The Mark of a Rogue: Scandalous Sons - Book 2

by Clee, Adele

  Lawrence arched a brow. “Are you certain it was Miss Trimble who captured their attention?”

  “Undoubtedly. Miss Trimble oozes a confidence that is highly infectious. She is proficient in five languages and extremely well-travelled.”

  “And why is she staying at Jaunay’s?” Was she there to meet her French lover?

  “I have no notion. I did not ask for fear of revealing my reasons for venturing to town. But she is generous to a fault and insisted on paying for my meal.”

  Suspicion flared.

  Swindlers looked for opportunities to lure the unsuspecting into their traps. After he had secured rooms at Jaunay’s, he would be interested in meeting Miss Trimble. “Miss Trimble is a lady of means?”

  “While she possesses an air of finery, she mentioned having educated the children of many wealthy households.”

  Before Lawrence could give the matter further thought, his carriage turned into Leicester Square and made its way around to Jaunay’s Hotel.

  “May I ask which room you’re staying in, Miss Vale?”

  “Which room?” The lady appeared a little flustered. Was it because he intended to take possession of the room next door to her suite? “So, you did not speak in jest? You intend to rent a room?”

  “Yes, Miss Vale.” Lawrence pasted an arrogant grin. “I intend to rent all available rooms.”

  “I have acquired room nine for the duration of my stay.”

  “Excellent. Let us hope rooms eight and ten are still available.”

  The lady raised her chin, but the quiver of her bottom lip belied her calm exterior. “Permit me to enter the establishment and take to my room. Wait ten minutes before entering and enquiring about any vacancies.”

  But then how would he know she’d reached her room safely?

  “I shall enter Jaunay’s and acquire a room. Sleeth will drive you around the square and escort you to the door of the premises in fifteen minutes. By which time you will find me lingering in the lobby. Do not approach me or make eye contact, but upon seeing you enter, I shall make my way upstairs.”

  Miss Vale gave a curt nod of compliance, but then a frown appeared on her brow. “Do you intend to make use of a room, or is this to be a rather expensive charade?”

  “This is no charade, Miss Vale.” The lady was young, beautiful, wealthy. How the hell could he go home to his bed knowing she was in a hotel alone? “I intend to remain as close to you as my conscience will allow.”

  Chapter Seven

  Mr Isaac Bradley’s elegant townhouse on South Audley Street was an exquisite example of Palladian architecture. The exuberant stucco work on the building’s facade created an air of majesty that left Verity doubting whether they would receive an invitation to step beyond the threshold.

  With a gentle hand on her back, Mr Trent guided her to the front door. “Now, remember you are Mrs Beckford. A widow who lost her husband to a fever a year ago.”

  Verity had taken the surname of Vathek’s author. After spending a few sleepless nights considering Sebastian’s markings in the book, she was unlikely to forget it.

  “And what is my relationship to you, Mr Trent?” People would be curious. And while most would only ponder the thought, a few forthright individuals might be more direct. “Lord knows, we would not want people to assume I am your mistress.”

  Mr Trent cast her a sidelong glance and arched a brow. “Where possible, we will tell the truth. And the truth is that we are friends brought together by the tragic loss of close family members.”

  Friends.

  Friends were people who shared an affection. Did Mr Trent look upon her as a sister, then? Someone in need of care and guidance? He had certainly struggled to hide his concerned gaze when she took breakfast with Miss Trimble this morning. She’d felt his piercing stare from across the far side of the dining room. Might he look upon her as a companion with shared interests? Or did he feel the same spark of attraction, a fondness that could easily develop into something more profound?

  “On the subject of family members, may I express my deepest sympathies on the death of Mr Farrow?” It occurred to her that during their lengthy conversations, she had not offered her condolences. “To lose one’s only brother must be painful indeed.”

  Mr Trent raised the lion-head knocker and let it fall against the brass plate. “Regretful rather than painful. I learned a long time ago that if one is to survive in this world, it is better to detach from maudlin sentimentality.”

