She blushed slightly, ceding to the truth with a shrug. “I was curious to know if you’d had any leads on the embankment murders.”
The woman with one look could conjure his darkest fantasy and drive him to insanity in the next breath. “Miss Goodwin, what is this insatiable desire you have to stick your nose in my work? If you have information regarding this or any of my cases, I would you prefer you tell me now.”
Her blue eyes grew large. “You mean to say that this one note is now elevated to a case with Scotland Yard?” she asked.
Was she playing him for a fool? He blew out a sigh. “Why don’t you tell me what you’re thinking, since it is quite obvious that you’re not about to let this rest.”
“I was thinking, and it’s only a theory—I have no proof—” She chewed on the corner of her lip, something he wouldn’t mind trying himself.
“Please, Miss Goodwin. My men have been working around the clock on a number of possible theories. But I am most anxious to hear yours.”
“Perhaps the previous notes to Writers House and the murders are somehow linked?”
He moved slowly up the steps until he was level with her gaze. “Interesting theory, but doubtful, since it’s been several months since anyone here has received any notes. And as I said, they were not the same as the one you received.” He leveled his gaze on hers. “Let me deal with this.” He started back down the steps.
“What about Mr. Kerchov? I hear that club is into decadence and fantasy. Perhaps he’s playing out a fantasy of scaring me?”
He stopped and looked over his shoulder at her. “Also an interesting theory, one that begs the question, why would he want to scare you?”
She shrugged, raising her brow. “You’re the investigator, inspector.”
“For your information, I’d already planned to speak with him as well as your Wesley.” He started to leave.
“You’ll let me know what you find out?”
He paused before turning to meet her inquisitive gaze. “Let me see if I can make myself clear, Miss Goodwin. My advice…no, my warning to you is that you leave the sleuthing to me. You focus on your articles about the latest fashions from Paris. Good day.” He tipped his hat, certain he would spend the rest of the day trying to pull the visual daggers from the back of his head.
Chapter Twelve
The man, though gorgeously handsome, was an insufferable brute. Why she thought he’d understand better the reasons for Writers House—to educate women, to stimulate their intellect, to make them productive members of society—she had no idea. In spite of her frustration with the noted investigator, however, she had greater concern about Lady Hampton’s response to all of this. One word that things were no longer safe sent to Aunt Cornelia, and she’d be on a ship back to Boston before the next sunrise—her chance to learn, to be on her own, to prove her worth as an investigative journalist gone, just like that.
After several nights of restless sleep, she remembered the promise she’d made to herself after the debacle with Frederick—that she would never again fall prey to a manipulative man. Convinced that Vladimir had somehow used her and was likely the source of the mysterious note, she decided to pay a visit to McFarland Manor under the guise of interviewing its owner, Madam McFarland. However, fearing Lady Hampton’s displeasure of the idea, she took only Clarice into her confidence. Because of her previous employment there, Clarice’s knowledge of how to dress and what to say was invaluable.
The hansom rolled over the cobblestone, pitching as the wheels caught between the stones, swaying the carriage. Jane rode with her notebook clutched in one hand and the other braced against the side of the carriage. She approached today’s errand, as she believed any seasoned investigative reporter might. She was dressed in neat, practical attire—a navy blue skirt, matching jacket, and a starched white blouse. Clarice had lent her a stylish blue chapeau decorated with bold, bright peacock feathers. Her aim was to give an impression of power and experience when she met Madam McFarland.
Jane spotted a lone man in a gray cloak, his head down, hurrying down the walk past the carriage. His tweed overcoat reminded her of Inspector Mansfield. The inspector was an odd man—troubled and perhaps a little sad, too. But his brooding dark looks and the desire to save him from his demons was an addictive combination to a woman like her—one with a strong will and a deep passion. He was a man dedicated to his work, loyal to Her Majesty’s service, as Lady Hampton had said. But she was equally dedicated in honing her skills, to achieving her goals. And in this, she needed to follow her instincts.
