The Mark of a Rogue (Scandalous Sons Book 2) Page 3

  “Nothing Charles Farrow did surprises me.” Mr Trent frowned. “How did you learn of the name?”

  “Sebastian asked his valet to return a book he borrowed from my library. The package arrived a week after his death, and he had scribbled notes on what some call the vacat page, the blank page. Two in English. One in Latin.”

  “Am I permitted to know what he wrote?”

  “In large letters at the top of the page were the words Demons lurk amongst us and Beware the Brethren. The first letter of the last word carried the symbol of a crown.”

  Verity’s stomach roiled. The stark warning had kept her from contacting Mr Farrow, suspecting he bore the same mark as her cousin, too. Had she gone to his home and relayed the message, she might have prevented the gentleman’s death. But London had suddenly seemed like a dark and dangerous place. Then Mr Farrow drowned in the river in Walton-on-Thames, a mere two miles from her home in Shepperton, and Verity knew one could not hide in the shadows forever.

  Mr Trent dragged his hand down his face and rubbed his jaw. “And what of the Latin inscription?”

  “Pacta sunt servanda. I think that’s how it’s pronounced.” Not being proficient in Latin she had sought to translate the term. Now, having spoken to Mr Trent, she had a better idea of what it meant. “I assume you’re well-versed in Latin, sir.”

  “Of course.”

  “So, you know what it means?”

  “I’m afraid so, Miss Vale.” Mr Trent adopted a grave expression. “It means agreements must be kept.”

  Chapter Three

  The need for vengeance burned hot in Lawrence’s veins. He sat still in the pew, tried to maintain an indifferent expression though inside he wanted to hunt this masked coward and drive a stake through his black heart.

  Miss Vale was a naive fool. Innocent. Too trusting.

  Perhaps her parents had been pious people brimming with morality. Had she suffered his unconventional upbringing, she would know that men plotted and schemed to seduce ladies into bed. Married ladies sought illicit liaisons to relieve their endless boredom. They cast aside their offspring, sent them to live with aunts or grandmothers when their husbands refused to play cuckold.

  Having attended many routs held by the demi-monde, Lawrence knew every wicked trick. He had heard tales of the schemes bucks used to rid themselves of unwanted wards and siblings, young women who ought to be someone else’s burden.

  “Now can you see, sir, why I bear some responsibility for your brother’s death?”

  The lady sat with her hood raised, her dainty hands resting in her lap. But he was under no illusion. This woman might lack experience with the dissolute, but she did not lack courage.

  Why was she not married?

  She possessed an ethereal beauty that held his attention. And he was more fastidious than most. Her honesty proved refreshing, her tenacity inspiring. Numerous times this evening, he had envisaged Miss Vale’s hair splayed across his pillow, imagined those lush lips beckoning him to satisfy her on every level. But he only took experienced women to his bed, widows and the wealthy ones who had no need of a husband. He did not bed innocents or women who had pledged oaths and taken vows.

  “Had you given Mr Vale the funds he required, he would have returned for more. He would have hounded you until he’d drained you dry.”

  Lawrence recalled his brother’s desperation when pleading for another extortionate loan. Charles bemoaned the unfairness of it all—the bastard being wealthier than the heir. Why couldn’t his mother have lavished him with money and gifts? Love did not pay a man’s tailor’s bill or buy him a new curricle. That’s when Lawrence threw the punch. Charles Farrow was a blind fool. Some men would give everything they owned to experience one moment of genuine affection.

  “It was Mr Vale’s duty to protect you,” Lawrence continued, “not throw you to the hounds to settle his debt. And a few notes in a book is not a warning from beyond the grave. Whether the men drowned under the weight of their burdens, or someone took their lives as punishment, you were not to blame.”

  For some reason, he could not return to London without her assurance that she would refrain from wandering the graveyard at night. He conjured an image of her lounging on the chaise by the fire, reading a book or sipping sherry. Warm. Safe.

