The Mark of a Rogue: Scandalous Sons - Book 2

by Clee, Adele

  “For the second time this evening we must play lovers, Miss Vale.”

  “Lovers?” She appeared so fragile swamped in his coat. “I do possess a little more skill than I did earlier in the evening.” She placed her palms flat on his chest, and his heart missed a beat. “I must make it clear that we’re a couple.” Offering him a sensual smile, she trailed her hands up over his arms and shoulders. “Make it clear you are mine.”

  If she pushed her fingers into his hair, it would be his undoing. Like a moored ship in a wild storm, desire tugged at his safety ropes, threatened to snap every strand and send him hurtling out to sea. Unburdened. Free.

  Mistimed footsteps came closer. From the distinct sound and mumbled conversation, he suspected two men. The image of the victim card burst into his mind. Was this the moment Wincote took his revenge? The moment the Brethren punished him for prying? The moment Wincote finally got to sample this lady’s delights?

  Over his dead body!

  “Can you reach for your knife, Miss Vale?”

  “Not with my arms draped around your neck. Is it safe for me to step back?”

  Lawrence glanced into the gloom, saw the shadow of the first man approaching. “No,” he whispered into her ear. “Don’t move. I shall reach for it myself if you tell me which leg.”

  “My left leg.”

  “Then I beg forgiveness in advance for my intimate probing.”

  “Do what you must.” The nervous tinge to her voice belied her confident words.

  Lawrence reached down to the ruffles of her pantaloons—Good God!—and slid his hand up her thigh.

  He tried to imagine he was groping Mrs Crandall’s leg, in the hope the blood in his body might divert from its inevitable course. But all he could picture was Miss Vale standing in nothing but frilly drawers as she secured the weapon to her soft thigh. It was no use. His cock sprang to life with unsurprising vigour.

  “Someone’s coming,” his lady whispered, forcing his wicked mind to conjure a lewd reply. “Quickly.”

  Internal chaos reigned as his trembling fingers settled around the wooden handle and drew the small knife from its sheath. Lust burned in his veins. Aggression left his fingers pulsing with the need to throw a punch.

  The outline of a figure came into view. Just one man—one drunken man—deep in conversation with himself as he shuffled and staggered along the yard. His head bobbed up and down. His beady gaze swayed back and forth as he noticed them huddled in the doorway.

  “Nice evenin’ for it guv’nor,” the sot slurred upon noting Lawrence’s hand thrust under Miss Vale’s skirts. He hiccupped, nearly fell flat on his face when he gazed up at the sprinkling of stars in an unusually clear sky. “There’s love in the air, make no mistake.”

  Miss Vale craned her neck and glanced heavenward before releasing a pleasurable sigh.

  The fellow ambled on, stumbled into a doorway further along where he proceeded to cast up his accounts.

  Lawrence silently snorted. The only thing in the air was the sickly stench of gin. Or so he thought until his gaze came to rest on the delicate column of Miss Vale’s throat and the urge to press his lips to the porcelain skin roused a foreign feeling in his chest.

  “He’s right,” she said, lowering her head to lock gazes with him. “The sky is remarkably beautiful tonight.”

  Not as beautiful as the woman with her arms twined around his neck. “I should slip the knife back into the sheath.” Murder was the last thing on his mind now.

  “You should. But do it carefully lest you rip my pantaloons.”

  He had every intention of taking his time. “If I rip them, I shall purchase a new pair.” Indeed, he would gladly buy her anything her heart desired.

  “I doubt I shall have much cause to wear them again.”

  Like a rampant buck with uncontrollable needs, his mind turned lascivious. As he bent his head, ready to slip the blade into the sheath, their mouths were but two inches apart. Her vibrant blue eyes dropped to his lips and remained there for a second too long.

  “Forgive me,” he whispered as he surrendered to his wicked thoughts. “Sometimes, a man cannot help but succumb to his weaknesses.”

  He moved closer, so close their energies collided. Their breath mingled together in a tense dance of restrained longing. He paused, gave her every opportunity to pull away as he slipped the blade slowly back into the sheath. Instead, she eased his internal struggle by pressing her cherry-red lips to his.

  The sweet brush of her mouth sent his pulse soaring.

