The Mark of a Rogue (Scandalous Sons 2)

“While she possesses an air of finery, she mentioned having educated the children of many wealthy households.”

Before Lawrence could give the matter further thought, his carriage turned into Leicester Square and made its way around to Jaunay’s Hotel.

“May I ask which room you’re staying in, Miss Vale?”

“Which room?” The lady appeared a little flustered. Was it because he intended to take possession of the room next door to her suite? “So, you did not speak in jest? You intend to rent a room?”

“Yes, Miss Vale.” Lawrence pasted an arrogant grin. “I intend to rent all available rooms.”

“I have acquired room nine for the duration of my stay.”

“Excellent. Let us hope rooms eight and ten are still available.”

The lady raised her chin, but the quiver of her bottom lip belied her calm exterior. “Permit me to enter the establishment and take to my room. Wait ten minutes before entering and enquiring about any vacancies.”

But then how would he know she’d reached her room safely?

“I shall enter Jaunay’s and acquire a room. Sleeth will drive you around the square and escort you to the door of the premises in fifteen minutes. By which time you will find me lingering in the lobby. Do not approach me or make eye contact, but upon seeing you enter, I shall make my way upstairs.”

Miss Vale gave a curt nod of compliance, but then a frown appeared on her brow. “Do you intend to make use of a room, or is this to be a rather expensive charade?”

“This is no charade, Miss Vale.” The lady was young, beautiful, wealthy. How the hell could he go home to his bed knowing she was in a hotel alone? “I intend to remain as close to you as my conscience will allow.”

Chapter Seven

Mr Isaac Bradley’s elegant townhouse on South Audley Street was an exquisite example of Palladian architecture. The exuberant stucco work on the building’s facade created an air of majesty that left Verity doubting whether they would receive an invitation to step beyond the threshold.

With a gentle hand on her back, Mr Trent guided her to the front door. “Now, remember you are Mrs Beckford. A widow who lost her husband to a fever a year ago.”

Verity had taken the surname of Vathek’s author. After spending a few sleepless nights considering Sebastian’s markings in the book, she was unlikely to forget it.

“And what is my relationship to you, Mr Trent?” People would be curious. And while most would only ponder the thought, a few forthright individuals might be more direct. “Lord knows, we would not want people to assume I am your mistress.”

Mr Trent cast her a sidelong glance and arched a brow. “Where possible, we will tell the truth. And the truth is that we are friends brought together by the tragic loss of close family members.”

Friends.

Friends were people who shared an affection. Did Mr Trent look upon her as a sister, then? Someone in need of care and guidance? He had certainly struggled to hide his concerned gaze when she took breakfast with Miss Trimble this morning. She’d felt his piercing stare from across the far side of the dining room. Might he look upon her as a companion with shared interests? Or did he feel the same spark of attraction, a fondness that could easily develop into something more profound?

“On the subject of family members, may I express my deepest sympathies on the death of Mr Farrow?” It occurred to her that during their lengthy conversations, she had not offered her condolences. “To lose one’s only brother must be painful indeed.”

Mr Trent raised the lion-head knocker and let it fall against the brass plate. “Regretful rather than painful. I learned a long time ago that if one is to survive in this world, it is better to detach from maudlin sentimentality.”

“Emotion is not exclusive. If one does not feel pain, Mr Trent, how might one feel joy?”

While she had witnessed him smile, the action carried a certain aloofness. Did he ever laugh? Laugh deep and hearty? Did he ever sigh with pleasure, sigh with the pure bliss that came from simply being alive?

The gentleman did not have a chance to answer. Mr Bradley’s butler opened the door no more than a hand’s width and peered at them through suspicious eyes. After a brief conversation where Mr Trent admitted to not having an appointment, he thrust a calling card into the butler’s hand and instructed him to present it to his master.

The butler seemed almost relieved to shut the door, and they were forced to wait beneath the portico in the hope he would return promptly.

Verity glanced up at Mr Trent. “Judging from the butler’s odd manner, I doubt Mr Bradley receives many callers. His bottom lip trembled when you handed him the calling card.”

“That’s because I wrote the word brethren on the bottom.” Mr Trent straightened upon hearing the clip of shoes echoing in the hall beyond the black door. “It occurred to me last night that it might be our only hope of gaining entrance.”

Last night he had taken residency in room eight—Miss Trimble had moved to room ten—though he had the choice of sleeping in any one of the five rooms he had rented for the week. Of course, during moments of fancy, Verity imagined nothing but a thin wall separating their beds, separating her body and his. The thought of Mr Trent stripping off his clothes left her restless. Visions of his muscular physique had invaded her mind, making it impossible to sleep.

“Well, we will know soon enough,” she said just before the butler opened the door wide and bid them entrance.