by Olivia Drake
“I don’t believe so,” Jocelyn said. “I saw him from the window when the footman was carrying me downstairs two hours ago. The earl was mounting his horse by the stables.”
“No matter,” Blythe said. “Linds can ask him the next time he comes to take her for a drive. Perhaps we can all go to the shops together. There now, the matter is settled.”
Jocelyn tilted her head to the side and stared at Lindsey. “Has he really taken you out for drives? When you were here last, I thought you didn’t like him very much. Is he courting you now?”
Lindsey fought back a blush. She had to offer some semblance of explanation, since she intended to spend time in his company in order to investigate him. And then there was the sticky problem of his resolve to announce their betrothal in less than a month’s time. “In a manner of speaking, yes. But so are a number of other gentlemen—including Lord Wrayford.”
“The Earl of Mansfield is the handsomest of the lot,” Blythe said, clasping her hands to her bosom in rapturous admiration. “He’s tall and dark and broad of shoulder, with the most gorgeous military bearing to his walk.”
Lindsey frowned. “How on earth would you know that?”
“Oh, I watched him from the top of the stairs yesterday when you were leaving with him.” Blythe waggled her eyebrows. “You’re not the only one who spies on people.”
“Then we have that in common, too,” Jocelyn said in a confiding tone. “I adore eavesdropping on the servants. Especially when they think I’m asleep.”
Lindsey seized the opportunity to change the subject: “Speaking of which, have you perchance learned anything more about Nelda? You know, my maid’s cousin, the servant who vanished.”
“Oh my, I’d almost forgotten about her,” Blythe said. “She was employed by Lord Mansfield, was she not?”
Jocelyn nodded. “As you know, he lives in the house right beside this one. There’s a connecting door, so I’ve met most of his servants.” To Lindsey she said, “I’ve asked a few questions here and there, but no one seems to know what happened to her. Yet there are some peculiar aspects to her disappearance. . . .”
“Such as?”
“While I was napping here the other afternoon, the housekeeper came in to have a little chat with Fisk. They were whispering about Nelda having had a sweetheart and how she often bragged he was a fine gentleman. And they were wondering . . .”
Lindsey reflexively leaned forward in her chair. “Go on.”
“They were wondering if she might have been nabbed by . . . the Serpentine Strangler.”
Blythe gasped. “How horrible!”
It would be worse than horrible if Mansfield was the killer, Lindsey thought. The possibility made her blood run cold. “Did they have any idea who he was?”
Jocelyn solemnly shook her head. “No, I’m afraid they didn’t. In truth, I’m certain they had no notion at all, or they would have said so. And yet . . .”
“Yes?”
“I’ve a suspicion His Lordship might know what happened to Nelda.” Glancing at the open doorway, she lowered her voice to a conspiratorial murmur: “You see, after you left last time I remembered something rather peculiar. At the very same time that Nelda disappeared, the earl went away for two days.”
Lindsey clenched her fists in her lap. “Where did he go?”
Deep in thought, Jocelyn tapped a slim forefinger against her chin. “I’m not quite certain. Although I do recall hearing Bernard speaking to Lord Mansfield out in the corridor.”
“Who is Bernard?”
“Lord Mansfield’s valet. I gathered that the earl had important business to attend to in the country.”
“Do you mean at his estate?”
The girl shrugged. “I’m afraid I don’t know.”
It might be nothing out of the ordinary, Lindsey told herself. Most noblemen owned rural properties that required oversight from time to time. And there could be any number of other reasons for a gentleman to leave London for a short time, such as a duty visit to a relative—or a tryst with his paramour.
She thinned her lips, remembering how he had flirted with Lady Entwhistle at the ball on the same night he’d kissed Lindsey in the garden. Her wayward mind conjured up the image of him embracing the older woman in a bedchamber. Lindsey had to stop her imagination from running wild. It was too disgusting, too infuriating, too . . . embarrassing.
There was little reason for him to leave town with Lady Entwhistle, anyway, when they could easily arrange an assignation at her residence. Frowning, Lindsey pondered the fact that at least one of the murdered maids had been throttled with a gentleman’s cravat. Was it merely a coincidence that Mansfield had left at the same time Nelda vanished?
