“No, I understand that now.”
“Trent?” The clopping sound drew closer.
With no time to lose, Lawrence captured Miss Vale’s hand and drew her back into the yard. Mere seconds later, they came upon Cavanagh wearing the sandals, a greatcoat covering his toga.
“Where the hell have you been?” Cavanagh eyed them with a mix of relief and suspicion. “I ventured all the way to St Clement’s and back, and you’ve barely covered ten yards.”
“We hid from footpads.” Guilt rang in Miss Vale’s voice.
“Footpads who turned out to be one drunken devil who could barely stand.” Lawrence decided to divert Cavanagh’s attention away from Miss Vale’s bruised lips and unkempt hair and concentrate on his friend’s mismatched attire. “I trust that is Sleeth’s greatcoat. Would he not part with his boots?”
“Sleeth’s boots are too big. The man has logs for feet.” A smile played at the corners of Cavanagh’s mouth when he noticed Miss Vale’s upturned hem, but he said nothing. “I followed Layton to a house in Clement’s Lane. Wincote appeared and entered a few minutes later. I left Sleeth playing watchman while I came in search of you.”
“If they’re visiting the same person, why the charade?” Miss Vale said, brushing her skirts. “Why did they not simply have the hackney drop them at the front door?”
“Perhaps they wanted to leave a false trail. Perhaps they wished to be secretive about the address.” A dreadful sense of foreboding rippled across Lawrence’s shoulders. “Perhaps it’s a ploy, a means of luring an unsuspecting victim.”
Chapter Twelve
The walk to St Clement’s was not without its hardship. All amorous thoughts of Mr Trent left Verity’s mind the moment they came within a hundred yards of the lane. The disgusting scent of filth and rotten meat permeated the air, clawed at the back of her throat. It was so foul she covered her nose and mouth with her hand for fear of retching.
Mr Trent cast her a sidelong glance when she gripped his arm more firmly. “It’s the smell of the dead. The stench from the slaughterhouses and burial grounds. Here, the living reside amongst decaying corpses. Rats spread disease.”
A sense of dread tightened her nerves.
This area was so far removed from the sprawling green fields of Shepperton, from the likes of Mr Bradley’s extravagant townhouse in Mayfair. The houses were packed as tightly as the poor souls buried in a pauper’s grave. A sinister mist swirled from the gloom like death’s beckoning finger. The hour had long past midnight, yet the constant groan of dissatisfaction echoed from every dirty window and grimy street corner.
Verity lowered her hand. “What business would a man of Mr Wincote’s breeding have here?” Was it naive of her to think that the aristocracy kept to their own part of town?
“Nefarious business, I’m sure.”
Mr Cavanagh pointed to the shadowy outline of a vehicle parked to the left of Clement’s Lane. The entrance to the narrow street might be wide enough for carts and barrows but not a carriage or hackney.
Sleeth climbed down from his box and hurried to greet his master. “Both men left five minutes ago, sir. They carried a package to Portugal Street and climbed into a hackney.”
“A package?” Mr Trent stiffened at her side. “What sort of package?”
“It was hard to tell in the dark, but somethin’ long and thin like a rug.”
Mr Cavanagh sucked in a breath. “This area is a common hunting ground for resurrectionists. You don’t think they’re in the business of selling cadavers?”
A darkness passed over Mr Trent’s handsome features. He rubbed the cleft in his chin. “The words atrocious murderer springs to mind. Some scoundrels have been known to kill in order to provide medical men with fresh bodies. But not men of Layton’s and Wincote’s standing. The price paid hardly warrants the effort.”
“Unless they chose their victims wisely,” Mr Cavanagh countered. “There are many wealthy merchants visiting town, and we’re close to the docks.”
The theory hit Verity like a sharp slap. “Do you think my cousin assisted in such a venture?” Robbing rich foreigners, killing them and selling their bodies? Surely not. Sebastian did not have Mr Trent’s intelligence, but he would not risk swinging from the gallows.
Mr Trent exhaled a heavy sigh. “If he was, then my brother played a part, too. Perhaps once a man is part of the Brethren, he must abide by the wishes of the group.”
Sebastian was foolish enough to befriend immoral men. And had Mr Bradley not confessed to his brother’s poor judgement?
The thought of sinful men drew her gaze to Mr Trent’s lips. The hot, lustful and rather enlightening experience that occurred in the dark doorway marked them as immoral, too. And yet she would taste his lips again in a heartbeat.
Heat swirled in her stomach at the thought.
She had never felt that way about Mr Rowan. Indeed, the idea of intimacy with the rakish gentleman repulsed her. And yet her father would have dragged her down the aisle and forced her to do her duty. Every man she had ever known demanded something from her but gave nothing in return.
Except for Mr Trent.