The Dark Seduction of Miss Jane

by Amanda McIntyre

  “Jane? Jane, are you in there?” Wesley’s voice brought her fully alert. Disgust registered first, causing her to stand and stumble backward, free of the man fondling her. He lifted his face and gave her a charming smile.

  “What are you doing?” She batted his hands away when he reached for her.

  With a frustrated sigh, he sat back in the chair. “Damn interruptions. Pity.” His blithe tone infuriated her, but more pressing was the wave of nausea that washed over her. She brushed her skirt in place and adjusted her bodice. Spying her hat on the floor, she stopped to pick it up and felt a hand on her bottom. She whirled on him, eyes blazing. “You’ll not get by with this,” she said, forcing the words through the bile rising in her throat.

  “Must you be in such a rush, my dear?” He smiled wistfully. “I’ve no doubt I could appease that fiery passion you keep tucked away so deep.”

  “I don’t remember coming here with you,” she fumed. “Not of my own free will. You’ve tricked me again—only this time I have a witness. The authorities will hear about this,” she warned.

  The corner of his mouth lifted in an unconcerned smile. “Do you really think they will believe you? After all, you came here of your own accord. I showed no force. Whatever power I possess is able to touch only what exists inside your mind. I just tapped into your subconscious. Do not be hard on yourself. Our secret will remain between us. The ease of our psychic connection intrigues me. I wish to explore it in…greater depth.”

  She brought her hand down hard across his cheek. “You stay away from me. I warn you, I will find a way to expose you for the fraud you are.”

  He responded with a slow grin and a patient sigh. “Jane, let’s be friends. There is much I could teach you.”

  She fumbled with the door’s lock, finally able to twist it free. She yanked the door open and was relieved to find Wesley standing on the other side. “Oh, Wesley, thank God it is you.” He reached for her, but she threw her hand up in defense. She wanted no one to touch her. She felt filthy, degraded. “My stomach,” she muttered, clamping her hand over her mouth.

  “Are you all right?” He handed over her shawl. “You left this at the table.” Wesley eyed Vladimir, who stood smiling in the doorway. “Sir,” he directed at the illusionist, “should I discover that you’ve harmed her in any way, I shall—”

  “Just take me home,” Jane said, putting the shawl around her shoulders to help quell her shivering.

  Vladimir did not appear the least bit concerned. “Perhaps we will meet again, Jane, in your dreams, where you hide your truest self.”

  Her head throbbed. She needed to get far away from Vladimir, from this place. She grabbed Wesley’s’ arm. “Please.” She started down the hall, her equilibrium challenged so she had to stop and to get her balance.

  “You’re lucky, Vladimir, that I don’t set you on your ass this instant. For Jane’s sake—and her’s only, I will not cause a scene. Mark my words, you’ll be lucky if we don’t bring charges against you.” Wesley called over his shoulder.

  Jane hastened on, with Wesley loping to keep up. She tried to remember the way to the back stairwell. Head down and preoccupied with getting as far away from Vladimir as possible, she did not see the man until she ran into his solid form. Strong hands clamped around her shoulders. Blinking past a blur of tears, her eyes widened as she recognized the mask and the deep brown eyes staring at her. Randolph? Her mind unclear, she averted her eyes, unable to speak.

  “Are you quite alright, Miss?” His voice was kind, quiet, a soothing balm to her frazzled nerves. Part of her wanted to escape to his crimson sanctuary, to explain the notes and what had happened. Then again, why should she trust him? Hadn’t he deceived her as much as she had him?

  “There now, sir. Step aside. I’ve things well in hand.” Wesley pushed in front of her in a protective stance.

  The masked stranger’s eyes assessed her, and then he seemed to take notice of Wesley.

  “Were that so, the lady would not be in such disarray.” He pointed an accusatory stare at Wesley. “Are you the one responsible for this?”

  “Bloody hell, no, sir. I may be many things, but a scoundrel is not among them.”

  “Then who?” he asked. His tone was commanding, authoritative.

