by Olivia Drake
Mama had kept her under close guard for the previous four days, forbidding any excursions to the shops and even banning strolls through the neighborhood. At several parties, she had ordered Lindsey’s dance partners to return her immediately after the music stopped. At home, there was always a footman on sentry duty, waiting in the corridor outside her bedchamber and discreetly following her from room to room.
The near imprisonment might have been bearable if Lindsey had been able to see Mansfield. But he had not appeared at any of the society events she’d attended. It was as if he had dropped off the face of the earth.
Where had he gone?
Perhaps his absence was for the best. Lindsey wasn’t certain she was ready to face him quite yet. The burden of guilt weighed too heavily on her. She dreaded his reaction to finding out how badly she’d misjudged him. It would be a terrible blow to him, especially in light of how he’d been mistreated by his own family. She found herself praying that he would never learn the truth.
Yet an innate sense of justice urged her to confess, no matter how difficult the task might be. She had debated the dilemma countless times since their last meeting.
Should she tell him—or not?
If only Portia was there to advise her. But her sister was in Kent, awaiting the birth of her first child. And Blythe was too young and capricious to act as a proper confidante. Lindsey had to make the decision on her own. At least she’d managed to smuggle out a note to Cyrus Bott, the Bow Street Runner, telling him that the missing maids had been found and he was to call off his investigation of Mansfield at once.
She crumbled a half-eaten slice of cheddar on her plate. Had she been too late in notifying the Runner? Maybe Mansfield already had caught Bott spying on him. In such a case, Mansfield might well use his lordly authority to force the Runner to reveal who had informed on him.
The notion made her queasy. Perhaps that was why she hadn’t seen him since the outing at the dressmaker’s shop. He was furious about her betrayal. So furious he had changed his mind about wanting her as his wife. She ought to be relieved . . . and yet she felt wracked by the longing to feel his arms around her again.
“W-would y-you care f-for some cake, M-Miss Crompton?”
The voice of Mr. Sykes broke through her reverie. She blinked and saw his brown spaniel eyes watching her with puppylike devotion. He looked incongruously formal in this bucolic setting, with his top hat and white cravat, his black boots buffed to a high sheen. He held out a slice of poppyseed cake on the blade of a silver server.
Forcing a smile, she nodded. “Thank you, that’s very kind.”
“I’ve had enough cake myself,” Lord Wrayford declared. “Let’s see what other goodies we have in here.” He knelt beside the picnic basket and rummaged through it, then pulled out a bottle of champagne. “Why, fancy this. There’s nothing like some bubbly to add good cheer.”
“Ooh, do pour me a glass,” Miss Beardsley said, running the tip of her tongue over her lips. “I’m ever so parched.”
Wrayford stared at her mouth. “It would be my pleasure.”
He returned his attention to the bottle. The cork gave way with a loud pop, and champagne foamed from the opening.
Miss Beardsley snatched up a flute, leaned close to him, and made a drama out of catching the drips. “Do have a care, my lord. Just look at all the lovely drink you’re wasting.”
His gaze flicked to her bosom, where the flower-sprigged green muslin hugged her breasts. “Mmm, mmm. Lovely indeed.”
While Miss Beardsley continued to giggle and simper, he slid a sly glance over at Lindsey, as he’d done several times during the picnic meal. He was so transparent in his attempt to make her jealous that she feigned a yawn in hopes of setting him straight.
What a disgusting toad.
When she’d agreed to go on this picnic, there had been five couples planning to attend. Mama had given permission for Mr. Sykes to be Lindsey’s partner, despite the fact that as the younger son of a baron he was a highly ineligible suitor.
Lindsey had seen right through the maneuver. Her mother knew Lindsey would never consent to being paired with Lord Wrayford, so she had accomplished the next best thing by throwing them into a situation where they would be together for hours. Lindsey hadn’t objected to Wrayford’s inclusion in the party because there would be plenty of other young people present.
