The Mark of a Rogue: Scandalous Sons - Book 2

by Clee, Adele

  Verity flicked to the required page while Mr Trent held the book. Those penetrating green eyes studied her, not the crisp leaves.

  “Definitely written by a masculine hand,” he said after she’d pointed to the words.

  Mr Wycliff glanced over Mr Trent’s broad shoulder. “A man’s mark, without a doubt.”

  “And what is it about the book that brings you to town?”

  “Perhaps we should sit down, sir, so I might show you.” It would mean sitting together on the sofa. She only hoped she could hold her nerve, that he would not see through her confident facade.

  Mr Trent swallowed, cleared his throat and then gestured for her to sit down. His large frame settled beside her, and again, the divine scent filled her head.

  Mr and Mrs Wycliff sat in chairs opposite.

  “Having only ever flicked to the message left by Sebastian, it did not occur to me to search the written text.” Verity leaned across Mr Trent’s muscular arm and turned to the folded page. “You will see that someone underscored certain parts in pencil.”

  Mr Trent cast her a sidelong glance. “Those who study the use of language often make such marks.”

  She had thought a similar thing at first. Having pieced the specific words together, something was so dreadfully amiss she’d grown fearful of being alone. “But when you read them in order, Mr Trent, does it not tell a different story?”

  Mr Trent focused on the first highlighted line. “Seize the miscreant,” he recited from the text. “That could mean anything.”

  Verity shuffled closer. Her thigh pressed against his as she turned the page to the next marked section. Perhaps it was her imagination, but Mr Trent stared at her hair before glancing at the words on the page.

  “Retain the money.” She cast the gentleman a defiant look. Let him challenge her theory now. “The fact my cousin pleaded for funds cannot be a coincidence.”

  “No,” Mr Trent mused.

  “What does the next line say?” Mr Wycliff asked.

  Mr Trent leafed through the book to the requisite page. He took one look at the word before raising his head. “Betrayed.”

  Mr Wycliff raised a brow and edged forward in the seat. “What? Nothing more?”

  Without making further comment, he found the next line. “What concealest thou?”

  A hard lump formed in Verity’s throat for she knew the next two words without searching for them in the book. “I shall save you the trouble of scanning the pages. The last comment underlined is atrocious murderer.”

  Mrs Wycliff put her hand to her throat, which was exactly what Verity had done upon reading the alarming statement.

  “When read together,” Mr Wycliff began, “it certainly raises suspicions over the nature of your cousin’s death, Miss Vale.”

  “And the death of Mr Farrow.” Verity sighed inwardly. Sebastian had gone to great lengths to relay a warning. It must have taken hours of scrawling through the text. If only she had given the book a more thorough examination. If only she had ventured to town and approached Mr Farrow. “I shall forever bear the responsibility of not alerting the gentleman of the dangers.”

  “You must not blame yourself, Miss Vale.” Pity flashed in Mrs Wycliff’s eyes. “Both men played a part in their own demise. They agreed to join this club. They incurred debts that they couldn’t pay.”

  Mr Trent closed the book. He tapped his fingers on the cover while lost in contemplation. Eventually, he said, “How can the words foretell Mr Vale’s fate when he was the one who marked the pages?”

  The gentleman had a point. “Perhaps my cousin knew it was only a matter of time before his enemies sought revenge. Perhaps he is referencing someone else’s death, knew of another murder.”

  “Yes, that of Mr Joseph Bradley.” Mr Wycliff hummed in agreement. “And that was why they killed Mr Vale.”

  “It is all supposition.” Mr Trent argued for he was a most logical man. “One cannot make a case on nothing but a hypothesis.”

  “May I ask, who is Mr Joseph Bradley?” Verity had never heard the name. She had come to town to say that Mr Wincote bore the closest resemblance to the masked villain.

  Mr Trent spent a few minutes explaining his visit to a woman named Mrs Crandall who knew all the disreputable men of the ton.

  “That makes three people who bore the mark of the Brethren,” she said. “Three dead people.” Surely Mr Trent believed there was a connection now. “And that’s only the ones we know about.”

