“Perhaps we do have something tangible.” The director’s voice was far calmer than Randolph felt. “We’ve received a note from Isabella Hampton over at that novice women’s writing club near Fleet Street.”
“Yes, Writers House, what of it?” Randolph’s instincts went full alert. He knew that Jane Goodwin resided there despite Lady Hampton’s concerns. Given his experience with the American woman, he knew who’d won that argument. He glanced at his feet, the realization that the woman’s bull-headed fearlessness reminded him of himself years ago. All well and good for a man, but dangerous stuff for a woman—especially one lacking proper experience, though he certainly wasn’t going to be the one to tell her.
“She indicated that one of her tenants received a note. No one seems to know where it came from.”
Except for the servants, to his knowledge Jane was the only tenant in residence. “How does this involve the CID?” Randolph asked. There were far more pressing concerns to be dealt with. However, the idea of a paying a visit held a certain appeal. Curiosity prodded him to find out how she fared after she’d left the theater last night.
“The grisly discovery on the Thames is no secret, Mansfield. The papers have used it daily to make a mockery of our investigation. This house, as I understand, is but a few blocks from the river. The proprietor indicates that since word has begun to get out of the type of non-conformist women who make up its membership roster, they’ve received several notes, warning them off. This one was different, apparently. More personal. It could be nothing.” The director shrugged. “It could mean everything.”
Randolph knew of such notes. Some time ago, Jonesy had spoken to him about a few notes she’d received after it was found that she’d impersonated a male reviewer for one of the papers. She’d told him in confidence, not wishing the authorities to investigate, but rather let it fade away—which eventually it did. “I’ll check into it right away.”
The director shook his head. “I fear if we don’t find the madman who is doing this, we may have much bigger problems ahead of us.”
Randolph nodded. He’d make a visit to Writers House that afternoon.
Chapter Ten
Her breath caught in her throat. Heat radiated from where his unshaven cheek rubbed against hers. The rustle of her skirts, bunched around her waist, melded with the sound of his labored breathing. The darkness hid his features, though his hands gripped her thighs, his thrusts causing her body to coil, her mind to grow dizzy. She turned her head, barely able to breathe for the heat threatening to consume her.
Jane woke with a start, pushing upright and nearly falling off the chair. Flushed, her skin felt clammy, her pulse racing still from the vivid dream. She licked her lips, swallowing against the dryness in her throat. In the light of day, things did not appear as menacing, but the dresser shoved against the door was a silent reminder of the fearful reality the night before. She took a deep breath, the aroma of coffee and bacon easing her mind with the knowledge there were people in the house. Her sleep had been fitful, her dreams strange throughout the night.
The need to be near others prompted her to dress quickly and, with a renewed sense of determination not to become a victim of anyone’s pranks, she pushed her dresser back into place, dusted off her hands, and headed downstairs.
Isabella met her at the bottom of the steps. “My heavens, child! What on earth was that racket? It sounded like the roof was caving in.” She held her hand over her chest, her napkin still in hand. “My word, you’re terribly pale. Are you coming down with something?” She held the back of her hand to Jane’s forehead. “Hmm, no fever.” She regarded her with curiosity.
“I didn’t sleep well last night, I’m afraid.” Jane smiled politely and stepped around her. Isabella’s coddling only made Jane’s guilt worse regarding Wesley. She slid into her chair, garnering the attention of Jonesy and Clarice, who were enjoying their morning ritual of tea and reading the papers.
“And how was your night with Wesley?” Jonesy piped up, sporting a wicked grin. The table wobbled as though Jonesy had been kicked. She shot Clarice an angry look. “Bloody hell, it was just a question.”
Martha appeared at Jane’s side, setting a cup of tea in front of her. Her evening out was bound to be the conversation this morning. Tea and milk were not going to alleviate her weary mind and body.
“Do you have anything stronger—coffee, perhaps?” Jane implored, looking up at the servant.
