by Clee, Adele
He recounted his brief conversation with Miss Trimble. “I have every reason to believe Layton or Bradley lured her into the carriage.” The heavy weight of inadequacy hung in his chest. He should never have left her.
What good is the useless bastard?
His father’s cruel words rang in his ears.
“Failure to leave me a note at the hotel tells me his interest lies with Miss Vale, not me.”
But why?
Was it just a means to throw him off Layton’s trail?
A morbid silence clawed at the insides of the hackney as they hastened along the Strand. Each passing second felt like a day. But what if he was on a fool’s errand? What if he lost his only love, his one chance of happiness?
Fate was cruel, he knew.
“We need a plan.” Wycliff was just as logical in times of catastrophe. “If someone is holding Miss Vale in that house, you cannot kick down the door. Desperate men are even more unpredictable than crazed ones.”
Lawrence agreed. “At this time of day, the lane will be bustling.” Grocers and barrow boys, wild dogs and equally feral children, mingled with pickpockets and drunken sots. “Perhaps I might scale the wall into the yard, force the back door while you create a distraction.”
Wycliff pursed his lips, then nodded. “Cavanagh knows the house. He’ll come with me. We’ll send for a constable from the Holborn offices. Then I’ll pay the urchins to fight and cause a disturbance outside. You’ll know the best time to strike.”
“One of us shall wait in Clement’s Lane to ensure Layton doesn’t leave by the front door,” Cavanagh added. “Once the ruckus starts, one of us will follow you over the wall and into the yard.”
For a moment, Lawrence stared at his friends. Few men could boast of having such loyal companions. “I don’t think I have ever thanked you for your friendship. The last thirteen years would have been rather uneventful without you.”
Cavanagh chuckled. “Lord, you’ll have us blubbering like bluestockings at a book bonfire.”
Wycliff arched a brow in amusement. “The feeling is mutual, Trent, though I can only presume Miss Vale has played a part in softening your heart.”
He would have agreed, had the hackney not rattled to a halt for the umpteenth time in a matter of hours.
They alighted near St Clement’s Inn, hastened past the alms houses and along the grimy lane besieged by rats and flies and the foul stench of death. Lawrence ignored the sickening roil in his stomach. If he failed Verity now, he would throw himself in the blasted Thames.
With a nod to Wycliff and Cavanagh, Lawrence turned right at the crossroads and hurried to the burial site known as Green Ground. He passed a gravedigger shifting the putrid soil with his spade, making holes shallow enough so that the resurrectionists who secretly slipped him coins could gain quick access to the bodies. The man eyed Lawrence suspiciously when he scanned the brick wall bordering this cesspit of decay. But with disease rife in these parts, his heavy quota meant he’d no time to stand idle.
Vaulting over the wall was easy for a man of Lawrence’s height and build. As soon as he’d lowered himself to the ground, a violent surge of anger took command of his mind and body.
Layton was a dead man.
With nimble fingers, he turned the doorknob to find it locked. And so all he could do was wait for Wycliff to orchestrate a disturbance.
Pandemonium struck a few minutes later.
The ruction started with loud voices and shouting in the lane, escalated to what he could only presume was a riot. The sound of someone hammering on doors was his cue to barge his shoulder against this one. As soon as the banging started again, he threw his weight into the door.
The flimsy lock broke with the first hit.
He hid and waited for Layton or Bradley to come racing to the door, keen to investigate.
Neither one did.
Lawrence crept into the house, his body sagging with relief when he moved through the hall and heard Verity speak.
“So, it’s to look as though I fought Mr Layton and we both ended up dead.” Fear clung to every confident word. Most women he knew would be wailing, pleading for their life. “It seems a little improbable.”
“As far as the magistrate is concerned, Layton has already killed those who know of his predilection for blackmail.” The man cursed and muttered to himself. “Have those fools outside got nothing better to do?”
Bradley!
The bastard’s voice rang with conceit.
