The Mark of a Rogue (Scandalous Sons Book 2)

by Adele Clee

  Wycliff grinned. “What? And be forced to part ways with Miss Vale? I have it on the best authority that you’ve won the internal battle and have ceased waging war on your principles.”

  Lawrence glared at Cavanagh. “Remind me to give Lady Mills ammunition the next time she confronts you in the street.”

  “Haven’t you heard? Cassandra manufactures her own munitions. Nothing she says about me bears any resemblance to the truth.”

  “Except that you drink and gamble and bed loose women.” Wycliff chuckled.

  “A man has a reputation to uphold. The lady called me a spurious swindler which in the common man’s tongue means cheating bastard.”

  Lawrence shook his head. When would his friend stop pretending? When was he going to acknowledge that he took no pleasure from this wicked game? Admit that he held some affection for the woman he’d known since childhood? They had been friends longer than they had been enemies.

  “Knowing that her father would string you up and spill your innards if you so much as looked at her in an amorous way,” Wycliff began, “I trust she is referring to your last friendly wager.”

  Cavanagh smiled though his gaze remained detached. “Can I help it if both Harper twins find me attractive? Some siblings share everything.”

  “Be aware, some siblings murder their kin to get what they want,” Wycliff countered.

  His friends continued their conversation, but Wycliff’s comment echoed over and over in Lawrence’s mind. Love and hate were but opposites sides of the same coin. During his youth, jealousy had left him despising Charles Farrow. He’d chalked it up to being half-brothers, but perhaps all brothers nursed secret resentments.

  It was then that the lightning bolt struck, and he had an epiphany.

  The black veil hindering his vision suddenly slipped.

  Isaac Bradley kept a copy of Vathek. He was so obsessed with books, probably knew every line. Isaac Bradley’s brother bore the mark of the Brethren. And everyone who carried the mark ended up dead. But if Bradley was involved why lead them to John Layton?

  “Change of direction.” Lawrence yanked down the window and called for the driver to take them to South Audley Street. “I don’t care how much it costs. The quicker you drive, the more I’ll pay.”

  “Is that not Mr Bradley’s address?” Cavanagh asked when Lawrence returned to his seat and thrust his hand through his hair.

  “He owns a copy of a book I’m keen to examine.”

  Wycliff and Cavanagh stared at him.

  “I’m also interested to learn about the nature of his relationship with his brother,” Lawrence added. “After all, not everyone loves their siblings.”

  The root of most plots and scandals stemmed from something that happened in the past, so long ago most scarce remembered the details. In Lawrence’s mind, Wincote was the devious blackguard who’d sauntered into Verity’s bedchamber to steal her virginity as payment for the debt. Nothing mattered more to him than making the rogue pay. And so he had lost sight of the real players in this game.

  Had Layton killed Joseph Bradley?

  Was Isaac Bradley out to kill every member of the Brethren to avenge his brother’s death?

  Or was Isaac Bradley a member of the Brethren, too?

  “You suspect Mr Bradley is involved?” Wycliff said, his tone grave.

  “I don’t know what the hell to think.” His instant reaction upon seeing the hunched figure was one of pity. The man lacked Lawrence’s strength of mind. He hid in the shadows, scared of the Brethren. “I profess to be a man of logic yet fear I’ve floundered at the first hurdle.”

  “Any man who commits murder to this degree knows how to conceal the evidence of his activities.” Wycliff arched a brow. “And your mind has been distracted of late. Love does that to a man.”

  “Love?” Lawrence mocked, though lacked the conviction to deny the claim.

  “I suspect you fell in love with Miss Vale the moment she rummaged about in her satchel and plonked a loaded pistol in your palm.”

  He thought to argue but could not lie to his friends. “It may have been when she asked me to strip off my clothes in a graveyard so she could examine my bare chest.” Or when she chose Guinevere and said she would always be faithful to her husband. Or the first time she touched his arm seeking reassurance.

  Wycliff’s eyes widened.

  Cavanagh chuckled. “You stripped in a graveyard, and you only tell us now?”

