by Adele Clee
Her heart stopped for a second, maybe two.
Without her to calm his temper, he would tear into Wincote, and murder the man in his own drawing room. The need to prove himself better than the dishonest degenerates who graced the ballrooms might put paid to all hopes for their future.
“You need me,” she blurted. “I am the only one who can confirm Mr Wincote is the man who attacked me. What if you’re mistaken, and Mr Layton is the monster? What if you end up in Newgate and I’m left alone waiting for Mr Layton to exact his revenge?”
He cursed and ground his teeth while absorbing the truth of the dilemma.
“We began this journey together,” she pressed. “Do not shut me out. Do not render me incapable and cast me aside.”
“You’re more capable than most men I know. That is not the problem here.”
“You want to protect me. The best way to do that is to keep me by your side.” She fought the need to cross the carriage and soothe away his fears. He was a man who trusted logic more than his emotions.
The only indication he had changed his mind was a loud rap on the roof, followed by garbled instructions to Sleeth delivered through the half-open window.
Neither of them spoke during the journey to Brunswick Square. Upon alighting from the carriage, Lawrence informed Sleeth that he was to stand guard and kick down Wincote’s door if he heard Verity so much as whimper.
Wincote’s butler, a man whose puffy red eyes and grey pallor told the story of his master’s need to keep late hours, informed them that the rogue was still abed. Hardly surprising considering he’d stalked them to Leicester Square in the early hours.
So who had delivered the copy of Vathek this morning? The porter who’d found it on the reception desk had no recollection of seeing a man sneaking into the hotel lobby. But if Wincote was abed, Mr Layton might have easily acted the errand boy.
“Let me explain my position.” Lawrence gave the servant a look equal to Medusa’s deathly stare. “If you do not invite us inside and rouse your master, I shall be forced to knock you aside and drag the miscreant from bed myself.”
The butler’s jowls wobbled. After a confused glance at the satchel draped across Verity’s cornflower-blue pelisse, he gestured them into the house and left them waiting in the drawing room while he went to wake the devil from his slumber.
Lawrence took the opportunity to search the drawers in the side table, study the poetry book discarded on the chair, though found nothing incriminating.
“We should search the study.” Lawrence crossed the room and peered out into the hall.
“Wait,” she whispered. “If Mr Wincote finds you snooping who knows how he will react.”
“Perhaps provoking him is the only means of getting to the truth. The scoundrel is—”
A sudden commotion upstairs forced them out into the hall. Loud shouts and cries of panic accompanied the heavy thud of footsteps. At first, she’d thought Mr Wincote had attacked his butler in a fit of rage. But as the servant raced down the stairs so fast he lost his footing, it became evident that something was dreadfully amiss.
Lawrence helped the butler to his feet, gripped him firmly by the shoulders and urged him to take a breath. Two footmen and a maid came hurrying out to witness the hullabaloo.
“What is it?” Lawrence spoke to the man as if he were a few pebbles short of a stack. “Is your master unwell?”
The butler shook his head. “He … he’s dead.”
The maid let out a screech and flopped into a footman’s arms.
“Are you certain he’s not drunk? Downed laudanum to help him sleep?” As always, Lawrence maintained a calm and even temper. “Have you checked for a pulse?”
“His eyes are practically bulging out of their sockets.” The butler spoke quickly. “He looks as if the devil came and ripped his soul from his body during the night.”
She didn’t have the heart to inform him that the devil had claimed Mr Wincote’s soul long ago.
“Then send someone to fetch a constable.” Lawrence jerked his head at the footman not cradling the maid. “My coachman is waiting outside. He will ferry you to the office in Queen Square. It’s closer than Bow Street. Go!”
The fellow darted out of the door and Lawrence relayed the same instructions to Sleeth.
“Perhaps we should check Mr Wincote is dead.” Verity turned to the quivering butler. “Forgive me. It is best to be certain about such things.”
Lawrence shook his head. “I’ll not go upstairs without a witness.”
