Never Trust a Rogue

by Olivia Drake

  Flora gave a vigorous shake of her mobcapped head. “Nay, miss, she wouldn’t! Ye see, she was undermaid to Lord Mansfield and thankful to ’ave such a fine post—”

  “Wait,” Lindsey interrupted. “Did you say . . . ‘Mansfield’?”

  “The Earl of Mansfield,” Miss Underhill said, her thinned lips conveying disapproval. “A fine, respected old family from Oxfordshire. The current earl is regarded as a dashing war hero.”

  Blythe perked up. “Have you met him, Linds?”

  Lindsey felt exposed as everyone stared at her. She was forced to admit, “Yes, but only briefly.”

  “Well!” Miss Underhill said. “I must advise you to avoid him in the future. Since selling his commission, he has fallen in with the rogues and bounders of society. And there’s talk of a scandal in regard to his ward, a young lady who occupies the town house adjacent to his.”

  The news startled Lindsey. In spite of her resolve to appear uninterested in him, she was overwhelmed by morbid curiosity. “A young lady? Who is she?”

  “Miss Jocelyn Nevingford, age fifteen.” The governess thoughtfully tapped her chin with a bony finger. “I believe there’s a tenuous connection between her family and yours. I seem to recall my father speaking of a Squire Nevingford who hailed from the same area of Lancashire as the Cromptons.”

  “But why would Mansfield be appointed her guardian?” Lindsey persisted.

  “I’m hardly privy to the particulars of His Lordship’s private life. Now, that’s quite enough gossip for one day. Blythe, come with me at once and not another word out of you. This time, I will brook no more of your nonsense.”

  Apparently heeding the severity in Miss Underhill’s tone, Lindsey’s sister rose reluctantly from the stool. She flounced after the governess, grumbling all the way out the door.

  Lindsey breathed a sigh of relief. At last, she could focus on helping Flora, who was still dejectedly sniffling into the borrowed handkerchief. Poor dear. How terrifying it must be to imagine her missing cousin falling into the hands of a killer.

  Lindsey patted the girl’s hand again. “Don’t despair, darling. Somehow, I’ll find Nelda. I promise I will.”

  Lindsey meant every word. Now she had an even more pressing reason to find a way into Lord Mansfield’s house.

  Chapter 4

  “With all due respect, sir,” said Cyrus Bott, “it was a surprise to return from Brighton and hear that Lord Mansfield has been brought in on this case. I had no notion you were displeased with my handling of the investigation.”

  Three men occupied the second-floor office at Number Four Bow Street. Cyrus Bott and Thane sat in straight-backed chairs across from the magistrate, who was ensconced behind his desk.

  Bott was a dapper young man whose dark blue coat and brass buttons marked him as a member of the famed Bow Street Runners. His thatch of wavy brown hair and limpid blue eyes brought to mind a dreamy poet rather than an officer of the law who served writs and tracked down criminals.

  Josiah Smithers, the chief magistrate, wore the black robes and tightly curled wig of his profession. His dour face betraying a hint of impatience, he peered at Bott over the gold-rimmed spectacles perched on the end of his bulbous nose.

  “Your work on the case has been more than adequate,” Smithers said, glancing down and shuffling the papers in front of him. “However, this second murder has attracted a nibble of interest from the newspapers. If there’s a third death, it will be splashed all over the front pages, and that is precisely the situation we wish to avoid.”

  “I assure you, sir, I’m following every lead—”

  “There is only so much you can do on your own. We’ve ample reason to believe our culprit to be a man of high stature. You yourself concluded as much. His Lordship heard about the murders and volunteered his services, for which I’m thankful. He has entry to circles where you cannot venture.”

  Bott opened his mouth as if to disagree again. Then he slid a cryptic look at Thane and lowered his eyes in acquiescence. “As you say, sir. I will, of course, bow to your superior judgment.”

  Thane understood the ambition behind the man’s objections. The Bow Street Runner had a vested interest in solving the case himself. He didn’t want anyone else poaching on his turf, let alone someone who outranked him.

  Thane decided to throw him a bone. “Smithers has given me quite a bit of information about the murders. I’ve done some poking around on my own, but it would help if you told me everything you know. I’m sure your perspective will be most invaluable.”