Over the past few days she’d made notes, retraced her steps, and came to the conclusion that three things—the incident at the theatre, the man in the fog, and the note—had one thing in common: master illusionist, Vladimir Kerchov. Had he played this game with other women? Did he use his psychological skills to plant seeds in her mind, or was she already predisposed to his power of suggestion?
The thought that she might harbor the depth of passion that he’d intimated drew her up short. Was it possible? She was not naive to carnal pleasures, but she’d never met a man who saw her as anything but an accessory. The image of Inspector Mansfield’s dark eyes and his sinful smile leapt into her conscience, causing her skin to tingle. She quickly shoved her thoughts aside, along with a measure of guilt that he’d not be happy with her if he knew she was embarking on her own investigation. She’d convinced herself that he had more important things to do, and though he wasn’t aware of all that had happened in the theater, the truth remained that this was her quarrel with Vladimir, not his. She just had to get him to admit that he’d somehow used hypnosis without her consent. Jane straightened her shoulders, determined to follow through with her plan to find out as much about Vladimir and the deviant goings-on at the manor in which he might be involved. She would not be intimidated by her discomfiture, no matter how great, if it meant getting the truth. Otherwise, she might as well resign herself to a career of writing about fashion and tea etiquette.
The carriage rolled up to the walkway in front of a massive redbrick house. At least four stories tall, it was a statement of master artisanship and history. Aided by the driver, she stepped from the carriage and quickly made a scan of the quiet neighborhood. Set apart from the bustling business district, it sat at the edge of a park. Two men dressed in stately attire walked their dogs. Another couple stood on the street corner, absorbed in their conversation.
Jane sent the hansom on its way and looked at the imposing old manor. Surrounded by a high wrought-iron gate, the house and grounds took up half of a city block. A manicured hedge made it difficult to see the inner yard, but two giant oaks, their branches lush, hung low over the covered porch roof, casting long shadows across the entryway.
The gate snapped behind Jane with a heavy clang as she headed up the short cobblestone walk. She noted several stone statuaries tucked in among scarlet roses. Six majestic Roman columns, three on either side of the doublewide stone steps, held up a roof that spanned the length of the barren front veranda. Jane walked up to the door, suddenly wondering of the wisdom in not asking Wesley to accompany her. But he still hadn’t spoken to her since that night at the theater. Even if had he been speaking to her, he’d likely have tried to talk her out of this.
Taking a deep breath, she held the heavy iron doorknocker and lifted it, letting it fall twice against the medieval-looking door. She scanned the exterior of the house as she waited, taking in its understated grandeur. Twin electric lamps—a luxury not found in many homes, yet—flanked the arched entry, indicating the affluence of the house and its members. Above the door hung a black polished wood ram’s head, its great curled horns spanning beyond the width of the door. Its gleaming eyes seemed to peer down at her, causing gooseflesh to rise on her arms.
Impatiently, she stepped to a nearby window and peered inside, but wooden shutters closed against the glass blocked her view. Strange, she thought, to have them on the interior and not the exterior of the house. A n
oise caught her off-guard and she nearly stumbled in her hurry to return to the door. A tall man dressed in black, his facial features gaunt and sullen, towered before her. If his imposing height alone weren’t enough to make her rethink her decision to come, the black mask he wore accomplished the task. It covered the top half of his face and pale blue eyes regarded her with suspicion through the eyeholes.
“We don’t give to charities,” he stated quietly and started to close the door.
Jane shoved her boot in the path of the door, squelching its progress. “I have an appointment with Madam McFarland.”
His gaze dropped to her foot and rose the length of her body before he turned in silence and ushered her inside. The door, as though on a spring of sorts, shut behind her, blocking out all natural light. The inside temperature was several degrees cooler than outside. Jane tucked her fan away, trying to adjust her eyes to the dim light.
“Wait here while I announce your arrival to Madam,” he uttered in a monotone voice.
