“This person grows bold, Jane.” Wesley handed her the piece of paper with the McFarland Manor heading stamped at one corner.
Jane studied the note and placed it on the table. “I don’t understand. It has to be someone at the Manor. Vladimir is the obvious choice, isn’t he?”
“If you believe it is him, then why not just ask him?” Wesley refreshed her tea and then his own.
“You’re both bloody bonkers, I say.”
Jane had been so caught up in her evaluation of the details that she’d forgotten entirely that Isabella was seated in the same room. She was livid, of course, livid when together they confessed what they’d done. And now, with the discovery of another note that morning, it was impossible not to be upfront with her.
Isabella stared into her teacup and shook her head. “The two of you, sneaking behind my back like a couple of duffers.” I made a vow to watch over you. “She jabbed her finger toward Jane. “And Lord knows I’ve done all I could.” Her angry gaze darted to Wesley. “And you—you’re are supposed to be her escort. How could you have allowed Jane to embark on something not only potentially dangerous, but which could have ended in a scandal that, frankly, Writers House simply does not need.”
Jane placed her hand on Isabella’s arm. “It wasn’t our intent to frighten you or to cause scandal. If there is blame to be placed, then blame me. It was my idea, and poor Wesley went along to watch over me…as always.” She smiled up at him.
“Well,” Isabella sniffed, slanting a cursory glance at her nephew. “I feel that, under the circumstances, it would be best for you and the staff to pack your things and move out to our country estate. There is safety in numbers. And, of course, Wesley would be readily available around the clock.”
Wesley raised his cup with a charming smirk.
“I’m afraid, Jane, that if you refuse, you give me no choice, but to write your aunt and have her begin arrangements for your passage back to Boston.”
“Aunt Izzy.” Wesley pinned her with a frown. “That’s a bit overzealous, don’t you think?”
Isabella eyed Jane, her stern expression softening. “I will not sleep a wink knowing you’re alone here at night, Jane. Surely you understand my dilemma?”
Jane nodded. Of course she understood, but it didn’t quell her frustration—or the feeling of absolute helplessness. And that feeling infuriated her enough to want to stand her ground. She would not be frightened away by some coward who would only leave notes and never show his face. The thought of Isabella’s futile efforts at matchmaking weighed far less on her mind than did the real possibility that by moving in, she might lead the perpetrator right to the family home, endangering their lives, as well. She couldn’t live with that hanging over her head.
Jane stared out the window, her mood matching the stormy gray sky. It had been raining off and on for the past two days, for what little good it had done for the heat. She dabbed her throat with a lace hanky, a gift from the very aunt she didn’t wish to disappoint above all else. If, indeed, she went back to Boston, she would have to live with herself every day, looking over her shoulder, knowing she’d left this mystery left unsolved. Self-doubt would enter her mind, telling her she’d not been resilient, that she wasn’t fit to be an investigative reporter. One had to expect a certain amount of discomfort and danger in this line of work. She simply had to make Isabella see reason, and she would need to step up her efforts to find what she’d missed.
To do that, she would need the help from someone who understands the criminal mind. Who better, Jane realized in a moment of enlightenment, to form such a collaborative effort with than the inspector? Perhaps by combining the information they had and brainstorming the possibilities, they could work together to piece together who it was that had gone from being a simple admirer to something decidedly more sinister. “Wesley, summon a hansom. I’ve decided to pay Inspector Mansfield a visit.” She looked at Isabella as she gathered her notes and her journal. Every experience that she’d had since leaving Boston had been carefully recorded in a reporter’s detail. “Perhaps he could place someone outside the house to keep watch? If this person is getting desperate, I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if your household, too, became involved.” She held Isabella’s gaze, hoping she would understand.
Isabella regarded her with concern. “You go to Inspector Mansfield. That’s the first sensible thing I’ve heard you say about all of this, but mind you, if he suggests that you move out to the estate, you will comply.” She pointed her finger again at Jane. “And for the record, I still don’t feel you should go back to that manor house. It’s a den of evil, it is.”