  “Miss Vale wanted to confirm I did not bear the mark of the Brethren.”

  “Indeed.”

  They fell silent, were no doubt concocting various images of the scene in their minds. Perhaps they might have pressed him further, probed him for his thoughts on marriage, but the hackney slowed as it pulled up to the pavement in South Audley Street.

  “This time, we’re coming with you,” Wycliff said as he and Cavanagh alighted. “If Bradley is involved, his cunning exceeds that of most men.”

  Lawrence paid the driver the full fare, gave him an advance for the return journey and demanded he wait regardless of how long it took. And while the driver haggled to gain a few extra shillings, Lawrence could think of nothing but the depths of Mr Bradley’s deception.

  The march along the pavement to Bradley’s front door brought a mix of trepidation and an impatience to learn the truth. Lawrence paused with his hand on the knocker, knowing that whatever happened during the next thirty minutes, he would be greatly relieved or desperately frustrated.

  “Unless you knock, the butler won’t answer,” Cavanagh teased.

  “Alerting him to our presence is necessary if you wish to gain information from Mr Bradley,” Wycliff added.

  Lawrence sucked in a breath and hammered the knocker hard against the brass plate.

  They waited.

  Silence.

  Wycliff thumped the door with his fist, so hard the knocker rattled.

  After another lengthy wait, Cavanagh opened the iron gate to the left, descended the stone steps and peered through the basement windows. “There’s no sign of the servants.” He rapped on the door, but no one rushed to see if it was the grocer’s delivery.

  The skin on Lawrence’s neck prickled.

  The muscles in his abdomen contracted.

  Something was wrong. Dreadfully wrong.

  Briefly, he wondered if Bradley lay dead, too, but the absence of staff indicated the man had packed his belongings and moved his entire household elsewhere. Why? For fear he was to be Layton’s next target? For fear that someone might put the pieces together and accuse him of Wincote’s murder?

  A loud crack rent the air, the sound followed by the smashing of glass on the tiled floor. Lawrence’s heartbeat accelerated.

  Wycliff nudged his arm. “Cavanagh has found a way inside. Should the magistrate ask, we’ll say we were concerned for Bradley’s life.” He jerked his head towards the servants’ entrance. “Come. You wanted an opportunity to snoop around.”

  Lawrence followed his friends into the house. Sharp slivers of glass from the broken pane in the door crunched beneath his feet. Still, no one came running to investigate the commotion.

  The starkness of white sheets draped over the furniture in the drawing room was so opposed to his memory of the morbid decoration in the study.

  The study was the only locked room in the house. One angry and disgruntled kick put paid to that problem. Inside, there wasn’t a white cover in sight. Everything was as it was the day they’d sat in the dusty room and received a frosty reception.

  Coldness seeped into Lawrence’s bones.

  It had nothing to do with his recollection of that day but stemmed from the sickening sensation that accompanied his sudden thought. Bradley and Layton were missing. And like a feckless fool, he had allowed Verity to return to the hotel, alone.

  “The man’s copy of Vathek might prove enlightening.” Wycliff handed him the book where leaves of folded paper separated certain pages.

  The urge to study the markings we
re not as great as the urge to race to Jaunay’s and assure himself all was well. “We’ll take it with us as evidence.”

  Wycliff frowned. “We’re leaving so soon?”

  A cavernous hole opened in Lawrence’s chest, and his next words hung heavily on his tongue. “I have a strange suspicion our quarry is three steps ahead in the game.” By God, he hoped he was wrong. The devil enjoyed causing him misery. “In wasting time here, I suspect I’ve made a grave mistake.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Verity fidgeted in the carriage seat. She sat forward, staring at the passing buildings, though her mind was already inventing a scene where she raced into Jaunay’s to find Lawrence waiting patiently. Anxiety drew other images, too, and she had to shake away the vision of a bloated body floating face down in the Thames.

  At first, the magistrate had found her story incredulous. Even when she showed him the threats in the book left at the hotel this morning, he looked at her as if she should be locked in an institution, not left to roam free and cause mayhem. But then she explained about the mark of the Brethren and his attitude changed.

