Never Trust a Rogue

by Olivia Drake

  “Blackmail? How absurd. I’ve no need for money.”

  “Not all blackmail involves currency. Perhaps you intend to use this document to secure Wrayford’s hand in marriage. You’ll threaten to expose his debts to the world if he fails to make you an offer.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “He’s the heir to a dukedom. Any woman of your station would be keen to claim the title of duchess.”

  Of your station?

  Lindsey released a furious huff. She was as incensed by his presumption as by the phantom feel of his fingers on her bosom. “Odious man! It is Wrayford who pursues me. I want no part of him.”

  “Indeed?” Skepticism weighing his tone, Mansfield raked her with his gaze. “Then you intend to use this IOU to turn your parents against him?”

  “My purpose is no concern of yours.”

  “Now there you are wrong. My name is on this paper, and I believe that all debts between gentlemen should be kept private. You will not be showing it to anyone.” He tucked the document into an inner pocket of his coat. “Good evening, Miss Crompton.”

  With that, he sauntered down the passageway in the opposite direction from the ballroom.

  Glaring at his departing figure, Lindsey fumed over a host of wild scenarios. She could dash after him and wrestle him again for the paper. She could knee him in a man’s most sensitive place, as her old nursemaid Kasi had instructed her to do in a moment of peril.

  But the ball gown was too slim fitting for her to inflict any real damage. And she had no wish to venture within an arm’s length of Lord Mansfield ever again. He was too arrogant, too masterful, too full of his own vain self-worth.

  Yet perhaps all was not lost, after all.

  A sense of resolve lifted her spirits. If Mansfield would not surrender the IOU, then by the heavens, she would find a way to steal it back from him.

  Chapter 3

  A violent movement jolted Lindsey out of a deep, blissful sleep. Opening bleary eyes, she squinted against the watery sunlight. For a moment, she couldn’t identify her surroundings. Where was the netting that protected her from insect bites while she slept? What had happened to her bamboo dressing table and the lazily circling overhead fan operated by a punka-walla boy who sat outside her bedchamber all night?

  Then she blinked in recognition. She was no longer in India. This bedchamber with its delicate green wallpaper and cherrywood furniture had been her home for two years now, ever since her family had moved to London.

  The mattress shook again. She rolled over to see her younger sister scrambling onto the canopied bed. Blythe scooted into a sitting position, her curly auburn hair caught back loosely with a white ribbon. She arranged the skirt of her yellow muslin gown over her crossed legs and fixed Lindsey with a dazzling smile.

  “Wake up,” Blythe chirped. “I’ve come to hear your report about the ball.”

  Groaning, Lindsey drew the coverlet up over her head. She wanted her dream back. It had left her with a sense of fervent anticipation and the misty memory of a looming dark figure. She had been walking toward him, straining to make out his features. If only she could slip back into slumber and recapture that image . . .

  “Go away,” she mumbled into the feather pillow. “I’ve told you never to wake me up for such nonsense.”

  Blythe tugged off the blankets. “Come, Linds. Don’t be a slugabed. It’s past noon and I’ve been waiting hours for you to awaken.”

  “Noon?” Lindsey pushed onto one elbow and rubbed her gritty eyes. She seldom slept so late. Now awareness brought the nagging impression of something important that had to be done today, but her groggy mind couldn’t quite grasp what it was.

  “Didn’t you hear the mantel clock chime? It was loud enough to wake the dead.” Her hazel eyes bright with eagerness, Blythe rushed on, “Do tell me all the gossip. Who did you see last night? Did you dance every set? Is there any truth to the rumor that Miss Beardsley was caught kissing one of the footmen?”

  “Miss Frances Beardsley?” Lindsey smothered a yawn as she tried to picture the vapid blond debutante doing something so risqué. “If it’s true, no one breathed a word about it to me. Where did you hear such tittle-tattle, anyway?”

  “From my maid, of course. Servants always know the best gossip.”

  “Then mayhap you should have badgered them for news about last night’s ball, rather than awakening me.”

  “Oh, pooh. It isn’t fair you’re allowed to attend parties when you don’t even appreciate them.” Looking decidedly glum, Blythe released a pitiful sigh. “Meanwhile, I shall die of boredom cooped up in this house. One morning, Underhill will find me expired in my bedchamber and then you’ll be sorry!”

