Confessions of a Scoundrel

  Brandon stood before her. He stopped down and put his arms about her, gently turning her face to his. “For one moment, don’t think about what happened last night. Or what might happen this afternoon. We are here, this second. Just us.” His voice ran along her senses like a fire, melting everything in its path. “Kiss me, Verena.”

  She shook her head.

  “Then let me kiss you.” He brushed the tips of his fingers along her cheek, leaving a trail of delicate sensation.

  She swallowed, aware that he was deliberately seducing her. And what would be wrong with that? she asked herself. Why not give in to passion? This was the last time she might ever have this chance.

  Damn it, she deserved some happiness. She deserved to spend her last day in England in the arms of the man she—Verena caught herself a moment before she committed the worst sin of all, believing herself in love with Brandon St. John.

  “Verena,” he murmured. He took her hand and placed a delicate kiss in her palm, feathering her skin with his hot breath. Jolts of shocked desire went up her arm and traveled across her breasts and lower.

  Locking her gaze with his, she touched him, sliding her fingers over his mouth. She inserted the tip of her forefinger between his lips. He bit her gently and heat built inside her as his tongue stroked her flesh. God, but he was the most sensual man she knew. Need pooled between her thighs and she clenched them together to still the ache.

  He withdrew her finger and trailed his lips over her hand, to her wrist. “I want you with me, beneath me,” he whispered. “Do you want me, Verena?”

  In answer, Verena twined her arms about his neck and pulled his mouth to hers. His lips were hot and demanding, his hands cupping, stroking, exploring her as if he’d never before touched her—never before made her his. He groaned as she raked a hand through his hair, holding him to her.

  She was never aware of how they undressed. One moment, they were fully clothed, hands desperately seeking buttons and ties, and the next they were naked, their bare skin holding their souls at bay, their clothes pooled on the floor about them.

  Verena lifted her arms to twine them about Brandon’s neck, brushing her bared breasts along his chest. Suddenly, touching him was not enough. She wanted to taste him, to fill her senses until there was nothing but Brandon. A wave of longing slammed into her heart and the walls she’d built to protect herself began to crack. She pressed herself to him, rubbing her hips against his, feeling his excitement. She lost herself in the feel of him, his mouth possessing hers, the hot thrust of his tongue inside her mouth, the sensuous feel of his hardened manhood against her stomach.

  The edge of the settee pressed against the back of her legs. “Mine,” he whispered hoarsely into her ear. “All mine.”

  A flush of power surged through her, making her more wanton, stirring her to new improprieties. With trembling fingers, she reached between them and placed her hand about his manhood. Velvet hard and warm, it sent a pleasurable shiver through her.

  “Verena,” he breathed, his face a mask of torment. She reveled in it, stroking him with a featherlight touch.

  Brandon moaned. “I can’t take this much longer.”

  Neither could she. Her whole body throbbed with desire and if he didn’t touch her soon, she would explode in a whoosh of heat. Brandon slid down until his knees rested on the floor, his mouth even with her chest. The sight of his sensuous mouth so near her nipples caused them to pucker as if he had touched them. He lowered his hands and placed them on her calves. Slowly, ever so slowly, he pushed her knees apart. With hands that trembled ever so slightly, he positioned himself between her thighs.

  He leaned forward to kiss her breasts, his tongue leaving a heated path. She tangled her fingers in his thick hair, pulling him closer. Her senses stretched, expanded until she was aware of every feeling, every nuance in the room. The flicker of heat from the fire. The edge of the settee against the back of her thighs. Of Brandon’s hands on her knees. Of his mouth on her breasts. Every cadence burned itself into her memory and added to the ripples of passion that built within.

  Verena writhed against him, her hands moving wildly over his neck and shoulders. Brandon fought for control. She was so beautiful, so brazen. She reclined before him, her thighs surrounding his hips, her skin pink and passion-kissed.