  From what she could decipher based on the gentleman’s conversation with his senior constable, Mr Wincote was the sixth man bearing the mark to suffer an untimely death. Joseph Bradley was the first—though she heard the magistrate question whether he had died in a duel. Four were recorded as accidents, including those from outside the borough. The purple bruises on Mr Wincote’s neck meant this one was most definitely murder.

  Sleeth had ferried her to the offices in Queen Square where she had given her statement—a story that began with a demand for funds six months ago. She’d given the names of those who might verify their tale—the Wycliffs, Mrs Crandall, Dr Redman, to name a few. Satisfied, the magistrate requested that she remain at Jaunay’s while his constables pursued the obvious suspect—Mr Layton.

  One would think she should feel relief having recounted her tale. But no. Only when wrapped in Lawrence’s warm embrace would she breathe easier again. Indeed, her heart raced at the first glimpse of the hotel’s facade.

  Impatience saw her open the carriage door as the vehicle rolled to a stop. She threw her satchel onto the seat and jumped to the pavement before Sleeth could climb down from his box and lower the steps.

  “Wait here, Sleeth. I shall be but a moment.”

  Verity entered the hotel and hurried up to the first floor. She rapped on the door of room eight and waited. A sickening emptiness took hold when no one answered. Irrational thoughts played havoc with her mind. What if Mr Cavanagh and Mr Wycliff were unavailable and Lawrence had gone to see Mr Layton alone?

  “Mr Trent.” She hammered again for good measure. “Mr Trent.”

  Did he say he would visit Queen Square before returning to Jaunay’s? She could not recall.

  The click of a key turning in the lock sent her stomach somersaulting. A door opened, but not that of number eight.

  “Miss Vale? Is everything all right?” Miss Trimble stepped out of room ten. She wore a simple yet elegant day dress in cobalt blue. “I heard a commotion. Would you care to come inside?”

  Verity shook her head and tried to calm her breathing. “Forgive the disturbance. I arranged to meet Mr Trent. I’m sure he’ll be here soon.”

  The lady frowned at the mere mention of Mr Trent’s name. “Men of a certain character can be unreliable. Trust me. I have met more than my share of scoundrels. Won’t you come in and I can send for tea?”

  “As I explained last night. Mr Trent is an honourable gentleman.” Verity’s sharp reply took Miss Trimble by surprise. “There is no need for concern.”

  “Then why is he not here at the appointed time?”

  The comment roused another bout of panic. Perhaps she should send Sleeth to check the offices in Queen Square. “He has simply been delayed. Please accept my apology for troubling you.”

  Verity did not wait for a reply but hurried downstairs to blurt instructions to Sleeth.

  “You’re to go to Queen Square and see if you can locate Mr Trent.” She gasped a breath. “Failing that, visit Mr Cavanagh and Mr Wycliff and verify if both men accompanied him on his visit to Mr Layton.”

  “But Mr Trent wouldn’t—”

  “Don’t argue, Sleeth. Your master’s life may depend upon it.” She thrust out her arm and stabbed her finger at the opposite side of the square. “Go, before I climb up there and command the reins myself.”

  Love made one slightly insane, she decided, as the disgruntled coachman flicked the reins and set out on his journey. She stood on the pavement and watched the carriage circle the square before disappearing right into Bear Street.

  Taking a moment to gather her composure, Verity glanced up at the hotel’s facade to find Miss Trimble peering out of the window. Upon being caught snooping, the lady beckoned Verity upstairs. Perhaps she should take tea with Miss Trimble. Persuade her as to the merits of Mr Trent’s character. Explain about the investigation. After all, it would soon become public knowledge, and she had to do something to settle her heart while she waited.

  It was then that another carriage stopped outside the hotel. If the occupants hoped for a room, they had better look elsewhere. Mr Trent had advised the hotel that he would take every one that became available.

  “Mrs Beckford.” The sound of her fictitious name captured her attention. She turned to see that the occupant of the vehicle had pulled down the window. “Mrs Beckford,” the gentleman repeated. “May I speak to you for a moment?”

