The Mark of a Rogue: Scandalous Sons - Book 2

by Clee, Adele

  “Do you not wish to touch me, Miss—?” The thought of her fingers gliding over his chest proved somewhat thrilling. “Forgive me. I do not know your name.”

  “Do you need to know my name, sir?”

  “Having paid you the courtesy of stripping and standing half-naked in the cold, I think I have earned the right.”

  She responded with a sigh, quickly followed by a curt nod. “My name is Miss Vale. Miss Verity Vale.”

  Verity Vale?

  The name meant nothing. Still, he repeated it silently, for he liked the way the sound echoed in his mind.

  “Well, do you wish to touch me, Miss Vale?” Lawrence massaged the chest muscle that held her attention. He considered capturing her hand, letting her feel the heat of a man’s body penetrate her palm. “Do you not wish to rub the skin? To ensure I have not gone to great lengths to hide the mark?” Like a skilled courtesan, he drew his hand down his chest, trailed his fingers over the muscles in his abdomen.

  The lady swallowed deeply but made a quick recovery from her bout of uneasiness. “You’re teasing me, Mr Trent.” Her bright blue gaze drifted to the deep cleft in his chin. “Had you been so devious, you would hardly confess to hiding the mark.”

  “And had I an affinity with the devil, I would not be the only one naked to the waist.”

  Her eyes sprang wide, and then she blinked rapidly. “So, we agree neither of us came here for nefarious reasons.”

  Without bothering to ask if she had seen enough, Lawrence straightened his shirt and drew the fine lawn over his head. “I simply want to know why you’re placing flowers on my brother’s grave at midnight. Do your parents know you escape the house when they’re tucked in their beds?”

  “My parents are dead, sir.” Miss Vale played valet and shook out his waistcoat before handing it to him. “And as to the matter of what I am doing here, I think you might curse upon hearing the answer.”

  Good God! Had Charles done the unthinkable? Had he ravished a woman he’d spoken to once, lied and promised marriage?

  Disappointment flared.

  Lawrence snatched his coat from her grasp, shrugged into the garment and thrust his cravat into the inside pocket. “Charles Farrow died four months ago. Surely a woman of your beauty knows one should not dwell on what might have been. As his brother, I can tell you the gentleman was averse to marriage.”

  The crystal blue gems she had for eyes sparkled with curious enquiry. “Sir, I do not know what story you have concocted in your head, but I am far from the innocent maiden looking for a match. I had no designs on marrying your brother. On the contrary, I tend Mr Farrow’s grave out of guilt. As a form of penance. And because of something my cousin wrote in a book just before his death five months ago.”

  Out of guilt?

  Lawrence straightened. His mind whirled with confusion. For some odd reason, he found her romantic disinterest in Charles pleasing. “To feel guilt, you must believe you have committed an offence against the injured party.”

  Or worse still—a heinous crime.

  She clutched her hands to her chest. “An offence committed unwittingly, sir, I can assure you. I did not act with intent or malice.”

  “What is the nature of this offence, Miss Vale?” His tone held a serious note, though he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear the answer.

  “Two men are dead, and I am to blame.” The words burst from her lips, lips that had clearly kept them at bay for far too long. She thrust out her arms as if he ought to whip out the shackles and drag her away to a waiting prison cart. “I tend the grave because I killed Mr Farrow.”

  Chapter Two

  Verity sucked in a sharp breath. The flood of emotions she’d tried hard to suppress burst from her like water from a fountain. Guilt and sorrow replaced the host of arousing thoughts she experienced after gazing upon Mr Trent’s Herculean physique.

  Relief fought for supremacy, too.

  It felt so good to tell someone. To finally say the words that made her waking hours a living nightmare. Confession enriched the soul. Isn’t that what the vicar preached in church on Sundays?

  Everyone deserved forgiveness.

  Everyone made mistakes.

  But the moment of solace Verity found in revealing her crime soon dissipated. The imposing gentleman standing before her loomed as large and as dark as the church tower. Moonlight cast eerie shadows over his face, distorting the hard, unforgiving planes. Those magnificent green eyes turned cold and glassy as she stood rigid beneath his unrelenting stare.