  It was the first kiss of an innocent. Yet beneath this chaste melding of mouths, he sensed a burning curiosity, a wild thirst for knowledge, power. This woman sought to embrace her womanhood on her own terms, not in the way society deemed appropriate.

  By rights, he should remove his hand from beneath her skirts. But the need to appease his own curious mind, the need to find the one thing in life that eluded him, saw him edge his hand up her thigh and settle on a plump buttock.

  Miss Vale sucked in a sharp breath as she broke contact, yet from behind her mask she continued to kiss him with those alluring blue eyes.

  “If you want to experience desire, Miss Vale, allow me to be your tutor.” One more kiss—hot and rampant—would be enough to ease this odd yearning for now. Besides, did this lady not need an education in the dangers of succumbing to carnal needs?

  He waited for a sign of approval.

  It took a few seconds for a coy smile to play at the corners of her mouth. “If I’m to experience it with any man, I would like it to be you.”

  Her words rocked him to his core.

  They spoke of emotions beyond that of the superficial. Confounding feelings that brought the only glimmer of hope he had experienced in all his twenty-six years. But he knew better than to place his trust in dreams. This lady wanted a wild adventure, and for the next few minutes he would give her one.

  “Then you must let me know what you like.”

  She swallowed. “And you must do the same.”

  He moistened his lips as his ravenous hunger growled at him for stalling. “Then I want you to explore my mouth with your tongue. I want you to hold nothing back. If I’m too rough, you must tell me.”

  “What about Mr Wincote?”

  “Sod Mr Wincote.”

  The raging devil inside refused to wait a moment longer, and so he claimed her lips in a scorching embrace, teased his way into her moist mouth and plundered her senseless.

  Good God!

  She tasted like he imagined—pure and sweet and insanely tempting. He left no room for fears and doubts. Every press of his erection against her abdomen, every soft caress of her buttocks, every guttural groan into her mouth spoke of hot, carnal lust. His cock throbbed. His body ached with the need to plunge inside her, thrust long and hard. Claim. Brand.

  Every sweep of her tongue, every moan and soft sigh drove him closer to the edge of no return. If he didn’t have this woman, he feared he might die.

  “Trent?” His name echoed in a distant chamber of his mind. “Trent?” Cavanagh’s voice acted like a pinprick, jolting him to attention.

  Panic ensued as he tore his mouth from Miss Vale’s delectable lips. He peered into the shadows, heard the slap of Cavanagh’s Roman sandals hitting the cobblestones. He snatched his hands out from Miss Vale’s skirts and mentally chastised himself for taking things too far.

  “Cavanagh will be upon us soon.” He met Miss Vale’s dazed gaze. “We should step out from the doorway.”

  He expected some embarrassment—but this woman defied his expectations.

  “In a moment.” The lady came up on her tiptoes, curled her fingers around his nape and recaptured his mouth. The quick dance of their tongues felt like a lovers’ parting embrace—desperate, needy, bound together with profound tenderness. He could not have pulled away if his life depended upon it.

  “Trent?” Cavanagh cursed. “Devil take it, where is he?”

  Miss Vale severed their connec
tion, left him wanting.

  She put her hand to her chest and tried to calm her ragged breathing. “You are remarkably good at kissing. One suspects desire might become addictive.”

  So addictive he could think of nothing but thrusting home.

  Lawrence swallowed down all licentious intentions. “It would not take much for us to lose our heads.”

  “No, I understand that now.”

  “Trent?” The clopping sound drew closer.

  With no time to lose, Lawrence captured Miss Vale’s hand and drew her back into the yard. Mere seconds later, they came upon Cavanagh wearing the sandals, a greatcoat covering his toga.

  “Where the hell have you been?” Cavanagh eyed them with a mix of relief and suspicion. “I ventured all the way to St Clement’s and back, and you’ve barely covered ten yards.”

  “We hid from footpads.” Guilt rang in Miss Vale’s voice.

  “Footpads who turned out to be one drunken devil who could barely stand.” Lawrence decided to divert Cavanagh’s attention away from Miss Vale’s bruised lips and unkempt hair and concentrate on his friend’s mismatched attire. “I trust that is Sleeth’s greatcoat. Would he not part with his boots?”

