Early the next morning—far earlier than he usually rose, Brand forced himself from bed and dressed with care. His thoughts went immediately to Verena. He would enjoy their little ride this morning. But first things first—rising at such an hour had left him with a raw hunger.

He smiled grimly as he walked down the street to White’s. Once there, he selected a table in the corner and made his way to it, pausing when he caught sight of a familiar face in one corner. Chase. Brand hesitated, then turned and made his way toward his brother. “There you are,” Brand said, taking a chair and looking at the dishes of eggs and ham with interest.

Chase looked anything but pleased. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m a member. I come here all the time.”

“I thought you’d be out saving me from opportunistic women. Or was that just last week’s task?”

Though he tried not to show it, Brandon’s anger flickered. Damn it, he’d worked hard not to be Marcus’s puppet. But then, this was Chase. He had a gift for spotting weaknesses and, when cornered, he never failed to attack them.

Brandon motioned for a servant to bring him a plate. “I’m glad I found you.”

Chase picked up his glass and took a deep drink.

Brandon frowned at the unmistakable scent of brandy. “Bit early for that, isn’t it?”

“It’s not early; it’s late. Unlike you, I have yet to sleep.” The gentle light of the club softened the lines about Chase’s mouth, marks of dissipation usually found in a much older man.

Brand had to bite back the desire to say anything; Chase did not take chastisement well. A servant set a place setting before Brandon and he busied himself with filling his plate. Brandon waited for the servant to leave and then he said, “I need to speak with you about something of great import.”

“I have nothing to say to you.”

“Ah, but this is about Lady Westforth.”

Chase’s gaze met Brand’s, curiosity warring with the desire to appear uninterested. Curiosity won. “Is she still tormenting you by flaunting your bank draft? Perhaps you’d like me to see if I can buy her off.” Chase leaned back in his chair, and waved his glass. “No, wait. That would only give her more St. John drafts to make her little paper animals out of, wouldn’t it? If we continue, she could end up with a menagerie.”

Brand took a bite of ham. “I believe she’s moved on from there. Now she’s making jewelry with my name prominently displayed. Last night, she had a necklet that contained my signature.”

Chase threw back his head and laughed. Brand wondered how long it had been since he’d heard that sound.

“Brand, you’re going to find out that there’s only one Verena. I could have told you about her, but you didn’t see fit to ask.” His amusement faded a little. “In fact, no one conferred with me at all. When will you realize that I’m no longer nineteen years of age?”

“When you cease to act it. Look, Chase, I’m sorry if you feel we overstepped our bounds. Perhaps we did. But your behavior has not encouraged us to do anything else.” He looked pointedly at the glass that rested at Chase’s elbow.

“I don’t need you or Marcus,” Chase sneered, taking a defiant drink. “Stop breathing over my shoulder every time you think I might do something to disgrace the blessed St. John name, will you? I’m tired of it.”

Brand almost winced at such obvious bitterness. What had happened to his younger brother? “Did you really ask Verena to marry you?”

Chase stared into his glass. “What has she said?”

“Not a word. And I wasn’t going to ask her.” Brandon helped himself to more eggs and eyed his brother thoughtfully. “Well?”

“I don’t have to answer that.”

“I know.”

Chase sighed and set his glass on the table. “I asked her to marry me but she refused.”

“Do you…do you care for her?” The bite of ham Brand had just eaten seemed to stick in his throat.

“Of course not.”

Brand swallowed. “She’s remarkably personable.”

“She’s more than that. Verena is special, Brand. She’s honest and to the point and—”

“She cheats at cards. I saw her do it last night.”

Chase grinned. “So do we.”

“Only when we play one another.”

“How else do you think she affords her house?”

Brand lifted his brows. “She does it for a living?”

“Only when necessary.”

“Did she tell you all this?”

“No. I just watched.”

“That’s not what I’d call honesty.”

“No one is perfect. Not even you.”

Brand set his fork and knife on his plate and pushed it back. “Not even I.” At one time, he and Chase had been close, almost inseparable. That had been years ago, of course. Sometimes Brand missed the old Chase, the one who laughed without rancor coloring his tone, the one who teased and enjoyed life so much.