  Bott hesitated, then launched into a detailed account. “As you know, the first victim was Maria Wilkes. A night watchman stumbled upon her corpse at dawn while taking a shortcut through Hyde Park. She had been strangled to death some hours earlier. Since her garb clearly identified her as a maidservant, I made extensive inquiries around Mayfair and found that she’d been employed as a housemaid by a Lady Entwhistle.”

  Smithers looked at Thane. “What do you know of Her Ladyship, m’lord?”

  “I’ve been checking into her associations,” Thane hedged. “Until I find out more, it would be remiss of me to sully her name without due cause.”

  Little did they know, the merry widow’s reputation was already tarnished in the best circles. Lady Entwhistle was renowned for her many affairs, including frequent romps with a select group of gentlemen. For the purpose of the investigation, Thane had cultivated an acquaintance with them. He wondered what Miss Lindsey Crompton would say if she knew that her suitor, Lord Wrayford, was one of those scoundrels.

  That fact would make a far more damaging scandal than the IOU she’d stumbled upon while rummaging through Wrayford’s desk. The same paper Thane had plucked from her bodice the previous evening.

  His fingers still burned from brushing against the silken warmth of her breasts. The memory was so vivid, so consuming, he had been in a perpetual state of physical discomfort ever since. She was lovely, to be sure. Yet it was her saucy character and sparkling blue eyes that lifted her above this season’s crop of insipid debutantes.

  That and her blatant scorn for men of his ilk.

  Shifting position on the chair, Thane realized to his chagrin that Bott was still talking. The Runner had moved on to discuss the second victim.

  “. . . Dorothy Huddleston’s body was discovered in another area of the park, farther down the Serpentine. The circumstances were much the same, only this time a gentleman’s cravat was found lying on the ground beside her, as if the culprit had dropped it in haste. Through my inquiries, I was able to discover she was employed by an elderly couple, a Lord and Lady Farthingale.”

  Who, interestingly enough, lived on Bruton Street, two doors down from Wrayford. It might be a meaningless coincidence, but Thane intended to keep a close watch on Wrayford as a possible suspect. He had already questioned a maidservant in Wrayford’s house—the same girl Thane had been with when he had first encountered the cheeky beauty Lindsey Crompton.

  “May I add,” Bott said in a conspiratorial tone, “news of the second murder has spread like wildfire throughout the servant class. They’ve dubbed the culprit the Serpentine Strangler.”

  “Good God,” Smithers muttered darkly. “If the news sheets hear of that moniker, it will be emblazoned in headlines everywhere. And it is bound to spark an outcry from the upper classes as well. They’ll be demanding my head on a pike if I don’t capture this villain.”

  “You’ll be pleased to know,” Bott went on, “I was able to track down the family of the second victim in Brighton. It seems Dorothy Huddleston was literate enough to send letters to them. She wrote about a new man in her life, a gentleman who was paying his addresses to her.”

  “Who?” Thane asked.

  Bott shrugged. “Alas, the fellow was not identified. But the story corroborates that of Maria Wilkes. Several of the servants in the Entwhistle house verified that Wilkes, too, was being courted by an unnamed gentleman.”

  Courted? Thane privately took
issue with the term. These girls would have to have been incredibly naïve not to have realized that a man high above their station could have only one purpose in flirting with a comely servant girl.

  Unless, of course, he also had murder on his mind.

  “Where is this cravat?” Thane asked. “The one that was dropped near Miss Huddleston.”

  “I have it right here with me, as I’ve been taking it to various tailors and haberdasheries around town. Regrettably, it has no distinguishing characteristics.” Reaching inside his coat, Bott withdrew a folded length of wrinkled cloth and laid it on the desk. “As you can see, it is made of the finest linen, a quality only a well-to-do gentleman could afford to purchase.”

  Thane took the cravat and unfolded it across his lap. He had dozens like it in his own clothespress. On this one, a few dirt smears marred the snowy white fabric.

  “I would surmise, then, that this was the murder weapon.”

  Bott inclined his head in a nod. “That was my thought, as well.”

