by Adele Clee
“And what of your card, Trent?” Cavanagh asked.
With a hollow feeling in his chest, Lawrence stared at the blank side of the card in his hand. Would he be the illegitimate rogue, the unwanted bastard? Would he be the great pretender? The man obsessed with integrity when in truth he wanted to make love to the innocent woman at his side?
Aware of his hesitation, Miss Vale placed her hand on his. “It’s a silly game. Whatever is written on the card has no bearing on one’s character. I can assure you I am not a vixen in any sense of the word. And even if I wanted to lie, my loose tongue forbids it.”
Lawrence’s pasted smile slipped as he turned over the card and read the single word guaranteed to haunt his dreams.
Victim.
Chapter Ten
The hum of excited chatter filled Mrs Crandall’s drawing room. Sporting wide grins, people studied their cards with enthusiasm, and yet Mr Trent looked fit to throttle the first person who dared utter a word.
With her hand still resting on his arm, Verity gave a squeeze of reassurance. “If you’re the murderer, you are not supposed to say.”
His dark gaze shot to the opposite side of the room. Throwing daggers of disdain towards Mr Wincote and Mr Layton, he ripped up the card and threw the tiny pieces onto the floor.
“If this is a game to unnerve me, they’ve made a huge mistake.” His striking eyes turned stone cold. “Mrs Crandall must have had a hand in this.”
Mr Cavanagh frowned. “Are you the victim?”
“The victim some blackguard will murder once they snuff out the candles,” Mr Trent confirmed.
“Perhaps it is nothing more than a coincidence.” Here she was saying she never lied and yet this wasn’t an accident. A malevolent force was at work. And evil men thrived on evil deeds.
She found the courage to look across the room. Both scoundrels who’d attended the house party that weekend continued to glance in their direction.
“One card could be a coincidence,” Mr Trent said. “But all three of our cards cast a slight on our characters.”
“When you revealed the names of the suspects to Mrs Crandall, you knew she would inform those concerned.” Mr Cavanagh’s smirk turned menacing. “I say we drag the sly snakes into the garden and beat them until one confesses.”
Mr Trent flexed his fingers, and the bones cracked. The devilish gleam in his eyes confirmed his desire to have his revenge. “Do you care if Mrs Crandall strikes our names from her guest list?”
“Care?” Mr Cavanagh glanced at the woman in question. “The prospect of avoiding her wandering hands is worth the cut direct. Were it not for you and Wycliff she’d have felt the whip of my tongue long ago.”
“Then let us create mayhem.” Mr Trent turned to Verity. “Follow us into the garden. At no point must you remove your mask.”
Verity nodded as panic flared to life in her chest. What if other guests came to the aid of Mr Wincote and Mr Layton? What if half the men in the room were members of the Brethren?
Her fears were compounded when Mrs Crandall raised her hands in the air and suddenly cried with avidity, “Let the murder mystery begin!”
Guests extinguished nearby candles, plunging the room into blackness. Excitement reached fever-pitch. Ladies’ coy giggles and gentlemen’s breathless groans swirled about the room like errant spectres. Warning of the wickedness at play in every dark, dingy corner.
A choking fear gripped Verity’s throat.
What if the masked rogue seized hold of her and spirited her away to claim the unpaid debt? What if the Brethren had grown tired of Mr Trent prying into their affairs and he was the intended victim?
Verity jumped when firm fingers settled around her wrist and pulled her close.
“Stay by my side,” Mr Trent whispered. “Hold on to my arm, or my waist if you have to, but don’t let go.”
She had no intention of going anywhere. She hugged his arm as if a tornado might sweep her away should she lose her grip.
“Make for the door.” Mr Cavanagh’s voice cut through the lewd comments echoing through the room. While the crowd sought their pleasure, they shuffled left hoping to avoid their prey.
People pushed and barged past her shoulder. Groping hands caressed and fondled places reserved for a husband’s pleasure. Verity hit out with her crook and walloped someone’s hard body.
“Ouch! So you want it rough.”
“Step away, sir.” Verity saw nothing but ominous shadows.
