Never Trust a Rogue

by Olivia Drake

  Lindsey was a bit taken aback by the display of friendliness from this waiflike stranger. Remembering her manners, she glided forward and briefly pressed the girl’s soft hands. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. Did you recognize my name, then?”

  That pretty brow crinkled a bit. She glanced down at the card in her lap. “No, but . . . should I have?”

  “My family, the Cromptons, are also from Lancashire. I’m given to understand that my parents were neighbors of your father’s. I presumed you knew of the connection, Miss Nevingford.”

  “Oh, you must call me Jocelyn. And if you don’t mind, I shall call you Lindsey. I know we are going to be fast friends. Fisk, will you ring for tea?”

  The old woman rose obediently from the chair and hobbled over to tug on the bell rope before returning to her sewing.

  Lindsey told herself to be thrilled at this opportunity. This was her big chance to dig up information. Yet something about the situation made her a trifle ill at ease. Perhaps it was the fact that Jocelyn seemed so overly eager for her companionship.

  “I don’t know how long I can stay,” Lindsey said. “I only came for a moment to introduce myself.”

  “But you mustn’t go away so quickly,” Jocelyn insisted. “Pray, sit down so that we might become better acquainted. I have so few friends in town and it’s been ever so dull, sitting here day after day, with only Fisk and my sketchbook for company.”

  Lindsey obediently perched on the edge of a chair near the girl. From the corner of her eye, she noticed that Kasi had settled down to wait on a stool beside the door.

  Jocelyn’s pale green gown enhanced her elfin appearance. She had the translucent skin of someone who seldom ventured outside. How different from Lindsey’s upbringing. Despite Mama’s scoldings, Lindsey and her sisters often had turned brown from the hot Indian sun.

  “Surely you have many acquaintances,” Lindsey said. “There must be girls that you attended school with, or who live here on this street. If you go for a stroll through the neighborhood, you’re bound to make some new friends.”

  “A stroll?” Jocelyn lowered her chin, gazing at Lindsey with the solemn eyes of a china doll. “Oh, did you not know—? The doctors say I will never walk again. Ever since the accident last year, I have been crippled.”

  Shock held Lindsey immobile. A flush of mortification heated her cheeks. Of course, that would explain why Jocelyn hadn’t arisen to greet her, and why she reclined with a coverlet over her legs.

  How had Miss Underhill failed to mention such a momentous fact? Knowing her, she probably hadn’t wanted to gossip.

  “Forgive my thoughtlessness. I—I had no idea.”

  “Oh, it’s quite all right,” Jocelyn said with a wan smile. “I don’t mind, really. Would you like to hear about the accident?”

  “If—if you wish to tell me.”

  “Certainly. Friends share such stories, don’t they?”

  Lindsey managed a stiff nod. She felt swamped with guilt at deceiving the poor girl into thinking she had come here for such an altruistic purpose.

  “It happened last November, while I was in living in Belgium. My father was a captain in the cavalry, you know. Mama and I followed the drum with him, traveling with him wherever his company went. There were times when we had to make do with living in a tent.”

  Lindsey struggled to imagine this refined girl living under such difficult conditions. She felt a sympathetic connection between them since she, too, had grown up in a different world than the rest of high society. “You must have visited lots of interesting new places.”

  “Yes—at least I did until my parents died.” As if looking into the past, Jocelyn turned her head to stare out the window. “One evening, I went with Mama and Papa out to dinner at the mayor’s house. On the way home, a terrible rainstorm blew up. The wind was howling, making the coach rock from side to side. Then from out of nowhere, a carriage came racing straight at us. I remember hearing a loud crash and being thrown about as the coach tipped over. And then . . . and then . . . there was nothing. . . .”

  Biting her lip, she looked back at Lindsey, and her green eyes had a watery sheen. “When I awakened, my parents were dead and I was confined to bed, suffering the most unbearable pain from two broken legs.”

  Aghast, Lindsey groped for something to say. Mere words seemed inadequate. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Lord Mansfield took me in when I was left all alone. He said it was his duty. You see, he and Papa were the best of friends.” A wry smile banished the sorrow from Jocelyn’s face. “I daresay, I have been a millstone around the earl’s neck.”

