The Mark of a Rogue: Scandalous Sons - Book 2

by Clee, Adele

  “Then it is true that one’s struggles bring great rewards.” The need to compliment his character took hold. “You are an extremely competent and logical man, sir. Strong of mind and body. There is a lot to be grateful for it seems.”

  His jade-green eyes flashed hot. “Every man has a weakness, Miss Vale.”

  “And yours is that you might appear overbearing at times.” He could be quite forthright when wanting his own way.

  “On the contrary, mine is that I have developed a sudden penchant for innocent maidens desperate to prove a point.”

  Warm heat coiled in her stomach. It took a moment for her to gather her wits. “Well, we are friends. I should sincerely hope we like one another.”

  “Indeed.” His rigorous gaze left a scorching trail over her skin. “We should return to the matter of Vathek and Mr Bradley’s ownership of the book.”

  The book was considered fashionable amongst those with an interest in gothic horror. Mr Bradley’s gloomy library might have been drawn from such a novel. “A man interested in literature might be keen to examine popular works of fiction.”

  “Or does his copy contain the same warnings as the one you received from Mr Vale?”

  The comment jolted her in the seat. “But the likelihood of two men marking the same passages is nigh on impossible. Did you not say Mr Bradley’s brother died two years ago?”

  Mr Trent rubbed his temple while lost in thought. “Perhaps Mr Vale was not the person who marked the book. Is Vathek not meant to rouse terror in its reader? What if someone sent the book to Mr Vale as a warning and he passed the message on to you?”

  Verity considered the possibility, but there was a flaw in Mr Trent’s logic. “That would mean whoever sent the book accused Sebastian of being an atrocious murderer. My cousin may have sunk below expected moral standards, but he would never take another’s life.”

  Doubt surfaced.

  Devious men knew to hide behind an affable facade.

  “And what of your brother?” she continued, for he had made no mention of Mr Farrow receiving a similar book. “Did he mention reading Vathek? Does he own a copy in his library? Can you put your hand on your heart and attest to his character? Swear Mr Farrow was not a murderer?”

  Mr Trent’s hypnotic eyes widened. “Miss Vale, you certainly have no issue being frank.”

  “Forgive me, sir. Words often leave my mouth before I engage my mental faculties. It drove my family to despair. Like children, ladies should be seen and not heard.” Like dogs, ladies should do their owner’s bidding.

  “You mistake me, Miss Vale. Your freehearted speech and unrestrained logic are traits I admire. Particularly in a woman who might use her looks to her advantage instead.”

  The velvet tone of his voice stirred the hairs at her nape. “Then you do not object to my opinion?”

  “On the contrary, I value any comments you wish to make.”

  Verity swallowed the nervous lump in her throat. He was the first person to make such a claim. “Then it is clear we have two courses of action.” They were, no doubt, obvious to him, but she liked having a voice. “You must discover if Mr Farrow possessed a copy of Vathek.”

  His expression grew wary. “Agreed.”

  “And we must make enquires into the character of Mr John Layton.” That said, she had not informed him of her suspicions regarding Mr Wincote. “After you left me that night in Shepperton, I considered the countenance of all the men who attended the house party.”

  “I pray such thoughts did not result in a sleepless night.”

  Oh, she had struggled to sleep. But it had nothing to do with the masked rogue and everything to do with the man seated opposite.

  “When one seeks justice, Mr Trent, it is best to approach the nightmare from a more logical standpoint. And so, I concluded that Mr Wincote bears the closest resemblance to the fiend who entered my bedchamber.”

  A darkness passed over his handsome features. “I know that helplessness is debilitating. It wraps around your neck like the hangman’s noose until it becomes an effort to breathe. You’re right. It is better to detach emotionally, to focus on the facts.”

  “Indeed, which is why I must thank you for allowing me to assist you when it goes against your better judgement.”

  He remained quiet for a time. “I shall ask Cavanagh to observe Mr Wincote’s movements. Mr Layton is sure to attend Mrs Crandall’s masquerade ball tonight, giving me a perfect opportunity to taunt the man.”