Or was there a sinister purpose to his actions?
A wealth of auburn curls slipping over her shoulders, Blythe leaned forward on the stool to stare with widened eyes at Jocelyn. “Are you implying that Lord Mansfield abducted Nelda? And that he could be the Serpentine Strangler?”
Casting a sidelong glance at the girl, Jocelyn plucked at the blanket on her lap. “I haven’t the slightest idea. But anything is possible, isn’t it?”
Blythe blew out a breath. “What humbug! Why, I’ve never heard anything so preposterous in all my life. The earl is a war hero. He’s far too refined to be a common murderer.”
Jocelyn lifted her chin. “He killed soldiers during the war, didn’t he? So perhaps murder means little to him. Did you ever consider that?”
“Shooting an enemy on the battlefield is a far cry from strangling maidservants in London. For heaven’s sake, he’s a peer of the realm. It’s ridiculous to suspect him!”
“Hmph. Well, I think I know him better than you do. And if I say he’s behaving suspiciously, then you ought to listen to me.”
Their squabbling reminded Lindsey of growing up with two sisters. It hampered her ability to focus her mind on the case. Besides, she was beginning to suspect that Jocelyn loved the drama of being in the middle of controversy.
Lindsey clapped her hands. “That’s enough, both of you. It’s all useless conjecture. And it’s wrong of us to gossip when Lord Mansfield isn’t even here to defend himself.”
Her waiflike features taking on a woebegone expression, Jocelyn lowered her gaze. “I’m sorry,” she said meekly. “I’m not being a very polite hostess, am I?”
“Since he’s your guardian, we ought to afford him more courtesy. As for you, Blythe, I don’t want any of this speculation to go beyond these four walls.” The last thing Lindsey needed was for her nosy sister to inveigle herself into the investigation. “If you breathe a word of our conversation here to anyone, I won’t take you on any more outings. Is that clear?”
Scowling, Blythe crossed her arms. “I’m not a tattletale, and you know it.”
Lindsey deemed it wise not to remind her of the time she’d told Mama about the stash of adventure novels underneath Lindsey’s bed. Better Lindsey should change the topic of conversation to something that had been weighing on her mind. “I’ll take you at your word, then. Jocelyn, there’s a rather delicate matter I should like to discuss, and I hope you don’t find my inquiries too intrusive. You see, I wanted to find out a bit more about your injury.”
Jocelyn eyed her warily. “What did you wish to know?”
Lindsey pondered how to frame the subject, then decided it was best to be blunt and forthright. “Did your legs heal properly? Are they whole and straight, rather than crooked?”
Nodding, the girl blushed a delicate shade of pink. “Y-yes.”
“You do have sensation, don’t you? You can feel heat and cold, or the prick of a pin?”
Another tentative nod.
Lindsey found that encouraging. “Then are you certain you cannot walk at all? Not even to take a few small steps?”
Alarm widening her eyes, Jocelyn shook her head. “Oh, no, I could never manage that! It would hurt terribly! I’ve no strength whatsoever in my limbs.”
“But can you sta
nd, at least? What if you leaned on me?”
Lindsey arose and came forward, but the girl shrank back on the chaise. “No! No, I couldn’t possibly. The doctors told me never to attempt it lest I fall and hurt myself.”
The sheen of unshed tears in her eyes proved that Jocelyn had a deep-seated fear that would be difficult to overcome. Yet it was disturbing to think of this vibrant young girl sitting here day after day, dependent on servants and the occasional visitor, cut off from the activities that she ought to be enjoying.
Lindsey perched on the edge of the chaise, near Jocelyn’s feet. “Shh. Pray, be still and listen to a story about a girl I knew in India. She was a servant, no older than you. One day, she was sitting on the rim of a dry well when she lost her balance and tumbled down into it. Like you, she broke both of her legs.”
“Farah!” Blythe exclaimed. “That was the most dreadful accident. I remember how Mama wouldn’t let us go see what was happening.”