  “Emotion is not exclusive. If one does not feel pain, Mr Trent, how might one feel joy?”

  While she had witnessed him smile, the action carried a certain aloofness. Did he ever laugh? Laugh deep and hearty? Did he ever sigh with pleasure, sigh with the pure bliss that came from simply being alive?

  The gentleman did not have a chance to answer. Mr Bradley’s butler opened the door no more than a hand’s width and peered at them through suspicious eyes. After a brief conversation where Mr Trent admitted to not having an appointment, he thrust a calling card into the butler’s hand and instructed him to present it to his master.

  The butler seemed almost relieved to shut the door, and they were forced to wait beneath the portico in the hope he would return promptly.

  Verity glanced up at Mr Trent. “Judging from the butler’s odd manner, I doubt Mr Bradley receives many callers. His bottom lip trembled when you handed him the calling card.”

  “That’s because I wrote the word brethren on the bottom.” Mr Trent straightened upon hearing the clip of shoes echoing in the hall beyond the black door. “It occurred to me last night that it might be our only hope of gaining entrance.”

  Last night he had taken residency in room eight—Miss Trimble had moved to room ten—though he had the choice of sleeping in any one of the five rooms he had rented for the week. Of course, during moments of fancy, Verity imagined nothing but a thin wall separating their beds, separating her body and his. The thought of Mr Trent stripping off his clothes left her restless. Visions of his muscular physique had invaded her mind, making it impossible to sleep.

  “Well, we will know soon enough,” she said just before the butler opened the door wide and bid them entrance.

  With slow, trudging steps, the butler escorted them through the impressive hall with a black-and-white marble floor and walls decorated with Ionic pilasters. The chandelier hanging over the wide staircase was larger than any Verity had seen in the grand homes outside of town.

  A sudden flutter of nerves made her draw in a deep breath.

  As a man acutely aware of his surroundings, and the silent language often used by those experiencing mild distress, Mr Trent placed a reassuring hand on her back and whispered, “Follow my lead.”

  His commanding presence and persuasive voice set her at ease. Those who believed that illegitimate sons were lesser beings had clearly never met this gentleman. Indeed, she was rather grateful for the steady hand guiding her into the morbid room at the end of the hall.

  The library was a dark, drab place. Ugly forest-green wallpaper covered the walls behind bookcases so overladen with books the oak shelves bowed. There were books balanced on cluttered tables, books stacked in piles on the floor. There were so many old books that dust choked her throat, left her reluctant to draw breath.

  Giving the butler their names, the servant announced them to the hunched figure bent over the desk on the far side of the room.

  “Thank you, Crailey.” Mr Bradley made no mention of refreshments as he watched his butler leave the room and close the door. He turned his nervous eyes on them and gestured to the chairs positioned randomly about the place. “Won’t you sit?”

  Mr Bradley did not move to greet them, did not call for a footman to move the chairs closer to the desk.

  With some reluctance, Verity sat in a chair flanked on both sides by turrets of books—a veritable fortress to the written word. Mr Trent occupied the chair closest to the desk. No one spoke as Mr Bradley continued to read from the open vo
lume laid out before him.

  Some people treated books like prized possessions and refused to read them for fear of marking the pages. To some people, books were as important as their daily meal, and they devoured them with a voracious appetite, yet still hungered for more. Mr Bradley belonged to the latter.

  “Having witnessed the note on your calling card, Mr Trent, I presume you’re here because you believe I have some knowledge of the Brethren.” His voice held a cautious tone, though he did not tear his gaze away from his work. “Having arrived with a female companion, I know you’re not here to offer membership.”

  Just hearing him mention the elusive club sent Verity’s heart racing.

  “I conceive we have something in common, Mr Bradley.” Mr Trent’s penetrating stare did not leave the fellow. “My brother bore the Brethren’s mark, as did yours.”

  Verity was about to mention Sebastian but remembered she was no longer Verity Vale but the widow Mrs Beckford.

  “Both men are dead,” Mr Trent continued in a harsh tone that should have made Mr Bradley jump and take notice. But he did not even flinch. “Both men died mysteriously.”

