadrille, his voice barely audible through the cacophony, and several dozen fish split away from the school and re-formed on the dance floor.

  His drink arrived, and he took a long, grateful swallow. Busy as his evening had been, what with a robbery and sex and it barely being midnight, restlessness continued to creep through his limbs. Bram sent a glance in the direction of the refreshment table, where Lord Braithewaite stood stuffing his jowls with biscuits and sugared orange peels.

  The damned fat sloth had made the burglary too easy. That’s what it was. Putting the family’s finest gems in a Gibraltar-sized box of fine, carved mahogany, and then placing that squarely beneath the bed in the master bedchamber—the only thing easier to find and empty would have been a bag hanging out a window and embroidered with the words “expensive jewelry.” Bram wanted a challenge, and stealing from Braithewaite would barely appease a boy in short pants.

  Another figure joined the marquis at the sweets table, though he didn’t touch any of the refreshments. Bram’s jaw tightened. That was the man Braithewaite could thank for the removal of his valuables. The bloody Duke of Levonzy. Braithewaite needed to acquire better taste in both his desserts and his friends.

  The two men continued to converse—round-cheeked sycophant and arrow-straight, sharp-angled tyrant. Two demons for the price of one.

  Damn. Now he was being witty, and had no one with whom to share it. Taking a breath, he turned his back on the duke and went to find two of the four people in attendance tonight whose company he could tolerate.

  A moment later he spied them, dancing. Married for just over six months, Phineas and Alyse Bromley looked only at each other as they twirled about the floor, both of them wearing the sickeningly sweet expression of happiness and true love. Well, no one was perfect, and Phin had simply succumbed to being more or less…human. Poor fellow.

  “Your expression is distressingly dour,” a voice drawled from low by Bram’s side, “especially to be looking at two very happy people.”

  Ah, the third person he could tolerate. Viscount Quence sat in his wheeled chair, his ever-present valet at the handles behind him. “William,” Bram said, offering his hand. “I don’t mind that your brother and his bride are happy; it’s only that they exude a sweetness that’s likely to rot my teeth.”

  Quence chuckled. “I’ll take your rotted teeth over Phin returning to the army. She saved his life, I think.”

  Bram thought it more likely that the life saving had been mutual, but he offered a half grin rather than saying that bit aloud. “And the lives of untold French soldiers.” He sent a glance behind the viscount. “Speaking of lives being saved, is your sister about?”

  “Beth is safely on the dance floor with the latest fellow to be smitten with her. Now that she’s out, I think she may be over her infatuation with you.”

  “Thank God for that. You know she terrifies me.”

  “Mm hm. If you don’t wish to admit that you’re being honorable by sparing her from your dismal reputation, I won’t contradict you.”

  “I freely admit to being admirable about my god-awful reputation. As you know, it’s been painstakingly earned by multiple misdeeds and unconscionable wagers and drinking, and I’m quite proud of it.”

  The older man shook his head. “I’ll agree that you’re quite good at it.”

  Despite Quence’s title and ownership of a very promising mineral hot springs property, the viscount sat alone. Bram swallowed his impatience and another mouthful of vodka and continued conversation with him until the country dance ended. He had worse things he could be doing, but certainly nothing better.

  When Phineas and Alyse joined them, he was halfway through his second glass. Taking the chestnut-haired Alyse’s hand and bowing over it, he curved his lips. “Are you certain you don’t want to change your mind about this unpleasant fellow?” he asked smoothly. “I’m far more charming, and handsome, and I know people who could see him shipped off to Australia at a moment’s notice.”

  She laughed. “Thank you for the offer, Lord Bram, but I find myself rather…happy with my circumstance.”

  He lifted an eyebrow. “But it’s been half a year.”

  “I don’t rot after a week or two like old fruit,” Phin broke in, capturing her hand back. “And leave my wife be, you blackguard.”

  Anyone else would probably have been wise to warn him away from a female to which that person had a prior claim. If there was one line that Bram hadn’t crossed, though, it was loyalty. And Phineas Bromley was his friend. But for Lucifer’s sake, if he couldn’t at least pretend to be a wolf, he might as well hang himself. “The only reason I appeared here tonight was for a waltz with your wife,” he said aloud. “Or with you. I’m not particular.”

  “Mm hm.” Phin glanced beyond him, his expression sharpening a little. “Alyse, give me a moment, will you?”

  She nodded. “I’m expecting you to appear for the second waltz tonight,” she said in Bram’s direction, then joined Quence in greeting the frighteningly cheerful Beth as she returned from the dance with her partner.

  “You wouldn’t be the reason that Lady Ackley is missing one ear bob and Lord Ackley looks as though he’s about to go pull a saber off the wall, would you, Bram?” Phineas asked, stepping closer and lowering his voice.

