by Olivia Drake
Enthroned on a blue chair, the Duchess of Milbourne wrapped her gnarled fingers around an ivory-topped cane. She looked up her long nose at the earl. “Ah, Mansfield. How is Hugo these days? Have you been to Oxfordshire yet to visit him?”
Mansfield bowed over her hand. “Indeed I have. My uncle is as cantankerous as ever.”
“His rheumatism, no doubt. You should encourage him to take the mineral waters at Bath.” Her sharp blue eyes pierced Lindsey. “As for you, Miss Crompton, I’m surprised at Edith’s lenience. In my day we never allowed young bucks to escort unmarried ladies on their calls.”
Lindsey dipped the obligatory curtsy. “I’m sure you’re right, Your Grace. But I trust it will be acceptable since our families have become such fast friends.”
“Hmm.” She glared from Lindsey to Mansfield and back again. “Nevertheless, I would have expected Wrayford to accompany you.”
“I outfoxed the poor fellow by arriving earlier than him,” Mansfield said. “As the Bard once wrote, all’s fair in love and war.”
Love? Lindsey gritted her teeth. Blast him for pretending to be the smitten swain. He was merely using her to provide himself with a semblance of respectability.
In the midst of her incendiary thoughts, he steered her to a chaise, applying subtle pressure to her arm and compelling her to take a place right beside him. She perched rigidly on the edge of the cushion, her hands folded in her lap, a polite smile fixed on her lips. So much for sitting in a chair across the room in the hopes of fostering the illusion that they were not a couple.
The three ladies watched avidly. The duchess was the one who had relayed the gossip to Lindsey’s mother about Lindsey venturing into the garden with him a few nights ago. But had anyone see him kissing her? She certainly hoped not.
“I never go out without my mother,” said Miss Frances Beardsley. She leaned toward Mansfield, her face framed by a halo of blond curls and the gauzy pink dress clinging to her bosom. “That way, there is never the slightest hint of impropriety.”
Mrs. Beardsley gave her daughter a doting smile. “You are indeed the essence of modesty, my dear. Of course, you have had the benefit of the very best English upbringing.”
Frances batted her pale lashes at Mansfield. “For a lady, there is no substitute for proper instruction in the womanly arts.”
Lindsey refrained from rolling her eyes. She couldn’t help wondering if what her sister Blythe had heard was true, that Frances had been caught kissing one of the footmen. Not that Lindsey would ever lower herself to their level of malicious gossip. The Beardsleys never missed a chance to make snide remarks about the Crompton girls’ having grown up in India. Frances Beardsley had played the very same tricks on Lindsey’s sister Portia.
“How very fortunate you are,” Lindsey said with a hint of sarcasm that she knew would fly right over the girl’s head. “While you were studying with dancing and pianoforte masters, I was learning to track a tiger through the jungle and to ride on the back of an elephant.”
“Indeed!” exclaimed the Duchess of Milbourne. “It is hard to believe Edith would permit such abominations.”
Mrs. Beardsley gasped. “How very primitive. Why, I don’t know how she bore such a life for so many years.”
“With great enthusiasm, one would hope,” Mansfield said. “There’s a fascinating world out there. It would benefit all young ladies to have firsthand knowledge of it. I’m sure Miss Crompton could tell us many interesting tales about her life in India.”
He turned to study her, a half smile crooking his mouth. All three ladies leaned forward in disgusted expectation.
Lindsey found herself caught in a quandary. She could regale them for hours with stories about watching the monkeys playing in the banyan trees near her house, baking in the heat of a sun so bright it hurt the eyes, or spying on the wizened holy men who performed strange rituals before statues of Hindu gods and goddesses. Sometimes that life seemed like a magical dream to her, as if it had happened to someone else.
But she hadn’t come here to talk about herself.
“Perhaps another time,” she said. “Mrs. Beardsley, I hope you’ll forgive my forwardness, but I came to offer you my condolences. It must have been a terrible shock to learn about the tragedy that befell your maidservant.”
The atmosphere in the drawing room altered abruptly, as if a chill wind had leached every vestige of warmth from the air.
