“Lord, no. Mr Trent’s idea of appropriate garb left a lot to be desired.”
Verity blinked back her surprise. “Mr Trent suggested something unseemly?” Surely not.
“On the contrary.” Scarlett laughed. “Mr Trent wanted you to dress as an abbess.”
Chapter Nine
Lawrence was doomed. Doomed to spend an eternity in the fiery pits of hell. Doomed to break every code that kept him from being like most of the degenerates who graced the parties of the demi-monde. Those who behaved as scandalously as his own blasted parents.
Being ill-prepared for the tempting sight that greeted him when Miss Vale entered the drawing room, all he could do was stand there and stare.
“Somewhat better than an abbess, wouldn’t you say?” Wycliff whispered in Lawrence’s ear and then gave him a friendly nudge.
“Well, Mr Trent, what do you think of my costume?” Miss Vale fixed her gaze upon him and smiled. “Will it suffice?”
Suffice?
The woman exceeded his expectations on every level.
“The outfit is rather becoming, Miss Vale.” Stone the crows. He closed his eyes briefly so as not to gape at the sumptuous breasts about to spill out from the confines of her bodice. “Were that the dress of every shepherdess, I imagine farmers would take more interest in their flock.”
She stepped forward, her frilly pantaloons visible beneath her skirts. “I considered wearing a fichu, but we are attending a party for the demi-monde.”
A fichu would solve the problem of his excessive salivating. And yet the wild devil in him wanted to feast on the display of milky-white flesh. His gaze drifted down to the roses sewn around the hem of her gown, to the trim ankles that no doubt led to shapely calves and soft thighs, thighs that left a man desperate to explore.
The dilemma was enough to send him insane. Soon he would have to mop beads of sweat from his brow, take deep breaths to calm his racing pulse.
“Trust me, Miss Vale,” Wycliff said in the mischievous tone of a man who’d played a hand in this game. “Your costume is far less risqué than most who will attend tonight.”
And yet most men would find the lady’s innocent air and lush figure intriguing. A lack of exposed flesh would rouse just as much interest.
“We shall stay but an hour.” Lawrence would stalk Mr Layton, discover the names of those women in attendance who might have seen his bare chest. “Should you feel uncomfortable, you may return to the carriage and wait with Sleeth.”
Miss Vale studied his black domino and offered a coy smile. “I see you have come as the devil, Mr Trent.”
Lawrence inclined his head. “I am not one for games, Miss Vale, and the bucks give a man dressed in sombre attire a wide berth.”
Indeed, they had better afford his companion the same consideration else there would be hell to pay.
They were greeted at the door of Mrs Crandall’s house by the madam’s majordomo. Known for his handsome good looks, the servant was often a willing participant in these raucous events. Tonight, he wore the garb of a Turkish prince—silk pants, a jewel-encrusted turban and nothing but a gold waistcoat covering his bare chest.
Lawrence raised his black mask. “Mr Trent and Mrs Beckford.”
The majordomo bid them entrance, his beady brown gaze lingering on Miss Vale’s impressive breasts. One punch to the servant’s weak chin would see him crumple like a marionette with broken strings.
With his mask still raised, Lawrence cast the servant a stare that would send Lucifer scurrying back to his lair. “Has Mr Cavanagh arrived?”
“Half an hour ago, sir.” The man met Lawrence’s gaze briefly before turning his attention back to Miss Vale. “Should you require the use of the upper rooms this evening, my mistress has taken charge of the keys.”
Usually, the rooms were left unlocked. It was not surprising to find more than two occupants at rampant play. What had prompted Mrs Crandall’s desire to offer her guests privacy? Had a man with a branding mark on his chest made the suggestion?
Lawrence offered no reply for he would not have the servant presume Miss Vale was free with her favours. He placed his hand at the small of Miss Vale’s back and guided her through the hall, away from Woods’ lecherous gaping.
“We’ll find Cavanagh and see if he has spoken to Mrs Crandall.”
With any luck, Cavanagh had already discovered the names of Layton’s lovers. With his charm, it would not take much to find out if Layton bore the Brethren’s mark. And if he did—
“It would help if we knew Mr Cavanagh’s chosen costume.” Miss Vale fixed her gaze upon him though he suspected she would rather stare into his eyes than at the couples cavorting in the dimly lit hallway.