  “Mrs Crandall?” The muscles in her stomach twisted. What was it about this gentleman that caused such extreme sensations? “You are to attend a masquerade?”

  “A masquerade hosted by one of the most prominent members of the demi-monde.”

  It was to be a wild party, then—a boisterous affair where one left their morals at the front door.

  “You find these events enjoyable?” Now she sounded like a jealous wife who clung to her husband’s coattails.

  A mischievous smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “While I am willing to participate in candid discussions, Miss Vale, there are some things a man cannot say in the presence of a lady.” Perhaps he noticed that the green-eyed devil had commanded use of her mind and body, for he added, “I am attending the party as an observer, not a man looking to bed loose women.”

  Heat flooded her cheeks.

  Oh, she could curse the weaknesses of her sex!

  “As we have settled on a plan,” she began, eager to change the subject, “may I ask why we are heading to Bruton Street? Does Mr Wycliff not have more important matters on his mind at the moment?”

  “More important matters?”

  “Love, Mr Trent. Love. There is nothing more important than that.”

  “Being unfamiliar with the emotion I cannot comment, though I imagine Wycliff would support your claim. Courage is important, too, is it not?”

  “Yes.” The comment coaxed a smile. “For those like me who often feel incapable.”

  “Then that is the reason we are heading to Bruton Street.” The man’s wicked gaze scoured every inch of her body. “Tonight, Miss Vale, you will attend the masquerade ball as my companion. That is if Mrs Wycliff can find you a costume suitable for an innocent with a need to carry a weapon.”

  Chapter Eight

  Lawrence had lost his mind—lost all use of his mental faculties. Why else would he have made such a ridiculous suggestion? Why else would he encourage Miss Vale to don a costume and attend a louche party for the reckless and notorious?

  He swallowed a mouthful of brandy and met Wycliff’s amused gaze. “Are you to stare for another ten minutes, or will you wait until I’m sotted before giving your opinion?”

  Wycliff’s brief glance at the ceiling caused a host of lascivious images to play havoc with Lawrence’s mind. No doubt Miss Vale had stripped to scanty undergarments while Scarlett searched her armoire for a costume fit for an illicit soiree.

  “So let me understand your intentions.” Wycliff was about to rip Lawrence’s logic apart with naught but a simple question. “The innocent Miss Vale will attend a raucous party for adulterers and fornicators, and you will be her companion?”

  Hellfire!

  “She is the only person who can identify the masked rogue.” His defence was weak, he knew, but Miss Vale had the ability to mess with his mind until he barely knew what day of the week it was.

  “But the villain never removed his mask. Identification will be impossible, will it not?”

  For once, could Wycliff not just accept it was a foolish plan and drink his brandy in silence? “Instinct is a powerful thing,” Lawrence replied with feigned conviction.

  Wickedness danced in Wycliff’s eyes. “As is shock. Mrs Crandall’s masquerades take licentiousness to the extreme. How will Miss Vale identify anyone with her eyes screwed shut?”

  Lawrence sat forward. His friend would continue to taunt him lest he offer a more believable explanation. “The lady has the ability to tug at my heartstrings. One
word and—”

  “Heartstrings?” Wycliff snorted. “Did you not sever all emotional cords long ago?”

  “I hardened my heart to deceivers.” To a lying mother and vengeful stepfather. To a grandmother as frosty as the frigid north wind. And to the viscount who conducted his dalliances with eager enthusiasm yet kicked his son aside like the runt of the litter. “Consequently, I find Miss Vale’s need to place justice before her own safety a rather attractive trait.”

  “Her original character appeals to you in unexpected ways.”

  “Indeed.” He did not dare evaluate the rolling somersaults that played havoc with his stomach whenever she smiled. Or the lust that burned in his veins with the merest touch.

  “You’re drawn to her innocence and integrity,” Wycliff continued.

  “Yes.” Lawrence knew where the conversation was heading. “As one might expect from a man with my beleaguered past.” Then again, Miss Vale could prove as inconstant as every other woman of his acquaintance.

  Wycliff sipped his brandy, his curious gaze fixed on Lawrence. “Considering you’re obsessed with Miss Vale’s welfare, I find your logic lacking.”

