Always a Scoundrel Read Online Free PDF

frightful gothic escapades all the young chits seemed to find so romantic.
    Her eyes had not been close-set, but they annoyed him. They were green, he recalled quite clearly, complementing well her ginger hair, and they’d gazed directly at him. Women didn’t often do that. Virginal, mousy chits certainly didn’t.
    Her father had been correct in saying that she wasn’t striking, for her chest was less than ample, and hermouth a touch too wide. She stood several inches above anything that might be considered petite, and he’d spied at least a half-dozen freckles across the bridge of her nose.
    As he reached the front door of the Society Club he swung down from Titan and tossed the end of the reins to the groom who came puffing up behind him. “Walk him, Redding,” he instructed. “I shan’t be long.”
    “Very good, my lord.”
    The doorman greeted him as he stepped inside. “Lord Bramwell. Good afternoon.”
    “Jones. Is Cosgrove here?”
    “In the dining room. He’s expecting g—”
    “Yes, I know.” Bram walked through the square foyer and into the large, dark, wood-paneled dining room.
    The place smelled of roast pheasant and red wine, and already at this early hour better than half the tables were occupied by the cream of London’s male aristocracy. Even with the growing noontime crowd, the lone figure seated at the back of the room seemed to have at least one empty table between him and the rest of the diners.
    “King,” he said, taking the seat opposite the marquis. He generally didn’t like sitting with his back to the room, but Cosgrove didn’t either, and the marquis had arrived first.
    “Bramwell. Surprised to see you in such proper company.” The marquis lifted the bottle of port that decorated the center of the table and poured Bram a glass.
    “I could say the same about you.”
    Pale blue eyes regarded him for a moment. “I’ve a luncheon engagement. Business. I’d avoid it myself, if I could.”
    “Yes, you’re arranging your marriage.” Bram took a sip of the too-sweet wine, the only thing Cosgrove ever drank before nightfall. “Came to congratulate you in advance.”
    Bram could count on one hand the number of times Kingston Gore had ever been truly surprised, and this was one of them. His expression didn’t change except for a slight narrowing of his eyes, but it was enough.
    To anyone just setting eyes on him, the Marquis of Cosgrove looked very like an angel fallen from heaven. Unruly golden hair, fair skin, those pale blue eyes, tall, lean—poets wept for such subjects. Having been acquainted with him for thirteen years, though, Bram knew that his skin was pale both because he rarely ventured out of doors during daylight hours and because of the absinthe the marquis drank nearly nightly. The angelic features were as much a mask as anyone else would wear to a masquerade ball, and the creature that lurked behind it was both heartless and soulless, and was perfectly at ease with being so. As for his age, he’d never given it, but Bram would guess him to be somewhere in his middle thirties.
    “One of these days,” Cosgrove finally said, “you’re going to tell me who you pay to get your information.”
    “I keep an oracle in my wine cellar. For the price of a selection of small animals and the occasional infant she tells me everything I wish to know.”
    “Mm hm. Everything?” King shifted his attention to the room, as he frequently did. He likely had more men wishing him dead than even Bram did.
    Under other circumstances Bram would have found it annoying to be a runner-up at anything—wagering, sex, inappropriate conversation, unsavory habits, or friends. When the winner of the contest was Kingston Gore, however, second place was still left with enough notoriety to please Genghis Khan. Or Bram Johns. “Everything of any significance,” he said aloud.
    “Then you know who’s decided to join Lord Abernathy for his luncheon appointment today.”
    With a frown, Bram