  Like a man starved, he positioned himself against her. He wanted to take her gently. But she was beyond gentle. Verena threw her arms about his neck, pressing against him, enfolding him into her warm body until they were one. His breath tore from his lips as he sank into her, reveling in the feel of her, the beauty of her that captivated him so completely.

  Her fingers curled, her nails biting into his arms. “More,” she whispered hoarsely. “More—”

  He thrust home. She gave a startled cry, her head thrown back, her hips arching to meet his. Again and again, he thrust. She clasped his hips tightly with her legs, her body writhing a sensuous dance beneath his. She arched into him, her passions rising, building. He could barely keep his own emotions under control, his body aching with the torture. But Brandon fought against it.

  Just as he thought he could withhold no more, she stiffened beneath him, her body arching so wildly that Brandon had to wrap his arms about her to hold her on the settee. Brandon followed her over the edge of passion, his body exploding with a flash of heat before he collapsed against her, cradling her to him.

  God how he loved her. Loved her as he could love no other. The realization echoed in his soul. “Verena,” he said into the softness of her hair. “I—”

  “No. Brandon, don’t—” She pushed herself upright. “We have to go.”

  He leaned away, frowning. “Verena, we—”

  “No.” Her smile quavered the faintest bit. “Brandon, we cannot…now is not the time.”

  He hated to admit it, but she was right. The clock was ticking and they had much to do. Brandon nodded mutely, dropping his arms and moving away, trying to cool his ardor.

  Silently they dressed. Verena’s face was tense, her eyes shadowed. Brandon tried to say something several times, but the haunted look in her eyes made him fall silent.

  Finally, she smoothed her hair and managed a wobbly smile. “I—We will talk about this later. After…”

  He tilted her face to his. “When you are ready.” He bent and kissed her cheek.

  At first, she held herself back, but then, just as he went to move away, she pressed against him, her head nestled to his neck. His arms encircled her and there they remained until the clock chimed.

  She stepped away, her color high. She went to the small desk and pulled out a small square of paper and placed it into her reticule. “We must go.”

  He nodded. “I’ll borrow a coat and hat from Peters.” She nodded, then left the room, unlocking the door, her soft voice calling for Herberts.

  Moments later, dressed in an old coat, a battered felt hat on his head, Brandon helped Verena into the carriage. As he closed the door, he caught sight of a boy in a blue tattered coat, who took off running the instant Brandon whipped the horses to life.

  Smiling grimly, Brandon pulled his collar up about his ears and made his way from London.

  On a normal day, Verena would have been glad for Brandon’s well-sprung carriage. It was far better equipped for the trip than her own, which had weak springs and an unfortunate tendency to sway around each corner. But nothing could make the long, arduous journey to Little Sutton any more palatable.

  She was so nervous her stomach ached. And the fact that Brandon was so close yet so far away did not make things easier.

  They reached Little Sutton at one and stopped to ask directions to the inn. Another note awaited them there, delivered by an urchin with a dirty face and directing them to a clearing half a mile from town.

  Per their plan, she made sure that everyone within earshot knew she was there, that she was tired and famished, that she wanted nothing more than to return home to London. She complained and whined, then burst into
tears and allowed a chambermaid to lead her back to her coach.

  Brandon never dismounted, watching it all from his position on the coach.

  It appalled her how easily the tears came and it took her several minutes to stop crying once the coach was underway. Thus it was that at the appointed time, the carriage pulled into the clearing.

  She patted her reticule, the faint outline of a pistol visible. She pulled it out and checked to be sure it was loaded before she leaned out the window.

  Thick brush encircled them, dotted here and there with flowers. Tall trees waved overhead.

  Verena scanned her surroundings anxiously. She could not see Brandon, but she was agonizingly aware of his presence. He was vulnerable sitting in the open, and she could only pray the villains did not suspect him.

  Verena waited. All she could hear were the sounds of birds twittering and the wind rustling the trees. The coach rocked as Brandon climbed down. He walked forward as if checking the horses.

  After several moments, she said, “No one’s here.”

  “Wait,” Brandon ordered softly.

