by Olivia Drake
Mansfield staggered backward a step. His hand went to cup his cheek. But he said nothing and sought no retaliation.
Wheeling around, Lindsey went marching back toward the house. The slap had served as a cathartic release of white-hot fury. In the absence of that high dudgeon, she felt forlorn and mortified, dangerously close to weeping. How he must be laughing at her. All the while, when she’d responded fervently to his kiss, he’d been toying with her for his own amusement.
Blast him to Hell!
And blast Lady Entwhistle!
Memory returned to Lindsey in a rush. Her footsteps faltered in the shadows of the loggia, and she stopped just outside the open doors that spilled golden candlelight from the ballroom.
She knew now with sudden, cold clarity where she’d heard the name before. The first maidservant killed by the Serpentine Strangler had been employed by Lady Entwhistle.
The significance of that fact chilled Lindsey to the bone. Because it was one more piece of evidence to link Lord Mansfield to the murders.
Chapter 7
Lindsey hadn’t realized how badly the coarse weave of a servant’s gown could itch.
Lifting the latch of garden gate, she paused a moment to roll her shoulders in an effort to relieve the prickly sensation along her back. She was accustomed to the finest silks and muslins, and linen chemises as soft as a cloud, not this cheaply made frock with its high, choking collar. Adding to her discomfort were the stiff leather shoes she’d borrowed from her maid. Since Flora had bigger feet, Lindsey had had to stuff the toe of each with a wadded handkerchief. As a result, her shoes made a clumping noise as she opened the gate and stepped into the damp garden.
The drizzling rain gave her an excuse to wear an old brown cloak with the hood drawn over her head. It reeked, rather unfortunately, of wet wool. Still, she had to congratulate herself on the perfection of the disguise. No one on the street had paid her the slightest notice as she’d trudged the three blocks from Berkeley Square to the mews behind Lord Mansfield’s house.
Pursing her lips, she risked a glance from beneath the hood at the upper windows of his home. The draperies were drawn shut in all the chambers. At this early hour of seven o’clock, Mansfield would be fast asleep like most gentlemen of his ilk. Against her will, the image of him lying abed caused an irksome tension deep inside her.
Without a doubt, it was festering anger. He had tricked her for his own amusement, used his expertise as a seducer in order to humble her. Two days had passed since that ill-fated kiss, and she’d been fuming ever since. During that time, she’d also had to endure Lord Wrayford’s cloying attentions under Mama’s none-too-subtle encouragement. Lindsey needed the IOU that would implicate Wrayford as a gambler.
More important, she had made a promise to Flora to find Nelda. Lindsey had concocted a plan to borrow her maid’s clothes and infiltrate Mansfield’s house. So much depended on her success today.
Anyway, for all she knew, he wasn’t even at home. Perhaps he’d spent the night with his mistress, Lady Entwhistle. Or perhaps he’d been out murdering another unsuspecting maidservant.
The sobering possibility stalked Lindsey’s peace of mind. She was still struggling to reconcile herself to the mounting evidence against him. As much as she disliked Mansfield, it was difficult to place him in the role of cold-blooded killer. Surely peers of the realm didn’t go around strangling women.
Yet Lindsey had witnessed for herself the sight of Mansfield entering the study at Lord Wrayford’s house in the company of a pretty, blond housemaid.
Mansfield also had a direct connection to Lady Entwhistle, whose maid had been the first victim—Maria Wilkes, who purportedly had been on her way to meet a gentleman lover.
And Flora’s cousin, Nelda, was still missing. She had vanished from this very house less than a week ago.
Time and again, Lindsey had found herself wondering if there might be some truth to Jocelyn’s theory: Perhaps the earl had his way with Nelda. Perhaps she had conceived his baby, and so he did away with her before the scandal could come to light. Perhaps she’ll be found strangled like those other girls.
A grim sense of purpose conveyed Lindsey through the puddles in the garden and to a nondescript door, clearly the servants’ entrance. She rapped hard on the wooden panel, and a moment later the door was opened by a plump older woman in a black dress and white apron. The ring of keys at her waist marked her status as the housekeeper.
