The Mark of a Rogue: Scandalous Sons - Book 2

by Clee, Adele

  “Aye, sir.”

  “Regardless of their size, Cavanagh needs your boots. He cannot go plodding down the street in Roman sandals.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  The men exchanged shoes, though Sleeth chose to sit atop his box barefooted rather than wear the flimsy sandals.

  With some reluctance, Verity slipped out of Mr Trent’s warm coat. “Here, take this. It’s cold out.”

  Mr Trent shrugged into his coat and then assisted Verity into the carriage. “If I fail to return, you’re to go to Wycliff and explain what happened tonight.” Without another word, he leaned inside and pressed a chaste kiss to her lips.

  The earthy taste of him sparked her desire. “Is the kiss a way of saying I might not see you again?” The need to hold him and never let go came upon her.

  He withdrew from the carriage and straightened. “More a thank you for being one of the few people in the world to give a damn about my welfare.” And with that, he closed the door and headed off into the night.

  * * *

  With her choice words and velvet voice, Lawrence feared Miss Vale had found a way to shatter his defences. At first, she had taken to merely feeling her way around the solid walls—an impenetrable fortress built with painstaking precision during his adolescent years. But with every kind gesture, every caring word and heated kiss, she chipped away at the mortar to leave gaping holes.

  With his stance weakened, it would not take much for him to surrender. Surrender to the intense yearning that thrummed in his veins. Surrender to the possibility, that by some miracle, he might fall in love. A bond existed between them—something tangible, not imaginary.

  The price to have her would be great indeed. It would mean marriage, children who would suffer the same humiliation when their peers learned of their inferior lineage.

  “There’s no sign of life, though most people who live here are hovering at death’s door.” Cavanagh’s voice dragged Lawrence from his reverie. “Trent? What do you want to do?”

  Lawrence mentally shook himself. He stared at the paint-chipped door and tried to focus on the task at hand. “I trust the door’s locked.” He turned the handle and pushed against the wood, resistance confirming his theory. “A kick or a shoulder barge should suffice.”

  “Perhaps we should wait, monitor Wincote’s movements for a few days.” It was unlike Cavanagh to suggest caution. “I have a bad feeling in my bones.”

  “No one here will care if we attack the door with an axe. Grave robbers wander the lane with their loot. Drunkards brawl in the street. People will simply think we’ve forgotten our key.”

  Having decided to enter the premises in the hope the devil had left clues, Lawrence gathered every ounce of strength and kicked the door an inch below the lock. The wood splintered on impact. He paused and waited for any sign of a commotion.

  Nothing.

  The woman next door opened the upper window, threw piss from the pot onto the street before slamming down the sash.

  They entered the house and closed the door. From the dilapidated state of the other dwellings in the row, he expected to find signs of neglect and misuse inside, too. But as they moved through the dark rooms on the lower floor, it became apparent that this was a place for aristocratic reprobates to enjoy their games away from society’s prying eyes.

  Cavanagh moved to the six mahogany chairs and the circular table covered in a green baize. “Though a little shabby, the decor is as one might find in a high-class gaming hell.”

  Lawrence scanned the Renaissance-inspired paintings on the walls—scenes of bare-breasted women in various poses—that created an illicit air.

  “This must be the only house in the row not converted into lodgings. Clearly those living in the area know nothing of the treasures lying beyond the battered door.”

  “Perhaps they do but would rather starve than rob the members of the Brethren.” Lawrence walked to the side table, noted the array of empty bottles, the absence of decanters and glasses. Dust clung to every surface. “This room hasn’t seen a maid in months. Yet it looks like the venue of many wild parties.”

  Cavanagh inhaled. “Do you smell that? The stench of stale liquor and the woody remnants of tobacco, but there’s something else, too?”

  Whenever Lawrence inhaled, he caught a whiff of a sinister note he could not pinpoint. Something medicinal—opiates or some other curative. In any other home, the scent would not stir the hairs on his nape. But here, the atmosphere carried a malignant force, evil in nature, so that the most innocent aroma hinted at devilry.

