Never Trust a Rogue (10 page)

“Not that blue coat,” he barked. “It’s much too fine. Something old and tattered. I must be incognito today.”

Bernard snorted. “You own
nothing
old and tattered, my lord. If you did, what would that say about my competence as a valet?”

“Then choose one that’s dark and nondescript. And procure some older garments today for my future use.”

“Hmph. I was planning to visit your tailor to order some linen shirts. I’ll seek out the ragman instead.”

Bernard’s sarcasm made Thane grimace. He could hardly chastise the man for insubordination when he owed Bernard for saving his life on the battlefield. Some debts could never be repaid.

In brooding silence, he concentrated on shaving another swath beneath his cheekbone. It wasn’t anyone’s fault but his own that he was in a foul temper this morning. He hadn’t slept well. And not because he was worried about his task this morning of tracking down a potential witness to one of the murders in the stews of Seven Dials.

Rather, Miss Lindsey Crompton was the source of his ill humor. He had spent the night tossing and turning, continually waking up to find himself as hard as an adolescent boy having his first dream of a girl.

What a fool he’d been to lower his guard and succumb to the temptation to kiss her. He should have known it would be a mistake. But there was something about the little virago that stripped away all his common sense. She had been so fierce in her defense of Jocelyn, and so self-righteous in her criticism of his dalliance with Lady Entwhistle.

Since Lindsey could have no knowledge of his true purpose, he had leaped to the conclusion that she was jealous, that she wanted him for herself. The notion had spurred him to act on primitive instinct. For a few reckless moments, he’d lost his head and indulged his base nature. Her passionate response had pushed him to the brink of madness. Had no one come along, he might have laid her down right there on the stone bench and thoroughly compromised her.

Afterward, a shaft of moonlight had illuminated her face. He would never forget her dreamy expression, nor the hurt that had replaced it a moment later when he’d been so unspeakably cruel to her.

He had lied to her about Lady Entwhistle joining him out in the garden. He’d done so deliberately. Because it was the only way to put a damper on things that could never be.

He couldn’t afford to lead Lindsey—or himself—astray. He needed to keep his mind focused on finding the Serpentine Strangler. The clock was ticking, a murderer was on the loose, and she was a prime distraction. If he continued to waste so much time obsessing over how she’d melted in his arms—

“Ouch, damn it!” A spot of red appeared on his cheek where he’d cut himself. He grabbed the towel and blotted the stinging wound. “Bring me a plaster, will you?”

Bernard produced the sticking plaster much too quickly. Which meant he must have anticipated the inevitability of its need. Scowling, Thane rinsed his face and patted it dry before leaning close to the mirror to dab on the white paste.

Holding out a pair of black breeches, Bernard observed, “If you’d permit me to shave you, in accordance with the tasks of a gentleman’s valet, you would not have suffered injury.”

“When I’m wizened enough to require a cane, I’ll consider it.” Thane stepped into the breeches and buttoned the placket. “Now, have you learned anything about the cravat I gave you?”

“No one recognized it, as you already know. But I intend to question the seamstresses used by the various tailors in town. One of them might recognize the stitching on the hem.”

Thane looked at him in surprise. “The stitching? White thread is all the same, is it not?”

“The differences can be subtle. A millimeter more or less between stitches may possibly lead to identifying the person who did the sewing.”

Pleased, Thane clapped him on the back. “Excellent. If you can come up with something tangible, it may prevent another murder.”

“Not like that,” Mrs. Yardley chided. “Up an’ down, girl, up an’ down.”

Lindsey was on her hands and knees in the library. The fine Axminster rug had been rolled back and she was scrubbing the wood floor with a bucket of water, into which a dribble of powdered soda had been dissolved. What did the woman mean, “up and down”?

Wishing she’d paid more attention to the maids in her own house, she glanced up quizzically at the housekeeper who towered over her. “Mum?”

