Lawrence shook his head. “Madam, you have me at a loss.”
With hands held behind her back, she reached for the wooden gate. “Mr F-Farrow had no siblings.” The beauty looked sick with terror. “Therefore, I must conclude that you use the term brother because you are a member of the same club.”
Confusion rendered him momentarily speechless.
Who the hell were the Brethren?
What did she mean by the devil’s mark?
“Charles Farrow was my half-brother. Viscount Ranfield is my father, too.” Though the lord tried hard to forget that a woman had tricked him into siring a bastard. “I assure you. I am a man who would rather eat his eyeballs than entertain membership of any gentleman’s club.”
Uncertainty flashed in her eyes.
“Charles must have mentioned me,” he said. “My name is Lawrence Trent.”
Disappointment clawed away inside when she shook her head and said, “No.” The familiar ache eased when she added, “In truth, Mr Trent, I have only spoken to Mr Farrow once.”
Lawrence blinked back his surprise. “Then why tend his grave?” Had she loved Charles from a distance, admired his dashing good looks? Did she grieve what might have been? Had she longed for Farrow to give up his reckless ways and finally settle?
She stared up at him and pursed her lips. While he knew his countenance was attractive to the female eye, her level of scrutiny went beyond the superficial.
“When one looks closely, your eyes are such a soothing shade of green, sir. My mother once told me that the eyes are the bringers of truth. The eyes hold the secrets of the heart.”
The comments unsettled his composure.
He had no heart. His eyes held the power to rouse fear and dread. One hard stare sent men scurrying. How was it she saw something else?
Lawrence straightened and stepped forward. “Then you know I have no intention of hurting you, and so I ask again. Why are you laying tokens at my brother’s grave?”
She hesitated, opened her mouth to speak but then snapped it shut. Doubt lingered in every aspect of her bearing. “If you wish to continue this conversation, sir, you will need to … need to …”
“Need to what?”
“Need to sh-show me your chest.”
“My chest!”
What the blazes?
He might have laughed at the joke had her expression not conveyed the utmost seriousness. Having spent years attending the parties of the demi-monde—for even a man on the outskirts of society felt a need to belong—he’d never encountered an innocent playing the role of a temptress.
“Your b-bare chest, sir. I have no interest in examining the quality of your clothing.”
Lawrence snorted. “You want me to strip off my clothes in a graveyard at night?” Lord, he couldn’t help but feel mildly aroused. “Might I enquire as to the reason for such an unusual request?”
“Not all of your clothes. I merely wish to make sure you do not bear the mark.”
“The devil’s mark?” he clarified.
“The mark of a rogue, Mr Trent.”
Did this woman possess the gift of second sight?
Did his soul radiate with evidence of his rakish manner?
“Proof is the only thing I seek, sir,” she added, while he stood dumbfounded.
He considered her full mouth and lush cherry-red lips, lips he was convinced had never felt a man’s moist caress. He’d warrant those dazzling blue eyes had never gazed upon a man’s naked form, either. With her hood raised, she possessed an ethereal quality—a purity of heart and mind—which only reinforced the shocking nature of her request.