An insistent knock shook the front door downstairs, saving him from further explanation. Randolph stepped away, straightened his waistcoat, and smoothed back his hair. “I need to answer that.”
Her steady gaze held his as if to say this is not over.
“Excuse me.” His nerves teetered on edge as he made his way down the steps. He paused, dragging in a ragged breath in an attempt to regain his calm. His neatly boxed life, the one that held his secrets for so long, was fast eroding away. It was beyond him to think of the consequences should the life he’d kept supremely hidden all this time should suddenly become public knowledge. What would it do to his position at the Yard or to his relationship with Jane?
Relationship? Shit, what relationship? He was as much to blame for deceiving her with seduction instead of hypnosis, and convincing himself it had been for her own good. His chest tightened to think she might already be the wiser, recalling he thought she’d whispered his name. She challenged him in every way possible and yet he craved her mind, her body. She would surely be his salvation or his demise. He jerked open the door.
Willoughby, dressed in his regulation rain gear, turned and looked at him. “Good day, inspector.” He offered a weak smile, looking at Randolph with a measure of guilt on his face.
“Do I need to ask why you’re here?”
“A drunk over near the docks came in this morning reporting that he’d found something.”
“And it’s been taken to the morgue?” Randolph asked
“Aye, sir. I have a carriage waiting.”
“One moment, I’ll get my coat.”
He started up the stairs and found Jane waiting for him at the top, her journal and parasol tucked under her arm.
“I’m going with you,” she said.
“Out of the question.” He hurried into the room and placed the screen in front of the fire. Grabbing his coat, he stepped around her and headed down the stairs. “You’re welcome to wait here if you wish to continue our conversation.” He waited impatiently, far too many thoughts swirling in his mind.
“As much as you deny it, I know you feel there might be some connection to all of this.”
His eyes darted to her hand covering his on the rail. “No, I don’t. However, what I do know is that I have another body part washed ashore and you, Miss Goodwin, all but predicted its inevitability. Now, that either makes you a psychic, or you are withholding more information.”
Her eyes pleaded with him. “I can help you.”
“I already regret that you came here today. Please, I beg you, don’t make matters worse.”
“Randolph,” she said, touching her fingers to his chin, lifting his eyes to hers. “Someone is following my every move. I can barely sleep at night. I look over my shoulder in the daytime. How can going with you possibly make matters worse?”
The sound of his name rolling off her tongue conjured images of intimacy he could not afford to entertain. “This is not a Sunday outing in the park. This is real. The likes I’m sure you have never seen, nor will ever want to see again. Even my constables refuse to go to the morgue unless ordered.”
“Please, I want to come with you. I need to understand what you do, what’s involved in your investigations. I’ll be fine, I promise.”
He stared at those blue eyes, filled with determination and hope. The odds were that if he didn’t take her, she’d find another way to get into the morgue. “All right, but you’ll not speak and don’t touch a thing, understood?” He hated the words the minute they came from his mouth. He didn’t need to be dragging a civilian into this.
She nodded, a grateful smile crossing her lips, like he’d given her a bloody bouquet of flowers. Strange woman. “One more thing—if you don’t hold up, you will leave Writers House and take up Lady Hampton’s offer to live at the country estate.” She opened her mouth to protest and he raised his hand stopping her. “Further, you will step away from this investigation.”
“You can’t treat me this way. I’m not a child.”
“Nor are you a trained police professional, Miss Goodwin. Now, what is it going to be? The carriage is waiting.”
She narrowed her eyes. “You’re bloody impossible.”
The corner of his mouth quirked. “Interesting, I was just thinking the same thing about you.” He pushed his worn bowler atop his head and ushered her out the door. “Shall we go?”
Chapter Eighteen
“Stand by, Willoughby, we won’t be long,” Randolph ordered as he helped Jane from the carriage. He received a nod from the constable.