  Phin had always been the observant sort. “Damnation. At times I appreciate a woman who can’t keep her mouth shut, but outside the bedchamber I would prefer a little discretion.”

  “You are in the man’s bloody house,” Phin returned. “Isn’t that a bit bold, even for you?”

  Bram snorted, “A few minutes ago I was in the man’s bloody wife. And you’re no saint, yourself.”

  “I never claimed to be. But I have more than
myself to consider now. And if Ackley’s going to be challenging you to a duel, I don’t want you anywhere around Alyse.”

  “Well, that’s lovely, isn’t it? Enjoy your sugar-coated domesticity, Phin.”

  As a rule, Bram didn’t allow censure to trouble him, but Phin Bromley’s conversion to piety was damned annoying. Together he and Phin and Sullivan Waring had left a well-marked trail of mayhem across half the Continent—or at least the bits that England was attempting to keep from Bonaparte. Sex, gambling, fighting, killing—they’d done it all. But now, a bare two years since he and Sully had returned, and one year less for Phin, he seemed to literally be the last man standing. They might call it a shame and say he would be happier married, but neither had they dared send any respectable, marriageable females in his direction.

  “Bram?”

  He blinked at Phin. “What?”

  “I need to go dance with my sister. Are we still arguing, or are you going to stomp off?”

  “I can’t very well stomp off now that you’ve suggested it.”

  “Ah. Apologies.”

  Bram took a breath, the thought of wandering about the ballroom for another two hours while avoiding both Lord and Lady Ackley making him want to gag. “Come to Jezebel’s with me.”

  “I don’t—”

  “I’ll tell you who I robbed this evening.”

  Phin opened his mouth, then closed it again. It must be difficult for Phineas, Bram reflected, to be morally superior in front of someone who knew of his every previously committed misdeed. At the moment Bram had no sympathy for him at all.

  “Let me guess,” the former highwayman and present loving husband finally said, sending a glance in the direction of the refreshment table. “Braithewaite, or Abernathy.”

  “Abernathy?” Bram turned around. A third oaf had indeed joined the ranks of the overly pompous. “Now this is a fortunate turn of events. I rescind my invitation to Jezebel’s.”

  “Damn it all, Bram, you can’t burgle the household of everyone who says a word to Levonzy.”

  “You know I hate to be contradictory, but I believe I can.” He smiled, his so-called heart accelerating. A second robbery in one night. Everyone would be talking of the Black Cat tomorrow. Even Levonzy.

  “Does the duke have any idea what you’re doing?”

  “Who gives a damn? Not I.”

  “The man is your father.”

  “That is the one thing in my life that isn’t my fault. Pray don’t remind me.”

  Phin rolled his shoulders. “I can see this isn’t going anywhere. But didn’t I see you at the Society the other day with Abernathy’s son?”

  “Yes. Viscount Lester. He’s been following Cosgrove and me about like a lost puppy.”

  Phin’s jaw clenched for the briefest of moments, but Bram saw it, nevertheless. If he was in for another damned lecture, he was going to flee.

  “So you’d burgle the house of a friend.”

  “I didn’t say Lester was a friend. And that wasn’t your complaint. Come now. Don’t spare the horses, Phin.”

  “No. I am not going to wade into that with you.”

  Bram forced a chuckle. “Go dance with Beth, then. And give Alyse my apologies for missing the waltz.”

  Sketching a lazy bow, he strolled out of the ballroom. He’d been seen by all and sundry, so no one would name him as the Black Cat. And now he had another task to occupy the remainder of his evening. He only hoped that burglarizing Abernathy’s home would be a more interesting excursion than the visit to Braithewaite’s had been. If it wasn’t, he had no idea how to amuse himself next, or even which hobby, which activity, even remained undiscovered, unexplored, and undiscarded.

  Considering both the ease and the lack of satisfaction he’d felt in making off with Braithewaite’s valuables, Bram concocted a different strategy for visiting Lord Abernathy’s home.

  Other than the annoying son, James, Viscount Lester, he wasn’t acquainted with the family. That in itself added an element of danger—he’d never been invited through the front doors of Davies House, and had no idea of the floor plan. Of course there were certain givens: the bedchambers would be upstairs, the silver would be locked in its closet, and the most valuable items would be kept closest to the master of the household.

  Bram leaned back against the dark wall of the Davies stable. The family had returned home from the Ackley soiree nearly thirty minutes ago, and a few lights still glowed from the upstairs windows. He could have slipped in and been gone before they ever arrived, but he’d already done that once this evening, and he hated repeating himself.