Mr Trent cursed. He tensed, slid an arm about her waist and held her so tightly she had to heave to catch her breath. She wasn’t sure what happened next. Mr Trent swung forward. She heard a crack and a thud and presumed it was her attacker who hit the floor near her feet.
“Did you punch him?”
“As hard as one can in the dark,” Mr Trent confirmed as they continued shuffling towards the door. They banged into a table and sent the gong clattering. “Damnation!”
Everyone must have presumed the clang was a minute’s warning—a signal the immoral game would soon be at an end. The energy in the room thrummed with urgent intensity. The moans grew louder, the giggles and pants and moist slapping sang the same impatient tune.
And then the surrounding atmosphere changed as someone invaded her personal space. She might be blind in the dark, but she could sense the intruder’s volatile aura, smell the sweet sickly notes of his cologne.
Verity held her breath, waited for the fiend to attack with his groping hands and lustful grunts. But it seemed she was not the intended target.
“Get your damn hands off me!” Mr Trent shouted.
No one rushed in with the lamps.
No one came to their aid.
Why would they when this was all part of the game?
“Trent.” The voice sounded like Mr Cavanagh and came from the direction of the door.
“Bloody hell!” Mr Trent held on to her, continued to lash out at his unknown assailant.
Victim!
What if the card was a threat?
What if someone snuffed out Mr Trent’s light as easily as the candles?
Verity wrapped her arm around his waist. With a firm grip of her crook, she lashed out hoping to ward off another assault.
“Ouch!” The sharp point of a pin stabbed her finger. Every instinct said to snatch her hand back and rub the injury, but she hit out with her crook again until the malevolent presence retreated—disappeared.
“What happened?” she asked on a breathless pant.
Before Mr Trent could answer, the door creaked open, bringing a faint sliver of light from the hall beyond. The majordomo entered carrying a lit lantern in each hand. As soon as he placed them on the side table and lit the candles in the gilt branches, it was evident from the glimpse of bare behinds that some couples were still engaged in amorous activity.
Mrs Crandall clapped her hands to gain everyone’s attention. “Step back against the wall and make a circle,” she said as the room grew brighter and the guests hurried to straighten their clothes. “The victim must remain on the floor. We will take it in turns to guess the culprit.” She turned to a woman on her right whose breasts had escaped her bodice. “Accepting defeat so soon, my dear, or are you eager to get the real party underway?”
“Where the hell is Wincote and Layton?” Mr Trent scoured the room with his narrowed gaze.
Verity followed his line of sight and noted both men were missing. “They could not have left by the drawing room door, else the light from the hallway would have cut through the darkness.”
He turned to face her. “Are you all right? When I promised a wild adventure, this was not what I had in mind.”
Verity smiled as she drank in the lines of concern etched on his brow. No one had ever cared for her opinion. No one had ever cared for her welfare as much as Mr Trent. But as her gaze dropped to his impressive chest, she slapped her hand over her mouth to stifle a gasp.
Mr Trent’s heavy frown showed his confusion.
&n
bsp; “I was waiting near the door for—” Mr Cavanagh stopped abruptly as he came to join them. He, too, jerked his head back in shock. “What the devil? Who pinned that to your coat?”
The gentleman glanced down at his lapel, snatched the card and ripped it from its securing pin. That night in the graveyard, he had looked like Lucifer—all dark and menacing. Now, the devil himself might flee from Mr Trent’s murderous stare.
He held the white card in his hand and examined the large letter B—the only marking. The noise in the background muffled into insignificance as she watched the muscle in his cheek flex and waited for his response.
“B for Brethren,” Mr Cavanagh said with a sour expression. “Though it’s missing its crown.”
“B for bastard.” One could not miss the pain in Mr Trent’s voice. “No doubt most would consider that appropriate.”
Verity touched his arm. “One’s bloodline does not define a man. Having mentioned the men’s names to Mrs Crandall, it is fair to assume Mr Wincote or Mr Layton is responsible for the prank.”