She followed his methodical long-legged gate, his shoes clicking sharply on the black and white marbled tile, as he crossed through the large open rotunda-style room. Jane inched cautiously into the circular room. Her gaze was drawn to the vaulted ceiling where there was an exquisitely detailed painting of a plump nude woman lying beneath a tree, eating grapes as two men pleasured her. Jane’s cheeks warmed as she stared at the carnal painting, Vladimir’s words echoing in her brain.
Do not deny the passion inside of you, Jane.
Jane clamped down on the undesirable voice, determined not to allow the memory to dissuade her from her goals. She focused on her surroundings, determined to write down every decadent detail when she returned home.
Flickering wall sconces surrounded the parameter of the foyer. A grand, wide staircase with thick polished railings led to a spacious first landing, then split off into another set of stairs leading upward,—left and right—of a seating area. But it was what stood between her and the stairway that took her breath away. She stepped forward, her curiosity drawing her closer. Caught up in the blatant sexual passion of the larger-than-life statue, she could almost hear the woman’s strangled breathing as she stared at her contorted expression. Jane’s eyes followed the muscular arm of the man holding her, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of her thigh as she fought to break free of his grasp. She recognized the artwork as being that of Pluto and Persephone. Legend was that Pluto kidnapped Persephone and tricked her into returning to Hades to rule the Underworld at his side. Jane’s eyes lowered to the inscription on the plaque at the base of the statue, and, though she was not good at French, she tried to pick out the words—Fais ce que tu voudras.
“Do what thou wilt.”
The deep-throated voice startled Jane. She leapt back from the statue as though it had spoken. Her nerves were more on edge than she realized. Swallowing deep, she plastered on a grin and stepped around the imposing statue, slamming into the solemn gaze of a woman with eyes the color of jade. Her fiery red hair flowed over her shoulders in deep luxurious waves, unfettered by pins or combs. Her lips were painted scarlet, her cheeks quickened with rouge. She reminded Jane of the Egyptian women in paintings she’d once seen. Over a plain black dress that brushed to her knees, she wore a brightly exotic, semi-sheer dressing gown patterned with wild flowers in hues of mustard yellow and peacock blue. She was barefoot, and wore several gold chains spun with tiny bells around her ankles that tinkled when she moved. Jane realized suddenly that she was staring. “I’m sorry. I was just…admiring this magnificent artwork.”
“Oh, I’m glad you enjoy it. It is exquisite, I quite agree. But it holds nothing in comparison to you. My heavens, you are a ravishing beauty. We certainly don’t get too many of your caliber answering our advertisements here at the Manor.” She circled Jane as she spoke, raking her over from head-to-toe.
“You are Madam McFarland, I presume?” Jane stuck out her hand and the woman stared at her a moment before cautiously extending her own hand. “My name is…Lizbeth Goodwin. I came about the interview for the paper?” Jane chose a nom de’ plume at the last moment for anonymity’s sake.
The woman withdrew her hand. Her smile, like her flesh was cold. “Ah yes, of course, Miss Goodwin. The woman Clarice told me about. I mistook you for wishing to apply at our club for…well, a more permanent position. Come along. My office is just down the hall.”
Jane tucked her notebook in the crook of her arm and followed the woman.
“Do you happen to speak French, Miss Goodwin?” she said over her shoulder as they walked down a narrow hall past the grand staircase.
“Only what I remember from my studies, I’m afraid. I’ve always had a desire to learn.” Her head was on a swivel. There was little in the way of natural light inside the manor. Ornate wall sconces illuminated the burgundy wallpaper. Tall potted palms and intricately carved sculptures peeked from periodic recesses in the wall. Jane tried not to gawk. One depicted a man pleasuring himself, his face immortalized in erotic pleasure. Another showed two women in an intimate embrace, while another was of a man standing behind a woman, one hand on her breast, the other hand poised between her thighs.
Jane tugged at the collar of her blouse, aware that it had suddenly gotten warmer. There were but a handful of doors along the hallway. She noted the cleaning buckets of housekeepers outside one of the doors and peeked in, unable to see much as she hurried to stay up with the formidable-looking woman.
