Never Trust a Rogue

by Olivia Drake

  Lindsey frowned thoughtfully, gazing up at him from beneath the brim of her bonnet. “All the more reason for you to mend fences with him. You really should join them for dinner tomorrow.”

  “What? Hell, no!” They had reached the entrance hall, and he stopped abruptly to confront her. “I’d rather be spitted on a French bayonet and roasted over a bonfire.”

  “Shh. Keep your voice down. I’m only saying that things may be different now that you’re an adult. Perhaps you should renew your acquaintance with your uncle, rather than let yourself be bound by the pain of the past.”

  Thane raked his fingers through his hair. She couldn’t possibly fathom the pointlessness of what she suggested because she knew nothing of his childhood. His uncle had no real interest in renewing their acquaintance. Discovering the family celebration in progress here had only served to prove that. Thane was the outsider, and by God, he wouldn’t behave like a little boy with his nose pressed to the sweetshop window. “I’ve told him no, and that’s that.”

  Lindsey regarded him with a mixture of sympathy and disappointment. “Well. Do as you please, then. And by the by, you are not to tell people that we are betrothed. I can’t imagine what induced you to utter such a brazen lie to your family.”

  On that abrupt statement, she wheeled around and marched toward the front door. He stood transfixed by the sight of her in high dudgeon, her hips swaying, her heels kicking up the hem of that slim blue skirt. A hot rush of desire poured through him, a salve to the corrosion of anger.

  To hell with quarreling. That wasn’t what he wanted to do with Lindsey Crompton.

  Thane caught up with her in two strides. Placing his hands on her shoulders, he swiveled her around to face him. Sunlight through the window shone on the rich chestnut curls beneath her broad-brimmed bonnet. His thumbs stroked the bare softness of her neck.

  “Our month will soon be up, that’s why,” he murmured. “It’s time for us to announce our engagement.”

  “And if I say no? Will you tell my father that I stole into your house, dressed as a maidservant?” Her eyes big and blue, she shook her head. “You might have fooled me a few weeks ago, but not anymore. You aren’t a tattler.”

  She was right; he’d never had any intention of following through on that threat. His resolve to court her had begun as a ploy to protect her from Wrayford. Now, however, his feelings for her had grown into something deeper and richer, something he preferred not to analyze.

  Especially when she looked so delectable.

  Bending down, he nuzzled the velvety softness of her cheek. She smelled tantalizing, like sun-warmed flowers. “You gave me your word. You said you would agree to the betrothal.”

  She sent him a coy look through the veil of her lashes. “I made that promise under duress. You offered me no choice in the matter.”

  “I’m giving you the choice right now, then.” His lips wandered over her face, while his hands slid downward to trace the womanly curves of her body. “We can be husband and wife . . . if you so desire.”

  Although she didn’t say yes, she rewarded him with a shiver and a sigh. Her hands had crept inside his coat to lie against his shirt. That one small action filled him with passion and he prepared to renew his assault with a kiss.

  But as he leaned closer, the casement clock in the nearby library bonged the hour. With a gasp, Lindsey drew back, looking charmingly flustered. “Is it one o’clock already? Lud, I really must be going.”

  Thane leashed his frustration. He’d already learned the folly of trying to impose his will on Lindsey. Besides, with visitors just down the corridor, this was hardly a suitable setting for romance.

  As she turned to the door, she paused to give him a guarded look over her shoulder. “That maid . . . the one who brought in the tea tray . . . she looked rather familiar. I wondered . . . is she the same one you were with at Wrayford’s ball?”

  Pleased by the question, he pretended to ponder. “Tilly? Now that you mention it, yes.”

  Lindsey’s gaze faltered as if she were having trouble meeting his eyes. “I don’t understand. I thought she was employed by Wrayford.”

  “She was, but something happened to her there and she was in rather desperate need of a new position.”

  “Desperate?”

  “You don’t want to know. It’s rather indelicate for a lady’s ears.”

  She swung to face him again. “I don’t care a fig for proprieties. Tell me.”

  “As you wish, then. I discovered that Wrayford had attempted to ravish Tilly against her will.”

