He stepped out quickly, taking a moment to gather his wits. His glanced up and saw the young constable leaning against the wall. Willoughby hadn’t budged from his watch on madam. “You, there.” Randolph pointed at the pale-faced youth, certain his resignation would be on the captain’s desk tomorrow. “Summon an ambulance.”
“Aye, sir.” The young man nodded and wasted no time hurrying from the room.
“You spoiled it, inspector. She was to have been my prize. But you had to interfere—you had to send her away.”
“What are you talking about? Who was this prize?” Randolph’s gut clenched. He’d heard her talking—he knew exactly who she meant. He just wanted her to confess to him in front of witnesses. He cut a look to Willoughby, making sure he was listening.
“Oh, please, inspector. That dark-haired, blue-eyed beauty you so selfishly claimed. Our little Lizzy, of course. You were as infatuated with her as I was, weren’t you?”
His gaze narrowed. “Then it was you sending her the notes?”
Madam laughed as Willoughby pulled her hands behind her back and secured her wrists with cuffs. “It wasn’t entirely my idea. I simply borrowed it from that pathetic excuse for a magician. Poor sap. He came to me for advice, wanting to get in her bloomers. I suggested the notes. When things didn’t work out, I simply took over where he left off. They kept her coming back and I was so close—so close. But you couldn’t leave your hands off her—not that I blame you, of course. Unfortunately, funny little Clarice discovered my little passion. When she threatened to tell you and Lizzy everything, what was I to do? I couldn’t let that happen.”
“Inspector?” Willoughby picked up a book, leafing through it with a grimace. “We’ll want to take this with us.”
“This is my collection, my life’s work, you see. And I have discovered that there is still a favorable market that pays top dollar for research.”
Randolph stared at the woman, wondering what had happened to her in the past to put her on such a path.
Her smile was the epitome of evil. “You were such a sweet boy, accompanying your sister that day. I could tell you didn’t want to leave her.”
An icy chill washed over Randolph’s body. The air was sucked from his lungs. It was as though his body had stopped functioning. How was it possible? Yet, even as he grappled with his denial, his treacherous memory flashed back to the hooded cape worn by the person who escorted his sister down the alley that day. In his mind, he saw the tangled strands of brilliant auburn hair lying against the deep, green cloak. Holy Mother of God! His angry gaze rose to hers.
“Ah, there it is.” An evil smile spread across her red-stained lips. “You do remember. I’m flattered. I was quite young then, just out of my nurse’s training. The money was excellent, but not nearly as good as this place.” She waved her hand in dismissal.
Randolph’s knees went weak. His fingers twitched on the pistol grip as his hands trembled. “Get her out of here, Willoughby…now,” he growled.
“Don’t you want to know what happened to your sister, inspector?” She struggled against the restraints.
Randolph released the grip on his weapon, and let it fall to the bed. His fists clenched, his breath came in strangled gasps. A deep sea of grief crashed down on him.
“And what shall I tell the judge, inspector? That you were too busy enjoying your deviant pleasures? That you paid no mind to the murders going on right under your nose?”
His mind exploded, the anger suppressed for years rising to the surface. In two quick strides, he had his hands tight around her throat. He looked down at her crazed grin, eyes wild, staring up at him in challenge. Randolph ironclad grasp was unyielding to Willoughby’s attempted intervention.
“She’s talking madness, sir. Let her go. Let the judge decide her fate—she’s not worth everything you’ve worked hard for.”
Willoughby pressed his face close to Randolph’s. “Inspector, you’re killing her.”
Randolph’s stomach roiled. He stumbled away, his body shaking violently. He’d never had such an overwhelming desire to end another person’s life.
“Pay this evil monster no mind, inspector,” Willoughby reiterated before dragging the disruptive woman down the hallway.
“You’ll be ruined,” she screeched, her voice bouncing off the cold, hard stone.