A short time later, the carriage was rolling through the cobblestone streets. Wesley had insisted on escorting her to the address near Regent’s Park where Isabella indicated the inspector’s home was located. At one time, it had housed the medical practice of Doctor Gerald Mansfield. It was a stately four-story brick residence surrounded by a low wall. A tangled mass of dead bramble and bush stood in place of the tall hedge framing the front yard. There appeared to be no sign of life on the property, if upkeep were a sign of it. Jane couldn’t take her eyes from the unkempt house. “Perhaps we have the wrong address?”
“Aunt Izzy said he is rarely at home,” Wesley remarked. “It seems there is a bad history associated with the place. I’ve heard them, of course, but she refuses to talk about the rumors, insisting that the inspector has worked hard to put the past behind him.”
Jane looked up, noting how tightly sealed the house appeared, giving the illusion that it was vacant. “Why would anyone in possession of such a fine home choose not to make it his own?” A distant rumble of thunder jarred her reverie.
“Would you like me to accompany you inside, assuming he’ll receive us on such short notice?” Wesley leaned over the seat and looked up at the house.
She scanned the windows, expecting—perhaps hoping—to see him peek out from behind the curtains. “Where else could he possibly be on a gloomy Sunday afternoon?” She smiled at Wesley, though her heart was not in it. She couldn’t deny the thought of coming face-to-face with him rattled her nerves. She’d thought of little else since the night in the Crimson Suite. He’d kept his identity and his affiliation with the manor a secret from her and she was no better, having kept secrets of her own from him. Perhaps it was time to remove the masks and see where the truth would lead them.
“Down at the Yard, if I were to hazard a guess,” Wesley interjected into her wandering thoughts.
She debated whether to have Wesley come with her, but decided against it, feeling that his presence might stifle Randolph’s responses, and she had some personal questions she was curious to ask. “This is something I wish to do on my own, but thank you for offering.”
“Now, why doesn’t that surprise me?” Though his expression showed his misgivings, Wesley relented with a sigh. He hopped down from the hansom and came around to assist her. “I’ll wait here to be sure he’s home. The sky looks as if it’s about to open up again.”
Jane hugged her journal to her and took his hand as she stepped from the carriage.
“You’re sure you don’t want me to tag along?”
She rose up on her toes and gave him a peck on the cheek. He lifted an imperious brow and climbed back in the hansom.
Jane glanced up at the sky, questioning the need for her parasol, and then turned toward the house.
“You’re certain about this?” he called to her.
She raised her hand in response, dismissing him as she hastened through the gate and hurried up the four steps to the front door. Jane picked up the fierce-looking iron lion’s head doorknocker and let it fall twice against the heavy wood. She walked to the edge of the porch and scanned the ominous sky. After a moment, she glanced up and met Wesley’s concerned gaze. Determined she would not be turned away, she knocked again, this time with greater urgency.
The door jerked open partway. Instead of a butler, a bedraggled Inspector Mans
field glared at her. Perhaps he’d given his staff the afternoon. Jane stared at him like a fool. Good heavens, even rumpled and snarly-looking, with his waistcoat hanging open over his shirt and grey pinstripe trousers, the man set her heart to racing. “Is this a bad time, inspector?” She held the parasol behind her back, motioning for Wesley to move on.
“I was resting. I had a particularly long night.” He glanced down at his clothing and hastily tried to cover himself as he eased the door shut. She swung her parasol in the crack to thwart his effort.
“I had hoped to have a moment to speak with you. After all, I’ve traveled all this way—”
He looked over her shoulder and watched the hansom drive away. With a pronounced sigh, he raked his hand through his dark hair and stepped aside, opening the door wider. The soft tap of rain began on the porch roof. Jane hurried and stood in the narrow foyer, her eyes adjusting to the dim light inside. There was a strange echo in the house, an odd empty sound.
