Confessions of a Scoundrel Read Online Free PDF Page B

the mysterious Lady Westforth—he had little doubt that she painted her face and wore gowns cut to her navel, if she bothered even to dress at all. Chase’s taste in women ran toward the obvious.
    Last year, when Marcus had sent Devon to pay off one of Chase’s charmers, the lady in question had held the entire interview wearing nothing more than a sheet. Devon had been thrilled.
    Brand might have enjoyed this little drama himself if only his neck didn’t ache and his eyes feel as if he’d rubbed them with sand. God knew it would make an amusing story to tell at White’s, if nothing else.
    The skies overhead rumbled threateningly. Brandon shoved his gloves into the pocket of his greatcoat. This should be relatively easy. All he had to do was convince Lady Westforth that it was in her best interests to leave Chase alone for a few weeks. His interest would wane; it always did. Brandon smiled grimly. He’d be through with this little errand before noon.
    Brandon walked up the steps to the wide oak door and rapped lightly. Leaves skittered by, the wind swirling them into little whirlpools of brown and gold. He shifted from one foot to the other, the cold seeping through the soles of his boots.
    The sky rumbled again and the breeze stiffened, cold fingers of air ruffling his uncovered head. Why didn’t someone answer the door? He grasped the brass ring and banged it firmly.
    A long moment passed. Finally, shuffling footsteps could be heard. The door opened and a tall, cadaverous individual stood in the opening, his nose suspiciously red, the faint reek of brandy sifting through the air.
    The man hoisted his breeches and eyed Brand up and down before saying in an avuncular voice, “Here now, was that yew a-banging on me door?”
    Brand’s faint sense of irritation increased. “Yes, I knocked on the door. How else would you have known to answer it?”
    The man scrunched up his nose as if considering this. “Oiye moight have known ye was here a’coss of the sound of yer carriage pullin’ up.” He beamed as if he’d just explained a complicated mathematical theorem. “Didn’t think o’ that, did ye?”
    Brand took a steadying breath, his temper on the rise. “Is Lady Westforth home? I wish to speak with her now , please.”
    â€œHere now, guv’nor! There’s no need to be ticky. Oiye can hear ye jus’ fine without yer yelpin’ like a scalded dog.”
    Good lord, it was bad enough that Brandon had to consort with women the caliber of this Westforth woman, but to be subjected to her ill-trained staff was more than Brandon could handle, especially today.
    He’d be damned if he’d miss another of Marcus’s meetings. Ever. Hell, he might just move into Treymount House in order to ascertain that not only did he not miss a bloody meeting, but that he was the first one present.
    He rubbed a hand to his forehead where a faint echoing ache was beginning to form. “Is Lady Westforth receiving callers?”
    â€œShe moight be.” The man wiped his nose with the back of his hand and gave a very wet sniff. “And then agin, she moight not. Whot’s it to ye?”
    If the servant was any indication of the quality of the woman of the house, then Brand’s job would be quick work indeed. “Inform Lady Westforth that I am here.” He reached into his coat pocket and produced a heavy vellum card. “My name is Brandon St. John. I need only two minutes of Lady Westforth’s time.” Not even that if she was as desperate for funds as her caliber of butler made it seem.
    The butler took the card between his fingers and squinted at it. “Mr. St. John, eh? Oiye’ll tell her ye’re here.” The butler peered over the card at Brandon and gave him one last suspicious look. Then, to Brandon’s utter amazement, the man stepped back and shut the door firmly in his face.
    In all of