Never Trust a Rogue (32 page)

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.

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 visible 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.

He jerked his head around. “Wha—?”

Lindsey gave him a mighty shove toward the side of the carriage. Caught off guard, he slid on the leather seat. His top hat went sailing into the darkness. Much to her regret, he managed to grab hold of the post that supported the roof.

In cold determination, she seized the buggy whip from its holder and beat him around the chest and shoulders. Wrayford thrust up both his hands to protect his face.

“Stop, you little bitch,” he roared. “Have you gone mad?”

“Yes, I
am
mad. Lecher! How dare you think to abduct me!”

Luck had failed her numerous times that day. But now fortune blessed her. At that very moment, the startled gelding careened off the road. The wheels of the phaeton hit a rock or a rabbit hole, she didn’t know which.

The vehicle tilted drunkenly. Lindsey caught the side and held on for dear life. But Wrayford wasn’t quick enough. She had one last glimpse of his startled face as he plummeted from the carriage, yelping all the way.

There was no time to reflect upon her success. Having somehow managed to hold on to the reins with one hand, she focused her attention on bringing the runaway horse under control. It took a few minutes, but a firm grip on the ribbons soon had him quieted enough to slow down to a walk. Through the murky dusk, she guided the still-skittish horse back onto the road.

Lindsey needed the time to compose herself, as well. She felt shaky and weak, scarcely able to believe she’d actually won her freedom from Wrayford.

Had he been injured in the fall? Or killed?

She would have to check—from a distance, of course. He mustn’t have the opportunity to seize her again. Another such scuffle might not turn out so well. Her heart was still beating like the drumming of hooves.

Then she realized it
was
hooves that she heard.

As she neared the place where Wrayford had fallen, a horseman rode straight at her from down the road. He drew up beside the phaeton, and her beleaguered heart leaped in recognition.

“Mansfield! What on earth are you doing here?”

He looked extremely imposing in a greatcoat and knee boots, a broad-brimmed hat covering his hair. Controlling his frisky black mount with an easy tug of the reins, he peered closely at her. “Lindsey, thank God! Are you all right?”

“Perfectly so. Now answer my question!”

His mouth twisted in a wry grin. “I came to save you. But apparently my gallantry isn’t needed here.”

Lindsey smiled giddily back at him. “Oh, but it
is
. Pray go over there and see if Wrayford has broken his neck.”

She pointed with the whip to the shadowed area of the meadow where a loud groaning could be heard.

“Tumbled out of the carriage, did he? Too bad I missed it. That must have been quite a spectacle to see.”

Turning the horse, Mansfield picked a path through the darkened shrubbery.

Rain fell more thickly now, and she huddled on the seat and tried to stay dry. The earl was a black shadow in the half-light as he leaned down to speak to the fallen man. Wrayford’s whiny voice drifted across the meadow, although she couldn’t make out more than a word here and there. Mansfield spoke sharply in return, then wheeled his horse back around and cantered to her.

“He’s suffered a few bruises but doesn’t appear to have any broken bones,” Mansfield said. “More’s the pity.”

Beset by a belated attack of conscience, she said, “The storm is growing worse. Now that you’re here, should we help him back to the carriage?”

“Hell, no. Let the rat drown.”

Mansfield swung out of the saddle and tied his horse to the back of the phaeton. Then he leaped up onto the seat and shrugged off one arm of the greatcoat. Gathering her close, he wrapped the coat around her so they were snuggled together in a cocoon.

He felt marvelously warm. She burrowed into his side, resting her head in the hollow of his shoulder. The occasional raindrop still struck her face, but she no longer cared. Let the heavens pour snow and hail. It didn’t matter so long as she was close to Mansfield.

He took the leather reins from her, and as they drove off, Lindsey could hear Wrayford shouting after them. He sounded more infuriated than injured.

“I suppose he can walk to the hunting box,” she said. “He said it’s only half a mile.”

“So that’s where the craven bastard was taking you. My God, he could have murdered you.”

In the gloom, Mansfield’s expression looked grim, almost cruel. The intensity of his pronouncement made her shiver. Why would he make such a theatrical statement? Surely he couldn’t really believe it. His angry declaration must stem only from concern for her.

Wanting to soothe him, she stroked her hand over his midsection. “Wrayford wants my dowry, that’s all. I wouldn’t be of much use to him dead.”

Mansfield sat silent for a moment, staring out at the lashing rain. Then he cast a grave look down at her. “Listen to me, Lindsey. I’m going to tell you something that you mustn’t share with another living soul. Do you promise?”

Mystified, she said, “Of course.”

“There are things you don’t know about Wrayford. For some time now, I’ve been keeping a close watch on him. I’ve reason to believe he may be the Serpentine Strangler.”

She stared up at him in stunned disbelief. “But . . . how can that be? He’s merely a . . . a buffoon.”

Mansfield shook his head. “Don’t underestimate Wrayford. He’s notorious for using dastardly tricks to lure young maidservants into his bed. He also has a close connection to each of the Strangler’s victims. The first maid worked for Lady Entwhistle, the second for a neighbor who lives two doors away from him, and the third for the Beardsleys. It’s only a matter of finding a definitive piece of evidence that will link him to the murders.”