Never Trust a Rogue

by Olivia Drake

  “If they don’t,” he teased, “I’ll kidnap them in the dead of night. I’ll bring them to you and stand guard at the door so they can’t escape.”

  Jocelyn’s green eyes widened. “Truly?”

  She looked as if she didn’t quite know whether or not to take him seriously. Sometimes he forgot how young and easily influenced his ward could be.

  He tweaked her pale cheek. “No, of course not, silly. But I can certainly deliver your invitation to them to visit.”

  Just then, the coachman turned the landau onto Bruton Street. Looking ahead, Thane forgot all else as he spied the familiar yellow phaeton far down the street, parked in front of Wrayford’s town house.

  Alarm choked Thane. Bloody hell! He should have thought of coming here first. A man as evil as the Serpentine Strangler would suffer no qualms over taking an innocent young lady to his home in the middle of the day.

  His mind worked feverishly. Lindsey knew better than to go unchaperoned to a gentleman’s house. How had Wrayford managed to bamboozle her? Whatever it was, he must have thrown all caution to the wind. At this very moment, he might be choking her to death with his cravat as he’d done to those other women. . . .

  Thane had one hand on the door of the landau. He was half out of his seat, ready to dash to her rescue, when he spied the object of his thoughts. Lindsey Crompton emerged from Wrayford’s house and hurried forward to unloop the reins of the phaeton. Oblivious to the approach of the landau, she clambered up onto the high seat and drove away from them.

  Alone.

  Luckily, Jocelyn didn’t appear to notice. She’d bent her head down over her sketch pad, her pencil moving in swift strokes as she drew an old gentleman walking briskly along the foot pavement.

  Thane was at a loss for what to make of Lindsey’s actions. He was thankful she appeared unharmed, surprised that she could handle such a fancy rig, and astonished to realize she must be stealing it from Wrayford. What had happened to make her behave so outrageously? Even more puzzling, she was heading east, away from her home.

  Where the devil was she going?

  He briefly considered stopping at Wrayford’s house to demand answers from the villain. But first things first.

  Thane leaned forward to address the coachman: “Follow that yellow phaeton. And if you value your position, do not let it out of your sight.”

  Upon reaching her destination, Lindsey handed a coin from her reticule to a scruffy young urchin on the street. She promised him another if the carriage was still there when she came out. Thieves and pickpockets abounded in the area of Covent Garden. But if she lost courage now, there might never be another opportunity.

  Taking a deep breath, Lindsey walked into the stately stone building. She found herself in a large room with long wooden benches and groups of milling people who were waiting to see one of the magistrates. Various officials in white wigs scurried to and fro, and for a moment she stood there, drinking in the hectic scene.

  This was Bow Street Station, home to the famous Runners. Lindsey had been fascinated by those valiant detectives ever since the age of fourteen, when she’d happened upon a tattered English book at a stall in the bazaar in Bombay. It had been a lurid adventure story in which a Runner had played a role as the crime-solving hero. The novel had been confiscated by her mother, who’d declared such reading beneath contempt for a lady. But Lindsey had never lost her secret desire to emulate the Runners, no matter how imprudent or impossible that goal might be.

  Upon her arrival in London two years ago, she’d made a point to find out the location of Bow Street Station. Once, she had even glimpsed its imposing edifice on her way to Drury Lane Theatre. But this was the first time she’d dared to venture inside. Mama would have her head on a platter if she knew Lindsey had come here.

  And no wonder. All manner of criminals were brought here to stand before one of the magistrates in the courtrooms. There were also witnesses to crimes and people who’d come to visit their loved ones being held for arraignment.

  Several occupants of the waiting room had turned to gawk at her. Their expressions ranged from curious, to envious, to downright hostile. She spied a bearded man with a patch over one eye and blackened teeth, a harried woman with a swaddled baby on one hip and a toddler clinging to her ragged skirts, and a skinny hunchback with a porkpie hat and a sinister glare.