  “Sleeth’s boots are too big. The man has logs for feet.” A smile played at the corners of Cavanagh’s mouth when he noticed Miss Vale’s upturned hem, but he said nothing. “I followed Layton to a house in Clement’s Lane. Wincote appeared and entered a few minutes later. I left Sleeth playing watchman while I came in search of you.”

  “If they’re visiting the same person, why the charade?” Miss Vale said, brushing her skirts. “Why did they not simply have the hackney drop them at the front door?”

  “Perhaps they wanted to leave a false trail. Perhaps they wished to be secretive about the address.” A dreadful sense of foreboding rippled across Lawrence’s shoulders. “Perhaps it’s a ploy, a means of luring an unsuspecting victim.”

  Chapter Twelve

  The walk to St Clement’s was not without its hardship. All amorous thoughts of Mr Trent left Verity’s mind the moment they came within a hundred yards of the lane. The disgusting scent of filth and rotten meat permeated the air, clawed at the back of her throat. It was so foul she covered her nose and mouth with her hand for fear of retching.

  Mr Trent cast her a sidelong glance when she gripped his arm more firmly. “It’s the smell of the dead. The stench from the slaughterhouses and burial grounds. Here, the living reside amongst decaying corpses. Rats spread disease.”

  A sense of dread tightened her nerves.

  This area was so far removed from the sprawling green fields of Shepperton, from the likes of Mr Bradley’s extravagant townhouse in Mayfair. The houses were packed as tightly as the poor souls buried in a pauper’s grave. A sinister mist swirled from the gloom like death’s beckoning finger. The hour had long past midnight, yet the constant groan of dissatisfaction echoed from every dirty window and grimy street corner.

  Verity lowered her hand. “What business would a man of Mr Wincote’s breeding have here?” Was it naive of her to think that the aristocracy kept to their own part of town?

  “Nefarious business, I’m sure.”

  Mr Cavanagh pointed to the shadowy outline of a vehicle parked to the left of Clement’s Lane. The entrance to the narrow street might be wide enough for carts and barrows but not a carriage or hackney.

  Sleeth climbed down from his box and hurried to greet his master. “Both men left five minutes ago, sir. They carried a package to Portugal Street and climbed into a hackney.”

  “A package?” Mr Trent stiffened at her side. “What sort of package?”

  “It was hard to tell in the dark, but somethin’ long and thin like a rug.”

  Mr Cavanagh sucked in a breath. “This area is a common hunting ground for resurrectionists. You don’t think they’re in the business of selling cadavers?”

  A darkness passed over Mr Trent’s handsome features. He rubbed the cleft in his chin. “The words atrocious murderer springs to mind. Some scoundrels have been known to kill in order to provide medical men with fresh bodies. But not men of Layton’s and Wincote’s standing. The price paid hardly warrants the effort.”

  “Unless they chose their victims wisely,” Mr Cavanagh countered. “There are many wealthy merchants visiting town, and we’re close to the docks.”

  The theory hit Verity like a sharp slap. “Do you think my cousin assisted in such a venture?” Robbing rich foreigners, killing them and selling their bodies? Surely not. Sebastian did not have Mr Trent’s intelligence, but he would not risk swinging from the gallows.

  Mr Trent exhaled a heavy sigh. “If he was, then my brother played a part, too. Perhaps once a man is part of the Brethren, he must abide by the wishes of the group.”

  Sebastian was foolish enough to befriend immoral men. And had Mr Bradley not confessed to his brother’s poor judgement?

  The thought of sinful men drew her gaze to Mr Trent’s lips. The hot, lustful and rather enlightening experience that occurred in the dark doorway marked them as immoral, too. And yet she would taste his lips again in a heartbeat.

  Heat swirled in her stomach at the thought.

  She had never felt that way about Mr Rowan. Indeed, the idea of intimacy with the rakish gentleman repulsed her. And yet her father would have dragged her down the aisle and forced her to do her duty. Every man she had ever known demanded something from her but gave nothing in return.

  Except for Mr Trent.

  Mr Trent listened to her opinion. When he looked at her with those sensual green eyes, she believed she was the most desirable, most intelligent woman in the world.

