“I am wounded to the core, Miss Goodwin.”
Randolph turned around, following the voice, and came face-to face with Vladimir. A beautiful red-haired woman that Randolph recognized from the club clung to his arm. The color in Jane’s cheeks faded. She remained silent, not at all the aggressive woman who’d asked him about murders. That woman was fearless. This one seemed frightened, and Vladimir seemed to be at the center of it.
Randolph cleared his throat. “It was a most interesting performance.” He held Vladimir’s gaze, purposely shielding Jane from a confrontation with the man. Randolph caught Wesley’s eye as he pulled up in the hansom. “If you’ll excuse us.” He tipped a finger to the brim of his hat and, setting aside her odd reaction to the man, took Jane’s elbow and escorted her to the carriage.
“Miss Goodwin?” Vladimir called out.
Randolph released his grip as Jane turned to face Vladimir. The austere man took her hand and pressed it to his lips. “I do apologize that you found my performance lacking. Perhaps another time, I might be able to make it up to you.”
She tugged her hand from his, forced a smile, and climbed into the seat beside Wesley.
“Sweet dreams, Miss Goodwin,” Vladimir called to her, and then he turned, blending into the crowd.
Randolph turned his attention to the two in the carriage. They made an odd pair, in his opinion, but he understood Lady Hampton’s requirement for having escorts for the young, single women of Writers House. Wesley’s expression was dour. He seemed to have little regard for his companion’s condition. “You are certain you are well enough to get home? Perhaps a drink would help to settle your nerves?”
Jane shook her head. “I think the best thing for me is a good night’s rest.”
He caught Wesley’s darting glance and his scowl as he looked away. It was evident that something—and not good—had transpired between the two. Just the same, relationships were not his forte. They would have to work things out on their own.
“Very well, then,” Randolph stated with a short bow. “I bid you both a good evening.”
Later, in the mausoleum quiet of his home, Randolph sat with his whisky in hand, his chair tipped back against the outside balcony wall. The spot, where he often came to escape his sleepless nights, provided a clear view of the rooftops of London. The air was stagnant, the stench of the Thames more prevalent tonight. His thoughts turned to the case weighing heavily on his mind—and on the minds of all of Scotland Yard. Aside from the unsolved murders, the queen had insisted that nothing should mar her celebratory plans. He tossed back a swallow of the drink, feeling it burn as it slid down his throat. The unrest among London’s factions was unbelievable and he suspected had much to do with these gruesome murders. Were they dealing with a type of ritualistic coven, or club, perhaps? Disgruntled immigrants continued to stuff themselves in to the poorer sections of town. Living conditions were deplorable. Food was scarce. Too many bodies and not enough work. All of this, combined with this relentless heat, created a virtual powder keg ready to explode.
If only it would rain.
So more body parts could wash ashore? The thought crossed his mind that he’d not heard from the morgue in several days. The various parts—a female torso found in the river a month ago, and various limbs since—were being studied, pieced together to see if they came from the same victim. Thus far, it was hard to tell if they were dealing with one or several murders. The whole town, it seemed, was on edge and Randolph right along with it.
He tossed back the remainder of his drink, letting the burn linger on his tongue. His superiors had given him “the embankment murder” case because of his avid interest in violent crimes. His extensive research on such grisly murders—cases that even the senior officers of Scotland Yard couldn’t handle—was far more personal than he let on. The quest had driven him to become the best in his field so that he could find the bastard who years ago had killed his sister.
Uncomfortable, he stripped off his shirt, though it didn’t make the sweltering heat any more tolerable. He reached for the bottle at his feet and splashed another round of amber relief in his glass. There was no breeze tonight, just the oppressive stench of the Thames and humidity. He propped his boot against the wrought-iron railing and looked up at the full moon. His thoughts wandered to Jane Goodwin. The glimmer of fear and sadness in her eyes had twisted his gut. He’d wanted to press her further about what had happened, but it was none of his business. Still, he remembered their conversation in the garden, how bold she’d been, how unafraid. How utterly entranced he’d been with her brazen manner.
“Uh, pardon, inspector, is that you?”
Randolph let the chair drop to the floor. He stood, walked to the rail, and looked down to the street. Standing in uniform, illuminated by the garish yellow of the gaslight, was Willoughby, his assistant.
“Willoughby, what are you doing here?” He glanced at his pocket watch, noting it was close to nine.
“Pardon the disruption, sir. But the Deputy Assistant Senior sent me here straight-away. Said you should be informed the minute anything happened, in case you wished to visit with the physician at the morgue.”
“Don’t tell me…” Randolph squeezed his eyes shut.
“Aye, sir.” Willoughby replied.
“Jesus, Mary, and…bloody hell. I’ll be right down.”
Randolph drew on his shirt, shut the door to the balcony, and checked the lock. Though he was considered plain-clothes, it didn’t mean that people weren’t aware of his identity. These days, opinions of how the queen’s police should be handling affairs were becoming blatant. Just the other day, someone had left a bag of burning dung on the steps of the Yard.