Martha tossed a disgruntled look at Lady Hampton, who simply nodded. “Of course, right away, miss.” She picked up the teacup and hurried back to the kitchen. A notable silence followed. Jane toyed with her fork, stealing a glance around the table.
“Well now, my dear—” Isabella began, taking a sip of her tea.
Martha swept into the room, the look on her face solemn. She placed a full plate of eggs, a toasted muffin, two meats, fried tomatoes and mushrooms, and a glass of juice in front of Jane.
Her stomach churned as she eyed the bounty. “Is that all for me?”
“If you’re not happy with the menu, mum, you’ll have to take it up with Lady Hampton.” She fisted her hands on her hips. “Yer coffee is brewin’. Will there be anything else?”
“I meant no disrespect.” Jane’s stomach rumbled, but her nerves were still on edge. “Thank you. It looks wonderful.”
Martha clamped her hands together at her waist, gave a short harrumph, and started to leave.
Jane stopped her. “I wonder if after breakfast I might have your help with my hair?”
She nodded. “As you wish, Miss Goodwin. You’ll let me know when yer ready.”
“I’d be more than happy to oblige you, Jane,” Clarice said, lifting her teacup to her lips.
Martha scowled and snatched up Jonesy’s empty plate.
Jonesy scowled likewise, and flipped the newspaper up in front of her face.
“Well, then,” Isabella stated, diplomatically diverting the tension in the room. “Did you and my nephew have a pleasant evening?”
Jane pushed the food around her plate, determining how best to answer the woman’s question. She cleared her throat and took a sip of the coffee Martha had brought. “He was a perfect gentleman.” Given the awkward circumstances surrounding the events the night before, Jane felt that much was completely true.
“Boring then, was it?” Jonesy muttered from behind her newspaper.
Isabella darted a look of warning, and then turned to Jane with a congenial smile “How was Master Vladimir’s performance?”
Even the mention of his name stirred restlessness inside her. She’d just as soon forget the evening altogether, were it possible. She’d not felt comfortable in his presence since meeting him at the afternoon tea. Given what happened the night before, she was convinced that he’d found a way to tap into her brain. Though she didn’t believe in such hocus-pocus, she could not deny the odd circumstances revolving the incident at the theater last night. “Did Wesley mention what he thought of the performance?” Jane asked, sliding the attention away from her.
Isabella dotted her biscuit with a dollop of jam. “Well, I haven’t seen him yet this morning. His door was still closed when I left.” She leaned forward with a conspirator’s grin. “You must have tuckered the lad out.”
Jane returned his aunt’s well-meaning matchmaking attempt with a weak grin. “Yes…I’m quite certain that Wesley would agree that Vladimir’s performance was quite unique.” Jane’s eye caught the newspapers stacked on the edge of the table. “Are there any reviews in the paper about the show?” She prayed that there was no word of an amorous couple being caught by one of the patrons.
“Only one,” Jonesy commented as she flipped to the section. “It says the crowd was small, that it had its riveting moments, but was largely the standard fare in magic tricks. It says the highlight of the evening was the Amazing Vladimir’s “know-all-see-all” orb, purported to make one see their true inner selves.”
Three sets of eyes turned towa
rd Jane. “Oh yes, that…that was truly an intriguing trick.” She poked at the fried tomato on her plate, hoping that closed the topic.
“Oh, I nearly forgot. Martha found this when she picked up the papers this morning. Odd it was on the floor, as though it had been shoved beneath the door.” Isabella handed the small envelope to Jane. The red wax seal was torn, revealing a folded note inside.
“How do you know it’s for me?” Jane asked.
“Well, dear, it’s addressed to ‘J’. There was no other notation on the outside, and so naturally I assumed it was a general note to the house.”
Jane turned the unsealed note in her hand. “Is it common, Mrs. Hampton, for the house to receive notes that are not identified?”
Isabella sipped her tea. Her eyes darted to Jonesy, who folded her newspaper and placed it on the stack of others she’d read. Without a word, Jonesy rose, picked up her teacup, and headed toward the sideboard to serve herself.
