by Clee, Adele
The world stopped. A strange stiffness commanded her muscles. “Wincote told you he was responsible for the attack in my chamber?”
She clutched her stomach as the memory burst to vivid life in her mind. It was one thing to believe a man guilty, another to have one’s suspicions confirmed.
“Told me?” Mr Bradley’s countenance revealed a look of supreme superiority. “Who do you think orchestrated the event? Agreements must be kept, Miss Vale, and your cousin owed a great deal of money. His dithering over the sale of your virtue proved most interesting.”
Verity fought back tears. “You disgust me, sir.” She had the sudden need to itch, to scratch her skin raw.
“A tiresome remark, Miss Vale. One I have heard a hundred times before.” He pulled a pistol from the depths of his coat and aimed the weapon at her head. “Get into the carriage, my dear. Mr Layton is desperate to see you. As I said, agreements must be kept and your cousin died without settling his debt.”
She stared at the weapon, shook her head and suppressed the need to scream. “You won’t shoot me, not here.”
Mr Bradley arched a brow. “I am hidden inside the dark confines of an unmarked carriage. Based on the evidence, Layton will get the blame.”
Verity glanced up at the coachman, who kept his gaze trained ahead.
“A hired lackey,” Mr Bradley whispered. “One I’m afraid to say will meet his maker before the day is out.” The faint sign of amusement slipped to reveal an ugly, menacing glare. “Time is of the essence. Get into the carriage, Miss Vale, else I shall send word to Layton and have him draw a blade across Mr Trent’s interfering neck.”
Lawrence!
Verity screwed her eyes shut as an indescribable pain tore through her heart. “You’re lying.” He had to be. A man of Mr Bradley’s awkward frame could not overpower a man like Mr Trent.
“And there’s the dilemma.” He opened the carriage door. “Are you climbing inside, or must I shoot you, Miss Vale?” He cocked the weapon as a means of intimidation.
With her mind a whirl of confusion, Verity glanced up and locked gazes with Miss Trimble. She hoped her desperation lived in every strained line on her face.
“You present a persuasive argument, Mr Bradley.” Verity gripped the door, paused and cast an alarmed Miss Trimble another fearful stare, before entering the confined space occupied by the Brethren devil.
* * *
The fact the carriage had drawn to a stop near Clement’s Lane was not surprising. Indeed, Verity suspected the lane’s inhabitants might be easily bribed with a quart of gin and a scuttle of coal. And where better to keep a person prisoner than a cage in a dank cellar?
Questions pushed to the forefront of her mind. Did the fiend know Mr Layton had attacked Mr Trent, or was he the one who’d lashed out at the unsuspecting visitor?
“Did you hit Mr Trent on the head, just as you did the night he found you in the cellar?” she said as the brute prodded her in the side with the pistol’s muzzle and urged her to quicken her pace. “What surprises me is why you didn’t kill him then.”
Children stopped racing about the busy lane and stared at the hunched figure walking with an abnormal gait. Some pointed and jeered and threw cockle shells. Some ran to find their mamas.
To other onlookers, it appeared as though the poor man clung to her arm because he needed assistance. But during the short journey along the lane, she’d come to realise Mr Bradley had the strength of a beast.
She thought to cry out, but what if Lawrence was his prisoner, his fate dependent upon her cooperation?
“Mr Trent’s participation is integral to my plan.” Mr Bradley poked her again. “No one would blame me for lashing out at thieves and trespassers keen to invade my home.”
Was that an admission of guilt?
“But they might question why you have a cage in your cellar.”
He snorted. “It is not my cellar. Mr Layton owns the property, amongst others along this row. Few tenants dare to question their landlord.”
This man had an answer for everything.
They came to a halt at a paint-chipped door, though parts of the frame looked new. As Mr Bradley unlocked the door, he glanced at the fresh wood and with a smug grin said, “It’s surprising how quick a man can work when he has mouths to feed.”
Without further discussion, he pushed her into the hall and locked the front door. The word she had held at bay since leaving the hotel burst from her mouth in a panic.
