by Adele Clee
Miss Vale’s eyes brightened. “Thank you, Mr Trent. I’m sure I shall have no need to trouble you, but it pays to be informed.”
Lawrence peered through the gloom to the imposing manor house at the end of the drive. Miss Vale was not short of funds. It answered his question regarding marriage. A woman of means did not need to shackle herself to a man she didn’t love.
“Bar your servants, do you live here alone?”
“Yes. I have a few relatives. None are close.”
“Might you grant me one more request, Miss Vale?” he said as a sense of foreboding held him rigid. “Will you bring a candle to the window so I might know all is well indoors?”
She placed her hand to her heart. “Of course.” Perhaps she found his request touching. “Good night, Mr Trent. You may leave knowing I shall not tend Mr Farrow’s grave again.”
“Good night, Miss Vale. I shall write to you of my findings.” Lawrence handed her the reins. Their fingers brushed lightly, though the sensation sent a jolt straight to his loins.
The lady nudged the horse forward.
He watched her, inclined his head when she glanced back over her shoulder and smiled.
Some ten minutes later, the glow of candlelight appeared in an upper window. Lawrence could not see the figure holding the metal stick, though his mind conjured an image of Miss Vale wearing a silk nightgown that clung to her hips. Her nipples pushed against the delicate material. Her mussed hair tumbled wildly about her shoulders. Bright blue eyes called to him, invited him to plunge deep and let her healing waters soothe his soul.
Lawrence shook the erotic image from his head, though his body ached for release.
Thank the Lord he was returning to London tonight. Hopefully, there was truth in the adage out of sight out of mind. And yet as he continued along the lane heading towards Shepperton’s main thoroughfare, instinct told him he would see Miss Vale again.
Soon.
Chapter Four
“The Brethren?” The Marquis of Blackbeck, father to the illegitimate Damian Wycliff, steepled his elegant fingers and arched a mocking brow. “Men who gather in groups to display their superiority are naught but craven fools.”
Lawrence glanced at Wycliff seated next to him on the marquis’ plush velvet sofa. Having sought the advice of his trusted friend, Wycliff insisted on coming to Lawrence’s aid. How was it no one had heard of this club where men branded their chests with a mark guaranteed to last a lifetime? The marquis was the most informed man in the ton. Perhaps if they’d been speaking of a mark on a lady’s chest, the rakish lord would be a fount of information.
Lawrence sat forward. “These men—”
“Boys,” the marquis corrected. “Only boys hide within the ranks of a brotherhood. Men rely upon their own strength and skill to make their way in the world.”
“Boys can be cruel, vicious devils,” Wycliff said, for he enjoyed drawing attention to his father’s failings. “Those of us born on the wrong side of the blanket are easy targets.”
Wycliff referred to the pompous lords at school, the pure-blooded offspring of privileged parents. Boys who treated the illegitimate like gutter rats. Not that Lawrence was bitter. Fighting for survival had been an education in itself.
“Immature devils.” The marquis snorted. “The same can be said for the scoundrels who brand symbols on their chests.” He turned his attention to Wycliff. “Perhaps someone within the demi-monde has entertained a rogue with such a mark. One presumes Mrs Crandall is the best person to answer questions on men’s perversions.”
Mrs Crandall hosted many illicit parties, had seen more than her share of naked men. But the woman spun gossip like a spider did a web. She weaved lies, ensnared the unsuspecting in her deadly traps.
Lawrence had not told the marquis about Miss Vale and her need to ease her guilt over the deaths of Sebastian Vale and Charles Farrow. He certainly had no intention of telling Mrs Crandall. One whiff that he held a mild attraction for an innocent and the widow would seek to play matchmaker, to find a devious way to bring Miss Vale into the fold.
Two nights had passed since Lawrence dragged himself away from the manor house in Shepperton. Two nights spent recalling every aspect of his lengthy conversation with Miss Vale. Not because he hoped to remember something important about his brother’s fate, but because the woman had left a lasting impression.
“Then we shall leave you to your supper and call on Mrs Crandall.” Wycliff stood and tugged the cuffs of his coat.