Lindsey kept her gaze on Jocelyn, who was listening with an intent, if somewhat dubious, expression. “It was quite fortunate that some men heard her and they were able to pull her out with ropes. She was forced to lie abed for many weeks afterward while her bones healed. At last, when it was time for her to get up, she couldn’t manage to do so. Her legs had become weak, and her muscles were puny from lack of use.”
Jocelyn plucked fretfully at the fringed edge of the blanket. “Why are you telling me this? It’s gloomy to hear about someone else who is crippled like me.”
“Oh, but Farah isn’t crippled, at least not anymore. You see, she recovered the ability to walk.”
“Indeed so,” Blythe added. “When last I saw her, she was running along the docks, waving good-bye to us as our ship set sail.”
Jocelyn lowered her chin. “Hmph. You’re just trying to make me feel bad. Why are you being so mean?”
Lindsey scooted forward to take hold of Jocelyn’s hand. “No, you’ve mistaken us completely,” she said. “Rather, I’m wondering if you, too, can learn to walk again.”
Wistfulness in her eyes, Jocelyn glanced out at the sunny garden. “I heard the doctor talking to Lord Mansfield outside this room one day, not long after we arrived in London. He said it’s improbable that I’ll ever regain use of my legs.” She returned her gaze to Lindsey. “Anyway, this Farah is a servant and a native girl at that. I have a far more delicate constitution than her.”
The girl’s fingers felt warm and strong despite their dainty appearance. “Do you trust me?” Lindsey asked.
Jocelyn bit her lip. “I suppose so.”
“Then let me explain how Farah improved. It was my ayah, Kasi, who helped the girl’s muscles regain strength. Kasi accomplished it by massaging Farah’s legs every day.”
Lindsey nodded at the old Hindu nurse. She was half-afraid Kasi might refuse to cooperate. On the walk here, Lindsey had had to use considerable persuasion to convince the ayah to give her assistance.
Thankfully, Kasi appeared more biddable now. She rose from her stool and trotted forward, the gold-embroidered purple sari swishing around her plump form. Her raisin brown eyes regarded Jocelyn with the softness of compassion.
Lindsey reached for the white blanket. “If it meets with your approval, she’ll demonstrate the method to you.”
Jocelyn gasped, slapping her palms down to hold the coverlet in place. “You mean . . . right now? Aren’t you going to ask Lord Mansfield’s permission? He would want to have the approval of my physician.”
Lindsey already knew what the earl would say. His pronouncement echoed in her memory. You know little of her medical condition. I would sooner trust the guidance of her doctor. And he has been adamant in his assertion that she’s to be protected from any type of stimulation.
Unfortunately, the physician sounded like a strict curmudgeon who would never consider any homespun treatment that didn’t appear in his medical books, especially if it was administered by a foreigner. And there could be little doubt that Mansfield would concur with whatever the doctor proclaimed.
Yet the diagnosis kept Jocelyn confined and helpless—and that was something Lindsey could not abide. If there was any chance at all that the girl could recover, Lindsey firmly believed it was worth pursuing.
“Lord Mansfield needn’t know,” she said. “We’ll keep it our little secret until you’ve made sufficient progress in regaining your strength. Don’t you think it would be a wonderful surprise if you were to stand up one day and walk to him?”
A tentative smile bloomed on Jocelyn’s lips, and she gave a small nod. “I do want to . . . but . . .”
“Linds is right; you must at least attempt it,” Blythe urged. “Just imagine yourself strolling with me from shop to shop on Bond Street. We could try on all the gowns at the dressmaker’s. It will be great fun.”
While Jocelyn was distracted, Lindsey drew off the blanket. She pushed up the girl’s yellow skirt, discreetly avoiding staring at those thin shrunken limbs, encased in white silk stockings. Kasi bent over the chaise, her brown hands massaging Jocelyn’s calf in smooth strokes.
“Gently now,” Lindsey warned, “until she grows accustomed to it. Does it hurt, Jocelyn?”
The girl shook her head as she watched dubiously. After a moment she added, “But do you really believe this will work?”