  Jane placed her arm on Wesley’s when he started to speak. “I’m fine. There is no need to cause a scene. We would prefer just to leave, if you please.”

  She could not look at him. If she did, surely she would throw herself at him, humiliating herself and revealing the secret he’d refused to share with her—with anyone.

  He spoke directly to Jane, his voice more calm. “Would you like me to speak to the man who did this to you?”

  She shook her head, fighting the urge to run into his embrace. “We must go.” Without another word, she grabbed Wesley’s arm and darted around the austere man. She needed to put as much distance as possible between herself and Vladimir. He’d done it again, managed to place her and Wesley in some sort of trance, without either of them realizing it. But how was she to fight this? How could she prevent it from happening again?

  Wesley gently placed his arm around her shoulders as they waited for their hansom. She glanced up at the manor and, through the ghost-like mist, saw from its third story windows two silhouettes—one at either end of the building—starting down at her.

  A chill ran over her shoulders as Wesley assisted her into the waiting carriage. Once inside, he slid his arm once more around her shoulders. “You’re shaking like a leaf, Jane.” He leaned out, calling to the driver. “Writers House.”

  The carriage jerked forward and Jane sucked in a deep breath. What had she gotten herself into? For the second time, it had been Wesley who’d come to her rescue. He patted her shoulder.

  “There, Jane. You’re safe now. I’ll watch out for you.”

  “Thank you. I thought I was better prepared. I don’t know what happened. I would never have gone with him of my own free will. You do believe me, don’t you?”

  “Of course, my darling. I was no better prepared for his underhanded magic than you,” he commented with a frown. “The very last thing I remember was him telling a story. And when the two of you left, I thought nothing strange about it at all.” Wesley turned in his seat and took her hands in his. “Tell me the truth, Jane. Did he hurt you?”

  She didn’t remember much, other than the insatiable desire inside her. He could have done anything he wanted—in any fashion—and she would have willingly obliged.

  “No, he didn’t harm me, nor do I believe that was his intent. Though his ability to hypnotize without one knowing could well be the workings of a criminal mind, couldn’t it?” She searched Wesley’s pale green eyes.

  “Jane,” he said softly, tucking and errant hair over her ear. “I was afraid he’d…violated you.”

  “No, Wesley, but I fear what might have happened had you not shown up when you did.” Jane was beginning to feel that Vladimir might not be the one sending her the notes. She’d received at least one other in the last two days, but she’d refused to divulge the news to anyone. It seemed now that all Vladimir was interested in was a quick tryst. Who then was author of these notes?

  Wesley brushed her cheek with the back of his hand. “My dear,” he whispered. “Surely you know I would die before I would allow any harm to come to you.”

  Once again faced with his affection, Jane regretted her inability to reciprocate his feelings. Still, she would not belittle his heroism. “I am in your debt, Wesley. It’s been a strange evening and I’m afraid I’m still upset over what has happened.”

  He held her gaze, then drew back, placing an amiable distance between them. “Of course. How insensitive I am to think only of my feelings after all you’ve been through. But I will confess this much, and you can listen or not—I insist you not return to the manor. We will gather the notes and take them to Inspector Randolph first thing in the morning.”

  “Perhaps you’re right, Wesley.�
� She considered that Randolph would have greater resources to look at the notes, especially since he likely knew the club’s members. A strange thought struck her. “Wesley,” she stated as the idea began to take shape. “If it was you knocking on the door, calling out my name that brought me from my trance, what brought you out of your state? What made you know to look for me?”

  He chuckled, a hint of embarrassment in his tone. “Oddly, it was that man in the mask. The one we ran into in the hallway. He came to the table and I thought, at first, he was a waiter, but the next thing I knew, I had a glass of cold water tossed in my lap.”

  She looked down then to see the dark stain spread over the front of Wesley’s trousers. Jane recounted the events as best as she could remember. The man down the corridor, who would have been standing in front of…the Crimson Suite, staring at her as she entered Vladimir’s suite, was the same person who’d brought Wesley out of his trance. “He knows,” she said softly. It had to be Randolph, but why the deception?

