udly. “Dr Redman is dressing and will be down in a moment.”
Mr Trent drew his hands from under her skirts, clasped her chin and said, “I do nothing in half measures, Verity. Take time to think about what I’ve said.”
What had he said?
There had been no direct mention of marriage. No mention of love—other than the arousing way he’d spoken about claiming her body. She would have to find an opportunity to probe him further, to understand his motives.
“Wait!” he called to Mr Cavanagh before turning to her. “I’ll not have him see you looking dishevelled.” With extreme care and attention, he pushed the stray locks of hair behind her ears, straightened her costume. He glanced at the swell of her breasts and sighed. “Perhaps it is better if you sit next to me. The urge to sleep abandoned me the moment you claimed my mouth with your skilled little tongue.”
Mr Cavanagh knocked on the door again. “Dr Redman is here.”
Verity glanced at the door. She longed to have time to talk to Mr Trent without any disturbances, to determine the nature of these strange feelings commanding her mind and body. But his head injury might need stitching, and his welfare took precedence over her own. Indeed, every instinct said she shouldn’t leave him to sleep alone tonight.
Chapter Fourteen
“I’ll not trouble Wycliff when all he wants is time alone with his bride.” Mr Trent stared at Mr Cavanagh with a stern look of determination. “And I’ll not spend the night with you in Jermyn Street, either. I shall stay at Jaunay’s Hotel as arranged.”
“You should not be alone tonight.” Mr Cavanagh’s remark echoed Verity’s concern. While Dr Redman believed the wound would heal without the need for stitches, it paid to err on the side of caution. “You heard what the doctor said. After a head injury, it is not uncommon for one to fall asleep and never wake up.”
“After all that has occurred tonight, I shall not leave Miss Vale at the hotel.” Mr Trent looked more formidable than ever. “And she cannot spend the night with you.”
“No.” The golden-haired gentleman relaxed back in the carriage seat, although the vehicle remained stationary. “Not unless she wishes to be the talk of the ton tomorrow and marked as my latest conquest. That said, I welcome any opportunity to rouse Cassandra’s disapproval.”
The way Mr Cavanagh’s mouth curled downwards at the mere mention of the woman’s name caused a prickle of intrigue.
“You only have to breathe, and Cassandra expresses her disapproval,” Mr Trent replied, seemingly eager to steer the conversation away from where he should convalesce. “When it comes to Cassandra, you must rejoice your illegitimacy. Else your father would have you shackled to the lady, forever taunted by the depths of your inadequacy.”
Mr Cavanagh laughed, but his eyes failed to reflect his amusement. Indeed, he looked, dare she say, almost sorrowful. “Then I’m grateful the Earl of Tregarth is a wicked scoundrel.” He gave a snort of contempt. “Besides, the chit is betrothed to that feckless fool Murray. Let him suffer a life of infernal whining.”
Mr Cavanagh was a terrible liar. For a man so astute, Mr Trent’s inability to recognise the fact proved equally surprising. Or perhaps he feigned ignorance out of concern for his friend’s secret turmoil.
“Have you been friends for a long time?” Verity assumed they had. The men conversed with ease, like close siblings who knew each other’s fears and ambitions, who had lived through the same trials and tribulations.
“We met at school at the age of thirteen.” Mr Cavanagh smiled, the first genuine expression since learning Mr Trent would survive his injury. “Trent saved me from a beating, and Wycliff joined to even the odds.”
Mr Trent’s eyes brightened at the memory. “Being men of questionable birth, we soon founded our own club. Indeed, we’ve been close ever since.”
Mr Cavanagh chuckled. “Which is why I refuse to leave him alone tonight and insist on joining him at Jaunay’s.”
Disappointment formed like a dead weight in Verity’s chest. How might she break down Mr Trent’s barriers? How might she offer to care for him with Mr Cavanagh bearing witness?
“There’s no need.” Mr Trent appeared more than reluctant to accept his friend’s help.
“I insist.” Mr Cavanagh lowered the window and instructed Sleeth to ferry them to Jaunay’s Hotel in Leicester Square. “We’ve yet to identify the man who pounced from the shadows and walloped you on the head. Equally, what if Wincote is tired of your meddling and seeks to take advantage of your vulnerability?”
Mr Trent arched a brow. “Even with a pounding ache in my temple and the odd lights flashing before my eyes, I am more than a match for Wincote.”
The carriage jerked forward, and Verity slid closer to Mr Trent. Whenever they touched, heat flooded her stomach, sent tiny pulses to her core. The gentleman reached out to prevent her from falling forward. Their eyes locked, and the power of that magnificent green gaze touched her soul.
“The question now is, who the devil hit you if it wasn’t Wincote or Layton?” Mr Cavanagh mused.
“You questioned Sleeth again.” Mr Trent’s attention remained focused on her face, despite replying to Mr Cavanagh. “He’s certain he saw both men leave with what we think might be a body rolled in a rug?”
Verity had failed to think of a plausible reason why the men might transport such an unusual item at night.
“Sleeth saw a man dressed in a black domino, his counterpart dressed in Elizabethan garb. Identical costumes to those worn by Wincote and Layton.”
“Is there another entrance or exit out of Clement’s Lane?” she asked, keen to find a distraction from lascivious thoughts of the handsome man sitting beside her. “Perhaps they knew you were following them, and one returned to the house from another direction.”