  Miss Vale pursed her lips, evidently absorbing his wise words. After a moment, she said, “Do you think he has abused other ladies in the same fashion? Has the masked fiend taken advantage of other innocent women as payment for a debt?”

  Logic begged him to lie.

  But the important things in life—honesty and integrity—were not dependent on one’s wealth or bloodline.

  “Men are creatures of habit. From the organised nature of your attempted ruination, it is fair to assume the rogue has committed the same offence before.”

  “And will do so again?”

  “Most likely.”

  She gave a resigned sigh before rising to her feet. “Thank you for your honesty, Mr Trent. I have kept you long enough. Please accept my apology if my silly efforts to mitigate my guilt caused you pain.”

  Lawrence stood but was reluctant to leave. “Am I to understand that you no longer feel the need to atone for your actions?” Might she return home and put these strange events from her mind? “It’s unsafe for anyone wandering these dark lanes at night.” Let alone a young woman with such a captivating countenance.

  Miss Vale fell silent.

  The frown on her brow spoke of an internal dilemma, a struggle to decide whether to lie.

  Damn it all!

  Cavanagh was right. Perhaps he should have stayed at home. Perhaps it was better to wallow in ignorance. He owed the Farrows nothing. Now, he could not help but feel some responsibility for a woman he’d met a mere hour ago.

  “I offer my assurance that I shall not revisit Mr Farrow’s grave.” Her tone conveyed sincerity, but it was her silent thoughts, the words he couldn’t hear, he found unnerving. Having suffered a life full of empty promises, he could not bear to hear false protestations.

  Lawrence gestured to the aisle, and they vacated the pews.

  Uneasiness settled in his chest as they left the church and navigated the path back to the gate. This woman was unpredictable. He had spent his childhood living beneath an umbrella of uncertainty and knew how to read the clues, the rigid movements of the body that spoke of undisclosed plans and secrets.

  “Let me escort you home, Miss Vale. My carriage is parked on Church Street. My coachman will tether your horse so it may trot alongside.”

  The lady turned to face him, and that was when he knew he was right to trust his instincts. Those sharp blue eyes that had studied him with fearless fortitude now flitted back and forth in their sockets, unable to focus on his face.

  “I shall see you only as far as your gate,” he added, should she be wary of his intentions. “Even illegitimate sons like to play the gentleman on occasion.”

  She did look at him then, with an unblinking intensity that awakened something warm within. “Your parentage matters not to me, Mr Trent. And having told you my darkest secret, I think I can trust you to escort me home. It’s just that I like the freedom that comes with riding in the moonlight.”

  Over the years, he’d tried many ways to rise above the limitations of his questionable lineage. Ways to feel free and unencumbered by the noose of the misbegotten. “When a person is at one with nature, even one’s wildest dreams seem possible.” Hell, he sounded like a poet spouting romantic drivel. Next, he’d be downing bottles of laudanum and taking to his bedchamber amidst a pile of crumpled notes.

  Her sudden smile brought a glow to her cheeks. “And I have a more vivid imagination than most.”

  The sudden need to know her every waking fantasy took hold. “Then permit me to play the errant knight and see you to your door. You may sit astride your horse, and I shall walk alongside.”

  He never made gallant gestures.

  “There is no need to fear for m
y safety.” She leaned forward filling his head with the sweet scent of violets. “I carry a blade in my satchel and am not afraid to strike.”

  The revelation excited as much as it shocked. This woman was an enigma. A conundrum of beguiling innocence and warrior spirit. A combination he found appealing. Rarely had he experienced a deep tug in his stomach when speaking to a lady.

  “All the more reason I should escort you home.”

  “And what of your poor coachman? A walk to Shepperton and back will take almost an hour.”

  Had she wanted to dissuade him, she might have simply refused his offer. “I shall inform him of my intention and tell him to meet me in Shepperton.”

  She tilted her head back and looked skyward at the scattering of stars. “It is beautiful out tonight.” A stray tendril of dark brown hair escaped her hood, and he resisted the urge to tuck it back behind her ear. “So beautiful one might forget all about their woes.”

