Always a Scoundrel (17 page)

As he stood, pretending to watch the auctions, Bram couldn’t help wondering whether he’d said too much. Today had been about hopefully tempering Lester’s wagering, not about him telling tales of his own youthful stupidity. At least he hadn’t mentioned the one benefit to losing the ring; the duke had finally and clearly declared precisely what he thought of his second son. And that had truly been enlightening.

A warm hand closed around his arm, and he stilled. “You said before that Cosgrove has abused other of his friends. How?” Rosamund asked.

He nearly declined to answer; she certainly didn’t need another lesson about the horror that was Cosgrove. Lester still listened, though, and if Rosamund wanted her brother cured of wagering, he would do his best to see to it. “Do you know of John Easterling?”

Both of the Davies siblings shook their heads.

“He was Viscount Hammond’s oldest son.”

“‘Was’?” Rosamund repeated, astute as always.

Bram nodded. “About four years ago while I was away on the Peninsula, Cosgrove befriended Easterling, and ended up holding nearly thirty thousand quid in notes from the pup. As soon as he heard about it, Hammond disowned him, and two days later Easterling put a pistol in his mouth.”

“If you were away,” Lester demanded, his face pale, “then how do you know about this?”

“My brother was friends with Easterling.” And August had been only too happy to write him with the tale. “I can’t verify this last bit, but apparently upon learning of the lad’s death, Cosgrove said it was a damned shame
because he’d thought to get several more years of fun out of him first.”

“I’m going to be ill,” Lester said, and Bram pointed him toward the side of one of the buildings.

“You made up that last bit, didn’t you?” Rosamund whispered, either unaware or uncaring that being on his arm was beginning to earn her looks from more than a few of the men and women present.

“Yes, but considering that King has yet to alter his game, I thought it plausible.”

“More than plausible.” She looked at him sideways. “And do you actually stop wagering when your pocket is to let?”

“My pocket is rarely to let, but yes, I do. I don’t like being in debt to anyone. Ever.”

He thought perhaps he’d spoken too vehemently, but Rosamund only sighed. “I wish James felt that way.”

“You’re not marrying Cosgrove.” He blurted it out with all the finesse of a rutting bull, but at least she didn’t laugh or announce that she no longer wanted his help and would make do on her own.

Her grip on his arm tightened. “I don’t intend to marry him. Not any longer. But the more awful things you tell me about him, the more I worry that he’s already anticipated all this.”

That had begun to worry him, as well. But he’d stepped into this knowingly, and the hero was supposed to bear the bother on his own shoulders. “Now I’m insulted,” he drawled aloud. “If there’s one thing at which I excel, it’s seeing trouble coming.”

“Bram Johns, you scoundrel!”

Bram tensed, instinctively moving between Rosamund and the loud male bellow. As he faced the sound,
the crowd at the south side of the auction pen stirred and parted, and a pair of tall, lean men emerged, striding toward him. Immediately he relaxed again, flexing his clenched fingers.
Thank Lucifer
. Some people might call this trouble, but he called it providence.

“Sullivan Waring,” he said, stepping forward. “What the devil are you doing here?”

“I heard there might be trouble,” Sullivan Waring, illegitimate son of the Marquis of Dunston, grinned and gave him a hard handshake. “I didn’t want to miss it.”

Bram glanced past his friend to Phin Bromley, who looked very pleased with himself. “You sent for him.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Shifting his gaze, he nodded. “Lady Rose. Good afternoon.”

With a muffled curse Bram took Rosamund’s hand again and placed it over his arm. “Rosamund, you know Phin. This is my very good friend Sullivan Waring, the finest horse breeder in England. Sully, Lady Rosamund Davies.”

Sullivan bowed. “Lady Rosamund. Are you here alone with Bram?”

The damned nosy nag even had the presumption to frown. Abruptly not so happy to see his comrade again, Bram forced a lazy grin. “Her brother’s around the back of the building, casting up his accounts.”

“Are you here for the auctions, Mr. Waring?” Rosamund asked.

“No. I generally hire someone to bring my stock to London. I’m just here for a visit.”

Those cool green eyes beneath brown hair run through with gold looked amused—and more than
likely very handsome to every chit in the area. Bram tightened his grip on Rosamund. “I assume Isabel is still at Amberglen? Isabel is expecting their first child, you know.”

