“Thet’s because oiye was in a bit of a hurry.” Herberts leaned forward to say in a confidential tone. “Ye really needs some new horses, guv’nor. The ones ye has now are slugs, the both o’ them.”
Brandon looked down at Verena. “Well?”
She dimpled mischievously. “It seemed to me that Herberts wasn’t really…happy as a butler.”
“Ye had the roight o’ it, missus. Oiye was near to miserable.”
“Poor man!” James said, though he didn’t look in the least concerned.
“And,” Verena added swiftly, “he has such significant talents in other areas.”
“Thet’s roight. Oiye can drive a coach to an inch, oiye can.”
Verena smiled up at Brandon. “I thought perhaps he might enjoy being our coachman now that you’ve brought Poole to us.”
“Poole seems t’ like bein’ a butler,” Herberts said, his thin chest puffed out. “Meanwhile, oiye’m a dandy coachman. Bet ye’re surprised to find thet out, ain’t ye, guv’nor?”
“Brandon!” Devon stalked in, his brows lowered, Chase hard on his heels. “I was standing in the front lawn, bidding Lady Tarleton good-bye when someone took my new watch.”
Chase nodded glumly. “I’ve lost my gold cravat pin, too.”
Brandon looked at Herberts.
“Wasn’t me!” the coachman said, holding his hands in the air.
“Herberts,” Verena said.
The man shook his head sadly. “Oh, all roight. ’Tis supposed to be a joyous occasion, after all.” He dug into his pockets and began to produce his loot. With a regretful sigh, he dropped it in a shimmering pile on a long marble table.
“Good God,” Sir Colburn said, bending to look at the collection of rings, watch fobs, watches, cravat pins, an enameled snuffbox, and other glittering items. “That’s quite a collection.”
“There’s my watch,” Devon said. He polished it with his palm, then tucked it away.
“And my cravat pin,” Chase said.
James winked at Herberts. “Bloody good job, old fellow.”
Herberts preened. “Weel, now. Thank ye, Mr. Lansdowne. Oiye trys to keep up wif me hobbies.”
Sir Colburn picked up the enameled snuffbox. “This looks familiar. I wonder if—My God!”
“What?” Brandon asked.
“I know where I’ve seen this. It belonged to Humford! He had it the last time I saw him. The day we gave him the list.”
Verena frowned. “I didn’t think he took snuff.”
“He didn’t,” Colburn said slowly. “I wonder if…” With a flick of his thumb, Colburn undid the tiny catch and then opened the box. A small piece of paper fell out onto the floor. Colburn stooped to retrieve it.
“The list,” James exclaimed. “Herberts must have stolen the snuffbox from Humford while he was at Verena’s dinner party.”
Brandon chuckled. “Which explains why he began searching for it in the middle of dinner—he knew he’d just had it and all of the sudden it was gone. I daresay he panicked.”
“I can’t believe you found it!” Verena said, giving a little hop. “Thank God.”
Sir Colburn beamed. “Thank God indeed. Mr. and Mrs. St. John, I hope you’ll excuse me, but I must go.”
“Of course,” Brandon said. He watched as Sir Colburn strode out of the house, almost prancing in excitement.
Verena leaned her head against Brandon’s shoulder and sighed happily.
Brandon looked down into his wife’s shining eyes and was suddenly overcome with the need to go on his honeymoon. And not in thirty or forty minutes, but now. This very instant. Before he took her in his arms and embarrassed them both before the whole world.
He took her hand and drew it through his. “Herberts, do you think you can extract the carriage from that mess out there?”
“Lord love ye, o’ course oiye can. Are ye ready to go?”
“Already?” Devon frowned. “Aren’t you going to say good-bye to Marcus and Sara?”
“Why should he bother?” Chase said. “Marcus won’t care and Sara will think it vastly romantic.”
“Which it is,” Verena said happily. “Vastly romantic.” The whole world seemed to shimmer before her, full of promise and love.
He took her hand and placed a kiss in her palm. “Shall we go, then?”
She answered him with a look that caused him to suck in his breath and bustle her outside. Moments later, Verena was sitting in her new carriage, Herberts climbing onto the box. Brandon halted just outside the door, looking so mischievous that Verena had to restrain herself from throwing her arms about his neck.
“One moment, love,” he said. “I’ve an errand.”
From where he and Chase stood on the porch, Devon squinted across the lawn. “Looks as if Brandon’s coming back. He must have decided to say farewell to Marcus after all.”
Chase followed Devon’s gaze to find Brandon strolling across the lawn, his hands in his pockets. “I wouldn’t have returned.”
“No? Not even to say good-bye?”
“Not even to say hello.”
Halfway up the lawn, Brandon stopped. “Chase!” he yelled.
Chase’s brows rose and he stepped forward. “What?”
“Take care of this.” Brand threw something.
Chase didn’t even think. He reached out and caught the small object. It was the talisman ring.
“Bloody hell!” Chase roared. “Take this back!”
“Hell, no. It’s yours. It just may save you.” With a wave, Brandon turned and dashed back across the lawn to his carriage.
Chase whirled to Devon, who held up his hands. “Don’t look at me!” Devon said, stepping away. “It’s all yours now.”
Damn it. The talisman ring was the last thing he needed, today of all days.
Chase looked back toward the road. The carriage was still in sight, caught in the drive between an old coach and a landau. Herberts was shouting deprecations to an elderly driver who appeared to be deaf, as well as slow. Holding the ring in his fist, Chase vaulted over the railing and ran.
But just as he reached the carriage, the landau moved. Herberts whipped the horses to life. They took off at breakneck speed and were soon dashing down the drive, weaving precariously and taking the corner into the street at an astounding pace.
Chase watched until the carriage was out of sight, the ring warm in his palm. Damn it, what was he supposed to do now? He hadn’t planned on returning to his lodgings until…he frowned, his throat tight. Perhaps never.
Shoulders slumped, he looked down at the ring, the strange runes gleaming in the light. “Bloody hell. I suppose I’m stuck with you.” He held the ring at eye level and gave it a fierce scowl. “Just don’t get any ideas; I wasn’t made for marriage and it will be a cold day in hell before I am.”
That said, he shoved the ring into his pocket and made his way to his phaeton.
About the Author
KAREN HAWKINS discovered the joy of writing at the age of two when she found herself holding a red crayon and facing a lovely blank wall. Since then, she’s developed her skills beyond the crayon stage, though she admits that no matter her profession, her favorite exercise will always be writing checks at the local mall. A woman can never have too many shoes.
Winner of an RWA Favorite Book of the Year as well as the prestigious Maggie Award for Excellence, Karen writes full time when not shopping for shoes.
You can contact Karen at P.O. Box 5292, Kingsport, TN 37663-5292 or visit her online at www.karenhawkins.com.
Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins author.
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Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
CONFESSIONS OF A SCOUNDREL. Copyright © 2003 by Karen Hawkins. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
EPub © Edition SEPTEMBER 2009 ISBN: 9780061896095
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Karen Hawkins, Confessions of a Scoundrel
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