  “Tell me I misheard.” The rumble of Mr Trent’s deep voice made the hairs on her nape jump to attention. “Tell me you spoke out of some misguided notion of culpability.”

  Verity swallowed.

  She should have lied.

  She should have concocted a story—a tale of unrequited love.

  “I wish I could say I’m a witless female. I wish a mysterious force had captured my mind and wrought havoc with my imagination.” Tears sprang to her eyes. She wished she could eradicate the memory of that night six months ago, the night it all began. “But there is more than a grain of truth to my declaration.”

  Mr Trent’s green eyes turned predatory. “Explain how you killed Charles Farrow when he drowned. Reveal the name of this other unknown victim so I may decide whether to haul you before the magistrate.”

  The first tear trickled down her cheek. Then the floodgates opened, and she buried her head in her hands and sobbed.

  Mr Trent’s heavy sigh spoke of compassion, not frustration. Was this man the answer to her prayers? Might she confide her darkest secrets? Surely fate had brought him here. But what if he ended up floating face down in the Thames, too?

  The gentleman tapped her arm. “Here, dry your eyes and tell me what the hell happened to make you confess to murdering these men. Anyone with an ounce of intelligence can see you’re no cold-blooded killer.”

  Verity looked up, took the proffered handkerchief and dried her tears. The smell of cedarwood and musk and something utterly divine filled her head as she inhaled. With some reluctance—for the scent brought surprising comfort—she extended her hand to return the silk square.

  “Keep it,” Mr Trent snapped in irritation. “I ask you again, and hopefully for the last time, what part did you play in the death of Charles Farrow? I highly doubt a woman of your size had the strength to hold a man’s head beneath the water.”

  “Sir, I fear if I tell you, you may fall foul of these blackguards, too. Suffer a similar fate.” Indeed, this handsome, brooding fellow looked the sort who craved vengeance. He would hunt those responsible, inflict his own punishment.

  “Miss Vale, I can fend off an attack from any quarter. Do not concern yourself with my welfare, but I strongly advise you to consider your own.”

  She studied the breadth of Mr Trent’s chest. Having seen the bulging muscles in his arms—the bronzed skin stretched taut over sinew—she had no doubt he could pummel any man to a pulp.

  But these villains did not play by the rules.

  How many more men would die so tragically?

  Sucking in a deep breath for courage—and placing her faith in fate—the time had come to speak out. Her conscience could not withstand another fatality.

  “Sir, it is a rather long story.” Verity drew her cloak across her chest and rubbed her arms as a bitter wind whipped through the yard. “It is too cold to converse here. The door to the church is often open. Perhaps we might talk there.”

  “Then lead the way, Miss Vale.” He gestured to the gravel path winding towards the solid oak door. “Else a man might get the impression you’re stalling.”

  Verity gathered her composure and edged past him. A lady could not help but feel insignificant when standing close to a man so large and commanding.

  The church door was open, though she saw no sign of the vicar. Candles surrounded the altar, their amber flames snuffed out hours ago. Slivers of moonlight cut through the stained-glass window to cast a modicum of light
over the white stone walls and pillars. The air clawed with a coldness that chilled the bones. The smell of damp earth and musty old trunks invaded her nostrils.

  Verity settled into a polished oak pew, and Mr Trent slid into the one in front.

  He turned to face her. “Warm enough now, Miss Vale?”

  “As warm as can be expected.” Since that bleak day six months ago, it was like she’d been battling through a blizzard. A numbing storm that saw no end in sight.

  “Good. Then there should be no further distractions.”

  After a brief pause while Verity glanced at the stained-glass image of Jesus nailed to the cross and said a silent prayer, she straightened, ready to tell her tale.

  “Sir, it all began when I refused to lend my cousin a thousand pounds.” Why was it all the men in her family behaved like irresponsible children? “I say lend but use the word loosely for he never felt the need to repay a loan. The fool often gambled away his monthly allowance and pestered me frequently to fund his extravagant entertainments.”