Randolph listened to her rant as she was taken away. He realized that the quest for his sister’s killer, the horrors of his father’s abuse had held him prisoner in this quagmire of darkness, unable to move forward with any semblance of an ordinary life.
He spotted the wine goblet on the vanity and he walked over, picking it up, knowing before he brought it to his nose that it was not wine. His eyes stung with the knowledge that it was probably poor Clarice’s blood. Randolph raised his eyes and stared at his reflection. He didn’t recognize the man who looked back at him—a man with no home, no family, no life.
Suddenly it was too much, and not enough. He put down the glass, needing a few moments to collect himself before he came back to do a thorough investigation. His breath caught and he grabbed his chest. The sound of his heart pounded in his ears. The weight of his grief dropped him to his knees. Years of pain and guilt poured from him.
Randolph covered his face as his body wracked with great and mournful sobs. It was over…finally, it was over.
***
Randolph stood staring at the gravestone beneath an ancient oak. Lady Hampton had graciously offered the site on the Hampton estate grounds for both Jonesy and Clarice to be laid to rest. The queen would soon have her report, as would his supervisor. He placed the small handful of fresh flowers atop the turned dirt. He was grateful to Clarice for her unexpected sacrifice. It had saved Jane from certain death.
He looked up, seeing odd patches of blue amidst the gunmetal sky. He thought of his sister, his mother. Suddenly, he felt old. He’d faced the demons of his past, and found himself alone and exhausted. “I’m tired, Beth,” he spoke to the sky. He needed to try to find the good again in humankind. He needed someone to help him find hope, to build a future. It was time to let go of the darkness that had tormented him all these years. But how could he leave it behind? Where could he go that the nightmares ceased to exist?
He tapped his bowler on his head, scanned the horizon of rolling hills, and looked back at the makeshift stones of his friends. In his heart, he knew it would be a long while—if ever—before he’d return. He walked down the knoll, his pace increasing with each step, finding himself in nearly in a dead run with the need to make the train that would take him to Southampton. He ran toward his redemption, his salvation—to the only person who’d been able to eradicate the nightmares of his past. With any luck, he’d find solace, purpose in the arms of the determine the independent, determined American woman who, with any luck, awaited on distant shores.
***
Jane scanned the news coming in over the transatlantic telegraph wire. There was news of wars, rumors of others. She picked up the last letter she’d received from Isabella Hampton.
“Dear Jane…” A surprising chill brushed unexpectedly over her shoulders. Funny how those two words still affected her.
“I am so glad to hear news that your aunt is feeling better. I do hope that the effects of her fall won’t prevent her from her heavy social calendar. She seems like such a remarkable woman. I hope to meet her one day. The last I heard, Wesley is in India. Please keep him in your prayers. It is no wonder that you two got on so well. He is as independent and fearless as you are, Jane, and I say that with love in my heart.
So that you know, we gave Jonesy a proper burial alongside Clarice beneath a lovely shade tree on the Hampton estate. Unconventional, I realize. Will a few tongues wag? Probably. But I feel it was the least I could do, given that neither had any family that I was aware of.
There has been vast coverage of Madam McFarland’s arrest and trial. Thankfully, her confession, along with the evidence, negated reason for a lengthy trial,
and I did agree with the judges’ sentence that she die by hanging. To me, a fitting end for all the ghastly deeds she committed. Then there was a strange turn. The week she was to have hung for her crimes, they brought in that alienist—a physician who makes a diagnosis on mental conditions. His suggestion was to place Madam McFarland in the Broadmoor Asylum for the Criminally Insane for further testing. So, she lives. It puzzles me, after all she’s done, but with any luck she will never leave that place. Oh, I shudder just to think of that possibility! I must agree with the inspector, though. We all have Clarice to thank in a strange way for breaking open the case. If her body had not led authorities to the Manor, there is no telling how many others might have met a similar fate.
