His dark gaze shot to the opposite side of the room. Throwing daggers of disdain towards Mr Wincote and Mr Layton, he ripped up the card and threw the tiny pieces onto the floor.
“If this is a game to unnerve me, they’ve made a huge mistake.” His striking eyes turned stone cold. “Mrs Crandall must have had a hand in this.”
Mr Cavanagh frowned. “Are you the victim?”
“The victim some blackguard will murder once they snuff out the candles,” Mr Trent confirmed.
“Perhaps it is nothing more than a coincidence.” Here she was saying she never lied and yet this wasn’t an accident. A malevolent force was at work. And evil men thrived on evil deeds.
She found the courage to look across the room. Both scoundrels who’d attended the house party that weekend continued to glance in their direction.
“One card could be a coincidence,” Mr Trent said. “But all three of our cards cast a slight on our characters.”
“When you revealed the names of the suspects to Mrs Crandall, you knew she would inform those concerned.” Mr Cavanagh’s smirk turned menacing. “I say we drag the sly snakes into the garden and beat them until one confesses.”
Mr Trent flexed his fingers, and the bones cracked. The devilish gleam in his eyes confirmed his desire to have his revenge. “Do you care if Mrs Crandall strikes our names from her guest list?”
“Care?” Mr Cavanagh glanced at the woman in question. “The prospect of avoiding her wandering hands is worth the cut direct. Were it not for you and Wycliff she’d have felt the whip of my tongue long ago.”
“Then let us create mayhem.” Mr Trent turned to Verity. “Follow us into the garden. At no point must you remove your mask.”
Verity nodded as panic flared to life in her chest. What if other guests came to the aid of Mr Wincote and Mr Layton? What if half the men in the room were members of the Brethren?
Her fears were compounded when Mrs Crandall raised her hands in the air and suddenly cried with avidity, “Let the murder mystery begin!”
Guests extinguished nearby candles, plunging the room into blackness. Excitement reached fever-pitch. Ladies’ coy giggles and gentlemen’s breathless groans swirled about the room like errant spectres. Warning of the wickedness at play in every dark, dingy corner.
A choking fear gripped Verity’s throat.
What if the masked rogue seized hold of her and spirited her away to claim the unpaid debt? What if the Brethren had grown tired of Mr Trent prying into their affairs and he was the intended victim?
Verity jumped when firm fingers settled around her wrist and pulled her close.
“Stay by my side,” Mr Trent whispered. “Hold on to my arm, or my waist if you have to, but don’t let go.”
She had no intention of going anywhere. She hugged his arm as if a tornado might sweep her away should she lose her grip.
“Make for the door.” Mr Cavanagh’s voice cut through the lewd comments echoing through the room. While the crowd sought their pleasure, they shuffled left hoping to avoid their prey.
People pushed and barged past her shoulder. Groping hands caressed and fondled places reserved for a husband’s pleasure. Verity hit out with her crook and walloped someone’s hard body.
“Ouch! So you want it rough.”
“Step away, sir.” Verity saw nothing but ominous shadows.
Mr Trent cursed. He tensed, slid an arm about her waist and held her so tightly she had to heave to catch her breath. She wasn’t sure what happened next. Mr Trent swung forward. She heard a crack and a thud and presumed it was her attacker who hit the floor near her feet.
“Did you punch him?”
“As hard as one can in the dark,” Mr Trent confirmed as they continued shuffling towards the door. They banged into a table and sent the gong clattering. “Damnation!”
Everyone must have presumed the clang was a minute’s warning—a signal the immoral game would soon be at an end. The energy in the room thrummed with urgent intensity. The moans grew louder, the giggles and pants and moist slapping sang the same impatient tune.
And then the surrounding atmosphere changed as someone invaded her personal space. She might be blind in the dark, but she could sense the intruder’s volatile aura, smell the sweet sickly notes of his cologne.
Verity held her breath, waited for the fiend to attack with his groping hands and lustful grunts. But it seemed she was not the intended target.
“Get your damn hands off me!” Mr Trent shouted.