Never Trust a Rogue (5 page)

“There, there.” Lindsey took one of the girl’s chapped hands and rubbed it. “Calm down so you can tell me what this is all about.”

“There’ll be no telling of any sort,” Miss Underhill said sternly. “Perhaps in India you were allowed to gossip with the servants about criminal activities, but we are not so relaxed in our standards here.”

“Oh, don’t be stuffy; you want to hear about it, too,” Blythe said. “And I know what happened. A maidservant was found murdered over a fortnight ago. She was strangled in Hyde Park, and her body was left along the banks of the Serpentine!”

Glancing up, Lindsey stared at her sister in horrified amazement. “A maidservant was
murdered
? You can’t mean . . . one of ours?”

“Of course not. She was employed by Lady Entwhistle.”

“But . . . how do you come by your information?” Lindsey felt a little nonplussed by the news. “And why did
I
never hear of this?”

“My maid confided in me only this morning. You see, no one took notice until there was a second murder a few days ago. The circumstances were nearly identical to the first one. That means the same man must have done it.” Blythe drew up another stool and sat down, leaning forward as if they were engaging in a cozy gossip. “The news has spread below stairs in every house in Mayfair.
That’s
the secret I was going to tell you, Linds, before you so rudely tossed me out of here.”

Lindsey had no patience for games. “Kindly share all the details. Who were these two girls? Do you know their names?”

Blythe shrugged. “Me? I haven’t the slightest notion—”

“Maria Wilkes was the first,” Flora broke in, her eyes red and damp. “’Tis wot I ’eard the ’ousekeeper say. I don’t know the other. Oh! I—I fear there’s a killer on the loose. An’ wot’s worse is that—”

“Enough.” Silencing the maid with a sweep of her hand, Miss Underhill tut-tutted in disapproval. “I hardly think this is an appropriate discussion for the ears of young ladies.”

“It’s too late now,” Blythe declared, her small chin jutted at a stubborn angle. “You know how Linds loves a good mystery. If I don’t tell her the rest, she’ll pester me to no end.” Returning her gaze to Lindsey, she went on, “Apparently the housemaid, Maria Wilkes, had a gentleman lover, and she crept out of Lady Entwhistle’s house after dark to meet him—”

“Blythe Crompton!” the governess chided. “You shouldn’t know of such things, let alone speak of them.”

“Pish-posh. I’m practically an adult. There’s no need
to sweep indiscretions under the rug and pretend they don’t exist.”

“Nevertheless, this conversation has gone on too long. You must proceed to the schoolroom posthaste. Such an unfortunate tragedy has nothing whatsoever to do with any of us here.”

The governess was bending down to reach for Blythe’s arm when Flora let out a loud sob. Burying her face in her hands, the maid launched into another torrent of weeping.

Everyone froze in place.

Lindsey was the first to move, getting up to kneel beside Flora and give her a comforting hug. “You needn’t be frightened. You’re quite safe here in this house. I’m sure the authorities will apprehend the murderer very soon.”

Flora lifted her head to gaze teary eyed at Lindsey. “Oh, ’tisn’t fer meself that I fear. ’Tis fer me cousin, Nelda. Oh, sweet Jaysus. She’s gone!”

“Gone? Gone where?”

“I—I dunno!” Flora took a deep, shuddering breath. “She was in service, miss, at a fine house on Curzon Street. I went to visit her yesterday evenin’, on me ’alf day off. But she weren’t there. Cook told me Nelda left with nary a word of warnin’. Nobody knows where she went.”

“Perhaps she found a better position in another house.”

Flora gave a vigorous shake of her mobcapped head. “Nay, miss, she wouldn’t! Ye see, she was undermaid to Lord Mansfield and thankful to ’ave such a fine post—”

“Wait,” Lindsey interrupted. “Did you say . . . ‘Mansfield’?”

“The Earl of Mansfield,” Miss Underhill said, her thinned lips conveying disapproval. “A fine, respected old family from Oxfordshire. The current earl is regarded as a dashing war hero.”

Blythe perked up. “Have you met him, Linds?”

Lindsey felt exposed as everyone stared at her. She was forced to admit, “Yes, but only briefly.”

