Jane stepped back inside, her eyes falling on the keys Wesley had left on the table in the foyer. She grabbed them and ran into the street, hoping to catch him before he got too far, but the hansom had already disappeared in the dense mist. She hugged her arms, unsure how she was to make restitution for the pain she’d caused.
As she turned toward the front gate, she heard a faint sound—footsteps, perhaps? She paused, hoping that Wesley had remembered his keys and returned. But the footsteps had stopped. Gooseflesh rose on her arms. Raw fear propelled her forward. She grappled for the latch on the gate and hastened up the steps. Her toe caught on the threshold and she stumbled as she hurried inside. Quickly, she slammed the door and leaned against it. Her heart pounded against her ribs and she now regretted declining Wesley’s offer to stay at Lady Hampton’s house. A moment ticked by and she closed her eyes, feeling foolish for letting her vivid imagination run away from her. She sighed quietly, latched the bolt on the door, and turned the lamps low as she headed up the stairs. What she needed was a good night’s rest. Everything would make better sense in the morning.
As she struck a match to light her bedside lamp, a faint clank caught her ear, sending a chill up her spine. She left the lamp unlit and, in the pitch-black of the room, made her way to the window overlooking the street. She drew back a corner of the lace curtain, peering below, and spotted a lone figure crossing the street. His hat was pulled low over his eyes and his cloak made him impossible to identify. He paused and looked over his shoulder, straight at her window. Jane dropped the curtain and backed away, an icy fear washing over her. Summoning her courage, she crept forward and peeked around the edge of the window.
The figure lingered no more than a heartbeat, then disappeared into the foggy haze. Her mind raced as she scanned the room, looking for something to defend herself with should the intruder return. Should she try to awaken Benning and Martha? In doing so, she would need to cross through the garden to the servant’s quarters. After a moment’s hesitation, she chose to stay where she was and barricade herself in the room. Nudged by fear, she spied the heavy tallboy dresser. Fueled by the adrenaline pumping through her veins, she shoved it across the floor and blocked the only door to the room. Caught up in finding reason through her fear, she stood mesmerized, staring at the door. She had to find a way to calm down, to think rationally.
She sat on the bed, took a deep, cleansing breath, and removed her shoes. With determined slowness, she removed her jewelry and returned each piece meticulously to its box for safekeeping. Next, she carefully stepped from her gown, hung it up, and began the tedious chore of unfastening each corset hook. By the time she’d finished the normal task, her jitters had subsided, and she’d nearly convinced herself that the strange events at the theater were to blame for her thoughts being on edge. She eyed the plump feather mattress with longing. Regardless, she knew that sleep was not going to come easy. Turning up the light in her private bath, Jane studied the dark circles under her eyes, still swollen from her tears. Pouring water into the basin, she lifted handfuls over her face, letting it cool her tension. The look on Wesley’s face emerged in her mind and guilt assuaged her. How she wished she could speak to Aunt Corney right now. She would give her insight on how best to handle this situation with Wesley, how she could soothe his ego without giving him the wrong impression. Relationships—they were still as foreign to her as ever. She remembered the day her mother had tried to explain about the differences between men and women….
Much to Aunt Cornelia’s concern, shortly after Jane’s monthly began, her mother, home briefly from her chosen life in Africa, sat the three of them down together for a private tea. She prefaced the talk not by stating how lovely it was to be together with her daughter and sister-in-law, or how delightful the tea cakes looked. Instead, she began by stating that she wanted to have a frank discussion with Jane on the topic of sex.
“No daughter of mine is going to grow up thinking that what happens between a man and a woman isn’t a completely natural thing. We are mammals, Jane. It’s science as much as anything, and I shall not have you stumbling about blind to the facts as do so many women. Present company excluded, of course, Cornelia”
Aunt Cornelia focused on her tea, agreeing with a simple nod.