“Lawrence?”
Silence.
Not a squeak or mumble.
“Trent cannot hear you.” Mr Bradley shoved her in the back, sending her crashing into the drawing room door. “Indeed, I guarantee you will never hear his arrogant voice again.”
Lord, no!
“What have you done?” Her knees buckled, and she gripped the doorframe to help keep upright. “Where is he?”
“Now that’s a question no one here can answer.” His cryptic words grated. “Some believe in heaven. Some believe in hell. Some believe—”
His taunting comments faded into the background when she spotted someone sprawled on the drawing room floor, a coarse blanket thrown over their head and body so one did not have to see the cold, glassy stare of death.
The sight chilled her blood. Cut her to the bone.
Lawrence!
It took effort not to collapse into a heap, thump the wooden boards and wail at the unfairness of it all. Instead, she raced forward and dropped to her knees next to the lifeless form. A surge of anger burst to life in her chest. Bile burned in her throat. She tore off the blanket, rolled the lifeless man onto his back and stared at his ashen face.
Not Lawrence.
Oh, praise the saints!
John Layton.
The blanket had covered more than a dead man. It covered the sticky pool of burgundy blood, and the polished handle of the knife protruding from Mr Layton’s chest.
Verity came slowly to her feet and turned to the man who surveyed the scene with a look of amused detachment. “You killed him.” It was a statement, not a question. “Somehow you killed Mr Wincote, too.”
Was he ridding the world of all those who knew his secret?
A slow smile crept up his face. “After noting your return to the hotel, I ventured to Brunswick Square, entered the house as Layton left. Poor Wincote was so drunk he needed help to bed.”
Verity drew in a sharp breath. “It was you, in the square last night.”
“Who else? I’ve kept a close eye on you since you barged into my home with questions about the Brethren.”
Anger surfaced again. “Where is Mr Trent?”
“Who can say? No doubt he is racing about town on a mission to find Layton.” Mr Bradley stepped into the room. “Either way, he will be too late to save you.”
“What? You intend to k-kill me? Are you insane?” Sheer terror took command of her muscles. The shaking started in her knees and continued until she couldn’t keep her shoulders still. No amount of courage could prepare her for an encounter with Satan’s hellhound. “For wh-what purpose? You had no need to call at the hotel. You could have disposed of Mr Layton, and no one would be any the wiser.”
If she could just keep him talking, think of a plan.
But she felt sick to the pit of her stomach.
“Ah, when it comes to studying men’s weaknesses, Mr Trent is a rather interesting specimen,” he said, shifting the subject away from his motives. “Strong of will. Eager for justice.” Mr Bradley removed his top hat and placed it on the side table. “Commendable traits for one of inadequate lineage.”
Verity raised her chin. “Mr Trent has more to recommend him than any man I’ve ever met.” He would be a loyal and loving husband. A man his children would respect, his wife adore. “One only need compare him to his brother to know one’s worth is not dependent on one’s bloodline.”
“Charles Farrow? Oh, his lustful appetite was his downfall.” Mr Bradley tugged at the fingers of his bla
ck gloves, removed them and placed them next to his hat. “When it came to courage, the man was lacking. He paid the ultimate price.”
“And so you had Wincote and Layton kill him.”
The fiend looked at her as if she were a simpleton. “No, Miss Vale, I killed Charles Farrow. Wincote and Layton believed the man took his own life when he could no longer pay the blackmail demand.”
Nausea caused her to heave. “You speak as if you’re proud of murder.”
He paused. “Yes, there is an element of pride involved. I consider it a service to my country. Men like Farrow cannot inherit, cannot sit in the House of Lords and make decisions about our welfare while more intelligent men, better candidates, watch from the gallery. And who will value Lord Layton’s opinion once they discover the depths of his son’s depravity?”
So, they were getting closer to this deviant’s motive. Still, Sebastian Vale was not a peer, and nor was Joseph Bradley. She recalled what Lawrence had told her about Mr Bradley’s father—the third son of a viscount banished to the Americas.
