The Mark of a Rogue: Scandalous Sons - Book 2

by Clee, Adele

  Verity doubted the man would ever see the money. Unlike Mr Trent, the rogue lacked integrity.

  “When he climbed into the hackney,” Woods continued, “the driver turned in the street and headed towards Holborn.”

  “Holborn?” Mr Trent repeated almost to himself. “I was under the impression he had a house in Brunswick Square. No doubt he has business—”

  The rattle of the door handle made them all whip their heads around.

  “Just some eager couple looking for a room,” Mr Cavanagh said, offering a wink.

  The caller turned the handle numerous times before banging on the door. “Who’s in there?” Mrs Crandall’s annoyed screech was unmistakable. “Open the door. There are rooms upstairs provided for your use.”

  “Lord have mercy,” Woods muttered as he shuffled left and right but did not really know what to do. The fellow looked terrified. He pressed his hands together in prayer and delivered a muttered plea to the ceiling. “She’ll punish me for weeks.”

  “The window,” Verity whispered. “Raise the sash and slip outside.”

  Woods needed no further inducement. He raced to the window and parted the curtains, then waited for his mistress to bang on the door again before lifting the sash and climbing out onto the street.

  “You next, Miss Vale.” Mr Trent guided her towards the window.

  “Why don’t we open the door, say we sought a little privacy? It’s better than sneaking about like a thief in the night.”

  “I shall not ask again,” Mrs Crandall shouted. “Open this door. Woods! Woods! Where the devil has the man gone? Woods? Are you in there?”

  “I’d rather not have Woods incur Mrs Crandall’s wrath,” Verity added. “The poor man is already suffering from frayed nerves.”

  Mr Trent arched a brow. “If I open that door, she will expect to find us in a clinch.”

  Excitement fluttered in her chest. “You only need to hold me, Mr Trent.”

  “And what is my role?” Mr Cavanagh snorted. “Ogling degenerate?”

  “Bored bystander. Pour a glass of brandy and lounge in the chair.” Mr Trent closed the sash, and then shouted, “Just a moment.” When he glanced at Verity, his gaze carried the same heated look she had seen numerous times since their meeting in the graveyard. “How do you want to play this, Miss Vale?”

  “One of us has to open the door, so there’s no hope of Mrs Crandall finding us together.” Disappointment flooded her chest. Being held in such a strong embrace would soothe any lady’s woes. “Unless Mr Cavanagh will oblige.”

  Mr Trent’s bewitching eyes held her rooted to the spot. “Get the door, Cavanagh.”

  “Who am I, the errand boy?” Mr Cavanagh marched over to the door while Mr Trent slipped his arm around Verity’s waist and pulled her to his chest. He raised a hand to her cheek, stroked back and forth in a gentle caress. “This should suffice, though a man might be tempted to do more than hold you close.”

  “But your conscience prevents you.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Then perhaps you should replace your mask. At a masquerade, people are free to take liberties.” Did she not sound like a wicked wanton? But the warmth of his body and the scent of his cologne—cedarwood and musk and something utterly divine—played havoc with her senses.

  Mr Trent lowered his head, his hot breath at her ear casting the chaos in the room into insignificance. “When I kiss you, Miss Vale, I shall have no need to hide behind a mask.”

  Chapter Eleven

  It took effort to drag his gaze away from Miss Vale and answer Mrs Crandall’s complaint. “You never mentioned this room was out of bounds tonight.”

  Mrs Crandall pursed her lips and scowled. “Do not say you wish to participate in the game, Trent, and then slink from the drawing room once I turn my back.”

  Lord, he’d grown weary of pandering to this woman’s whims. “I did not slink from the room, but merely grew tired of waiting.”

  Despite being one of society’s misfits, he did not belong in this iniquitous den. Had he been born on the right side of the blanket, he would have been heir to a viscountcy. Devoted his life to the good of the community. Married a lady like Miss Vale. Sired strong sons with the same philosophy. Instead, he had found a home amongst the degenerates who accepted him, even though he knew there were flaws in his logic.

  “Tired?” Mrs Crandall seemed confused. “Tired?” She snorted. “If you cannot find amusement here, then it must be you who is lacking.”

