Never Trust a Rogue

by Olivia Drake

  “You’re hardly in any position to make demands.”

  “Nevertheless, I must insist that we delay announcing the engagement until the end of the season in June. People will gossip otherwise. It will reflect badly on the both of us—and on Jocelyn—if you don’t spend time courting me first.”

  “Courting you.”

  “Yes. You’ll have to act the swain, send me posies, ask me to dance, write me romantic poems.”

  Mansfield thinned his lips. His possessive gaze swept her servant’s gown as if he was weighing a postponement against the prospect of immediate ownership of her.

  “A fortnight and no longer,” he countered. “And there will be no poetry.”

  “One month,” she bargained. “You’ll have to permit me to visit Jocelyn, too.”

  He continued to stare at her in that unnerving manner. “The middle of May, then. That should be sufficient time to satisfy the gossips. And to commence our courtship, I’ll call on you tomorrow at eleven.”

  But he didn’t.

  The following morning, Thane crouched beside the corpse of a young woman. Dawn was a mere thread of luminosity to the east. Its light had not yet penetrated this thicket of willows along the banks of the Serpentine.

  The ground was muddy, the shadows deep, the air heavy with the odors of lush earth and murky water. By day, this bucolic area of Hyde Park was a pleasant spot to stroll. But at this early hour, fog shrouded the pathways and caressed him with icy fingers.

  The fair-haired maidservant lay sprawled on her side as if sleeping. Her arms were folded neatly, her eyes closed. The white mobcap and stark black gown confirmed her menial status. The reddened ligature mark around her neck indicated that she had been strangled.

  Although he knew it was futile, he pressed his thumb to the inside of her cold wrist. Then he glanced up at Cyrus Bott, who stood over him with a lantern. “No pulse, of course.”

  “Exactly as I told you, m’lord,” Bott said gravely.

  The Bow Street Runner had already been on the scene when Thane had arrived. A messenger from the magistrate had banged on Thane’s door only twenty minutes earlier and a footman had come to rouse him from bed. Thane had thrown on whatever clothing he could find. His eyes still felt gritty with sleep. By contrast, Bott looked as dapper as ever, his blue coat neatly brushed, his neck cloth perfectly arranged.

  Thane had known a few like him in the military, men who arose early to preen, men who met in secret with other like-minded fellows. Thane had never been able to fathom their peculiar tastes, but he could spot them a mile off.

  The grizzled old watchman who had stumbled upon the girl shuffled closer. His fearful gaze flitted to the body. “Is it . . . is it the Strangler, then?”

  “Indeed so,” Bott confirmed. “Now, go along with you and wait at the Hyde Street entrance. You must direct the funeral dray here when it arrives.”

  “Aye, sir.” The man looked around fearfully as he backed away, then turned and set off at a shambling trot for the lamp-lit street outside the park.

  “I don’t suppose there’s any indication as to the perpetrator,” Bott said, hunkering down on the other side of the victim. “No cravat left this time.”

  Studying her, Thane shook his head. “Although that would appear to be the likely murder weapon. And judging by the stiffening of her limbs, death occurred around midnight or shortly thereafter.”

  Yellow lamplight spilled over the body. Thane guessed her to be around eighteen to twenty. The same age as Lindsey Crompton.

  The observation pushed past the wall of his detachment, and he felt an involuntary clench of horrified anger. He had coerced Lindsey into a betrothal in order to protect her from his prime suspect, Lord Wrayford. If the bastard had strangled this woman, Thane would make him pay.

  Violent death belonged on the battlefield, not here in the middle of a city park. And certainly not to a young woman who’d had her whole life ahead of her.

  There was only the slightest signs of a struggle, a few broken twigs and some gouges in the soil. She must have truly believed the man to be her lover until the moment when he’d looped his cravat around her neck. She would have fought back against her attacker, but it would have been too late to save herself.

  Afterward, the killer had taken the time to arrange her in this slumbering pose. He had closed her eyes and crossed her arms over her breasts. Why had he bothered?

  Cyrus Bott uttered an exclamation. He was peering into a thicket of reeds just behind her. Bending down, he snatched up something small and round, then held it out in his hand.

