The Mark of a Rogue (Scandalous Sons Book 2)

by Adele Clee

  Lawrence looked at Cavanagh and raised his brows.

  Cavanagh smiled, though his eyes carried a hint of frustration. “Trent and I had every intention of attending the masquerade tomorrow. If I am to spend my time scouring the streets for men with branding marks on their chests, what time is left for pleasure?”

  The widow seemed to consider his comment. From the frown on her brow, she struggled with some internal dilemma.

  “People rely on me to provide entertainment.” She trailed her fingertips seductively across the upper curve of her bosom. “And while instinct tells me to refrain from having any involvement in this matter, I can direct you to Joseph Bradley’s brother, Mr Isaac Bradley. He has a house on South Audley Street off Grosvenor Square.”

  “Mr Bradley is a man of means?” Wycliff asked.

  “Their father was the third son of a viscount, banished to the Americas where he made a vast fortune. The viscount forgave his son the indiscretion upon learning of his inflated bank balance, though the poor man died en route to London and left everything to his sons.”

  “Does Isaac Bradley move about in society?” Lawrence had never heard of the man, but Mrs Wycliff might know the name.

  Mrs Crandall snorted. “Lord, no! He’s the studious type. An academic. Bit of a recluse. Sadly, Joseph was the one with the insatiable appetite for frolicking.” She released her grip on Cavanagh’s knee. “So, am I to expect you at the masquerade tomorrow?”

  “Undoubtedly.” Cavanagh stood and inclined his head to the woman who would eat him alive if given a chance. “We shall leave you to debate the theme of your next gathering.”

  Lawrence rose, too. “It will be withered Woods unless the fellow puts on his shirt.”

  When Wycliff made to leave, Mrs Crandall said, “Please give my regards to Mrs Wycliff. I shall ensure everyone knows it would be unwise to address her with a token name from the past.”

  “To refer to my wife using any derogatory term is ill-advised,” Wycliff agreed.

  They left Mrs Crandall to her business and took the carriage to Jermyn Street.

  “Why the hell did you tell her I’d bedded Miss Vale?” Lawrence said once the wheels were rolling.

  “I mentioned no names.” Seated opposite, Cavanagh flashed a mischievous grin. “Mrs Crandall would never have believed the story otherwise. It’s not as though she will ever meet Miss Vale.”

  “Thank the Lord. The lady has suffered enough at the hands of degenerates.”

  Wycliff narrowed his gaze and stared at Lawrence across the carriage. “For one so plain, Miss Vale has made quite the impression.”

  “Can a man not show an ounce of compassion without his friends making jokes?” They knew his history, knew he despised those who preyed on the weak. For years, he had fought against the insecurity that came with mistreatment. No one dared confront him now.

  Cavanagh alighted on Jermyn Street. He gripped the open carriage door and said, “Having given our word, we should attend the masquerade tomorrow evening.”

  Lawrence groaned. The thought of parading around like a peacock proved distasteful, but having received useful information from Mrs Crandall, it was right they attend. “Then I shall meet you there at ten.”

  With any luck, Wincote and Layton would be amongst the guests. The boisterous event might serve as a means to spy.

  “Let me know if you wish to call on Mr Bradley, and I shall happily accompany you.” Cavanagh inclined his head and shut the door.

  The carriage continued to Bruton Street.

  “We should call on Mr Bradley tomorrow,” Wycliff advised. “Lest Mrs Crandall’s loose tongue run away with her and the gentleman gets wind of your interest in his brother.”

  Lawrence shook his head. “If I’m to visit Mr Bradley, I’ll go alone.” If Bradley was the quiet, studious type, the last thing he’d want is three powerful men banging on his door. “I’ll not drag you away from your wife unnecessarily, and it’s not as though I am entering a viper pit.”

  “If you think you can handle it, I won’t argue,” Wycliff replied, offering a wicked grin. “I had promised Scarlett we would picnic in the park tomorrow and you know I hate to disappoint.”

  For a man who despised most people, the depth of Wycliff’s love and devotion for his wife was surprising. Then again, Wycliff’s mother had loved her son, and as with most illegitimate sons, the hatred in his heart had been a matter of self-preservation.

