“Of course, absolutely. I promise to be on my best behavior. Thank you.” She squeezed Isabella’s hand.
Isabella slipped her hand from Jane’s grip. “Now, we must be prudent. There is no guarantee he’ll accept. With his schedule it may be that he does not have the time to devote to our little tea.” A faraway look came to her eyes. “It’s a shame, really.”
“What is?” Jane asked.
Lady Hampton shrugged. “Oh, I was thinking of the inspector. Always seems to be on a case. I’ve rarely seen him about, but when I have, he’s wearing a scowl. It makes me wonder if the rumors about him are true.” She blinked, waving away her thoughts before turning to Jane. “I daresay, my dear girl, that once you gain an audience with him, the greater challenge will be to get him to speak.”
Jane settled back in her chair and crossed her hands in her lap. She smiled at her landlady and new mentor. “I’ve never run away from a challenge in my life, and Inspector Mansfield sounds like a very interesting one.”
Chapter Four
Randolph Mansfield blew out an exasperated sigh as he accepted a stack of notes from his assistant, Willoughby. Eyeing them, he hoped against hope that they weren’t yet more suggestions from the public on how he could better do his job. He lifted them over the waste can, preparing to make his response, when his eye caught a card that stood apart from the rest. Clean and crisply white, it was edged with a gold border. His curiosity piqued, he broke the elegant wax seal and slipped out the card. His brow rose in surprise. “Tea?” he said aloud, not yet realizing that he hadn’t dismissed his new assistant.
“Splendid idea, sir,” Willoughby replied. “I’ll fetch it straight away.” He pivoted on his heel and headed toward the door.
“Wait. No.” Randolph stared at the note. “I’ve been invited to Friday afternoon tea by the women’s group at Writers House.”
Willoughby returned silently to his position, hands clasped dutifully behind his back.
Randolph scowled at the note. “Why the blazes would I receive an invitation to tea from a women’s writing group?”
“If I may speak freely, sir?” Willoughby asked. “Perhaps by inviting you to a social event, they are trying to bridge the gap between the Yard and the public?”
“Or widen it with their slanderous stories,” Randolph scoffed.
“Pardon, sir, but aren’t most of the so-called women’s clubs simply trying to compete with the traditional gentleman’s clubs?”
Randolph glanced at the new constable. He suspected that the young man knew far less about the inner workings of some of the more affluent gentleman’s clubs, or he’d not be so quick to jump to conclusions. For many reasons, the handful of women’s clubs that had attempted to organize within the city limits, many with foundations in women’s suffrage, closed quickly due to stiff regulations and lack of funds. Unless a women’s club was supported by a wealthy benefactress—or the money of someone’s dear, departed husband—it had little chance to survive. Lady Hampton, by her good fortune, had both.
“I suspect that most members of these particular clubs would sooner poke out their eye than try to emulate one of the popular gentleman’s clubs, Willoughby.” Randolph said with an easy laugh.
The young man chuckled. “Indeed, sir.”
Randolph pondered the invitation, tapping it against the desk. Only a handful knew of his anonymous membership to one of the oldest clubs in London, one that his father had played a part in starting. He’d at first detested the invitation as a legacy member to visit on principle alone, because of his intense hatred for his father. Out of sheer curiosity, he accepted Madame McFarland’s invitation to tour the club. He came to find that she, too, had been the product of one of its founding fathers, and was bequeathed the club to her guardianship upon his death. She sent him several more invitations saying the club could offer respite from the pressures of his work with the utmost privacy and anonymity. He ignored them for a time. But as he suspected madam already knew, his heavy responsibilities and the stress of his job finally pushed him to McFarland Manor. There, beneath the anonymity of a mask, he found release through decadent pleasures. It was more than his work that drove him there night after night. The demons of his scarred childhood floated to the surface and he found appeasement in the form of sexual deviation. Once tasted, the more his secret addiction grew. Without judgment, he could fulfill his fantasies. There, unlike in the real world, he had control of his circumstances.
Willoughby cleared his throat. “Will there be anything else, sir?”