“What is your name?” Verity smiled at the butler.
“P-Payton, miss.”
“Well, Payton, you must accompany us up to Mr Wincote’s bedchamber, so we can confirm your diagnosis. And you must study the room and tell us if you see anything unusual. Can you do that?”
Payton nodded. “Follow me.”
They traipsed behind the dejected servant, who stopped to gather his composure before escorting them into Mr Wincote’s room.
Mr Wincote was, indeed, dead.
The look of sheer terror in his eyes, the mottled skin, the panic etched on his features would be forever ingrained in her memory. One look at his bare chest confirmed the man had been branded with the mark of the Brethren. One close look at his cruel mouth confirmed he was the rogue who attacked her so viciously. A quick study of the purple bruises on his neck told them how he had met his grisly end.
Lawrence came to stand beside her. “You were right about Layton. Who else could have done this?” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Thankfully, we have an alibi. Miss Trimble saw us at the hotel at three and the porter will verify we never left the building.”
“We have no need to explain ourselves.” Doubt surfaced. Suspicious folk might think Lawrence Trent had a motive to do away with his half-brother. The fact this victim bore the same mark on his chest might lead men to make wrong conclusions. “But we should tell the same story.”
Lawrence kept his eyes trained on the butler when he spoke to her. “Miss Trimble saw you enter your room, and you never left. Cavanagh will say he spent the night with me. I’ll not have it become public knowledge that you came to my bed.”
“I’m not ashamed,” she whispered. “I’ve fallen in love with you, and it cannot be helped.”
He cast her a sidelong glance, his eyes telling a different story to his rigid countenance. “As a woman of sharp intellect, you already know my thoughts on the matter,” he said through almost closed lips. “But I would rather not make a romantic declaration whilst staring at a dead body. At present, our priority is determining the reason we visited Wincote.”
He was right on the point of establishing a reason for calling. Wrong in the assumption that she might apply logic when it came to feelings of the heart.
“Everything seems in order, sir.” The butler ambled over to them. “And we heard nothing out of the ordinary.”
“What time did Wincote return home?” Lawrence said in the inquisitive manner of a constable from Queen Square.
“He let himself into the house around four. I heard voices and came through to the drawing room to offer my services.”
“Voices?” Verity’s heart lurched. “Mr Wincote was not alone?”
“Mr Wincote always invites Mr Layton to drink with him, regardless of the time.”
“Mr Layton was here?” Lawrence sounded more than intrigued. “What time did he leave?”
“I couldn’t say, sir. I lit the fire, then Mr Wincote dismissed me and said he would see Mr Layton out.”
Through narrowed eyes, Lawrence scanned the room. “What happened to the clothes your master wore last night? Does his valet still wake to undress him when the hour is late?”
“No, sir. His clothes are on the floor in his dressing room.” Payton gestured to the open door of the adjoining room.
Lawrence strode over to the pile of discarded clothes visible from where they stood. He picked up a pair of black breeches with his thumb and forefinger and dro
pped them as quickly. “They’re wet,” he said, returning to the bedchamber.
“Both men were caught in the storm. Hence, the reason they downed copious amounts of brandy and asked me to light the fire.”
A host of questions filled Verity’s head, but it was critical they spent a moment alone to confirm their story. “We will wait for the constable in the drawing room, Payton. We’ve seen enough here.”
Lawrence nodded. “Just one more thing. Does Wincote own a copy of Vathek?”
“Vathek?” Payton frowned. “If it’s a book, you’d need to check the library, sir.”
“But a copy did not arrive at the house yesterday?”
“Not to my knowledge.” Payton escorted them back to the drawing room and arranged for tea while they waited for Sleeth to return with the constable.
“So, what reason shall we give for calling here?” Verity sidled up beside him on the green damask sofa. Just being near him set her mind at ease.
He turned to her, slipped his hand around her nape and kissed her softly on the lips. “I’ve wanted to do that for the last hour.”