And you should be proud, Jane, of your theory on the notes. You were right all along about Vladimir sending them. He’d enlisted Madam McFarland’s help with translations, but when he sensed you getting too close to finding him out, he backed off. By then, of course, Madam had found a way to entice you to keep returning to the Manor by penning the notes herself. Perhaps I do agree with the doctor that the woman is completely mad.
I’m told the authorities are working now to find Vladimir and ask him about his little note-sending affairs in other cities. In short, dear girl, I must retract what I thought when first we met, when I thought you ill-qualified to pursue such dangerous stories. Indeed, perhaps you will be one day be considered the first female Sherlock Holmes!
I must end this, then. I’ve packed up Writers House and await the movers to take what remains out to Hampton estate. Too much has transpired there, too much sadness. The ghosts overshadow what was once the purpose of our organization. In time, I might be inspired to create another writing club. I am still of the mind that women have much that needs to be said and you know me—I am not afraid to speak my mind. Be well and write soon, Lady Isabella Hampton.
Jane tucked the letter in her skirt and returned to her cleaning as she ran a cloth along the sill to eliminate the dust from the old building that had been unoccupied for years. She opened the window and peered out on the street below. A stiff breeze, tainted with a slight chill off the bay, mixed with the bright warmth of the sun. She closed her eyes and breathed in deeply. Heavenly scents from the bakery on the corner wafted upward. She loved Boston in the spring. The gardens came alive with color, bursting in hues that would make an artist long for canvas and brush. The lush green elms on Commonwealth Avenue and the pastel-pink cherry blossoms, their branches clustered with thousands of flowering heads, reflected in the swan pond on the Common. She looked forward to lunchtime picnics under a shade tree and sauntering walks through the park.
A fluttering sound broke her from her reverie and she lunged for the stack of pamphlets, averting the disaster of the wind blowing them across the room. She straightened the printed advertisements and looked once more upon the words, still absorbing the reality of seeing her dreams come true.
She was now the proud partner of a private investigations agency. Her Aunt Corney, better now and cantankerous as ever after the fall that nearly scared a year off Jane’s life, had agreed with a little arm-twisting to contribute to the partnership. She stated that property investments were always wise, and besides, she loved the quaint little two-story brownstone located within walking distance of her home on Mount Vernon Street.
A movement below caught her eye, and she watched as a familiar man exited a carriage. He walked to the corner and bought a paper from a young lad, exchanging a few words just as he’d done every day for the last few months. He turned then, his gaze scanning the street, then lifted to meet hers as though he knew she’d be watching for him. Jane’s heart stopped at the sight. She raised her hand and smiled. A little leaner, his hair trimmed short, Randolph looked like heaven as he crossed the street.
She hurried to meet him at the front door, clutching one of the advertisements in her hand.
“Good afternoon.” His smile was broad, glad to see her. He’d done a great deal more smiling these days and Jane, unable to believe her good fortune, happily took credit for a share of it. She held the advertisement up with a raised brow. “This was a lovely surprise.” She waited for him to come to her.
“Ah, I see you’ve had opportunity to look over the leaflets. You’re agreeable, then, to the wording?” He stood in front of her, his physique nearly blocking the sun. She blinked from the glare as she lifted her chin to look at him. “I think the wording is brilliant. Well played, sir.”
“I had a feeling you’d like it,” he said, offering a grin that inspired wicked thoughts. “Did you miss me?” His dark eyes sparkled.
She tipped her head. “Desperately, though it’s only been since breakfast.” She batted his arm with the pamphlet. “I’ve been busy while you were hobnobbing with Boston’s finest down at the precinct, I too, have a little surprise for you, inspector.”
His warm brown eyes turned smoky. He picked her up, pulling her body to his. “Hmm…a solicitation, madam, right here on the street? Scandalous.”
“I’ll show you scandalous, sir.” She hugged his neck and gave him a peck on the cheek. She motioned for him to look up at the front window over the short stoop. “What do you think of the new sign?”
“Goodwin & Mansfield, Private Investigations,” he read aloud as he looked at the freshly painted wording.