Randolph blinked, bringing himself to the present. Lady Hampton herself had sent the invitation. He wondered whether it was mere coincidence that it was on her nephew’s arm that he’d seen the beautiful, fair-haired woman at his crime scene. Given the determined look on her face, her unabashed curiosity about the morbid event, he’d bet his life that she was not interested in penning articles on recipes or Sunday chapeaus. No, what he’d seen in those curious blue orbs was adventure, a force to be reckoned with, and that intrigued him on more than one level. He made a hasty mark beside the word “accept” and handed it to Willoughby. “See to it that this is returned to the sender immediately.”
“Straight away, sir.” Willoughby started to leave.
“Oh, and one more thing. I want to know what, if any, correlation they find at the morgue between the arm and the leg.”
“Aye, inspector.”
Randolph sat back in his chair, sighed again, and looked at the pile of unopened letters. The public wanted answers. Her Majesty wanted answers. Hell, he wanted answers, but they eluded him just as the clever monster perpetrating these grisly crimes had managed to elude him. Frustration plagued his sleep. Darkness shrouded his thoughts, rising from the ashes of his tormented past, seeming to mock his inability to resolve this case. His gaze drifted to the only picture he owned. It was one of his mother, sister, and himself. He squinted at the faded photo, trying to remember how old he’d been then—ten, eleven, maybe. He smiled to himself, seeing how happy his mother had been. There were no circles beneath her eyes then, no bruises showing on her fair skin. Had she known the type of man she’d married? He doubted it now even as he had then. He reached out and lay the frame face down on his desk. He forced aside thoughts of his past as he gazed outside the window. There was no time for memories, nor did he possess the energy to ponder them. There was little he could do except move on with his life and pray that somehow, someday he would find the justice he’d sought for so many years.
The sky, a dank gray, teased of an impending storm. He silently willed the skies to open up and drench the city, relieving it of its oppressive heat and cooling its rising tensions. Tensions. He rubbed his fingers over his forehead and took a deep breath. There were days when the stress, like a deadly poison, threatened to choke the very life from him. What he turned to—what he needed—was dark, mindless, pleasure. Something to fill the void, erase the failures—if only for a few hours. No one would know of his secret. Yet afterwards, in the tomb-like stillness of his house, the ghosts would return. The cold grip of fear that he’d failed those he loved would return with a vengeance.
Graduating at the top of his class, he never questioned his skills. He moved quickly through the ranks as a young constable, proving his invaluable insight and tenacity until recently when he was given a position as one of the CID’s youngest investigators. Yet despite his success, he was still chained to his tormented past, and, year after year, he pushed the pain, the anger and hurt deeper into his soul until it all but suffocated any normal emotions….
“Sir?”
Willoughby’s voice filtered through the dense, murky shadows of Randolph’s thoughts. He looked up and blinked a couple of times, dragging his mind from his mental abyss. “My apologies. I didn’t hear you come in. Lost in my thoughts, I guess.”
“Yes, sir. Deputy Commissioner Brisby asked me to send word that he’d like to speak with you, sir. Shall I tell him you will be along, then?”
<
br /> “Yes. Tell him I’ll be along in a moment.”
“Aye, sir,” he replied and left.
***
Jane’s face glistened from the sweltering heat. She’d opened the windows in hope of capturing a stray breeze, but instead allowed in the fetid air mixed with the suffocating heat. Her room on the second floor of Writers House was miserable, muggy by late afternoon. She thought of Boston in summertime and the widow’s walk atop Aunt Corney’s house. There she’d sit and contemplate her future adventures. Nighttime was her favorite—she would sit under a velvet black sky awash with a sparkling of stars. Often, she thought of her parents underneath the same sky. With the heady scent of the rose garden soothing her adolescent concerns, she somehow felt closer to them.