  That was only half the story. Once he’d found out about Wrayford’s unrelenting lecherous pursuit of the maid, Thane had been afraid that she would become the Serpentine Strangler’s next victim. Her testimony had been a boon to his investigation, too. Tilly had provided him with valuable information about Wrayford’s habits, including his penchant for forcing young maidservants into his bed and his frequent inclusion of Lady Entwhistle in threesome romps.

  Lindsey appeared somewhat subdued, frowning at a point just over his shoulder, and he had the uncharitable hope that she was suffering from a well-deserved case of guilt.

  “I see,” she said. “That was very kind of you to help her.”

  “You sound surprised.” He gave her a stern stare. “When you saw her with me that night, did you perchance assume I was engaging in a tryst with her?”

  “Oh! Well . . . actually, I didn’t know what to think.”

  Thane played the gallant gentleman, reaching around her to open the door. But he couldn’t resist twisting the knife: “It’s good to know you didn’t believe the worst of me, darling. Because you see, I’d be quite miserable to find out otherwise.”

  Lindsey experienced another shock upon arriving home. In her bedchamber she found her maid, Flora, waiting, all aflutter, a look of great excitement animating her plain features. “Oh, miss! Miss! Ye’ll never guess wot’s ’appened. Me cousin Nelda’s come t’ call on me!”

  “Nelda? When?”

  “This very mornin’, miss. She come prancin’ into the kitchen, proud as ye please. She weren’t dead a’tall. She run off to be married!”

  “Married.” Lindsey slowly untied the ribbon beneath her chin and removed her bonnet. She could scarcely believe the news, coming so close upon her discovery that Tilly, too, had not been spirited away and murdered by Mansfield. “Why did Nelda not send word to you? She must have known you would worry.”

  Flora took the bonnet and laid it on the bed, then helped Lindsey slide her arms out of her pelisse. “Nelda don’t know ’er letters, so she couldn’t write. And she’s been ailin’, too.” The maid leaned closer in a confiding manner. “She be in the family way, ye see. ’Tis why she had t’ wed in haste. If not fer ’Is Lordship, she’d be—” She clapped her hand over her mouth. “Oh, wasn’t supposed t’ tell ye that part.”

  His Lordship?

  The fire of curiosity burned in Lindsey. She took hold of Flora’s sturdy shoulders. “I want the truth. Lord Mansfield helped her, didn’t he?”

  The maid nodded, her blue eyes bright beneath the crown of her white mobcap. “Nelda said ’twas to be a secret. Ye see, she married ’Is Lordship’s valet, Mr. Bernard. And Mr. Bernard bein’ a fine gent ’isself, well, the earl wanted t’ keep matters quiet-like. T’ protect Mr. Bernard’s reputation, ye see. The earl bought them a neat little house in Chelsea, where Nelda’s been livin’. I’m t’ go visit ’er on me next day off.”

  “I’m glad everything’s turned out so well.”

  As the maid fairly skipped into the dressing room with the pelisse and bonnet, Lindsey leaned against the cherrywood bedpost. Although she was happy to hear the missing girl was alive, she felt sick at heart. Nelda’s lover had not been Mansfield but rather his valet. As the earl’s personal manservant, Bernard would be at the top of the hierarchy below stairs, which explained why Nelda had bragged of being courted by a fine gentleman.

  Lindsey had misinterpreted everyt
hing. She had assumed the worst without any evidence. She’d been all too ready to cast Mansfield in a dastardly role—

  A knock on the door interrupted her morbid thoughts. Before she could take more than a step to answer the summons, her mother walked into the bedchamber.

  Perfectly groomed in a stylish gown of moss green with thin white stripes, Edith Crompton looked ready for an afternoon of social calls. Her hair was drawn into an elegant waterfall of russet curls, while emeralds glinted at her ears. However, her chilly expression did not bode well for pleasant chitchat.

  “Lindsey, I’d like a word with you at once,” she said, before reversing course and leaving the bedchamber.

  Lindsey’s stomach contracted. Did Mama know where she had gone this morning? Surely not.

  Unless Kasi had told her. But why would the ayah betray her? Such a confession would only invite Mama’s wrath, and Kasi had more sense than to do that.