Randolph shoved his shoulder against the heavy door. Rusted from weather, its hinges squawked loudly as the door swung open and Randolph stepped inside the dimly lit hall. A series of tunnels snaked below the hospital, leading to the boiler room, storage, and the morgue. He held out his hand and took Jane’s, drawing her inside. He saw her grimace from the acrid stench. “I’m sorry, the only ventilation comes from just above.” He pointed to the small oval metal grids built into the foundation. Paned gas lamps illuminated the narrow corridor, casting odd shadows against the ghastly water-stained walls. “You’re quite sure you still wish to go through with this?” He offered her his kerchief to cover her nose. She accepted it and nodded.
Unable to walk side by side, he walked ahead of her, hoping this exercise would be enough to quell her curiosity. Then again, his similar plan to use shock and fear hadn’t worked at the manor. He didn’t adhere to the idea that the person sending her notes and the embankment murders were related—or frankly, she’d be dead. His experience told him that whomever committed these heinous crimes had no soul. He was a pathological killer with no time for petty infatuations.
Still, she needed to see that this was no game. Randolph would make sure of it. A visit to his world, where grisly remains had to be inspected, where grieving families must be told that their loved ones were dead, robbed, beaten. She’d witness firsthand this grim task of watching good people fall apart, lost in the absence of answers, unable to understand why. He wanted to impress on Jane the truth of reality and make her see the horror of it, not just some idealized journalistic quest in her head.
He coughed, letting his hand linger over his nose. He’d never get used to the stench. After tonight, he prayed that Jane would step aside and stop meddling with things in which she had no business. Regrettably, he knew that also included him.
He swung open a plain wooden door and held it, watching her face as she stepped cautiously into the chilled room. “Move inside quickly—we shouldn’t let the cool air out. The smell is bad enough as it is without letting the temperature get too warm. They keep it as cool as possible with ice blocks, but as you might imagine with this heat we’re having, that doesn’t last long.”
“Ah, inspector.” The doctor glanced up and hesitated when he saw Jane. “I’ve just completed my initial examination. But I’m afraid you’ll have to read my report. I’ve just been called back upstairs. Gunshot wound, fight in a tavern.” He sighed as he removed his bloody apron and tossed it in a bin of soiled sheets. “And may I remind you of hospital policy, Inspector Mansfield?” He paused in front of Jane.
“Jane Goodwin, this is Dr. Rosenthal.”
“Miss Goodwin.” The doctor bowed slightly and glanced at Randolph.
“Miss Goodwin is a visiting investigative journalist from the states—specializing in criminal cases.” Randolph let the lie roll off his tongue.
Jane caught his gaze and then took the doctors hand in a firm grip. “I hope you don’t mind. I pleaded with the good inspector to bring me along. I am quite prepared and not prone to squeamishness.”
He raised a silvery brow. “Then this will certainly test your stamina, Miss Goodwin.” He looked back at Randolph. “I’ll send a full report over by messenger in the morning, inspector.” He bowed again to Jane and tossed a reticent look at Randolph.
After the doctor left, Randolph scanned the room. Tucked along one wall, still resting on their gurneys was w
hat appeared to be deceased hospital patients. He removed his hat and tossed it on an empty table. “Which would you prefer to see first?” He lifted the edge of the sheet, keeping the object beneath from Jane’s view. He assessed the carnage to be that of a thigh and partial buttock—presumably a woman, given the size and curvature of the flesh. He’d have to wait on the report to read the theory on how she’d been dismembered. He dropped the sheet and met Jane’s steady gaze.
“Why not start with that one?” The slight hitch in her voice didn’t match the resolve on her face.
“Very well, are you ready? Here is what you feel the Yard is keeping from public view.” He flipped back the sheet revealing the purplish, bloated appendage. A small gasp crawled from her throat. He tossed back the sheet and beckoned her with a wave of his hand “Come closer.” He pointed to where the bone jutted from the bloody appendage. “See how the bone has been severed clean, and so, too, the muscle tissue?” He pointed to the spots as he spoke, not bothering with her reaction. The sight no longer bothered him. He’d grown up in the house of a physician house and in his current profession had seen more blood than any human should. “There is very little tearing—a clean cut, precise. Likely done with a razor-sharp instrument. Most probably the muscles were still pliant at the time.”