Lawrence should jump out of his hiding place, draw the pocket pistol and shoot the brute. He wanted to pound his fist into the man’s arrogant face so many times his own mother wouldn’t know him. But the rogue might have a gun aimed at Verity’s head, and so he needed to wait for the perfect opportunity to strike.
“All the evidence leads to Layton,” Bradley continued in a smug tone. “I arranged it that way. And when Trent eventually calls here looking for our dear departed friend, he will find a tragic scene that will no doubt haunt him for the rest of his days.”
“And you will be free to continue your vendetta on those peers you deem unworthy. Punishment for your father’s sad fate.”
Cries and shouts from Clement’s Lane permeated the tense air.
Lawrence heard Bradley’s booted steps stomp across the boards.
“The peasants are causing anarchy.” Bradley snorted. “Though an argument over a barrow will hardly rock the foundations of government. Still, we cannot have the beggars stumbling upon our little scene and so must proceed with utmost urgency.”
Despite panic gripping him in a chokehold, Lawrence crept closer to the door and peered surreptitiously around the jamb. The sight that met him froze his blood. Layton lay sprawled amidst a crimson pool, a knife jutting from his chest. Verity knelt in a submissive position beside the body, though her hands were unbound. Fool. Did Bradley not know that she had a blade strapped to her thigh?
Bradley stepped into view.
Confusion reigned.
While the scoundrel pacing the drawing room floor was indeed Mr Bradley, he moved with a straight spine, appeared a foot taller. He gripped a pistol as one might a walking cane, with purpose and a comfortable ease.
“I need you to smear blood on your pretty pelisse, Miss Vale. After all, we must make this scene appear authentic.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Then I shall wait until the fools outside make another loud din, and then shoot you in the leg. Creating a believable scene will be easier while your heart is pumping blood from your body at a rapid rate.”
Damnation!
Lawrence couldn’t wait a moment longer.
He drew the pocket pistol from his coat and attempted to slide the safety catch. The blasted thing jammed, wouldn’t budge. He tried again, but the gun slipped from his fingers and fell to the floor with a thud.
A deathly silence ensued—broken only by the jeers outside.
But Lawrence had no time to consider his next option. He was about to storm into the drawing room when a sound in the yard caught his attention. Cavanagh had scaled the wall, was in the process of assisting a constable to his feet.
Bradley’s sinister laugh rent the air. “You may as well show yourself, Mr Trent, though I must admit to being surprised you found us so quickly.”
Lawrence snatched the pistol from the floor and strode into the room. “While I am not surprised to see you here, Bradley, I am taken aback by your lack of a stoop.”
“Lawrence!” Verity gasped as their gazes locked.
Bradley pointed his pistol at Verity’s head. “Men do what they must to deter the curious from ruining their plans.”
“Did you honestly think you’d get away with murdering Layton and Miss Vale?” Lawrence aimed his gun at the rogue, hoped Bradley hadn’t noticed he’d not cocked the weapon. With luck, Cavanagh and the constable had their ears to the door.
With an arrogant sneer, Bradley said, “I can still play this game to my advantage.”
While Bradley kept his pistol trained on Verity, he gave Lawrence his full attention. “You’ll be lucky to cause any real damage from that distance. Whereas Miss Vale will be dead the moment I pull the trigger.”
Lawrence glanced at the woman who sat quietly watching the proceedings. Fear distorted every beautiful line on her face, but her warrior spirit still prevailed. Indeed, the lady gestured covertly to her left thigh, which was where she usually strapped the blade.
Verity moved to sit. She drew her legs to her chest and hugged her knees. The action was that of a woman in the grip of terror, yet Lawrence knew she was reaching for the weapon.
With an inconspicuous shake of the head, he tried to tell her there was no need to take risks. At any moment, the constable would enter the room and catch Bradley in the midst of the morbid scene.
“What sort of man points a pistol at a lady’s head?” Lawrence said, intending to give the constable information regarding the current dilemma.