  A tense silence ensued before Mr Trent said, “Tomorrow, I shall visit Isaac Bradley. He may know more about his brother’s dealings with this deranged group.”

  Verity waited for Mr Wycliff to offer to accompany him, but he did not. While Mr Trent looked more than capable of dealing with any man of violent temperament, she didn’t like the thought of him investigating this matter alone.

  “Then I shall come with you, sir.” Mentally she winced, braced herself for an argument. “A second pair of eyes might be valuable when judging a man’s sincerity.”

  Mr Trent handed her the book and stood. No doubt he was used to people feeling intimidated by his broad shoulders and muscular thighs. And in her current seated position, she had a perfect view of the latter.

  “No, Miss Vale, you may not come with me tomorrow.” Mr Trent drew his hand down his face and rubbed his firm jaw. “After I have seen you safely back to Jaunay’s Hotel, and rented every available room in the establishment, I suggest you lock your door and remain with your maid.”

  Verity swallowed. “I came without my maid. There was but one place left on the coach.”

  With a mild sense of panic, Mrs Wycliff sat forward. “There is no need to return to the hotel, Miss Vale. You may stay here with us.”

  While the lady bestowed a genuine smile, Mr Wycliff appeared mildly displeased. Being newly married, it was clear he preferred to be alone with his wife.

  “Thank you, but I like Jaunay’s.” That was a slight exaggeration. No one liked sleeping in a strange bed with all sorts of odd sounds keeping one awake at night. “And if Mr Trent has his way, I shall be the only resident.”

  Her mocking tone failed to raise a reaction from the gentleman who seemed too preoccupied with where she slept at night. While Mr Trent had no intention of explaining his overbearing manner, Mr Wycliff spoke on his behalf.

  “My friend’s brash nature stems from a fear for your safety, Miss Vale. He has witnessed the darker sides of people’s characters, which can often make him sound like a patriarchal oaf.”

  Verity kept her expression neutral despite Mr Wycliff’s amusing quip. “And my persistence in this matter stems from a fear of becoming a helpless victim, sir.” Honesty was the best policy in this situation, and these people knew her darkest secret. “As a spinster, I fear—”

  “One would hardly call you a spinster,” Mr Trent countered as his intense gaze searched her face. “In town, you will attract the eyes of many virile men.”

  The veiled compliment sent her heart skipping. With all this emotional to-ing and fro-ing, she was likely to develop a megrim.

  “I am five and twenty, sir, with no intention of marrying, and every intention of making sure no other woman suffers at the hands of a masked degenerate.”

  But what could she do as an unmarried woman alone in town?

  Nothing, without the help of this man.

  “No.” Mr Trent’s expression was as severe as his reply.

  “No?” Verity frowned. “I know my own mind, sir.”

  “You ask me to place you in danger when it goes against everything I believe is wise and just. How many times must I say no? How many times must I argue against your eagerness to place yourself in precarious positions?”

  Oh, the man was too stubborn by half.

  Knowing she was fighting a losing battle it was best to make a temporary retreat. But in a show of female solidarity, it was Mrs Wycliff who came to her aid. The lady stood and crossed the room. Shock marred Mr Trent’s countenance w
hen Mrs Wycliff placed her hand on his arm.

  “Trent, when a woman is wronged in such a fashion, helplessness eats away at her soul. In a world where men hold the power, how is a woman to defend herself against such cruelty?”

  The hard planes of Mr Trent’s face softened. When he glanced at Verity, she could feel his inner torment. “I have a bad feeling about this whole situation. My intuition is never wrong.”

  “Then all the more reason you should work with Miss Vale, not against her.” Mrs Wycliff glanced at Verity and smiled. “The lady is determined in her cause. Lord knows what trouble will befall her if she’s left to fight her battle alone.”

  Mr Trent sighed but made no reply.

  “Weakness breeds contempt, contempt for oneself. I should know.” Mrs Wycliff spoke with conviction. “Allow Miss Vale to fight for her honour. Help her as Wycliff helped me, and I am convinced all will be well.”

