The Mark of a Rogue (Scandalous Sons 2)
Wycliff made no argument. It had nothing to do with him surrendering his position. No one told Damian Wycliff what to do. The man was a law unto himself.
“I vowed to grant my wife her every desire,” Wycliff replied. “Do not make me break an oath when I’ve been married less than a week.”
Arguing would prove a waste of time and energy. “Then let us collect Cavanagh and head to Mrs Crandall’s abode. With luck, I should have you home within the hour.”
“Based on Mrs Crandall’s desire to sink her claws into Cavanagh, the woman will find any excuse to keep us there.”
Lawrence managed a weak chuckle before lowering the window and instructing Sleeth to change course and head to Cavanagh’s house on Jermyn Street.
They sat in si
lence for a few minutes before Wycliff asked him to repeat every detail of his midnight meeting with Miss Vale. Lawrence obliged, eager to relive the event, to speak of it aloud rather than resort to conjuring erotic images in his head.
Wycliff frowned. “The lady sounds somewhat of an oddity.”
The need to defend Miss Vale came from nowhere. “Despite her misguided notions of guilt, a man would be a fool to underestimate her. With clenched fists, she threatened to box my ears.” He omitted to mention she carried a blade.
“Explorers do say one should growl at angry bears.”
“I kept my temper and was every bit the gentleman.”
“Yes.” Wycliff rubbed his chin. “I’m struggling to recall the last time you played groom and escorted a lady home.”
Lawrence refused to bite, refused to react to Wycliff’s teasing.
“What a shame she is plain,” Wycliff mused.
“I made no mention of her looks.” To describe the beauty in detail would give his friend more reason to pry.
“Which leads me to conclude she must be rather unremarkable.”
Lawrence resisted the urge to correct the misconception. Miss Vale’s innocent charm should have warned him away like the ringing of a plague bell. As with all the women he encountered, he should have suspected her story contained lies and untruths. And yet the opposite was true.
Thankfully, there was no time to consider the matter further. The carriage arrived in Jermyn Street where they alighted and proceeded to update Cavanagh on the recent developments. After some grumbling from their friend about being used to appease Mrs Crandall, they returned to Lawrence’s conveyance and headed across town.
“If we’re shown into the drawing room, one of you must sit next to her on the sofa,” Cavanagh said as they stepped down from the carriage to stand outside the townhouse often called the den of the debauched. “The woman has tentacles for fingers, and the nasty little suckers probe the most unwelcome places.”
Lawrence laughed. “You possess the ability to charm any woman to do your bidding. Surely you can control Mrs Crandall.”
“The woman has no boundaries.”
“Her attentions are as changeable as the weather.” Wycliff knocked on the door in the specific way that marked them as regular attendees of Mrs Crandall’s wild parties. “She will soon tire of you and move to graze in pastures new.”
“Mrs Crandall doesn’t graze, she gorges.” Lawrence glanced at the facade, noted the absence of bawdy laughter and drunken singing. “Let us pray she is not abed, feeding on yet another conquest, and can provide some insight into this fanatical group.”
Miss Vale had lived alone for five months since her cousin’s death without further threat, but the fact they had found Charles’ body floating in the river near her home proved worrying.
The majordomo, a facetious man named Woods hired for his handsome countenance and ability to please the female patrons, greeted them. Tonight, he was dressed in breeches and a cravat, minus his shirt and shoes. When not throwing parties for the demi-monde, Mrs Crandall enjoyed playing with her pets.
Mrs Crandall was alone in the drawing room, though from her flushed cheeks and dishevelled attire, she may well have been frolicking with the hired help. The room carried the cloying scent of heavy perfume, often used to mask the stale tobacco smoke from the previous night’s entertainment.
One look at Cavanagh and the woman tugged at her bodice to reveal more than a glimpse of pasty-white bosom. She patted the side of her coiffure, tucked the loose tendril of red hair behind her ear.
“Gentlemen, to what do I owe the pleasure?” Though addressing them collectively, she did not drag her ravenous gaze away from Benedict Cavanagh. “If you’re here for the masquerade, I’m afraid you’re a little premature. The ball is tomorrow.” She gestured to the numerous sofas scattered about the room. “Won’t you sit, and I shall have Woods serve refreshment? Will you take brandy or port?”
They accepted her hospitality—all chose brandy.
Whilst Woods took care of his duties at the drinks table, Mrs Crandall snatched the majordomo’s shirt from the arm of the chair and stuffed it behind the bolster cushion. Wycliff and Lawrence took their seats on the sofa, knowing Mrs Crandall would not sit until Cavanagh had made his choice.