Madam McFarland spoke as she walked. “These rooms are available to our general guests. They can be reserved for private gatherings, but our regular members prefer a more open arrangement.”
Open arrangement? Jane started to ask what she meant by that when her nose caught the scent of rich exotic leather and lemons. She paused near a door partially open and read the brass plaque—Room of Leathers.
“Go on, my dear, feel free to satisfy your curiosity.” Madam stopped and waved her into the room. “Satisfaction is our mantra here.”
Taking up the invitation, Jane peeked inside, careful not to disrupt the cleaning routine. Her eyes were drawn to a tall, doublewide armoire filled with an array of leather whips and tethers of every size and description. The housekeeper was studiously polishing the thick handle of one of the whips, its snake-like tendril curled on the floor at her feet.
Jane scanned the room. It was well over the size of three regular rooms—more like a ballroom in size. Near the armoire, piled high in a comfortable looking nest, were a bevy of brightly colored exotic pillows. At the other end of the room sat a grand four-poster bed, its thick posts gleaming with fresh polish. At the side, set up in full view of the bed, were rows of theater chairs, covered in rich velvet to match the satin covering of the bed.
Her gaze traveled around the room, and she fought not to let her mouth fall open in shock. Clarice had said it was a proverbial palace of pleasures, but this…her eyes grew large as she turned and saw an enormous black birdcage atop a small platform in one corner of the room, complete with a human-sized perch. Jane now understood the need for the shutters that blocked the view from the outside world.
She stood in the middle of the room, a myriad of images drifting through her mind. It was oppressive, the decadence of this house. It hung so heavy that it threatened the air in her lungs. Placing a hand to her throat, Jane considered bolting for the front door. Drawing her notebook from her pocket, she began furiously to write her observations. She didn’t hear Madam McFarland steal up behind her
“I see you are taken with this room. Are leathers a personal choice for you?” she asked, gently catching an errant tendril at Jane’s neck and curling it around her finger.
Jane bristled at the woman’s touch, but the head madam continued, not waiting for Jane’s answer. “Or do you prefer an audience? This room is what we like to call our community room. If you like, I can arrange for a personal tour when we have members present.”
Jane sensed that Madam enjoyed intimidation. She turned to
face her, her gaze unwavering. “If it’s all the same to you, I prefer to keep my sexual tastes private,” she responded boldly.
Madam McFarland regarded her, and then a slow smile curled at the corner of her provocative lips. She shrugged. “Pity, it might have made for an interesting afternoon.” She crooked her finger and bid Jane to follow.
A blast of warm air assaulted Jane as she walked past what must be the kitchen and laundry. She peeked quickly through a small porthole window and saw several staff members preparing food, others stirring cauldrons of laundry.
“This way, Miss Goodwin.”
Jane followed her down another corridor to a set of French doors. The woman swept them open with a dramatic flair and entered the room, her robe swirling around her naked legs.
“Welcome to my lair,” she said, spreading her arms wide as she turned to look at Jane.
Jane walked into the room, unable to quell the look of fascination on her face. If the “Room of Leathers” had thrown her off kilter, it was nothing in comparison to Madam McFarland’s office. She stood immobile, mesmerized by the enormity of the room and its odd trappings. Floor-to-ceiling bookcases covered three of the walls. A black spiral staircase led to an upper balcony, making accessible the books and exotic artifacts on the shelves above.
“Are you thirsty, Miss Goodwin? We don’t stand on protocol around here. I can offer you tea, wine…perhaps a good scotch?” The woman rounded her massive polished desk and sat down in a chair that resembled a medieval throne. “I can ring for Jarrod.”
“No, thank you.” She tried not to gawk at the vast array of oddities. The entire Manor was a museum devoted to every possible carnal pleasure.
“All of this used to belong to my father,” Madam McFarland stated.
“Do you see him often?” Jane asked. Her eyes lit upon another ram’s head, this one preserved and hung above the mantel. Next to the giant unlit stone fireplace was a life-sized statue of Pluto staring longingly into the cold, dead space.
The Dark Seduction of Miss Jane Page 12