The woman critically looked Lindsey up and down, nodded briskly, then motioned her inside the house. “Come in, come in. Ye look a bit skinny, but praise God, ye’re ’ere at last. The place ’as been sorely neglected this past week.”
Startled by the hospitable reception, Lindsey stepped into a narrow corridor. Obviously, the housekeeper was expecting someone else. “I think—”
“I’m Mrs. Yardley and ye’re the girl from the agency. Come along downstairs, ye’ll tell us yer name and meet the staff. No sense in wastin’ time chatterin’ since there’s much work t’ be done.”
The housekeeper pushed open a door and headed down a steep staircase that had a sharp turn. Lindsey had no choice but to follow, ducking her head to avoid the low ceiling. Disregarding her own advice, Mrs. Yardley continued to gabble as she descended the steps, and Lindsey could only catch a word or two out of every three.
“Ye’ll share wid . . . upstairs . . .’alf day off . . . third Monday . . . watch ’Is Lordship . . . mind ye . . . no flirtin’ . . .”
They emerged into a long passageway with open doorways leading to various workrooms. Scurrying to keep up with Mrs. Yardley’s vigorous strides, Lindsey glanced into the rooms as they passed, seeing a maid ironing diligently in one, a footman polishing silver in another.
The housekeeper sailed through a doorway and Lindsey found herself in a cozy kitchen with copper pots hanging from a rack and window slits set high in the stone walls. A coal fire burned merrily in the large stone hearth.
“Wait ’ere,” Mrs. Yardley instructed, then vanished into an adjoining room.
A stout cook stood at the stove, stirring a pot, talking over her shoulder to a tiny young maid who sat at a long wooden table, paring potatoes and then tossing them into a basket. Both turned to stare, and Lindsey found herself subjected to another uncomfortably close scrutiny. Perhaps they thought it odd that she hadn’t lowered the voluminous hood of her cloak now that she was out of the rain.
Mrs. Yardley bustled back into the kitchen, carrying a pile of clothing, which she handed to Lindsey. “ ’Ere’s yer gown. ’Is Lordship ain’t one to complain, not like some o’ the Quality, but ye best keep yer apron spit-spot clean. We’ve standards in this ’ouse, we do.”
Lindsey automatically held out her arms for the heap of folded garments. It dawned on her that the housekeeper assumed her to be a newly hired housemaid sent by an agency.
Nelda’s replacement.
“This ’ere’s Cook, and Essie, our scullery girl,” Mrs. Yardley said. “An’ ye’re . . .” She looked expectantly at Lindsey.
“Sally.” Lindsey blurted out the first name that came to her mind. “Sally Simmons.”
Feverish thoughts raced through her head. Should she correct the housekeeper’s mistake? Her original plan had been to pose as a relative looking for Nelda, in the hopes of eliciting information about the girl’s disappearance.
But now Providence had dropped a golden opportunity into Lindsey’s lap. In the maid’s garb, she would have unbridled access to the upstairs rooms. With any luck, there would be a chance to rummage through Mansfield’s desk for the IOU that would implicate Wrayford as a gambler. In the process, she might just stumble across a clue that would shed light on whether or not Mansfield was the Serpentine Strangler.
Her heart pounded. Did she really dare do this?
Yes, but she could only spare an hour or two. Any longer and Mama would notice her absence at breakfast. After conducting a swift search here, Lindsey would have to contrive an excuse to quit her
post.
And during her brief employment, she’d have to be extremely careful not to run into the earl. It was a daunting prospect, for he was certain to recognize her on sight. He was too observant a man for her to hope she’d fade into the background like other servants.
Yet how much danger was there, really? By the time he roused himself from his bed, she would be long gone.
Thane stood lathering his face by the washbasin in his dressing room. He rinsed off his hands and dried them on a linen towel. Then he picked up the long razor, tilted his head to study himself in the mirror, and carefully shaved his jaw.
The glass reflected the image of his manservant moving behind him, laying out various articles of clothing. Thane squinted at him and frowned.
“Not that blue coat,” he barked. “It’s much too fine. Something old and tattered. I must be incognito today.”