  Thane took the object from him. As he turned it in his fingers, a grim sense of purpose filled him. It was a brass button, engraved with a crosshatch pattern, and of a quality only a gentleman could afford.

  Chapter 9

  Standing by the window in her chamber, Lindsey tilted the front page of the newspaper to catch the dull light of late morning. Her attention was absorbed by the report with its lurid headline: Serpentine Strangler Strikes Again.

  The previous morning, a third maidservant had been found murdered in Hyde Park. Somehow the killer had managed to steal past the watchmen patrolling the area. The circumstances were much the same as the other two murders. Residents of the surrounding area, especially Mayfair, were warned not to venture out alone.

  A disturbing bit of information concerned one of the previous murders. Apparently, a gentleman’s cravat had been found at the scene of the crime and was presumed to be the murder weapon.

  Flora tugged on Lindsey’s sleeve. Her broad features were stark with worry. “Wot’s it say, miss? Wot’s it say? ’Tisn’t Nelda, is it?”

  Lindsey had nearly forgotten the presence of her abigail. Unable to read, Flora had risked dismissal from her post in order to smuggle the newspaper out of the breakfast room while the butler’s back had been turned.

  Lindsey’s heart went out to her. “No, the poor girl wasn’t your cousin. Her name was Clara Kipp. The article reports that she was employed by the Beardsleys.”

  Flora fanned herself with her apron. “Oh, praise the ’eavens. I mean, I’m sorry fer ’er an’ all, ye know. But it’d be ’orrible if me cousin was killed by the Strangler.” Her lower lip wobbled. “Oh, wot’s ’appened t’ Nelda? Wot’s ’appened t’ ’er?”

  Lindsey wished she knew. Her worst fear was that Nelda was lying dead somewhere and no one had yet found her.

  She placed a comforting hand on the maid’s sturdy shoulder. “We’ve already discussed this. Lord Mansfield’s housekeeper told me that Nelda went off with a man. Are you absolutely sure you don’t know who he might be?”

  The maid vigorously shook her head. “I only seen her once a month, on me ’alf day off. Mayhap ’e was a new fellow.”

  “Then let’s pray she sends a message to you very soon.” Lindsey hesitated. She hadn’t told Flora that Mrs. Yardley had hinted that Nelda’s mysterious lover was a gentleman. Nor did she intend to do so. “Have you heard any rumors below stairs of who the Strangler might be?”

  “Nay, miss. Ye know I’d tell ye straightaway if I did.”

  “Well, keep your ears open, will you? If you hear anything suspicious, please don’t hesitate to let me know.”

  The maid’s swift agreement displayed the fear that must be running rampant among the staffs of the great houses in Mayfair. Not for the first time, Lindsey wished she were privy to all the information that the Bow Street Runners must have collected on each of the murders. She had precious little to go on, other than circumstantial evidence, such as that news clipping she had discovered in Mansfield’s drawer and his being with the maid at Wrayford’s house.

  And if the Earl of Mansfield was responsible for Nelda’s disappearance, Lindsey was at a loss for how to prove it. She had expected to have the opportuntity to question him, but two days had passed since she’d been forced into that dreadful bargain in his library and she had not heard a word from him. Nor had she seen him at the ball she’d attended the pre
vious evening.

  Had he reconsidered their courtship and betrothal?

  Or had he failed to call on her as promised because he’d been caught up in murderous schemes? Because he had been too busy killing that third girl and then covering his tracks?

  A distinctively sharp rapping on the door startled her from the gruesome thought. She shooed Flora toward the dressing room. “That sounds like Mama. Hurry, make yourself busy. And don’t worry; if you were seen taking Papa’s newspaper, I’ll tell her I ordered you to do so.”

  With a grateful nod, Flora vanished into the dressing room.

  Quickly Lindsey folded the news sheet and stuffed it beneath the gold-striped cushion of a nearby chair. She smoothed the bronze silk of her skirt and then went to open the door.

  Her mother swooped into the bedchamber like a ship at full sail. Girlishly slender in a gown of apple green muslin, Edith Crompton looked more like an older sister than a mother. Her stylish russet curls showed no hint of gray, and emerald earbobs glinted at her lobes.