“Will your wife not raise a complaint when she finds her beloved has spent the night at a den for the debauched?” A mere trace of a smile played at the corners of the marquis’ mouth, for he was a man who despised excessive displays of emotion.
“My wife knows why I am here and what I am doing,” Wycliff countered. “Trust and honesty play an important part in any relationship. Would you not agree?”
The marquis inclined his head as cool amusement flickered in his eyes. “Indeed.”
Lawrence stood, too. He thanked the marquis for his time and then they left the lord to indulge in a lavish supper alone.
“You cannot tell Mrs Crandall what you have told me,” Wycliff said as he climbed into Lawrence’s conveyance. “Not unless you want to warn this brethren blackguard that you’re out hunting for his blood.”
Having instructed Sleeth to deliver them to Wycliff’s residence on Bruton Street, Lawrence closed the door and rapped on the roof.
“I have no intention of telling the woman anything.” But he was out to hurt the fiend who enjoyed ruining innocents whilst hiding behind a mask. Hurt was too tame a word. Whenever he thought of Miss Vale’s helpless struggle, he wanted to slaughter the man responsible. “But your father is right. Mrs Crandall may be the only person with information.”
“You have the names of the men Miss Vale met at the house party. Let’s pick them off one by one, torture them until someone confesses.” Wycliff’s eyes flashed dangerously dark. “Let us make their lives a living nightmare until we learn the truth.”
“I cannot ask you to help me with this problem. You married but a few days ago.” If Lawrence had a wife at home who loved him, he would not be scouring the streets looking for a fight. And his friend’s cheerful countenance reminded Lawrence that love was the only thing to bring a man salvation. “You should be with the woman you’ve yearned for these last three years.”
Wycliff cast him a wicked grin. “Love is like a wonderful addiction, and I cannot get enough of my wife. But you heard what Scarlett said. She once suffered at the hands of a monster and wishes me to help you find the rogue who attacked Miss Vale.”
The comment raised an important point. Why was Lawrence more interested in Miss Vale’s safety than discovering if the Brethren had played a part in his brother’s death?
“Two men are dead.” And Miss Vale was definitely not to blame. “Both men carried the mark on their chests. Both men drowned weeks after pleading for large amounts of money.” And yet a trip to Charles’ solicitor this morning confirmed that his debts had amounted to a few hundred pounds and not the thousands he’d demanded. “For the first time in your life, you’re happy. I’ll not have you taking unnecessary risks on my account.”
Wycliff made no argument. It had nothing to do with him surrendering his position. No one told Damian Wycliff what to do. The man was a law unto himself.
“I vowed to grant my wife her every desire,” Wycliff replied. “Do not make me break an oath when I’ve been married less than a week.”
Arguing would prove a waste of time and energy. “Then let us collect Cavanagh and head to Mrs Crandall’s abode. With luck, I should have you home within the hour.”
“Based on Mrs Crandall’s desire to sink her claws into Cavanagh, the woman will find any excuse to keep us there.”
Lawrence managed a weak chuckle before lowering the window and instructing Sleeth to change course and head to Cavanagh’s house on Jermyn Street.
They sat in si
lence for a few minutes before Wycliff asked him to repeat every detail of his midnight meeting with Miss Vale. Lawrence obliged, eager to relive the event, to speak of it aloud rather than resort to conjuring erotic images in his head.
Wycliff frowned. “The lady sounds somewhat of an oddity.”
The need to defend Miss Vale came from nowhere. “Despite her misguided notions of guilt, a man would be a fool to underestimate her. With clenched fists, she threatened to box my ears.” He omitted to mention she carried a blade.
“Explorers do say one should growl at angry bears.”
“I kept my temper and was every bit the gentleman.”
“Yes.” Wycliff rubbed his chin. “I’m struggling to recall the last time you played groom and escorted a lady home.”
Lawrence refused to bite, refused to react to Wycliff’s teasing.
“What a shame she is plain,” Wycliff mused.
“I made no mention of her looks.” To describe the beauty in detail would give his friend more reason to pry.