  Lindsey hadn’t felt at all troubled as an Englishwoman strolling down a street thronging with dark-skinned Hindus. Yet in this place she found herself discomfited by the scrutiny of her fellow Londoners. She imagined seeing herself through their eyes: a fine lady in a costly blue gown and copper-hued pelisse, her fashionable straw bonnet decorated by an elegant peacock feather. Given time to plan ahead, she would have donned a cheap disguise. But this rare chance had presented itself and she wouldn’t turn back now.

  Lifting her chin, she headed toward the clerk’s desk at the side of the chamber. Her heart was thudding, her palms damp within her gloves. Never in her life had she done anything so outrageous. If her parents found out, at best she’d be locked in her bedchamber for the next year. At worst, she’d be married off to the highest bidder—likely Lord Wrayford, who offered a duchess’s tiara.

  Had he recovered from her attack yet? Would he go straight to her house and tattle to Mama? Would he reveal that Lindsey had the audacity to steal his carriage and go off on her own?

  The thought made her anxious. It was imperative that she finish her business here and be gone before anyone found out what she’d done.

  A burly, balding man in a dark coat sat on a stool at a tall desk. His weathered features bespoke a world-weary outlook on life.

  “Good afternoon, sir. I’d like to speak to Mr. Cyrus Bott.” It was the name Mrs. Beardsley had mentioned, the Runner who had questioned Mrs. Beardsley’s servants after her maid had been murdered by the Serpentine Strangler.

  The man didn’t bat an eye; he just came out from behind the desk. “Aye, miss. Follow me, then.”

  Relieved to escape the gawkers, she scurried to keep up with him. They proceeded down one barren corridor, then another, their footsteps echoing. At the end, he jerked his thumb toward a narrow stairway. “Top floor, second door on yer left.”

  He turned on his heel and trudged back toward his post.

  Lindsey looked up uncertainly at the towering stairwell. Could she really do this? She must. It was now or never.

  She mounted three flights of stairs and found herself in a cramped attic corridor. Light filtered through a small window at the far end. The floorboards creaked underfoot as she walked down the passageway. Locating the room, she took a deep breath for courage and then knocked on the half-closed door.

  A quick tapping of footsteps sounded inside, then the panel swung open to reveal a dapper young man with neatly combed dark hair. He wore a tailored brown coat, white linens, and tan breeches.

  Surprise flitted over his face before he inclined his head in a respectful bow. “Have you taken a wrong turn, my lady? May I escort you to the proper office?”

  “I was directed here by the clerk downstairs.” His genteel appearance wasn’t what she’d expected of a Bow Street Runner. The faint aroma of sandalwood emanated from him. “Are you Mr. Cyrus Bott?”

  “I am indeed. And you are . . . ?”

  She had no intention of telling him her real name. “You may call me”—she glanced at the color of his coat—“Miss Brown. I’m told you’re investigating the case of the Serpentine Strangler.”

  His limpid blue eyes widened slightly. “Indeed so. Although I cannot imagine what a fine lady as yourself would know of such a sordid matter.”

  “I . . .” Lindsey paused. Could she really say what needed to be said? She was taking an enormous step from which there would be no turning back. But she had to speak out; lives were depending on her. “I may know some information vital to solving the case,” she stated. “You see, I’ve a strong suspicion as to the identity of the Serpentine Strangler.”

&n
bsp; “Stop right here,” Thane ordered.

  The coachman obligingly drew the landau to a halt half a block away from the yellow phaeton. Flummoxed, Thane watched Lindsey bend down to speak to a street urchin and then vanish into Bow Street Station.

  Of all the destinations she could have been heading, this was the very last place he would have expected her to visit. Refined ladies did not set foot among the common riffraff. Her behavior was so wildly out of the norm that he needed a moment to ponder.

  Wrayford must have attacked her. She must have come straight here in order to report him to the authorities. That was the only explanation that made any sense—indeed the only explanation he could fathom at all.

  But why had she not gone home, as most young ladies in such a dire situation would have done? Was she afraid her mother wouldn’t believe her? Perhaps. Yet Lindsey had to know that the chief magistrate would immediately contact her parents. So there was nothing to be gained by putting her reputation further at risk in coming here.