However, when she and Mr. Sykes had arrived at the rendezvous point that morning, Wrayford had announced that three of the couples had cried off for various reasons. Lindsey had a strong suspicion the cancellations were Mama’s doing, and she had been tempted to withdraw herself. But although irked at the way she’d been manipulated, Lindsey had deemed a day outdoors better than another boring afternoon of formal calls to the ton.
In two separate carriages, they’d set out on a southward course into a pastoral area where Wrayford claimed to know of the perfect picnic spot. Conversing with Mr. Sykes had been no ordeal since he was polite, if rather awkwardly spoken. She had spent the long drive telling him about India in order to spare him the need to talk. On the way home, though, she really would have to make it clear that her heart lay elsewhere.
The ache inside her breast confirmed that truth. For better or for worse, her heart belonged to Mansfield. Her yearning for him had become an ever-present companion, as real as the grass beneath her skirts and the sheltering branches overhead.
Sipping champagne, she leaned back against the trunk of the oak tree. Miss Beardsley was flirting with both Wrayford and Mr. Sykes now, brushing up against both men as if by accident, batting her lashes, and asking them to fetch her more tidbits from the basket. She was a Lady Entwhistle in the making, Lindsey suspected.
Bored with their antics, she closed her eyes and thought of Mansfield. The memory of their kisses flowed like honey through her veins. How she wanted to be with him again, to be held in the circle of his arms, to know that he could forgive her. . . .
She must have dozed off, because when next she opened her eyes the sunlight had diminished and the basket and blanket were gone.
Wrayford stood over her. “Wake up, sleepyhead,” he said, his vulgar gaze roving over her prone form. “There’s a storm brewing and we’d best be on our way.”
He held out his hand, and she reluctantly allowed him to help her to her feet. The sky had darkened from more than the lateness of the afternoon. Black clouds gathered to the east, and a brisk wind set the oak leaves to dancing.
As they walked past a clump of gorse bushes and headed toward the two vehicles, she realized to her surprise that Miss Beardsley had taken her place beside Mr. Sykes in his carriage. The blonde was leaning against him, making a laughing grab for the ribbons and cajoling him to let her drive.
Clearly, she’d drunk too much champagne.
Lindsey frowned at them, then at Wrayford. “What’s going on here? I’m riding with Mr. Sykes.”
“The rest of us agreed to switch partners,” Wrayford said with a sly smile. “We were hoping you’d be a sport about it.”
“I’m sorry, that wasn’t our arrangement. Besides, I left my reticule in there.”
She marched toward Mr. Sykes’s carriage, but it was too late.
“See if you can catch us,” Miss Beardsley called over her shoulder. “Tallyho!” She snapped the reins and the brown horse set out at a brisk trot over the grass to the road.
Leaving Lindsey alone with Wrayford.
“I’ve finally found a match for the button,” Thane said in Bott’s tiny office on the top floor of Bow Street Station. He’d gone up to check with the Runner after giving the news to the chief magistrate. “We have my valet to thank for doing the legwork.”
Seated at his tidy writing desk, Bott cast a skeptical look at Thane. “A match? You’ve had better luck than I, then. But does it allow us to identify the Strangler?”
“It sets another piece of the puzzle in place.” Thane tossed the brass button to Bott. “As you know, the crosshatch markin
gs on it are unusual. I’ve narrowed the field down to only one shop on Bond Street that carries it—by chance, my own tailor. My suspect also orders his clothing from there.”
Wrayford had run up a sizeable bill that was in arrears. Close scrutiny of the shop’s records had revealed that he owned a morning coat with those very buttons, purchased the previous year.
“Who is he?”
Thane hesitated, reluctant to divulge the name until he had more definitive proof. But Bott was, after all, a fellow officer. “Lord Wrayford, of Bruton Street. That information is privileged between you and I, of course.”
“Certainly.”
Thane paced back and forth in the confines of the minuscule space. “For the past month, I’ve been investigating Wrayford. He has a reputation below stairs for seducing maidservants. And he’s carried on a long-standing illicit relationship with Lady Entwhistle, who employed the first victim.”