  A dark picture sprang into Thane’s mind, of a young woman struggling against her attacker while being choked to death with this very cloth. Grimly he said, “May I have this?”

  Bott sat up straight. “With all due respect, m’lord, I cannot see that it would be of any great use to you. As I said, I’ve already taken it around to every shop in Town.”

  “Nevertheless, I would like to show it to my valet. He may have some thought as to its origin.”

  “An excellent notion,” the magistrate said, rising to his feet and picking up a hefty legal tome. “Now, this meeting must come to a close as I am due in court shortly. I will, of course, order extra patrols in the vicinity of Hyde Park, in case the villain attempts to strike again. Bott, carry on with your investigation. Your Lordship, once again, I greatly appreciate your help. Without you, we would not have access to the great houses of the city.”

  Bott still looked disgruntled, but Thane ignored him. The fellow would get over his snit soon enough when he realized that Thane had no interest in milking any glory from solving the case.

  He had seen enough needless death on the battlefield. His sole interest was achieving justice for the two women who had died—and preventing any others from suffering the same fate.

  He tucked the cravat into an inner pocket of his coat. As he strode downstairs, Thane passed the crowded antechamber where throngs of unwashed masses sat on benches, awaiting their turn with one of the magistrates or to visit prisoners in one of the holding cells. He proceeded outside into the dull gray afternoon and headed to the iron post where his horse was tethered. While bending down to untie the reins, Thane glimpsed her slim figure out of the corner of his eye.

  Miss Lindsey Crompton.

  He jerked upright and spun toward her. Only to realize his mistake as she reached out to open the door to Bow Street Court.

  Instead of a finely etched profile, this woman had a crooked nose and a coarseness to her features.

  Instead of an upswept mass of rich brown hair, this woman wore a dark bonnet adorned by a broken peacock feather.

  Instead of a willowy form with generous breasts, this woman was painfully thin, almost sickly.

  Irked with himself, Thane swung onto his horse and negotiated a path through the congestion of drays and carriages on the cobbled street. How very foolish of him. His imagination was conjuring ghosts.

  It was the image of Lindsey Crompton that haunted him. He had committed an act of supreme idiocy by reaching into her bodice the previous night. He had succeeded only in branding himself with the unforgettable memory of her luscious curves.

  When she had flown at him in a rage, intent on retrieving the IOU, she had knocked him off balance. Not in a physical sense, but in his mind. She was magnificent in her anger, all fiery woman. For a brief moment while he’d clasped her close, sexual awareness had entered those big blue eyes. Her lips had parted as if hungering for his kiss.

  A visceral thrill gripped him. He had wanted to do more than kiss her—still wanted. He’d burned to carry her upstairs to the nearest bedchamber and coax sweetness from her tart tongue. God help him! She was a vixen who would make a man’s life a misery.

  But his body ignored logic. The fire of attraction still smoldered in his gut.

  Charged with the critical task of tracking down a killer, Thane had no time for the games of courtship. Nor had he any interest in marrying at the moment, as his uncle had commanded him. Thane would not allow himself to deviate from his purpose. Miss Lindsey Crompton was a distraction to be ignored.

  Nothing more.

  Chapter 5

  Some distance away, in the posh area of Mayfair, the object of Thane’s dark musings was approaching his residence on Curzon Street.

  Slowing her steps, Lindsey tilted her head back to gaze past the frame of her straw bonnet at the long row of town houses. Unlike the freestanding Crompton mansion in Berkeley Square, some three blocks distant, these homes adjoined one another in a continuous line down to the far corner.

  Number Ten belonged to the Earl of Mansfield. Identical to the other fine brick houses, it rose four stories tall. White marble columns flanked the front door, while a triangular pediment carved with two fierce griffins crowned the top of the entryway.

  She strained to see into the tall windows, but they were set too high off the street and she could catch only a tantalizing glimpse of shadowy rooms inside the swags of blue draperies.

  Was Lord Mansfield at home? What if he appeared suddenly at a window, looked out, and caught her spying on him? The prospect caused an undue fluttering of her heart. How awkward it would be if he discovered her right here in front of his house. He was just arrogant enough to surmise that she was sweet on him and was acting like a love-struck schoolgirl.