  Lindsey’s heart softened. Poor, exuberant Blythe. It wasn’t her fault that at sixteen years of age she was still under the strict guardianship of Miss Agnes Underhill, the impoverished gentlewoman who had been employed to teach the Crompton girls the ins and outs of English society. Lindsey could sympathize, and yet when it came to the social scene she would have gladly switched places with Blythe.

  Lindsey swung her feet over the edge of the bed, her toes curling against the coolness of the rug. “Well. If you’re so anxious to hear my report, you should at least have the courtesy to order my tea.”

  “Oh, certainly!” Her face brightening again, Blythe bounded off the bed, trotted to the brocaded bell rope by the fireplace, and gave it a quick tug. Then she hastened back, clasped her hands to her bosom, and fixed Lindsey with a starry-eyed gaze. “There, now will you tell me all about the ball? Lots of gentlemen must have courted you. Was there anyone special? Someone who tried to steal a kiss, perhaps? Someone who swept you into his arms and made you feel tingly all over?”

  Mansfield.

  The earl’s image sprang into her mind, all arrogant nobleman and swaggering masculinity. To steady herself, Lindsey curled her fingers around the carved cherrywood bedpost. That was the memory she had been resisting, the discomforting thought of scuffling with him in the corridor at Lord Wrayford’s house.

  Mansfield was also the misty figure in her dream. The realization struck her with dismaying certainty. Had she been able to see his face, doubtless the dream would have turned into a nightmare.

  Little did her sister know, the Earl of Mansfield had done far worse than try to steal a kiss. He had thrust his hand into Lindsey’s bodice to steal the IOU. The recollection was so vivid it made her breasts tighten beneath the embroidered white cotton of her nightdress. A flushed awareness swept her body as if he were standing right here, his fingers burning into her flesh.

  “What’s wrong?” Blythe asked. “Your face is all pink.” Her eyes as round as saucers, she peered avidly at her sister. “Something did happen last night. Something romantic. Oh, you must tell me all about it!”

  Lindsey concealed a jab of dismay. The last thing she needed was for anyone to guess about her encounter with Mansfield. Blythe would take the offensive incident and transform it into a spun-sugar confection with hearts and flowers on top. She would have them madly in love by evening and betrothed by the morrow.

  For her sister’s benefit, Lindsey contrived a scornful laugh. “Don’t be ridiculous. You know I’ve no interest in these hoity-toity gentlemen. And I do hope when you make your own debut you don’t encourage them to steal kisses at every turn. Now kindly allow me a moment of privacy.”

  As she stepped toward the adjoining dressing room, Blythe called out, “Do hurry. I have a secret to tell you. It’s something you’ll find truly hair-raising—”

  Shutting the door, Lindsey cut off her sister. Quite likely, Blythe had exchanged a glance on the street with a handsome gentleman and had read more into it than she ought. Such juvenile nonsense was the usual subject of her confidences.

  Heading to the china washbasin, Lindsey splashed cold water on her hot cheeks. The intensity of that fantasy about Lord Mansfield had rattled her composure. It wasn’t like her to have such a strong reaction to any man.
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  Any woman of your station must be keen to claim the title of duchess.

  She clenched her teeth. What a vile, arrogant rogue! One would have hoped that the discipline of military life would have developed in him a high standard of moral decency. The officers she had met in India had been, for the most part, men of honor. But despite the façade of a famous war hero, Mansfield was a scoundrel, a reckless gamester like so many other gentlemen of privilege. He was the lowest of the low, the sort who appealed to tarts and naïve debutantes, not to a rational woman with a firm plan for her life.

  A plan that had nothing to do with the distractions of men.

  Once she spurned all of her suitors, she intended to live independently, set up her own discreet agency, and solve mysteries for highborn clients. It would be difficult to convince her parents—Mama in particular—but the final result would be worth the effort.

  Going to the dressing table, Lindsey loosened her braid and gave her long dark hair a vigorous brushing. The soothing action sufficed to restore her equilibrium. How silly to let herself be distracted by nonessentials. Mansfield was no more to her than a means to an end. He possessed the IOU that she needed to discredit Lord Wrayford. Sleuthing was a particular talent of hers, and she welcomed the challenge of contriving a scheme to retrieve the document.