Mrs. Yardley uttered a huff and used her hands to demonstrate a smooth, straight-line motion. “Ye allus follow the direction o’ the boards, not rub every which way like a Bedlamite.”

“Oh . . . sorry.”

Under the housekeeper’s watchful eyes, Lindsey applied the brush diligently again according to instruction. Her back already ached. She had been at this and other tasks for what seemed like days, although the mantel clock had just now chimed eight. It seemed impossible that she’d walked in the door only an hour ago.

A strand of hair came loose from her mobcap, tickling her nose, and she blew it out of the way. If nothing else, she’d developed a new appreciation for servants.

“An’ dry it straightaway, lest the boards warp. There, that’s the way; go wid the grain. I declare, ye’ve ’ad no
trainin’ t’ speak of. An’ look at those soft ’ands, not a callus on ’em. I’ll ’ave a word wid that agency, I will, fer sendin’ us such a green girl.”

Gritting her teeth, Lindsey polished the clean section of floor with a linen towel. It was ever so tantalizing being here in Mansfield’s library, seeing the oak writing desk against the far wall, knowing the IOU might be hidden inside it. Being observed at her work had put a twist in her scheme. But she might as well play the scene to her advantage.

“Beggin’ pardon, mum,” she said, affecting a low-class accent. “Can ye tell me wot ’appened to the last girl?”

“I see ye’re a gossip. Ye’d best apply yerself t’ yer work.”

Contrary to her earlier affability, Mrs. Yardley had become a hard taskmistress. She bustled around the room with a cloth in hand, dusting delicate vases and artifacts that she clearly didn’t trust to the hands of the new maid.

Lindsey hoped to appeal to the woman’s talkative nature. “But . . . was she let go?” she ventured. “I surely don’t want t’ make the same mistake.”

“Hmph. Then don’t be flirtin’ an’ carryin’ on with flashy gents. That Nelda! Always ’ad a eye above ’er station, she did.”

“Was she meetin’ someone of the gentry, mum?”

“Now don’t be puttin’ words in me mouth.” The housekeeper took down an enameled box and shined it with her rag. “Nelda liked a fellow wid a little polish t’ ’is manners, is all.”

Lindsey sat back on her heels to look at the housekeeper. “Ye . . . ye don’t think . . . she could’ve been caught by the Strangler, do ye?”

Mrs. Yardley chuckled and shook her head. “I never said any such nonsense. She run off wid a fellow, she did. An’ good riddance t’ bad rubbish.”

“But . . . who was he? Where did she go?”

Mrs. Yardley gave her a sharp look. “Ye’re a chatterbox, ain’t ye? If ye wants t’ stay on, do yer work an’ mind yer own business. Now, finish up that floor whilst I run down t’ check on ’Is Lordship’s breakfast. The master be up early today, and I want the place done spit-spot before he comes downstairs.”

Lindsey froze at her scrubbing. Her eyes widened on the puddle of water beneath her brush. Dear God, Mansfield was
awake
?

The housekeeper bustled out of the library, the ring of keys jingling at her waist. Scrambling to her feet, Lindsey wiped her damp hands on her apron. She listened with her head cocked to the side until the brisk footsteps died away. To be certain she was alone, she ventured to the door and risked a peek out to check.

The ornate corridor was empty in both directions.

Lindsey eased the door partially shut, then turned to scan the room. Several comfortable chairs were scattered here and there, along with a table holding a globe of the world and an open dictionary on a wooden stand. Under less dire circumstances, she would have been interested in perusing the shelves filled with leather-bound volumes. Did Mansfield own any adventure novels, like the ones she enjoyed reading?

She doubted it. He was a cad who wiled away the hours by gambling and seducing women. He’d probably inherited this library rather than assembled the collection of books himself.

So why was he awake at so early an hour? Did he have an appointment to keep?

The answer didn’t matter. She had a limited amount of time and needed to make the best of it.