  “Perhaps I am too old for wild orgies and drunken debauchery.” Indeed, he had always suffered from bouts of apathy in that regard.

  Mrs Crandall frowned and shook her head. She turned to Cavanagh. “How on earth do you keep company with one so morbid?” With a look as fiery as her red hair, her gaze flicked to Miss Vale. “And you, Mrs Beckford? Tell me. He must be a frightful bore in bed.”

  Any hope of her gaining Miss Vale’s support proved fruitless. Lawrence knew the lady would defend him.

  “On the contrary.” Miss Vale met his gaze, feigned the coy smile of a woman who had experienced the dizzying heights of pleasure. “Why else would I have sought a means to have him all to myself?”

  “Hardly to yourself.” The madam did a chassé towards Cavanagh and gripped his arm. “I know you’re the very best of friends, but if you mean to share, four is a much more satisfying number.”

  Hellfire!

  Were there no limits to this woman’s depravity?

  “Not when I’m as selfish as I am morbid.” Lawrence had every intention of escorting Miss Vale back to the hotel, and then he would hunt for that wretch Wincote. “And we have a prior engagement we cannot cancel.”

  The woman’s eager smile faded. She tugged on Cavanagh’s arm. “Then it will just have to be the two of us.”

  “I’m afraid I must leave, too.” Cavanagh yanked his arm free and stepped away.

  “I see.” Mrs Crandall lifted her chin. “It’s rather rude to abandon a party. Next time, I shall have to be more selective when drawing up the guest list.”

  Despite Mrs Crandall’s numerous threats to entice them to stay, they escaped the study and were soon back in the carriage heading to Jaunay’s Hotel. Desire threatened to overrule logic, but Lawrence fought the urge to deliver Cavanagh to his house in Jermyn Street in order to spend time alone in a closed carriage with Miss Vale.

  The yearning—the guttural pull—was becoming increasingly hard to manage. Particularly when seated opposite and her luscious breasts jiggled whenever the carriage drove over a rut in the road.

  “So, it’s fair to assume Wincote is a member of the Brethren,” Cavanagh said. “He named you the victim and pinned the card to your chest as a warning.”

  “A warning not to pry.” Lawrence cast his friend a sidelong glance. With Cavanagh’s hungry eyes trained on Miss Vale’s impressive cleavage, he silently berated his mistake in letting the lady sit opposite.

  Miss Vale released an anxious sigh. “Did I not say that everyone who gets involved with these men ends up dead in the Thames?”

  “Have no fear. It would take the strength of ten men to hold me face down in the water.”

  “You’re not invincible.” Miss Vale’s expression remained downcast. “A strong punch is no match against evil cunning.” She huffed. “And so you admit, that in all likelihood, the Brethren murdered both our relatives?”

  “I admit I have some suspicions regarding the nature of their deaths.” But what reason would the Brethren have for killing members of their own club?

  Atrocious murderer!

  The underlined words in Vathek rang in Lawrence’s ears.

  Had Vale and Farrow done the unthinkable? Had they taken another man’s life and so received their just deserts?

  Betrayed!

  Had they betrayed the Brethren?

  He should visit his father’s estate in Walton-on-Thames and search the library for a copy of Vathek. Knowing Charles, he would have scoffed at the threat and us
ed the damn book as kindling. But Lawrence did not care to come within a hundred feet of Lord Ranfield. His father would hurl the same tirade of abuse, bemoan the unfairness of losing his legitimate son and being left with the useless bastard. Lawrence would remind him he should have kept his cock in his drawers and saved them both a lifetime of misery.

  No. He would rather press Mr Bradley to reveal what secrets lay in his brother’s copy.

  And then there was the nagging question of money.

  What reason might a man have for demanding extortionate amounts from his kin? To pay gambling debts. A ransom demand. A blackmailer.

  “Layton must be Wincote’s accomplice.” Cavanagh’s voice drew Lawrence from his reverie.

  “Mr Layton kept company with Mr Bradley’s brother, who was also a member of this wicked club,” Miss Vale added. “From their strange actions this evening, it is clear both men have something to hide.”