  “Who knows? What are you talking about?” The passing gaslights shone on Wesley’s stern expression as the carriage rolled along the cobblestone street.

  “For now, I need you to trust me, Wesley. If your aunt finds out we’ve gone back to the manor, she’ll have both our hides. No doubt, I’d then find myself on the first ship back to Boston. I beg you, can we keep these things to ourselves for a little longer? There are some details I need to sort out.” She took his hand and squeezed it. “Please and entreat Clarice’s confidence as well.”

  “Very well, but I don’t intend to let you out of my sight, even if it means sleeping outside your door.” Wesley brought her hand to his lips, offering a lingering kiss on her knuckles. “Of course, my aunt need never know if I were to stay the night with you.”

  Her eyes met his and she saw the longing there, understanding its origin. She had felt the same when she looked at the dark-eyed man in the hallway. Her chances with Randolph were about as slim as Wesley’s were with her. “You’re very sweet to care so much about my well-being, Wesley.”

  “Sweet, yes. That’s me. Good old sweet Wesley,” he huffed.

  “What I meant is that you deserve better than what I’m able to give you.”

  He nodded, but squeezed her hand before letting go. “Well, I want to be in the running when you are ready, Jane. I happen to have a great deal to offer a woman such as you.”

  She smiled but it was brief as she looked away, thinking that only one man held the key to what she yearned for—and she was pretty sure he was bloody furious with her.

  ***

  Christ, what was she doing with that pathetic excuse for a two-bit magician? Randolph tore off his mask and cast it across the room. Hadn’t he made it clear to madam that she was to be exclusive to him? Hadn’t he paid her enough? He poured himself a jigger of whisky and slammed it down his throat, his mind racing with thoughts of how else to keep Jane from returning to the manor. The slow burn spread down his throat. Seeing her unkempt look left little question of what had been going on in Vladimir’s suite. The idea that his concern was entirely professional wasn’t true and that frustrated him more.

  He poured himself another drink, tossing it down his throat, bent on letting the sinful stuff eradicate the truth that clawed at the back of his brain. That it drove him crazy to think of her in Vladimir’s suite, that he’d nearly wept seeing that she’d cut off her magnificent dark tresses and that he might never have the chance to run his fingers through it.

  The truth. Hell if he knew what the truth was any more. Randolph swiped the back of his hand over his mouth, pondering how many of those tiny shots of whisky it would take to convince himself that he didn’t care. He poured another glass, stared at it briefly, then knocked it down in one swallow, hoping to burn her from his brain.

  Between trying to solve this case and his torrid memories of being with Jane, he’d hardly slept a wink. His frustration stemmed partly from the fact that around her, he felt different. He laughed, the sound of it richly sarcastic. He was a man who’d led a seedy life of deviant behavior and who’d bedded far too many women to give him an ounce of credibility in her eyes. He was a rogue. He raised his glass. A pathetic, lovesick rogue He eyed the black bottle that held his escape from reality, his welcome to the dark side. He was deluding himself if he thought a woman of her caliber could understand his reasons for belonging to the manor, the services it provided him.

  He sat down and stretched his long legs in front of him, crossing his black riding boots at his ankles. A throbbing ache persisted between his legs and he cursed Vladimir for scaring her away. And with that snot-nosed schoolboy in tow! Randolph poured another drink, this one sliding without heat, hitting him in the chest where it spread like a warm fire. He sighed deeply, resigned to his place in this world and Jane to hers. “And never the two shall meet,” he spoke aloud. Yes, it would behoove him to put her out of his mind on a personal level and focus on the real concerns facing him, the least of which was a disgruntled queen and an ever-growing public anxiety about a rash of unexplained murders.

  A soft knock issued at the door of his suite. Randolph reached down, picked up the mask and slid it down over his face. “Come in.”

  Madam McFarland stepped into the room, her hands folded contritely in front of her. “I’m afraid, master, that your usual companion is not available this evening. Since we were not expecting you tonight, perhaps you would enjoy the company of Marta and Myra, two escorts visiting from our associate club in Germany. They possess special skills that, I’m told, make them quite entertaining.”