But that had all changed now. And so had Chase.

Perhaps there was something in what his brother said. Brand frowned down at his napkin, toying with the edge of it. Finally, he looked up. “Chase, something has happened, something that involves Verena.”

“What?”

“I will tell you, but you cannot tell a soul.”

“Not even Marcus?”

“No. Not yet. Not until I’ve figured it out myself.”

Chase eyed Brandon warily. “What’s happened?”

Brandon related to Chase all the events that had led up to the day, though he omitted the kiss he’d won from Verena in the game last night.

In fact, he omitted quite a few things.

Chase shook his head. “Verena would never be involved in something as horrible as a murder.”

“Not even for the money?”

“She didn’t cash your bloody bank draft, did she?” Chase waved a hand. “If Verena needs money, all she has to do is win it.”

Chase had a point. And after Brandon had seen the two drunken sots they’d played with last night, he didn’t think it would be all that difficult.

“Besides,” Chase continued, “if she’d been really strapped for funds, she could have married me.”

Brandon tossed his napkin onto the plate before him. “You are right.”

Chase tapped his fingers on the table, his brow folded in thought. “Brandon, have you asked Verena about this lost list?”

“No. I just mentioned Humford.”

“Did she know about that?”

“I don’t think so. From her expression, she seemed stunned to discover that he’d been murdered.”

Chase looked at Brandon thoughtfully. “You seem to be reading a lot out of her expressions, especially for someone who loathes her.”

“I don’t loathe her; I disapprove of her.”

“Then you like her.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Then you dislike her.”

He didn’t dislike her, either. In fact, as much as he hated to admit it, he was beginning to develop a strong admiration for Verena, one entirely inappropriate to someone in his circumstances.

Brandon caught Chase’s amused gaze and frowned. “Damn it, Chase, what in the hell do you want from me?”

“Admit you are wrong about Verena. She is not what you thought.”

“You don’t know what I thought.”

“Everyone knows what you thought. It shows in the way you treated her, the way you marched into her house and waved your money in her face.”

“You’re exaggerating.”

“Am I?” Chase placed his elbows on the table and leaned forward. “You want to know what I think?”

“No.”

“I think you are attracted to her. I think you’ve been attracted to her since the beginning and that is why you feel you have to be such an abominable bore—to remind yourself constantly that you, a St. John, are above the lowly Lady Westforth.”

“I am not such a pompous ass as that.”

Chase leaned back in his chair, an expression of disbelief on his face.

The words rankled. Verena had said almost the exact thing. “I am not pompous. I’ve never been pompous about anything.”

Chase gave a choked laugh. “Brand, you’ve spent your whole life being so bloody perfect that the rest of us feel like toadstools.”

“Nonsense. I am not perfect and I’d be the first to admit it. Why, I have a horrible temper. I’m always late, no matter how I try to be on time. I cannot seem to remain interested in a woman past the second week of bedding. And I cannot for the life of me tie my cravat into a mathematical.” He touched his cravat ruefully. “If you knew the times I’d tried that, you wouldn’t be sitting here telling me I’m anything close to being perfect.”

“Just listen to you. Even your category of faults is laughable. You’re so perfect you make my teeth hurt.” The sneer returned. “You don’t even know how perfect you are, which is why people still like you even though they shouldn’t.”

“Chase, we were talking about Verena.”

Chase picked up his glass and examined it in the light. “I’ve already told you what I think about Verena. Like it or not, she’s not capable of such deception as you describe. If I were you, I’d tell her everything. Perhaps with her help, you can figure out a way to assist your friend.”

Brand wished it would be that easy. “Chase, I may be guilty of thinking Verena less than acceptable, but you must admit that you are guilty of the opposite fault—you think she is a guileless innocent.”

“I think she is a woman. A genuine, gentle, considerate woman who showed me compassion at a time when I—” Chase clamped his mouth closed.