  “Indeed.”

  On a sudden gasp, she looked at him and said, “Then make haste, Mr Trent. Let us be on our way while the sky is still clear.”

  Miss Vale agreed to wait with her horse while he crossed the churchyard and conveyed his intention to his coachman, Sleeth. With every long stride, he grew convinced he would return to find the lane empty. To find the bewitching creature gone. Vanished.

  “If you walk as quickly as you have done now,” she began when he charged through the gate to find her sitting astride an elegant white mare whose mane was grey from the poll to the withers, “I shall have to trot to keep the pace.”

  “Then I shall do something I’ve not done for a long time, Miss Vale, and amble.” Lawrence took hold of the reins and led her horse along the lane.

  The night air was cold and crisp. Moonlight cast a silvery sheen on the path ahead while the surrounding fields and trees shrank into the blackness. One might be fooled into thinking they were the only people alive in the world. And for some bizarre reason, that brought a sense of peace.

  “Are you certain you wish to walk with me the whole way?” There was a lightness to her voice that said she knew the answer to her question but sought to break the silence.

  “My conscience will keep me awake tonight unless I know you reached home safely.” Perhaps a game of fantasy would help him learn more about her secret desires and ambitions. He suspected she had no intention of forgetting about the rogue who bore the mark of the Brethren. The question was, what did she intend to do now? “But we might pass the time by playing a game.”

  The demi-monde’s version amounted to lewd and lascivious scenarios—talk of erotic desires that often led to couples leaving the room, keen to turn the illusion into reality. A man did not play such games with an innocent.

  “Then you begin, Mr Trent,” she said as they crossed Walton Bridge and headed north, “and you may explain the rules as you go.” She seemed more than keen to indulge him.

  Now, where the hell might he begin?

  “Let us start by choosing our characters. You go first, Miss Vale, and I shall select mine appropriately.” It occurred to him that he should give her more information. “You might pick Anne Boleyn, for example, and I would opt for Henry. But you have the power to alter history, to choose a different outcome for both characters.”

  The demi-monde always picked counterparts eager to engage in illicit sexual relations. But who would Miss Vale choose? He glanced up at her, hidden in the depths of her lilac cloak. Seated on the white horse, she looked every bit a fairy princess, and he’d be the wicked warlock come to take her prisoner and ravish her enchanting body.

  “I have always loved Arthurian legend. Might I be Guinevere?”

  “If you wish.”

  Blast!

  Why the hell had she chosen the philandering wife? Thoughts of his own mother surfaced, and it took every effort to suppress his temper. He only hoped Miss Vale did not find adultery attractive.

  “There are many versions of Guinevere’s story,” he continued. “Some cast her in an unfavourable light. I am intrigued to know which one might be more to your tastes.”

  After some thought, she said, “Often, in a quest for power, a woman might make foolish mistakes. I would rather save the kingdom than bring about its downfall on a selfish whim.”

  The tension relaxed from his shoulders. Only strong women made sacrifices. That said, if she wished to save the kingdom, she might wish to save other ladies from being ruined by a masked rogue.

  “And what of you, Mr Trent. Whom will you select?”

  Lawrence stroked the mare’s neck while they walked, while he gathered his thoughts and decided on his preferred character. “I choose Arthur.” He could never be Lancelot, could never deceive a trusted friend. “I like to think of him as a noble man, one of great courage. A man betrayed by those closest to him. Though if I were king, I should not be so naive.”

  He cast a sidelong glance and their gazes locked. People said his eyes were arresting, but hers brought the calm that came from gazing out over the crystal blue waters of the Mediterranean Sea.

  “You have experienced great pain in your life and believe noble actions make a man worthy.” She gestured to the crossroads ahead. “Turn left here.”

  Damnation!

  This game was his way of discovering more about her, not the other way around. “Make no mistake. I take no prisoners, Miss Vale. Men cross me at their peril.”

  He was no longer a helpless child.

  No more a dreaded inconvenience.

  “Having witnessed the sheer power in your arms, sir, I imagine only a fool would rouse your temper.”