  “You mean once a member commits murder, they all have blood on their hands.” Mr Cavanagh’s comment shook Verity from her musings.

  “Yes, and someone blackmailed them,” she blurted as an image formed in her mind with sparkling clarity. “They were blackmailed by someone who discovered their secret.” Her cousin had been in such dire need of funds he had sold her virginity.

  “Then at present, we must assume Wincote and Layton are guilty of murder and blackmail.” When Mr Trent met her gaze, his green eyes softened. “And one of them is responsible for the attack in your bedchamber.”

  Wincote.

  She felt the truth of it running through her veins.

  Ice-cold fear settled around her heart. It was one thing to think a man sought physical pleasure, another to think the fiend had committed violent acts of brutality.

  “Then we must add the deaths of Mr Vale and Mr Farrow to their list of victims.” Another terrifying thought struck her. One that stole the air from her lungs. “What if they have desecrated my cousin’s grave, stolen his body and sold it to the highest bidder? What if I have been serving penance at Mr Farrow’s grave unaware that the coffin is empty?”

  A curse left Mr Trent’s lips.

  He made an apology but then cursed again.

  It took a few seconds for him to regain his composure. “We are allowing our minds to concoct stories. I stand here feeling the physical anger of an offence that is purely hypothetical. We need proof, though I doubt we will ever find evidence linking them to the deaths of our kin.”

  As always, Mr Trent approached matters from a logical standpoint. Except when devouring her mouth like a man starved of love and affection. Then, he approached matters with a recklessness that proved highly alluring.

  “Mr Cavanagh saw Mr Wincote enter a house in the lane.” Verity pointed to the narrow street shrouded in darkness. “Perhaps we should knock on the door and see who answers.”

  The suggestion received a frown from both gentlemen. Even Sleeth managed to wrinkle his bulbous nose.

  “Mr Wincote and Mr Layton know we suspect them of being members of the Brethren,” she pressed. “If Sleeth were to knock first, pretend he has come to deliver a message, we would know who resides there. If no one answers, we might force the door and look around.”

  Mr Trent shook his he
ad. “While your idea has some merit, I’ll not permit you to take such a risk.”

  “Permit me? Sir, if you wish me to take your concern seriously, you will have to do better than that.”

  Mr Cavanagh snorted. “Yes, Trent, you wouldn’t want to appear like a patriarchal oaf.”

  Mr Trent’s irate gaze shot to his friend. “Wycliff told you.”

  “He found it amusing.”

  “Indeed.”

  Before anyone could say another word, two dirty-faced miscreants darted out from the murky lane. One hugged a heavy basket as if it were a chest of precious jewels, and they raced off into the night without a backwards glance.

  Mr Trent dragged his hand down his face and sighed. He turned to her, his shoulders tense. “If you were hurt during our investigation, I would never forgive myself.” His voice had lost the steely edge, and now brimmed with a warmth that went beyond that of a friend. “And so, to save a poor man’s sanity, I ask that you remain in the safety of the carriage, Miss Vale.”

  The need to please him, to ease his woes, suddenly seemed more important than anything. She touched him lightly on the arm. “Then I shall wait with Sleeth while you and Mr Cavanagh make the necessary enquiries.”

  Relief relaxed his features. He moved to touch her hand, but his arm fell to his side as if remembering they were in company. “Cavanagh and I shall knock on the door. We shall attempt to enter the premises should the plan seem feasible.”

  Dread wrapped around her heart like a strangling vine as the organ whispered its warning. Though the strategy was her idea, every muscle in her body wanted to reach out and beg him to stay. These grim streets rang with dangerous undertones. The oppressive atmosphere brought with it the possibility of ominous threats.

  Verity forced a smile as she reached up and cupped his cheek. “Be careful.” She didn’t care who witnessed her obvious sign of affection. “Proceed with caution. Believe that these men are murderers.”

  “I appreciate your concern.” She saw an aching tenderness in his gaze. “But I’ve dealt with arrogant scoundrels most of my life. The names change but not their cowardliness when it comes to a fight.” Mr Trent turned his attention to Sleeth. “You’re not to leave her side for a second. At the first sign of trouble you’re to take her far from here, is that understood?”