“Don’t pontificate to me. What’s the difference between killing a woman and ruining her?”
Lawrence took a step forward, froze when Bradley turned the gun on him. “A man cannot ruin a woman he intends to marry.”
Bradley laughed. “And a man cannot marry a woman if she’s dead. But perhaps we might make a trade.”
Events took a sudden turn.
Everything happened so quickly Lawrence’s mind struggled to process what his eyes were seeing.
Bradley grabbed the collar of Verity’s pelisse and continued waving the pistol back and forth. The constable decided that was the moment he would enter the room and apprehend the fiend. Verity’s hand slid under her skirt. With lightning speed, she drew the blade and stabbed Mr Bradley in the thigh. The man crumpled to the floor, howling in pain, but still, he kept a firm grip of his weapon.
Cavanagh raced to the front door, dragged the bolts and turned the key.
Chaos erupted.
Deafening shouts preceded the heavy thud of footsteps as three constables burst into the room. A man couldn’t hear his own thoughts through the commands for Mr Bradley to throw his firearm to the floor and raise his hands high.
Verity struggled to her feet. She darted across the room straight into Lawrence’s embrace.
Bradley raised the pistol.
“No!” Lawrence wrapped his arms around her, shielded her from the lead ball Bradley was about to discharge.
Panic reached fever pitch.
The police waved their hands and cried their demands.
A sinister smile touched Bradley’s lips. He pressed the muzzle to his temple, and in a calm voice said, “Cowards die many times. The valiant taste death but once,” before pulling the trigger and flopping to the floor—dead.
Chapter Twenty-One
Like the gentleman himself, Lawrence Trent’s townhouse in Manchester Square was of impressive proportions. Verity accepted the footman’s gloved hand as she stepped out of the carriage to survey the four-storey facade. Heavens. Most ladies would feel a rush of excitement at dining with a man possessed of such a vast fortune. But the grandeur only highlighted his mother’s need to show wealth as opposed to love. Indeed, Verity’s heart ached for the poor boy nobody wanted.
“Welcome, Miss Vale.” Lawrence broke with etiquette and descended the three stone steps to greet her on the pavement. He wore a smoke-grey coat that hugged his broad shoulders, buckskin breeches that clung to his muscular thighs. He stole her hand away from his footman. “Thank you, Carter. I shall take it from here.”
The footman bowed and returned to the house.
“I should warn you,” he began, pausing to press a kiss on her knuckles, “Mrs Henderson has gone to a ridiculous amount of trouble. The extravagant bill of fare is enough to appease a king. Don’t gasp if jugglers jump out from the alcove and trumpeters play a fanfare.” He laughed. It was the most beautiful sound she had ever heard.
“Am I to understand that you never entertain ladies at home?”
“Never.”
“Then I’m flattered you chose to dine with me tonight.”
Their gazes locked.
As always, the energy of barely contained passion exploded in the air between them. The urge to kiss him tied her stomach up in knots. Heat warmed her sex, and she wasn’t sure how she would last through the courses.
“I imagine my housekeeper will monitor the proceedings like a hawk watching over her hatchlings.” Lawrence offered his arm. “Come, let me give you a tour of the house before we dine.”
She took his arm, edged her hand higher to rest on the bulging muscle. A shiver raced through her in anticipation of what the night would bring. They had no need to worry about the Brethren or silly passages underlined in a book. Tonight, there would be no distractions.
“I was rather lonely in the hotel room without you last night.” The magistrate had kept him at Queen Square until the early hours, along with Mr Wycliff and Mr Cavanagh, though she’d heard from Mrs Wycliff that the magistrate had shared his best bottle of port and her husband had come home drunk.
Lawrence guided Verity in through the hall, a functional space with polished oak floors and clean white walls, and no sign of the ostentatious decoration seen in many grand homes. “Did Miss Trimble not keep you awake all night with questions about the Brethren?”
