Never Trust a Rogue (31 page)

Lindsey curled her fingers into fists at her sides. “I most certainly will
not
! He’s a gambler and a cad. Even worse, he’s known for chasing after the serving girls and forcing them to lie with him.”

“Then it is up to you to mold him into a tolerable husband. That is what all ladies of high station must do when they wed. Now, go to your room and reflect upon what I’ve said.”

Lindsey’s heart raced in panicked disbelief. Mama meant every word. There would be no persuading her otherwise. This time, she would not back down or heed any arguments to the contrary.

But Lindsey could match her mother in icy demeanor.

“Pray remember this as you spin your schemes, Mama: You cannot force me to walk down the aisle at St. George’s. And I will never do so with Lord Wrayford.”

Edith watched her daughter stalk out of the boudoir. Only when she was gone did Edith allow her stiff spine to sag as she sank down onto the chaise. She pressed her fingers to her temples. The ache there foretold the onset of a megrim, but she took deep breaths to calm herself in the hopes of willing away the pain.

Lindsey was proving to be an even more willful child
than Portia had been. Neither of them appreciated Edith’s effort to fortify her daughters’ position in society. They had been raised with too much luxury. They had never known poverty or privation.

But Edith had. A lifetime ago, she had labored for a living at a fine manor house in Lancashire. She had worked her fingers to the bone as a maidservant. Had it not been for her seizing a fortuitous opportunity and moving with her master and mistress to India, she might still be condemned to that hardscrabble existence.

This new development frightened her to the point of illness. If she and George were found out . . .

Groping for the handkerchief that was always on the nearby table, she took the folded square of lace and dabbed her brow.
Nevingford!
The name was a knife in her heart. Squire Nevingford had been a neighbor, a blustery fellow who had spent an entire winter trying to coax fifteen-year-old Edith into his bed. He had been besotted enough to possibly remember her if ever they were to come face-to-face.

Was he related to Jocelyn Nevingford, possibly her grandsire? If so, surely he would have taken in the orphaned girl. Perhaps he was no longer alive, then. Edith knew it was shameful to pray for someone’s death, but she offered up a brief entreaty anyway.

In the meantime, she dared not take any chances. Lindsey’s association with the girl—and with Mansfield—must end.

Once and for all.

Lindsey only agreed to go on the picnic to escape her mother’s sharp eyes. Now, as the small party sat on a blanket beneath the shade of an oak tree, finishing a repast of cold meats and cheeses, the insipid company made her sorely regret her decision. Not even the cloudless day and the warm sunshine could lift the yoke of her worries.

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 markings 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.”