  Of course his logic was lacking.

  It was not his brain leading him on this merry dance. The woman stared at him with doe eyes and parted lips as if he were her saviour. The only man in the world who valued her opinion.

  “A wise man would take the moral high ground, stamp his patriarchal foot and send her back to her idyllic home in Shepperton.” But Lawrence would not sleep. Danger lurked in the shadows. A malevolent energy commanded the air whenever they spoke about the Brethren. “But you did not see her eyes dance as brightly as the night star when I told her she was to accompany me this evening.”

  Wycliff placed his crystal tumbler on the side table and relaxed back in the chair. “Seeing happiness in a woman’s eyes is as potent as any drug, as stimulating as any aphrodisiac. Only a fool would believe himself immune. Desire blurs the senses.”

  “Control is something I have mastered.” When a man abstained from the hordes of mindless sexual encounters offered at such events, the women grew desperate to prove they had the prowess to break his resolve. None did.

  Wycliff chuckled. “And yet here you are, breathless with anticipation at the thought of Miss Vale dressed in an exotic costume.”

  Damnation!

  Wycliff’s level of perception grated.

  “How will you cope, Trent? Every rogue there will have his eyes fixed on her lush—”

  “Enough!” Lawrence jumped to his feet. “Inform Miss Vale that I have gone to arrange my own outfit. I shall return at ten this evening to convey her to the masquerade.”

  Time alone would help bolster his crumbling defences. And he would need his wits to keep her safe from rogues like John Layton. If Layton was the masked villain who attacked her in the bedchamber, he might be out for his own form of vengeance.

  “Can I trust you to keep her here?” Lawrence added. “She cannot walk through the lobby of Jaunay’s Hotel dressed as an Egyptian princess.”

  Wycliff inclined his head. “Scarlett will find something more demure for an innocent than a costume of silk charmeuse.”

  Lawrence stiffened. The thought of Miss Vale draped in silk gave him palpitations. “Might I suggest the garb of an abbess? One whose thick vestal robe covers every inch of flesh?”

  Wycliff laughed. “You know my wife. Whatever she chooses will complement Miss Vale’s natural attributes.”

  Did Mrs Wycliff not have a reputation for wearing notorious attire? Had she not created a persona that attracted every man’s attention? “That’s what worries me.”

  * * *

  “You’re certain this costume will serve our purpose?” Verity gripped her crook and stared at her reflection in the looking glass. “Will the jaded members of the demi-monde not think a shepherdess a little tame?”

  “Tame?” Mrs Wycliff arched a brow. “My dear, your frilly pantaloons are visible beneath your skirts, and you are showing far too much ankle. And that bodice leaves little to the imagination.”

  Indeed. Every time Verity inhaled, she thought her breasts might burst free from the scandalously low neckline.

  “Rarely do I seek advice on a lady’s wardrobe,” Mrs Wycliff continued, “but my husband is more than familiar with what one expects from such parties and insists this is perfect.” She smiled. “You look every bit a conundrum and will be sure to rouse intrigue.”

  “Mr Trent will not wish to draw unnecessary attention.” They were to mingle amongst the crowd and observe any suspects. “Perhaps, Mrs Wycliff, you have a lace fichu that might protect my modesty.”

  “You must call me Scarlett, and the demi-monde will think a fichu tame. My husband agrees you must look demure yet tease with a hint of sensuality. Women will wear far worse. Trust me.”

  Verity considered the tonged curls spilling from her pretty pink bonnet and dancing around her shoulders. Demure yet sensual did indeed describe the odd combination.

  “And what of my disguise?” Verity asked. Having fastened silk ribbons and flowers to the crook, Scarlett’s maid was busy sewing red roses around the edges of the mask.

  “Marta will be finished shortly, and Mr Trent will fasten the mask just before you arrive at Mrs Crandall’s.” Scarlett stepped closer. She placed a hand on Verity’s arm and said in a cautious tone, “No matter what occurs, you must not untie your mask. The demi-monde have no boundaries, and Mrs Crandall is a vicious gossip.”

  Verity gulped as a flurry of nerves took hold.