Hastening toward the desk in the corner, she bypassed the bucket and brush, taking care not to slip on the wet floorboards. The borrowed shoes clumped and squeaked,
and she had the irrational fear that the sound carried out into the corridor and up the stairs, alerting Mansfield to her presence. The thought of encountering him made her want to flee out the door at once.

Nonsense. She was here in his lair and there would never be a better opportunity to do her sleuthing. She wouldn’t turn coward now.

Lindsey sat down on the chair in front of the kneehole desk, glanced over her shoulder, and then reached for the top drawer.
Locked!
She tugged in frustration on each of the three drawers and encountered the same result.

Did Mansfield have the key? Or was it on Mrs. Yardley’s ring?

Another possibility occurred to her. In India, her father had had a desk similar to this one. When she was little, he had allowed her to conceal herself there while playing hide-and-seek with her sisters. It had been the perfect place to elude discovery.

Lindsey felt around beneath the knee opening. In the back was a high, narrow shelf. In triumph, she pulled out a small iron key.

She inserted the key into the hole and, in a moment, pulled open the top drawer. Inside lay a neat array of quills. A penknife for sharpening the tips. A blotter and sand. All ordinary items found in any desk.

The IOU was nowhere in sight.

But in the back lay a notebook and on top of it what looked like a clipping from a news sheet. She drew out the bit of paper and unfolded it. To her shock, she was gazing down at a recent news story about the second murder.

Why would a gentleman cut out and save an article about the Serpentine Strangler? It made no sense . . . unless he had a connection to the murders.

Perhaps the earl had his way with Nelda. Perhaps she had conceived his baby, and he did away with her before
the scandal could come to light. Perhaps she’ll be found strangled like those other girls.

Jocelyn’s words came back to haunt Lindsey. She didn’t want to believe it, but his possession of this clipping seemed to lend substance to the wild theory. It was certainly a damning piece of the puzzle.

Even as she was congratulating herself on her detective skills, a sound in the passageway caught her attention.

The heavy footsteps of a man.

Thane pushed open the door to the library. Before he headed to the dining room for breakfast, he wanted to review his notes on the murders and organize his thoughts. God knew, his mind hadn’t been focused on the task these past few days. He could make a serious mistake by chasing after false clues or arriving at a wrongful conclusion.

He was conscious of the time ticking away. His greatest fear was that the killer would strike again before Thane could apprehend him.

In the middle of the library, a maidservant was down on her hands and knees, her back to the door as she vigorously scrubbed the wood floor. Ordinarily, he wouldn’t even notice her presence. But given his current ill humor, he was annoyed by the intrusion into his sanctum.

Making a detour around an area of damp floor, he headed straight to his desk. He sat down, then reached underneath the desk for the key.

It wasn’t on the shelf.

Impossible
. It was always on the shelf.

Frowning, he pushed back the chair and crouched down to see if the key had fallen to the floor. He couldn’t make out much in the shadowy alcove, so he reached inside and patted the floorboards with his hand. From
behind him came the splashing of water and the sound of more scrubbing.

Half-turning toward the girl, he said, “Excuse me. Have you been cleaning around this desk?”

She had shifted position so that her back was still toward him. A white mobcap covered her hair and hid her face from his view. Without looking up from her work, she muttered, “Nay, m’lord.”

Now that was the truth. The hand he drew back was coated with dust. Disgusted, Thane slapped his palms together, then wiped them on his black breeches, leaving gray streaks that were bound to send Bernard into a bout of apoplexy.

Blast it
. Where was that key? Had he mistakenly carried it upstairs with him the previous night?

No, that wasn’t his habit. There wasn’t any reason to think he’d done so. Besides, if he’d left it anywhere in his bedchamber, Bernard would have called his attention to it.

Determined to have the notebook that was locked in the top drawer, Thane sat down again on the chair and scanned the floor around the desk. Damn it, one of the other maids must have been in here this morning. The key could have been knocked somewhere out of sight.