“Your grandfather was equally weak and undeserving of his position.”
The man’s incredulous stare lasted a few seconds. “That harlot’s mouth is as loose as her drawers. But yes, who wants a tyrant making the laws of the land? Who wants any man with questionable morals holding a position in society?”
“I assume your uncle inherited the viscountcy.”
“An adequate replacement,” Mr Bradley acknowledged coldly. His gaze moved about the room as if assessing the best way to tackle the issue of murder.
The need to clutch her stomach and weep, the need to beg this man to reconsider his evil ways caused inner turmoil. Raw nerves sent horrific visions bursting into her mind. He wouldn’t risk shooting her. So, he would stab her, then. There would be blood. Lots of blood.
Stall him.
The words whispered in her mind.
“If I am to die here, I would know the reason you took my cousin’s life.”
Mr Bradley narrowed his gaze. “Vale was so keen to join our club. He came here with Farrow for a night of debauchery, and I had Wincote set the scene. Men use and abuse women without a thought. But what if that woman should end up dead in their bed?” He seemed to take pleasure from regaling the story. “Would courage prevail? Would we see the real nature of a man’s worth?”
“You killed a woman so you might blackmail them?” She turned her head, retched and emptied the meagre contents of her stomach onto the floor.
“A worthless creature I can assure you. But a fascinating study in how men fare when faced with a blackmail demand. When men’s souls are on trial, one does what one must. Wincote and Layton were in need of the money. I cared only about observing the men’s reactions, deciding if the world would be a better place without them.”
Verity straightened and wiped her mouth with her hand. “Is that what the Brethren stand for? Sickening games of devilry and torture?”
“The Brethren?” Mr Bradley scoffed. “Wincote came up with the name when searching for gullible men. I decided it might be amusing to make them brand their chests. A testament to their loyalty.”
“You decided?” she mocked. “But your brother died two years ago, and he bore the mark of the Brethren.”
He tutted. “My brother bore the heraldic symbol we designed when we were children, as do I. It is the mark of the Bradley dynasty, not some pathetic gentleman’s club. Shame Joseph proved to be an unworthy member. But one must take no prisoners when one is on a mission.”
The implication he had killed his brother roused confusion. Would the witness not have noticed one man had a stoop?
Bradley’s mention of prisoners brought to mind the cage in the cellar. Perhaps she might lure the rogue down there, push him in and lock the door.
“I thought you kept your prisoners in the cellar.”
“The cellar? Ah, you speak of Layton’s little idea to strike fear into those who couldn’t pay.” Mr Bradley smiled. “Your cousin spent two nights down there amongst the rats, crying and whimpering like a schoolboy. It is quite amusing to imagine him scurrying down the lane when he realised Layton had left the door open. If only Vale or Farrow had found the courage to visit Bow Street.” He gave an indolent wave. “But they never do.”
This man was the devil incarnate.
Was he not remotely concerned that the authorities might catch him and try him for his crimes?
“Whatever your cunning plan, your obvious stoop means people notice you. Someone will report seeing a hunched figure enter this building. There cannot be many well-dressed men in London with your affliction.”
Mr Bradley’s menacing chuckle rent the air. He shrugged his shoulders, cracked his neck and manipulated his distorted body in weird ways. Finally, he rolled his head from left to right as if attempting to grow comfortable in this new position.
“What affliction might that be?” The devil rose to his full height, his back ramrod straight. “As Paine so eloquently said, tyranny is not easily conquered.”
Chapter Twenty
The empty page in Isaac Bradley’s copy of Vathek did not contain the usual words of warning. There wasn’t one page marked with ominous threats—there were thirty. The scholar must have spent hours combing Mr Beckford’s fictional tale looking for ways to deliver his menacing messages.
“Bradley is as devious as the devil.”
“It is not like you to make assumptions,” Wycliff said from inside the confines of the hackney. “Logic says that Mr Bradley had an interest in the book. That does not mean he is the mastermind behind these wicked deeds.”
