“That’s ridiculous.” Lord, now she wished she had slammed the book shut and not given it a second thought. “It is nothing more than a statement intended to play to your weakness.”
“A statement that is accurate to a fault.”
He marched over to the washstand and plunged his hands into the cold water. The muscles in his shoulders were tense, his stance rigid. It was as if an army of pious men had charged into the room and brought fresh reinforcements.
“Our passions stemmed from more than a physical need,” she said, for she could sense his retreat, knew he planned to position himself behind the solid walls of his righteous fortress. “Love cannot be measured by a set of standards.”
&
nbsp; “You need to get dressed.” He cupped his hands and splashed water over his face. “We will discuss the nature of our relationship this evening. That’s if I am not locked in a cell in Newgate charged with murdering John Layton and Phillip Wincote.”
Every firm muscle in his back bore the evidence of his barely contained rage.
“Do not sink to their level. The book is a means to draw you out of this room.” To punish him, hurt him, to make him pay for prying into the Brethren’s affairs.
“I intend to have the matter concluded before we dine together tonight.”
“If you mean to visit these men, I am coming with you.” She braced herself for an argument, but he answered her demand with a resigned sigh.
He turned to her, his face twisted in anguish. “Then return to your room and dress. Strap your blade to your thigh and bring your gentleman’s satchel. While these men are intent on mischief, I’ll not let you out of my sight.”
Chapter Seventeen
The atmosphere in the carriage hummed with volatile energy, made worse by the fact Lawrence sat opposite her with his copy of Vathek on one knee and her cousin’s open on the other.
“The handwriting is identical.” Eyes as cold as the mossy pools on the moors stared at her. “Though I’m surprised a man of Wincote’s intellect thought to devise such a plan. To find the relevant passages, he must know this book by heart.”
“Maybe that’s the job of his accomplice, although Mr Layton appears equally inept. I imagine they find the game amusing.” It was their conceit and lack of conscience that made the men formidable opponents.
“The game has ceased to be amusing.” His expression turned grave. “Indeed, it occurs to me that this won’t be over until one of us is dead.”
Verity clutched her satchel. Fear flowed like an icy river through her veins. “One of us?”
“It’s Wincote or me. Layton is just his lackey.” He inhaled deeply. “Which is why I have changed my mind and am taking you to Bruton Street. Wycliff will keep you safe.”
Her heart stopped for a second, maybe two.
Without her to calm his temper, he would tear into Wincote, and murder the man in his own drawing room. The need to prove himself better than the dishonest degenerates who graced the ballrooms might put paid to all hopes for their future.
“You need me,” she blurted. “I am the only one who can confirm Mr Wincote is the man who attacked me. What if you’re mistaken, and Mr Layton is the monster? What if you end up in Newgate and I’m left alone waiting for Mr Layton to exact his revenge?”
He cursed and ground his teeth while absorbing the truth of the dilemma.
“We began this journey together,” she pressed. “Do not shut me out. Do not render me incapable and cast me aside.”
“You’re more capable than most men I know. That is not the problem here.”
“You want to protect me. The best way to do that is to keep me by your side.” She fought the need to cross the carriage and soothe away his fears. He was a man who trusted logic more than his emotions.
The only indication he had changed his mind was a loud rap on the roof, followed by garbled instructions to Sleeth delivered through the half-open window.
Neither of them spoke during the journey to Brunswick Square. Upon alighting from the carriage, Lawrence informed Sleeth that he was to stand guard and kick down Wincote’s door if he heard Verity so much as whimper.
Wincote’s butler, a man whose puffy red eyes and grey pallor told the story of his master’s need to keep late hours, informed them that the rogue was still abed. Hardly surprising considering he’d stalked them to Leicester Square in the early hours.
So who had delivered the copy of Vathek this morning? The porter who’d found it on the reception desk had no recollection of seeing a man sneaking into the hotel lobby. But if Wincote was abed, Mr Layton might have easily acted the errand boy.
“Let me explain my position.” Lawrence gave the servant a look equal to Medusa’s deathly stare. “If you do not invite us inside and rouse your master, I shall be forced to knock you aside and drag the miscreant from bed myself.”