But she was no longer a young girl. And if she were being truthful, it was not just the heat and homesickness plaguing her nerves. For lack of a better target, she blamed Frederick for this unexpected lack of confidence. Intellectually, she knew she was better off without him, but a part—a very small part—questioned why. Was it something within her that was lacking? She’d refused his advances, wanting to wait until after they were married. Wise in retrospect, she supposed. Still, residual emotions seeped through her esteem as she thought of the letter Aunt Cornelia had placed in her hand just before she sailed.
Dear Jane,
I do not regret my actions that ended our engagement. However, I do regret that you were witness to the incident of that afternoon. Had you seen to your duties as an obedient future wife and attended instead to our guests…well, my dear, I daresay you and I would be happily wedded and enjoying the pleasures of our marriage bed. If one day you are fortunate to find a man (and I have my doubts that will happen) who will accept your wild notions and unruly behavior, I would suggest you train yourself better in the womanly protocol. A woman has her place in this world, and it is to display meekness, charity, and, above all else, loyalty to her husband and to all around her—these are crucial to any good marriage, Jane. Attributes, my dear, that you are sorely lacking in. The sooner you are able to discover your place, the sooner you might find a man who finds you worthy…”
Her anger still fresh, she was able to go topside, wad the letter into a ball, and toss it into the churning sea with a silent word of thanks that she’d escaped the sheer drudgery of being married to such a man.
She had a choice now. To be trapped by her past, or to move on and become the woman she wished to be.
Jane straightened her shoulders and looked in the mirror as a light tap sounded on her bedroom door. She grabbed her robe, hastily slipping it over her partially dressed body. “Who is it?”
“Clarice. I thought you might need some help. Isabella sent me up to see what is detaining you.”
“Oh, yes. Please, come in. Nerves, I fear, have me befuddled as to what is the appropriate dress. I would gladly welcome any advice you can offer.”
The young woman eased into the room and smiled at Jane. They’d met just days before at breakfast downstairs. She and Jonesy arrived early every day, starting with breakfast and an hour, at least, of scouring every daily paper. Isabella indicated that they shared a flat not far from Writers House and that Clarice was assisting her friend with writing her memoirs. But Jane was not naïve. It was clear that the two had more in common than a shared love for writing.
A delicate creature, Clarice had the most beautiful, wide deep-set eyes in an unusual shade of blue-violet. She wore her deep chestnut hair swept up in a French twist, exposing her swan-like neck. Between her doll-like features, her lithe body, and choice in clothing, Jane thought she looked like a ballerina. Today, as every day, she dressed in a wispy sheer gown over a thin slip that hung loose on her petite frame.
“Isabella thought maybe you were having trouble with Martha,” Clarice said, leaning against the giant oak dresser. “She saw her slip into the kitchen a few moments ago.”
Jane surveyed the array of clothes she’d scattered on the bed. “I couldn’t decide what to wear and assumed she must be needed to help downstairs. I told her I could manage alone.” She tossed Clarice a sheepish look. “But as you can see, I am having difficulty.” Snatching a kerchief from the dresser, she walked to the window to look out at the guests arriving at the house. She patted the back of her neck and under her chin with little relief from the heat. Carriages of every shape and size lined the street. The women—elegantly dressed, she noted—wore grand hats laden with feathery plumes, tulle, and flowers. Her wardrobe boasted nothing so elaborate. Her tastes were practical at best. The number of responses returned for tea astounded even Isabella, noting that there must be a great interest in meeting the new young American woman. Some asked if she would be taking social callers while in London.
“I may have something for you—it helps me when I am nervous,” Clarice whispered, breaking Jane from her reverie. “Do you wish to see it?”
“I implore you, would it by chance be a short glass of scotch? I am in your debt, Clarice. Anything to calm these nerves, I would be most happy to have.”
Clarice smiled as she pulled an exquisite white satin-and-lace boned corset from behind her back. “I had a feeling you might need have need of this. It is your debut, after all to London’s literary society. Truth is we’re all just eccentric misfits.” She held the corset out to Jane. “Well, it isn’t scotch, but it does do wonders for instilling confidence.”