  Mr Layton?

  Her vision blurred momentarily, but she blinked and noted it was Mr Bradley hunched in the seat, not the Brethren blackguard.

  Relief coursed through her.

  She stepped forward. “Mr Bradley. Good day, sir. What brings you to Jaunay’s?”

  The gentleman inclined his already lolling head. “I called at Mr Trent’s house in Manchester Square and was told I might find him here. I thought it my duty to mention something I discovered when reading through my brother’s papers.”

  Excellent. Perhaps he had found the evidence they needed.

  “Might you call later, sir? Mr Trent is out at present.” The urge to press the man for information burned hot in her veins. “Or perhaps I can relay a message upon his return.”

  Mr Bradley paused. “I believe Mr Layton is a man with devilish intentions, madam. As my brother’s trusted friend, I have every reason to believe he betrayed him.”

  She could not argue with his assessment. “Sir, the man makes a habit of it. I suspect he betrayed his good friend Mr Wincote, too.”

  Mr Bradley shuffled in his seat, winced as if in some discomfort. He drew a handkerchief from his coat pocket and mopped the sheen from his brow. “Forgive me. Carriage travel often proves painful for a man with my condition.”

  Pity filled her chest. “Would you care to come inside and take tea, sir?” Perhaps Miss Trimble might like to join them, and they could talk about books. “I’m assured Mr Trent will return soon.”

  He shook his head. “I have business out of town that cannot wait. Have Mr Trent call upon me next week, and I shall show him the documents then.” He held up a pile of bound letters, tatty around the edges. “I’d leave them for his attention but would rather explain the events surrounding my brother’s murder.”

  The last word sent her heart racing.

  The magistrate would need evidence if he hoped to convict Mr Layton.

  She was about to suggest he might trust her with the information, suggest she climb into his conveyance, but then Mr Bradley smiled, and it struck her as odd.

  On first impressions, she’d found the man aloof, condescending in manner, indifferent to anything other than his books. Now, his affable tone and obvious interest in their investigation rang false.

  Perhaps he’d had time to reflect on the matter, but he confirmed her suspicions when he said, “Unless you think you have the means to follow logical thinking. In which case, I can point out the relevant passages t
o you, Mrs Beckford. If you’d care to step inside.”

  A woman with a need to prove her worth might relish the prospect of learning his secrets. A woman with a need to feel equal to a man might let flattery overcome common sense.

  “Do you refer to the letters in your possession or the copy of Vathek left on your desk?” she said to test a theory. “You’d marked certain pages, though if it was sent to your brother two years ago, one wonders why it still holds your interest.”

  A darkness passed over the man’s features. “As a scholar of human weakness, I find the reasons for the character’s deplorable actions fascinating.”

  “I know a few pertinent lines but am ignorant of the tale.”

  “It explores how a man’s pathetic quest for power and pleasure brings about his downfall.” His gaze hardened, and his top lip curled into a sneer. “As a woman who shares the author’s surname, your lack of knowledge surprises me.”

  The hint of mockery in his voice roused her ire. “I think we both know my name is not Mrs Beckford.”

  As he shuffled to the edge of his seat, his hunched figure took on a sinister air. “Yes, Miss Vale, of that I am aware.”

  She pasted a false smile, tried to hold Mr Bradley’s impenetrable gaze, though every bone in her body urged her to run. “And how would you know that, sir, if you were not at the heart of this unfathomable mess?”

  It took him a few seconds to reply. “I love those who can smile in trouble, who gather strength from distress, grow brave by reflection.” A wry smile touched his lips. “They’re the words of Thomas Paine though I echo the sentiment.”

  Verity raised her chin. “I did not, for one moment, suspect they were your words. How can a man so devious rouse thoughts that touch on love?”

  His eyes flashed hot, and he firmed his jaw. “Were I not plagued by this disfigurement, I might have shown you love, Miss Vale. I would have held your cousin accountable for the debt, and breached your maidenhead where Wincote failed.”