Never Trust a Rogue (12 page)

Jumping up, Lindsey moved behind the chair, keeping
it between them as a shield. “You must be mad to think I would ever agree to such a scheme.”

“Rather, it is the most logical of plans. You’ll accept my proposal, or else I’ll inform your parents of what happened here this morning and your father will force you into the marriage anyway. You really have no choice in the matter.”

He had her backed into a corner. It would serve no purpose to involve her parents because the outcome would be the same. If they discovered what Lindsey had done, Mama would be in a cold fury, while Papa would give her that awful, censorious look of disappointment. She remembered their anguish the previous year when Portia had run off with Colin, Viscount Ratcliffe. Lindsey couldn’t bear the thought of causing her family such shame.

But the alternative was to marry Mansfield.

He was too wicked, too dictatorial, too full of his own prideful superiority. He would never allow her the freedom to live her own life as she pleased. She would be trapped in a rarified world of parties and fashion and snobby aristocrats who would always regard her common background with disdain.

And that wasn’t the worst of it. What if Mansfield really
was
the Serpentine Strangler?

No one would believe a peer capable of such heinous acts, least of all her parents, who worshipped the nobility. Lindsey needed proof positive that he was the culprit. . . .

An idea sprang full-blown into her head. Why not turn the tables on him, use the situation to her advantage? By stalling, she would gain the time to investigate him. Then once she’d exposed him as a criminal, there would be no question of a betrothal.

Lifting her chin, she met his watchful eyes. “All right,
I will yield to your proposal. But you must agree to one condition.”

“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.

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 previous 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.