“Yes, but I found her stories far more interesting. She once worked as a governess for a gentleman who secretly kidnapped his own daughter. The uncle paid the ransom, unaware of the truth until the child let slip her father’s devious plan.”
“She did admit to having a knowledge of rogues, though I shall never exchange a cross word with the woman again. Had it not been for her inquisitive nature, I might not have found you in time.” His voice quivered upon uttering the last few words.
“I’m the one who made the foolish mistake of climbing into the carriage.” She gripped his arm and cast him a sidelong glance. “I should have stayed at the hotel, but I was worried about you.”
He touched her cheek. “I know. But I could kill Bradley a hundred times, and it would not ease the guilt.”
“Fate was on our side.” No one could argue otherwise. “We were meant to succeed because life has other plans for us.” Her heart soared at the prospect of spending eternity locked in his embrace. “Glorious plans. Amazing adventures.”
His eyes brightened, and the smile touching his lips turned sinful. “There’s something I want to show you before Mrs Henderson discovers you’re here and swoops in to make your acquaintance. It could wait, but impatience prevails.”
He drew her into the study—a room decorated in a calm sage green. The walnut bookcases housed close to three hundred volumes, all ordered depending upon their size and the autumnal colours of their leather bindings.
“I wish I could say my mother saw books as an investment,” he said upon noting her interest. “But I’m told she had an affair with a poet who only took educated women to his bed.”
Verity released his arm and strode over to the nearest bookcase. “And what if she was meant to purchase them for a reason that is yet to become apparent?” She trailed her finger over the spines and stopped at one that made her smile. “This book on land management might be particularly useful. I welcome any help when tackling the new agricultural methods I’ve heard mentioned.”
She could feel the heat of his penetrating stare before she turned to face him.
Beguiling green eyes searched her face. “Have I told you how remarkable you are?”
The comment brought a tear to her eye. No one had ever said such a wonderful thing. “I’m not sure you have.”
He strode over and closed the door. “Then let me tell you again.”
When he drew her into his arms and kissed her, she almost did cry. It was more than a delicious melding of mouths. The essence of the man wove its way into her body, swirling down into her stomach until she was panting
with need.
He broke contact. “I’m in love with you, Verity. So in love with you, I can barely rouse a rational thought.”
Joy burst to life in her chest. “While you’ve intimated that might be the case, that’s the first time you’ve spoken the words.”
“And I promise it will not be the last time.” He cupped her cheek and pressed his forehead to hers. “Marry me. Be my wife. Tell me our love can conquer whatever troubles come our way.”
During tea with Mrs Wycliff this morning, she had learnt of Lawrence’s biggest fear. “Love can work miracles. Our children will be born in wedlock. Our sons will grow to be fine men with their father’s integrity, forward-thinking men who will change the world for the better.”
He swallowed hard and kissed her again. “And our daughters will grow into spirited women with the courage to fight against the restrictions of their sex.”
“Yes,” she said softly. “And we will love them, Lawrence, with every breath in our bodies.”
When he claimed her mouth again, lust and love burned with such intensity neither could control the hunger consuming them. One minute their tongues danced to a sensual rhythm, the next he was gathering her skirts to her waist and thrusting home.
“I’m yet to show you the ring I purchased for you this morning,” he said, supporting her weight so she could wrap her legs around him. “It’s new, not a family heirloom.”
She moaned with pleasure as he pushed her back against the bookcase, welcomed the feeling of being full. “I’m glad. This is a fresh start for both of us. Good Lord. Watch my hair, Lawrence. I’ll look like I’ve been tumbled in a hay barn.”
“Hush, love.” He nuzzled her neck as he pushed deep inside her. “Mrs Henderson is harassing the cook, but it won’t take long for her to discover you’re here. Should I stop?”
“Lord, no.”
“Good, as I cannot get enough of you.” He closed his eyes and gave a sensual hum. “You’ve yet to say you’ll marry me.”