Brandon reached across the table and gripped Chase’s wrist. “When what? Chase, what happened to make you so bitter?”

For an instant, he thought his brother would tell him. But then Chase shoved himself from the table. The demons were back, his eyes shadowed.

“Damn it, Chase. You have to tell me. You have to tell someone.”

Their gazes locked for a fleeting second and Brand almost flinched at the pain he saw there. But then it was gone, hidden behind the twisted smile.

Chase pulled his arm free. “It’s something only I can face. I made a mistake, Brand. The worst one you can make. And I have to pay for it.”

“Just tell me—”

“No. Because then you’d try to fix everything and you can’t. Not this time.”

“Try me.”

Chase’s gaze fixed on Brandon’s face. “If I tell you my sins, will you promise to leave them alone? It’s my duty to repair the harm I’ve done.”

“Harm? Chase, what—”

“Promise.”

The quiet word filled the space between them. Brandon took a slow breath. If he didn’t promise, Chase would never tell him what had occurred. But if he did promise, his hands were as good as tied—he couldn’t help Chase no matter how much he needed it.

After a long moment, Brandon shook his head. “I can’t promise that. You know I can’t.”

Chase’s gaze seemed to burn into his. After a long moment, he looked away. “I didn’t think you could.”

“You knew I couldn’t. Chase, whatever has happened, you have to tell someone.”

“I know.” Chase sighed heavily, then managed a twisted smile. “I’d love to stay and chat, but I must be off. I’m a St. John, you know. I’ve brandy to drink, cards to play, women to bed. That sort of thing.”

“Whatever is bothering you, drinking and whoring will not help.”

“No, but it might pass the time until I grow enough courage to do what I must.” He gave Brand a mocking salute and walked away.

Brand watched him go. Whatever was wrong with Chase, no one could help him until he was ready. It was painful to admit.

In the meantime, Brandon could help Wycham, who must be pulling out his hair while waiting for news. It was imperative that he let Roger know what was occurring. And then, once that was accomplished, Brand would visit Verena and take her for the promised ride through the park. He’d have her alone then, with no interruptions.

Impatient to be on his way, Brand called for pen and paper and hurriedly composed a letter to his friend.

 

“Please pass the butter.”

Verena handed her brother the butter dish, watching morosely as he prepared his toast. “I don’t know how you can eat at a time like this.”

“Eating helps me think.”

She eyed his trim figure. “Apparently you don’t do much thinking.”

“Only when forced by necessity.” He took a bite of toast, his gaze already unfocused.

She had to smile, even though it was the last thing she felt like doing. Memories from last night burned in her mind. Had she really sat in St. John’s lap and kissed him with such wanton abandon?

Verena pressed her fingertips to her lips. How…thrilling. She hadn’t felt so free since Andrew had been alive. It was a pity she felt that way about Brandon St. John. Any relationship she may have with him would not be of the long-standing variety. Their lives were too disparate, too different to allow such luxury of thought. Besides, Verena had been shunned once by the ton, she’d be damned if she’d open the door to allow such a thing to happen again.

The door opened and Herberts entered. “Halloo, m’lady! Yer lordship.”

“Herberts, Mr. Lansdowne is not a lord. You should address him as ‘sir.’”

“Sir, eh? Oiye’ll try and ’member that, oiye will.”

“Thank you. Did you want something?”

“Yer mail arrived.” Herberts picked up a letter from the top of the pile and held it toward the light streaming from the front window. “Looks as if Lady Burton’s havin’ another ball. Didn’t she have one not a week ago? Seems as if she’s got nothin’ better to do than have parties.”

“Herberts,” Verena said in a voice of long suffering. “You are not to read my mail, nor attempt to read my mail at any time.”

“Whot if it falls open in me hands?”

“Especially not then.”

Herberts sighed as he set the tray beside Verena. “Gor! Ye’ve a rule fer everything, don’t ye?” Sighing heavily, he wandered out of the room.

James chuckled as the door shut. “I do hope you’ll see your way to letting him go with me when I return to Italy. He would be so much more fun than the man I have working for me now. Roberts is dreadfully correct. Almost dull.”

