The butler’s jowls wobbled. After a confused glance at the satchel draped across Verity’s cornflower-blue pelisse, he gestured them into the house and left them waiting in the drawing room while he went to wake the devil from his slumber.
Lawrence took the opportunity to search the drawers in the side table, study the poetry book discarded on the chair, though found nothing incriminating.
“We should search the study.” Lawrence crossed the room and peered out into the hall.
“Wait,” she whispered. “If Mr Wincote finds you snooping who knows how he will react.”
“Perhaps provoking him is the only means of getting to the truth. The scoundrel is—”
A sudden commotion upstairs forced them out into the hall. Loud shouts and cries of panic accompanied the heavy thud of footsteps. At first, she’d thought Mr Wincote had attacked his butler in a fit of rage. But as the servant raced down the stairs so fast he lost his footing, it became evident that something was dreadfully amiss.
Lawrence helped the butler to his feet, gripped him firmly by the shoulders and urged him to take a breath. Two footmen and a maid came hurrying out to witness the hullabaloo.
“What is it?” Lawrence spoke to the man as if he were a few pebbles short of a stack. “Is your master unwell?”
The butler shook his head. “He … he’s dead.”
The maid let out a screech and flopped into a footman’s arms.
“Are you certain he’s not drunk? Downed laudanum to help him sleep?” As always, Lawrence maintained a calm and even temper. “Have you checked for a pulse?”
“His eyes are practically bulging out of their sockets.” The butler spoke quickly. “He looks as if the devil came and ripped his soul from his body during the night.”
She didn’t have the heart to inform him that the devil had claimed Mr Wincote’s soul long ago.
“Then send someone to fetch a constable.” Lawrence jerked his head at the footman not cradling the maid. “My coachman is waiting outside. He will ferry you to the office in Queen Square. It’s closer than Bow Street. Go!”
The fellow darted out of the door and Lawrence relayed the same instructions to Sleeth.
“Perhaps we should check Mr Wincote is dead.” Verity turned to the quivering butler. “Forgive me. It is best to be certain about such things.”
Lawrence shook his head. “I’ll not go upstairs without a witness.”
“What is your name?” Verity smiled at the butler.
“P-Payton, miss.”
“Well, Payton, you must accompany us up to Mr Wincote’s bedchamber, so we can confirm your diagnosis. And you must study the room and tell us if you see anything unusual. Can you do that?”
Payton nodded. “Follow me.”
They traipsed behind the dejected servant, who stopped to gather his composure before escorting them into Mr Wincote’s room.
Mr Wincote was, indeed, dead.
The look of sheer terror in his eyes, the mottled skin, the panic etched on his features would be forever ingrained in her memory. One look at his bare chest confirmed the man had been branded with the mark of the Brethren. One close look at his cruel mouth confirmed he was the rogue who attacked her so viciously. A quick study of the purple bruises on his neck told them how he had met his grisly end.
Lawrence came to stand beside her. “You were right about Layton. Who else could have done this?” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Thankfully, we have an alibi. Miss Trimble saw us at the hotel at three and the porter will verify we never left the building.”
“We have no need to explain ourselves.” Doubt surfaced. Suspicious folk might think Lawrence Trent had a motive to do away with his half-brother. The fact this victim bore the same mark on his chest might lead men to make wrong conclusions. “But we should tell the same story.”
Lawrence kept his eyes trained on the butler when he spoke to her. “Miss Trimble saw you enter your room, and you never left. Cavanagh will say he spent the night with me. I’ll not have it become public knowledge that you came to my bed.”
“I’m not ashamed,” she whispered. “I’ve fallen in love with you, and it cannot be helped.”
He cast her a sidelong glance, his eyes telling a different story to his rigid countenance. “As a woman of sharp intellect, you already know my thoughts on the matter,” he said through almost closed lips. “But I would rather not make a romantic declaration whilst staring at a dead body. At present, our priority is determining the reason we visited Wincote.”
He was right on the point of establishing a reason for calling. Wrong in the assumption that she might apply logic when it came to feelings of the heart.