Bernard snorted. “You own nothing old and tattered, my lord. If you did, what would that say about my competence as a valet?”
“Then choose one that’s dark and nondescript. And procure some older garments today for my future use.”
“Hmph. I was planning to visit your tailor to order some linen shirts. I’ll seek out the ragman instead.”
Bernard’s sarcasm made Thane grimace. He could hardly chastise the man for insubordination when he owed Bernard for saving his life on the battlefield. Some debts could never be repaid.
In brooding silence, he concentrated on shaving another swath beneath his cheekbone. It wasn’t anyone’s fault but his own that he was in a foul temper this morning. He hadn’t slept well. And not because he was worried about his task this morning of tracking down a potential witness to one of the murders in the stews of Seven Dials.
Rather, Miss Lindsey Crompton was the source of his ill humor. He had spent the night tossing and turning, continually waking up to find himself as hard as an adolescent boy having his first dream of a girl.
What a fool he’d been to lower his guard and succumb to the temptation to kiss her. He should have known it would be a mistake. But there was something about the little virago that stripped away all his common sense. She had been so fierce in her defense of Jocelyn, and so self-righteous in her criticism of his dalliance with Lady Entwhistle.
Since Lindsey could have no knowledge of his true purpose, he had leaped to the conclusion that she was jealous, that she wanted him for herself. The notion had spurred him to act on primitive instinct. For a few reckless moments, he’d lost his head and indulged his base nature. Her passionate response had pushed him to the brink of madness. Had no one come along, he might have laid her down right there on the stone bench and thoroughly compromised her.
Afterward, a shaft of moonlight had illuminated her face. He would never forget her dreamy expression, nor the hurt that had replaced it a moment later when he’d been so unspeakably cruel to her.
He had lied to her about Lady Entwhistle joining him out in the garden. He’d done so deliberately. Because it was the only way to put a damper on things that could never be.
He couldn’t afford to lead Lindsey—or himself—astray. He needed to keep his mind focused on finding the Serpentine Strangler. The clock was ticking, a murderer was on the loose, and she was a prime distraction. If he continued to waste so much time obsessing over how she’d melted in his arms—
“Ouch, damn it!” A spot of red appeared on his cheek where he’d cut himself. He grabbed the towel and blotted the stinging wound. “Bring me a plaster, will you?”
Bernard produced the sticking plaster much too quickly. Which meant he must have anticipated the inevitability of its need. Scowling, Thane rinsed his face and patted it dry before leaning close to the mirror to dab on the white paste.
Holding out a pair of black breeches, Bernard observed, “If you’d permit me to shave you, in accordance with the tasks of a gentleman’s valet, you would not have suffered injury.”
“When I’m wizened enough to require a cane, I’ll consider it.” Thane stepped into the breeches and buttoned the placket. “Now, have you learned anything about the cravat I gave you?”
“No one recognized it, as you already know. But I intend to question the seamstresses used by the various tailors in town. One of them might recognize the stitching on the hem.”
Thane looked at him in surprise. “The stitching? White thread is all the same, is it not?”
“The differences can be subtle. A millimeter more or less between stitches may possibly lead to identifying the person who did the sewing.”
Pleased, Thane clapped him on the back. “Excellent. If you can come up with something tangible, it may prevent another murder.”
“Not like that,” Mrs. Yardley chided. “Up an’ down, girl, up an’ down.”
Lindsey was on her hands and knees in the library. The fine Axminster rug had been rolled back and she was scrubbing the wood floor with a bucket of water, into which a dribble of powdered soda had been dissolved. What did the woman mean, “up and down”?
Wishing she’d paid more attention to the maids in her own house, she glanced up quizzically at the housekeeper who towered over her. “Mum?”
Mrs. Yardley uttered a huff and used her hands to demonstrate a smooth, straight-line motion. “Ye allus follow the direction o’ the boards, not rub every which way like a Bedlamite.”
“Oh . . . sorry.”
Under the housekeeper’s watchful eyes, Lindsey applied the brush diligently again according to instruction. Her back already ached. She had been at this and other tasks for what seemed like days, although the mantel clock had just now chimed eight. It seemed impossible that she’d walked in the door only an hour ago.