  Reluctantly, Lindsey trailed her mother out of the bedchamber and down the passageway. So much for her hope to have a few minutes alone to ponder all the momentous events of the morning. In addition to the discovery of Tilly’s and Nelda’s whereabouts, Lindsey had gained a tantalizing glimpse into Mansfield’s past. It had been a revelation to meet his family, especially his ill-tempered uncle Hugo.

  How difficult it must have been for a lonely little boy of five to come under the guardianship of such a curmudgeon. The very fact that Hugo had come to London for a family party without notifying his nephew spoke volumes. No wonder Mansfield had lashed out in anger; she had glimpsed the wounded look in his eyes that he’d tried so hard to hide.

  She couldn’t help but wonder why he had taken her to Pallister House in the first place. The situation now seemed like a deliberate orchestration of events. He had talked her into going for a drive, casually requested the stop, and urged her to accompany him inside. He must have been planning something that had been interrupted by the presence of his family—but what?

  Had he merely wished to avail himself of a private moment with her? So that he might persuade her to marry him?

  We can be husband and wife . . . if you so desire.

  A delicious shiver enveloped her. Lud, she couldn’t possibly be considering his offer. She had no interest in wedlock, and especially not to a nobleman. It would mean being trapped in the gilded cage of endless society events, gossip, and shopping. Ever since she had arrived in London, her fondest dream had been to set up an agency to solve mysteries for highborn clients who desired discretion.

  Although perhaps that was the future she needed to reconsider. Today she’d learned just how badly she’d failed at sleuthing.

  Discovering that both Tilly and Nelda were alive and well had struck the final blow to Lindsey’s theory that Mansfield was the Serpentine Strangler. Instead of doing away with Tilly, he had helped her find another post. He had shown kindness and consideration, just as he’d done for Nelda when she’d discovered herself pregnant out of wedlock.

  It’s good to know you didn’t believe the worst of me, darling. Because you see, I’d be quite miserable to find out otherwise.

  The memory of his words made her squirm. She felt dreadful for misjudging him, for branding him as the perpetrator of such a heinous crime. And she flogged herself with the whip of ill-begotten pride. How could she fancy herself a detective when she had leaped to such a wildly inaccurate conclusion based on flimsy circumstantial evidence?

  Lindsey knew the answer. She had allowed her imagination to be carried away because she’d been utterly determined to dislike Mansfield. She had so feared the power of her attraction to him that she’d been ready to believe him capable of murder. . . .

  “What is the matter with you?” Mama snapped from the doorway of her boudoir. “Don’t just stand there, child; come in here at once.”

  Lindsey realized that she’d absentmindedly stopped in the middle of the upstairs corridor. Gripping her skirts, she went into the room and braced herself for a lecture. Whatever rebuke Mama had to say couldn’t surpass the scolding that Lindsey knew she richly deserved.

  As always, a faint floral scent hung in the air, the aroma that belonged to her mother. A dressing table with an oval mirror held an array of blue and green vials. In the corner by the window, a rose pink chaise provided a place for Lindsey’s mother to lounge when she suffered from her occasional megrims. In such an instance the draperies would be drawn and the family warned not to disturb her.

  Judging by her stern expression, Lindsey half-wished now was one of those times.

  Mama shut the door with a decisive click. Turning with a whisper of silk skirts, she clasped her hands in front of her. “I will not mince words,” she said. “I was watching out the window a few minutes ago. Imagine my astonishment when I saw you and Kasi stepping out of Lord Mansfield’s landau.”

  Lindsey blinked in surprise. Since they’d walked to the dressmaker’s shop, he had offered them a ride home. But he’d left them off at the far corner of the square rather than risk discovery. “You must have had your nose pressed right up to the glass to see that.”

  Mama’s lips formed a thin line. “Then you will not deny it.”

  “No, I shan’t.” It felt oddly freeing to speak her mind, almost as if it were an atonement for what she’d done to Mansfield. “The earl is a fine gentleman and I see no reason why he shouldn’t court me.”

  But he might change his mind if he knew the full extent of her mistrust of him. What would he say if he discovered the truth, that she had believed him a murderer?