Frances uttered a squeak of dismay. Leaning close to her mother, she said in a loud whisper, “I told you, Mama, everyone will be visiting today, wanting to talk about that horrid event. I don’t know if I can bear it.”
“Shh, darling,” her mother said, reaching over to pat the girl’s hand. “It is dreadful, to be sure, but we must face the tittle-tattle with our heads held high. It is hardly our fault that that one of the staff was foolish enough to be nabbed by the Strangler.”
The duchess thumped the tip of her cane on the floor. “The chit ought never have been sneaking out at night to meet her beau. If she came to a bad end, she has only herself to blame.”
During the exchange, Lindsey had been keeping a surreptitious eye on Mansfield, hoping to spot some indication of his culpability. But his face revealed only thoughtful interest in the flow of conversation.
His gaze on their hostess, he said, “Are you quite certain she was going out to meet a man? Did she say so?”
“Say so, my lord?” Mrs. Beardsley repeated, fanning her plump face with a lacy handkerchief. “Why, how would I know? I would hardly engage in chitchat with a servant.”
“Clara brought me my hot chocolate every morning,” Frances piped up. “But she never spoke except to apologize once for forgetting my extra pot of cream.”
He cocked an eyebrow. “Perhaps she confided in one of the other servants. Did she have any particular friends on the staff?”
Why was the earl pursuing the topic? Lindsey wondered. Was it idle curiosity . . . or did he want to ascertain if anyone knew he himself had romanced the maidservant in secret and lured her to her death?
“That vile Bow Street Runner might know,” Mrs. Beardsely said with a sniff. “He interviewed the staff for hours. Why, I needed a whiff of hartshorn afterward, to recover from my distress.”
“A Runner?” Lindsey’s ears perked up. Ever since arriving in London, she had heard tales about the exploits of that famous band of detectives. They worked on cases assigned by the chief magistrate at Bow Street. She felt a keen stab of envy at the thought of having the freedom to solve crimes. What a curse it was to be born female! “Who was he, if I might ask?”
“I believe his name was Cyrus Bott.” Mrs. Beardsley spat out the name like a curse. “A low sort, with the pretensions of a gentleman. He dared to infer that I permit my staff to leave this house at will.”
The duchess snorted. “Commoners! They’ve no inkling of how to comport themselves around their betters.”
Cyrus Bott. Lindsey committed the name to memory. Somehow, she had to figure out an excuse to talk to him, to learn what he knew about the Serpentine Strangler. The trouble was, Mama would be livid if Lindsey lowered herself to speak to Bott. She was likely to find herself locked in her chamber, as Mama and Papa had once done to Portia, after she had gone off with the wicked and handsome Lord Ratcliffe.
“And what is worse,” Mrs. Beardsley went on, “a nasty reporter came nosing around the kitchen yesterday. If not for his poking and prying, we might have been spared that dreadful notice in the newspaper. He harangued my servants with questions. He even had the temerity to follow one of the maids above stairs, to the corridor outside this very room.”
“Good heavens!” exclaimed the duchess, her narrow face flushed with outrage as she clutched her cane. “Ever since the revolt in France, the riffraff have become entirely too bold. I hope you had one of the footmen throw him out on his ear.”
“Luckily, Lord Wrayford had come to call,” Frances said, with a sly glance at Lindsey. “He chased the man out of the
house. It was truly quite heroic of him.”
Clearly, she hoped Lindsey would be distraught at the news of Wrayford’s visit. Mama had dropped plenty of hints among her friends that she was set on Lindsey making a match with him.
But Lindsey was only half-listening.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw that Mansfield had straightened up. An aura of alertness radiated from him, and his eyes were intent on Frances.
“Wrayford was here?” he asked. “Tell me, does he often—”
Whatever the earl had been about to ask was cut off as a footman entered the drawing room to announce the arrival of another visitor. White-haired Lady Grantham, another of Mama’s acquaintances, hobbled into the chamber, and Mrs. Beardsley rose to greet her.
Lindsey found herself intrigued by the muscle that tightened in Mansfield’s jaw. Why did he look inordinately perturbed by the interruption? What was so important about his aborted question? Did he merely see Wrayford as a rival for her affections?