  She would have to find out where Mansfield lived, what his daily schedule entailed, and when there might be an opportune time to search his home unobserved. It was a tricky situation since decent young ladies were forbidden from paying an unchaperoned call on a bachelor household.

  Lost in planning, Lindsey headed back into the bedchamber, only to discover it was no longer necessary to fob off her sister with a few choice tidbits of gossip.

  In the middle of the fine Aubusson rug, Blythe stood facing Miss Underhill. The governess was a tall, spare woman dressed in a gray gown that might best be termed her uniform since she wore it every day. The white maiden’s cap on her dull brown hair enhanced the sallowness of her complexion.

  Blythe’s lower lip protruded in a pout. “I can’t leave now; I won’t. Linds was about to tell me everything that happened at the ball. And anyway, there’s no purpose to these lessons. It isn’t as if I plan to travel to the Continent anytime soon.”

  “Every refined young lady must learn to speak French. It is expected of you.”

  “Oh, pooh. English is good enough for me. Besides, I haven’t the knack for foreign tongues.”

  “Hmph. I’ve heard you speak fluent Hindi to Kasi. Now, come with me at once, or I shall be forced to report your disobedient behavior to Mrs. Crompton.”

  “I don’t care if Mama scolds me,” Blythe countered with a toss of her curly auburn mane. “I’m sixteen and it’s about time I had a say in my own education.”

  Lindsey recognized the opportunity to avoid a discussion of the previous night. She stepped forward, took her sister’s arm, and steered her toward the open door. “Miss Underhill is right. Portia and I both had to endure our lessons. What must be done is best done cheerfully.”

  “But—”

  “And furthermore, I won’t be held to blame for keeping you from your schooling. Run along now and we’ll talk later.”

  Trudging through the doorway, Blythe looked back over her shoulder to drill her sister with a petulant frown. “All right, but you had better not renege or I’ll—oh!”

  She collided with a sturdy young maid who was entering the bedchamber, toting a large silver tray of food. Her face was tucked down and a voluminous white mobcap covered all but a fringe of dark hair.

  The maid yelped as dishes and cutlery clattered in a jarring cacophony. A piece of toast went sailing backward into the corridor. A porcelain cup flew in the other direction, landing on carpet and rolling beneath a green-striped chair by the hearth.

  The girl jerked up her head to reveal a startled expression on her broad, pale features. In one instant, Lindsey recognized her personal maid, Flora. In the next, she saw the tray tilting, the dishes sliding, steamy liquid sloshing from the spout of the blue teapot.

  She sprang past her sister to grab the tray. Flora clung tenaciously and they engaged in a little tug-of-war until Lindsey snapped out, “Let go!”

  The maid relaxed her grip. Clutching the silver handles, Lindsey carried the heavy tray to a table and set it down.

  When she turned around, Blythe was making a fuss over checking the yellow gauze of her skirts. “Lud, that was close! This is a new gown. The dressmaker delivered it only yesterday.”

  “I trust there was no damage done,” Miss Underhill said, before turning a critical eye on the maid. “How very careless. You must learn to watch where you are going.”

  Flora stood frozen, her blue eyes wide with horror. Then abruptly she burst into tears and buried her face in her hands.

  The display startled Lindsey. Flora was usually an unflappable, efficient worker who performed her duties well. With her skill at hairdressing, no one could ask for a more adept maidservant. Something must be terribly amiss for her to exhibit such an uncustomary outpouring of emotion.

  Placing an arm around the young woman’s waist, Lindsey guided her to a striped footstool by the fireplace. Flora was shaking with the force of her sobs, and the sight of her distress touched Lindsey’s heart.

  “There was no harm done,” she said soothingly. “It was an accident. I’m sorry if my sister and Miss Underhill upset you.”

  “It’s really my fault for bumping into you,” Blythe chimed in, looking rather subdued, for in spite of her self-centeredness, she possessed a generous spirit. “I didn’t mean to sound so critical.”