  “Why would you think that?”

  “He’s a bachelor and quite the wild rogue. It must be terribly difficult for him to be saddled with a cripple as his ward.”

  Lindsey gave him credit for taking in an orphaned girl, even if only out of obligation. Yet she bristled at the notion of him making Jocelyn feel unloved and indebted. “The earl ought to change his ways, then. It would behoove him to cease all his gambling and carousing at once.”

  Jocelyn leaned forward, interest shining in her eyes. “You sound as if you are acquainted with His Lordship, then.”

  The girl knew nothing about Lindsey’s unconventional meeting with him—nor would she. “Only by the flimsiest connection. We were introduced at a party, that’s all.”

  She was saved from further inquiry by the arrival of the tea tray, delivered by a footman who placed it on a table near Jocelyn. At the girl’s behest, Lindsey sprang up to perform the role of hostess, pouring two cups of steaming liquid and adding a lump of sugar to both. She would have offered an additional cup to Fisk, but the plump old woman had dozed off over her sewing. As for Kasi, she only took food or drink prepared by her own hands, and anyway, the English rules drummed into Lindsey by Miss Underhill forbade treating a servant as an equal.

  Once Lindsey had passed out the tea and slices of plum cake, she deemed it time to steer the topic to her purpose. “I was wondering,” she said. “Would you perhaps know of a maid named Nelda? Until very recently, she worked next door for Lord Mansfield.”

  Jocelyn frowned thoughtfully. “Nelda. Yes, I believe she’s a dark-haired girl with the most unfortunate mole on her chin. Sometimes, when the other servants here were busy, she would help haul my bathwater from the kitchen.”

  “So you do know her!” Not wanting to appear overly enthused, Lindsey toned down her excitement. “Nelda is cousin to my abigail. The reason I brought up her name is that a few days ago Nelda went away without sending word to her family. You wouldn’t happen to know where she’s gone, would you?”

  “Oh my. She left? Without a word?” Her eyes widening, Jocelyn set aside her teacup. “I hope she hasn’t come to foul play. Especially considering . . .”

  “Yes?”

  Jocelyn glanced over at Fisk, who was snoring softly, her chin propped on her massive bosom. The girl fixed her guileless gaze on Lindsey and said in a confiding whisper, “I don’t wish to alarm you, but there is a madman roaming the streets at night. Have you heard of the Serpentine Strangler? He has been murdering maidservants all over London.”

  Lindsey nearly choked on a sip of tea. “I’m aware of the case. There have been two victims, no more. But really, you shouldn’t know of such sordid crimes. Who told you?”

  “No one in particular. I have excellent hearing. People seem to think that being crippled means my senses are dulled. But it’s really quite the opposite.” A hint of slyness touched Jocelyn’s smile. “I’m especially good at pretending to be asleep while the servants are gossiping. One can learn all sorts of interesting tidbits that way.”

  “I see. Well, I doubt Nelda has come to such an untimely end. She very likely found a better position in another house. It’s just a matter of finding out where.”

  “Mmm. You could be right.” Jocelyn swirled a dainty fingertip in the crumbs of plum cake on her plate. “And yet, considering that Lord Mansfield is such a wicked rake, I can’t
help but wonder. . . .”

  His name poked like a thorn into Lindsey. “Wonder what?”

  Jocelyn peeked from beneath her lashes. “Perhaps the earl had his way with Nelda. Perhaps she had conceived his baby, and he did away with her before the scandal could come to light. Perhaps she’ll be found strangled like those other girls.”

  Lindsey almost dropped her cup. Jocelyn was worse than Blythe at wild speculations. Was it just that she had so much time alone here to dream up tall tales to amuse herself? Or had close proximity enabled her to know Mansfield’s character better than anyone else?

  The Earl of Mansfield couldn’t possibly be the Strangler.

  Yet Nelda was missing from his house.

  And Blythe had reported that one of the murdered maids had been on her way to meet a gentleman lover.