He turned to another table and lifted off the sheet. “Here is the arm we retrieved at the river bank that first day we saw each other.” He moved on to the next table. “And this one….” He picked up the tag, and read it. “Ah, yes. A severed calf found by a fisherman a few weeks back.” He faced her. “Uncertain what gender.”
Jane met his gaze, and saw her sickly pallor. A strangled sound escaped her throat, before she clamped her hand over her mouth. Her body swayed slightly and he knew she was about to lose her stomach, not unlike many a new officer he’d brought down here on a case. Her eyes wide with fear, she shook her head and bolted from the room.
With a resigned nod, he covered the carnage, checked to make certain that nothing else in the room was disturbed, and then went to look for her. He found her near the alley door. Her body curled against the brick wall, she held her clasped fists to her chest, her forehead pressed to the wall. He watched patiently as she tried with minimal success to get control of her breathing. So far, it appeared that she’d kept her stomach calm.
“I did warn you.” Blast it. He swiped his hand over his mouth, grimacing in disgust that his fingers smelled like...he wiped his palm on his pant leg. “Are you going to be all right?” he asked, wanting to touch her, but fitfully quelling the urge. He should have been more insistent with her that she shouldn’t come tonight. Damn it all. But she’d pushed him to the point where he’d wanted to prove to her that she wasn’t as strong as she thought she was. As a result of wanting to be bloody right in his theory, he’d probably not prepared her as well as he could have.
She held her eyes shut, refusing to look at him. Her shoulders shook with quiet sobbing. “Miss...” What the hell. “Jane?” He hesitated, then barely touched her arm. “Jane,” he stated more softly.
She batted at his hand, covered her face, and turned away from him.
“I’m sorry. I knew what it would be like for you.” His hand hesitated in midair, inches from stroking her short strands of beautiful silken hair. It would take quite a woman to shear off those beautiful locks—a beautiful, independent, and wholly complicated woman. He realized suddenly the admirable attributes she possessed were those that gave him the most frustration. He shifted impatiently to his other leg, checking the hall as though the answer to his current dilemma might emerge from the shadows. Unexpectedly, she pivoted, throwing herself at him, clutching his coat as she buried her face in his chest. He stood in stunned silence, arms wide open, as she clung to him.
“Please, just give me a moment, inspector.” Her voice cracked under the weight of emotion. “I don’t wish to be a ninny about this. I—I had no idea it would affect me this way.”
He lowered his hand to her shoulder, reluctant to get too close, not trusting himself. He knew the soft curves that lay beneath the layers of fabric. He’d breathed in the scent of her bare skin and knew the spot beneath her ear that drew her sigh. Randolph cautioned himself mentally not to think about them, to focus on his guilt instead. “I’m the ninny. I didn’t prepare you as well as I should have. A few of my own men have had a worse time of it than you.”
She sniffed and lifted her eyes to his. The dusky light of the empty hallway cast shadows on her tear-stained face. He reached up, his intent to brush away an errant tear as she gazed up at him. Her cheek was soft and wet beneath the pad of his thumb. Her eyes searched his, looking to understand what she’d just seen, but he had no answers. She eased up slowly on her toes and left a chaste kiss at the corner of his mouth. One simple kiss. It was enough to ignite the vivid memory of her sweet taste on his tongue, to remind him of how she’d surrendered to his touch. He hesitated, his brain screaming every precaution at him. He lifted her chin, tilting her face as he lowered his mouth to hers. It was meant to be a kiss of apology. In truth, he wanted to explore this mysterious connection between them that’s he’d known since the night at the Manor, the night that, to his surprise, he slept free of the nightmares that had for years robbed him of sleep, Should he hope that she’d understand his inability to love? Did he have the right to ask her? He couldn’t love her the way she deserved to be loved. She needed someone with emotions, a man who could convey to her what a woman needs to hear.