“Which leads me to conclude she must be rather unremarkable.”
Lawrence resisted the urge to correct the misconception. Miss Vale’s innocent charm should have warned him away like the ringing of a plague bell. As with all the women he encountered, he should have suspected her story contained lies and untruths. And yet the opposite was true.
Thankfully, there was no time to consider the matter further. The carriage arrived in Jermyn Street where they alighted and proceeded to update Cavanagh on the recent developments. After some grumbling from their friend about being used to appease Mrs Crandall, they returned to Lawrence’s conveyance and headed across town.
“If we’re shown into the drawing room, one of you must sit next to her on the sofa,” Cavanagh said as they stepped down from the carriage to stand outside the townhouse often called the den of the debauched. “The woman has tentacles for fingers, and the nasty little suckers probe the most unwelcome places.”
Lawrence laughed. “You possess the ability to charm any woman to do your bidding. Surely you can control Mrs Crandall.”
“The woman has no boundaries.”
“Her attentions are as changeable as the weather.” Wycliff knocked on the door in the specific way that marked them as regular attendees of Mrs Crandall’s wild parties. “She will soon tire of you and move to graze in pastures new.”
“Mrs Crandall doesn’t graze, she gorges.” Lawrence glanced at the facade, noted the absence of bawdy laughter and drunken singing. “Let us pray she is not abed, feeding on yet another conquest, and can provide some insight into this fanatical group.”
Miss Vale had lived alone for five months since her cousin’s death without further threat, but the fact they had found Charles’ body floating in the river near her home proved worrying.
The majordomo, a facetious man named Woods hired for his handsome countenance and ability to please the female patrons, greeted them. Tonight, he was dressed in breeches and a cravat, minus his shirt and shoes. When not throwing parties for the demi-monde, Mrs Crandall enjoyed playing with her pets.
Mrs Crandall was alone in the drawing room, though from her flushed cheeks and dishevelled attire, she may well have been frolicking with the hired help. The room carried the cloying scent of heavy perfume, often used to mask the stale tobacco smoke from the previous night’s entertainment.
One look at Cavanagh and the woman tugged at her bodice to reveal more than a glimpse of pasty-white bosom. She patted the side of her coiffure, tucked the loose tendril of red hair behind her ear.
“Gentlemen, to what do I owe the pleasure?” Though addressing them collectively, she did not drag her ravenous gaze away from Benedict Cavanagh. “If you’re here for the masquerade, I’m afraid you’re a little premature. The ball is tomorrow.” She gestured to the numerous sofas scattered about the room. “Won’t you sit, and I shall have Woods serve refreshment? Will you take brandy or port?”
They accepted her hospitality—all chose brandy.
Whilst Woods took care of his duties at the drinks table, Mrs Crandall snatched the majordomo’s shirt from the arm of the chair and stuffed it behind the bolster cushion. Wycliff and Lawrence took their seats on the sofa, knowing Mrs Crandall would not sit until Cavanagh had made his choice.
One did not need a seer’s foresight to know she would sit next to the golden-haired Romeo. Indeed, when she finally accepted a glass of sherry from her manservant and settled down beside Cavanagh, there was barely a hair’s breadth between them.
“Has someone died?” Mrs Crandall snorted as she scanned their faces. “I have never seen you looking so glum. And pay Woods no mind.” She eyed the man as he carried their drinks on a silver tray. “We’re thinking of an Indian theme for one of our gatherings.” She gripped Cavanagh’s knee. “Hot nights in Madras. Monsoon mayhem. Or something to that effect.”
Cavanagh took the proffered drink and swallowed a mouthful of brandy.
“There’s talk you married the Scarlet Widow.” The woman cast her beady eyes on Wycliff. “Although I do not recall that being part of the bet.”
Wycliff stiffened. “No, who would have thought a man with my black heart would marry for love?” He downed the contents of his glass. “Though the last man to call her the Scarlet Widow in my presence suffered a broken nose.”
Lawrence groaned inwardly.
At this rate, Mrs Crandall was liable to throw them out.