  “There is nothing perplexing about being shot in a duel, though I cannot pass judgement on the way your brother met his end.”

  Verity observed the gentleman still bowing over his book. Did his detached manner stem from a dislike of visitors? Was his lack of good manners a hint for them to leave?

  “My brother drowned, yet he was a remarkably strong swimmer.”

  Mr Bradley raised his head a fraction. “Drunk men can scarce walk straight. Those addicted to laudanum suffer from weak limbs.”

  “What if I told you that other men bearing the mark met their ends suddenly?” Mr Trent pressed on with his argument. “That I have written proof all is not as it seems with the Brethren?”

  A handful of underlined words were not proof per se, but the comment dragged Mr Bradley’s attention away from his book.

  “Then I would say you should not repeat that information beyond these walls.” The man’s dark eyes flitted nervously towards the door. “Demons lurk amongst us, Mr Trent, or so my brother believed.”

  It took immense effort for Verity to suppress a gasp. Mr Bradley had used the exact phrase Sebastian had written in the book. Although one could not mistake the tremble in Mr Bradley’s voice as he uttered the words of warning.

  “That is a saying often used by members of the Brethren,” Verity said from the far corner of the room. Mr Trent was a mere ten feet away, yet the distance seemed cavernous. “Might I ask when your brother conveyed these dark suspicions?”

  Mr Bradley failed to make eye contact when he said, “While I am aware of Mr Trent’s lineage, I do not know your name, Mrs Beckford. Your husband was—?”

  “Alive, sir, and now he is dead.” Verity raised her chin. “Mr Trent and I have built a friendship based on the fact we have both lost loved ones who bore the mark of the Brethren.” Fearing the gentleman might press her for more information, Verity sniffed and blinked as if the mere thought of the tragedy was too much to bear.

  “Did you know your brother had a mark branded on his chest?” Mr Trent’s question captured Mr Bradley’s interest. “Did he ever mention other members of this sect?”

  Mr Bradley whirled away from his desk. It was then she noticed that the man was not bent over the book so he might read the text more clearly, but because he had a permanent stoop.

  Verity tried not to stare.

  “I only knew of the mark when the coroner asked that I identify his body. But Joseph mentioned the Brethren in the days before his death.”

  “And you do not know how he came to be a member of this club?” Verity asked.

  The gentleman stared absently at the oppressive wallpaper before releasing a weary sigh. “Joseph ran with a wild crowd. Men who lack principles. Powerful men who do not deserve the name with which they were born.”

  Mr Trent sat forward. “Do you know the names of these men?”

  Mr Bradley waved his hand casually in the air. “Knowledge is power, Mr Trent, do not let anyone tell you otherwise. But a loose tongue can bring the devil’s wrath down on anyone’s head. I prefer to keep to my books and leave the wicked to bring about their own downfall.”

  “If we all adopted such an attitude,” Mr Trent began in an unforgiving tone, “the immoral and insane would rule the world. You may not seek vengeance for your kin, but I will have justice for mine.”

  Mr Bradley’s head bobbed. The poor man’s neck took the strain where his spine lacked the strength. Pity hung like a dead weight in Verity’s chest. Was it pride that prevented him from sitting down and easing his obvious discomfort? He was a reasonably handsome man. Were it not for his disability and his obsession with books, Mr Bradley might have a host of female admirers vying for his attention.

  “Let me give you the names of the men I wish to question,” Mr Trent continued, having no fear as to the repercussions should the men learn they had made the list of suspects. “Duffen. Wincote. Sellwood. Layton.”

  Mr Bradley took a moment to absorb the information before snorting. “All of those men have the capability to commit crimes. As the good Lord says, all of those men shall one day reap what they sow, but it shall not be by my hand.”

  “Then let it be by mine.”

  Perhaps Mr Trent enjoyed the power that came from winning a fight. He certainly seemed keen to draw his sword and charge into battle.