Verena rested her chin in her hand as she flipped through her correspondence. “You may have him with my blessing. I’ve thought about telling Viscountess Hunterston that while he is a dear old man, he’s just too—” She picked up a letter and stared at it, then held it out to James. “It’s for you.”

James’s expression froze. He reached for the letter and ripped it open. His face paled as he read.

“What is it?”

He handed her the letter.

Though poorly written, the handwriting matched the first note.

Verena silently handed the letter back to James.

His brows lowered. “Bloody hell.”

She stood then, too impatient to remain seated. “Think, James. We have to figure this out. It’s almost as if they believe…” She took a quick turn about the room. “James, we know Humford was a part of this, right?”

“Yes.” He nodded slowly. “Which means we should start there.”

“Correct. He was in this house the night before he was murdered, less than a month ago. It was the week before you arrived.”

“Did you know him well?”

“Not really. He frequently accompanied Lady Jessup. I invited him because of her.”

“That evening, did he seem unusual to you?”

“He was distracted, but other than that…well…he did leave early.”

James blinked. “Why?”

She frowned, trying to remember. “We were all sitting in the dining room, waiting on the second course. We were late starting, because of Viscount Wycham. He didn’t arrive until we were almost through with the meal.”

Verena paced back and forth, wracking her brains. “I finally gave up on Wycham and seated the guests. We were all sitting there, waiting on the second course when suddenly, Humford bolted out of his chair and ran out. It was very strange, though I—” She bit her lip. “Wait. I remember something. He patted his pockets as he went. As if he’d—”

“—lost something.” James eyes gleamed. “Verena, do you think your butler could have stolen this list from him?”

Verena went to the door. “Herberts!”

He appeared almost immediately, his head covered by an old rag, a polishing cloth in one hand, a silver spoon in the other. “Aye, missus?”

Verena tore her gaze from his headwear. “I have some questions to ask.”

Herberts saluted with the spoon. “Ask away!”

Where to start? Her gaze fell on the letter in James’s hand. “The letter, the one Mr. Lansdowne is reading, did it come with the rest of the mail?”

Herberts shook his head. “No, missus. Oiye found thet letter on the stoop this mornin’. It’s a wonder it didn’t blow away.”

“Did you see who delivered it?”

“No. There was no one there, though oiye went to the door as soon as someone knocked.”

Verena took a calming breath. “There may be more letters like this coming. I want you to watch for me. If you see who brings them, come and tell me at once.”

“Very well, missus. Anythin’ else?”

“Yes, I need you to empty your pockets.”

“Now?”

“Now.”

Herberts groaned. “M’lady, oiye think I should return to rubbin’ the silver, if ye don’t mind. Oiye can empty me own pockets and—”

“Herberts.” She pointed to the breakfast table.

He blew out his breath in a huge gust, set the spoon on the table and began to dig through his pockets.

James leaned forward, his eyes widening. “Good God!”

Verena looked at the glittering largesse. Four watch fobs, three rings, two cravat pins, a large gold watch, and seventeen brass buttons winked at her from the table. “Herberts!”

“Oiye’m sorry, m’lady. They jus’ fell into me pockets, they did.”

She picked up a button. “Fell?”

“Well, those oiye had to cut off, but the rest of ’em were jus’ lying around.”

“In someone’s pocket,” James said, trying to control his laughter. “Herberts, you are a nonpareil.”

The butler adjusted his headpiece. “Oiye’m sorry, missus. Oiye won’t do it again.”

“That’s what you said last time.”

“This time oiye mean it.”

James leaned forward as Verena peered through the stolen items. “Do you see anything suspicious?”

Verena shook her head.

“Bloody hell.”

Bloody hell, indeed. Verena managed to smile at Herberts. “Thank you. That will be all. And…wait.”

She marched to her desk and opened a drawer where Herberts’s previous ill-gotten gains lay. She unceremoniously dumped the new loot on top of the old and then stirred a bit. Verena selected a few choice items before handing them to the astonished butler. “Here, Herberts. Take these with you.” She closed the drawer and locked it.