  “Nor did I,” Miss Underhill said. She whipped out a crisply folded handkerchief from a pocket of her skirt and pressed it to the maid’s hand. “Now, you may cease your caterwauling. I have no intention of reporting such a minor mishap to the butler.”

  Flora used the handkerchief to scrub at her wet cheeks. “Th-thank you, m-miss. But-but ’tisn’t me post wot’s worryin’ me. ’Tis—’tis the Serpentine Strangler!”

  Baffled, Lindsey sank down onto the chair in front of the maid. What was she babbling about? Judging by the utter fright in those watery blue eyes, something dreadful had happened. Flora was shivering, tears still flowing, lips quivering.

  “There, there.” Lindsey took one of the girl’s chapped hands and rubbed it. “Calm down so you can tell me what this is all about.”

  “There’ll be no telling of any sort,” Miss Underhill said sternly. “Perhaps in India you were allowed to gossip with the servants about criminal activities, but we are not so relaxed in our standards here.”

  “Oh, don’t be stuffy; you want to hear about it, too,” Blythe said. “And I know what happened. A maidservant was found murdered over a fortnight ago. She was strangled in Hyde Park, and her body was left along the banks of the Serpentine!”

  Glancing up, Lindsey stared at her sister in horrified amazement. “A maidservant was murdered? You can’t mean . . . one of ours?”

  “Of course not. She was employed by Lady Entwhistle.”

  “But . . . how do you come by your information?” Lindsey felt a little nonplussed by the news. “And why did I never hear of this?”

  “My maid confided in me only this morning. You see, no one took notice until there was a second murder a few days ago. The circumstances were nearly identical to the first one. That means the same man must have done it.” Blythe drew up another stool and sat down, leaning forward as if they were engaging in a cozy gossip. “The news has spread below stairs in every house in Mayfair. That’s the secret I was going to tell you, Linds, before you so rudely tossed me out of here.”

  Lindsey had no patience for games. “Kindly share all the details. Who were these two girls? Do you know their names?”

  Blythe shrugged. “Me? I haven’t the slightest notion—”

  “Maria Wilkes was the first,” Flora broke in, her eyes red and damp. “’Tis wot I ’eard the ’ousekeeper say. I don�
�t know the other. Oh! I—I fear there’s a killer on the loose. An’ wot’s worse is that—”

  “Enough.” Silencing the maid with a sweep of her hand, Miss Underhill tut-tutted in disapproval. “I hardly think this is an appropriate discussion for the ears of young ladies.”

  “It’s too late now,” Blythe declared, her small chin jutted at a stubborn angle. “You know how Linds loves a good mystery. If I don’t tell her the rest, she’ll pester me to no end.” Returning her gaze to Lindsey, she went on, “Apparently the housemaid, Maria Wilkes, had a gentleman lover, and she crept out of Lady Entwhistle’s house after dark to meet him—”

  “Blythe Crompton!” the governess chided. “You shouldn’t know of such things, let alone speak of them.”

  “Pish-posh. I’m practically an adult. There’s no need to sweep indiscretions under the rug and pretend they don’t exist.”

  “Nevertheless, this conversation has gone on too long. You must proceed to the schoolroom posthaste. Such an unfortunate tragedy has nothing whatsoever to do with any of us here.”

  The governess was bending down to reach for Blythe’s arm when Flora let out a loud sob. Burying her face in her hands, the maid launched into another torrent of weeping.

  Everyone froze in place.

  Lindsey was the first to move, getting up to kneel beside Flora and give her a comforting hug. “You needn’t be frightened. You’re quite safe here in this house. I’m sure the authorities will apprehend the murderer very soon.”

  Flora lifted her head to gaze teary eyed at Lindsey. “Oh, ’tisn’t fer meself that I fear. ’Tis fer me cousin, Nelda. Oh, sweet Jaysus. She’s gone!”

  “Gone? Gone where?”

  “I—I dunno!” Flora took a deep, shuddering breath. “She was in service, miss, at a fine house on Curzon Street. I went to visit her yesterday evenin’, on me ’alf day off. But she weren’t there. Cook told me Nelda left with nary a word of warnin’. Nobody knows where she went.”

  “Perhaps she found a better position in another house.”