Bott pursed his lips. “Now that you mention it, there was talk of him when I interviewed the staff at Her Ladyship’s house. But several of the maids offered other possibilities, including a gentleman named Skidmore.”
He was one of the scoundrels who had been playing cards with Lady Entwhistle on the night Thane had been trapped in the dressing room with Lindsey. “Freddie Skidmore is too stupid to have planned three murders without being caught. Besides, the other day I rode down to his country house in Wimbledon and verified a rumor that he was out of town at the time of the last murder.”
Looking a trifle miffed at Thane’s success, Bott carefully deposited the button in one of the cubbyholes of his desk. “Well, that’s a step in the right direction. But you’ll need irrefutable evidence before obtaining a warrant for his arrest. Any case against the nobility must be unassailable.”
“I’ll get the proof; you can be certain of that.”
Weeks ago, he’d assigned Bernard the task of befriending Wrayford’s valet, but thus far Bernard had been unsuccessful in convincing the man to let him have a look at Wrayford’s wardrobe. So Thane would try another tack. When next he ascertained Wrayford to be engaged at Lady Entwhistle’s, Thane would find a way to steal into Wrayford’s house and conduct the search himself.
Perhaps tonight . . .
“And what of Miss Brown?” Bott asked.
“Miss Brown?”
“The lady who came here a few weeks ago to report you as the Strangler.” Bott peered closely at him. “If indeed that is her real name.”
Thane gave him a lordly stare. “Forget about Miss Brown. I’ll handle her myself.”
Thoughts of Lindsey energized him as he took his leave and headed down the long flight of stairs. As he emerged out into the teeming traffic on Bow Street, he noticed the wind had picked up. Heavy gray clouds had begun to pile in the sky, carrying the chilly portent of rain.
Thane swung onto his mount. He was too engrossed in his favorite obsession to pay more than passing heed to the weather. These past four days, he had deliberately kept his distance from Lindsey. She had needed time to assimilate the truth about him, to fully realize her mistake in believing him to be a murderer.
And perhaps, Thane admitted, he’d also wanted to penalize her for branding him such a dastardly character. He had wanted her to suffer a little. The irony was, their separation had punished him as well. Because of her, he’d endured sleepless nights and unending frustration.
He’d had quite enough of it all. Although it was over a week shy of their agreed-upon month, there must be no more delays.
Anticipation flourished in him. He had a few hours before conducting his clandestine activities at Wrayford’s house. That should give him ample time to have a firm talk with Lindsey’s mother—and to secure Lindsey’s father’s blessing for the marriage.
“Can you not drive a bit faster?” Lindsey asked. “It’s growing dark and we’re soon to have rain.”
She sat huddled in the seat, wishing for a heavy cloak instead of the light pelisse that covered her muslin gown. When they’d set out in late morning, the sun had been shining from a clear blue sky. Now the swollen charcoal clouds threatened an imminent shower.
Yet Wrayford behaved as if they had all the time in the world.
“I daren’t press the gelding too hard,” he said. “I do believe the fellow is favoring his left front leg, don’t you?”
Lindsey peered ahead into the gathering dusk. The chestnut horse trotted down the dirt road, hooves clopping and mane swinging. “It must be your imagination. I can’t see anything wrong.”
“Well, you don’t know old Zanzibar the way I do. He might have picked up a small pebble. We’d best proceed carefully.”
From Wrayford’s too-hearty manner, Lindsey suspected that it was all a ploy. He had something dastardly up his sleeve; there could be no doubt about it. Bitterly she acknowledged that this excursion must have been designed to trap her alone with Wrayford. It wouldn’t surprise her in the least to learn that Mama’s fingers were in the thick of the scheme. Since Lindsey had stated her opposition in no uncertain terms, she must be maneuvered and forced into the nuptials.
A part of her resisted believing that her mother could be so cruel. But Mama had made her ambitions eminently clear: It is Lord Wrayford that you will marry. Then someday you will be the Duchess of Sylvester.