Her fingers dug into his coat sleeves, her mouth as eager as his, coaxing him into a blind madness. “Jane,” he whispered, driven on by her sighs. He wanted to please her, to make her forget, to make up for the pain he’d caused her. He gave no thought to where they were, under what circumstances—desire drove him, along with her delicious sighs…
He pressed his body to hers, backing her against the wall, his fingers clumsy as he worked at the buttons of her prim jacket. With another mind-stopping kiss, he parted the cloth and began on her blouse, tugging it from her skirt, until he was able to move his hands beneath, finding a pliant day corset over her chemise. Frantic, he closed his palm over the fabric, caressing the soft breast beneath. Her delicate hands lifted to his face, drawing him into fiery kisses that left him weak in the knees. He had so much he wanted to say, so much he wanted to share, but the volatile darkness roiling inside him shoved aside poetic notions, greedily seeking more. “If I could, I would make you forget the horror of it, Jane,” he whispered, rubbing his unshaven cheek against hers.
“Make me forget,” she sighed and turned her face, capturing his mouth, pulling him close.
Rejoicing that she was a rebellious woman who refused to be caged in by those god-forsaken hoop-skirts that most women wore, he tugged her skirts up past her hips, sighing with a smile against her mouth as he slid his hand betwixt her legs and found the slit in her pantaloons. She parted her thighs and he looked into her eyes, holding her gaze, as he entered her with one, then two fingers. He showed no mercy, no gentleness—coaxing, teasing her, growing hard as he watched her trying not to scream. Her juices trailed down his hand as her mouth parted and a small whimper escaped her lips. He muffled the soft mewling sounds with his mouth, dark greed dominating his mind, wanting to bury himself deep inside her. But a battle raged in his mind—lust fought something foreign, something he rarely had to face...emotion. But the iciness of his soul saved him once more. He had nothing to offer her in return, only a black heart made of stone. He drew in a shaky breath, stepped away, and stared at the floor. He couldn’t look at her. What had he become? He raked his hand through his hair and swallowed hard to quell the storm of residual sexual tension inside of him.
A moment passed and he heard the rustle of her skirt sliding back into place. He chanced a quick look and saw her righting her skewed clothing. His body was hard with need. He turned and walked a few feet away, needing to distance himself, fearing the dark lust inside him would not allow him to stop if he looked at he
r again. “Wait for me in the carriage,” he managed to say, cutting her a look. He wanted to slam his fist against the wall. What manner of imbecile was he? His body shuddered of its own accord, with the single memory of her sigh.
“Is that you, Inspector Mansfield?”
He whirled to face the familiar voice coming down the hall from the opposite direction. “Dr. Rosenthal. I…that is to say, we just finished and were on our way out.”
“I wish I could be of more help. I’m afraid it’s difficult to determine whether the body parts are related. I’ll need more time to study the bone structure,” the doctor said. He glanced over Randolph’s shoulder. “How’d your friend do?”
He followed the doctor’s gaze and realized Jane had left. “Not as well as she thought, I’m afraid.”
Dr. Rosenthal nodded, placing his finger to his chin as though lost in his thoughts. “Have you heard, Mansfield, of this study in Paris called anthropometry? It has its flaws, of course, but the idea that fingerprints are unique to each person could be a breakthrough in solving crimes, don’t you agree? Naturally, in this case, it wouldn’t prove to be as useful, however…inspector, is everything all right?”
Randolph looked back at the man, realizing he hadn’t been paying attention. “I’m sorry, doctor. I have a great many things on my mind. You were saying?”
“Anthropometry. If, indeed, we could find a way to transfer and match fingerprints, preserve them somehow…” He looked at Randolph and chuckled. “That no doubt sounds far-fetched. The truth of the matter is that we’ve simply not yet attained a perfect science to help us with such things. One day perhaps we will. I won’t keep you, then.” He slapped his hand on Randolph’s arm.
The Dark Seduction of Miss Jane Page 22