  Lindsey bristled at the notion. Nothing could be further from the truth. She was here for a dual purpose—to discover what had happened to Flora’s missing cousin, Nelda, and also to find the IOU.

  Lindsey’s errant mind traveled back to that close encounter in Lord Wrayford’s study, when Mansfield had reached into her bodice. His audacity proved him to be no gentleman. He was a rogue and a gambler, and if she never saw him again, it would be too soon—

  “Not wise, missy. Not wise.”

  The muttering voice snapped her out of the reverie. She glanced over at the short, stout Hindu woman who walked at her side. For a few moments, she had forgotten Kasi’s presence. A chilly breeze fluttered the edges of Kasi’s sky blue cloak, revealing a glimpse of the brilliant orange sari beneath it. The old ayah was the nursemaid who had cared for the three Crompton sisters since childhood, giving them the love and guidance they’d needed.

  However, Kasi had also had an uncanny way of knowing when any of them were up to no good. As a young girl, Lindsey had been half-convinced that the woman possessed the fabled power of the Evil Eye.

  “Not wise?” Lindsey asked, striving for an innocent expression as they continued their slow progression past Mansfield’s home. “I can’t imagine what you mean.”

  “You plan mischief.” Her leathery face stern beneath a knob of graying hair, Kasi jabbed her forefinger at Lindsey. “You tell me.”

  “Oh, pish-posh. We are merely enjoying a pleasant stroll through the neighborhood.”

  Kasi gave her a sour glare, one that demanded the truth.

  “Oh, all right, if you must know, there’s something I would very much like to do now that we are here. Miss Underhill told me that an old family friend lives on this street. I would like to pay a call on Miss Jocelyn Nevingford.” Lindsey nodded at the town house right beside Mansfield’s. “There’s the place.”

  It was only a minor fib. The governess really had mentioned a tenuous connection between the Cromptons and the earl’s young ward. But to obtain the actual address Lindsey had had to engage in a bit of sleuthing. A small bribe had sufficed to coax a footman into obtaining the information.

  Kasi regarded her with raisin-eyed suspicion. “Memsa
hib not give consent for visit.”

  “La, there’s no harm in stopping for a brief hello. In truth, it would be rude to pass by without any greeting when we’re right here in the vicinity. And anyway, she’s just a young girl around Blythe’s age, so I can’t imagine how Mama could possibly object.”

  Lindsey knew she was babbling. She did it to keep Kasi from getting a word in edgewise. And perhaps also to convince herself that she was making the right move. As they reached the town house, she steeled her nerves, marched up the front steps, and seized the lion’s head knocker to give three hard raps on the door.

  Huffing and puffing, Kasi caught up to her on the small porch. The old woman was mumbling under her breath, something about needing to pray to the Hindu god Shiva for guidance. But thankfully she made no further attempt to dissuade Lindsey.

  An aging butler opened the door. Lindsey presented him with her card and asked to see Miss Nevingford.

  His bushy white brows lifting in a faintly quizzical look, he invited Lindsey into a spacious foyer fashionably decorated with striped-green wallpaper and mahogany chairs. A grand staircase curved toward the receiving rooms on the first floor. The butler marched up the stairs and vanished. He returned a moment later to usher them up to a bright yellow-painted sitting room with tall windows that gave a view of the back garden.

  A dainty blond girl lounged on a chaise by the fire, a white blanket arranged over her legs. The table beside her held a lap desk with a sketchbook and pencil. There was an almost ethereal quality to her slenderness, a fairylike delicacy to her face.

  Surprise rippled through Lindsey. She was Mansfield’s ward? This beautiful woman-child?

  A plump elderly woman occupied a nearby chair, intent on mending the hem of a chemise. The plain brown dress and widow’s cap marked her as a servant or perhaps a companion. She looked up to peruse Lindsey with a placid interest.

  Miss Nevingford didn’t rise to greet Lindsey but smiled dazzlingly and held out both hands. She had striking green eyes, deep and beautiful. “Hullo! How wonderful to have a visitor on such a dreary afternoon.”