  Lawrence’s experience differed. His mother regarded him as an annoying inconvenience. For her, love was like a new diamond brooch—something to flaunt until it lost its sparkle. Until something different caught her eye and then she relegated the old one to the back of a dusty drawer.

  “If a woman loved me the way Scarlett loves you, everyone else could go to hell.”

  Wycliff smiled. “I do feel like the luckiest of men.”

  Indeed, the depth of his wife’s affection proved apparent when the carriage came to a halt on Bruton Street, and the lady rushed from the house to greet him.

  “Did you miss me, my love?” Wycliff stepped down to the pavement and took Scarlett’s hands in his.

  “Always,” she said, attempting to catch her breath.

  Lawrence shuffled uncomfortably in the seat. His lonely heart ached to experience even an ounce of affection, but he hid it well. “I shall send word regarding my meeting with Bradley.” He inclined his head to the lady. “Good night, Mrs Wycliff.”

  “Wait!” she cried. “Come inside, Trent. You have a visitor.”

  “A visitor?” His heart thumped against his ribcage. Only one person knew to call for him at the house of Damian Wycliff.

  “Yes. Miss Vale has come from Shepperton.”

  Chapter Five

  Perhaps the rolling in Verity’s stomach stemmed from her desire to gaze upon Mr Trent’s dark, brooding countenance again. Perhaps it had more to do with what the gentleman would say when he returned to find she had ventured through town so late at night, against his instruction to remain in Shepperton. Either way, the odd flurry of sensations saw her take another sip of sherry from the glass she cradled between her palms.

  A mumbled conversation in the hall beyond the drawing room drew her attention to the door. A deep, formidable voice—one she instantly recognised as being Mr Trent’s—sent a shiver from her neck to her navel. Not that she feared the man. On the contrary, he had proved every bit the gentleman. Strong. Forthright. Considerate, while still inherently masculine.

  The door burst open, and Verity suppressed a gasp.

  The fluttering in her stomach flew to her chest when her gaze moved past Mrs Wycliff to settle on the man whose robust physique would be forever ingrained in her memory.

  With feigned composure, Verity placed her glass on the side table and came to her feet. “Mr Trent, forgive me for arriving unannounced, but I simply had to come.”

  Hypnotic green eyes devoured her from beneath black brows. A lady might lose her wits when met with such a sinful stare. And yet she sensed an element of hostility.

  “Miss Vale, I shall not lie and say it is a pleasure to see you.”

  Embarrassment brought a hard lump to her throat. “No, I don’t suppose you expected to lay eyes on me again.”

  “I hoped common sense would prevail, and you would refrain from placing yourself in precarious situations.”

  She’d come prepared for his disapproval, though had expected—no, hoped—to hear a hint of warmth in his tone. To make matters worse, Mrs Wycliff’s eyes sparked hot and vibrant when the only other gentleman to enter the room slid his hand around her waist and whispered in her ear.

  Love and lust radiated from the couple, while Mr Trent’s severe stare had the power to flay Verity alive. How had she misread the signs? Why had she convinced herself this man might help her bring an end to her nightmares?

  The gentleman with eyes almost as dark as his ebony hair, and who must surely be Mr Wycliff, cleared his throat. “Will you not introduce me, Trent?�
�

  Mr Trent shuffled uncomfortably. “Miss Vale, may I present my good friend Mr Damian Wycliff. I believe you have already met his wife.”

  Verity curtsied. “Good evening, Mr Wycliff. Forgive the intrusion at such a late hour. Allow me to offer my felicitations on your recent marriage.”

  “Thank you, Miss Vale.” A mischievous smile played at the corners of Mr Wycliff’s mouth as he offered a graceful bow. His inquisitive gaze shot immediately to his friend. “While you told me of your meeting in the graveyard, Trent, you failed to convey the depth of Miss Vale’s beauty.”

  Heat crept up Verity’s cheeks, though inwardly she sighed. Clearly her looks were of no interest to Mr Trent. Vanity was a trait she despised. Still, loneliness played with the mind until every kind word and gesture held the potential to be something more.

  An uncomfortable silence ensued. Mr Trent certainly had no intention of explaining the reason for his icy countenance. Had she made a mistake coming here? Perhaps she should leave. Perhaps she should go now.