Before that day, Jane had never seen the male anatomy. In truth, when her mother produced a detailed and properly labeled pen and ink sketch of both a flaccid and erect penis, Jane had found it rather repulsive. Aunt Cornelia’s cup clattered to the floor, causing her servant to rush in and, with a loud gasp, cover her eyes—which then caused her to stumble over a potted fern and twist her ankle. The lesson came to a grinding halt in lieu of tending to the servant’s injury.
Jane knew, however, that her mother never did anything halfway and later, in the privacy of her room, her mother, armed with her sketches and science books, completed Jane’s tutorial on the human anatomy. Clinically speaking, Jane was equipped with the knowledge of the human body—both male and female. What she didn’t comprehend and what her mother failed miserably to discuss was the emotional entanglements that accompany sex. So it was that she would continue to mature and develop views unorthodox for a woman her age, making her wonder if there was a single man on earth that would accept her quirks, her passion, and needs. There were many times—many since leaving Frederick—when she wondered if it was fair to expect any man to appreciate her for who she was.
Pulling back to the present, she cleansed her face and hoped that eventually what had occurred between her and Wesley would right itself. But more disturbing was attracting the attention of a man like Vladimir. He’d managed to plant seeds in her mind—finding where she was most vulnerable and using it somehow. What was his purpose? Was he merely trying to prove that he had the power to take control of her when he wanted? Or was there some mystical truth to the orb’s ability to predict the future?
Frustrated, she fervently scrubbed her face and arms as though his magical prowess clung to her flesh. She slipped into her cotton gown, doused the lights and sat in her reading chair as she braided her hair. Feeling less vulnerable where she sat in full view of the door, she pulled a quilt over her and kept vigil until she could no longer stay awake.
***
Journal entry, June 1887
The heavy mist, my ally, shrouded the evidence, making my task much easier than anticipated. It was not my intent. Was I not justified? Did we not have an agreement? Do not test me, I warned. Know what you want. She made me believe that she wanted the same, that we were kindred souls and yet faced with the truth, she cowered, became combative and threatened to expose me. Wicked tease. She will never lie again, I have seen to that. Doubt creeps into my thoughts, poisoning my quest, but I shall not stop. My perfect muse awaits me to find her and I shall, no matter how long it takes.
Chapter Nine
Randolph woke, groggy from yet another restless sleep. Dawn crept through the crack of the heavy drapes, illuminating the room. He braced himself on one elbow and ran his hand through his hair. Red satin sheets swirled around his naked body. He sat up and winced. His head felt like a ten-ton boulder. Narrowing his gaze, he saw the whisky decanter lying empty on its side. A glass, also empty, rolled across the sheets as he moved his leg. He ached all over, likely a product of too much drink and sleep deprivation. He ran a hand over the tightness in his neck, trying to remember how he’d gotten here last night. Jonesy, most likely, had tucked him in a carriage after they drank at the pub. Madam McFarland would have seen to getting him to his private suite without the other guests seeing him.
He was alone, and for that, he was grateful. He wouldn’t have been in the proper mood for company. Murky details of what happened after his encounter with Jane Goodwin at the theater began to filter back into his mind. He’d stopped for a nightcap and ran into Jonesy. She and Clarice had apparently had a quarrel over Miss Goodwin, and she’d stepped out for a bit of fresh air. She and Randolph shared a taste for good whisky. And last night Jonesy
had been in the mood to see if she could drink him under the table. Odd that they should both feel frustrated, though for different reasons, about the same woman.
“So, what did our Miss Goodwin have to speak with you about so urgently the other day in the garden?” she had asked, slamming back her second drink.
“Doing research.” He tipped his half-empty glass on edge and swirled its contents, eyeing the colored liquid in the muted pub light. Unlike Jonesy, he was not in as much of a hurry to obliterate the evening’s events. The odd encounter with Jane had left him feeling curious, unsettled.
“What kind of research?” Jonesy topped off her glass and held the bottle out to him. He shook his head, and she shrugged, her eyes meeting his as she waited for his answer.