  “Your cousin?”

  “Mr Sebastian Vale. He went to school with Mr Farrow, and they toured the Continent together.” The dissipated often sought pleasures abroad. None more so than Mr Vale and Mr Farrow.

  A darkness passed over the gentleman’s features, and she could not tell if it stemmed from sadness or anger. “Being the half-brother, the illegitimate son,” Mr Trent began in a frigid tone, “I lived with my maternal grandmother. Consequently, I am unfamiliar with my brother’s habits.”

  She had heard many tales about Mr Farrow’s wild antics. It came as no surprise to discover the man bore the same branding mark as Sebastian—a letter B sporting a small crown. Servants’ gossip proved invaluable when one had a need to pry.

  “But as you are happy to share your secrets,” Mr Trent continued, “I shall tell you that my brother approached me many times in dire need of money. Particularly during the two months preceding his death.”

  Verity’s pulse rose a notch. Yet another coincidence, though it was what she had surmised. Both Sebastian Vale and Charles Farrow were profligate sons of equally immoral fathers.

  “And may I be so bold as to ask if you paid, sir?” Verity would expect the illegitimate son to seek the help of the heir apparent, not the other way around. “The answer may prove pertinent.”

  Mr Trent remained silent for a few moments before saying, “Numerous times. But do not mistake my generous gestures for weakness, Miss Vale. The last time Charles came to me for money, I sent him scampering back to his father clutching a bloody nose.”

  His voice held an air of contempt, contempt tinged with regret. Was it guilt that brought Mr Trent to the graveyard at night? Was he looking for someone else to blame for Mr Farrow’s sudden demise?

  “And did he secure the funds needed to pay his debts?” Verity suspected the answer was no. Was that why Mr Farrow had taken to the Thames?

  Mr Trent exhaled a weary sigh. A sound of impatience not fatigue. “Miss Vale. Why is it I am the one answering questions when it is you who should be offering an explanation?” His intense gaze scorched a trail over her face. “Why in the devil’s name do you believe you’re responsible for my brother’s death?”

  Oh, hell’s bells!

  To tell him would mean revealing the depth of her disgrace. Heat rose to her cheeks at the memory of the attempted ruination. There wasn’t a soul in the world she trusted. By rights, she should be wary of all men, particularly imposing ones with striking eyes who liked to stalk ladies in graveyards.

  “The short version, Miss Vale,” he demanded. “Get to the point. I would like to see my bed before sunrise.”

  Why? From his devilish appearance, she imagined the gentleman often returned home after dawn. “If I tell you, you will think me foolish and naive.”

  Mr Trent cast a sly smirk. “Foolish and naive is better than my current assessment of deranged.”

  Well, she could not condemn him for reaching that conclusion. Her actions appeared more than a little irrational. “The only men who know what occurred are dead.” No doubt the reprobate who attacked her still lived.

  “Do I look like a man who scares easily?”

  No, he looked like a man in full command of everyone and everything. He seemed trustworthy and dependable and strong. Beneath the weight of his stare, one should feel meek, helpless, and yet she experienced neither of those emotions. Curiosity sparked to life in her chest. What would it be like to have this man as her confidant and friend?

  “Then I shall relate the events that I believe led to my cousin’s untimely death.” Other than the fact he had been born an idiot.

  “And the events that led to your need to save my brother’s soul.”

  “Yes.” Verity inhaled deeply and gathered her composure. “My cousin invited me to a house party. A weekend away in the country so I might meet the lady he was considering for a bride.” That should have been an indication something was wrong. “I found the whole notion of him settling ludicrous. But he begged for my support, and what with me having so few relatives living, I accompanied him despite my reservations.”

  “Mr Vale strikes me as an unreliable chaperone. A lady would be unwise to place her faith in any man with questionable principles.”

  The comment gave her pause. Was it a veiled warning? Illegitimate sons were known for their recklessness and immoral manners. And yet with this gentleman, she sensed the opposite was true.