  Lawrence opened the side-table drawer, found nothing inside but a tinderbox. “We should check the rooms upstairs.”

  The need to hurry came upon him. He would rather breathe the diseased air outside than remain in this house a moment longer than necessary.

  They mounted the stairs furtively, watching the shadows, anticipating an attack from any quarter. All bedroom doors were open. All were empty. All were decorated like rooms in a brothel—in sumptuous red velvets and dark forest greens. Nothing seemed unusual, bar the scuffs and indentations on the wooden bedframes.

  “Rope marks?” Cavanagh ran the tip of his finger over the worn notches. “Cruel men like to master everyone, even their women.”

  Nausea roiled in Lawrence’s stomach.

  The remark conjured an image of Miss Vale struggling to fight against her attacker. Had Sebastian Vale not come to his senses, Lord knows what the rogue would have done to secure her silence. And yet the lady had lived alone for months after her cousin’s death. The rogue might have easily climbed into her chamber at night and taken the gift denied him. One must assume that the attack had nothing to do with the man wanting to bed Miss Vale, and everything to do with hurting her cousin Sebastian.

  Cavanagh crouched by the bed and peered underneath. “It’s too dark. We’d need to light a lamp if we have any hope of finding clues here.” He straightened and brushed the dust from his hands.

  “Search every cupboard and drawer. Gather anything you think pertinent. I’ll make a further inspection of those downstairs.”

  The need to remove himself from the bedchamber, to banish the pain in his chest at the thought of Miss Vale’s suffering, saw him head out of the door.

  Back in the dining room, he searched the mahogany tallboy, found playing cards, chess pieces, a box of cheroots. Nothing to incriminate Wincote or Layton. Yet they had been carrying something from the house. Something they wanted rid of quickly.

  A glance at the worn rug on the floor told him this was not the room he wanted. He returned to the sparse sitting room, empty but for a row of chairs lining one wall. Even in the dark, he could see the frame of dust surrounding the place where the rug had been.

  The obvious conclusion entered his mind.

  Wincote and Layton had carried a body in the rolled rug. A person—man or woman—they had kept a prisoner in this house.

  The question was, for what purpose?

  With a nagging ache in his chest telling him he had missed a vital clue, Lawrence wandered back into the hall. From the state of the house, the Brethren did not employ servants. Or perhaps they’d wrapped their only maid in a rug and squashed her into a hackney. They did not eat food, either, for the pantry was bare.

  In a last attempt to find something of use, he tried the handle on the door leading to the cellar and found it open. Searching the room would prove pointless in the dark, but he descended the steps with the same air of caution.

  Hellfire!

  Lawrence stumbled back but remained upright. A man did not need a lamp to see the monstrous cage bolted to one wall. The iron lattice door was like that of a medieval torture chamber. Old. Rusty. The holder of many painful secrets.

  Thankfully, the cage was empty.

  He heaved a breath but could not banish the hollow feeling in his chest. Harrowing images bombarded his mind. Had they kept Charles in this hovel before carting him back to Walton-on-Thames and throwing him in the river? Had
Mr Vale been the occupant before him?

  Hidden in the windowless cellar, and with a need to find clues, Lawrence decided to risk lighting a lamp.

  He was about to search the dark recesses when he saw a lantern in a wooden box on the floor. Within seconds of bending down to retrieve the light, he sensed a shift in the air—the energy of an ominous presence. He heard the faint shuffle of footsteps, glanced over his shoulder just as a fiend dressed in black stepped out from the gloom and hit him hard on the head.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Time ticked by in Verity’s mind. It might have been fifteen minutes—it might have been an hour—since Mr Trent commented on her being one of the few who cared for his welfare and left her sitting in the carriage. Every bone in her body had wanted to pull him into an embrace, tell him of all the wonderful qualities he had to recommend him. If illegitimacy bore its mark on a man, then she welcomed the fact he’d been born on the wrong side of the blanket. For what little she knew of Charles Farrow, Mr Trent’s character proved superior in every regard.