“Go on, Izzy, tell her,” Jonesy said, her back still turned.
“As head of this club, it is my duty to screen all cards and notes that come into the house improperly addressed,” Lady Hampton said, defending her actions.
“That’s not telling her.” Jonesy glared at Isabella over her shoulder. “I’ll be in the courtyard if anyone needs me.” She hesitated and glanced at Clarice who sat placidly drinking her tea. Jonesy released a sigh and left the room.
“Well, then, Jane, what does it say?” Clarice asked, leaning forward on her folded arms.
Resigned to the house rules, though not particularly fond of them, she opened the note. Jane cleared her throat and read aloud.
“My dearest J, you are a bright star in my dreary life. Your passion excites me, fueling my need to know you better. Sleep well, my dear, until in dreams we meet again.”
Isabella paused, her cup hanging midair. “Hearing it out loud makes it sound even more frightening. Do you have any idea who would have penned such a personal note?”
Jane’s first thought was Wesley. But she felt certain he would not have been so mysterious. There was a better chance that it was whomever she saw in the street later, but that was purely conjecture, of course. Yes, and pigs can fly, Jane thought. She looked at Lady Hampton. “I have no idea who sent it.” She studied the handwriting. “Whomever it is, they have an elegant skill with a pen.”
“May I?” Clarice held out her hand in request.
Jane handed her the note.
“I thought I recognized the notepaper. It’s from McFarland Manor.”
Jane frowned. She’d researched a number of the popular clubs over near Piccadilly Circus, most of them for gentleman only. But she knew there were scores of unknown clubs scattered within the city and a few farther afield at exclusive country estates. “What is McFarland Manor?”
Clarice returned the note to Jane. “A private club for the well-to-do. Exclusive and one of the first. Madam McFarland is the owner. She received it from her father. Caused quite a scandal at the time, but there was enough money and influences to appease the critics.”
“Solely for men?” Jane asked.
Clarice smiled. “Oh, indeed. Her clientele includes some of London’s finest—officials in the parliament, dignitaries, higher-ups—those with more money than sense. She offers special services along with strict anonymity for her members.”
“Special services?” Jane prodded, curious as to how a woman could retain such power in a male-dominated system. She had her thoughts, but she wanted Clarice’s confirmation. Men were men, after all, and most wanted one thing.
Clarice’s eyes glittered when she smiled. “For her members, who will pay well for her services, she offers whatever their hearts desire—from the decadent frivolities to…well, let’s just say non-provincial delights.”
Jane folded the paper and tucked it back in the envelope. “If what you say is true, then it cannot be for me, since I know of no one who is a member of McFarland Manor.” She shrugged and handed the note back to Isabella, hoping to erase the look of concern on her face. It was clear that even if suggested again, Jane would not consider moving to Hampton House given the awkward circumstances between her and Wesley.
“It is marked with a J,” Clarice remarked. Her blue eyes regarded Jane speculatively.
“Maybe it was for Jonesy?” Isabella interjected.
Clarice glanced at Isabella. “Not likely. The only notes that Jonesy receives are those threatening to string her from a lamppost.”
“Is she teasing?” Jane turned her question to Isabella.
The club’s mistress shot a perturbed look at Clarice. “Getting this club started has given us our share of naysayers, I admit. We had a few after Jonesy’s debacle at the newspaper, but not a one ever followed through with their threats.”
“Threats? How long since the last?” Jane asked.
Isabella eyes sought Clarice’s for help.
“Perhaps a month?” Clarice remarked, dabbing her mouth.
“Did you notify the authorities?” Jane looked from one woman to the other.
Clarice shook her head.
Jane, taken aback, blurted the first words to cross her mind. “Did any of you stop to think that those notes might have come from a madman? Perhaps even the person responsible for these embankment murders?”
Isabella seemed to consider her words, then waved the thought away. “It’s no secret, Jane, that exclusive clubs for women are not well thought of in London, particularly by the men whose wives belong. You can’t imagine the notes, the threats we’ve received from disgruntled husbands. Most feel it’s a waste of time for a woman to pursue reading, let alone writing.”
