A knowing smile played on his lips, but it faded the moment someone chose the inopportune moment to knock on the door.
“We will discuss the matter over dinner this evening.” His gaze slipped over her body in the licentious way that heated her blood. “Once ensconced in my house in Manchester Square, I guarantee we will suffer no disturbances.” He crossed the room, paused before opening the door. “I suggest you hide beneath the sheets. Miss Trimble is most likely on the warpath.”
Panic took hold, though it had nothing to do with encountering Miss Trimble’s wrath. “What if it’s Mr Wincote?”
“Then the man has saved me the trouble of barging into his home in Brunswick Square.”
Verity pulled the bedsheet around her body and slipped out of bed. She grabbed a candlestick, moved out of sight of the door and nodded for Lawrence to proceed.
Lawrence yanked open the door, jerked his head back in surprise. “You may lower your weapon,” he said, bending down to retrieve a package. He peered out into the corridor and then shrugged. “Someone has been kind enough to leave me a gift.”
“A gift?”
He closed the door and brought the package to the bed. The words Lawrence Trent were marked clearly on the brown paper, though after a quick search it was apparent the sender had left no return address.
“It’s a book.” Lawrence felt the size and weight before tugging on the string to reveal the leather-bound volume. “It’s not hard to guess which one.”
“Vathek.” Her heart lurched. “It’s from the Brethren.” Her pulse pounded in her neck while she waited for him to open it at the vacat page. Shock held her rigid, though she knew what to expect.
“Demons lurk amongst us,” he said, reading from the neat script. “Beware the Brethren.” He snorted in amusement. “Must they repeat the same tired warnings? Could they not have thought of something less predictable?”
Verity gripped his arm. “Everyone who’s received the book ends up dead.”
“We don’t know that. Sebastian Vale is the only person we know who died after receiving a warning. There is no evidence Charles possessed a copy.”
“What about Joseph Bradley?”
“The book might belong to his brother. You saw the library. Isaac Bradley has a copy of every book known to man. Until we know Joseph received a similar threat, we cannot make assumptions.”
“Then we should visit Mr Bradley, make our plea and beg him to show us the book.”
“Perhaps. But you saw how nervous he was. Bradley seemed most reluctant to speak about the Brethren.” Lawrence glanced at the veiled threat written on the page. “Besides, the sender may not have underlined the same passages in the text.”
Unperturbed by the intimidating remarks, Lawrence flicked through the first few pages.
Verity watched with bated breath. Impatience took control of her rationale. She fought the urge to snatch the book and conduct her own inspection.
“The first marked line appears early in the text.” She leaned over him and turned to the place she remembered by heart. “I don’t understand.” Staring at the clean, unmarked page only added to her confusion.
“As I’m not a member of the Brethren, perhaps the sender wishes to deliver a different message.” He continued turning the pages. “I cannot help but be somewhat disappointed.”
How could he make light of the situation knowing all that had occurred?
“I have said it before, and I will say it again. Courage and intelligence are no match for devious cunning.”
“Let’s see if Wincote agrees when I throttle him senseless.”
Verity sighed. She seized the book and gave it the scrutiny it deserved. None of the relevant lines bore the Brethren’s warning. “There must be a reason they sent you the book.” As she leafed through the pages, the reason became abundantly clear. One line jumped out to hit her squarely between the eyes. The sentence circled in red ink carried a real threat. “Good Lord.”
“You’ve found something?” Lawrence glanced at the line written by the author but used by the Brethren to drive terror into the hearts of men. “Let us punish him for his perfidy. Perfidy? Clearly, they believe I have committed a different crime to that of murder.”
“Perfidy?” she repeated. “A breach of faith or trust.” She fell silent as the words stabbed at her heart and mind. “There must be other clues.”
There was one more clue—scored near the end of the gothic tale.
Lawrence stared at the words for the longest time. “The punishment of unrestrained passions and atrocious actions,” he eventually said, his voice no longer that of an indifferent man, but of one crippled with guilt. “For once, the Brethren appear to be rather accurate in their assumptions. A man betrays his principles when he displays weak morals.”
Weak morals? He spoke of the intimate love they’d shared.