  For that matter, how the devil had she known where Bow Street Station was located?

  “Where are we?” Jocelyn asked. “Why have we stopped here?”

  He glanced distractedly at her, his gaze flicking at the sketchbook in her lap. “To give you a moment to draw without the carriage rattling.”

  Jocelyn tapped the tip of her pencil against her chin. “Hmm. Is that the entire reason? I do believe we have been following Lindsey all this time.”

  The alertness in her eyes handed him a fresh complication. He could see that fobbing her off with a fib wouldn’t work. “That’s very observant of you.”

  “I often notice things that other people miss,” she said airily. “All artists do. It’s bred into my nature to see details.”

  How adorably sweet Jocelyn could be. A flash of fondness swept away his concern—but only for a moment. “I’m afraid Miss Crompton may be in a spot of trouble. I’d like to offer her my assistance. Will you stay here and draw for a few minutes? The coachman will protect you in my absence.”

  Lindsey took the only chair in the tiny office. Although the place was meticulously neat, the windowless room had to be smaller than one of the linen closets in her house. The sole contents of the office included a shelf of books and a writing desk barely large enough to hold paper, pens, and inkpot.

  Cyrus Bott remained standing, his hands clasped behind his back. His deferential bearing posed no threat, yet she felt a trifle awkward having to look up at him. The close quarters added to her underlying sense of anxiety.

  Or perhaps it was just the suspicions weighing on her mind that made her ill at ease. Had she been right to come here? What if there was a rational explanation for Mansfield’s suspicious behavior?

  “You have information about the Strangler,” the Runner prompted.

  “Yes. I believe I do.” Lindsey knew she had to speak out if lives were to be saved. Yet the words lodged in her throat. “I beg your pardon. This is difficult for me.”

  “Do take your time, Miss Brown. It cannot be a simple task for a fine lady such as yourself to venture into a place as sordid as this. If I can help alleviate your fears in any way, pray let me know.”

  His kindness was an unexpected blessing. She had imagined the Bow Street Runners to be a bold and dangerous lot, brawny men who were rough around the edges, since they dealt with criminals who roamed the dark stews of the London underworld. But if she’d passed Cyrus Bott on the street, she would have mistaken him for an ordinary gentleman. There had to be reassurance in that thought.

  Lindsey moistened her lips. “There is a certain gentleman, a suitor of mine, who has been embroiled recently in suspicious behaviors. The first time we met, he was in the company of a maidservant named Tilly who has now vanished.”

  “Vanished?” He gave a start of surprise. “Where was she employed?”

  “At Lord Wrayford’s house on Bruton Street. I must add that the gentleman to whom I refer also employed a maid named Nelda who disappeared a fortnight ago. No one in his household seems to know what happened to the girl. And . . . and this gentleman departed on an overnight trip at the same time she went missing.”

  “I see.” Hands behind his back, Bott paced slowly back and forth in the narrow space. “As I’m sure you’re aware, servants do come and go for various reasons. They usually move on to other posts. Unless there is direct evidence connecting this man to one of the murders, I cannot attribute these events to anything but coincidence.”

  Lindsey didn’t dare reveal that she knew from personal experience Mansfield was also an accomplished seducer. “I also took the liberty of searching his desk one day. In it he had a news clipping about the murders.”

  “Hmm. A bit unusual, but there could be an explanation. Perhaps he harbors an interest in crime stories. People are often fascinated by lurid events.”

  “Let me add, he’s acquainted with Lady Entwhistle, who employed the first murdered maidservant. I’ve seen them together myself, at a society ball. They were very . . . close. That means he may well have been in Lady Entwhistle’s house and had contact with the victim.”

  Bott stopped, his eyes boring into her. “Indeed? If what you say is true, it will call for an investigation. You must give me a name. Who is this gentleman you suspect of being the Serpentine Strangler?”

  Lindsey swallowed. The whole point of her coming to Bow Street Station was to gain help from the Runners in uncovering the truth. To catch the killer before he struck again. So why was she hesitating? Why did she wish she’d never obeyed the impetuous notion to come here?