  “I want to get out.” It was tortuous sitting inside the carriage while he was in the line of danger.

  “No. You have on skirts. If something goes wrong, you won’t be able to run back to the carriage.”

  “You don’t know me well if you think that.”

  His gaze ran over her, hot and possessive. “I know you too well to let you out of that coach.”

  She curled her hands more tightly about her reticule. “I wonder where—”

  “Hold it right there,” came a voice from the edge of the clearing.

  Verena’s heart stumbled, her gaze meeting Brandon’s. They knew that voice. Knew it because—she closed her eyes.

  When she opened them, there, standing in the clearing, stood Roger Carrington, Viscount Wycham. And in his hand was a pistol, pointed directly at Verena.

  Chapter 23

  Men never understand that all a woman truly wants is a man who will listen. Understand. Pay her bills. And, of course, love her madly even when her hips widen due to an unfortunate addiction to bon bons.

  Lady Jersey to Mrs. Cowper, as the two watched the dancers waltz at Almack’s

  Brand struggled to believe the scene before him. Wycham—the traitor. Anger simmered, deep and bitter.

  Roger cocked the gun, the click loud in the clearing. “Don’t even think it, Brand.”

  Brand’s jaw tightened. “What the hell do you think you’re doing, Roger? This is ludicrous!”

  “No, it’s not. It’s survival. I have no choice.” He glanced toward the carriage. “Verena, pray join us.”

  Verena opened the door of the carriage and climbed down.

  “Wait!” Brand took a step forward, stopping when Roger’s gun swung his way. “You don’t need her out here.”

  “Oh yes, I do. I want both of you where I can see your hands. And do not think of using that blunderbuss you have hidden on the coach. I will shoot the lady if I must.”

  Brand’s hands curled into fists.

  “Roger Carrington,” Verena said, scorn thick in her voice. “I should have guessed.”

  His cheeks reddened. “You don’t understand what’s occurred.”

  “I know you’ve been blackmailing my brother.”

  Wycham reached into his pocket and pulled a crumpled packet of letters from his pocket. He threw them to the ground. “They’re all yours. Where’s the list?”

  Brand started to turn toward the carriage, but stopped, a thoughtful expression on his face. “May I ask how you got Lansdowne’s letters? It was damnably convenient that you should end up with them just as that list disappeared.”

  “Wasn’t it? Actually, though, I had to manipulate the fates a bit.”

  Verena frowned. “Manipulate?”

  “I knew you wouldn’t just hand over the list. Especially not once you realized it might hold some worth. Therefore, I schemed a bit.”

  “How did you know about James?”

  “I met the redoubtable Mr. Lansdowne several months ago, in France. And when I met him, I was struck by the resemblance.”

  “You knew of his dalliance.”

  Wycham shrugged. “A little money in the hands of a poorly paid servant will yield far more information than one needs. Once I heard about the letters…it wasn’t difficult.”

  “That is despicable,” Brand snapped. How had he been so wrong?

  “No, that is good planning.”

  Brandon simmered and he had to force his mind to calmness. Verena needed him.

  Roger gestured with his gun. “Now Verena, I want that bloody list.”

  “As soon as you take this list, you will be committing treason.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “Roger,” Brand said. “I don’t know what you’re doing, but—”

  “Don’t know—do you realize what my debts are?”

  “Your father—”

  “Has no money. None, Brandon.” Roger gave a sharp laugh. “Oh yes, I was surprised, too. He’s lost it all on the market, investing in the most ridiculous things—there’s nothing left.” Sweat beaded on Roger’s brow. “My whole life was based on the fact that one day I would be the next earl. I was raised to be wealthy and powerful and not poor, dammit! I—I can’t be poor.” He swallowed hard. “So I will have that list. It’s worth a fortune.”

  Verena shook her head. “There are worse things than poverty. Surely you can—”

  “Get that bloody list!” Roger snapped.

  “Roger,” Brandon said, stepping forward. “If you need money that badly, I will gladly—”

  “No! I don’t want your money. I want my own. And I’m getting my own.”

