The Mark of a Rogue (Scandalous Sons 2)

Had curiosity not held him in its tight grip, he might have shot out from amidst the shrubbery and demanded to know what the hell she was doing. The ritual was like something one read about in gothic novels, in terrifying tales where the dead rose to walk the earth again.

Next, she slipped the ribbon from a scroll and read the poem aloud in a soothing voice filled with heart and passion. The last part of this strange custom involved pressing her palms together in prayer, though her mumbled words were inaudible.

Was she reciting an incantation in a foreign tongue?

Had her emotions taken command of her vocal cords?

For a moment he wondered if he might wake in a cold sweat and discover this was all a terrible nightmare. But his quarry was on the move, gliding along the walkway past the monuments, heading back to the gate.

Lawrence trailed behind, his heartbeat pounding loudly in h

is ears, his racing pulse as erratic as his coachman’s driving. Charged and ready to strike, he was so fixated on her movements he accidentally kicked a stone and sent it skittering along the path.

Hell’s teeth!

The woman flinched at the sound and came to an abrupt halt. She glanced back over her shoulder, and in a shrill voice said, “Who … who goes there?”

Should he make his move now, or follow her home?

Impatience got the better of him.

“Someone who has a keen interest in the grave you’re tending.” Lawrence stepped out onto the gravel path.

The woman whirled around to face him, clutching her hand to her chest as if afraid her heart might burst free. She gaped at his black coat, black cravat, black breeches. “Are you h-him?”

“Him?” Lawrence took two steps forward, eager to gaze upon the face of the woman who, until now, lived only within the dark depths of his imagination. “To whom do you refer?”

“Are you the devil come to claim Mr Farrow?”

The devil?

Lawrence couldn’t help but laugh. “You think I am Lucifer?”

She stepped backwards when he took a few more steps. But his purposeful strides were longer, and he was soon close enough to observe her clearly for the first time.

On the one hand, he’d imagined a timid chit with mouse-like features, a wallflower desperate to do the Lord’s work and save repentant sinners. On another, Charles’ love of wild, wanton women had roused lewd images of a brazen creature with rouged cheeks, her voluptuous breasts spilling from the confines of her bodice.

The lady who stood staring at him with eyes like exotic blue pools in an arid desert, with parted lips as soft and as naturally red as ripe cherries, bore a resemblance to neither image. There was something clean and wholesome about her face, yet something dangerously alluring.

“Why would you think I am Lucifer?” he repeated, for she seemed too shocked to speak. Did she honestly think the king of the underworld wandered the graveyards of Walton-on-Thames?

The lady gulped. “We’re told that Satan walks amongst us.” She gazed into his eyes for the longest time. “And I have never met another living soul with eyes such a penetrating green.”

“Since when did having green eyes make a man a monster?”

“You are hunting in a graveyard at night.” She raised her chin, had seemingly regained confidence. “What other reason could you have for being here?” A brief pause preceded a sudden gasp. She raised her clenched fists. “If you intend to do me harm, sir, I must warn you. My father was an expert pugilist, and I have no qualms punching you in a very vulnerable place.”

It took a tremendous effort not to laugh. The lady was likely to break a knuckle if she hit him in the ballocks. Still, he had to admire her spirit.

Lawrence raised his hands in surrender. “I mean you no harm. Are you here to save the soul of a sinner?” It certainly explained her need to perform odd rituals in the dead of night.

She narrowed her gaze and peered at him from beneath her hood. “What business is it of yours, sir?”

What business? He’d lost his only sibling. “A man has a right to know the name of the woman tending his brother’s grave.” The one who’d created a shrine to the memory of Charles Farrow.

He expected to see a pink blush touch her cheeks, shame for questioning his motive. Instead, her pale skin turned ashen. Her bottom lip quivered as if devil horns had sprouted through the material of his top hat.

“Your brother! Then you are one of them—a member of the Brethren.” She shuffled backwards, clearly alarmed. “No doubt you bear the devil’s mark, too.” Her frantic gaze shot left and right as she edged back to the lychgate.