  “Clearly, they want to prevent people from discovering more about the club. It cannot have anything to do with the deaths of Vale and Farrow.” Cavanagh had omitted that part of the tale during their meeting with Mrs Crandall. “Mrs Crandall knew only that this was a case of jealousy and spurned love. That a member of the Brethren sent me a threatening note.”

  Miss Vale’s curious hum drew his attention to her bow-shaped lips. “They’re shrewd men. They might assume that you saw the mark on your brother’s chest, that you found death by drowning implausible and so are conducting your own investigation. Mrs Crandall confirmed you knew the name of their silly group.” Miss Vale fiddled with her mask. “Might I remove this now?”

  “No!” Lawrence snapped. Her sound logic faltered when it came to her safety. “And I think you should always wear a disguise when venturing out with me.”

  “A disguise?” Miss Vale’s nose wrinkled. “You mean don a wig and spectacles?”

  “Anything that might prevent Wincote from discovering your identity.”

  Silence descended.

  Was it too late?

  Was Wincote the masked rogue? Did he have spies watching their every move? Did he already know that Miss Verity Vale had caught the coach from Shepperton to town?

  To banish the pang of trepidation, Lawrence stared at the passing buildings, at those unfortunate souls nestled in doorways. Along Drury Lane, motherless urchins begged the theatregoers to throw them a halfpenny. Life dealt some a losing hand. In contrast, his hardships paled into insignificance.

  It was while mentally shaking himself from this meditative mood that he noticed a man in an Elizabethan costume alight from a hackney on Drury Lane, near the entrance to White Hart Yard.

  Layton.

  Lawrence shuffled forward and pressed his nose to the glass as his carriage drove past and a man dressed in black vaulted to the pavement, too.

  Wincote.

  Anger swirled in his chest like a sinister mist. A black vortex that might suck a man into its dark depths and choke away his sanity. Evidently, the night was still young, and neither man had any intention of returning home. But what devilish deeds had led them to this part of town?

  There was only one way to find out.

  Lawrence hammered on the roof, much to the other occupants’ surprise.

  “Is something wrong?” Miss Vale gripped the seat as the carriage jolted to a halt.

  Lawrence lowered the window, eager to keep his quarry in his sights. Both men stood on the corner of White Hart Yard, deep in conversation. Wincote laughed and patted his friend on the back and then they parted. Layton continued along the street while Wincote headed into the yard.

  “It seems our villainous friends have business in Covent Garden.”

  “You’ve seen Mr Wincote?” Miss Vale swallowed deeply.

  “He’s entered the yard, and Layton has continued on alone.” The need to stalk one of the men forced him to open the carriage door and vault to the pavement. “Wait here.” He fixed his gaze on Cavanagh. “If I fail to return in twenty minutes, take Miss Vale to Bruton Street.”

  “Wait!” Miss Vale shot forward and grabbed his sleeve. “What do you intend to do?”

  “Follow him, of course.”

  “You’re not going alone.”

  “I could knock Wincote to the floor with a flick of my finger.”

  “And what if he has a weapon? Can you dodge a lead ball shot out of the dark?”

  Only a matter of weeks ago, someone had shot Damian Wycliff in the arm at Vauxhall. If a man like Wycliff could be caught unawares, then the lady had a point.

  “No doubt you have a weapon, Miss Vale.”

  She nodded. “My crook.”

  “How am I to move stealthily through the streets carrying a crook decorated with bows and ribbons?” Lawrence looked left. He still had Layton in his sights. But if he didn’t hurry, he would lose Wincote.

  “I have a sheathed blade strapped to my thigh.” Miss Vale blushed when Cavanagh stared with admiration at her frilly pantaloons. “After the attack in the bedchamber, I never leave home without some form of protection.”

  Lawrence might have cast his friend a baleful glare had he not noticed Layton disappearing into the distance. Panic ensued. The time for talking was at an end. “Forget the weapon. Wait here.”

  Miss Vale was out of her seat before he had taken a step. “I’m coming, too.”

  “Dressed as a shepherdess?” He was wasting time. There might not be a better opportunity to stalk these men. “You’ll draw too much attention.”

