Dark and dingy, the narrow lane screamed of danger. The same sickening smell followed her, pestering like a stray dog, a reminder that this was not the peaceful country village of Shepperton, but a monstrous underbelly where the sick and starving made their own rules.
Verity moved stealthily along, aware of Sleeth’s heavy gait lugging behind. Every few steps, the coachman mumbled a curse, groaned and stopped to examine his soles.
“Dirty beggars” was but one audible complaint.
Verity kept her eyes trained on the shadows in the distance. To look at the dirty faces of those sleeping in doorways was like a stab to her heart. What in heaven’s name did men like Mr Layton and Mr Wincote want in a place such as this? She could not believe they were in the business of selling dead bodies—not men from such prestigious families.
She came to an abrupt halt. “Which house did Mr Wincote enter?”
The coachman shrugged his shoulders. “We should return to the carriage, miss.” He glanced at his filthy feet as a debutante would a stain on her pristine white gown. “Mr Trent will ’ave my guts for garters if he finds—”
Two men staggered out of a door a mere ten feet ahead. The fools swayed left and right as they struggled to stand.
All the air escaped Verity’s lungs.
Fear churned in her stomach.
Drunken sots had no command over their morals. But she had a blade and a crook and would fight any rogue desperate to try his luck.
“Don’t just stand there, Sleeth.” Mr Cavanagh’s impatient voice reached her ears. “Help me get him back to the carriage.”
Verity blinked—saw that the man whose knees kept buckling was none other than Mr Trent. If she had been scared before, she was petrified now. Blood trickled from his mop of ebony hair. The rivulets ran down a cheek deathly in pallor. His full lips were blue and drawn thin, and she imagined kissing them a hundred times in the hope of bringing them back to life.
“What happened to him?” The gnawing sense of dread made her want to retch. She thrust her knife back in its sheath and straightened her skirts. “Who did this?” She fought the urge to touch him, to pat his chest, cup his cheek, reassure herself all was well.
“I don’t know.” Mr Cavanagh took one arm and draped it around his shoulders while Sleeth took the other. The coachman cared nothing for his feet as he supported his master’s weight. “I heard the door slam, crept downstairs and found Trent sprawled on the cellar floor.”
He must have disturbed someone, taken a hit to the head.
“Have you examined the wound?” Panic clung to every syllable. Should they not attempt to stem the bleeding before moving him? But what if the perpetrator came back?
Not Mr Wincote.
Not Mr Layton.
Lord Sellwood, then. Why had they not thought to stalk him through the ballrooms?
“Will we even rouse a doctor at this time of night?” In Shepperton, Dr Wilson slept so soundly cannon fire couldn’t wake him.
“We’ll call on Dr Redman.” Mr Cavanagh’s breathless pants mirrored her own erratic heartbeat. “Wycliff pays the doctor handsomely to be at his beck and call.” The gentleman cursed. “Trent is the one who always deals with these matters. Trent always knows what to do.”
Verity understood Mr Cavanagh’s frustration. Mr Trent’s commanding presence put everyone at ease. He exuded an authority that made her feel safe. Secure. It wasn’t just his impressive size that gave him a masterful air, but his steadfast loyalty, and the hint of fragility hidden just beneath the surface.
A woman might search for a lifetime and never find a man who aroused her mind and body, find a man who spoke to her soul. The thought of having such a treasure ripped from her grasp sent a rush of emotion surging to her throat. The hard lump made it difficult to swallow. She had grown attached to Mr Trent. So attached, she could not lose his friendship now.
“As soon as we reach the carriage, I shall examine the wound.” Not that she was an expert in medical matters, but the need to appear useful was as ingrained in her character as the lines on her palm.
Reaching the carriage was not as problematic as trying to lug a semi-conscious man of considerable size through the narrow doorway. The few passersby either had their own mischievous deeds to contend with or presumed the lord was drunk and had accidentally wandered into the depths of hell.
“Take a seat, Miss Vale.” Mr Cavanagh directed her to the opposite door. “When Wycliff was shot, Scarlett cradled his head while his coachman set to work on the wound. A similar plan might ease Trent’s pain.”
“I’m no seamstress.” Sleeth’s beady eyes expanded to twice their usual size. “These hands ain’t capable of holdin’ anythin’ smaller than reins.” He held up his meaty paws as proof. “But I can drive like the devil if need be. There ain’t another coachman in all of London that can beat Sleeth in a race.”
“We can consider the finer points once we have Lawrence in the carriage,” Verity said, aware that this was the first time she had spoken the gentleman’s n
ame with striking familiarity.
Mr Trent’s heavy lids flickered open, and he groaned, “No doctor. Just get m-me to bed.”