Never Trust a Rogue

by Olivia Drake

  Alarmed, Lindsey stepped to Thane and looped her arm through his. “This is all a terrible mistake. Lord Mansfield cannot possibly have committed murder last night. You see—”

  “You will not involve yourself in this matter,” Thane interrupted. “It is no concern of yours.”

  “But—”

  “You heard me. I will brook no interference.”

  The cold harshness of his voice silenced her. Clearly, he didn’t want her to provide him with an alibi because her reputation would be ruined in the process. She understood that, yet his gallantry might land him in prison.

  Her fears were confirmed at once.

  An apologetic look on his face, Cyrus Bott addressed Thane: “Lord Mansfield, I’m afraid I must arrest you for the murder of Miss Harriet Valentine.”

  Chapter 27

  Thane sat on a wooden bench in a room the size of a linen closet. He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped in front of him. The only light came from a small barred window mounted high in the wall. Every now and then he could hear sounds outside the locked door, the shouts of other inmates or their pounding on the wall.

  He understood their frustration. Imprisonment filled him with impotent wrath.

  An hour had ticked slowly past, then another, until now he cursed his willingness to cooperate. He ought to have insisted on being allowed to wait in one of the offices upstairs. But he’d been determined to show he had nothing to hide.

  Bott had been contrite about the need to follow the rules. Since the chief magistrate was in the middle of a court session, Thane was to be held in a private cell only for a brief time. Unfortunately, that estimate had proved to be grossly understated. It took all of his self-control to keep from banging on the door and demanding his release.

  Thane was confident that this mess would be straightened out once he spoke to the magistrate. What the devil was delaying Smithers?

  Thane itched to take action in solving the case. Instead, he’d had nothing to do but reflect. A gruesome thought had continued to plague him. While he and Lindsey had been enjoying the most erotic night of their lives, another woman had been murdered. Miss Valentine, that mouse of a clerk from the dress shop.

  Why her? Had she been chosen on purpose? Because she had a connection, however tenuous, to him?

  It certainly would seem so. He’d been set up, no doubt about it. The mysterious appearance of the diary in his house proved as much.

  Wrayford could have found a way back to London, perhaps by flagging down a vehicle on the main road. He had been in a towering rage, and the clerk would have made an easy target. But how would Wrayford know Thane had ever been to the dress shop?

  That was something Thane couldn’t explain—and he didn’t believe in coincidences. There was also the matter of the diary. Before departing for Bow Street he had made inquiries, but none of his servants had seen Wrayford that morning. Yet someone had stolen into the house to plant the journal.

  Was he wrong to believe the Serpentine Strangler was Wrayford?

  The possibility chilled Thane. Wrayford certainly was the most likely suspect. He’d had clear connections to the first three victims. But this new development seemed to cast doubt on Thane’s conjecture. Would Miss Valentine still be alive if he’d arrested Wrayford the previous evening—or would she have died anyway?

  Thane clenched his jaw. Speculating accomplished nothing. He had not possessed sufficient proof to apprehend the man, so it was a moot point. And at the time, he had been thinking only of Lindsey.

  Lindsey. When she had invited him to pose as her husband, the temptation had been too great to resist. Their experience at the inn had been an unparalleled delight, like nothing he had ever known. Her soft declaration of love had stirred a powerful yearning in his soul, lending an amazing depth to their closeness in bed.

  He remembered her anguished face as she’d watched him being taken away to Bow Street. What was she doing now? Had she returned to her parents’ house? He hated to think of Lindsey out there, alone and unguarded, with a killer on the loose. Her dragon of a mother would have no compunction about letting Wrayford into the house.

  His gut tightened. He ached to protect her, to hold her in his arms, to tell her that she was his very life, the breath in his body, the blood in his veins. This wrenching need he felt for her could only be love. What a fool he’d been not to recognize the truth and voice his feelings to her when he’d had the chance. . . .

  An iron key rattled in the door. Thane jumped to his feet as the solid wood panel swung open.

