The Mark of a Rogue (Scandalous Sons 2)

“Thank you, Miss Vale.” A mischievous smile played at the corners of Mr Wycliff’s mouth as he offered a graceful bow. His inquisitive gaze shot immediately to his friend. “While you told me of your meeting in the graveyard, Trent, you failed to convey the depth of Miss Vale’s beauty.”

Heat crept up Verity’s cheeks, though inwardly she sighed. Clearly her looks were of no interest to Mr Trent. Vanity was a trait she despised. Still, loneliness played with the mind until every kind word and gesture held the potential to be something more.

An uncomfortable silence ensued. Mr Trent certainly had no intention of explaining the reason for his icy countenance. Had she made a mistake coming here? Perhaps she should leave. Perhaps she should go now.

Verity pasted a confident smile. “Thank you for the glass of sherry, Mrs Wycliff, but it’s late, and I should head home. Would you mind sending a footman to fetch a hackney?”

“A hackney?” Mr Trent snapped. “You intend to take a hackney back to Shepperton?”

Verity shook her head. “No, sir. I have taken a room at Jaunay’s Hotel in Leicester Square.”

All colour drained from Mr Trent’s face. “You’re staying at Jaunay’s?” he repeated. “For all the saints.” His cheeks ballooned, and he exhaled an exasperated sigh.

“Jaunay’s is regarded for its excellent furnishings and first-class wine,” Mr Wycliff said in her defence.

“Do you know how many foreign men frequent the establishment?” Mr Trent spoke as if he’d caught a whiff of something foul.

“Distinguished men of rank,” Mr Wycliff replied. “Men with political influence.”

“French exiles,” Mr Trent spat. “Men far from home with no one to vouch for their morals.”

“I can assure you, sir,” Verity began, keeping her voice even. “There were plenty of ladies dining at Jaunay’s this evening.”

Mr Trent’s eyes widened. He dragged his hand through his mop of dark hair and sighed. “People saw you dining alone, Miss Vale?”

“Of course not. Miss Trimble invited me to dine at her table.”

“Gentlemen.” Mrs Wycliff cleared her throat. “Is it not prudent to ask Miss Vale what brought her to town? What prompted her to book a room at Jaunay’s Hotel and take a hackney to Bruton Street?”

“Madness is the answer.” Mr Trent gave Verity his full attention. “And I challenge you to argue, Miss Vale.”

Verity raised her chin and straightened her spine. Courage had brought her to town, and she’d be damned if she’d let this man trample her down. “Oh, I am not mad, sir. Once you’ve seen the book, you might reconsider your position as patriarchal oaf.”

Mr Wycliff pursed his lips. Amusement flashed in his eyes. “I’ve heard you called many things, Trent, but patriarchal oaf is by far the best.”

Mr Trent’s hard stare never left her. “If the lady lacks sense when it comes to her welfare, what am I meant to think?”

Did he think her a complete buffoon?

Of course it was dangerous for an unmarried lady to come to town. If one believed society’s matrons, it was dangerous for an unmarried lady of means to go anywhere alone.

“Men are dead, Mr Trent. Must I remind you that you were the one who assured me the masked villain would strike again?” If she wore breeches and shaved daily, no doubt he would have a different view. “What did you expect me to do? Eat cake and sip tea while men get away with abuse and murder?”

Mrs Wycliff clapped her hands. “Bravo, Miss Vale.”

“Charles drowned,” Mr Trent countered. “And rakes ravish innocent women at every ball and soiree. What do you want me to do, Miss Vale? Rip the shirts off their backs and examine their chests?” The gentleman inhaled deeply. “Return to the safety of your house in Shepperton and allow me to make discreet enquires on your behalf. Is that not what we agreed?”

Mr and Mrs Wycliff looked at her with wide eyes, clearly eager to hear her response.

“No, Mr Trent, that is not what we agreed.” This was not a conversation to have in front of strangers. But the Wycliffs seemed to know everything about their graveyard meeting. Everything except for the fact they had shared a connection. She had not imagined the warmth in his gaze or the tenderness in his voice. “Perhaps I should remind you.”

“I said I would write to you with my findings.”

“And I said I would not revisit Mr Farrow’s grave. I said I would hold a candle to the window to let you know all was well at home.” The hard planes of his face softened slightly upon hearing the last comment. “I asked for your direction so I might inform you of any new developments, and you gave it willingly.” Verity stared into his eyes, the jade-green gems she found so captivating. “Does that sound like madness to you, sir? Tell me what I have done to lose your charity.”

Silence ensued once again.

“Well, Trent?” Mr Wycliff wore an arrogant smirk. “Miss Vale has a point. Do you not owe her an apology?”