“Well!” Miss Underhill said. “I must advise you to avoid him in the future. Since selling his commission, he has fallen in with the rogues and bounders of society. And there’s talk of a scandal in regard to his ward, a young lady who occupies the town house adjacent to his.”

The news startled Lindsey. In spite of her resolve to appear uninterested in him, she was overwhelmed by morbid curiosity. “A young lady? Who is she?”

“Miss Jocelyn Nevingford, age fifteen.” The governess thoughtfully tapped her chin with a bony finger. “I believe there’s a tenuous connection between her family and yours. I seem to recall my father speaking of a Squire Nevingford who hailed from the same area of Lancashire as the Cromptons.”

“But why would Mansfield be appointed her guardian?” Lindsey persisted.

“I’m hardly privy to the particulars of His Lordship’s private life. Now, that’s quite enough gossip for one day. Blythe, come with me at once and not another word out of you. This time, I will brook no more of your nonsense.”

Apparently heeding the severity in Miss Underhill’s tone, Lindsey’s sister rose reluctantly from the stool. She flounced after the governess, grumbling all the way out the door.

Lindsey breathed a sigh of relief. At last, she could focus on helping Flora, who was still dejectedly sniffling into the borrowed handkerchief.
Poor dear.
How terrifying it must be to imagine her missing cousin falling into the hands of a killer.

Lindsey patted the girl’s hand again. “Don’t despair, darling. Somehow, I’ll find Nelda. I promise I will.”

Lindsey meant every word. Now she had an even more pressing reason to find a way into Lord Mansfield’s house.

“With all due respect, sir,” said Cyrus Bott, “it was a surprise to return from Brighton and hear that Lord Mansfield has been brought in on this case. I had no notion you were displeased with my handling of the investigation.”

Three men occupied the second-floor office at Number Four Bow Street. Cyrus Bott and Thane sat in straight-backed chairs across from the magistrate, who was ensconced behind his desk.

Bott was a dapper young man whose dark blue coat and brass buttons marked him as a member of the famed Bow Street Runners. His thatch of wavy brown hair and limpid blue eyes brought to mind a dreamy poet rather than an officer of the law who served writs and tracked down criminals.

Josiah Smithers, the chief magistrate, wore the black robes and tightly curled wig of his profession. His dour face betraying a hint of impatience, he peered at Bott over the gold-rimmed spectacles perched on the end of his bulbous nose.

“Your work on the case has been more than adequate,” Smithers said, glancing down and shuffling the papers in front of him. “However, this second murder has attracted a nibble of interest from the newspapers. If there’s a third
death, it will be splashed all over the front pages, and that is precisely the situation we wish to avoid.”

“I assure you, sir, I’m following every lead—”

“There is only so much you can do on your own. We’ve ample reason to believe our culprit to be a man of high stature. You yourself concluded as much. His Lordship heard about the murders and volunteered his services, for which I’m thankful. He has entry to circles where you cannot venture.”

Bott opened his mouth as if to disagree again. Then he slid a cryptic look at Thane and lowered his eyes in acquiescence. “As you say, sir. I will, of course, bow to your superior judgment.”

Thane understood the ambition behind the man’s objections. The Bow Street Runner had a vested interest in solving the case himself. He didn’t want anyone else poaching on his turf, let alone someone who outranked him.

Thane decided to throw him a bone. “Smithers has given me quite a bit of information about the murders. I’ve done some poking around on my own, but it would help if you told me everything you know. I’m sure your perspective will be most invaluable.”

Bott hesitated, then launched into a detailed account. “As you know, the first victim was Maria Wilkes. A night watchman stumbled upon her corpse at dawn while taking a shortcut through Hyde Park. She had been strangled to death some hours earlier. Since her garb clearly identified her as a maidservant, I made extensive inquiries around Mayfair and found that she’d been employed as a housemaid by a Lady Entwhistle.”

Smithers looked at Thane. “What do you know of Her Ladyship, m’lord?”

“I’ve been checking into her associations,” Thane hedged. “Until I find out more, it would be remiss of me to sully her name without due cause.”