“Congratulations, Mr. Waring.”

“Thank you, and no, Tibby insisted on joining me in London. We’re staying at Bromley House.” As he spoke, Sullivan returned his attention to Bram. “And what the devil are you wearing?”

Damnation
. “Can’t a fellow alter his attire a fraction without causing the shift of the continents?”

“Evidently not,” Phin put in dryly.

“Gads,” Lord Lester exclaimed, rejoining them, “you’re Sullivan Waring!” He grabbed Sullivan’s hand and shook it. “Bram owns one of your horses. Prime animal, Titan.”

“Yes, one of my finest,” Sullivan said, lifting an eyebrow.

“Sully, this is Rosamund’s brother, Lord Lester.”

“Ah. You’ve finished vomiting, then.”

Lester blushed. “It weren’t my fault. Bram’s tales about Cosgrove are enough to make anyone need to lighten their ballast.” He gave an uneasy laugh. “Though Bram does like to joke about.”

All he needed was for his friends to agree with that. What he
did
need, though, was a moment with Sullivan. “James, Rosamund, would you be kind enough to show Phin the pair I favor?”

Rosamund stirred, stepping away from him to take her brother’s arm. “Certainly. This way, Mr. Bromley.”

“Phin, please, my lady.”

Once they were out of earshot, Bram gripped Sullivan by the shoulders. “I am glad to see you, you annoying bastard.”

“Likewise.”

“Isabel—Tibby—is well?”

“Everything’s grand, which you would know if you ever came to visit.”

“I do. It’s just that your happy domesticity rots my teeth.”

“Very amusing.”

With a glance around them, Bram led the way toward the lane and beyond the thickest part of the crowd. “Phin did write you, didn’t he?”

“What did you expect, after you stumbled into his bedchamber in the middle of the night and nearly got your head blown off?”

“I’d overindulged a bit.”

“Mm hm. What’s Cosgrove got to do with the girl and her family?”

Sullivan had never been much for dancing around a topic when he could ride straight over it. It had gotten him into trouble on more than one occasion, but Bram had always appreciated his forthright manner. His friend was much like Rosamund, actually.

Keeping his voice pitched well below the excited chattering going on at the auction behind them, Bram told Sullivan as succinctly as he could about Cosgrove befriending Lester, the ten-thousand-pound debt, and how the marquis wanted it repaid. All he left out was some of his involvement, and his refused proposal to Rosamund. When he’d finished, his friend no longer looked the least bit amused.

“And they say I’m a bastard,” he muttered. “I’ve never understood why you continue to call that barrow pig a friend, Bram. He—”

“I’ve stopped doing so,” Bram interrupted.

Sullivan looked at him. “You have?”

Shrugging, Bram kicked the toe of his Hessian boot into the dirt. “There would be no point in my telling the story if I didn’t intend to do something about it, now would there?”

“You frequently have no point.”

“True enough.” And how could he announce that he’d suddenly decided to become a hero when he’d never done such a thing before in his life, and was likely already making a muck of it? “I’m well acquainted with what King is,” he went on, “and Rosamund is a genuinely good person. He can continue to feed on the carrion of society for all I care, but I won’t let him have
her
.”

Sullivan looked as though he wanted to say something more, but instead he only nodded. “What can I do to help?”

Help
. Bram had
offered
help before—had even arguably saved the lives of both Sully and Phin on several occasions. But
asking
for help—that smacked of debt and obligation. “I believe I have it in hand at the moment, but I’ll let you know. Of course if you should wish to remain in Town for a short time, I wouldn’t argue.”

“Fair enough. Tibby’s got another few weeks before she needs to decide where she wants to settle for her confinement. I’m half hoping we end up in Cornwall with her family, because I am already frightened to death.” Sullivan took a breath. “And what do you think
you’re doing, visiting Tattersall’s when none of my animals are showing?”

“I’m not here to purchase anything,” Bram returned, grateful for the change of subject. “Cosgrove’s holding one of his orgies this afternoon, and I’m attempting to keep Lester clear of it.”

“A few more good deeds like that, and I’ll have to stop referring to you as a scoundrel.”

“Don’t you dare.”