Or was it something more?
Chapter 11
“You received another bouquet from Mr. Sykes this morning,” Blythe announced the moment Lindsey walked into the breakfast room the next day. Her sister was sitting with their father, who was absorbed in his newspaper. “I’m afraid it’s daisies again.”
“Mmm.” Lindsey headed to the sideboard to add toast and sausage to her plate. She had no interest in the stuttering young man whom she’d briefly seen at a party the previous night. Her thoughts, as always, were on Mansfield. He had not attended, much to her frustration. Where had he spent the evening?
“I wouldn’t care for a man who only sent me daisies,” Blythe said, taking a dainty sip of tea. “I would vastly prefer roses or lilies . . . or, better yet, jewelry. Diamonds, to be specific.”
“Don’t be absurd. A young lady cannot accept jewelry from a suitor.” Lindsey brought her plate to the table. “By the by, where is Mama today?”
“I hope she’s getting dressed, since we have a big day planned.”
Their father looked up from his newspaper. A pair of spectacles perched on the end of his nose, he gave Blythe an absentminded smile. “Actually, I’m afraid she awakened with a megrim. She’ll be remaining abed this morning.”
Blythe let her fork clatter to her plate. “Papa! I’ve been sitting here for ten minutes already and you never even told me that.”
“You didn’t ask.”
“But what about the shopping trip? Mama promised to take Linds and me to Regent Street this morning.”
“It shall have to be postponed. You’re not to disturb your mother until the afternoon.”
“But—”
“No complaining, child,” George Crompton said, drilling her with a glare that hinted at his success in the business world. “You should show a bit more sympathy for your mother’s plight. Be a good girl now and let me finish my reading before I have to leave for the docks.”
Rattling the newspaper, he nodded to a footman to refill his cup of coffee.
Blythe pursed her lips and lapsed into pouting silence. She picked up her fork and trailed the tines through the remains of egg yolk on her plate. Since she wasn’t yet allowed to wear her hair up, she had tied back her auburn curls with a vivid ribbon that matched her best blue gown.
Lindsey felt a flash of sympathy as she took the seat opposite her sister. Poor Blythe. She was usually the last one to come down to breakfast—except on shopping days. How she must have been looking forward to escaping the stern tutelage of Miss Underhill for a few hours.
Lindsey, on the other hand, regarded the cancellation as an unforeseen blessing.
Spreading plum jam on her toast, she contemplated the prospect of a free morning, unencumbered by obligation. There were so many actions to be done in regard to solving the murders, she hardly knew where to begin. Surreptitiously she peered at her father’s newspaper to see if there was any new information about the crimes. But the headlines on the front page dealt with a problem at the Bank of England, a rash of burglaries in Covent Garden, and a trade agreement with Italy.
Lindsey needed to learn more information about the victims of the Serpentine Strangler, to see if there might have been a connection among them. Having discovered what little she could from the Beardsleys, she hoped to sleuth in the fine houses where the other two murdered maidservants had worked. With all the society obligations that usually filled her days, she might never have a better opportunity than right now.
But Blythe’s woebegone face brought on an attack of conscience. Lindsey understood exactly how it felt to be underage and confined to the schoolroom. Perhaps there was a way to accomplish more than one objective today.
She waited until her father set down the newspaper to slice the kippers on his plate. “Papa, might I be allowed to take Blythe out? Kasi could come along with us to chaperone.”
Blythe’s drooping posture perked up at the prospect. “Why, what a brilliant notion!”
George Crompton cast a distracted glance from one sister to the other. “Your mother makes these decisions. She’ll be better within a day or two.”
Clasping her folded hands to her bosom, Blythe gave him a soulful look. “Please, Papa. I never have a chance to go out. If I have to spend one more moment confined in this house, I vow I shall die.”
A wry twinkle entered his brown eyes, and his mouth eased into a smile. “Indeed? Well, then, to spare myself the expense of a funeral, I suppose I must concede. Now cease your chattering lest I, too, end up with a megrim.”