  The fact she had taken notice of his physique sent hot blood racing through his veins. But he was fooling himself to think that she looked upon him with anything other than curious enquiry.

  “I rarely have to hit a man twice. But everyone has their weaknesses.” Were he not careful, this lady might stir him to a feebleness of mind and morals.

  “Well, it might please you to know that you will not have to hit anyone, least of all our imagined Lancelot. Had I taken marriage vows, I would be faithful to my husband.”

  She might have stripped naked and offered him the use of her body, but nothing aroused him like a woman with integrity.

  “And Arthur would do everything in his power to earn your love and respect.” Lawrence focused on the lane ahead, for to look at her again would surely stir these odd sensations.

  “Then in our story, Arthur and Guinevere will share an abiding love. Their sons will rule for generations, and the kingdom will prosper.”

  Lawrence exhaled a soft sigh. If only life were as simple as stories. “Would that we might manipulate all events to suit our purpose, Miss Vale.”

  “But then we might never have met. I would have made sure my cousin never joined that disreputable club.”

  The mere mention of her cousin brought Lawrence crashing back to reality with a thud. When he returned to London, he would investigate the men who marked their chests and called themselves the Brethren. It was too late to save Charles, but not too late to ensure the woman riding beside him had no need to fear a masked rogue.

  “It’s just a little further along the lane.” Miss Vale’s voice dragged him back to the present. “The house with the iron gates.”

  They navigated the lane in silence for a few minutes before the large shadow of a building came into view. With the place shrouded in darkness, Lawrence felt the need to see her safely to the front door, upstairs and into bed.

  “Fool,” he cursed silently. “Would you prefer I left you here, Miss Vale?” An unmarried lady would not want her servants spreading ugly untruths. “Only men up to no good escort women home in the dead of night.”

  “I’ve put you to enough trouble this evening. We will part ways here, Mr Trent.”

  A pang of disappointment hit him in the chest. The sooner he left this woman the better. “Might I ask one question before I depart?” He needed specific information relating to the
other guests invited to the house party in the country.

  “Of course.”

  “Regarding the masked rogue. Do you recall the names of the male guests in attendance that weekend? Do you recall which men spent time with Mr Vale?”

  The lady pursed her lips whilst thinking, but he saw a darkness sweep across her features. Clearly, the memory brought discomfort. “All men or just those who might be the blackguard?”

  “Those whose physical description might match the man who entered your chamber uninvited.” He had tried to keep his tone even, but she may well have heard the murderous edge to his voice.

  She nodded. “Then I would name Mr William Duffen, Mr Phillip Wincote, Lord Sellwood and perhaps Lord Layton’s youngest son.” She recounted the names with ease. No doubt she had imagined one of these men as her attacker during those restless hours before sleep.

  “John Layton?” The man was a known rakehell and an arrogant prig. He often attended the parties of the demi-monde, as did Wincote.

  “Yes, John Layton.” She looked down at him from her mount. “What do you intend to do, Mr Trent? For if you are to make enquiries, perhaps I may accompany—”

  “No, Miss Vale, you may not. Your place is here in comfortable surroundings with people you trust.” He would work at night, visit places unsuitable for a lady. And if he found any evidence to suggest foul play, he would bring the devil’s wrath down on them all. “But I shall send word should I find anything of interest.”

  A tense silence ensued.

  Hell, he would give anything to know what she was thinking.

  “Then may I have your direction, sir? So I may inform you of any new developments here.”

  What? So she might arrive at his door armed with her steely blade? But what if curiosity—a clawing need to save other women from a similar fate—brought her to town? The rogue knew who she was, would enjoy the sport of ruining an innocent. Worse still, what if she stumbled upon evidence of a crime, evidence of corruption?

  “I have a townhouse on the corner of Hind Street and Manchester Square. Alternatively, you may send word to Mr and Mrs Wycliff on Bruton Street. You may rely on Mrs Wycliff for her discretion, though I advise you give notice should you wish to call. The couple married only this morning.”