  Mrs. Crompton glared. “You speak as if this . . . courtship has been going on behind my back for quite some time.”

  Lindsey raised her chin. “If you must know, I’ve been to visit his ward several times. She and I have become good friends.”

  “Friends. What do you know of this girl, this cripple? Who are her people? You could be ruining our position in society by associating with riffraff.”

  “How ludicrous, Mama. Miss Nevingford is gently born. Her father and the earl were great friends in the cavalry. She hails from Lancashire, just as we do.”

  The news put an arrested look on her mother’s face. She stood frozen, as if she were staring right through Lindsey and into the past. “Nevingford? Are you certain that’s her name?”

  “Yes. Miss Jocelyn Nevingford.” Lindsey fancied her mother’s face had gone pale, or perhaps it was merely a trick of the light. “Do you know the family?”

  Mrs. Crompton glanced away. “The name sounds vaguely familiar, that’s all. It’s been a very long time since your father and I lived there, and I can’t be expected to recall every servant or neighbor.”

  “Oh, I’m sure they weren’t servants.” Lindsey took a step toward her mother. “Perhaps you’d like to meet Jocelyn. She’s very friendly and you could ask her about her connections—”

  “No! That is absolutely out of the question. You are not to associate with that girl ever again.”

  Mama’s frigid expression stunned Lindsey. She’d never seen her mother look so determined, so unbending. “But you don’t even know Jocelyn.”

  “This isn’t about the chit; it’s about Lord Mansfield. You are not to encourage him any longer. It is Lord Wrayford that you will marry. Then someday you will be the Duchess of Sylvester.”

  Lindsey curled her fingers into fists at her sides. “I most certainly will not! He’s a gambler and a cad. Even worse, he’s known for chasing after the serving girls and forcing them to lie with him.”

  “Then it is up to you to mold him into a tolerable husband. That is what all ladies of high station must do when they wed. Now, go to your room and reflect upon what I’ve said.”

  Lindsey’s heart raced in panicked disbelief. Mama meant every word. There would be no persuading her otherwise. This time, she would not back down or heed any arguments to the contrary.

  But Lindsey could match her mother in icy demeanor.

  “Pray remember this as you spin your schemes, M
ama: You cannot force me to walk down the aisle at St. George’s. And I will never do so with Lord Wrayford.”

  Edith watched her daughter stalk out of the boudoir. Only when she was gone did Edith allow her stiff spine to sag as she sank down onto the chaise. She pressed her fingers to her temples. The ache there foretold the onset of a megrim, but she took deep breaths to calm herself in the hopes of willing away the pain.

  Lindsey was proving to be an even more willful child than Portia had been. Neither of them appreciated Edith’s effort to fortify her daughters’ position in society. They had been raised with too much luxury. They had never known poverty or privation.

  But Edith had. A lifetime ago, she had labored for a living at a fine manor house in Lancashire. She had worked her fingers to the bone as a maidservant. Had it not been for her seizing a fortuitous opportunity and moving with her master and mistress to India, she might still be condemned to that hardscrabble existence.

  This new development frightened her to the point of illness. If she and George were found out . . .

  Groping for the handkerchief that was always on the nearby table, she took the folded square of lace and dabbed her brow. Nevingford! The name was a knife in her heart. Squire Nevingford had been a neighbor, a blustery fellow who had spent an entire winter trying to coax fifteen-year-old Edith into his bed. He had been besotted enough to possibly remember her if ever they were to come face-to-face.

  Was he related to Jocelyn Nevingford, possibly her grandsire? If so, surely he would have taken in the orphaned girl. Perhaps he was no longer alive, then. Edith knew it was shameful to pray for someone’s death, but she offered up a brief entreaty anyway.

  In the meantime, she dared not take any chances. Lindsey’s association with the girl—and with Mansfield—must end.

  Once and for all.

  Chapter 22

  Lindsey only agreed to go on the picnic to escape her mother’s sharp eyes. Now, as the small party sat on a blanket beneath the shade of an oak tree, finishing a repast of cold meats and cheeses, the insipid company made her sorely regret her decision. Not even the cloudless day and the warm sunshine could lift the yoke of her worries.