The hopeful look she aimed at Lindsey broke her heart. “There’s no guarantee, but it’s certainly worth the effort, don’t you think? Now, you’ll need to have someone rub your legs like this at least twice a day. I’ll find Fisk so that Kasi can teach her how to do it for you.”
“The bell rope is over there,” Jocelyn said, nodding toward the fireplace.
Lindsey went to tug on the braided cord. Little did anyone know, she wanted to slip out of the room for a short while. She cast about for another reason. “It might be soothing if I were to read to you to help pass the time. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll find a book. Blythe, stay here and talk to Jocelyn while I’m gone.”
Lindsey hastened from the sitting room and shut the door behind her. Thankfully, the corridor was empty in either direction, the only observer an old-fashioned lady in a portrait on the opposite wall who appeared to be staring balefully at her. Lindsey aimed a distracted frown at the painting before setting out to have a look through the rooms on the side adjacent to Mansfield’s town house.
According to Jocelyn, he’d gone out this morning. That meant there was little risk of an accidental encounter. She would never have a better opportunity to find a piece of evidence that proved Mansfield was the Serpentine Strangler.
But time was of the essence. If she was gone more than ten or fifteen minutes, Jocelyn might send a servant in search of her.
Her slippers tapping on the marble floor, Lindsey peeked into an elegant blue dining chamber and then a formal drawing room. A housemaid who was polishing the baseboards gave Lindsey a curious glance before returning to her labor.
Intent on her quest, Lindsey hastened down a back staircase to the ground floor. She struck gold in the first room to her left. It was a library that looked very similar to the one in Mansfield’s residence, with windows facing the back garden, cozy groupings of chairs, and an array of tables for writing. Here, at last, she spied the object of her search.
On the far wall stood the connecting door that must lead into his house.
Chapter 12
As he descended the stairs on his way to the library, Thane was in a foul humor. Nothing whatsoever had gone according to plan today. Having risen early, he had visited Bow Street to speak to the chief magistrate, only to discover the man was tied up in a court hearing.
Next, he’d paid a call on the employers of the second murdered maidservant, Dorothy Huddleston. But Lord and Lady Farthingale were indisposed with a matching case of the chills.
Finally, he had returned home to see if Bernard had discovered anything about the latest victim through the network of below-stairs gossip. However, he had gone out on an errand and no one on the s
taff knew precisely when he’d return.
Thane decided he might as well use the time to check on Jocelyn. He normally did so at least once a day, but of late he’d been sorely neglectful of his ward. Even though he hardly knew how to make conversation with a fifteen-year-old girl, she was always delighted to see him and crestfallen at his departure. His actions—or lack thereof—stirred an uncomfortable feeling in him that he acknowledged was guilt.
Her father, Captain James Nevingford, had been Thane’s best friend since their early days together in the cavalry. Even after all these months, it was still wrenching to think that James and his beloved wife, Sarah, were gone forever. Before Waterloo, James had secured Thane’s promise that in the event of his death, Thane would see to the care and education of his only child, Jocelyn. The terrible irony was that James had survived the rigors of the battlefield only to die in a carriage accident in Belgium that left his daughter crippled.
Accordingly, Thane had obtained the best physicians for Jocelyn. Once her bones were healed sufficiently for her to make the sea voyage across the Channel, he had brought the girl here to London and consulted with one of the king’s own doctors, who had examined her wasted muscles. Thane had been told that due to the strain on her delicate nature, she likely would never walk again. He had attempted to compensate for the grim prognosis by supplying Jocelyn with every creature comfort: a fine home, plenty of books and games, art lessons every other afternoon, and a host of servants to attend to her every need.
Do you ever take her on outings, to places where she can meet people her own age?
Lindsey Crompton’s sharp question continued to gnaw at him. Perhaps she was right, he had not done enough to secure Jocelyn’s happiness. That could be why his ward often had days when she was petulant and moody. He himself would behave like a caged bear if forced to sit day after day within four walls, never getting out to experience the world.
It was time he rectified the matter.