When she, James, and Phin Bromley rejoined the two men beside the auction pen, Rose couldn’t keep her gaze off Bram. It wasn’t just that he showed exceedingly well in his dark blue jacket with its gray waistcoat and black trousers, but the way he seemed to command the attention of everyone—male and female—around him. She’d never been notorious, but he made it look like a great deal of fun.

Those striking black eyes met hers, and heat shot through her again. Why Bram Johns—a man who’d seduced and apparently abandoned countless beautiful, exotic women—had fixated on her, she had no idea. But it felt…powerful to have the attention of a man that other women clearly wanted. Even if it was only for another handful of days, and even if he had positioned himself as some sort of tutor to her brother and protector to her.

“What say we collect Isabel and Alyse, and picnic in Hyde Park?” Sullivan Waring suggested, his gaze lingering on her for just a moment. Unlike Cosgrove’s gaze, though, it didn’t feel at all predatory or threatening, but more as if he was attempting to decipher a puzzle. She wondered what Bram had said to him.

“Splendid,” James exclaimed, no doubt flattered to be included in the company of the men he had previously and repeatedly termed “notorious gentlemen” to the point that she wanted to throw things at him.

Beginning to wish she’d paid more attention to the Society pages and her brother’s gossip before her family had arrived for James’s first Season in London, Rose nodded her agreement. Anything to keep her brother and her away from Cosgrove today.

“We’ll purchase luncheon then, and meet you in the middle of the park, on the north shore of the Serpentine,” Bram said, offering her an arm.

She took it. Even if he didn’t realize that such preferential treatment from him in public could damage her reputation, she did. And she welcomed it. At this moment anything that might discourage Cosgrove was welcome. Aside from that, Bram had already done a very fine job of ruining her.

“What are you smiling at?” he murmured, as they and James made their way past the other auction attendees to his coach.

“I was just thinking that I’ve enjoyed myself this morning,” she answered. As if she would admit that she’d been remembering the weight of his naked body atop hers.

“I have, as well. Quite odd, really.”

“Yes? Perhaps doing good deeds suits you.”

Bram shook his head, a lock of black hair crossing the corner of one eye. “Chatting with someone who has more than half a wit suits me. But I’m in this game for the trouble it will cause.”

A few weeks ago she would have believed that claim. Now, she wasn’t nearly as certain. And nothing she wit
nessed over the next three hours served to convince her any further. He purchased them a splendid luncheon, better than anything she’d tasted for weeks. Far from behaving like an unrepentant, incurable rakehell, Bram was amusing, kind, and solicitous not only toward her, but toward the wives of his two closest friends, as well.

It was all blasted confusing. Which was the true Bramwell Lowry Johns—the black-hearted cynic, or the jaded but good-hearted man? And why in the world did it matter, as long as he continued helping her?

“You’re staring at me,” he said from the seat opposite her as they rode back to Davies House.

Rose blinked. “Am I?”

“Yes. I’m near to blushing from it.”

James snorted from beside her. “I’ve yet to see anything make you blush, Bram.”

“Excessive heat has done it,” Bram countered, but his gaze remained on her. “You no doubt find me fascinating, but may I ask why? Unless the reasons are too many for you to name, of course.”

“Actually, after hearing you conversing with your friends, I was wondering if there are any of the Ten Commandments you haven’t broken.”

“Number nine,” he said promptly.

“Oh, really?”

“Absolutely. And quite possibly number two. At least I don’t recall carving any statues, though I might of course have been drunk at the time.”

“Carving ain’t the sin; it’s worshipping a carved image,” James contributed. “But which one is the ninth? I get ’em confused.”

“Bearing false witness against your neighbor,” Rose
supplied with a grin. “You don’t strike me as being a liar, Bram, so I can believe that.”

He inclined his head. “Thank you. That does still leave a wide swath of broken commandments and deadly sins in my wake, however.”

“What about number eight?” she pursued.

“Is that the Sabbath one?” her brother asked.

“It’s the stealing one.”

Bram continued to gaze at her, but he didn’t say anything. Something in his eyes intrigued her mightily, and she very much wanted to know what, if anything, he might have stolen. At the same time, however, she absolutely wanted to remain ignorant. She had enough to worry over.

“I would wager he’s stolen the virginity of dozens of chits,” James chortled, laughing.