  He chewed on a stalk of straw and watched the house. Phineas had become bloody sanctimonious in the last six months. He frowned at the idea of thefts when he’d committed the same sins himself, and he practically suffered an apoplexy at the mere mention of Cosgrove’s name. Kingston Gore, the Marquis of Cosgrove, had never done harm to Phin or Sullivan or their families—and that was because of Bram. They should be grateful for his friendship with the marquis.

  And he’d known Cosgrove longer than he’d been acquainted with Phin, or even Sullivan. The man had practically raised him—or at least proved to be a very efficient tutor—after he and Levonzy had parted moral company shortly after he’d turned sixteen.

  Another candle went out upstairs, and Bram straightened. No sense making it too easy—and aside from that, it was bloody cold out in the stable yard. He tossed the straw aside, pulling a black half mask from his pocket and tying it across his eyes. Low excitement stirred in his gut, and he slowed a moment to enjoy the sensation. Too damned few deeds left him feeling alive—much less interested—these days.

  Perhaps his next task should be to concoct an eighth deadly sin. Or he could work toward finding an even dozen. The devil knew he’d worn out the original seven. With a slight smile he reached a ground floor window and peered inside. Dark and empty. If he’d been one for self-reflection, that might have symbolized something—but he wasn’t, and he curled his fingers under the frame and pulled. The glass swung open.

  Very foolish of the Davies family, to leave their windows unlatched. A burglar was terrorizing the wealthiest residents of Mayfair, after all. Carelessness was this family’s second sin, then. The first was their patriarch being caught in friendly conversation with the Duke of Levonzy.

  As soon as he climbed inside, Bram closed the window again. He stood in what looked to be the breakfast room. A few baubles and bits decorated the walls and sideboard, but nothing that caught his eye. He hoped there would be something worth stealing upstairs. A lucrative satchel might even inspire the flock at St. Michael’s to pray on their mysterious benefactor’s behalf—or at least for his salvation.

  Silently Bram pushed down on the door handle and cracked the door open an inch or so. A single candle still burned in the foyer, probably for young Viscount Lester’s benefit, since the boy hadn’t returned in the family coach. He was probably out somewhere, losing his shirt to Cosgrove. Again. Idiot pup.

  The main stairway stood just in front of him. Taking another few seconds to listen and hearing only silence, Bram made for the stairs and swept up to the first floor. In the dark with his black greatcoat, he probably looked like a fast-moving shadow.

  Who would be in residence? He’d gone over the list as he waited outside—the earl and the countess, James, and an unmarried daughter whose name escaped him but who’d obviously been too virginal or too ordinary or both to catch his attention. The married daughter seemed to be staying there as well, and had an irritating laugh and an irritatingly dull husband.

  He’d call it six, then, and more than likely three times that many servants. Just the right recipe to provide a good theft without leaving him overly stuffed or wanting more—at least not until tomorrow.

  A low, muffled voice sounded off to his left. Bram froze. Abernathy. A second, female voice answered, and he tilted his head, listening. The voices came from a partially closed door on the north side of the hallway, pro
bably the library or an upstairs sitting room. That was actually a bit reassuring; he wouldn’t have to creep into the earl’s private rooms while the man slept, anyway. There might remain a thing or two that could scar even his sensibilities.

  First, though, he needed to find the earl’s private rooms. Given his own dislike for the morning sun, he would start with the rooms on the west side of the house. Unable to help the dark smile curving his mouth, Bramwell started silently along the hallway.

  If he hadn’t been so restless tonight, he would have conceded that he should have done a bit more research into his target. Whereas with Braithewaite he’d known that the marquis had a particular fondness for his wife’s pearl necklace and matching ear bobs, he had no idea what jewelry Lord and Lady Abernathy even owned. Ah, well. He’d wanted a challenge.

  “—understand how marrying me off to that blackguard can save us from him,” the female voice said.

  Bram stopped his advance. The door in front of him stood ajar by an inch or so—not enough to see through, but enough to hear fairly clearly now that he was directly on top of it. He’d always had the curiosity of a cat, and this conversation perked up his ears.

  “Because most of the debt James has incurred is to him,” the deeper voice, Abernathy’s, responded. “Do you think this family has ten thousand pounds to hand?”

  “I’m certain Cosgrove would rather give us some additional time to repay him than see us bankrupted.”

  Not bloody likely, Bram thought. He’d been called heartless, but Cosgrove had long ago gambled away his own soul. But the chit had mentioned marriage. How did that play into anything? Bram frowned, moving closer to the door, clenching his fingers against the temptation to push it open just another fraction.

  “You read his letter, Rose. He’s made it quite clear that he wants either the debt made good or your hand. I can likely put him off until the end of the month to make it look more respectable, but that’s all. If neither occurs, then we will be bankrupted.”