  More to the point, why did the memory of Mansfield’s kiss clutch at her heart?

  She mustn’t allow her private weakness for him to interfere with justice. It would be terribly wrong to withhold his identity when those two maidservants had disappeared into thin air. Dear God, how horrifying it would be if someone else died because of her dithering.

  “His name is—”

  The creak of a floorboard out in the corridor startled her. She jumped, half-turning on the chair toward the open doorway.

  Thane froze in place. Barely breathing, he pressed himself to the peeling green paint on the wall. Damn himself for creeping closer. He knew the old floorboards made noise, yet the tale Lindsey was relating had him disbelieving his own ears.

  Three quick steps sounded, then Bott poked his well-groomed head out of the office. He stared at Thane, one eyebrow arching.

  Thane pressed a forefinger to his lips.

  The Runner scowled slightly and gave an almost imperceptible nod of understanding. Then he vanished back into the office.

  “No one’s there, Miss Brown. This is merely an old building, and I often hear such sounds. Now, do tell me the name.”

  There was a short silence before Lindsey spoke. “Yes, well . . . his name is . . .”

  Thane cocked his head to hear better.

  “Lord Mansfield.”

  It took a moment for her declaration to register. Then Thane clenched his teeth to hold back a huff of incredulity. He wanted to hoot with laughter. What the devil—? Was she accusing him of being Serpentine Strangler as some sort of twisted revenge for that hot kiss they’d shared?

  Or did she truly believe it?

  She must, for she’d attributed the disappearance of Tilly and Nelda to him—and rightfully so, although she’d leaped to the wrong conclusion for his actions. She’d also placed a wildly mistaken meaning on his flirtation with Lady Entwhistle.

  Of course, Lindsey was unaware that he’d been investigating Wrayford’s connection to the merry widow. No one in society knew of Thane’s secret business in assisting the Runners.

  He wanted to march into the office and give her a hard shake to restore the common sense she’d clearly lost. It infuriated him that she actually believed him capable of committing those vile murders.

  At least now her past actions made sense. No wonder she had been trying to invade his house. She hadn’t been looking for the IOU bu
t for evidence to implicate him.

  Yet when he had kissed her she had melted in his arms. His seduction skills had overcome even her suspicions—if only for a few wildly enjoyable moments. If the circumstances weren’t so dire, he might find her misconceptions somewhat amusing.

  Inside the office, they were concluding their meeting.

  “I warn you,” Bott was saying, “I must have irrefutable evidence of his culpability. One cannot arrest a member of the Quality on the basis of mere anecdotal evidence.”

  “Oh, certainly! That’s why I asked you to look into Nelda’s disappearance, as well as Tilly’s. Oh . . . and please do promise me you won’t tell Lord Mansfield where you heard about this.”

  “I won’t, Miss Brown. Your secret is safe with me.”

  Miss Brown. The little minx at least had had the sense to use a pseudonym. If anyone discovered she’d come alone to Bow Street, driving a stolen phaeton and associating with Runners, her reputation would be in tatters. In spite of his anger, he had to acknowledge Lindsey’s fearless, intrepid spirit.

  “Thank you,” she told Bott. “And I’ll be sure to send word to you of any further evidence I can gather on my own.”

  Her words jabbed into Thane, causing him to stand up straight. Like hell she would investigate the murders!

  “That won’t be necessary,” Bott said, his voice taking on a pompous tone. “No fine lady should dirty herself with common police work. Such affairs are best left to the proper authorities.”

  The chair legs scraped slightly as she rose to her feet. “We’ll see,” she murmured.

  Scowling, Thane retreated to the staircase. He had to get out of here before she caught him eavesdropping. But as God was his witness, he’d make certain Lindsey Crompton kept her nose out of the dangerous matter of the Serpentine Strangler.

  Chapter 16

  “M-Miss Crompton, w-will you honor m-me with this d-dance?”

  Lindsey had just escaped a dull conversation with a stuffy middle-aged baron when she found herself facing Mr. Sykes.