He ushered Willoughby into the front parlor that once housed his father’s medical practice. Randolph felt, at times, that it was odd that he still lived here, since he’d spent the majority of his life trying to figure out how to leave. Yet few as they were, memories—good ones of his mother and sister—remained. After his father’s passing, he gutted the house of most of its furniture, including the majority of his father’s books and prize possessions, including his walking stick, and had set them ablaze. All that remained beyond the ghosts haunting Randolph was a chair and a table. “What’s been found?” he asked as he finished fastening the buttons of his shirt.
“A woman’s severed arm, from the shoulder down. The work of a professional. That seems to be the popular theory, at least.” The wide-eyed young man sat in the stark parlor, his gaze scanning the bare bookcases that extended from floor to ceiling.
Randolph rarely had visitors to his home—none, in fact, that he could remember in recent months. He had to admit, to an outsider the starkness of the room might seem strange. It resembled more of an interrogation room than the parlor of a home. Still, he had no time for serving tea. This wasn’t a social call. “So, then, everyone thinks that this is the work of a professional?” Randolph asked, stuffing his shirt in his trousers. “You say it was taken to the hospital morgue?” He glanced up and caught the man’s distracted curiosity. Randolph followed the young man’s gaze. “What the devil is it, Willoughby?”
“It’s just that… well, sir, are you aware there is nothing in this room but this one chair?”
Randolph stopped to assess the bleak room. He blurted the first thing that came to mind. “I’m preparing to have the room painted.”
The young man’s shoulders relaxed as he seemed appeased with the explanation. “Right, of course. Anyone could’ve seen that’s what it was. Just a tad rattled, I guess, by the strange goings on.” A brief smile played on his lips.
Randolph nodded, ushering his unexpected guest toward the front door. “Very good, then. We’re off to the morgue.”
“Tonight, sir?” the young officer responded in surprise.
He shoved his arms into his tweed jacket and grabbed his hat from the hook, looking back at Willoughby. “No time like the present. That’s how Scotland Yard manages to stay ahead of the cri
minals.”
“Aye, sir,” he said, making short order of the bay of steps leading to the gated entrance. The wrought iron squawked painfully, echoing in the still of the night.
The two men walked quickly over the cobblestone streets. The shadows and eerie silence no longer affected Randolph as it once had. In fact, very little—good or bad—affected him to any degree. Feelings were foreign to him—unnecessary baggage. There was only one place in this world where’d ever been able to face the raging emotions inside of him. And there was but one woman, Madam McFarland, who gave him, without question or judgment, what he needed.
The walk to the hospital was relatively short, given Randolph’s long stride. He reached the back alley entrance to the hospital morgue just behind his assistant.
Willoughby held open the door, his face awash with a pained expression. Randolph brushed past him, fishing in his pocket for a kerchief to guard his nose from the stench of decay.
“Shall I wait here, sir?” Willoughby asked.
“In the alley is fine.” Randolph glanced over his shoulder. The poor chap looked like he was about to lose his stomach. Driven by his demons, Randolph trudged down the hall, deciding he’d find a quiet table and a bottle of the pub’s finest when he finished.
Chapter Eight
Jane darted a quick look at her brooding escort. Neither of them had spoken a word since leaving the theater. Shaken still, she struggled to try and retrace the steps that led to when Wesley found her, but there was a large space of time unaccounted for. She noted how quiet the streets had become the further they traveled from the theater district, accentuating the steady clip-clop of the horse’s hooves on the cobblestone. A heavy white mist now blanketed the streets, shrouding the gaslamps in an ethereal haze. “Wesley, please,” she said softly. “Speak to me. I swear, If I’ve hurt you in any way, it was unintentional.”
His jaw was firm, a sour look of frustration etched in his otherwise easy-going expression. He released a heavy sigh, but refused to look at her.
“You believe me when I say I can’t remember what happened between us, don’t you?” Jane held her opera gloves, twisting them in frustration.
“What do you remember?” His tone was clipped. “Exactly what kind of perverse game are you playing?” He glanced at her. “That was no feeble-minded kiss between us. It was passionate, raw, and if we’d not been interrupted, I daresay we’d have—”
“No, don’t say anymore,” she spoke firmly. “Nothing more would have occurred.” She looked at him. “You wouldn’t have allowed more to happen, Wesley. You’re a gentleman.”
His eyes were ablaze as he faced her. “Wouldn’t I? What makes you think that I am any safer than your inspector friend?”
She reared back as though slapped. “My inspector friend? What are you saying? I understand that you’re hurt, and, whether you choose to believe me or not, that’s the last thing I intended. However, one has nothing to do with the other. My relationship with Inspector Mansfield is purely professional.”
“Of course it is,” he scoffed. “I watched you that day in the garden. I saw the way you looked at him.”
“You were spying?”
“He has a reputation. I was guarding yours.”
“You’re jealous,” she countered.
“Of what?” he shot back. “As if you haven’t made it abundantly clear that there can never be anything between us?”
“Oh, good heavens, Wesley. Stop this nonsense. I am no more interested in the inspector than I am in you.” She cringed the moment the words left her mouth. No matter how hard the truth was to hear, she had to make him understand.
