After a frustrating moment, James did as he was told, though he looked none too pleased. “I cannot believe you trust this braggart.”
Verena paused. Did she trust Brandon? Strangely, she supposed she did. “Father always said to follow your instincts. Well, this is one of my instincts.”
“Yes, well my instincts tell me your instincts are wrong.” His frown deepened. “Wait a minute. What did you mean about St. John’s voice returning? When did he lose it? And how would you even know about it? And what did Herberts mean when he—”
“James, please,” Verena said hastily. “That discussion is for another time. Right now, Mr. St. John has come to tell us what he has found out about the missing list.”
“Don’t believe a word of it. He just wants to get his friend, Wycham, out from under suspicion from the Home Office.”
Verena looked at Brandon. “Wycham?”
James hooked his thumbs in his waistcoat. “Who do you think the Home Office believes responsible for Humford’s death?”
“He didn’t do it—he couldn’t have.” Brandon crossed one ankle over the other, his legs stretched beneath the small table. He was completely at ease, as if he belonged in her sitting room. “Would you like to hear what else I’ve discovered about our situation?”
Verena nodded mutely. She noticed that James didn’t bother to protest.
“The Home Office was using Lord Humford to deliver something. This list.”
“What’s on this list?” James asked.
Brandon frowned. “I believe it contained the names of operatives on the continent. Humford wasn’t aware of the importance of his assigned duty.”
“I can’t believe they’d trust him with something of such import,” Verena said. “He was not the brightest of men.”
“Perhaps they thought that made him less suspect. And had he not opened his mouth…. Apparently Humford liked the attention his little favors for the Home Office got him. He bragged about his new mission to someone.”
“And that ‘someone’ killed him,” James said.
“As he was leaving Westforth House. Apparently the list wasn’t on him when he died, though the killer expected it to be.”
“Which explains why they think the list is here.”
Brand nodded. “I’ve been thinking. It also explains why you, James, were brought to London.”
James stiffened. “You think the letters—”
“They had to find a way to get your sister’s attention. They found those love letters and used them to get you to come to England. They knew you’d come to Verena and then they’d be able to get her cooperation.”
James didn’t say anything for a long while. Finally, he sighed. “That makes sense.”
Brandon nodded. “According to Wycham, the night before Verena’s dinner party, Humford asked him to take the list and deliver it for him. Wycham was to get the list here, at Westforth House.”
James let out his breath. “Bloody hell! If the person who is after this list killed Humford and also stole my letters, then I—”
“—must be on the lookout for a very brutal individual,” Brand finished.
Verena swallowed hard. James was in danger—they all were. Her heart thumped fearfully.
James resumed his pacing, his head bowed, his hands clasped behind him. “I don’t like this.”
“You shouldn’t. There are two factions after the list—the government and this…other person.”
“Or persons,” Verena said.
“That’s a possibility,” James said.
“I’d call it more a probability,” Brandon interjected.
James let out a sigh. “This is impossible! We must—” He stopped and cut a dark glance at Brandon. “St. John, why are you sharing this information? What do you have at stake?”
Brandon met James’s look levelly. He could leave now if he wanted to. He could rise from his chair and walk out the door and never look back. He could use other means to help Wycham. Perhaps Marcus had some influence.
But somehow the stakes were different now. It had become more important to discover the person or persons who were playing havoc with so many people’s lives.
His gaze flickered to Verena, who sat watching him with a concerned expression on her face. He wasn’t going to leave, not until they’d solved this mystery.
He had far too much at stake to just walk away. He had a very tender, succulent five-foot-two stake, with long, thick blond hair, engaging violet eyes, and the lushest curves ever to grace a woman.
It was becoming clearer day-by-day that Wycham’s danger was peripheral compared to Verena’s. She was the one closest to the missing list.
Whether she knew it or not, she was not safe and hadn’t been since Humford, in all his glorious ignorance, had waltzed in her door and seated himself at her dinner table.
“I’m staying,” Brandon said. He eyed James evenly. “For as long as it takes.”
James’s jaw jutted pugnaciously. “And if I make you leave?”
“If you could make me leave, then I’d just come back. Over and over. St. Johns never quit.”
“And Lansdownes never allow outsiders to interfere in their efforts.”
“Good Lord!” Verena threw herself back in her chair, her arms limp at her sides. “What is this? A spitting contest? You two are like a couple of roosters posturing for a gaggle of geese.”
Brand had to grin; even James appeared confused. “Verena, I believe you’ve mixed your metaphors.”
“And you’ve lost all your common sense.” She looked at her brother. “Both of you. James, we’ve looked everywhere for that blasted list. We need help. And I’d rather it be Brandon St. John than anyone else.”
Brand lifted his brows. It wasn’t a declaration, but it was fairly close considering how protective Verena was.
She caught his gaze and colored. “I’ve already made the error of telling you everything. We might as well take advantage of that.”
Wonderful. She didn’t want his assistance because she believed he could help. No, she wanted his assistance because she was too bloody stubborn to share her secrets with anyone else.