  “Lindsey! I must have a word with you this instant. The most horrid event has transpired.”

  The grave look on her face boded ill. Mama seldom made reference to unpleasantries. Lindsey had taken a tray in her chamber, so she could only surmise that Papa must have told Mama about the murders while reading the newspaper over breakfast. “Do you mean . . . the Serpentine Strangler?”

  Her mother’s lips pursed. “Certainly not. Where did you hear that distasteful story, anyway?”

  “Um . . .” Lindsey fumbled for an excuse that wouldn’t get Flora into trouble. “People were whispering about it at Lord Huntington’s ball yesterday evening.”

  “Well! I do hope you didn’t join in the gossiping. It is most unseemly for a young lady to discuss such sordid matters.”

  “But the maid was employed by the Beardsleys. I thought Mrs. Beardsley was your friend.”

  “That is neither here nor there. I’m more concerned about your future. Which at the moment appears to be in great jeopardy!”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Scowling, Edith Crompton paced back and forth, her skirt swishing. “The Earl of Mansfield has come to call on you. He’s waiting downstairs in the drawing room.”

  Lindsey’s heart performed a cartwheel. So he hadn’t given up on that wretched betrothal scheme, after all. A plethora of emotions assaulted her, a tangled mix of excitement and trepidation. She would as soon never see him again, yet she also itched to investigate his possible role in the murders.

  Pretending disinterest, she strolled to her dressing table and toyed with a blue bottle of perfume. “Isn’t it a bit early in the day? I suppose he wanted to arrive ahead of any other callers.”

  “I made it eminently clear to him that you are not receiving. But he insists that you agreed to let him take you out for a drive.”

  Agreed? What an accomplished liar he was! Yet she had no choice but to go along with his fib. “I’m sorry, Mama. I must have forgotten all about it.”

  Edith Crompton stalked to her side, seized the glass bottle, and set it down with a thump. “Forgotten. How did Lord Mansfield arrive at the notion that you would welcome his courtship, anyway? Never mind, I know the answer. You were seen leaving the ballroom with him the other night. The Duchess of Milbourne took great pleasure in informing me of that fact!”

  Lindsey struggled against a blush. Was that all Mama knew?

  She certainly hoped so. The betrothal would happen much sooner than the middle of May if someone had seen her locked in a passionate embrace with Lord Mansfield.

  “We merely had a polite conversation,” she said. “I’ve done the same with a good number of other gentlemen. Would you rather me be rude to the earl?”

  Mrs. Crompton eyed her suspiciously. “He has a wicked reputation. I’ve heard that he keeps a fifteen-year-old girl in the house adjoining his. A girl who is of no relation to him.”

  Lindsey found the insinuation monstrous, even given her dislike for Mansfield. But Mama mustn’t know that she’d met Jocelyn. “The girl is his ward. And I believe she’s crippled, too. Surely you’re not suggesting anything unseemly could be going on.”

  “One never knows with his sort. He must not be encouraged, do you hear me? Now, Lord Wrayford is due to arrive at any moment. I’ve asked him to come here in the hopes that you would go on a drive with him.”

  Nothing could be more unwelcome. Lindsey remembered the last time he’d taken her out in his carriage. He’d tried to plant a slobbery kiss on her mouth and she’d had to jam her elbow into his side to make him stop.

  “Really, Mama! It isn’t fitting to push me at Lord Wrayford. What will he think of us?”

  “He has been most welcoming of my intervention. And you would do well to encourage him. He is the heir to the old Duke of Sylvester, after all, and very soon he will outrank Lord Mansfield.”

  “But . . . Lord Wrayford is a gambler. I heard some ladies whispering that he owes large debts. That won’t make Papa very happy.”

  “Nonsense, he’s a fine, upstanding gentleman who will make you a duchess someday. Only think, your firstborn son will someday be a duke.” Mrs. Crompton eyed her critically, then reached out to straighten the sleeve of Lindsey’s gown. “Now, do come along, darling. You must tell the earl that you have made other plans.”

  Thane was sitting forward on an elegant but uncomfortable gold-striped settee, his elbows resting on his knees, when the sound of approaching footsteps came from the corridor.