  Two corseted, buxom, women—one with fiery red tresses, the other blonde—entered the room openly enthralled with the stately décor. It didn’t take either long to spot the open cabinet with its array of pleasure toys.

  Randolph stood, eyeing the beauties, his desire lacking when his body craved his blue-eyed Jane. His? He looked at the floor, clearing his head of the silly notions floating about inside. The dark voice in his soul he heard clearly. You’ll never be good enough. The black seed planted long ago had nearly succeeded in deadening any emotions, any hope. He looked up, shoving away the dismal thought, forcing himself to see the opportunity in front of him and to forget, if only for a little while. “They might do for some entertainment, madam. Leave us.”

  She gave a short bow and pulled the door gently closed.

  The warmth of too much whisky dulled his senses, save one—lust.

  “Ladies, would you like to see some of my collection?” With the expertise of time and experience, Randolph switched off his emotions and let the mask of dark decadence blissfully absorb his thoughts.

  The two giggled and nodded, whispering to one another.

  Randolph perused his collection and shoved away the frustration that he couldn’t share this with Jane. He turned, tapping the smooth white birch in his hand and found the two of them naked, snuggled together in his bed.

  “Kommen sie, meire liebe.” One of the women beckoned for him to join them.

  “Come here, my dear,” the other woman clarified in broken English as she stroked her partner’s golden hair.

  He thought of Jane’s hair spread across his pillow. He glanced again at the pair of voluptuous females lying on his bed. He felt empty. True, they’d provide a carnal distraction, but it would not be long before she crept back into his brain. Fraught with desire, but blocked by principal, his stomach roiled with the dilemma he faced. Suddenly, he realized that a night of unbridled passion with two willing women held nothing in comparison to Jane. Besides his desire to be with her, to get her again into his bed, there was something else. He hadn’t cared about anyone or anything in years. He’d hidden himself away, devoted to his work and the first time he’d met her, she stirred an elusive emotion inside of him. He wanted to be the one to keep her safe. He wanted to be close to her...wanted to trust her. If there was only a sliver of a chance. The darkness that had dominated his life for years fought against his heart, his mind
, scalding him with self-doubt.

  He pushed past the black thoughts, left a small sum on the table, and headed for the door. “Not tonight, ladies,” he muttered and grabbed his coat. He hurried down the back stairs, anxious to escape the manor—the manifestation of his dark torment. He burst through the door, gasping for air, fighting the demons he’d accepted for so long that they’d become a part of him. Remember what happened to the people you last cared about?

  “No,” he growled, tugging on his coat. He stood frozen, staring into the black night. In the rooms above, he heard the distant sound of a woman’s scream. Violent, the dismal shadows of his past wrapped around him, threatening to pull him under. His lungs felt heavy. He choked against the assault of emotions—of guilt. The screams in his mind became those of his mother.

  Blazing with fury, Randolph saw the demon-like anger on his father’s face as he turned once again to protect his mother from the cane—his father’s discipline of choice in controlling his wife. Randolph bore its weight as long as he was able, sparing his mother the brunt of his abuse.

  Despite his efforts, the torment of losing a child was too much, and he watched his mother slip from reality. His father finally placed her in an asylum. Randolph was forbidden to ever speak of either his mother or sister again. He was helpless to do anything but survive. Deep down, he knew there was little else he could have done to save them, but it didn’t stop the ghosts from haunting him. He didn’t believe in the supernatural, but he held fast the belief that his father was something spewed from the bowels of hell. He pushed up the collar of his coat against the damp fingers tickling his neck and prayed that this darkness inside of him wasn’t the residual effects of his father’s brutality. If so, how in God’s name would he ever be free from it?

  Chapter Seventeen

  Such a pity. I had hoped you would be different—more resilient. But I fear I’ve made a mistake in my judgment of you. It was never about me, was it? You have not learned yet to bend to my will, dear girl, but I promise you will, and very soon. I am waiting for you.