  Lindsey had a sudden, clear memory of Mansfield walking into Lord Wrayford’s study accompanied by a comely maidservant.

  The icy fingers of suspicion prickled her skin. She had assumed that he and the maid intended to engage in a sordid tryst. But what if he’d had an even more sinister purpose?

  No. No, it was absurd. He was a peer of the realm, not a criminal from the stews of London.

  She realized that Jocelyn was gazing avidly at her, awaiting her reaction. Good manners dictated that she chastise the girl for stepping outside the bounds of propriety.

  With studied composure, Lindsey set down her teacup on the tray. “Don’t be silly. That seems a rather dramatic accusation to make of your guardian.”

  Jocelyn ducked her chin. “Perhaps you’re right. You must think I’m dreadfully ungrateful, don’t you? To suggest such an awful thing about the man who has given me a home and shown me naught but kindness.”

  “I think you’re bored and in dire need of an outing. You should ask His Lordship to remedy that situation straightaway—”

  “Remedy what?”

  The deep male voice startled her. Lindsey’s heart gave a wild lurch. She glanced over her shoulder to see the menacing figure of Lord Mansfield looming in the doorway.

  Handsomely groomed, he wore a tailored black coat and buff breeches with black riding boots. The pure white of his cravat set off the swarthiness of skin darkened from years spent in the sun. Despite his fine garb, he exuded an aura of toughness, perhaps because of the breadth of his shoulders or the hard contours of his scarred face.

  He was not smiling. Rather, he looked as if he contemplated strangling her.

  A shiver eddied through her. The hostility that emanated from him was a palpable presence in the air. Was he one of those high-and-mighty aristocrats who thought a commoner unfit to associate with his ward?

  He strolled into the sitting room, his powerful figure making the walls seem to shrink. “This is quite a surprise, Miss Crompton. I had no notion that you were acquainted with my ward.”

  Her mouth felt too dry to form words. What was he doing here? And how much had he heard?

  To buy time, Lindsey flung a question at him: “Do you always walk in unannounced and eavesdrop on private conversations?”

  “There’s a connecting door between this house and mine. I own both homes. Or didn’t you know that?”

  His cynicism made her nerve endings vibrate with discordant emotions. She felt defensive for being caught here, embarrassed that he might think she was trying to worm her way into his affections, and alarmed at the possibility of him guessing her true purpose here—to locate Nelda and to steal the IOU.

  Then Jocelyn made matters worse by lying: “Don’t be angry, m’lord. Lindsey and I have known each other for ages. You see, our families hail from the same area of Lancashire. We share a long history together.”

  “Indeed.” Arching a skeptical eyebrow, the earl took up a protective stance at the end of the chaise. He glanced down at his ward as if to assure himself she hadn’t been tainted by Lindsey’s visit. “It seems your father would have mentioned such a connection to me.”

  “Why would he?” Lindsey said, recovering her aplomb. “I’ve lived most of my life in India. And what Jocelyn really means is that we have known of each other for years. I thought it only polite to renew the acquaintance in person.”

  “I see. You should be informed, then, that Miss Nevingford tires easily. The doctors have prescribed complete rest for her.”

  “All I ever do is rest,” Jocelyn said with a pout. “I vow I’m not weary in the least—”

  “It’s all right,” Lindsey said, forcing a smile. It was a difficult effort, considering the potency of her resentment toward Mansfield. “I really must return home anyway. Perhaps we’ll talk again sometime. Good day.”

  Rising from the chair, she concentrated on keeping her movements graceful to convey the message that she was leaving of her own accord and not because she had been intimidated into doing so. It was not an easy task. All the way to the door, she had the discomfitting sense of his eyes boring into her back.

  For the umpteenth time, Edith Crompton twitched back the lace curtains of her sitting room and peered down at the cobbled street. People strolled the concentric walkways of the square, mostly fine ladies and gentlemen, out taking the air despite the overcast skies.

  On any other afternoon, she would feel a righteous sense of superiority that she occupied the fine stone mansion at one end of Berkeley Square, while the aristocrats had to settle for the smaller row houses. Having once been a nameless girl in service, Edith had clawed and scraped her way into her current high position in society. Two qualities commanded respect from the nobility: bloodline and wealth. Edith could never claim the first, so she’d made certain she possessed more money than any of them.