Verity inhaled to calm her fluttering heart. “I’ve wanted you to do that for the last hour.”
The warmth of his smile reached his eyes, then slowly faded. “Something is amiss. The Brethren are masters at making murder look like an accident. Why choose strangulation? And where is the warning? Where’s the book that precedes the grisly outcome?”
“Perhaps they argued last night. Perhaps Layton lost his mind and didn’t plan on killing his associate.” She touched his arm. “What reason shall we give for attending?”
Lawrence sighed and brushed a hand through his hair. “It occurs to me that our only course of action is to tell the truth.”
“The truth?” She sucked in a breath. “About our intimate relationship?”
“No. But we will explain how we met. Make a statement naming the Brethren. Tell them what we saw last night, what I saw in the cellar of that house.”
Verity blinked back her surprise. She’d presumed he had no recollection of the events surrounding the hit to his head. “What did you see in the cellar?”
She held her breath.
“A cage. A prison cell, though the devil knows who they kept locked in there.”
A sudden coldness washed over her. “Why would they need a cage if they’re selling cadavers?”
“Perhaps Cavanagh’s theory is correct, and they kidnap rich merchants.”
“No. It’s something else.” She had never been blind to her cousin’s shortcomings, but his failings stretched to gambling and bedding married women, not kidnap and murder. “Sebastian may have been a selfish cad, but he was not an imbecile.”
“I need to visit Layton, but we’ll be tied up with this business for hours. Once we’ve given our statements, they’ll send a constable to Layton’s house, and then we’ve no hope of discovering the truth.”
“There’s every reason to believe Mr Layton murdered Mr Wincote.” The thought that he might do the same to Lawrence chilled her blood. “It’s not safe to confront him alone.”
“There’s safety in numbers. I’m certain Wycliff and Cavanagh will join me in a private interrogation.”
Verity considered all they had learned so far. They knew without a shadow of a doubt that Wincote and Layton were members of the Brethren. Now, she suspected Layton was responsible for the deaths of Joseph Bradley and Phillip Wincote.
But did he kill Sebastian Vale and Charles Farrow?
And if so, why?
Fearing they might never get the justice their kin deserved, she captured Lawrence’s hand and said, “You go. Question Mr Layton before it’s too late. Go before Sleeth returns with the constable. I shall remain here, deal with any legal matters and explain that you feared for Mr Cavanagh’s safety and will visit Queen Square this afternoon to give your statement.”
Lawrence shook his head. “I’ll not leave you here alone.”
“Mr Wincote is dead. Sleeth will stay with me and take me back to Jaunay’s where I will lock the door and await your return.” She brought his hand to her lips and pressed a kiss on his knuckles. “This will forever plague us if we do not discover the truth. When we’re alone tonight, I want to put the past behind us, focus on our future.”
He drew her close and kissed her fully on the mouth. “I shall send word to my housekeeper, Mrs Henderson, tell her we shall have a guest staying for the next few days.” His heated gaze slipped to her thigh. “I trust you have a weapon at your disposal. A man would know if his love has a means of protecting herself.”
His love!
Her heart skipped to a joyous beat. “Of course, though I doubt I shall need it after you’ve finished with Mr Layton.” They both stood. She reached into her satchel and gave him the pocket pistol. “Take this. You need it more than I. Promise me you will call on your friends before you visit the blackguard.”
After a moment’s hesitation, he accepted the weapon, checked the safety catch and slipped it into the inside pocket of his coat. “You have my word I shall not go alone.”
She forced a smile. “Then hurry. Be assured Sleeth will attend me, and I shall meet you at Jaunay’s.”
Chapter Eighteen
After an hour spent traipsing across town in a hackney, making enquiries as to Layton’s current address—apparently, he had moved to new lodgings a month ago—and taking a slight detour to collect Wycliff and Cavanagh, Lawrence finally arrived at the rogue’s townhouse on Curzon Street.