A strand of hair came loose from her mobcap, tickling her nose, and she blew it out of the way. If nothing else, she’d developed a new appreciation for servants.
“An’ dry it straightaway, lest the boards warp. There, that’s the way; go wid the grain. I declare, ye’ve ’ad no trainin’ t’ speak of. An’ look at those soft ’ands, not a callus on ’em. I’ll ’ave a word wid that agency, I will, fer sendin’ us such a green girl.”
Gritting her teeth, Lindsey polished the clean section of floor with a linen towel. It was ever so tantalizing being here in Mansfield’s library, seeing the oak writing desk against the far wall, knowing the IOU might be hidden inside it. Being observed at her work had put a twist in her scheme. But she might as well play the scene to her advantage.
“Beggin’ pardon, mum,” she said, affecting a low-class accent. “Can ye tell me wot ’appened to the last girl?”
“I see ye’re a gossip. Ye’d best apply yerself t’ yer work.”
Contrary to her earlier affability, Mrs. Yardley had become a hard taskmistress. She bustled around the room with a cloth in hand, dusting delicate vases and artifacts that she clearly didn’t trust to the hands of the new maid.
Lindsey hoped to appeal to the woman’s talkative nature. “But . . . was she let go?” she ventured. “I surely don’t want t’ make the same mistake.”
“Hmph. Then don’t be flirtin’ an’ carryin’ on with flashy gents. That Nelda! Always ’ad a eye above ’er station, she did.”
“Was she meetin’ someone of the gentry, mum?”
“Now don’t be puttin’ words in me mouth.” The housekeeper took down an enameled box and shined it with her rag. “Nelda liked a fellow wid a little polish t’ ’is manners, is all.”
Lindsey sat back on her heels to look at the housekeeper. “Ye . . . ye don’t think . . . she could’ve been caught by the Strangler, do ye?”
Mrs. Yardley chuckled and shook her head. “I never said any such nonsense. She run off wid a fellow, she did. An’ good riddance t’ bad rubbish.”
“But . . . who was he? Where did she go?”
Mrs. Yardley gave her a sharp look. “Ye’re a chatterbox, ain’t ye? If ye wants t’ stay on, do yer work an’ mind yer own business. Now, finish up that floor whilst I run down t’ check on ’Is Lordship’s
breakfast. The master be up early today, and I want the place done spit-spot before he comes downstairs.”
Lindsey froze at her scrubbing. Her eyes widened on the puddle of water beneath her brush. Dear God, Mansfield was awake?
The housekeeper bustled out of the library, the ring of keys jingling at her waist. Scrambling to her feet, Lindsey wiped her damp hands on her apron. She listened with her head cocked to the side until the brisk footsteps died away. To be certain she was alone, she ventured to the door and risked a peek out to check.
The ornate corridor was empty in both directions.
Lindsey eased the door partially shut, then turned to scan the room. Several comfortable chairs were scattered here and there, along with a table holding a globe of the world and an open dictionary on a wooden stand. Under less dire circumstances, she would have been interested in perusing the shelves filled with leather-bound volumes. Did Mansfield own any adventure novels, like the ones she enjoyed reading?
She doubted it. He was a cad who wiled away the hours by gambling and seducing women. He’d probably inherited this library rather than assembled the collection of books himself.
So why was he awake at so early an hour? Did he have an appointment to keep?
The answer didn’t matter. She had a limited amount of time and needed to make the best of it.
Hastening toward the desk in the corner, she bypassed the bucket and brush, taking care not to slip on the wet floorboards. The borrowed shoes clumped and squeaked, and she had the irrational fear that the sound carried out into the corridor and up the stairs, alerting Mansfield to her presence. The thought of encountering him made her want to flee out the door at once.
Nonsense. She was here in his lair and there would never be a better opportunity to do her sleuthing. She wouldn’t turn coward now.
Lindsey sat down on the chair in front of the kneehole desk, glanced over her shoulder, and then reached for the top drawer. Locked! She tugged in frustration on each of the three drawers and encountered the same result.