The Mark of a Rogue (Scandalous Sons 2)

“Sir, it is a rather long story.” Verity drew her cloak across her chest and rubbed her arms as a bitter wind whipped through the yard. “It is too cold to converse here. The door to the church is often open. Perhaps we might talk there.”

“Then lead the way, Miss Vale.” He gestured to the gravel path winding towards the solid oak door. “Else a man might get the impression you’re stalling.”

Verity gathered her composure and edged past him. A lady could not help but feel insignificant when standing close to a man so large and commanding.

The church door was open, though she saw no sign of the vicar. Candles surrounded the altar, their amber flames snuffed out hours ago. Slivers of moonlight cut through the stained-glass window to cast a modicum of light

over the white stone walls and pillars. The air clawed with a coldness that chilled the bones. The smell of damp earth and musty old trunks invaded her nostrils.

Verity settled into a polished oak pew, and Mr Trent slid into the one in front.

He turned to face her. “Warm enough now, Miss Vale?”

“As warm as can be expected.” Since that bleak day six months ago, it was like she’d been battling through a blizzard. A numbing storm that saw no end in sight.

“Good. Then there should be no further distractions.”

After a brief pause while Verity glanced at the stained-glass image of Jesus nailed to the cross and said a silent prayer, she straightened, ready to tell her tale.

“Sir, it all began when I refused to lend my cousin a thousand pounds.” Why was it all the men in her family behaved like irresponsible children? “I say lend but use the word loosely for he never felt the need to repay a loan. The fool often gambled away his monthly allowance and pestered me frequently to fund his extravagant entertainments.”

“Your cousin?”

“Mr Sebastian Vale. He went to school with Mr Farrow, and they toured the Continent together.” The dissipated often sought pleasures abroad. None more so than Mr Vale and Mr Farrow.

A darkness passed over the gentleman’s features, and she could not tell if it stemmed from sadness or anger. “Being the half-brother, the illegitimate son,” Mr Trent began in a frigid tone, “I lived with my maternal grandmother. Consequently, I am unfamiliar with my brother’s habits.”

She had heard many tales about Mr Farrow’s wild antics. It came as no surprise to discover the man bore the same branding mark as Sebastian—a letter B sporting a small crown. Servants’ gossip proved invaluable when one had a need to pry.

“But as you are happy to share your secrets,” Mr Trent continued, “I shall tell you that my brother approached me many times in dire need of money. Particularly during the two months preceding his death.”

Verity’s pulse rose a notch. Yet another coincidence, though it was what she had surmised. Both Sebastian Vale and Charles Farrow were profligate sons of equally immoral fathers.

“And may I be so bold as to ask if you paid, sir?” Verity would expect the illegitimate son to seek the help of the heir apparent, not the other way around. “The answer may prove pertinent.”

Mr Trent remained silent for a few moments before saying, “Numerous times. But do not mistake my generous gestures for weakness, Miss Vale. The last time Charles came to me for money, I sent him scampering back to his father clutching a bloody nose.”

His voice held an air of contempt, contempt tinged with regret. Was it guilt that brought Mr Trent to the graveyard at night? Was he looking for someone else to blame for Mr Farrow’s sudden demise?

“And did he secure the funds needed to pay his debts?” Verity suspected the answer was no. Was that why Mr Farrow had taken to the Thames?

Mr Trent exhaled a weary sigh. A sound of impatience not fatigue. “Miss Vale. Why is it I am the one answering questions when it is you who should be offering an explanation?” His intense gaze scorched a trail over her face. “Why in the devil’s name do you believe you’re responsible for my brother’s death?”

Oh, hell’s bells!

To tell him would mean revealing the depth of her disgrace. Heat rose to her cheeks at the memory of the attempted ruination. There wasn’t a soul in the world she trusted. By rights, she should be wary of all men, particularly imposing ones with striking eyes who liked to stalk ladies in graveyards.

“The short version, Miss Vale,” he demanded. “Get to the point. I would like to see my bed before sunrise.”

Why? From his devilish appearance, she imagined the gentleman often returned home after dawn. “If I tell you, you will think me foolish and naive.”

Mr Trent cast a sly smirk. “Foolish and naive is better than my current assessment of deranged.”

Well, she could not condemn him for reaching that conclusion. Her actions appeared more than a little irrational. “The only men who know what occurred are dead.” No doubt the reprobate who attacked her still lived.

“Do I look like a man who scares easily?”

No, he looked like a man in full command of everyone and everything. He seemed trustworthy and dependable and strong. Beneath the weight of his stare, one should feel meek, helpless, and yet she experienced neither of those emotions. Curiosity sparked to life in her chest. What would it be like to have this man as her confidant and friend?