“My apologies for my appearance,” he said, busily righting his attire. “I wasn’t expecting company today. Further, Miss Goodwin,” he said, not attempting to hide his irritation, “a woman paying a visit to a man who lives alone is highly irregular. As it appears you’ve sent your escort away, I can only assume that Lady Hampton is aware that you’ve come to call without a proper chaperone?”
“I’m sure that in some circles this would be considered inappropriate. Were it not a matter of grave importance, I assure you I would not have come at all.”
He eyed her for an awkward moment.
“Very well, if you insist. I rarely have time for socializing, as you might guess. I can, however, offer you tea.”
She glanced over his shoulder to a room that might have served as a waiting room or parlor. It was empty. “Tea would be lovely, thank you.”
“Come in, then. I live in the apartment upstairs.” He ushered her past another room and up a short flight of steps. To the right off the hallway, a set of pocket-doors stood open. “Through there. Please make yourself comfortable. I’ll bring the tea.”
“Thank you, Inspector Mansfield. It is very kind of you to see me on such short notice.”
“As if you’ve given me a choice, Miss Goodwin,” he called over his shoulder.
She smiled and walked through the entrance to a single room that appeared to run the length of the house. Dropping her parasol and journal onto the narrow table near the door, she peeled off her gloves and noted the faded shape where a picture or mirror once hung. Curious, she took a quick scan of the room as she removed the pins from her hat and laid it with her gloves.
The room appeared to serve many purposes. Shoved against the wall in one corner was a bed, hidden partially by a dressing screen. At the far end of the room, where the closed drapes caused deep shadows, sat a small dining table with three chairs. The one spot of lived-in warmth came from the crackling fire and the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves flanking a black marble hearth. A comfortable reading chair with a leather footstool and an old wooden rocking chair with a padded seat completed the sparse furnishings.
She rubbed her hands to dispel the chill of the tomb-like interior. Despite the intolerable heat outside, the closed house seemed degrees cooler. She took count of the scant number of books disproportionate to the shelves built to house them, wondering what had happened to the others.
“Here we are, then.” He placed the tray on the ottoman and fussed with its presentation, moving objects around with a serious determination.
She placed her hand on his. “Would you like me to pour out?”
He nodded and perched on the edge of the chair. “Please, I’ve not had much sleep. I’m afraid my fingers would only bumble things.”
“Of course, you’ve no doubt been kept busy with your duties. Shall we sit here, then, by the fire?” Jane suggested. She offered him a cup and he finally eased back into the chair. She picked up her cup and made herself comfortable in the rocking chair opposite him.
“You have a lovely home. I’m told you don’t spend much time here. That seems like such a waste.”
“And who is it that seems to be apprised of where I spend my time?” he asked, leveling a steady gaze on her.
Clearly, he was not pleased to be the topic of conversation. “It was round about, inspector. I heard it from Wesley, who I understand was told by Clarice.”
He chuckled low. “Gossip, then.”
“It’s not true?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Then it is?” Jane gave him a quizzical look. “It’s such a grand, lovely thing. I quite imagine it being great fun as a child. Secret hiding places, treasure hunts. Perhaps you could rent out the rooms below, provided you aren’t using them?”
He eyed her over the rim of his cup. “I prefer to live alone, and that is nobody’s business but mine.” He placed his half-empty cup on the tray, his dark eyes regarding her. “Why did you come here today, Miss Goodwin?”
***
Randolph had watched as she poured out. Her small hand covering his affected him in ways unexpected and he had to cover his lap with a napkin to prevent her from seeing how much. Unfortunately, he knew the passion she was capable of and such knowledge, as evidenced by many a sleepless night, was hard to ignore.
“I came to bring you these.” She placed her cup on the tray and retrieved a packet of papers and a small bound journal wrapped with a ribbon. “I’ve received two more letters. At first, as you are aware, I thought them the makings of a harmless admirer, but this last one…the sender seems, I don’t know, almost angry.” She held out the notes to him. “I decided it was time I brought them to you to look at.”