  Josiah Smithers walked into the cell. A portly man, the chief magistrate wore the tightly curled wig and black robes of his profession. Gazing over the pair of gold-rimmed spectacles perched on the end of his bulbous nose, he studied Thane with a look of disgruntlement.

  In his hand, he clutched the small leather-bound diary.

  “I’m sorry you’ve been obliged to wait so long, my lord. An unexpected visitor delayed me.”

  “Never mind; I’m glad you’re finally here,” Thane said. “Has anyone gone to verify Lord Wrayford’s whereabouts? It’s essential to find out where he was last night.”

  “Bott left a short time ago to check on him.”

  Smithers paced slowly back and forth in front of the door. Thane glimpsed a husky guard lurking out in the corridor. There was something in the way Smithers was studying him, with a hint of suspicion, that hit Thane like a sucker punch.

  “I trust you realize I had nothing to do with Miss Valentine’s murder,” he said. “You have my word that I’ve never seen her diary before today. Someone is framing me for her murder.”

  Smithers pursed his lips. “I’m given to understand that last week you went to the shop where she was employed.”

  “Yes. My ward needed to order a few gowns.” Thane had also wanted an excuse to rendezvous with Lindsey. He wondered suddenly if she might have mentioned visiting the dressmaker’s to Wrayford while they’d been on that picnic. “Wrayford must have somehow found out about my visit there.”

  “According to Cyrus Bott, you never went home last night,” the magistrate said. “Can you account for your whereabouts, perhaps give me the name of a credible witness who can vouch for you?”

  Lindsey could. But Thane would not subject her to undue scrutiny that would ruin her in the eyes of society. He wouldn’t allow anyone to put a sordid connotation on their tryst. It was a private joy that would only be sullied by exposure to the outside world.

  “No,” he stated. “I cannot.”

  “Cannot? Or will not?”

  Thane stared stonily back at him.

  Smithers sighed. “Your reticence is quite admirable, my lord. However, you should know that a short while ago, Miss Crompton came to my office to plead your case. That’s what delayed me. She vows she will swear in court under oath that you were with her all night.”

  Thane averted his eyes. He didn’t want the man to glimpse the rush of wild emotion in him. Blast Lindsey for disobeying him! At the same time, he felt a leap of exultation that she would fight for him.

  He turned a cool façade to the magistrate. “I’ll deny it. She’s merely trying to secure my release. Be forewarned, I will not have her testifying on my behalf.”

  “You are right to oppose it,” Smithers said. “A lady has no place in a public court of law. As for your innocence, I would very much like to believe you, my lord. When you first came to see me, you appeared to have a genuine desire to help solve these crimes.”

  “As I still do. But I won’t accomplish anything locked up here.”

  The magistrate grimaced at the small journal in his hand. “Unfortunately, this diary contains a rather disturbing passage. Bott pointed it out to me before he left.”

  “He’s certainly a fast reader. May I see?”

  Smithers hesitated, then handed it over. “It’s at the very end, my lord. And it implicates you by name.”

  Stunned, Thane riffled the pages until he found th
e last entry. The cramped, spidery script was difficult to read. But the reference jumped out at once.

  Lord Mansfield came to me last evening. Oh, what delight, what joy I found in his embrace. . . .

  His teeth clenched, he scanned the rest, a flowery tribute that thoroughly incriminated him as her secret lover. No wonder Smithers regarded him with keen distrust. Any court would convict a man on such damning evidence.

  Thane held the diary up to the inadequate light from the high window. After studying the book for a few moments, he said, “There appears to be a slight discrepancy in the ink compared to the previous page. And the penmanship looks very similar, but it isn’t exact. You can see it in the formation of several of the characters.”

  “You’re suggesting it’s a forgery?”

  “I know it’s a forgery. Someone added this entry to make me look guilty.”

  As he spoke, Thane’s mind raced. Such a clever piece of counterfeiting seemed beyond Wrayford’s capabilities—or any of his dissolute companions’, for that matter. And none of them had visited Thane’s house that morning.