  “I’m sure you’re capable of defending your position if called to a dawn appointment for slander, Mr Trent.” Mr Bradley’s gaze flitted back to his book. Was it shame for his misgivings that stopped him from making eye contact? “One with my affliction cannot possibly aim straight.”

  Mr Bradley seemed intent on keeping his lips sealed. But Verity would learn something useful from this meeting.

  “Sir, did your brother share a friendship with any of the men mentioned?” Verity came to her feet and crossed the room to stand before the hunched gentleman. He appeared less fragile up close. Indeed, disdain for the world, not a lack of self-assurance, flashed briefly in his eyes. “As a man of logic, can you not advise us as to the best place to start an investigation?”

  The gentleman’s stare brought a lump to Verity’s throat. The need to breathe easier left her inhaling a few deep, dusty breaths. She turned her head and coughed.

  “You spin me a tale of murder and then ask me to sign your death warrant.” Mr Bradley turned away and resumed his study of the open volume on the desk. “Vengeance is for fools. But you are determined to bring the devil to your door, and so I shall tell you that Joseph kept company with Lord Layton’s son.”

  Verity’s gaze shot to Mr Trent, whose arresting green eyes gave nothing away. Was he not pleased with this snippet of information?

  “John Layton?” Mr Trent attempted to confirm.

  Mr Bradley picked up his magnifying glass and bent over the page. “Good day, Mr Trent. Mrs Beckford. May God bless you in your endeavour.” With one ring of the brass handbell on the desk, the door to the library swung open, and the butler appeared to escort them to the door.

  Mr Trent remained silent as they stepped out onto South Audley Street. He captured Verity’s hand as if he had every right to do so and placed it in the crook of his arm. There was something protective about the action. So much so, she couldn’t help but glance nervously over her shoulder and scour the quiet street.

  “Well, was that not the strangest man you have ever met?” Verity said as Mr Trent opened the carriage door and dropped the steps to assist her ascent.

  Mr Trent failed to reply. He instructed Sleeth that he wished to make a call in Bruton Street before returning to Jaunay’s Hotel. As he dropped into the seat, the carriage rocked on its axis. When he slammed the door shut, she noticed the muscles in his shoulders bulged with tension.

  “Are you going to tell me what dark thoughts occupy your mind?” Something troubled him. “Mr Layton is a known scoundrel, is
he not?”

  “John Layton has ruined many an innocent maiden,” he replied in his usual candid manner. “Every muscle in my body tells me he is the one who attacked you that night.”

  Why did he have to mention muscles in his body?

  Verity shook her head, trying to focus on the conversation. This mild obsession she had for the man reared at the most inopportune moments. “We would be wise not to jump to conclusions. Mr Bradley knew far more about his brother’s death than he was willing to impart.”

  “Agreed.” Mr Trent removed his hat and placed it on the seat. He drew his hand through his mop of dark hair, distracting her mind once again. “Did he seem nervous to you? I cannot decide whether it pains him to sit down or whether he believed standing gave him an advantage.”

  “Maybe he suffers from embarrassment rather than nerves.” Why else would he focus on his work and not give them his undivided attention? “I am surprised he agreed to speak to us.”

  “Had I gone alone, Bradley would have refused to see me for fear I might be one of the Brethren.”

  Verity smiled. “So, you admit I am of some use to you in this investigation.”

  “I admit that you continue to surprise me.” The gentleman’s languid gaze caressed her face and body. “Let us pray you do not become a dangerous distraction.”

  Silence descended yet an excitable energy filled every inch of the confined space.

  Mr Trent bowed his head and muttered something incoherent before inhaling deeply when their eyes locked once again. “Did you happen to notice the books on Mr Bradley’s desk? Well, one specific book?”

  “No.” She had been more engrossed in the man’s stoop. “The man has more books than a circulating library.”

  “He had a copy of Vathek on his desk. From the paper slipped between the pages, some parts of the text are important to him.”

  “How observant of you.” To say she was impressed was an understatement.

  “When a man has lived amongst liars, he learns to look elsewhere for clues.”