Kingston Gore’s soul? And what had prompted her to accept his offer? Aside from the fact that his own kettle was nearly as black as Cosgrove’s, all he was likely to accomplish was to make his friend into an enemy. His suggestion hadn’t been selfless, clearly; he found Rosamund interesting—even intriguing and compelling—and that baffled him. He’d known duchesses and opera singers and courtesans and even a female mercenary working against the French in Spain. A round-hipped, small-chested, green-eyed young woman with no worldly experience and a penchant for reading histories should barely have caught his eye, much less his attention.
Was that it, then? He needed to spend another hour or so chatting with her, telling her to stay away from absinthe and laudanum—and Cosgrove when he imbibed them—and take a bedchamber with a locking door as far away from Cosgrove’s as she could manage. Then he could go back to burgling the homes of his father’s friends and being as much of an annoyance as possible again.
“Will there be anything else, my lord?” Mostin asked as he put the last touches on Bram’s cravat.
“Hm? No. Yes. Have Graham saddle Titan.”
The valet nodded. “I shall inform him, my lord.”
Bram dropped his pocket watch, money, a cigar, a handkerchief, and several calling cards into various pockets, then headed downstairs. Lowry House where he lived had been in the Johns family for three generations now. He’d moved into the house on Stratton Street as soon as he’d returned from Oxford, and his father had been only too happy to have him and his circle of acquaintances gone from the patriarchal abode of Johns House.
Lately he’d been receiving hints—well, closer to outright statements—that his days at Lowry House were numbered. After all, his older brother, August, the Marquis of Haithe, had managed to produce a male offspring, and the Johns progeny and heir to the heir was nearing his tenth birthday. The golden child would need his own abode in a decade or so, and Lowry House was the third finest London property the family owned.
So apparently if he wanted to avoid being removed from his own house, Bram would have to expire within the next ten years. And that happenstance wasn’t all that unlikely. On the heels of that uplifting thought, his butler pulled open the front door as Bram reached the stair landing. “Good morning, Lord Haithe,” Hibble intoned.
Bram stopped. “Oh, good God,” he muttered, and turned on his heel, ascending the stairs again.
“Ah, Bram. Surprised to see you up and about already,” his brother said, handing his hat to Hibble and beginning his own trot up the stairs. “I thought I’d have to sit in your morning room for hours and wait for you to come downstairs.”
“That’s precisely what you’ll have to do, August,” Bram returned, topping the stairs and making for his bedchamber. “I’ve just returned home from last night’s festivities, and I’m off to bed. Good day.” Thankfully the door of the master bedchamber had a very sturdy lock on it. One never knew when a jealous husband might make an appearance.
“You’re not dressed for the evening.”
Bram glanced down at his attire, black as it always was. “How can you tell?”
“Did you burgle Braithewaite?”
Clenching his jaw, Bram stopped his retreat. “That depends,” he returned, facing the top of the stairs again. “Who’s asking?”
“Father’s already convinced it was you, so I suppose I’m asking.”
“Then yes, it was me.”
As older brothers went, he supposed that August Johns was at least no less than average. At eleven yearshis junior, Bram would never have called his brother a friend. Other than the black Johns hair they’d never looked much alike, and August’s additional years and general…satisfaction with his life had rendered him five stone heavier and exceedingly smug.
“You have to stop robbing our friends, Bram.”
“They’re not my
Was that it, then? He needed to spend another hour or so chatting with her, telling her to stay away from absinthe and laudanum—and Cosgrove when he imbibed them—and take a bedchamber with a locking door as far away from Cosgrove’s as she could manage. Then he could go back to burgling the homes of his father’s friends and being as much of an annoyance as possible again.
“Will there be anything else, my lord?” Mostin asked as he put the last touches on Bram’s cravat.
“Hm? No. Yes. Have Graham saddle Titan.”
The valet nodded. “I shall inform him, my lord.”
Bram dropped his pocket watch, money, a cigar, a handkerchief, and several calling cards into various pockets, then headed downstairs. Lowry House where he lived had been in the Johns family for three generations now. He’d moved into the house on Stratton Street as soon as he’d returned from Oxford, and his father had been only too happy to have him and his circle of acquaintances gone from the patriarchal abode of Johns House.
Lately he’d been receiving hints—well, closer to outright statements—that his days at Lowry House were numbered. After all, his older brother, August, the Marquis of Haithe, had managed to produce a male offspring, and the Johns progeny and heir to the heir was nearing his tenth birthday. The golden child would need his own abode in a decade or so, and Lowry House was the third finest London property the family owned.
So apparently if he wanted to avoid being removed from his own house, Bram would have to expire within the next ten years. And that happenstance wasn’t all that unlikely. On the heels of that uplifting thought, his butler pulled open the front door as Bram reached the stair landing. “Good morning, Lord Haithe,” Hibble intoned.
Bram stopped. “Oh, good God,” he muttered, and turned on his heel, ascending the stairs again.
“Ah, Bram. Surprised to see you up and about already,” his brother said, handing his hat to Hibble and beginning his own trot up the stairs. “I thought I’d have to sit in your morning room for hours and wait for you to come downstairs.”
“That’s precisely what you’ll have to do, August,” Bram returned, topping the stairs and making for his bedchamber. “I’ve just returned home from last night’s festivities, and I’m off to bed. Good day.” Thankfully the door of the master bedchamber had a very sturdy lock on it. One never knew when a jealous husband might make an appearance.
“You’re not dressed for the evening.”
Bram glanced down at his attire, black as it always was. “How can you tell?”
“Did you burgle Braithewaite?”
Clenching his jaw, Bram stopped his retreat. “That depends,” he returned, facing the top of the stairs again. “Who’s asking?”
“Father’s already convinced it was you, so I suppose I’m asking.”
“Then yes, it was me.”
As older brothers went, he supposed that August Johns was at least no less than average. At eleven yearshis junior, Bram would never have called his brother a friend. Other than the black Johns hair they’d never looked much alike, and August’s additional years and general…satisfaction with his life had rendered him five stone heavier and exceedingly smug.
“You have to stop robbing our friends, Bram.”
“They’re not my
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