The Mark of a Rogue (Scandalous Sons 2)

“Be aware, some siblings murder their kin to get what they want,” Wycliff countered.

His friends continued their conversation, but Wycliff’s comment echoed over and over in Lawrence’s mind. Love and hate were but opposites sides of the same coin. During his youth, jealousy had left him despising Charles Farrow. He’d chalked it up to being half-brothers, but perhaps all brothers nursed secret resentments.

It was then that the lightning bolt struck, and he had an epiphany.

The black veil hindering his vision suddenly slipped.

Isaac Bradley kept a copy of Vathek. He was so obsessed with books, probably knew every line. Isaac Bradley’s brother bore the mark of the Brethren. And everyone who carried the mark ended up dead. But if Bradley was involved why lead them to John Layton?

“Change of direction.” Lawrence yanked down the window and called for the driver to take them to South Audley Street. “I don’t care how much it costs. The quicker you drive, the more I’ll pay.”

“Is that not Mr Bradley’s address?” Cavanagh asked when Lawrence returned to his seat and thrust his hand through his hair.

“He owns a copy of a book I’m keen to examine.”

Wycliff and Cavanagh stared at him.

“I’m also interested to learn about the nature of his relationship with his brother,” Lawrence added. “After all, not everyone loves their siblings.”

The root of most plots and scandals stemmed from something that happened in the past, so long ago most scarce remembered the details. In Lawrence’s mind, Wincote was the devious blackguard who’d sauntered into Verity’s bedchamber to steal her virginity as payment for the debt. Nothing mattered more to him than making the rogue pay. And so he had lost sight of the real players in this game.

Had Layton killed Joseph Bradley?

Was Isaac Bradley out to kill every member of the Brethren to avenge his brother’s death?

Or was Isaac Bradley a member of the Brethren, too?

“You suspect Mr Bradley is involved?” Wycliff said, his tone grave.

“I don’t know what the hell to think.” His instant reaction upon seeing the hunched figure was one of pity. The man lacked Lawrence’s strength of mind. He hid in the shadows, scared of the Brethren. “I profess to be a man of logic yet fear I’ve floundered at the first hurdle.”

“Any man who commits murder to this degree knows how to conceal the evidence of his activities.” Wycliff arched a brow. “And your mind has been distracted of late. Love does that to a man.”

“Love?” Lawrence mocked, though lacked the conviction to deny the claim.

“I suspect you fell in love with Miss Vale the moment she rummaged about in her satchel and plonked a loaded pistol in your palm.”

He thought to argue but could not lie to his friends. “It may have been when she asked me to strip off my clothes in a graveyard so she could examine my bare chest.” Or when she chose Guinevere and said she would always be faithful to her husband. Or the first time she touched his arm seeking reassurance.

Wycliff’s eyes widened.

Cavanagh chuckled. “You stripped in a graveyard, and you only tell us now?”

“Miss Vale wanted to confirm I did not bear the mark of the Brethren.”

“Indeed.”

They fell silent, were no doubt concocting various images of the scene in their minds. Perhaps they might have pressed him further, probed him for his thoughts on marriage, but the hackney slowed as it pulled up to the pavement in South Audley Street.

“This time, we’re coming with you,” Wycliff said as he and Cavanagh alighted. “If Bradley is involved, his cunning exceeds that of most men.”

Lawrence paid the driver the full fare, gave him an advance for the return journey and demanded he wait regardless of how long it took. And while the driver haggled to gain a few extra shillings, Lawrence could think of nothing but the depths of Mr Bradley’s deception.

The march along the pavement to Bradley’s front door brought a mix of trepidation and an impatience to learn the truth. Lawrence paused with his hand on the knocker, knowing that whatever happened during the next thirty minutes, he would be greatly relieved or desperately frustrated.

“Unless you knock, the butler won’t answer,” Cavanagh teased.

“Alerting him to our presence is necessary if you wish to gain information from Mr Bradley,” Wycliff added.