“The fact the symbol is inaccurate would suggest that whoever pinned the card to your chest lacks knowledge of the club.” While dressed in the costume of a Roman emperor, Mr Cavanagh’s opinion carried an air of authority. Yet Verity was more inclined to believe someone drew the letter in a hurry.
Mr Trent did not look the least bit convinced, either. “Then how was it I had the victim card? If one assumes this card carries the mark of the Brethren, then it must be a warning. They’ve marked me. The question is for what?”
They had no opportunity to discuss the matter further because Mrs Crandall barged in between them. “Do one of you possess the victim card? What is the point of arranging a game when people refuse to play?”
Mr Trent stared down his nose. “Cavanagh is the lothario, Mrs Beckford the vixen, and I had the pontificating priest. Wincote and Layton have made a sudden exit. One of them must have the card.”
Judging by Mrs Crandall’s initial questions and exasperated sigh as she swung around and glared at those in the room, the woman did not know which guests had which cards. She couldn’t possibly have arranged for Mr Trent to have the victim card. Not unless she was an extremely skilled actress.
“They did not leave by the drawing room door,” Mr Trent added, “thus rousing further suspicion.”
The madam stormed over to the heavy red curtains, whipped one aside and studied the door to the terrace. The rattle of the glass panes as she slammed the door shut conveyed her displeasure.
“We shall have to begin again.” Mrs Crandall came to stand in the middle of the room and flapped her hands with some impatience. “Hand your cards back to me.”
“This is our cue to leave.” Mr Cavanagh did not wait for a response. He threw his card onto the side table and made for the door while Mrs Crandall was busy berating another guest.
Mr Trent captured Verity’s hand. He did not place it in the crook of his arm but held it with a familiarity that grew with each passing hour. Twice he stroked the back of her hand with his thumb as he guided her out into the hall.
“Tell me we’re leaving now.” Mr Cavanagh glanced along the length of the crowded corridor towards the front door.
The house must surely lack bedchambers as men had taken to pressing their partners against the wall and devouring their mouths as if it were the only means of gaining air.
“Tired of the entertainment?” Mr Trent mocked.
“I have no desire to sample anything on offer here tonight.” Upon noticing the majordomo sneaking into another room on the right, Mr Cavanagh removed a key from the leather pouch tied around his waist. “I’ll give Woods the key to his mistress’ chamber and let someone else have the pleasure.”
“Woods distributed the cards.” Verity recalled the precise nature in which the man dealt from the pack. “He had the means of ensuring you received the victim card.”
Mr Cavanagh nodded. “Mrs Beckford is right. But Woods carries out orders, therefore we must assume he acted on behalf of Mrs Crandall.”
Verity wasn’t so sure. Mrs Crandall had appeared genuinely shocked to find the floor absent of a victim. “Unless Woods has another motive for issuing a warning.”
Mr Trent’s jaw firmed. “There’s only one way to find out.”
They entered the room to find Woods looming over the drinks tray. He swung round upon hearing the click of the door closing. Amber liquid sloshed about in the crystal tumbler as his hand shook.
“This room is closed to guests.” Woods shuffled on the spot, his nervous gaze flitting about like a caged bird looking to escape the menagerie. “Mistress’ orders.”
“We have no intention of remaining in here.” Mr Trent locked the door and raised his black mask. “But I have a few questions before I leave.”
“Questions?” The man’s protruding Adam’s apple bobbed. “You must take your grievances up with the mistress.”
“Why, when my grievance is with you?” Mr Trent prowled towards the trembling servant. “Foolishly, you gave me the victim card.” He held his muscular arms out wide. “Do I look like a victim to you?”
Woods shook his head.
“No.” Mr Trent’s voice turned sinister. “Devil? Yes. Murderer? Given enough provocation.” He came to a halt a mere foot away from the servant who struggled to see anything past Mr Trent’s broad shoulders. “I despise men who lack the courage to voice their complaint. I despise men who hide in the shadows and play devious games.”
