The Mark of a Rogue (Scandalous Sons 2)

“My cousin drowned a month after the incident. Your brother drowned a month after that. From the information I have gathered, both men carried the mark of the Brethren.” She had heard talk of Mr Farrow’s mark from those called to the coroner’s jury.

“The Brethren? You make them sound like a band of loyal knights.”

“These men are far from honourable.” Her witless cousin always kept bad company. “You do not seem surprised to learn Mr Farrow bore the mark.”

“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.”