Verena looked at James. “Well? Do we work together? Or shall I call Herberts to escort Mr. St. John to the door?”
Brand waited. He didn’t really care what James thought. He was here to stay.
Chapter 19
I love women. Tall ones. Short ones. Round ones. But especially the saucy ones. They never bore, rarely snore, and are oft witty enough to stave off the ennui of the second week of acquaintance.
Sir Robert Daltry to the Duke of Wexford, while enjoying a hand of whist at Boodle’s
James fixed his gaze on Brandon with unwavering regard. “Before this goes any further, I want to know what you expect from this partnership.”
Brandon smoothed his cuff. He supposed he could understand Lansdowne’s distrust. It was not a situation that gave itself to fostering a sense of faith in human nature. “Since we are on a parallel journey as it were, it would be more enjoyable—and more prudent—to travel the distance together.”
“You expect me to believe that you’re here, sharing your information for no other reason than because you think it might be more ‘enjoyable’?”
Brandon had to force himself not to look at Verena. There were a lot of different ways one could use the word “enjoyable,” and they all applied to Verena. “Lansdowne, I understand why you don’t trust me, or anyone for that matter. But I’m not here to cause you any distress.”
“You want to be partners, then? Share information, clues?”
“Why not?” Brandon asked. “We come from a greater position of strength if we fight together.”
“And when we find the list?”
“Then we find it.”
“Ah, but you want it for one thing, we want it for something else. What then?”
Brand shrugged. “We cross that bridge when we get to it. But whatever we decide, we decide together.”
r />
James still looked unconvinced. “This seems very unusual to me.”
“The whole bloody mess is unusual.”
“Hm.” James eyed Brandon thoughtfully. “What reason do you have for trusting us? How do you know it wasn’t Verena or I who killed Humford and then stole the list? How do you know we didn’t fabricate those love letters, the blackmail, all of it—just to hide our real purpose?”
“James!” Verena exclaimed.
“It’s a valid question,” James returned brutally. “Humford was here immediately before he was killed. And as much as I hate to admit it, you and I would both make good candidates for suspicion.” His lips twisted. “Part of our Lansdowne legacy.”
Verena colored. “That hurt.”
“Only because it is true,” James returned, meeting her gaze levelly. Something passed between them, a unspoken comment that made Verena’s lips tighten.
Brandon watched them, his interest growing. Perhaps this was what Colburn had meant when he’d hinted that Verena had secrets. “What exactly is a Lansdowne?”
James lifted a brow at his sister. “Shall I tell him? Or will you?”
She tilted her chin into the air. “I don’t think he needs to know.”
Oh, but he did. And very, very badly. But before she could voice her protest, James spoke.
“You’ve already told our darkest secrets. Why stop now?”
Brand grinned a little when Verena favored her brother with a hot glare.
“Don’t look at me like that,” James said. “If you trust him enough to tell him about my stupid mistakes and our subsequent predicament, then you might as well come all the way clean.”
Almost as an afterthought, he added, “I don’t want anything to turn up later that might plague our little partnership.”
Verena stared down at her shoes, her color high. Finally, after what seemed an interminable length of time, she said, “Oh very well. But I think it’s ill advised.”
Brand waited.
She turned a little in her chair until she faced him, though she was careful not to look directly at him. In fact, she very deliberately clasped her hands together and stared at her interlocked fingers. “This is very difficult, but I—well, I suppose you should hear it from us. My family…the Lansdownes…”
The ornate mantel clock ticked away the seconds. Brandon waited.
She sighed and began again. “As you know, some people live by their wits. Well, my father is considered very witty.”
James shook his head ruefully. “Ver! Do you want me to tell him?”
“I’m telling him,” she said testily.
“No, you’re not. You’re hinting. Just spit it out. If you don’t, the Home Office will.”
“The Home—do you think they know?”
“Of course they do.”
“Wonderful.” She took a deep gulp and then finally met Brandon’s gaze. “My father is a French count.”
That was it? Brandon frowned.
He said, “My grandfather held an Irish title. He bred horses and was very—”
“No, no,” Verena said, twisting her hands. “You don’t understand. Sometimes my father is a French count.”
Brandon paused. “Sometimes?”
“And sometimes he is a Russian nobleman, displaced by Unfortunate Events.”
“He was an Italian prince once, too,” James added helpfully. “That was one of his better ones.”
“He always did look good in red,” Verena said absently. She didn’t dare look at Brand again.
James had been right—it was time everything was brought out into the open. And better now, before she’d come to care overly much, than later, when she was lost.
She knew what to expect of course. Disbelief, followed by distrust. The thought tightened her throat.
Brand’s husky voice cut through her thoughts. “I see. Your father is—” He rubbed his forehead as if to clear it. “Good God.”
“Our father is whatever he needs to be,” James said brutally. “And he’s damned good at it, too.”
Brand nodded slowly. He looked first at James, then at Verena, a question in his gaze. “What about the two of you?”
Verena frowned. “What about the two of us?”