“Do you approve?” She looked down at him. “I thought it best to keep it alphabetical.”
“Either way, I come out on top,” he replied, pressing a quick kiss to her mouth.
“Are you seducing me, Inspector Mansfield?” Jane smiled, wholly delighted with the prospect of how they would spend this glorious spring afternoon.
“It is you, Miss Jane, who has succeeded in seducing me.”
He opened the door, carried her inside, and pulled the shade over the front window. Lowering his face, he captured her lips even as she worked to remove his jacket.
“I’d like to discuss this notion that you always come out on top,” she whispered between heated kisses.
“Of course.” He cupped her face. “But I must warn you, I can be very persuasive.”
“Is that a challenge, sir?” She smiled against his mouth.
His grin was wicked as he scooped her up. “No, madam, that is a promise.”
Dedication
This book has been a journey. One of ups and downs, discoveries, light-bulb moments, disappointments and joy. Through it all, there were those who believed Jane and Randolph’s story needed to be told. Profound thanks to my friend and amazing “red pen” editor, Kristina for sharing my vision for Jane’s story. To Sahara for capturing this story so well with her cover design and for her humor, and friendship. To my street team, the Mischievous Muses, who took time from their busy lives to do a read-through of Jane and give feedback and for your incredible support of my writing—you are the best! And as always, to my family who know me and love me anyway! You guys are my inspiration!
Finally, to Jane, who is not your typical historical heroine. She embodies a woman whose time is not yet come. A forerunner of the women’s movement. A pioneer in both her professional and personal life. I’ve learned a great deal from Jane on this journey—thanks, Jane.
Author’s note
In May of 1887, before “Jack” made a name for himself in Victorian London, the detectives of Scotland Yard was already in the throes of trying to solve another grisly series of murders. Known as the Thames murders, or ‘embankment’ murders, authorities were stymied when body parts began to show up from the Thames river. Many theories would follow, but as police tried to solve these horrific crimes, it’s said that they’d been ordered to keep their investigation low-key so as not to mar the queen’s upcoming jubilee celebration preparations that summer.
Like the Ripper serial murders, the ‘embankment’ murders remain unsolved, and yet I couldn’t help but wonder as I did my research, if there was somehow a correlation between these two violent crimes. Perhaps even a copycat? Because of the era
, the brutal nature of the crimes, and the lack of the forensic methods we have today, many of these cases are destined to remain a mystery.
I hope you enjoyed The Dark Seduction of Miss Jane. My true joy is writing character-driven stories, people that come alive on the page that you might want to know if you could step into the story. If you like character-driven stories, with interesting secondary characters and the mayhem that can arise, I invite you to take a look at my current contemporary romance series set in the mountains of Montana. First in the series is RUGGED HEARTS, which I’m thrilled to say is an Amazon best-seller and the second book, RUSTLER’S HEART, is enjoying similar success at Amazon. There will be more stories of the adventures of Jane and Randolph and the final book in the Kinnison Legacy series, RENEGADE HEART is coming soon. As always, I love hearing from my readers! Here is a sample of RUGGED HEARTS.
Rugged Hearts
Book I, (The Kinnison Legacy)
Amanda McIntyre
Chapter One
A blustery, forty-mile-an-hour north wind sliced across the pasture, pelting razor-sharp pellets of ice at Wyatt Kinnison’s face. He narrowed his eyes to protect them from the bitter attack as he set to the task of freeing the squirming calf from the barbed wire wrapped around its leg. Controlling his anger, he whistled softly between his teeth, a habit he’d picked up from his stepdad. He inspected the wriggling creature, relieved to see only a portion of hair had rubbed off its hide. The cantankerous runt reminded him of his younger brother. Even now that he was older, it seemed he was forever pulling Dalton’s butt out of a wringer. “This is the third time this week I’ve saved your sorry ass,” he cautioned the calf. “You may not be so lucky next time.”
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