  Oh, she was out of her depth.

  The thought of attending any function with Mr Trent was akin to diving into a cool sea in the height of summer. Invigorating. Stimulating. But would she flounder when the predators approached, when they circled ready to attack?

  Sensing her disquiet, Scarlett said, “If you have reservations, it is not too late to change your mind. Mr Trent is more than capable of tackling a rogue like Mr Layton. You’re welcome to take a late supper with us and await his return.”

  A sensible option.

  A lifeline extended to save her from this foolhardy plan.

  So why did every fibre of her being fight against the thought?

  Her need to uncover the truth about the Brethren and the masked intruder stemmed from a desire for justice. But was it more a means for an incapable, lonely woman to find a sense of purpose?

  “Perhaps if I knew what to expect, it might ease my anxiety.”

  Scarlett caught Verity’s gaze in the looking glass and smiled, although her eyes flickered with a hint of panic. “Expect some nudity. Couples may openly engage in amorous activities. Men may approach you and make lewd suggestions.”

  Verity’s heart skipped a beat.

  “But rest assured,” Scarlett continued. “My husband is confident that Mr Trent will bring the devil’s wrath down upon anyone who so much as looks at you in the wrong way.”

  The last comment brought more than an ounce of comfort.

  Still, soon they would part ways and the time would come when she had to fight her battles without the aid of an errant knight.

  “You must think me naive. A reckless fool.” And yet when a woman spent her days idle and alone, any excuse for an adventure seemed plausible.

  “When one has been harmed so cruelly, no one else can judge.” The look in Scarlett’s bright blue eyes conveyed empathy and understanding. “You have a burning need inside that cannot be tempered.”

  “A burning need?” Verity almost choked on the words when a vision of Mr Trent’s muscular body flashed into her mind. Heat flooded her cheeks. These confounded sensations were becoming a nuisance.

  “A need to show the world that you’ll not allow a man to abuse you.”

  “Indeed.”

  Silence ensued.

  Scarlett seemed lost in thought while Verity’s mind focused on one specific person. Mr Trent would remain by her side for the duration of the evening. So clo
se she would feel the powerful essence of the man penetrate her clothing. No doubt he would touch her hand, press his fingers to that sensitive place on her lower back that made her knees tremble.

  The maid entered the room. She curtsied to her mistress, handed her the mask and informed them that Mr Trent was waiting in the drawing room.

  Verity’s heart raced.

  What would the gentleman make of her costume?

  A smile tugged at the corners of Scarlett’s mouth as she examined the delicate needlework. “Demure yet sensual. Perfect.” She gave Verity the mask. “We should not keep Mr Trent waiting. No doubt the curiosity is killing him, and my husband enjoys teasing his friends.”

  “Mr Wycliff was most specific about the costume. Do you suppose Mr Trent advised him?” That said, Mr Trent would not have suggested a low-cut bodice.

  “Lord, no. Mr Trent’s idea of appropriate garb left a lot to be desired.”

  Verity blinked back her surprise. “Mr Trent suggested something unseemly?” Surely not.

  “On the contrary.” Scarlett laughed. “Mr Trent wanted you to dress as an abbess.”

  Chapter Nine

  Lawrence was doomed. Doomed to spend an eternity in the fiery pits of hell. Doomed to break every code that kept him from being like most of the degenerates who graced the parties of the demi-monde. Those who behaved as scandalously as his own blasted parents.

  Being ill-prepared for the tempting sight that greeted him when Miss Vale entered the drawing room, all he could do was stand there and stare.

  “Somewhat better than an abbess, wouldn’t you say?” Wycliff whispered in Lawrence’s ear and then gave him a friendly nudge.

  “Well, Mr Trent, what do you think of my costume?” Miss Vale fixed her gaze upon him and smiled. “Will it suffice?”

  Suffice?

  The woman exceeded his expectations on every level.

  “The outfit is rather becoming, Miss Vale.” Stone the crows. He closed his eyes briefly so as not to gape at the sumptuous breasts about to spill out from the confines of her bodice. “Were that the dress of every shepherdess, I imagine farmers would take more interest in their flock.”