The Mark of a Rogue (Scandalous Sons 2)

“You decided?” she mocked. “But your brother died two years ago, and he bore the mark of the Brethren.”

He tutted. “My brother bore the heraldic symbol we designed when we were children, as do I. It is the mark of the Bradley dynasty, not some pathetic gentleman’s club. Shame Joseph proved to be an unworthy member. But one must take no prisoners when one is on a mission.”

The implication he had killed his brother roused confusion. Would the witness not have noticed one man had a stoop?

Bradley’s mention of prisoners brought to mind the cage in the cellar. Perhaps she might lure the rogue down there, push him in and lock the door.

“I thought you kept your prisoners in the cellar.”

“The cellar? Ah, you speak of Layton’s little idea to strike fear into those who couldn’t pay.” Mr Bradley smiled. “Your cousin spent two nights down there amongst the rats, crying and whimpering like a schoolboy. It is quite amusing to imagine him scurrying down the lane when he realised Layton had left the door open. If only Vale or Farrow had found the courage to visit Bow Street.” He gave an indolent wave. “But they never do.”

This man was the devil incarnate.

Was he not remotely concerned that the authorities might catch him and try him for his crimes?

“Whatever your cunning plan, your obvious stoop means people notice you. Someone will report seeing a hunched figure enter this building. There cannot be many well-dressed men in London with your affliction.”

Mr Bradley’s menacing chuckle rent the air. He shrugged his shoulders, cracked his neck and manipulated his distorted body in weird ways. Finally, he rolled his head from left to right as if attempting to grow comfortable in this new position.

“What affliction might that be?” The devil rose to his full height, his back ramrod straight. “As Paine so eloquently said, tyranny is not easily conquered.”

Chapter Twenty

The empty page in Isaac Bradley’s copy of Vathek did not contain the usual words of warning. There wasn’t one page marked with ominous threats—there were thirty. The scholar must have spent hours combing Mr Beckford’s fictional tale looking for ways to deliver his menacing messages.

“Bradley is as devious as the devil.”

“It is not like you to make assumptions,” Wycliff said from inside the confines of the hackney. “Logic says that Mr Bradley had an interest in the book. That does not mean he is the mastermind behind these wicked deeds.”

Cavanagh sighed. “Might the book have belonged to Joseph Bradley, and Layton continued their work after his friend’s death?”

Lawrence closed his eyes. For the first time in his life, he ignored the mental process of examining the facts and concentrated on his intuition. He felt sick to his stomach. Fear held him in a stranglehold. With every ragged breath, he became convinced Bradley was a member of the Brethren.

Panic flared.

He shot out of the seat and thrust his head out of the open window. “Reach Leicester Square in three minutes, and I shall more than double your fare.”

“Aye, sir.” The driver flicked his whip, and the coach picked up speed.

Lawrence dropped into the seat and muttered a curse. “Ranfield is right. I’m a bloody imbecile. Devil take it. You should have seen Bradley hunched over his damn books. The man seemed frightened of his own shadow. I judged him on his appearance. Presumed he was too weak to commit these abhorrent crimes.”

“Judging men is a survival technique,” Wycliff said. “Society conditions us to look at a man and make certain assumptions based on his clothes, manner, build, his level of education. It’s all tosh, of course. But you’re no imbecile, Trent.”

“Even the scrupulous men at Bow Street would have trouble solving this case.” Cavanagh grabbed the overhead strap as the hackney hurtled around the corner. “Did I not suggest it was better to wallow in ignorance than stalk the graveyard in Walton-on-Thames? Although I suspect you have no regrets.”

“No regrets,” he uttered, echoing his conversation with Verity this morning. He closed his eyes again and relived the moment she professed her love. Heat infused every aspect of his being. She was everything to him, more than he deserved. But he regretted involving her in this confounded mess. “I’m in love with her, with Miss Vale.”

God, it felt so good to say the words.

“I think we’ve established that,” Wycliff teased. He braced his foot on the seat opposite as they navigated another corner at breakneck speed. “What we want to know is, what do you intend to do about it?”

He did not need to think of the answer. “I shall ask Miss Vale to marry me.”

The conversation ended on that poignant note when the hackney came to a crashing halt outside Jaunay’s Hotel. Lawrence wasted no time in vaulting to the pavement and instructing the driver to wait. Indeed, he paid him a substantial s

um not to argue.

Lawrence’s plan to collect Verity and take her to Wycliff’s house on Bruton Street was scuppered by a flustered Miss Trimble, who came charging at him in the lobby.