“You know the hell of it, Jane? Back there, in the dark, it was bloody magnificent,” he stated quietly. His anger had subsided, or perhaps she’d dealt a fatal blow to his ego.
“I’m deeply sorry that I don’t remember. Even more, I am sorry that I do not reciprocate the feelings you apparently have for me.” She placed her hand on his arm. He looked at it, but did not move it away. “But it does not have to mean that we cannot be friends.”
He chuckled. “Don’t look upon me as so noble. If I had the opportunity, if I heard your voice filled with that same desire, beckoning me, all but begging me… I would not stop next time.”
She let her hand slip away. “I never meant for this to happen. Your friendship is paramount to me. Surely you know this.”
“Friendship? The views on how to make friends must be quite different where you come from.” He breathed a sigh filled with resignation as he faced her. “It’s a shame you don’t remember, you know. You don’t know what you’re missing.”
The reality of how deeply she’d hurt him assaulted her. She searched his eyes, looking for what she could say to render him comfort. It was Vladimir. Somehow he’d found a way inside her psyche. But to suggest to him that what happened was likely induced by some type of hypnosis seemed more than cruel. Tears welled in her eyes. She wished now that she’d refused to see Vladimir’s performance, fearing that things might never be the same between her and Wesley.
“Blast it, don’t make it worse with tears. Will you have me entirely stripped of my manly pride?”
A wobbly smile played on her lips, but she shook her head. “I’ve said it so many times already, but truly the last thing in the world I wish to do is hurt you. All I remember is watching Vladimir and the crystal orb. The next thing I know I’m in an empty alcove with you.”
His lips set in a thin line, Wesley looked as though he were deep in thought. At least the anger was gone from his handsome face. He shook his head. “If you say that you don’t remember, then yes, I do believe you.” He took her hand, brazing his thumb over her knuckles. “But I must be honest, it’s not something that I will likely be able to forget.”
She swallowed the tearful lump in her throat. How was it possible that she could have allowed Vladimir to tap into her mind so easily? Worse still, could he now do so at will? The hansom rolled to a stop outside of the Writers House. Wesley helped her from the carriage. A margin of amiability, at least, seemed restored between them.
“Please wait,” he instructed the driver as he took Jane’s arm. “I’d like to make sure things are in order before I leave.”
“Aye, sir,” the driver responded, settling his hands over his knees.
“I’m certain it’s quite safe.” She walked through the gate and took his arm again as they continued up the walkway. The house, dark inside, appeared more ominous in light of the strange events of the evening. She was grateful for his presence. Benning and Martha would likely have retired by now for the evening.
Wesley used his key to unlock the door. He turned up the gaslights in the foyer. “Wait here. I’m going to walk through to make sure things are in order.”
She eased the door shut and listened as Wesley walked from room to room. She heard him climbing the servant’s stairs off the kitchen, and watched as he returned down the front staircase with an easy gait.
“Everything appears secure. But with a gentle twist of my arm, fair maiden, I would gladly stay here if you are the least bit uncomfortable.” He offered a charming grin. “Ah, better still, I could wait while you pick up a few things and then escort you to Aunt Izzy’s. You know how she loathes you staying here alone.”
She considered the idea, due to the odd, unsettled feeling inside of her, but given what had happened between them, she pushed her fears away. Once in her room, she would lock the door and be safe. Besides, the servants were near enough that she could call out if necessary. She refused to succumb to a fearful imagination. “You’ve made sure I am safe. I plan to go straight to bed. Thank you.” She pressed to her toes and kissed his cheek.
A flash of desire stole across his face. “You’re absolutely certain you don’t wish me to stay? I could sleep in the parlor….”
“No, thank you. I’m very tired. Hopefully, this will all make sense in the light of day.”
He took her hands in his. “Jane, perhaps
we should talk more about…what happened.”
“There is nothing to discuss, Wesley. Please don’t take this personally.”
He stared disbelievingly at her and uttered a short laugh. “Not personal?” He raised his brows. “It seems that American women are terribly free with their favors.”
His words stung. Jane jerked her hands free from his. “That’s not fair. I have been entirely honest with you.”
He cocked his head, studying her. “What about the other day, when you pulled me into your bedroom and kissed me? Or had that slipped your mind as well?”
She looked down at her feet. “I’ve not forgotten.” She’d needed to be certain that she was still desired by a man. As foolish an excuse as it was, it had come on the heels of her insecurity about men. A pang of guilt washed over her as she realized she’d been leading him on. “I’m terribly sorry—”
“Don’t,” he growled. Grabbing her shoulders, he brought his mouth down hard on hers in a fierce kiss.
Jane wrenched her face away. “Stop it, Wesley. Stop. Please don’t force something that isn’t there.” She pressed her hand to her mouth and averted her gaze from his. “Forgive me….”
He tore open the door, his boots resonating over the porch as he hurried down the steps
“Please don’t be angry,” she called as she followed him outside and watched helplessly as he climbed into the hansom. He tapped the driver, not once looking back at her. The carriage jerked, pulling away from the curb.
The Dark Seduction of Miss Jane Page 8
