With slow, trudging steps, the butler escorted them through the impressive hall with a black-and-white marble floor and walls decorated with Ionic pilasters. The chandelier hanging over the wide staircase was larger than any Verity had seen in the grand homes outside of town.
A sudden flutter of nerves made her draw in a deep breath.
As a man acutely aware of his surroundings, and the silent language often used by those experiencing mild distress, Mr Trent placed a reassuring hand on her back and whispered, “Follow my lead.”
His commanding presence and persuasive voice set her at ease. Those who believed that illegitimate sons were lesser beings had clearly never met this gentleman. Indeed, she was rather grateful for the steady hand guiding her into the morbid room at the end of the hall.
The library was a dark, drab place. Ugly forest-green wallpaper covered the walls behind bookcases so overladen with books the oak shelves bowed. There were books balanced on cluttered tables, books stacked in piles on the floor. There were so many old books that dust choked her throat, left her reluctant to draw breath.
Giving the butler their names, the servant announced them to the hunched figure bent over the desk on the far side of the room.
“Thank you, Crailey.” Mr Bradley made no mention of refreshments as he watched his butler leave the room and close the door. He turned his nervous eyes on them and gestured to the chairs positioned randomly about the place. “Won’t you sit?”
Mr Bradley did not move to greet them, did not call for a footman to move the chairs closer to the desk.
With some reluctance, Verity sat in a chair flanked on both sides by turrets of books—a veritable fortress to the written word. Mr Trent occupied the chair closest to the desk. No one spoke as Mr Bradley continued to read from the open vo
lume laid out before him.
Some people treated books like prized possessions and refused to read them for fear of marking the pages. To some people, books were as important as their daily meal, and they devoured them with a voracious appetite, yet still hungered for more. Mr Bradley belonged to the latter.
“Having witnessed the note on your calling card, Mr Trent, I presume you’re here because you believe I have some knowledge of the Brethren.” His voice held a cautious tone, though he did not tear his gaze away from his work. “Having arrived with a female companion, I know you’re not here to offer membership.”
Just hearing him mention the elusive club sent Verity’s heart racing.
“I conceive we have something in common, Mr Bradley.” Mr Trent’s penetrating stare did not leave the fellow. “My brother bore the Brethren’s mark, as did yours.”
Verity was about to mention Sebastian but remembered she was no longer Verity Vale but the widow Mrs Beckford.
“Both men are dead,” Mr Trent continued in a harsh tone that should have made Mr Bradley jump and take notice. But he did not even flinch. “Both men died mysteriously.”
“There is nothing perplexing about being shot in a duel, though I cannot pass judgement on the way your brother met his end.”
Verity observed the gentleman still bowing over his book. Did his detached manner stem from a dislike of visitors? Was his lack of good manners a hint for them to leave?
“My brother drowned, yet he was a remarkably strong swimmer.”
Mr Bradley raised his head a fraction. “Drunk men can scarce walk straight. Those addicted to laudanum suffer from weak limbs.”
“What if I told you that other men bearing the mark met their ends suddenly?” Mr Trent pressed on with his argument. “That I have written proof all is not as it seems with the Brethren?”
A handful of underlined words were not proof per se, but the comment dragged Mr Bradley’s attention away from his book.
“Then I would say you should not repeat that information beyond these walls.” The man’s dark eyes flitted nervously towards the door. “Demons lurk amongst us, Mr Trent, or so my brother believed.”
It took immense effort for Verity to suppress a gasp. Mr Bradley had used the exact phrase Sebastian had written in the book. Although one could not mistake the tremble in Mr Bradley’s voice as he uttered the words of warning.
“That is a saying often used by members of the Brethren,” Verity said from the far corner of the room. Mr Trent was a mere ten feet away, yet the distance seemed cavernous. “Might I ask when your brother conveyed these dark suspicions?”
Mr Bradley failed to make eye contact when he said, “While I am aware of Mr Trent’s lineage, I do not know your name, Mrs Beckford. Your husband was—?”
“Alive, sir, and now he is dead.” Verity raised her chin. “Mr Trent and I have built a friendship based on the fact we have both lost loved ones who bore the mark of the Brethren.” Fearing the gentleman might press her for more information, Verity sniffed and blinked as if the mere thought of the tragedy was too much to bear.
“Did you know your brother had a mark branded on his chest?” Mr Trent’s question captured Mr Bradley’s interest. “Did he ever mention other members of this sect?”
Mr Bradley whirled away from his desk. It was then she noticed that the man was not bent over the book so he might read the text more clearly, but because he had a permanent stoop.
Verity tried not to stare.