  Silence descended.

  Mr Trent closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. When he opened them, his compelling gaze settled on Verity. “If anything happens to you, I shall never forgive myself.”

  And that was the bare truth of the matter.

  “Nothing will happen to Miss Vale,” Mr Wycliff interjected, though she had every intention of saying the same thing. “Not while she is in your care.”

  “Then I pray you are right.” With a pained expression, the gentleman turned to her and added, “If we’re to visit Mr Bradley tomorrow, you should get some rest. Permit me to escort you back to Jaunay’s.”

  Verity fought to hide a rush of elation. “Thank you, Mr Trent. I would be delighted if you would accompany me to the hotel. Though I hope you spoke in jest when you said you intend to rent every available room.” The thought of Mr Trent occupying the room next to hers would make it impossible for her to sleep at night.

  “No, Miss Vale. In my current state of mind, I am considering purchasing the whole hotel.”

  Chapter Six

  Terror should have been the only emotion swimming in Miss Vale’s eyes as she sat opposite him in the dark confines of his carriage. Lawrence knew she was scared, scared of the masked rogue, scared of sleeping alone in a hotel. And yet whenever she looked at him, he saw a vibrant love for life.

  “Sir, I know having me here goes against all notions of what is right and moral.” Intrigue and excitement flashed in her eyes as the words burst from her mouth. “But something is dreadfully amiss, and I cannot have the deaths of other young men or the abuse of other young women on my conscience.”

  Miss Vale was right. Having witnessed the underscored text in the book, Sebastian Vale had attempted to issue a warning. But to whom? Miss Vale? Charles Farrow? Still, one could not rule out the possibility that the message was naught but a man’s drunken prank.

  “Mrs Wycliff delivered a persuasive argument.” How could he dispute the claims of a woman who had suffered at the hands of a monster? “That doesn’t mean I agree with her opinion.”

  Did Miss Vale not know she had more to fear from him than any cowardly villain? Did she not know that every time she opened her mouth, he thought of nothing other than plunging his tongue deep inside and tasting heaven’s sweet nectar?

  How ironic that he should be the one to play protector when his thoughts were sinful and wicked. He watched her sitting demurely—so prim and innocent—and it stirred his blood. His gaze slipped slowly down the length of her body, coming to rest where he imagined the blade hugged her milky-white thigh. The warrior appealed to him just as much.

  Lawrence cleared his throat lest a lustful groan escape.

  “I shall not disappoint you, sir.”

  “No,” he drawled. “If I know one thing from our short acquaintance, Miss Vale, it’s that you could never disappoint.”

  The corners of her mouth curled into a smile. “Sir, you are the only person to say such a kind thing. My parents cried for a year after my birth. What use is a daughter when it comes to land management?”

  No doubt his mother had cried after his birth, too, for an illegitimate child was a dreadful inconvenience. “Many ladies run great estates. I’m sure a woman with your fortitude would do a remarkable job regardless of the role.”

  Miss Vale narrowed her gaze. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re somewhat of an enigma?” She did not give him a chance to respond. “You have the ability to make me feel weak and incapable and in the next breath as fearless as if I might charter a ship and navigate the world.”

  The comment gave him pause.

  The word illegitimate came with many hidden meanings—inferior, incompetent, inadequate. Aware of the destructive force of one’s thoughts, the last thing he wanted was to impose the same restrictions on another human soul.

  “I shall attempt to suppress my dictatorial attitude.” That would be a feat in itself. Something about this whole situation with Mr Vale and the cryptic message roused a deep sense of foreboding. “And hope you see any advice given in the way it is intended.” With the utmost care for her situation.

  He expected her to remind him of how unreasonable he could be at times, of his cold and often brash manner. But the corners of her mouth turned downwards, and those pretty blue eyes lost their sparkle.

  “I’ve made things difficult for you. Decency prompts you to act as you do.”

  Decency? Hell, his principles regarding innocents might make him appear gentlemanly, but he could frolic and fornicate just as well as any other skilled seducer.