A mere half an hour later, a footman admitted Lindsey and Blythe to the sitting room at Jocelyn’s town house. A week had passed since Lindsey’s last visit and it was as if nothing had changed here. Fisk, the elderly companion, still sat snoozing in the chair by the fire. Her chin was propped on the brown fabric stretched over her ample bosom, and a white widow’s cap crowned her gray hair.
Jocelyn lay on a nearby chaise, a blanket draped over her legs. She was drawing in a sketch pad on her lap desk. If not for the fact that she wore a yellow gown today instead of green, Lindsey would have thought the girl hadn’t stirred an inch.
A glow of delight lit Jocelyn’s elfin face as she set aside her artwork. “Lindsey! I was afraid you’d never come back!”
At the sound of her voice, Fisk gave a loud snore and came awake with a start. She blinked her bovine eyes in bewilderment. “Aye, miss. Wot is it?”
“I’ve visitors,” Jocelyn said with a smile. “You may go on down to the kitchen until I ring for you.”
Fisk obediently pushed up from the chair and lumbered off, bobbing a curtsy to Lindsey and Blythe on her way out. The servant gazed askance at Kasi, her round form swathed in a rich purple sari, who already had settled herself on a stool by the door.
The aging Hindu servant gave Fisk an unblinking stare that as children Lindsey and her sisters had dubbed the Evil Eye. Clearly alarmed, Fisk made a wide berth around her and vanished out into the corridor, the sound of her footsteps fading away. Lindsey considered chiding Kasi, but the old ayah was already irked at being coerced into keeping this visit a secret from Lindsey’s parents.
Turning her attention to Jocelyn, Lindsey said, “I’ve brought my sister Blythe this time. You’re almost the same age and I thought you might enjoy meeting each other. Blythe, this is Miss Jocelyn Nevingford.”
Blythe glided to the chaise to shake the girl’s hand. “Hullo. We decided to come and visit you instead of going to the shops.”
“Oh!” A look of sheer envy shone in Jocelyn’s green eyes. “Do you mean Bond Street? Or Regent Street—or both? I would love to go there if only I could. Please sit down right here and tell me, what is it like?”
“It’s wonderful. Did you know there is a shop entirely devoted to corsets? And another that deals only in fans?” Blythe plopped down on a stool beside the chaise and launched into a detailed description of the best milliners, shoemakers, and glove purveyors that were frequented by the upper crust.
Hiding a smile, Lindsey took the wing chair that Fisk had occupied. No one would guess she’d had the very devil of a time convincing Blythe to forgo the shopping expedition in favor of calling on an invalid. Blythe had had her heart set on finding a new straw bonnet to match one of her pelisses. Unlike Lindsey, who found the whole process tedious, her sister could spend hours examining bolts of fabric, selecting a fan, or poring over the latest issue of La Belle Assemblée to determine the most flattering style of gown.
Yet Blythe had been generous enough to postpone the trip. She now looked to be having great fun, chattering with Jocelyn as if they were fast friends.
“It’s truly dreadful about your accident,” Blythe was saying in her usual forthright manner, “but I don’t believe that being crippled should keep you from going to the shops.”
Jocelyn gave a wistful sigh. “But how would I ever manage? And I couldn’t bear to see people pointing at me and whispering.”
“Oh, pooh. They’ll do no such thing. And even if they did, well, Lord Mansfield is your guardian, is he not?”
“Yes, but—”
“Then he can carry you inside. There are always chairs and chaises to sit upon. The shopkeeper and her assistants can bring over items to show you. And should anyone dare to say an unkind word, the earl will set them straight. Don’t you agree, Linds?”
Both girls looked at her for guidance.
Lindsey hesitated. She didn’t want to raise Jocelyn’s hopes only to see them dashed. The truth was, she couldn’t guess how Mansfield would react to such a proposition. He remained an enigma to her, an amiable gentleman one moment and a brooding misogynist the next.
Was he the Serpentine Strangler? The only proof she had was circumstantial, mere conjecture. Somehow, she had to put her hands on some irrefutable bit of evidence to link him to the crimes. . . .
“I would hope so. However, his consent must be sought before any promises of outings are made.” Casually she added, “By the by, is he at home today?”