Jane nodded, reeling in her frustration. That much she did understand. “Nonetheless, this cannot be condoned, surely.”
“Of course,” Isabella continued. “This is why I sent word to Inspector Mansfield this morning. He will be by later today to pay us a call.”
“Good. I think that was wise. I have a few things I’d like to discuss with the good inspector. Clarice, if your offer still stands, might I trouble you for your assistance?”
A few moments later, Jane sat at her vanity. She eyed Clarice in the reflection of the mirror. “How is it that you know so much about McFarland Manor?”
Her violet blue eyes met Jane’s inquisitive gaze. “A number of years ago, I was a scullery maid there when I first came to London. I worked for its previous owner, the one whose daughter now runs the club. It’s where I first met Jonesy. As our friendship grew, she became unhappy with how some of the men would treat me—pawing at me and such. She asked me to quit, said she’d take proper care of me. Madam was just beginning to become more involved in the managing of the club at the time. She wasn’t happy about me leaving, but I knew it wouldn’t take long for another to replace me. Mopping floors and polishing leather is easy work to find. The hard part is being discreet about what you see.”
Jane’s cheeks warmed at the memory of her secretly spying on her and Jonesy in the study. The relationship seemed so volatile, full of passion, but Jane saw how possessive Jonesy was of Clarice. While the notion of two women involved seemed forbidden in the public eye, it seemed accepted here at Writers House. “Are you happy, then?” Their relationship intrigued Jane. Perhaps because she’d never had a close relationship with anyone other than her aunt.
“You mean me and Jonesy?” Clarice shrugged. “Yes, but we also have an understanding. Which is true of all relationships, I suppose you could say.” Clarice curled her hands over Jane’s shoulders and gently caressed them. “We allow each other the freedom to be who we are and still remain friends. There, look. What do you think?”
Jane twisted in her seat, turning the hand mirror so she could see the back. “It’s quite lovely, thank you. You must let me do something nice for you sometime. Perhaps we could go to lunch?”
Clarice patted Jane’s shoulder. “Let’s not push Jonesy’s good nature too far, shall we?”
Chapter Eleven<
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“May I take your coat, inspector?” Martha asked.
Randolph slipped off his cloak and handed it to the servant.
“Lady Hampton is waiting in the parlor.”
He walked down a short corridor and into a room, its shelves filled with books and artifacts. Lady Hampton rose to greet him.
“It’s so good of you to come on such short notice, inspector. May I offer you some tea?” She rang a bell, summoning the same woman who’d taken his coat. Writers House apparently could only afford one servant. It was an observation only.
“If it’s not too much trouble,” he responded. “Thank you.” He took a quick sweep of the room, arranged differently than it had been on his previous visit. A few more books and artifacts appeared in the décor. “Your housekeeper stays on the premises, then?” He asked, perusing the book titles.
“Yes. Martha and Ben both live here at Writers House. Their quarters are out back, beyond the garden.”
Picking up a marble statuary, he studied it, wondering if it was, indeed an erect—He glanced up about to ask if Jane Goodwin was to join them when he saw her standing at the door, her blue gaze on him.
“That was a gift from my parent’s travels. They found it on a dig in Pompeii. It’s a marble phallus, and I’m told it was used in ancient fertility rituals to perform—”
Randolph cleared his throat. “I think I have a fair understanding of its purpose, Miss Goodwin.” He placed the shiny black marble piece back on the stack of papers it weighted down. As he met her steady gaze, a smile played at the corner of her mouth. Randolph averted his eyes, searching for the small notebook he carried.
“It is good to see you again.” She held out her hand in greeting. Her skin was smooth, her hand small in comparison. “How is the case coming?”
He dropped her hand. “We continue to investigate every lead.” He wanted to comment how much better she looked today, but felt it better to get on with the matter at hand. Nevertheless, he jotted her name in his notebook.
The Dark Seduction of Miss Jane Page 10