“As I asked you to do from the very beginning, if you recall,” he responded, holding out his hand for the papers. “I suspect that our Lady Hampton has dealt you an ultimatum?”
Her shoulders straightened and a thin line formed across those lips he’d yet to sample, though his dreams had left him yearning. He pulled his gaze away from her mouth and took the notes from her.
“We’ve agreed that the tone in these last notes warranted seeking your expertise.”
He raised a brow. “I’ll take that as a yes, then.” He studied the notes, comparing first the handwriting styles, and then looked up to find her crossing to the front drapes. He started to ask her not to open them, but that would certainly launch another debate about how he lived and why—a conversation he was not willing to have.
She pulled them back, allowing in the gray light from the recent rain shower. Unaware of the actual time, he patted down his pockets looking for his watch and realized that he’d left it on his night table. He glanced at the tumbled coverings on his bed, tempting his libido with better ways to spend a rainy afternoon. Clearing his throat, he downed the rest of his now-cold tea, wishing fervently that he’d added a splash of whisky. “You received these when?” Randolph asked, grimacing at the ghastly aftertaste of the bland tea. He put the cup down, making a mental note to find his whisky after she left.
“One came while I was at an interview and the other more recently, while I was away from the house.”
She didn’t look at him—her attention it seemed, was focused on the weather. He wanted to ask her where the interview was, even though he knew. Just as he suspected, the other had most likely arrived while she was at the Manor…with him.
“Do you have any idea who might be sending you these?”
He heard her emit a short laugh. “I know few men in London, inspector, and none with the intimacy inferred in those notes.”
He pressed his lips together, debating whether to challenge her statement. She saved him the trouble.
“May I ask you a question, inspector?”
“I doubt I can stop you.”
“How do you feel about women?”
“Is this a personal or professional question?”
She glanced at him. “Merely curious. It won’t be appearing in any newspaper, if that’s what you mean.”
> It was an interesting question—or, at the very least, a cunning diversion from talking about her. Still, with Jane Goodwin, he doubted that ‘merely curious’ was entirely the truth. From what he’d seen, when she wanted something, she went for it with a vengeance—an interesting attribute for a woman whom he found to be both a blessing and a curse. “Though I cannot fathom why it should interest you, yes. I have been known to enjoy the company of a lady from time to time.”
“I see.”
Her blithe response brought his gaze to hers. “Why do you ask?”
She shrugged. “I’m just surprised that you would assume that your killer would enjoy women, rather than harbor a hatred of them.”
She was smart and shrewd. But he knew more about her than she suspected. “I beg to argue, but aren’t we talking about two different cases? I’m referring to the man sending you these notes. You’re inferring that there is some connection between these notes and the embankment case?”
“You don’t feel that there could be a correlation?”
“Miss Goodwin, we’ve been over this. I am open to most possibilities, but I believe that these are two entirely separate incidents, with two distinctly different types of suspects.”
“Are they?”
Her condescending tone rankled his ire. “Are you now an expert on criminal psychology?” Though intrigued at how her mind worked, Randolph didn’t care for the inference that he hadn’t turned every stone in this case.
“Are you assuming that your suspect is a male?” she countered.
He laughed. “Yes, of course I am.”
“And on what basis do you make your assumption?”
She was persistent, he’d give her that. From that first day she’d bumped into him on the street, she’d been trying to solve this case. “To begin with, it would be unlikely that anyone but a man could carry out such a gruesome task. And one possessing a bloody warped mind, at that. As to these notes?” He held them aloft. “Given there is a clear infatuation with you, I can only assume he is a male.” He sat back, regarding her thoughtfully. “Though it does beg consideration, doesn’t it? Would your sender be aware of …say, your sexual preferences?” He was just doing his job, arguably perhaps it could be inferred as baiting her.
The Dark Seduction of Miss Jane Page 20