  Impatience got the better of her. She tugged the strap and pulled down the window.

  “Sleeth?” she whispered with every determination. A crippling sense of foreboding settled in her chest. What if the house was a hive of Brethren blackguards? What if they planned to make Mr Trent their next victim? “Sleeth?” She rapped hard on the roof.

  The carriage rocked as the hefty coachman climbed down from his box. When he hobbled to the window, she remembered the poor man had bare feet.

  “He’s been gone too long.” Her words sounded a little panicked. “Mr Trent would not risk being caught in the house.” He was far too clever for that. “Something must have happened. Should we not investigate, come to his aid?”

  Sleeth looked at her blankly. “Mr Trent gave an order, miss. He told me to wait ’ere, and that’s what I intend to do.”

  Heavens, he was a servant not an automaton. Surely he could apply logic, make his own decisions when necessary. And at the present moment, it seemed highly necessary.

  “Mr Trent told you not to leave my side, did he not?”

  “That he did, miss.”

  Verity shuffled to the edge of the seat and gripped the door handle. “Then I will walk the length of Clement’s Lane in the hope of locating him.” She pushed aside her anxiety over the coachman’s lack of boots. Duty came before discomfort.

  Sleeth blinked and shook his head. “But Mr Trent meant you’re to wait ’ere.”

  “But that is not what he said.” Verity opened the door and jumped to the pavement. The same rancid stench hit her nostrils, sending her stomach rolling. She coughed to clear her throat and attempted to breathe only through her mouth. “We must make haste, Sleeth.”

  Without giving the servant time to argue, Verity snatched her crook from the carriage seat, scooted under her skirts and drew the knife from its sheath. Concealing the blade amidst the skirt’s folds, she marched towards the entrance of Clement’s Lane.

  Dark and dingy, the narrow lane screamed of danger. The same sickening smell followed her, pestering like a stray dog, a reminder that this was not the peaceful country village of Shepperton, but a monstrous underbelly where the sick and starving made their own rules.

  Verity moved stealthily along, aware of Sleeth’s heavy gait lugging behind. Every few steps, the coachman mumbled a curse, groaned and stopped to examine his soles.

  “Dirty beggars” was but one audible complaint.

  Verity kept her eyes trained on the shadows in the distance. To look at the dirty faces of those sleeping in doorways was like a stab to her heart. What in heaven’s name did men like Mr Layton and Mr Wincote want in a place such as this? She could not believe they were in the business of selling dead bodies—not men from such prestigious families.

  She came to an abrupt halt. “Which house did Mr Wincote enter?”

  The coachman shrugged his shoulders. “We should return to the carriage, miss.” He glanced at his filthy feet as a debutante would a stain on her pristine white gown. “Mr Trent will ’ave my guts for garters if he finds—”

  Two men staggered out of a door a mere ten feet ahead. The fools swayed left and right as they struggled to stand.

  All the air escaped Verity’s lungs.

  Fear churned in her stomach.

  Drunken sots had no command over their morals. But she had a blade and a crook and would fight any rogue desperate to try his luck.

  “Don’t just stand there, Sleeth.” Mr Cavanagh’s impatient voice reached her ears. “Help me get him back to the carriage.”

  Verity blinked—saw that the man whose knees kept buckling was none other than Mr Trent. If she had been scared before, she was petrified now. Blood trickled from his mop of ebony hair. The rivulets ran down a cheek deathly in pallor. His full lips were blue and drawn thin, and she imagined kissing them a hundred times in the hope of bringing them back to life.

  “What happened to him?” The gnawing sense of dread made her want to retch. She thrust her knife back in its sheath and straightened her skirts. “Who did this?” She fought the urge to touch him, to pat his chest, cup his cheek, reassure herself all was well.

  “I don’t know.” Mr Cavanagh took one arm and draped it around his shoulders while Sleeth took the other. The coachman cared nothing for his feet as he supported his master’s weight. “I heard the door slam, crept downstairs and found Trent sprawled on the cellar floor.”

  He must have disturbed someone, taken a hit to the head.