  Verity pasted a confident smile. “Thank you for the glass of sherry, Mrs Wycliff, but it’s late, and I should head home. Would you mind sending a footman to fetch a hackney?”

  “A hackney?” Mr Trent snapped. “You intend to take a hackney back to Shepperton?”

  Verity shook her head. “No, sir. I have taken a room at Jaunay’s Hotel in Leicester Square.”

  All colour drained from Mr Trent’s face. “You’re staying at Jaunay’s?” he repeated. “For all the saints.” His cheeks ballooned, and he exhaled an exasperated sigh.

  “Jaunay’s is regarded for its excellent furnishings and first-class wine,” Mr Wycliff said in her defence.

  “Do you know how many foreign men frequent the establishment?” Mr Trent spoke as if he’d caught a whiff of something foul.

  “Distinguished men of rank,” Mr Wycliff replied. “Men with political influence.”

  “French exiles,” Mr Trent spat. “Men far from home with no one to vouch for their morals.”

  “I can assure you, sir,” Verity began, keeping her voice even. “There were plenty of ladies dining at Jaunay’s this evening.”

  Mr Trent’s eyes widened. He dragged his hand through his mop of dark hair and sighed. “People saw you dining alone, Miss Vale?”

  “Of course not. Miss Trimble invited me to dine at her table.”

  “Gentlemen.” Mrs Wycliff cleared her throat. “Is it not prudent to ask Miss Vale what brought her to town? What prompted her to book a room at Jaunay’s Hotel and take a hackney to Bruton Street?”

  “Madness is the answer.” Mr Trent gave Verity his full attention. “And I challenge you to argue, Miss Vale.”

  Verity raised her chin and straightened her spine. Courage had brought her to town, and she’d be damned if she’d let this man trample her down. “Oh, I am not mad, sir. Once you’ve seen the book, you might reconsider your position as patriarchal oaf.”

  Mr Wycliff pursed his lips. Amusement flashed in his eyes. “I’ve heard you called many things, Trent, but patriarchal oaf is by far the best.”

  Mr Trent’s hard stare never left her. “If the lady lacks sense when it comes to her welfare, what am I meant to think?”

  Did he think her a complete buffoon?

  Of course it was dangerous for an unmarried lady to come to town. If one believed society’s matrons, it was dangerous for an unmarried lady of means to go anywhere alone.

  “Men are dead, Mr Trent. Must I remind you that you were the one who assured me the masked villain would strike again?” If she wore breeches and shaved daily, no doubt he would have a different view. “What did you expect me to do? Eat cake and sip tea while men get away with abuse and murder?”

  Mrs Wycliff clapped her hands. “Bravo, Miss Vale.”

  “Charles drowned,” Mr Trent countered. “And rakes ravish innocent women at every ball and soiree. What do you want me to do, Miss Vale? Rip the shirts off their backs and examine their chests?” The gentleman inhaled deeply. “Return to the safety of your house in Shepperton and allow me to make discreet enquires on your behalf. Is that not what we agreed?”

  Mr and Mrs Wycliff looked at her with wide eyes, clearly eager to hear her response.

  “No, Mr Trent, that is not what we agreed.” This was not a conversation to have in front of strangers. But the Wycliffs seemed to know everything about their graveyard meeting. Everything except for the fact they had shared a connection. She had not imagined the warmth in his gaze or the tenderness in his voice. “Perhaps I should remind you.”

  “I said I would write to you with my findings.”

  “And I said I would not revisit Mr Farrow’s grave. I said I would hold a candle to the window to let you know all was well at home.” The hard planes of his face softened slightly upon hearing the last comment. “I asked for your direction so I might inform you of any new developments, and you gave it willingly.” Verity stared into his eyes, the jade-green gems she found so captivating. “Does that sound like madness to you, sir? Tell me what I have done to lose your charity.”

  Silence ensued once again.

  “Well, Trent?” Mr Wycliff wore an arrogant smirk. “Miss Vale has a point. Do you not owe her an apology?”

  Mr Trent swallowed deeply. Beneath the hard, glassy look in his eyes, she saw something else. For a foolish second, she thought it was fear. “You have done nothing to lose my charity. Vulnerability is not something I deal well with, Miss Vale. My mind tends to conjure pessimistic views of current events.”

