One did not need a seer’s foresight to know she would sit next to the golden-haired Romeo. Indeed, when she finally accepted a glass of sherry from her manservant and settled down beside Cavanagh, there was barely a hair’s breadth between them.
“Has someone died?” Mrs Crandall snorted as she scanned their faces. “I have never seen you looking so glum. And pay Woods no mind.” She eyed the man as he carried their drinks on a silver tray. “We’re thinking of an Indian theme for one of our gatherings.” She gripped Cavanagh’s knee. “Hot nights in Madras. Monsoon mayhem. Or something to that effect.”
Cavanagh took the proffered drink and swallowed a mouthful of brandy.
“There’s talk you married the Scarlet Widow.” The woman cast her beady eyes on Wycliff. “Although I do not recall that being part of the bet.”
Wycliff stiffened. “No, who would have thought a man with my black heart would marry for love?” He downed the contents of his glass. “Though the last man to call her the Scarlet Widow in my presence suffered a broken nose.”
Lawrence groaned inwardly.
At this rate, Mrs Crandall was liable to throw them out.
Cavanagh came to the rescue and patted the hand still stroking his knee. “We’re not here to discuss the merits of marriage. Lord forbid I should ever take the plunge.”
“Then why are you here?”
Lawrence gave a surreptitious nod. A signal for Cavanagh to reveal their carefully constructed tale.
Cavanagh brushed a hand through his golden locks and then shuffled around to face Mrs Crandall. “Trent took a lady to his bed, and some fellow took great umbrage.”
Hellfire! Cavanagh was supposed to say Lawrence had taken a liking to a woman, not that he’d already had his wicked way.
“The coward sent Trent an unsigned note,” Cavanagh continued. “As well as threatening to kill him unless he sever all ties with this woman, it contained the words Beware the Brethren. As you can imagine, Trent wishes to discover the identity of the rogue and deal with the matter swiftly.”
Mrs Crandall arched a mocking brow as she scanned the breadth of Lawrence’s chest. “Clearly the fool has never met you, Trent. No doubt he’s a lovesick popinjay who wouldn’t know what to do with the woman if she lay naked in his bed.”
The comment conjured an image of the delectable Miss Vale sprawled across Lawrence’s mattress. Forget the fool of their imagined tale, Lawrence was the one who had developed a mild obsession, a moderate infatuation.
“What I fail to see is what this has to do with me,” Mrs Crandall said, her gaze flicking briefly to her half-naked servant. “Who is this woman? Someone you met here?”
The muscles in Lawrence’s shoulders tensed. “The woman is of no consequence. What concerns me is that this fool might leap out from a dark alley and thrust a blade into my back.”
Cavanagh cleared his throat. “There is a group of men who call themselves the Brethren. A club of sorts. You must have heard of them.”
Mrs Crandall stared at Cavanagh’s mouth for a moment before releasing a sigh. “No. The name means nothing to me.”
Cavanagh would be livid if their enquiries came to naught. Who wanted to feel the lustful hands of a woman old enough to be one’s mother?
“We’ve heard tell that the Brethren have a mark branded on their chests,” Wycliff said. “A letter B with a crown perched on top.”
A brief silence ensued while Mrs Crandall appeared lost in thoughtful contemplation. Then her eyes widened. “Yes, I knew someone with a similar mark, but he never mentioned that he belonged to a private club.”
“You knew him?” Lawrence’s blood ran cold at the thought another man bearing the mark had die
d, too. “The man is deceased?”
“Yes. Mr Joseph Bradley. Terrible waste. Such a handsome, virile creature.” Mrs Crandall left Lawrence hanging on her next word while she sipped her sherry. “He died in a duel two years ago, although no one ever identified his opponent.”
Lawrence shuffled forward in the seat. “Why? Because their seconds swore an oath of secrecy?” It was the case with most duels.
“Because there were no other men present. The only witness to the event was a passing farmer up with the larks, who swore both opponents wore masks.” A coy smile played on her thin lips. “When one holds fashionable parties, you’d be surprised what one can learn from men who wish to gain an invitation.”
Lawrence’s heart skipped a beat.
Was the man who killed Joseph Bradley the same man who attacked Miss Vale?
Was he responsible for other deaths?