  “I’ll wear your coat.”

  Tired of his mind being a chaotic swirl of indecision, he cursed beneath his breath. He clutched Miss Vale by her trim waist and lowered her to the ground. With an impatient sigh, he shrugged out of his coat and draped it around her shoulders, helped her thrust her arms into the sleeves.

  “Cavanagh, take the carriage and follow Layton. In all likelihood, he’s turned into the Strand. Wait for us there.”

  Lawrence did not wait for Cavanagh’s reply. He slammed the carriage door, grabbed Miss Vale’s hand and led her into the dark alley known as White Hart Yard.

  “Under no circumstances must you remove your mask.” His heart thumped so hard he could barely catch his breath. “You will remain by my side the entire time.”

  “While such brusque commands would ordinarily trigger a need to run,” she said, breaking into a jog to keep his fast pace. “I shall abide by your request.”

  “You want an adventure, Miss Vale. I can guarantee you will get one.”

  Hell, this woman drove him to distraction. She tore down his defensive barriers, left a crippling sense of vulnerability he fought hard to suppress.

  “The thrum of excitement is addictive,” she said, puffing beside him. “I don’t think I have ever felt so alive.”

  “Not even when praying over my brother’s grave at midnight?”

  “No, not even then.”

  “When one lives recklessly, Miss Vale, one must be prepared for the consequences.” The need to protect her and ravish her waged an internal war. He should have his mind fixed on catching Wincote not looking for ways to please this woman.

  “A life spent wasting away over one’s needlework is hardly a life at all,” she countered. “The satisfaction that comes with righting a wrong must surely be worth the risk.”

  “And some wrongs can never be rectified. One must learn to live with the injustice.”

  “As you have done.”

  “As many people have done. We all have our crosses to bear. Yours is the weakness of your sex.”

  “And yours is the illegitimacy of your birth.”

  She was wrong. He could have coped with society’s criticism had his parents loved him. “Mine is rejection, Miss Vale. I do not need the aristocracy’s approval, but I would have preferred that my parents had not cast me aside.”

  Good Lord. He had not uttered those words to another living soul. This woman was more dangerous than he’d first supposed.

  “Come, let us focus on o
ur task,” he said before she offered a sympathetic reply. “We should keep our wits when wandering the dark alleys at night.”

  Miss Vale gripped his hand firmly. “Mr Cavanagh has the easiest task, I’m sure. Here, it is impossible to see anything through the gloom.”

  That was what worried him. Vagabonds and petty thieves took shelter in the shadows. From there, they eyed their unsuspecting prey. Stalked them through the murky lanes where they were more likely to escape detection.

  Wincote might be halfway across town by now.

  They should have stayed with Cavanagh and chased Layton instead. But ever since Miss Vale mentioned Wincote having the same bearing as her masked attacker, Lawrence had been ready to rip the man’s throat out with his hands. And of course, the devil inside welcomed any opportunity to keep her close.

  He mocked those men who allowed passion to overrule logic but had never experienced the dilemma firsthand.

  Eager to reach the relative safety of the Strand, and still with no sign of the blackguard they were chasing, they turned left into Swan Yard.

  Lawrence had taken but five steps when every hair on his body sprang to attention. An icy chill ran down his back. Upon hearing muffled voices and the scuffle of boots on the cobblestones, he brought Miss Vale to a crashing halt.

  Damnation!

  With no time to lose, he pulled her into the nearest doorway, wrapped his arms around her waist and held her so close he could feel every glorious curve.

  Lord, he should berate himself for making such a reckless decision. Indeed, after this, he’d have to indulge in some form of self-flagellation.

  He hated that she had her back to the alley, but he needed a clear view of the men whose hushed conversation set his nerves on edge.

  Miss Vale glanced up at him. Hunger and fear flashed in her eyes and made for an interesting concoction. “What are we to do?” she whispered, the breeze of her hot breath on his cheek tightening the coil of desire.

  He scanned the loose brown tendrils of hair escaping her pink bonnet and caressing her neck, the milky-white breasts that rose to meet him with every rapid inhalation. Those sweet lips remained parted while she awaited his reply.