Little did they know, the merry widow’s reputation was already tarnished in the best circles. Lady Entwhistle was renowned for her many affairs, including frequent romps with a select group of gentlemen. For the purpose of the investigation, Thane had cultivated an acquaintance with them. He wondered what Miss Lindsey Crompton would say if she knew that her suitor, Lord Wrayford, was one of those scoundrels.

That fact would make a far more damaging scandal than the IOU she’d stumbled upon while rummaging through Wrayford’s desk. The same paper Thane had plucked from her bodice the previous evening.

His fingers still burned from brushing against the silken warmth of her breasts. The memory was so vivid, so consuming, he had been in a perpetual state of physical discomfort ever since. She was lovely, to be sure. Yet it was her saucy character and sparkling blue eyes that lifted her above this season’s crop of insipid debutantes.

That and her blatant scorn for men of his ilk.

Shifting position on the chair, Thane realized to his chagrin that Bott was still talking. The Runner had moved on to discuss the second victim.

“. . . Dorothy Huddleston’s body was discovered in another area of the park, farther down the Serpentine. The circumstances were much the same, only this time a gentleman’s cravat was found lying on the ground beside her, as if the culprit had dropped it in haste. Through my inquiries, I was able to discover she was employed by an elderly couple, a Lord and Lady Farthingale.”

Who, interestingly enough, lived on Bruton Street, two doors down from Wrayford. It might be a meaningless coincidence, but Thane intended to keep a close watch on Wrayford as a possible suspect. He had already questioned a maidservant in Wrayford’s house—the same girl
Thane had been with when he had first encountered the cheeky beauty Lindsey Crompton.

“May I add,” Bott said in a conspiratorial tone, “news of the second murder has spread like wildfire throughout the servant class. They’ve dubbed the culprit the Serpentine Strangler.”

“Good God,” Smithers muttered darkly. “If the news sheets hear of that moniker, it will be emblazoned in headlines everywhere. And it is bound to spark an outcry from the upper classes as well. They’ll be demanding my head on a pike if I don’t capture this villain.”

“You’ll be pleased to know,” Bott went on, “I was able to track down the family of the second victim in Brighton. It seems Dorothy Huddleston was literate enough to send letters to them. She wrote about a new man in her life, a gentleman who was paying his addresses to her.”

“Who?” Thane asked.

Bott shrugged. “Alas, the fellow was not identified. But the story corroborates that of Maria Wilkes. Several of the servants in the Entwhistle house verified that Wilkes, too, was being courted by an unnamed gentleman.”

Courted?
Thane privately took issue with the term. These girls would have to have been incredibly naïve not to have realized that a man high above their station could have only one purpose in flirting with a comely servant girl.

Unless, of course, he also had murder on his mind.

“Where is this cravat?” Thane asked. “The one that was dropped near Miss Huddleston.”

“I have it right here with me, as I’ve been taking it to various tailors and haberdasheries around town. Regrettably, it has no distinguishing characteristics.” Reaching inside his coat, Bott withdrew a folded length of wrinkled cloth and laid it on the desk. “As you can see, it is made of
the finest linen, a quality only a well-to-do gentleman could afford to purchase.”

Thane took the cravat and unfolded it across his lap. He had dozens like it in his own clothespress. On this one, a few dirt smears marred the snowy white fabric.

“I would surmise, then, that this was the murder weapon.”

Bott inclined his head in a nod. “That was my thought, as well.”

A dark picture sprang into Thane’s mind, of a young woman struggling against her attacker while being choked to death with this very cloth. Grimly he said, “May I have this?”

Bott sat up straight. “With all due respect, m’lord, I cannot see that it would be of any great use to you. As I said, I’ve already taken it around to every shop in Town.”

“Nevertheless, I would like to show it to my valet. He may have some thought as to its origin.”

“An excellent notion,” the magistrate said, rising to his feet and picking up a hefty legal tome. “Now, this meeting must come to a close as I am due in court shortly. I will, of course, order extra patrols in the vicinity of Hyde Park, in case the villain attempts to strike again. Bott, carry on with your investigation. Your Lordship, once again, I greatly appreciate your help. Without you, we would not have access to the great houses of the city.”