Woods gulped and swallowed a mouthful of brandy. The spirit trickled down his chin, and he wiped the residue with the back of his hand. Earlier, the man had displayed the same arrogance as an aristocrat’s butler. Now, he cowered beneath the weight of his obvious guilt.
“My mistress asked me to hand out the cards. She took half the pack if you remember.”
“The half you gave her.” Mr Trent snatched the glass from the man’s hand and downed the contents. “The bottom half of the pile.” He reached around the servant, barging shoulders as he slammed the glass on the silver tray. “Who told you to give me that card?”
“No one.”
“Was it Mr Wincote or Mr Layton?” Verity said. Both men had acted strangely tonight. “Did one of them ask you to deliver specific cards?”
When the servant failed to answer, Mr Trent said, “What would your mistress say if she knew you’d deliberately ruined her game?” He gripped the servant by his waistcoat and dragged him forward until their noses touched. “Shall I send for her? Shall I tell her you now answer to Wincote and Layton?”
“No!” Woods knees buckled and his legs shook, but Mr Trent’s firm grip prevented him from crumpling to the floor. “I needed the money.”
Mr Cavanagh stepped forward. “Money for what? Debts?”
“To escape,” the man said in a hushed voice. “I cannot stand it a moment longer.” With that, he broke down and sobbed. “I never get a minute’s peace.”
Mr Trent released Woods’ waistcoat. “Mrs Crandall has a rather healthy appetite for lewd entertainment.”
“Healthy?” Mr Cavanagh snorted. “Gluttonous would be the appropriate word.”
“Someone paid you to cast me as the victim?” Mr Trent returned to the matter at hand. “How much?”
Woods wiped away the evidence of his sudden breakdown and straightened his turban. “A hundred pounds.”
“Was it Layton?”
“Layton? No. Mr Wincote.” Woods sniffed. “He said it was a joke, that you often play pranks, that you’d find it amusing.”
“Do I look amused?” Mr Trent growled. “And Mrs Crandall knew nothing of this?”
“No.” The man’s bottom lip quivered. “You can’t tell her.”
“Did Wincote mention an affiliation with a group known as the Brethren?”
Woods frowned and shook his head for the umpteenth time. But then his eyes widened with recognition. “Mrs Crandall asked him if he’d heard the name, asked him about a branding mark
and said a member threatened you and you were making enquiries.”
No wonder Mr Wincote had kept his gaze trained on them for the entire evening. Mr Layton would know of their investigation, too, as having escaped the drawing room via the terrace doors, the men must be working together.
“And what was Wincote’s reply?” Mr Cavanagh said.
Indeed, Verity was equally curious.
Woods drew his waistcoat across his chest and clutched the edges. “Mrs Crandall taunted him and asked if he’d like to show her his bare chest. He laughed and said only a fool would scar his body to gain entrance to a gentleman’s club.”
Verity shuffled closer. This was getting more interesting by the minute.
“Mr Wincote said he’d show her in the privacy of her chamber but had heard she’d given Mr Cavanagh the key.”
“Damnation!” Mr Cavanagh blurted. “Perhaps I should purchase two tickets for the next ship leaving from Dover and take you with me, Woods.”
The servant’s eyes gleamed brighter than the paste jewels on his turban. “I know enough about a gentleman’s wardrobe to serve as your valet.”
“Forgive me,” Mr Cavanagh said in a sheepish tone. “I spoke in jest.”
The servant’s shoulders slumped.
Perhaps Mr Trent felt pity for the poor man because he said, “Keep me informed should you discover anything further about Wincote or Layton and I shall match Wincote’s sum of a hundred pounds. You may send word to Mr Cavanagh on Jermyn Street if you have any news.”
A flurry of excitement took command of Woods’ countenance. “There is something else. Before the game, Mr Wincote asked me to hire him a hackney and have it wait on the corner of Red Lion Street.”
Mr Trent breathed a frustrated sigh. “Did he happen to say where he was going?”
“No, but he met me on the street and pressed a few sovereigns into my palm, promised to pay the hundred pounds on his next visit.”
Verity doubted the man would ever see the money. Unlike Mr Trent, the rogue lacked integrity.