  But today she was preoccupied. Her sharp eyes scoured the pedestrians in a vain search. Hearing the click of the door opening behind her, she let the curtain drop and spun on her heel to face her husband.

  “Where is that wayward girl?” she demanded. “She and Kasi departed two hours ago.”

  George Crompton ran his fingers through his sparse brown hair, and his weathered features wore a frown. He looked more annoyed with Edith than with their middle daughter. “Is that why you summoned me from my account books? Lindsey went for a stroll. There’s no harm in that.”

  “No harm?” Edith felt about to burst with pent-up frustration. She paced back and forth, the elegant rose-striped gown swishing around her girlishly slender figure. “Lord Wrayford came to call in her absence. I had to listen to him ramble about the superiority of his hunting hounds for nearly an hour, all in the hopes that she would return promptly. Now he’s gone and Lindsey has missed a prime opportunity to encourage his courtship.”

  George planted his hands on his hips, pushing back his coffee brown coat and revealing the paunch around his waist. “If the man has a serious interest in her, he won’t give up so easily. Besides, are you certain she even wishes to marry him? I’ve never heard her say so, and he seems a rather havey-cavey sort of fellow to me, anyway.”

  “All young gentlemen enjoy their amusements. He’ll settle down once they’re wed.” She took a step toward George. “As a matter of fact, I was hoping you would have a word with her.”

  “A word? About what?”

  “Remind her that Wrayford is eminently suitable. With the death of his elder brother, he’s now heir to the Duke of Sylvester. The old man won’t last much longer, and then Lindsey will be a duchess.” The fantasy buoyed Edith’s spirits. “Just think, George, our grandchild could be heir to a dukedom!”

  His face darkened. He took hold of her shoulders and gave her a hard shake. “You and your blasted ambitions! Did you learn nothing from the near disaster last year with Portia? Nothing at all?”

  The previous season, their eldest daughter had been courted by the stately Duke of Albright, the match promoted and guided by Edith. But from the start, Portia had rejected his advances in favor of the notorious Viscount Ratcliffe. There had been a dreadful scandal with Portia running off with Ratcliffe, then Ratcliffe being thrown int
o prison for killing the duke in a duel. The resulting gossip and disgrace was something Edith hoped never to endure again.

  And she wouldn’t, if things went as planned this time.

  Realizing she’d stepped over the line, she forced a conciliatory smile. George might be a malleable man, yet he had an iron streak that accounted for his incredible success in the business world. Since he controlled the purse strings, it wouldn’t do for her to antagonize him.

  She cradled his weathered cheeks in her palms. “Pray don’t be angry with me, darling. I’m quite happy with the way things have turned out for dear Portia. Just think, we’ll be holding our first grandchild in a few short months.”

  The reminder had the desired effect. George relaxed his grip on her shoulders, although he still regarded her warily. “Heed me well, Edith. Lindsey will have the final say in who she marries. I will not have you forcing her into a union she does not favor.”

  “Of course not.”

  Edith’s expression turned calculating as she watched him stride out of the chamber. She would not relinquish this perfect opportunity to bolster her position in the very highest circles. When the time came, Lindsey would make the right choice.

  Edith intended to make certain of that.

  Chapter 6

  Lindsey staved off boredom as she danced with Lord Wrayford. The hour was past midnight, and it would be embarrassing to yawn in the middle of a crowded ballroom. Not to mention unspeakably rude. Luckily, it was a country tune with two long lines of dancers. The complicated steps required the couples to be separated for short stretches of time while switching off with other partners.

  That, at least, saved her the effort of making inane conversation with Wrayford. He was a dreary jackanapes who wasn’t so much pursuing her as he was her dowry.

  It was the second time this evening that Mama had arranged for him to partner Lindsey. The new pair of slippers pinched her toes and she’d wanted to sit this one out, but Mama would hear nothing of it. Lindsey hadn’t dared press the issue. She had already earned a scolding for vanishing so long the previous afternoon.