  Only one man had come to call. One man whom Thane had never in his wildest speculations had reason to consider a murderer. But now it all made a horrible, twisted sense.

  He shoved the diary back into the magistrate’s hand. “When exactly did Bott depart from here?”

  “Perhaps twenty minutes ago,” Smithers said with a startled look. “He and Miss Crompton went to see Lord Wrayford.”

  Lindsey had borrowed Thane’s carriage to go to Bow Street Station. Now, in order to avoid drawing attention from any passersby, she had allowed Cyrus Bott to drive the vehicle along the outskirts of Mayfair. Thankfully, her bonnet had a wide brim that helped shield her face from view. In late afternoon, many people were out strolling or driving, and she didn’t want any acquaintance to flag them down. Nothing must delay her in this quest to clear Thane’s name.

  A kernel of dread lodged in her stomach. She had thought to win his freedom by confessing they’d spent the night together. However, the chief magistrate had been polite but firm in his refusal to accept the alibi. The officious man also had declined to allow her to see Thane, proclaiming it too dangerous for a lady to visit an accused murderer. Her next best hope was to wrest a confession from Lord Wrayford.

  By heaven, she would choke it out of him if need be. The villain must be trying to pin the murder on Thane in order to rid himself of a rival for her hand in marriage.

  “Here is Bruton Street, my lady,” Bott said. “Which house is it?”

  “Midway down, the one with the claret red door.”

  Bott had been scrupulously polite. He had ceased his attempt at small talk when she’d given him cold answers. Lindsey had little desire to chitchat with the man who had arrested Thane. But she also recognized the need for a Bow Street Runner to be present when she confronted Wrayford. Bott would serve as both a witness and an officer to cart Wrayford off to prison.

  She would take great pleasure in clearing Thane’s name. It was evident from Bott’s smug expression that he believed they were on a fool’s errand.

  Her mind dwelled a moment on his zeal to charge Thane with murder. There was something odd about their encounter in the library this morning, something that hovered at the edge of her mind. Things had happened so quickly there had been little time for reflection. When Jocelyn had dropped the diary, Bott had picked it up. He’d opened the flyleaf to read the name inscribed inside. And then—

  The memory flitted away as Bott drew the horse to a halt in front of Wrayford’s residence. While he went to tie the reins to an iron post, Lindsey climbed down and hurried to the tall brick town house. She lifted the brass knocker and rapped hard on the door.

  In a moment, she found herself facing the same vacuous young footman as the last time she’d been here. “Good afternoon, Buttery. May we come in?”

  The white-wigged servant bowed. “Aye, m’lady.” He stepped aside so that she and Bott could enter.

  “I wish to speak to your master,” she said. “Will you inform Lord Wrayford that I’m here?”

  The footman frowned, glancing upstairs. “Can’t, miss. The master told us not t’ wake him. ’Twas past noon when he come home, ye see.”

  “Pray fetch him anyway. I need a word with him at once.”

  “But he’ll be angry—”

  “Go,” she said firmly. “Or I shall march upstairs myself and do it.”

  Buttery hesitated, then with obvious reluctance trudged toward the staircase.

  Untying the ribbons of her bonnet, Lindsey was unnerved to find Cyrus Bott standing directly at her side. She caught a flash of something in his blue eyes, a disdainful enjoyment as if he relished the scene to come when she would be proved wrong about Wrayford’s guilt.

  “Follow me,” she snapped. Pivoting on her heel, she marched into a small visitor’s parlor off the entrance hall. She took off her bonnet and tossed it onto a chair. Then she swung around to address him: “Lord Mansfield is innocent. I’ve vouched for his whereabouts myself. The true Serpentine Strangler will not be captured if you make up your mind prematurely and cease to look for him.”

  “With all due respect, my lady, all the evidence points at the earl. You yourself believed so for a time.”

  Her heart wrenched at the reminder of her own perfidy. “I was mistaken. And evidence can be fabricated.”

  A slight smile touched his mouth. “That’s extremely doubtful in this case. Forgive me for being indelicate, but Miss Valentine named the earl in her diary. Her final entry describes their affair in detail.”

