“Aye, sir.”
The men exchanged shoes, though Sleeth chose to sit atop his box barefooted rather than wear the flimsy sandals.
With some reluctance, Verity slipped out of Mr Trent’s warm coat. “Here, take this. It’s cold out.”
Mr Trent shrugged into his coat and then assisted Verity into the carriage. “If I fail to return, you’re to go to Wycliff and explain what happened tonight.” Without another word, he leaned inside and pressed a chaste kiss to her lips.
The earthy taste of him sparked her desire. “Is the kiss a way of saying I might not see you again?” The need to hold him and never let go came upon her.
He withdrew from the carriage and straightened. “More a thank you for being one of the few people in the world to give a damn about my welfare.” And with that, he closed the door and headed off into the night.
With her choice words and velvet voice, Lawrence feared Miss Vale had found a way to shatter his defences. At first, she had taken to merely feeling her way around the solid walls—an impenetrable fortress built with painstaking precision during his adolescent years. But with every kind gesture, every caring word and heated kiss, she chipped away at the mortar to leave gaping holes.
With his stance weakened, it would not take much for him to surrender. Surrender to the intense yearning that thrummed in his veins. Surrender to the possibility, that by some miracle, he might fall in love. A bond existed between them—something tangible, not imaginary.
The price to have her would be great indeed. It would mean marriage, children who would suffer the same humiliation when their peers learned of their inferior lineage.
“There’s no sign of life, though most people who live here are hovering at death’s door.” Cavanagh’s voice dragged Lawrence from his reverie. “Trent? What do you want to do?”
Lawrence mentally shook himself. He stared at the paint-chipped door and tried to focus on the task at hand. “I trust the door’s locked.” He turned the handle and pushed against the wood, resistance confirming his theory. “A kick or a shoulder barge should suffice.”
“Perhaps we should wait, monitor Wincote’s movements for a few days.” It was unlike Cavanagh to suggest caution. “I have a bad feeling in my bones.”
“No one here will care if we attack the door with an axe. Grave robbers wander the lane with their loot. Drunkards brawl in the street. People will simply think we’ve forgotten our key.”
Having decided to enter the premises in the hope the devil had left clues, Lawrence gathered every ounce of strength and kicked the door an inch below the lock. The wood splintered on impact. He paused and waited for any sign of a commotion.
Nothing.
The woman next door opened the upper window, threw piss from the pot onto the street before slamming down the sash.
They entered the house and closed the door. From the dilapidated state of the other dwellings in the row, he expected to find signs of neglect and misuse inside, too. But as they moved through the dark rooms on the lower floor, it became apparent that this was a place for aristocratic reprobates to enjoy their games away from society’s prying eyes.
Cavanagh moved to the six mahogany chairs and the circular table covered in a green baize. “Though a little shabby, the decor is as one might find in a high-class gaming hell.”
Lawrence scanned the Renaissance-inspired paintings on the walls—scenes of bare-breasted women in various poses—that created an illicit air.
“This must be the only house in the row not converted into lodgings. Clearly those living in the area know nothing of the treasures lying beyond the battered door.”
“Perhaps they do but would rather starve than rob the members of the Brethren.” Lawrence walked to the side table, noted the array of empty bottles, the absence of decanters and glasses. Dust clung to every surface. “This room hasn’t seen a maid in months. Yet it looks like the venue of many wild parties.”
Cavanagh inhaled. “Do you smell that? The stench of stale liquor and the woody remnants of tobacco, but there’s something else, too?”
Whenever Lawrence inhaled, he caught a whiff of a sinister note he could not pinpoint. Something medicinal—opiates or some other curative. In any other home, the scent would not stir the hairs on his nape. But here, the atmosphere carried a malignant force, evil in nature, so that the most innocent aroma hinted at devilry.
Lawrence opened the side-table drawer, found nothing inside but a tinderbox. “We should check the rooms upstairs.”
The need to hurry came upon him. He would rather breathe the diseased air outside than remain in this house a moment longer than necessary.
They mounted the stairs furtively, watching the shadows, anticipating an attack from any quarter. All bedroom doors were open. All were empty. All were decorated like rooms in a brothel—in sumptuous red velvets and dark forest greens. Nothing seemed unusual, bar the scuffs and indentations on the wooden bedframes.
“Rope marks?” Cavanagh ran the tip of his finger over the worn notches. “Cruel men like to master everyone, even their women.”
Nausea roiled in Lawrence’s stomach.
The remark conjured an image of Miss Vale struggling to fight against her attacker. Had Sebastian Vale not come to his senses, Lord knows what the rogue would have done to secure her silence. And yet the lady had lived alone for months after her cousin’s death. The rogue might have easily climbed into her chamber at night and taken the gift denied him. One must assume that the attack had nothing to do with the man wanting to bed Miss Vale, and everything to do with hurting her cousin Sebastian.
Cavanagh crouched by the bed and peered underneath. “It’s too dark. We’d need to light a lamp if we have any hope of finding clues here.” He straightened and brushed the dust from his hands.