Always a Scoundrel (2 page)

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, probably 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.”

“For heaven’s sake, Father. I am not a box of bread to be traded to satisfy a debt.”

“That is precisely what you are. You are a member of this family, and you will do your duty.”

She made a scoffing sound. “This was James’s doing—let him marry Cosgrove. He spends more time with that man and his awful cronies than he does with his own family, anyway.”

“If you’re going to argue, at least have something useful to say.”

“You didn’t ask me in here to be the voice of reason. Good night, Mother. Father.”

Bram swept sideways, ducking into the dark doorway of the next room over. The library door slammed open, and a swoosh of silk passed him. The light scent of lavender followed. Seized by the abrupt desire to see this chit, Bram stepped halfway back into the hall. The tail end of a green patterned gown disappeared around the corner.

Well, this was unexpected. Most surprising of all, Cosgrove seemed to have decided to marry—and had put it in writing. He’d ruined men’s fortunes and lives before, so that was nothing new. But marriage…

“She won’t go along with it, you know,” another female voice took up. The Countess of Abernathy, no doubt. “You should have let me put it to her. I’ve always been able to reason with her.”

“Bah. We don’t need to reason with her, Joanna. This is her duty. You had to let her sister marry that useless Fishton, so she’s not available.”

“But Fishton’s a viscount, my dear. And mind your voice; they’re sleeping just down the hallway.”

“Yes. Another burden. And James is an idiot, but he’s the heir. It has to be Rose, whatever her protests may be. She certainly isn’t good for anything else.”

“Are you certain this is the best use for her? She
might marry one of Prinny’s circle, or someone higher in the government than Fishton. Or—”

“She doesn’t show well enough for that. Bookish and flat-chested. No, it’s Cosgrove. I have no idea why he wants her. Just be grateful he does. At the least he’s wealthy, and titled. And we have no other way to pull ourselves out of this hole James has dug for us all.”