He lifted the glass to his lips, pausing to speak. “Nothing that I feel she should become involved in.” He swallowed the balance of his drink, grimacing at the slow burn on his dry throat.
A slow smile stretched across her face. “Come on, bloke, this is Jonesy.”
He caught her studious gaze. True, they’d shared many secrets over the years—and even Clarice once in a drunken stupor at a party at the club. Jonesy was one of the few people in this town that he could trust. “It seems she has an avid interest in the embankment murders.”
She didn’t hide the look of surprise on her face. “Our innocent little Miss Jane, interested in investigating body parts? Now, that’s an interesting twist. What’d you tell her?” Her words slurred only slightly.
“What I would tell anyone. That she should let Scotland Yard handle the case. We don’t need an aspiring journalist nosing about so that we have to watch out for her, as well.”
She laughed aloud. “I’ll just wager she took that advice bloody well.”
He tossed her a wry grin.
“Do you fancy her?” She refreshed his drink and hers without query. “She has a certain appeal, I suppose. A bit cocky, if you ask me.”
Randolph chuckled. Likely she didn’t like having another opinionated woman in the house. “Fancy her? No,” he lied. “Pleasant enough to look at, I suppose.” He sipped his drink, averting his eyes from Jonesy. No need for her to know just how much Jane Goodwin had been on his mind as of late. “You know how I am. I can’t afford complications.”
“Oh, yes, inspector.” She smiled as she leaned back in her chair with a scrutinizing look. “I’m well aware of your preferences.”
“Which are nowhere near what they used to be,” he interjected, pinning her with a look.
She raised her brow. “Becoming soft, are we?”
“Older,” he commented. “Perhaps I wax romantic now.”
“A romantic, hmm….possible, I suppose.” She glanced at him. “Still, such a waste.”
The conversation about Jane Goodwin dropped there, but not so his thoughts of her. After arriving at the manor, it was clear from the empty decanter that he’d tried to drown her from his system. All for naught, it seemed, as he tossed and turned most of the night with restless need.
He climbed out of the bed and staggered to the latrine, and then made haste to ready for the day. He checked his pocket watch, seeing it was past noon. No doubt, his superior would want to see the report about another body part caught in a fisherman’s net.
A few moments later, Randolph slipped down the servant’s stairs and made his way through the kitchen. Despite the mask he wore for anonymity, the cook, sworn to secrecy on whatever she saw, merely glanced at him. He waited until he was standing in the daylight, then tucked the mask discreetly in his coat pocket. Following a narrow path through a cluster of overgrown trees, he found a hidden gate that led into the park commons beyond. No one the wiser, he stepped onto a walking path that wound around the park, melting into the morning bustle of the city. He arrived at Whitehall a short time later, having stopped at his private residence to freshen up. He needed no lingering signs of women or whiskey on him if he should run into his superior.
“Nice of you to stop in today, Mansfield.” Director, Hornsby sat at Randolph’s desk, hands clasped, waiting for him.
“It was a long night,” Randolph answered without apology. He’d already put in more hours on the embankment murders case than any man on any case in recent history. And with precious little to show for his dedication.
“Willoughby said you’d been to the morgue, seen the evidence. Do you have any further leads in this case?” the director asked as he stood and rounded the desk, picking up a heavy marble paperweight off a stack of papers. Randolph took his rightful place behind his desk, reached out, plucked the paperweight from Director Hornsby, and returned it to its place on his desk.
“Definitely a woman. Without a head, identification is proving to be difficult,” Randolph answered, wishing he had a strong cup of tea.
The director’s expression remained somber. “No theories?” he asked.
Randolph shrugged. He needed something strong to keep him awake. He rubbed his hand over his chin, realizing that he’d forgotten to shave. “Likely a prostitute. Met the wrong bloke. Too much drink, things got a little rough?” He watched the older man’s fists clench at his sides. The pressure from higher-up was getting more intense, if this little social call was any indication.
“A little rough?” Hornsby’s black brows shot high on his forehead. “She’s a bloody jigsaw puzzle, Mansfield.”