Lindsey had been too preoccupied with thoughts of Mansfield to fully recognize the plot until it was too late. However, she’d experienced a vague uneasiness. The feeling had induced her to steal the pistol from her parents’ bedchamber, where Mama had kept it out of habit from their days in India, when she had mistrusted the natives.
Unfortunately, Lindsey’s reticule concealed the weapon and it was in Mr. Sykes’s carriage somewhere along the road ahead. At the rate Wrayford was driving, they would never catch up.
No doubt that was the plan.
She surreptitiously eyed him. Gusts of wind buffeted his sandy hair and exposed the bald spot that he had combed over. He was not a large man, but he was as thick and stout as a tree trunk. It was unlikely that he could be pushed out of the carriage, even if she were to catch him by surprise.
He must be intending to stop somewhere along the road, she surmised. There was nothing wrong with his horse, but Wrayford needed to fabricate an excuse to delay their journey. The impending storm only bolstered his luck and conspired against her.
Once the rain began and darkness fell, the driving would become difficult. They would be forced to take refuge in an inn—or perhaps somewhere else he’d arranged.
Her stomach twisted into a knot. No wonder Wrayford kept casting furtive glances at her, his mouth twisted in a cunning smile. He believed he had won. He must be congratulating himself on his scheme to take control of her sizeable dowry. He knew as well as she the ramifications of her spending an unchaperoned night in his company. It didn’t even matter if he tried to force himself on her or not.
She would be ruined.
Chapter 23
A short while later, a few fat drops of rain began to spatter them. The phaeton had a small roof, but with the open sides it would provide scant protection in a downpour.
“Oh, blast,” Wrayford said, cocking his head to peer up at the darkening sky. “I’m afraid we are about to be drenched, Miss Crompton. It would behoove us to find a place to shelter.”
“We’re in a predicament, to be sure. I don’t suppose there’s an inn anywhere close by?”
Lindsey had decided to go along with his ruse. With her pistol gone, she had only her wits and the element of surprise on her side. Better to let him play out his hand and hope that she could thwart him accordingly.
“A friend of mine owns a hunting box in the vicinity,” Wrayford said. “I’m sure he wouldn’t mind if we took refuge there.”
“How fortunate. But it’s growing dark. Are you quite certain you’ll be able to find it?”
“Never fear. I’ve stayed there many a time, hunting for pheasant.” He pointed ahead at a stone signpost that was barely visi
ble in the gathering gloom. “We’ll turn at the crossroads. Then it’s no more than a half mile down the lane.”
Lindsey had no intention of meandering off into the countryside with the villain. At least here on the main road there was a chance of encountering another carriage—although the impending storm seemed to have driven everyone else indoors.
A chilly gust of wind raised gooseflesh on her arms. Bitterly she imagined Mama at home by a warm fire, aware that she’d sent her daughter off to be compromised. Would she pass the time writing out the guest list for the wedding? Was she already relishing her moment of triumph in marrying off her middle daughter to a duke’s heir?
Not even an earl was quite grand enough to suit her mother’s monstrous ambitions.
For a fleeting moment Lindsey entertained a fervent wish that Mansfield would come charging out of the darkness to save her. She ached to feel the security of his arms around her again. But he hadn’t approached her for the better part of a week. What if he had changed his mind about wanting her as his wife?
A flurry of raindrops felt like cold tears on her cheeks and lashes, but she blinked them away. Now was not the time to wallow in despair or self-pity. Stranded out here in the rain, she could count on no one but herself.
Wrayford kept his attention on the dirt road as they approached the turn. He was leaning forward slightly, the better to see through the twilight. Upon reaching the signpost, he clucked to the horse to make haste around the curve.
He must be anxious to reach their destination. She felt surprisingly calm and clearheaded. Considering the low blow she’d delivered to him the last time they were alone, she doubted he would force himself on her. It would be enough for him to keep her out all night. Then, when he escorted her home in the morning, her parents would insist upon a betrothal. Mama would make certain Lindsey was forced into the marriage.
It was now or never. Taking advantage of his preoccupied state, she lunged toward Wrayford and snatched the reins right out of his hands.