  He had been ruminating about the possible owner of the button found at the scene of the third murder. Cyrus Bott had handled the inquiries at various tailors’ around town, while Thane had questioned the watchmen who had been on duty that night, only to learn nothing of value. Now, he banished all thought of the Strangler, sat up straight, and affixed a pleasant smile to his face.

  But it wasn’t Lindsey or her dragon of a mother who entered.

  It was Wrayford.

  Dressed to the nines in a pale blue coat and tan breeches, Wrayford carried a gold-topped walking stick that was pure pretension. His face had the florid complexion of a man who routinely imbibed too much drink. From his styled sandy hair to the polished tips of his brown shoes, he looked ready for courtship.

  Wrayford stopped dead in his tracks. “You!” he exclaimed, his genial expression altering to suspicion. “What the devil are you doing here, Mansfield?”

  Nothing could have been more providential. Thane had intended to seek him out for questioning later in the day. Now he had the chance to milk this opportunity for all it was worth. “I could ask the same of you.”

  “I’m here to take Miss Crompton out for a drive.”

  Thane stretched his arms out along the back of the sofa. “It seems you’ll have to wait your turn, then.”

  Wrayford’s face flushed a deeper red and his sandy brows lowered in a scowl. He stood there, nostrils flaring like a bull in a Spanish fighting ring. With an abrupt huff of released breath, he charged forward, gripping the stick like a cudgel. “Why, you knave—!”

  Thane tensed his muscles without abandoning his relaxed pose. He was prepared to spring into action if need be. But Wrayford must have seen the menace in Thane’s gaze, because he stopped short a few feet distant.

  “This is deliberate,” he snapped, shaking the cane. “You’ve no real interest in Miss Crompton. You’re trying to stop me from paying off my markers.”

  “Don’t be absurd. I certainly do want the thousand guineas you lost to me in that dice game.”

  “Blackguard! Then don’t interfere with my courtship of her!”

  “It may be best to lower your voice,” Thane advised. “You wouldn’t want Miss Crompton—or her father—to learn just how close you are to drowning in River Tick.”

  Compressing his lips, Wrayford glanced over his shoulder at the arched doorway and the empty corridor beyond it. Then he cast a spiteful look at Thane and hissed, “You’re wasting your time here. Mrs. Crompt
on prefers me as a suitor.”

  “I very much doubt Mr. Crompton will be pleased to hear that news.”

  “What? You know I was referring to her daughter. And why are you poaching in my territory, anyway?”

  “Maybe I’ve decided it’s time I took a wife.”

  Thane pretended it was the most logical decision in the world when in fact it had been an act of supreme idiocy. He had embarked on the course on the spur of the moment, when he had caught Lindsey in his library, dressed like a maid and plotting to rifle through his desk for that damned IOU. Any lady who would go to such extreme lengths to rid herself of a suitor had to be nothing but trouble.

  Yet there was something about her that robbed him of reason. Perhaps it was that lush mouth, so temptingly kissable, or her disdainful manner that challenged him to sweeten her disposition.

  No, it was merely chivalry that obliged him to protect her from a suspected murderer. He need never go through with the betrothal if sufficient evidence to implicate Wrayford could be found.

  Wrayford shook the walking stick. “Pick another girl. You don’t need an heiress. You’re well set for funds.”

  “Is that all she is to you—a bank account?”

  “Of course not. She’s a fine specimen of a female. Why else would a man shackle himself to such a proper young lady?”

  “You seem more suited to a merry widow like Lady Entwhistle.”

  A crafty look entered Wrayford’s pale blue eyes. “Speak for yourself, old chap. The two of you looked quite cozy at that ball the other night. Miss Crompton had some choice words to say about your little tête-à-tête.”

  Had she?

  Thane could well imagine Lindsey denouncing him. But he could hardly correct her mistaken assumptions. She mustn’t know the real reason for his conversation with Lady Entwhistle, that he had been gathering information about the woman’s various lovers.

  “Have a seat, Wrayford. We’ll let Miss Crompton make her own decision.” Thane deliberately eyed him up and down. “That’s quite a handsome cravat you’re wearing. Where do you purchase your neck cloths?”