The Mark of a Rogue (Scandalous Sons 2)

“Healthy?” Mr Cavanagh snorted. “Gluttonous would be the appropriate word.”

“Someone paid you to cast me as the victim?” Mr Trent returned to the matter at hand. “How much?”

Woods wiped away the evidence of his sudden breakdown and straightened his turban. “A hundred pounds.”

“Was it Layton?”

“Layton? No. Mr Wincote.” Woods sniffed. “He said it was a joke, that you often play pranks, that you’d find it amusing.”

“Do I look amused?” Mr Trent growled. “And Mrs Crandall knew nothing of this?”

“No.” The man’s bottom lip quivered. “You can’t tell her.”

“Did Wincote mention an affiliation with a group known as the Brethren?”

Woods frowned and shook his head for the umpteenth time. But then his eyes widened with recognition. “Mrs Crandall asked him if he’d heard the name, asked him about a branding mark

and said a member threatened you and you were making enquiries.”

No wonder Mr Wincote had kept his gaze trained on them for the entire evening. Mr Layton would know of their investigation, too, as having escaped the drawing room via the terrace doors, the men must be working together.

“And what was Wincote’s reply?” Mr Cavanagh said.

Indeed, Verity was equally curious.

Woods drew his waistcoat across his chest and clutched the edges. “Mrs Crandall taunted him and asked if he’d like to show her his bare chest. He laughed and said only a fool would scar his body to gain entrance to a gentleman’s club.”

Verity shuffled closer. This was getting more interesting by the minute.

“Mr Wincote said he’d show her in the privacy of her chamber but had heard she’d given Mr Cavanagh the key.”

“Damnation!” Mr Cavanagh blurted. “Perhaps I should purchase two tickets for the next ship leaving from Dover and take you with me, Woods.”

The servant’s eyes gleamed brighter than the paste jewels on his turban. “I know enough about a gentleman’s wardrobe to serve as your valet.”

“Forgive me,” Mr Cavanagh said in a sheepish tone. “I spoke in jest.”

The servant’s shoulders slumped.

Perhaps Mr Trent felt pity for the poor man because he said, “Keep me informed should you discover anything further about Wincote or Layton and I shall match Wincote’s sum of a hundred pounds. You may send word to Mr Cavanagh on Jermyn Street if you have any news.”

A flurry of excitement took command of Woods’ countenance. “There is something else. Before the game, Mr Wincote asked me to hire him a hackney and have it wait on the corner of Red Lion Street.”

Mr Trent breathed a frustrated sigh. “Did he happen to say where he was going?”

“No, but he met me on the street and pressed a few sovereigns into my palm, promised to pay the hundred pounds on his next visit.”

Verity doubted the man would ever see the money. Unlike Mr Trent, the rogue lacked integrity.

“When he climbed into the hackney,” Woods continued, “the driver turned in the street and headed towards Holborn.”

“Holborn?” Mr Trent repeated almost to himself. “I was under the impression he had a house in Brunswick Square. No doubt he has business—”

The rattle of the door handle made them all whip their heads around.

“Just some eager couple looking for a room,” Mr Cavanagh said, offering a wink.

The caller turned the handle numerous times before banging on the door. “Who’s in there?” Mrs Crandall’s annoyed screech was unmistakable. “Open the door. There are rooms upstairs provided for your use.”