No one rushed in with the lamps.
No one came to their aid.
Why would they when this was all part of the game?
“Trent.” The voice sounded like Mr Cavanagh and came from the direction of the door.
“Bloody hell!” Mr Trent held on to her, continued to lash out at his unknown assailant.
Victim!
What if the card was a threat?
What if someone snuffed out Mr Trent’s light as easily as the candles?
Verity wrapped her arm around his waist. With a firm grip of her crook, she lashed out hoping to ward off another assault.
“Ouch!” The sharp point of a pin stabbed her finger. Every instinct said to snatch her hand back and rub the injury, but she hit out with her crook again until the malevolent presence retreated—disappeared.
“What happened?” she asked on a breathless pant.
Before Mr Trent could answer, the door creaked open, bringing a faint sliver of light from the hall beyond. The majordomo entered carrying a lit lantern in each hand. As soon as he placed them on the side table and lit the candles in the gilt branches, it was evident from the glimpse of bare behinds that some couples were still engaged in amorous activity.
Mrs Crandall clapped her hands to gain everyone’s attention. “Step back against the wall and make a circle,” she said as the room grew brighter and the guests hurried to straighten their clothes. “The victim must remain on the floor. We will take it in turns to guess the culprit.” She turned to a woman on her right whose breasts had escaped her bodice. “Accepting defeat so soon, my dear, or are you eager to get the real party underway?”
“Where the hell is Wincote and Layton?” Mr Trent scoured the room with his narrowed gaze.
Verity followed his line of sight and noted both men were missing. “They could not have left by the drawing room door, else the light from the hallway would have cut through the darkness.”
He turned to face her. “Are you all right? When I promised a wild adventure, this was not what I had in mind.”
Verity smiled as she drank in the lines of concern etched on his brow. No one had ever cared for her opinion. No one had ever cared for her welfare as much as Mr Trent. But as her gaze dropped to his impressive chest, she slapped her hand over her mouth to stifle a gasp.
Mr Trent’s heavy frown showed his confusion.
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bsp; “I was waiting near the door for—” Mr Cavanagh stopped abruptly as he came to join them. He, too, jerked his head back in shock. “What the devil? Who pinned that to your coat?”
The gentleman glanced down at his lapel, snatched the card and ripped it from its securing pin. That night in the graveyard, he had looked like Lucifer—all dark and menacing. Now, the devil himself might flee from Mr Trent’s murderous stare.
He held the white card in his hand and examined the large letter B—the only marking. The noise in the background muffled into insignificance as she watched the muscle in his cheek flex and waited for his response.
“B for Brethren,” Mr Cavanagh said with a sour expression. “Though it’s missing its crown.”
“B for bastard.” One could not miss the pain in Mr Trent’s voice. “No doubt most would consider that appropriate.”
Verity touched his arm. “One’s bloodline does not define a man. Having mentioned the men’s names to Mrs Crandall, it is fair to assume Mr Wincote or Mr Layton is responsible for the prank.”
“The fact the symbol is inaccurate would suggest that whoever pinned the card to your chest lacks knowledge of the club.” While dressed in the costume of a Roman emperor, Mr Cavanagh’s opinion carried an air of authority. Yet Verity was more inclined to believe someone drew the letter in a hurry.
Mr Trent did not look the least bit convinced, either. “Then how was it I had the victim card? If one assumes this card carries the mark of the Brethren, then it must be a warning. They’ve marked me. The question is for what?”
They had no opportunity to discuss the matter further because Mrs Crandall barged in between them. “Do one of you possess the victim card? What is the point of arranging a game when people refuse to play?”
Mr Trent stared down his nose. “Cavanagh is the lothario, Mrs Beckford the vixen, and I had the pontificating priest. Wincote and Layton have made a sudden exit. One of them must have the card.”
Judging by Mrs Crandall’s initial questions and exasperated sigh as she swung around and glared at those in the room, the woman did not know which guests had which cards. She couldn’t possibly have arranged for Mr Trent to have the victim card. Not unless she was an extremely skilled actress.