He brightened. “Take it wif me? Then oiye can keep all of it?”

“No. You will return them…eventually. For now, if I keep your pockets full, perhaps you won’t attempt to filch anything else.”

The butler slid the items in his pockets, nodding wisely. “Thet’s the knacker, missus! You’ll outsmart me yet.” He picked up his serving spoon and beamed pleasantly. “Oiye’ll finish the silver if ye don’t need anything else.”

“One more thing,” James said. “While you were going about your duties within these last few weeks, did you happen to find a list of some sort?”

“No. Can’t say as oiye did.”

“I see,” Verena said, her heart sinking. “Thank you, Herberts. That will be all.”

The butler left and Verena sank back into her chair. “It was a long shot.”

“But a good one.” James tapped the letter with one finger, trying to clear his thoughts. “What do we know, Ver? Father always said for us to think it through. One minute at a time.”

Verena watched him closely. Her brother’s gifts were not as temporal as her own. He was a strategist. A planner. Father often called him “the general” and with reason. James never did anything without thought. From the lay of his cravat to the cut of his boots, he was a planned production, perfectly turned and ready for anything.

He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “If it was a gem or some gold they were after, I’d understand it. Instead, they send us this silly letter, everything couched in veiled terms, almost as if it’s written in co—” He lifted a brow. “Damn. It couldn’t be…”

She leaned forward. “What is it? What are you thinking?”

James’s brow lowered in thought. “Do you know where he lived?”

“No,” Verena said, “but Lady Jessup would.”

James pursed his lips. Father had always held that it was fine to be whatever one wished, so long as one was superior at it. He then proceeded to teach his children superior skills—gambling, the rudiments of the wager, betting strategies, how to dress and talk like the best of the ton.

To his credit, James knew how to ride, dance, fence, exchange witticisms with princes and paupers alike. He knew how much to pay in vales at posting inns, how to find the cleanest beds and the cheapest rates among the many hotels in town. He knew how to dress fashionably even when his pockets were to let. And he knew, without thinking, that this situation required far more duplicity than Verena was capable of.

At one time, she’d been Father’s chosen. He’d called her his masterpiece, for she’d inherited Mother’s fair countenance coupled with Father’s nimble fingers. It was, Father had said, an unbeatable combination.

But Verena hadn’t been like the rest of them. Her heart had never been in the game. Then, Verena had met Viscount Westforth and she’d promptly married, much to Father’s chagrin. He’d thought her capable of catching an earl, at the least. But Verena would not be gainsaid and she’d had her way in the end, marrying her precious Andrew and forever turning her back on Father’s way of life.

Which was a bloody good thing, to James’s way of thinking. She’d been protected, or she had been until he’d arrived in her life. A line of irritation tightened across his shoulders.

He stood and tossed his napkin to the table. “I’m going to take the note and see what I can discover. Don’t go anywhere until I return.”

“But St. John—”

“Is the one who told you about Humford to begin with. He’s onto something, Ver. And I don’t trust him.”

She was silent a moment, but then she lifted her head and sighed. “Very well. I’ll stay away from him. But I’m not going to sit tamely at home while you jaunt about town.”

He tucked the letter in his pocket. “Go and visit Lady Jessup and find out where Humford lived. When I return, we’ll go to his lodgings together and see what’s to be found.”

She followed him to the door. “Be careful. You’re the only brother I have.”

He grinned and bent to press a kiss to her forehead. “You be careful, too. If I’m not back by midnight, lock all the doors. I’ll come as soon as I can.”

James gave her a last, quick wink and then he was gone. Verena heard him ask for his greatcoat, followed by Herberts’s muffled reply.

The clock on the mantel chimed the hour and Verena realized that Brandon would soon arrive. She didn’t have time for such nonsense now, though in her heart she knew it wasn’t nonsense. She wanted to go on that ride so badly, it frightened her. He would have to be satisfied with a note of apology.

Leaving the rest of her mail scattered on the table, she swept from the room, ordering her carriage as she went.