“Are either of you a count or countess of varying degrees? Or a Russian prince or princess?”
“Of course not,” Verena said hotly.
James chuckled. “Verena’s too stiff-necked to do anything so outrageous while I’ve never aspired to the heights my father reached. I’m content living within my trade.”
“Trade?”
James hesitated just an instant. “Cards.”
“Ah,” Brandon said. “A family trait, that.”
She caught her breath. It seemed as though a thread of humor laced his voice. Surely not. Surely his pride was already recoiling at the thought of being in league with such charlatans.
But when she stole a look at him, he was regarding her with warm humor, his eyes gleaming softly. “You haven’t really surprised me, you know. I’ve mentioned your talent with cards before.”
“You don’t mind?”
“Why should I?”
Why should he, indeed, she thought dismally. It wasn’t as if they were engaged in a relationship. He could afford to enjoy her low connections since none of them were his. Verena took a slow breath. “Now you know all there is to know.”
“Do I?”
What else could there be to tell? Before she could ask what he meant, James interrupted. “You’d like the old man. He’s a genius.”
“Really?”
“Yes. And if you saw him in action, you’d think it, too.”
“I don’t doubt that,” Brandon said. “Am I soon to have the pleasure?”
“Lord, no. They’re in France right now. Making the most of the chaos, no doubt.”
“Now you know all of our secrets,” Verena said. In the four years she’d lived here on Kings Street in her little house, she’d never told a soul the things she’d told Brandon.
She hadn’t told anyone because she knew the way of the Lansdownes. Once the cat was out of the bag, it was time to move on. A Lansdowne came, they saw, they conquered, and then slipped away before everything unraveled and came falling down around their ears.
It was a sad state of affairs when telling someone about your family could be equated with a confession. And as usual, only the Lansdownes had anything to “confess.”
But perhaps she was being overly sensitive. Perhaps everyone had confessions to make. She eyed Brandon speculatively. What could he possibly have to confess? That he was madly and passionately in love with her?
That would be nice. The thought startled her. Would it be nice? Or would it be heart-wrenchingly sad? From the pain that settled in her heart, she thought she knew the answer.
“Well?” James said, looking at Brandon. “Has our confession changed your mind? Still wish to throw your future in with ours?”
“Even more so. I’m anxious to begin.” His smile glinted, his blue eyes softening. “I need some excitement in my life. Things were getting tedious.”
“Excitement?” Verena frowned. “You don’t know what you’re saying. There are times when I’ve thought a little boredom would be a good thing.”
“Boredom is good when it’s yours by choice,” Brandon agreed. “But when it’s forced on you, you find you’d do anything to break the chains.”
James looked as if he understood completely. “’Tis done, then. What do we do about this mess we find ourselves in?”
“The first thing we need to do is get Verena to safety,” Brandon said smoothly.
She stiffened. “What?”
James hid a grin. “You are wasting your time, St. John.”
“I don’t want her here,” he said with even more determination. “It could become dangerous. Especially now that the Home Office has gotten involved.”
“And they know we’re here,” James said.
“They m
entioned Verena. I’m not certain they know about you.”
“They will,” Verena said shortly. Who in Hades did he think he was to demand such a thing? “I assume they are watching the house.”
Brand nodded.
Her heart sank. God, how she hated this. It was far too similar to when she’d lived with her parents—always on the verge of being discovered, always planning to flee into the night.
Years of conditioning had taught her that this moment was inevitable. She still left her packed portmanteau in the bottom of her wardrobe in case she had to leave in the middle of the night.
It hadn’t been used in four years and Verena wasn’t even sure what was in it, but the sight of that neatly locked portmanteau made her feel safer, more confident.
And now she knew why. Once a Lansdowne, always a Lansdowne.
“That is the one problem I have with Father’s career,” James said. “It puts one in a damnable spot if there’s ever an honest run-in with the law.”
Brandon nodded. “That may be true. At first, they thought to blame Wycham for their laxity in losing the list. Then, once they discovered Verena’s history, they seemed to be switching their attentions to her.”
“Yes,” James said, “and if they’ve lost something of importance, they will be looking for a scapegoat.”
“Unless we find the villain first,” Verena interjected.
“Which brings us back to the list,” Brandon said. He paused. Verena was right. They had to find a way to draw the villain out in the open. If only they had that damned list.
Brandon raked his hair from his eyes. “James, as soon as we’ve gotten Verena to safety, you and I will—”
Verena stood, her eyes flashing. “You and James? Look, St. John, we are in this together. Wherever you go, I go.”
“You don’t have a say in this. It’s not safe and that’s all there is to it.”
James regarded Brand with approval. “Two minutes into our partnership and already you are issuing orders. I like that.”
“You would,” Verena snapped, “especially since he is not issuing any orders to you.”
“Ver, be reasonable.” James protested. “Don’t start getting all missish on us.”
“I’m not being missish.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “I am a part of this venture, whether St. John likes it or not. Unless he has plans to tie me up and keep me under lock and key, there is nothing he can do about it.”