  There was a cry in his voice that reminded Brandon of when they were children. “Roger, I don’t know what’s wrong, but you are making things worse. Just put down the gun and we’ll—”

  “Give me that damn list!”

  Verena stood. “You want your list?” She reached into her reticule and pulled a small slip of paper from inside. “Here.”

  Roger took an eager step forward, his free hand outstretched.

  Verena leaned forward, the slip of paper in her fingers, though she made no move to get closer to Roger.

  He didn’t notice; his eyes were on the paper. He took the two steps to reach her fingers when she let go. The breeze grabbed the curl of paper and tumbled it across the ground.

  “Get that damn paper!”

  Verena bent to reach it, covertly scraping up a handful of silt. As she straightened, she threw the dirt right into Roger’s eyes.

  “Ahhh!” Roger staggered back, clutching at his face.

  Brandon grabbed the blunderbuss and turned toward Roger. But before he could aim, a loud retort rang from the woods. Brandon’s gun went flying from his hands.

  There, standing behind Roger, was Farragut. His brown eyes blazed angrily.

  “Damn it,” Brand muttered.

  “Come, now. Ye didn’t think Wycham capable of planning such a pretty cast, did ye?”

  Verena looked at Brandon. “Who is this?”

  Wycham swiped at his red eyes, blinking rapidly. “Let me introduce you. This is Farragut. He works for the Home Office.”

  “Aye, that I do. I’ve forty years in this business. Forty bloody years. And fer what? Fer nothing! So I decided to turn my knowledge into gold.”

  “The list,” Verena said softly.

  “Aye. It’s of every operative we have in all of Europe. France alone was willin’ to pay over a hundred thousand pounds fer it.”

  Verena pressed a hand to her forehead as if her head hurt. “You—you gave the list to Humford.”

  “And me lad, Wycham here, was going to pinch it the night of yer dinner party. Humford was to take the fall fer the whole mess.”

  “But then Humford lost it,” Brandon said, seeing exactly what happened.

  Farragut scowled. “Bloody fool. I warned him this was impo
rtant, I did. And what did he do, but lose the blasted list afore a day went by.”

  Brand looked at Roger. “Where do you come into this?”

  Farragut chuckled. “Ye’d best let me explain it. I needed someone to cover my tracks. Roger here was perfect—a desperate young nabob. And willing to do almost anything to get out from under his debts, even off Humford.”

  Brandon turned to Wycham, whose eyes were red-rimmed and watering furiously. “You killed Humford?”

  “I—I hit him on the head. I only wanted to stun him, but he wouldn’t be quiet. I was afraid he’d call attention and—”

  “My God,” Verena said, “you killed him outside of my house. You must have tossed his body in the Thames, then returned for dinner.”

  “No,” Brandon said. “Wycham said he hit Humford on the head. Who cut Humford’s throat?”

  Wycham glanced at Farragut, who met his gaze with a look of contempt. The older man’s lips curled derisively. “I’m the one as took the body and got rid of it. Wycham was too ill to do more than stagger to yer house. He’s no stomach fer thet sort of thing.”

  Roger’s face paled, though his jaw was set with determination. “Not this time. This time I will do what I must.”

  “Roger,” Brandon said in a low voice. “You can’t kill someone in cold blood. It’s not in you. You’d never be able to live with yourself.”

  A quiver passed over Roger’s face. He seemed to be holding his breath. Suddenly, he gasped. “Brandon, why did you come—”

  “Roger!” Brandon snapped. “Take control! Be a man for once.”

  Farragut laughed harshly. “Roger Carrington, a man? I’d like to see that. Fortunately, once’t he’s wealthy, no one will ask him to prove his manhood.”

  “I am a man,” Roger said, his face pale. He leveled his gun at Brandon.

  Brandon was conscious of the blunderbuss lying in the dirt at his feet. If only he could reach it without causing Roger to shoot wildly. Good God, what should he do?

  Pretend like we already have it. Of course.