Cavanagh came to the rescue and patted the hand still stroking his knee. “We’re not here to discuss the merits of marriage. Lord forbid I should ever take the plunge.”
“Then why are you here?”
Lawrence gave a surreptitious nod. A signal for Cavanagh to reveal their carefully constructed tale.
Cavanagh brushed a hand through his golden locks and then shuffled around to face Mrs Crandall. “Trent took a lady to his bed, and some fellow took great umbrage.”
Hellfire! Cavanagh was supposed to say Lawrence had taken a liking to a woman, not that he’d already had his wicked way.
“The coward sent Trent an unsigned note,” Cavanagh continued. “As well as threatening to kill him unless he sever all ties with this woman, it contained the words Beware the Brethren. As you can imagine, Trent wishes to discover the identity of the rogue and deal with the matter swiftly.”
Mrs Crandall arched a mocking brow as she scanned the breadth of Lawrence’s chest. “Clearly the fool has never met you, Trent. No doubt he’s a lovesick popinjay who wouldn’t know what to do with the woman if she lay naked in his bed.”
The comment conjured an image of the delectable Miss Vale sprawled across Lawrence’s mattress. Forget the fool of their imagined tale, Lawrence was the one who had developed a mild obsession, a moderate infatuation.
“What I fail to see is what this has to do with me,” Mrs Crandall said, her gaze flicking briefly to her half-naked servant. “Who is this woman? Someone you met here?”
The muscles in Lawrence’s shoulders tensed. “The woman is of no consequence. What concerns me is that this fool might leap out from a dark alley and thrust a blade into my back.”
Cavanagh cleared his throat. “There is a group of men who call themselves the Brethren. A club of sorts. You must have heard of them.”
Mrs Crandall stared at Cavanagh’s mouth for a moment before releasing a sigh. “No. The name means nothing to me.”
Cavanagh would be livid if their enquiries came to naught. Who wanted to feel the lustful hands of a woman old enough to be one’s mother?
“We’ve heard tell that the Brethren have a mark branded on their chests,” Wycliff said. “A letter B with a crown perched on top.”
A brief silence ensued while Mrs Crandall appeared lost in thoughtful contemplation. Then her eyes widened. “Yes, I knew someone with a similar mark, but he never mentioned that he belonged to a private club.”
“You knew him?” Lawrence’s blood ran cold at the thought another man bearing the mark had die
d, too. “The man is deceased?”
“Yes. Mr Joseph Bradley. Terrible waste. Such a handsome, virile creature.” Mrs Crandall left Lawrence hanging on her next word while she sipped her sherry. “He died in a duel two years ago, although no one ever identified his opponent.”
Lawrence shuffled forward in the seat. “Why? Because their seconds swore an oath of secrecy?” It was the case with most duels.
“Because there were no other men present. The only witness to the event was a passing farmer up with the larks, who swore both opponents wore masks.” A coy smile played on her thin lips. “When one holds fashionable parties, you’d be surprised what one can learn from men who wish to gain an invitation.”
Lawrence’s heart skipped a beat.
Was the man who killed Joseph Bradley the same man who attacked Miss Vale?
Was he responsible for other deaths?
Were the members of the Brethren fighting over leadership?
The Marquis of Blackbeck was right about one thing. Brave men did not hide in the shadows. Brave men faced their quarry.
“I wish to speak to a member of this elusive club.” He wished to interrogate every man who bore the mark. “One word from you will get the gossip tongues wagging. I intend to rip their pathetic club apart until I find the rogue I seek.” Heat crept up his neck, and he gritted his teeth lest he deliver a string of vitriolic curses.
For the first time since making her acquaintance, uncertainty flashed in Mrs Crandall’s eyes. “Then I must offer caution. I’m a woman who knows many people. Based on my lack of knowledge, the men must go to great lengths to keep their secrets. Close ranks when faced with a threat.”
Cavanagh patted her hand again. “Rest assured. Trent will not act alone.”
“But if we can break up the pack, prey on one member, we have every chance of cracking his resolve.”
Mrs Crandall cast a mischievous grin. “And if I spread news of your intention, of what benefit is it to me?”