  Then she was right on another point, too. Someone had hurt this man in the past, and the wound still wept.

  “And despite being the most capable member of my family, sir, my sex meant my parents treated me no better than a disobedient pet.” The command to marry Mr Rowan had caused great conflict. Their sudden deaths from the ague after a visit to friends in Lincolnshire meant her parents never witnessed her eloquent refusal. “Consequently, I tend to bite at the first sign of a leash.”

  The gentleman’s shoulders relaxed. “Then, as you’ve made the journey to town,” he said in a much calmer voice, “I trust you have new information to impart.”

  Verity relaxed, too. Now, why couldn’t it have been like this in the beginning?

  “Yes, it was while daydreaming in the bathtub that the thought first occurred to me.” Perhaps guilt and grief had made it difficult to make the connection before.

  “No doubt you were dreaming about saving the maidens in the kingdom,” he said, and for the first time this evening she glimpsed the man who’d escorted her home.

  “Indeed. You see, the book returned to me by Sebastian’s valet was not a book from my library. While curious as to the subject matter, I certainly did not make the purchase. And I can guarantee neither of my parents would have permitted such a novel in the house.”

  Mr Trent arched a brow. “Then it is a book filled with illicit content?”

  Verity blinked. “Heavens, no!” That said, she was more than curious to know what occurred between a man and a woman in the bedchamber. “It is a novel of gothic persuasion. A tale of horror and the supernatural.” Verity turned and snatched her satchel from the sofa. “Allow me to show you.”

  “That’s a rather large reticule, Miss Vale,” Mr Wycliff said as she delved into the brown leather bag and rummaged around.

  Verity smiled. “I think we both know it is a man’s satchel, Mr Wycliff. I find a lady’s silk purse is of no use if one hopes to carry anything worthwhile.”

  “Reticules are highly impractical,” Mrs Wycliff agreed.

  “Particularly when carrying a book.” With the book lying flat in the bottom of the bag, Verity removed her pocket pistol and handed it to Mr Trent. “Hold this for a moment. And do be careful.”

  “Good God!” Mr Wycliff raised his hands in mock surrender. “I’ve taken one lead ball to the arm and would rather not take another. Tell me that thing isn’t loaded.”

  “Of course it’s l
oaded,” his wife retorted. “How else is Miss Vale to shoot a devil keen to try his luck?”

  “One cannot be too careful in town, Mr Wycliff.” Verity glanced at Mr Trent, whose wide-eyed gaze shifted between her face and the pistol.

  “What? No blade?” he mocked.

  “The blade is in a sheath strapped to my thigh.” After the attack in her bedchamber, she never left the house without a weapon. “And I have a vial of pepper somewhere in my bag, though it’s hardly any use if I cannot find it.”

  The three people in the room gaped.

  Heat warmed Verity’s cheeks. She supposed some might consider her behaviour odd for a lady.

  Mr Trent’s lips curled into a half smile. “Then I’m lucky you didn’t throw pepper in my face the night we met in the graveyard.”

  “I did reach covertly into the bag hidden beneath my cloak, but my fingers only brushed the bottle of blessed water.”

  Mr Wycliff chuckled and slapped his friend on the back, though offered no comment. He sauntered to the decanters on the console table and poured two drinks.

  “There’ve been times in my life when it would have served me well to have a satchel like that,” Mrs Wycliff said.

  Mr Wycliff handed Mr Trent a crystal tumbler of what looked like brandy. “But now you have me as your protector, my love, and I’m more lethal than any weapon.”

  Verity tried not to stare at the couple whose love shone like a brilliant beacon. As a distraction, she continued ferreting around in her bag and finally pulled the leather-bound book free.

  “Here we are, Mr Trent.” Verity offered him the book, noted he had no hands free and so retrieved the small pistol from his grasp and returned it carefully to her bag.

  The gentleman placed his glass on the side table in order to study the cover of the book. “Vathek. An Arabian Tale. Is this the book that carries the warning about the Brethren?”

  Not a warning about the exclusive club, but a warning far more terrifying.

  “Yes, on the vacat page.” Verity stepped closer, so close she could smell the same alluring scent as on his handkerchief. She had lost count of the times she had brought the silk square to her nose and inhaled deeply. Each unique note captured his essence. “Let me show you.”