Both Wycliff and Cavanagh had elected to remain in the hackney coach until the butler confirmed Layton was at home. The Queen Square constables would arrive at some point soon, and Lawrence would rather they not find three men embroiled in a violent scene at the front door.
Conflicting thoughts about the night’s events had plagued Lawrence’s mind during the dash across town. If Layton had murdered Wincote, and the gentleman possessed an ounce of sense, he would have made directly to Dover. Lawrence could think of two reasons why the rogue might still be at home. Blinded by his own conceit, Layton thought himself immune to prosecution. Or he was innocent of the crime. Ignorant to the fact his friend lay dead in his bed.
Logic said Layton had to be guilty.
Who else had a motive for wanting Wincote dead? Unless the men had another accomplice, another Brethren blackguard capable of committing heinous crimes.
A sudden feeling of foreboding gnawed away at his insides.
What if someone else had been in the house in Clement’s Lane, a partner in these devilish plots? What if the butler went to rouse Layton from his bed to find him dead, too?
Lawrence hammered on the door, prayed he’d burst into the house to find Layton had fled hours ago. A murderer. A social deviant who had taken his friend’s life in a fit of rage and saved Lawrence the trouble.
Impatience saw him bang on the door with his fist.
The butler opened the door at a snail’s pace.
Did the man not know this was a matter of the utmost urgency?
“Mr Trent to see Mr Layton.” He did not bother to hide his identity. He had enough evidence on the Brethren to warrant the call, and few men in town had the same penetrating green-eyed stare. “That is a demand, not a request.”
The butler inclined his head. “Mr Layton is not at home, sir.”
Guilty!
“Then I should inform you that you will soon receive a visit from the senior constable in the company of the chief-magistrate, keen to question your master on the matter of murder. If you have any loyalty to the gentleman, tell me where he went.”
After blinking back his shock, and getting himself into a fluster, the servant said, “A boy came with a message three hours ago, and Mr Layton left.”
Three hours ago?
That meant Layton returned home after the murder.
“To go where? You must have passed instructions to his coachman.”
The butler shook his head. “Mr Layton climbed
into a hackney. It arrived shortly after the boy delivered his message and scampered off down the street.”
Lawrence rubbed his jaw. Confusion plundered his already muddled mind.
“Fearing your master might be in danger,” he began in the masterful tone that always reaped results, “I insist you accompany me on a quick tour of the house.”
The butler pursed his lips.
“Once the magistrate arrives, he will take over the proceedings, and I’ll have no hope of finding a clue.”
With some reluctance, the butler agreed.
Lawrence found nothing incriminating in Layton’s bedchamber other than a wet coat and breeches, and the absence of his Elizabethan costume. When it came to examining the study, the butler insisted Lawrence observe his master’s private room from the doorway. That was enough to notice two copies of Vathek on the desk.
“Might I inspect those books?”
The butler plodded over to the desk and studied the spines before abiding by his request. Lawrence flicked to the vacat page. Nothing. Not one word of warning. Not a single threat. He leafed through the clean pages—still nothing.
“They’re new,” the servant informed. “Mr Layton ordered them earlier this week. He gave his previous copy to a friend.”
“Indeed.” He returned them to the butler. “You should mention your master’s fondness for this particular book when the magistrate arrives.”
After thanking the butler, Lawrence returned to the hackney coach and delivered the news to Wycliff and Cavanagh.
“I’m more than happy to accompany you to Dover,” Cavanagh said when Lawrence instructed the driver to head for Jermyn Street. “Unless there’s a substantial reward, few constables will make the long journey.”
“Particularly when we have no notion that’s where the fool is heading,” Wycliff added.
No, and until Lawrence knew for sure, he would return to the hotel and not let Verity out of his sight.
“With luck, Layton’s ship will sink in the middle of the Dover Straits.” If not, Lawrence feared he might be forever looking over his shoulder, waiting for Layton to pounce and proclaim him the victim. “I had hoped to have this matter concluded today.”