“I don’t know, maybe the perpetrator is doling out her body parts on purpose, trying to taunt us?” Randolph said as he pushed from his desk. He stuffed his hands in his pockets, not in the mood today to listen to the director give him another lecture about the queen’s concern of her Jubilee overshadowed by the gruesome goings on.
He reflected briefly on how far he’d come since the days when he’d trained as a constable. He’d been a young man then, fresh with excitement, determined to rid the world of evil. And had it been legal, his father would have been the first one on that list. Ten years ago, it had been a personal quest, his quiet reason for joining the force to find the man who murdered his sister. His ability to see details and his tenacity caught the attention of his superiors, earning him the opportunity to train with a handful of other candidates in the upcoming field of scientific criminal investigations. Over time, Randolph concluded that his father had allowed the murder of his sister by paying someone to take care of his daughter’s unwed pregnancy. And every day since taking his oath, he swore he’d have retribution.
***
“I will not have Beth’s mistake ruining my reputation in this city. I have worked too hard and I’ll be damned if you weren’t able to teach that little tart to keep her legs together. By God, she’ll know better next time.”
His mother begged and pleaded for him to have mercy. Poor Beth, distraught, sat in a catatonic state. When Randolph, determined to be their champion, voiced his opinion, he received a sound thrashing with his father’s walking stick. Forbidding his wife to accompany her daughter, the task slid to Randolph and his father. The landau pulled into an alley next to a seedy, rundown building. There, a woman, her face and red hair shrouded by her hooded cloak, accepted a roll of notes from his father. She helped Beth out of the carriage.
Randolph started to follow, but his father caught his arm.
“She’s made her bed, boy. Now she must lie in it. Stay here.”
Randolph stared with disbelief at the hateful face of his father, finally finding the courage to speak. “What will become of her?”
His father turned his gaze to the opposite window. “They will remove the fetus and she will have to stay to make sure the operation was successful.”
“Then we’ll come get her?” Randolph asked. His eyes met Beth’s as the woman escorted her into the rundown building.
His father nodded once. “Come away, Randolph. This is not your concern.”
Several hours went by with no word of her condition. His mother, beyond the stage of fretting, had dissolved into staring out the window. She refused to eat. After his fathe
r finished his supper, he quietly rose, grabbed his hat and coat. “Come along then, Randolph.”
They found her.
Her lifeless body lay on a steel-top table in a dingy room with cracked, peeling paint and the strong smell of alcohol and blood. Her skin was blue, her lips a deep purple. Randolph never forgot the sight of the blood-soaked sheet pulled haphazardly over her frail body. Neither the surgeon nor the woman was ever found, and the names they’d given were later determined to be bogus. It had all been a front to collect money from those who could pay. A scant few weeks later, his mother, crippled mentally with grief, was committed without his knowledge to an asylum for the insane, where she later died.
Poor Beth. His mother. Randolph had failed them both, and he hadn’t yet forgiven himself.
“This doesn’t appear to be the work of an amateur, Mansfield. There is a consensus that it could be someone with an astute knowledge of human anatomy,” the director stated. Randolph’s thoughts snapped back to the present and he turned to face the man.
“Yes, I agree it appears the work of a professional. So I’ve been told by everyone from Willoughby on up. Perhaps we should bring in all the physicians in town for questioning. After that, we’ll round up the butchers, and then all the furniture upholsterers.” Randolph glared at the director. Of course, the same thing had already crossed his mind, but for different, far more personal reasons. Still, such an exercise was ridiculous. Eventually, this lunatic would make a mistake, become too lax, and then they’d have him.
He eyed the director. “When the complaints of police harassment start flooding in and the queen asks us to explain the turmoil her boys down at the Yard have caused, what are we to say?” Randolph paced the room, frustrated with the pressure bearing down on him from all sides—the worst from himself. “We need proof, something substantial. We need him to make a mistake.”
The Dark Seduction of Miss Jane Page 9