  “By society’s standards, I am at fault,” she continued. “You are right. I should be at home in Shepperton, not risking my neck on a whim.”

  Lawrence blinked back his surprise.

  “Are you risking your neck on a whim or more an impulsive need to save the world, Miss Vale?” Perhaps it was not too late to persuade her to return to the comfort of her manor house and take up a new hobby instead. And yet he felt compelled to keep her close. The man yearning for what Wycliff had found—love and acceptance—urged him to take risks.

  Miss Vale clutched the overhead strap and shuffled forward in her seat. Lawrence wasn’t sure where to look. At her knees resting so close to his they would invariably touch? At her parted lips and excited eyes?

  “Have you ever experienced a burning need to do something irrational, Mr Trent?”

  “Indeed.”

  If only she knew why he held his hands clasped in his lap.

  If only she could hear the internal war raging.

  “From the moment I raised the candle to the window and watched you walk away, I knew I could not remain at home and do nothing.”

  No doubt the lady suffered from boredom. She needed a husband and children to occupy her time. A charitable cause to give her purpose. So why did he feel the need to give her an adventure of a lifetime?

  “Danger lurks on every street corner, Miss Vale,” he said in a devilish tone merely to test a theory. Did fear make her feel alive? From the sudden rise and fall of her chest, clearly, the answer was yes. “Are you prepared to stand by my side and fight against the evils of this world? Are you prepared to risk your reputation to do what is right?”

  The lady’s lips parted again on a sigh as if experiencing a lover’s first thrust. Good God, he wanted to probe, to push deeper, harder.

  “Are you prepared for what people will say if they see us together, Miss Vale? They will presume we have been intimate, that I make love to you night after night in that quaint hotel room.” Perhaps his imagination was getting the better of him. “Can you cope with a tarnished reputation?” His reputation was so tarnished, no amount of polishing would remove the blemishes. “Can you cope with receiving the cut direct?” Despite his teasing, he would do his utmost to ensure it never came to that.

  Miss Vale swallowed. Numerous times her gaze drifted to his lips. “I believe someone murdered my cousin, Mr Trent. Had the villain got his way, I would be ruined for any other man.”

  Not for him.

  The thought invaded his mind,
lay siege to his restraint. He accepted that people had flaws, else would he not be the greatest hypocrite?

  “What sort of person would I be if, knowing all of that, I let fear dissuade me from my cause?” Miss Vale spoke in earnest. “But equally, I know my limitations. I need you, sir. I need your help if I am to gain justice for Mr Vale and Mr Farrow, justice for myself.”

  Did she know how her words spoke to his heart? No one had ever needed him. No one had ever wanted him.

  “It seems your honesty can break down barriers, Miss Vale.”

  At the present moment, he feared he might do anything she asked. But if she wanted to feel blood pumping wildly in her veins, to risk everything to gain justice for a man he deemed unworthy, who was he to argue?

  “After hearing scathing untruths from my parents, Mr Trent, I respect those who are candid.”

  For a moment, he could do nothing but stare. It was as though she had stolen into his mind, read from the script he’d forged over his lifetime. He considered telling her to call him Lawrence or Trent, but for both their sakes they should maintain a degree of formality.

  “Then I shall speak plainly. When we visit Mr Bradley tomorrow, you must not use your real name. While we know his brother was a member of the Brethren, we know nothing of this man’s affiliations.”

  And while Mrs Crandall seemed convinced Isaac Bradley was a quiet, scholarly man, her word could not be trusted.

  Miss Vale put her hand to her chest. “No doubt you’re right, but what name would I use? It has to be something I’m unlikely to forget.”

  “One that will make people overlook your unconventional habits. It would be better to create a different persona. Might I suggest that of a young widow? Few will believe that a woman with your attractive countenance would choose spinsterhood.”

  The batting of her lashes was the only sign she appreciated the compliment. “Miss Trimble is a spinster and is remarkably graceful. I lost count of the times gentlemen ogled her during dinner.”