  “Many odd things happened on the second night, but you want the short version so I shall be brief.” Traumatic pictures entered her mind. “A shirtless man wearing a mask attacked me in my bedchamber. His only identifying feature was the letter B branded on his chest, the symbol of a crown perched rakishly on top.”

  Verity had clawed and thumped the rogue’s chest as he mauled her like a crazed animal, had felt every scorched line that made up the identifying mark—but never saw his face.

  Mr Trent stiffened. He scowled as if the villain sat in the opposite pew and he was ready to drag the devil to the floor and beat him black and blue. “A sensible woman would have slept with her maid.”

  “You wanted a summary,” she said with mild annoyance. “My maid took ill. She was receiving assistance in the housekeeper’s room when the masked figure entered my chamber.”

  Mr Trent squirmed in the seat and gritted his teeth. “Tell me someone heard a commotion and came to your rescue. Tell me this scoundrel did not go unpunished.”

  “My cousin burst into the room.”

  “And a vicious fight ensued?” His countenance brightened at the prospect.

  “No.” Verity shook her head. Too many times, she had relived the scene only to come to the same harrowing conclusion. “They walked out onto the landing, exchanged a few hushed words. I’m convinced my cousin knew the gentleman, though at no time did the rogue remove his mask.”

  It wasn’t until her cousin’s death a month later that she learned Sebastian bore the same branding mark—a symbol of supreme arrogance and a right of entitlement.

  Silence ensued.

  Mr Trent looked lost in thoughtful contemplation. Had someone abused his cousin in such a violent manner, she imagined he would have shot the villain at dawn.

  “And did Mr Vale offer for the lady who had captured his interest?” His question dripped with suspicion.

  “No. He paid scant attention to her during the whole time we were there.”

  “Then one must draw the obvious conclusion.”

  A shudder ran the length of Verity’s spine. She could almost hear Mr Trent’s thoughts. Wicked thoughts. Cruel thoughts. Thoughts she had entertained on many a cold, lonely night. Sebastian Vale lacked scruples, but no one wanted to believe one’s kin was capable of such contemptible betrayal.

  “You think my cousin had prior knowledge of the attack in my chamber?”

  The hard angles of Mr Trent’s face softened. “Men sell their sisters’ virginities to settle their debts. Why not a cousin’s? T
he lucky ones get a trip down the aisle and a wedding band. In your case, it seems Mr Vale discovered his conscience before the devil claimed his prize.”

  Verity gulped.

  She hung her head, fought to stop her mind playing out alternative possibilities. If she’d let the blackguard have his wicked way, would Sebastian still be alive? It seemed ridiculous to think the two events were related, but she could not shake the crippling sense of guilt.

  “In that case, Mr Trent, I failed to settle my cousin’s debts on all counts.”

  He firmed his jaw. “You are not to blame for Mr Vale’s demise. I cannot conceive how you believe yourself responsible for Charles Farrow’s accident, either.”

  Somewhere in her heart she knew that. But an injustice had occurred. No sane man would swim in an icy river in his clothes. And if Sebastian had intended to take his own life, there were quicker, more certain methods.

  “This might seem ludicrous to you, sir, but something strange is afoot. Evil is at work.” Verity shuffled forward in the seat. She would forever carry this burden unless she convinced this gentleman to help her discover the truth. “After the incident in the bedchamber, we left immediately. We reached London at three in the morning, and yet my cousin visited Mr Farrow and remained with him for almost an hour, leaving me to wait in the carriage with my sick maid.”

  “I see nothing strange in that. I trust my friends with my life and would turn to them without hesitation.” Although he played devil’s advocate, she could hear mistrust in his voice.

  “My cousin drowned a month after the incident. Your brother drowned a month after that. From the information I have gathered, both men carried the mark of the Brethren.” She had heard talk of Mr Farrow’s mark from those called to the coroner’s jury.

  “The Brethren? You make them sound like a band of loyal knights.”

  “These men are far from honourable.” Her witless cousin always kept bad company. “You do not seem surprised to learn Mr Farrow bore the mark.”