Cavanagh sighed. “Might the book have belonged to Joseph Bradley, and Layton continued their work after his friend’s death?”
Lawrence closed his eyes. For the first time in his life, he ignored the mental process of examining the facts and concentrated on his intuition. He felt sick to his stomach. Fear held him in a stranglehold. With every ragged breath, he became convinced Bradley was a member of the Brethren.
Panic flared.
He shot out of the seat and thrust his head out of the open window. “Reach Leicester Square in three minutes, and I shall more than double your fare.”
“Aye, sir.” The driver flicked his whip, and the coach picked up speed.
Lawrence dropped into the seat and muttered a curse. “Ranfield is right. I’m a bloody imbecile. Devil take it. You should have seen Bradley hunched over his damn books. The man seemed frightened of his own shadow. I judged him on his appearance. Presumed he was too weak to commit these abhorrent crimes.”
“Judging men is a survival technique,” Wycliff said. “Society conditions us to look at a man and make certain assumptions based on his clothes, manner, build, his level of education. It’s all tosh, of course. But you’re no imbecile, Trent.”
“Even the scrupulous men at Bow Street would have trouble solving this case.” Cavanagh grabbed the overhead strap as the hackney hurtled around the corner. “Did I not suggest it was better to wallow in ignorance than stalk the graveyard in Walton-on-Thames? Although I suspect you have no regrets.”
“No regrets,” he uttered, echoing his conversation with Verity this morning. He closed his eyes again and relived the moment she professed her love. Heat infused every aspect of his being. She was everything to him, more than he deserved. But he regretted involving her in this confounded mess. “I’m in love with her, with Miss Vale.”
God, it felt so good to say the words.
“I think we’ve established that,” Wycliff teased. He braced his foot on the seat opposite as they navigated another corner at breakneck speed. “What we want to know is, what do you intend to do about it?”
He did not need to think of the answer. “I shall ask Miss Vale to marry me.”
The conversation ended on that poignant note when the hackney came to a crashing halt outside Jaunay’s Hotel. Lawrence wasted no time in vaulting to the pavement and instructing the driver to wait. Indeed, he
paid him a substantial sum not to argue.
Lawrence’s plan to collect Verity and take her to Wycliff’s house on Bruton Street was scuppered by a flustered Miss Trimble, who came charging at him in the lobby.
“Damnation,” he cursed beneath his breath. An argument with the moral police was the last thing he needed at present. “Miss Trimble, I haven’t time to—”
The woman cut him off by grabbing his coat sleeve and shaking his arm. “You must hurry, Mr Trent. I fear something dreadful has happened to Miss Vale. Something utterly dreadful.” She lowered her voice. “I fear someone kidnapped her.”
Kidnapped?
Shock rendered him speechless.
Sheer terror gripped his insides and squeezed.
“She climbed into a carriage, though from the pained look on her face, I suspect she was most unwilling.” Miss Trimble could barely catch her breath. “I commanded use of a hackney waiting in the square and followed as far as Drury Lane, but that’s where I lost her.”
“Drury Lane?” Clement’s Lane was but one street away. Bloody Layton! “Did you see who occupied the vehicle?” How he formed the words when plagued by panic, he would never know.
Miss Trimble shook her head. “I know you accused me of prying into people’s affairs, but every instinct tells me something is terribly amiss.”
“When was this?”
The lady glanced at the longcase clock in the lobby. “Thirty minutes ago. I have only just returned.”
With no time to waste, Lawrence grabbed Miss Trimble’s hand and placed a kiss on her knuckles. “Thank you. I think I know where Miss Vale is,” he said, trying to sound optimistic, “and will send her to see you upon our return.”
Without further ado, he dashed back to the hackney and barked instructions to take them to Clement’s Lane.
“Clement’s Lane?” Cavanagh frowned. “You think Layton or Bradley went there?” Surprise flashed in his eyes when Lawrence slammed the door, and the hackney jerked forward. “Where is Miss Vale?” His grave tone echoed Wycliff’s heavy frown and Lawrence’s own crippling trepidation.