  “Have you examined the wound?” Panic clung to every syllable. Should they not attempt to stem the bleeding before moving him? But what if the perpetrator came back?

  Not Mr Wincote.

  Not Mr Layton.

  Lord Sellwood, then. Why had they not thought to stalk him through the ballrooms?

  “Will we even rouse a doctor at this time of night?” In Shepperton, Dr Wilson slept so soundly cannon fire couldn’t wake him.

  “We’ll call on Dr Redman.” Mr Cavanagh’s breathless pants mirrored her own erratic heartbeat. “Wycliff pays the doctor handsomely to be at his beck and call.” The gentleman cursed. “Trent is the one who always deals with these matters. Trent always knows what to do.”

  Verity understood Mr Cavanagh’s frustration. Mr Trent’s commanding presence put everyone at ease. He exuded an authority that made her feel safe. Secure. It wasn’t just his impressive size that gave him a masterful air, but his steadfast loyalty, and the hint of fragility hidden just beneath the surface.

  A woman might search for a lifetime and never find a man who aroused her mind and body, find a man who spoke to her soul. The thought of having such a treasure ripped from her grasp sent a rush of emotion surging to her throat. The hard lump made it difficult to swallow. She had grown attached to Mr Trent. So attached, she could not lose his friendship now.

  “As soon as we reach the carriage, I shall examine the wound.” Not that she was an expert in medical matters, but the need to appear useful was as ingrained in her character as the lines on her palm.

  Reaching the carriage was not as problematic as trying to lug a semi-conscious man of considerable size through the narrow doorway. The few passersby either had their own mischievous deeds to contend with or presumed the lord was drunk and had accidentally wandered into the depths of hell.

  “Take a seat, Miss Vale.” Mr Cavanagh directed her to the opposite door. “When Wycliff was shot, Scarlett cradled his head while his coachman set to work on the wound. A similar plan might ease Trent’s pain.”

  “I’m no seamstress.” Sleeth’s beady eyes expanded to twice their usual size. “These hands ain’t capable of holdin’ anythin’ smaller than reins.” He held up his meaty paws as proof. “But I can drive like the devil if need be. There ain’t another coachman in all of London that can beat Sleeth in a race.”

  “We can consider the finer points once we have Lawrence in the carriage,” Verity said, aware that this was the first time she had s
poken the gentleman’s name with striking familiarity.

  Mr Trent’s heavy lids flickered open, and he groaned, “No doctor. Just get m-me to bed.”

  “Oh, thank the Lord.” Verity raced round to the opposite door and climbed into the conveyance. Mr Trent slipped his hands into hers. With a heave, she pulled him to sit in the seat beside her. “If the urge to sleep comes upon you, you must fight it.”

  Mr Trent’s head lolled forward, and his hat tumbled to the carriage floor. “Need to … to rest.”

  “No, you mustn’t rest.” Once the mind gave up, few people recovered. “Speak to me. Talking will keep you alert until the doctor can check your wound.”

  “He’s too tall to lie down, even with his knees bent.” Mr Cavanagh barked orders to Sleeth, gave the poor man back his boots and then climbed into the conveyance and closed the door. “Sit on his lap, Miss Vale. Talk to him. Occupy his mind. Slap his face if you think it will help.”

  The carriage lurched forward, and Mr Trent almost slipped from the seat.

  Stone-cold fear for his wellbeing saw her gather her skirts and sit astride him. The time for modesty had passed. Her pantaloons concealed her legs from Mr Cavanagh’s gaze, and in her current position, might be deemed a frilly equivalent of a chastity belt.

  Mr Trent opened his eyes upon feeling her hand on his cheek. His penetrating stare stirred something deep within. Verity swallowed. The intimacy of the moment was not lost on her, despite convincing herself she acted merely out of Christian charity.

  “Don’t sleep.” She removed her mask, moistened the silk with her tongue and dabbed the blood on his cheek and hairline. “Not until the doctor has examined you.”

  He watched each flick of her tongue, permitted her to mop his brow and wipe his face.

  “Might I check the wound?”