Mesmerized by the rich-looking fabric, Jane studied the fine craftsmanship of the garment. Unlike her daily corset with its fastenings laced up the back, this had a row of hand-sewn hooks up the front. The detail in the sewing was exquisite, more beautiful than anything Jane had ever seen.
“It’s a great deal easier to put on yourself once you get used to the mechanics of it. It came from Paris.” Clarice smiled, a glint sparkling in her eye. “Jonesy says there’s nothing I can’t get when I wear one of these. She bought me two. I’ve never worn this one.”
Jane’s discomfort was eased by the woman’s thoughtful though extravagant gesture. “It is beautiful and I appreciate your concern, but I can’t accept this.”
Clarice shrugged, causing a strap to fall over her slim shoulder. She didn’t bother to correct it. “Don’t be silly. We women have to help each other out now and again, don’t we? I heard you fretting at breakfast about what to wear and I thought this might help. Come, let’s give it a try, before Isabella has a bloody fit that you’re not down there greeting our guests.” Clarice turned Jane toward the mirror, slipped the robe from her shoulders, and began to unlace her corset, utterly drab in comparison. It fell away and Jane’s breasts bobbed free beneath her thin, sleeveless chemise. She caught sight of Clarice’s arched brow in the mirror.
“You are quite beautiful, my dear. I don’t know why you are so afraid to show your body.” She circled Jane, stopping in front of her, slipping the new corset from Jane’s fingers. Wasting no time, she wound the binding around Jane’s waist, tugged it into place, and quickly took to the task of fastening the remaining hooks.
Jane tolerated the jerking and jostling of her body as though she were a rag doll. “I admit, I’ve never understood the things that are required of women that are not required of men.” She glanced down to watch with amazement the dexterity and speed by which Clarice hooked the corset. Jane turned her attention to the window, trying to ignore the brush of the woman’s fingertips against the cotton chemise covering her warm flesh. With one last tug, Clarice positioned the corset in place. The result was astounding. Plump swells of her pale flesh molded within the confines of the corset, redefining her tall figure and giving curves to her otherwise shapeless stature.
“My dear, how lovely you look.” Clarice stared unabashedly at Jane. “You really are quite beautiful.” She reached up, resting her hands beneath Jane’s breasts. Confused by the sensations skating over her body, Jane said nothing, holding herself stiff to the young woman’s exploration. Suddenly Clarice dropped her hands and stepped back.
“I’m sorry. I blame Jonesy. She is always preaching to me that I should say what I feel.”
Jane swallowed. “Well, certainly one should feel free to express one’s thoughts.”
A smile tugged at Clarice’s mouth. “From the look on your face, I would wager you have one or two rattling about in that brain of yours. Care to share them?”
Jane chewed her lip, hesitant to appease her curiosity. She trudged mentally forward, determined to remove the filters that might hold her back in reporting. “What is it like, Clarice?”
Clarice continued to adjust the corset, seeming to ignore the question. Her touch was gentle, thorough, but considerate. Jane worried that she’d overstepped her bounds and had intruded into Clarice’s privacy. “I apologize. It’s truly none of my business.”
Her small fingers touched Jane’s chin, lifting it to meet her gaze. “You are only young and curious, my dear. How can there be harm in that?” She searched Jane’s eyes with a gentle look. “The truth is, I am grateful to Jonesy for many reasons—most importantly, her friendship. But she is not the center of my world.” She dropped her hand and glanced away. “I don’t expect that you should understand. Your life has been far different than mine.”
Jane frowned. “I have precious little experience with relationships, that I admit, but I can see there is a camaraderie—a connection between you, if you will—that goes beyond friendship.”
Clarice smiled. “That is very true. But what you may not understand is that when it comes to intimacy, I enjoy both men and women. I am not exclusive to either.”
Jane blinked. She was correct in assuming Jane had never heard of such a thing. What a complex set of emotions that surely dredged up.
“I realize it may seem strange to you…” Clarice said.
“Oh, no…it’s just that I thought, well, I thought you and Jonesy were…” Jane stumbled over her words, her face flushed.
The Dark Seduction of Miss Jane Page 4
