The Mark of a Rogue (Scandalous Sons 2)

With a nod to Wycliff and Cavanagh, Lawrence turned right at the crossroads and hurried to the burial site known as Green Ground. He passed a gravedigger shifting the putrid soil with his spade, making holes shallow enough so that the resurrectionists who secretly slipped him coins could gain quick access to the bodies. The man eyed Lawrence suspiciously when he scanned the brick wall bordering this cesspit of decay. But with disease rife in these parts, his heavy quota meant he’d no time to stand idle.

Vaulting over the wall was easy for a man of Lawrence’s height and build. As soon as he’d lowered himself to the ground, a violent surge of anger took command of his mind and body.

Layton was a dead man.

With nimble fingers, he turned the doorknob to find it locked. And so all he could do was wait for Wycliff to orchestrate a disturbance.

Pandemonium struck a few minutes later.

The ruction started with loud voices and shouting in the lane, escalated to what he could only presume was a riot. The sound of someone hammering on doors was his cue to barge his shoulder against this one. As soon as the banging started again, he threw his weight into the door.

The flimsy lock broke with the first hit.

He hid and waited for Layton or Bradley to come racing to the door, keen to investigate.

Neither one did.

Lawrence crept into the house, his body sagging with relief when he moved through the hall and heard Verity speak.

“So, it’s to look as though I fought Mr Layton and we both ended up dead.” Fear clung to every confident word. Most women he knew would be wailing, pleading for their life. “It seems a little improbable.”

“As far as the magistrate is concerned, Layton has already killed those who know of his predilection for blackmail.” The man cursed and muttered to himself. “Have those fools outside got nothing better to do?”

Bradley!

The bastard’s voice rang with conceit.

Lawrence should jump out of his hiding place, draw the pocket pistol and shoot the brute. He wanted to pound his fist into the man’s arrogant face so many times his own mother wouldn’t know him. But the rogue might have a gun aimed at Verity’s head, and so he needed to wait for the perfect opportunity to strike.

“All the evidence leads to Layton,” Bradley continued in a smug tone. “I arranged it that way. And when Trent eventually calls here looking for our dear departed friend, he will find a tragic scene that will no doubt haunt him for the rest of his days.”

“And you will be free to continue your vendetta on those peers you deem unworthy. Punishment for your father’s sad fate.”

Cries and shouts from Clement’s Lane permeated the tense air.

Lawrence heard Bradley’s booted steps stomp across the boards.

“The peasants are causing anarchy.” Bradley snorted. “Though an argument over a barrow will hardly rock the foundations of government. Still, we cannot have the beggars stumbling upon our little scene and so must proceed with utmost urgency.”

Despite panic gripping him in a chokehold, Lawrence crept closer to the door and peered surreptitiously around the jamb. The sight that met him froze his blood. Layton lay sprawled amidst a crimson pool, a knife jutting from his chest. Verity knelt in a submissive position beside the body, though her hands were unbound. Fool. Did Bradley not know that she had a blade strapped to her thigh?

Bradley stepped into view.

Confusion reigned.

While the scoundrel pacing the drawing room floor was indeed Mr Bradley, he moved with a straight spine, appeared a foot taller. He gripped a pistol as one might a walking cane, with purpose and a comfortable ease.

“I need you to smear blood on your pretty pelisse, Miss Vale. After all, we must make this scene appear authentic.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Then I shall wait until the fools outside make another loud din, and then shoot you in the leg. Creating a believable scene will be easier while your heart is pumping blood from your body at a rapid rate.”

Damnation!

Lawrence couldn’t wait a moment longer.

He drew the pocket pistol from his coat and attempted to slide the safety catch. The blasted thing jammed, wouldn’t budge. He tried again, but the gun slipped from his fingers and fell to the floor with a thud.