  Lindsey experienced a knell of shock. She hadn’t known that detail. Dear God, no wonder the magistrate had been reluctant to accept her testimony. “I’m sure that close inspection will reveal it to be a forgery. Lord Mansfield couldn’t possibly have killed her.”

  The Runner shrugged. “That will be for a court to decide.”

  He strolled to a gilt-framed mirror near the window, peering at himself and flicking a piece of lint from his dark blue coat. Frowning, Lindsey watched him straighten an imaginary wrinkle in his cravat.

  “You’re rather young to be a Runner, are you not? Just how many murder cases have you solved?”

  “None as important as this one. It will be quite a feather in my cap.” In the mirror, a gleam appeared again in his eyes although his expression remained sober. “I’m sorry, my lady. I’m sure this is a very difficult circumstance for you, given your close relationship with His Lordship.”

  Lindsey scarcely heard him. He stood in a shaft of light from the window. As he arranged his cravat, a stickpin inside the folds of white linen glinted dully. She took a few steps closer. The gold pin was crowned by a heart fashioned from tiny chips of ruby red stone.

  Where had she seen it before?

  Then it struck her. Miss Valentine had worn that very pin on her collar. She’d said that her father had had it specially made for her mother.

  A cold chill coursed through Lindsey, raising gooseflesh on her arms. Had Bott stolen it from Miss Valentine’s body at the scene of the crime?

  Or . . . was he the one who had strangled her to death?

  Chapter 28

  Lindsey’s mind raced. Once again, she thought back to the moment when Jocelyn had dropped the diary and Bott had snatched it up. He had opened the book to the flyleaf and read Miss Valentine’s name aloud. . . .

  He had not flipped through the other pages, Lindsey was certain of it. Yet a few moments later he had referred to the book as a diary. How had he known that?

  Unless he had already read the contents. Unless he had forged the entry about Thane and then, early that morning, left the diary in his desk, where Jocelyn had found it.

  Her heart beating faster, Lindsey stared in disbelief at the stickpin. Bott had been lurking in the alley outside the dress shop, too, on the day Lindsey had gone there to meet Thane and Jocelyn. . . .

  “Is something wrong?” Bott asked.

&n
bsp; She glanced up to find him watching her. “No. I—I was merely wondering what was keeping Lord Wrayford. Perhaps I should go see.”

  Lindsey started toward the door, but Cyrus Bott stepped swiftly to block her departure. “That would be most improper,” he said. “Ladies do not chase after gentlemen in their bedchambers. Only the lowly riffraff behave that way.”

  “Like maidservants?” she asked. “Or perhaps shop clerks?”

  She observed him closely. Perhaps she’d been too bold, yet she couldn’t be in any real danger, not with servants in the house. At any moment Wrayford should be coming downstairs, too.

  Cyrus Bott stood in the doorway, studying her. “You’ll think me forward for saying this, but you’re a very beautiful woman, Miss Crompton. And you’re a commoner like me. Perhaps at some future time, you might possibly consider . . .”

  He reached out as if to touch her hair, but she flinched. Never had she been so repelled or so frightened by any man. It was a struggle to keep her expression cool. “You are being impertinent, Mr. Bott. Now kindly move aside.”

  “I’m sorry, but that’s impossible,” he said. “I saw you looking at my stickpin. You’ve guessed everything, haven’t you?”

  There was a hint of mournfulness in his expression, as if he regretted being exposed as a killer. Her mouth felt dry as dust. “Everything?”

  “You know about Miss Valentine. Let me assure you, she was merely a hussy who would lift her skirts in exchange for a bit of flattery. Her death is of no consequence.”

  He spoke in a normal conversational tone. They might have been talking about the weather, or a neighbor’s new dog, rather than a horror so palatable Lindsey could taste bile just thinking about it.

  “So you strangled her,” she whispered. “As you did those other women.”

  “Don’t waste your pity on them. They were whores, human weeds. The world is better off without such vulgar creatures.”