Robyn DeHart - [Dangerous Liaisons 01]

by The Secrets of Mia Danvers

  “It was my father’s decision, not my mother’s. She even suggested I have you removed once my brother died,” Alex said. “But you had never caused any problems, it didn’t seem to make much sense to get rid of you. Put you out on the street. Especially since you are insane.”

  “Alex, did you just make a joke?” Mia asked with a grin.

  “Perhaps I did. It does happen every now and again.”

  “I was not aware you had a sense of humor at all,” she said. There was a long pause where he said nothing and she worried she may have taken the jest too far. “Are you smiling?”

  “I believe I am.”

  She reached over to him, putting her hands in his direction. “May I?”

  He leaned forward, placing his face in her hands. Her fingers roamed gently, feeling the curve of his lips, the slight indentation in his cheeks. “You have dimples,” she said. “I was not expecting that.” She continued her exploration of his features. “And tiny lines at the edge of your eyes. You do have a sense of humor. You should use it more often, it softens your features.”

  “I’m not certain, as a man, I want soft features. Aren’t we supposed to be stern and? . . .”

  “Emotionless,” she finished for him.

  He cleared his throat. “Something like that,” he said quietly.

  “Now about that kiss,” she said.

  He leaned in close, so close she could feel his breath on her cheek, smell the crisp scent of his shaving lotion and the intoxicating blend of his soap. Her fingers moved over his face again.

  “You’re not smiling anymore,” she said.

  “It’s not amusing.”

  “Kissing me, I should hope not. It wasn’t meant as a joke.”

  “Do you want me to kiss you?” he asked. His warm breath purred over her skin.

  Desire surged through her. “Oh yes,” she breathed. “More than anything.”

  He released a low chuckle and it was so deep, so unexpected and so damned sexy she nearly lost her breath. “Then, Mia, stop talking.”

  Before she could reply, his lips brushed over hers. Soft and sensual and oh so slowly, this kiss was no less ardent than his last, but far more seductive in its intention. As if the last one had caught him off guard, angered him, but in this moment he allowed himself to want her, instead of punishing her for it.

  He deepened the kiss, searching and finding precisely the reaction he sought. She met him passion for passion, need for need. In the next moment he pulled her across the settee and onto his lap.

  Mia settled in and wrapped her hands around his neck, threading her fingers into the waves at the back of his hair. Alex ran his hand down her back, toyed with her long braid. His other hand rested on her arm, warm and large, as he pulled her closer to his body. She nestled against him and sighed into his mouth.

  ***

  Alex had been with plenty of women and had had a myriad of reactions to his kisses, but none had ever been as sexy and engaging as that little sigh. In that moment she pulled him into her in a way no woman ever had, and he knew it was undeniable there was something special about Mia Danvers. Not because she was blind, not because she had turned her back on Society, but instead because of who she was as a person.

  He continued to kiss her, thoroughly exploring her mouth and loving the feel of her lithe body snuggled next to him. He moved his hands over her, wanting to feel every part of her body, memorize her curves.

  Her thick wool dress was scratchy beneath his hands and he knew it must be even more so against her body. He wanted, in that moment, to take her to the best modiste in London and buy her the finest of clothes and undergarments. Every piece of clothing he could find in a light, pretty color and in lush, soft fabrics that would slide against her skin in sweet caresses.

  It was not the kissing that gave him pause, or even his desire to take her here on the settee. It was those thoughts, those unfamiliar urges, not simply to take her body, but to take care of her, provide for her.

  He could not allow those thoughts to go further.

  So despite his urge to reach up and cup her breast and put his mouth to the hollow of her neck, he would have to pull himself away.

  ***

  Drew Foster leaned back in the wooden chair. He sat at a table in the midst of the noisy club, watching and listening. Things weren’t always this rowdy, but two groups of men had gotten into a lively discussion that was now resulting in a series of wagers. The two men sitting with Drew had joined in the betting as well.

  The dinner Drew had ordered was no doubt becoming unpleasantly lukewarm sitting uneaten in front of him. But he was trying to pay attention to everyone around him.

  His brother had asked him questions about those Mayfair murders, as everyone was calling them now, and damned if he wasn’t curious himself. He’d been captivated by the Ripper crimes the previous year, fascinated by the game the killer had played with the police. Alex had assumed, and perhaps correctly, that Drew was in more of a position to collect any pertinent information about the crimes. Drew did frequent the most popular of clubs, soirees and balls. He also had a penchant for late-night visits to a handful of pubs. He’d always preferred night to day, it seemed people were more honest as the day progressed.

  As he sat here on this evening, he wished he hadn’t already had so much to drink, but damn if a run-in with his “mother” hadn’t set his teeth on edge. It wasn’t that he couldn’t hold his liquor, he could, far better than most of the men he knew. Still the drink dulled his senses and tonight he wanted to hear everything around him, catch every possible detail about the killings.

  Everyone was talking about the murders, he’d heard about it in a shop earlier that day and again when he’d stopped for luncheon. The gossip was heated and frenzied, and more fantastical than when the killer had been in Whitechapel. Drew was convinced it was the same killer; it just made the most sense.

  People were afraid, but they were also excited, as was their way in Society. The aristocracy thrived on scandal. Drew had to admit that he found it utterly fascinating as well. But then he’d always been curious about mysterious situations.

  The wagering had ended and most of the men had dispersed to their tables. His own dining partners had returned to their seats and started to eat. Drew picked at his food, but his attention was anywhere but on his plate. The men sitting at the table behind him discussed one man’s daughter and her upcoming wedding and all the costs included. But the men at one table to his right were discussing the murders. And Drew had seen the valet at the front reading the newspaper when he’d arrived.

  “You’re awfully quiet tonight, Foster,” Richardson said. “Besotted or in love?”

  “Neither,” Drew said. He eyed his friend and realized he probably had looked rather peculiar sitting there with food in front of him while he ate nothing. Richardson had already finished his plate. Drew took a bite and thought for a moment before speaking. “What do you think of this killing spree?”

  Richardson answered immediately, “Wretched. This whole town is going to hell.” He ordered another drink, then leaned forward and spoke softly, “Do you suppose it’s that same bloke? The one from Whitechapel?”

  Their companion Thompson shook his head. “I don’t. I think that Ripper maniac must have been killed. He’s been too quiet for too long to be the same one who’s killing now.”

  Drew took a few more bites and then a thoughtful sip of his drink. He leaned back in his chair. He knew he wasn’t the only one who thought so, yet the police seemed reluctant to agree. Or to even comment on the matter. “I do think it’s the same man. Seems the most likely scenario,” Drew said.

  “I don’t suppose they’ll ever catch him now,” Richardson said.

  Thompson nodded. “Quite true. If he got away with those killings and is clever enough to move in and out of Society, he’ll never get caught.”

  Drew contemplated his friends’ words for several moments while he finished his dinner. Perhaps they were right. “O
h, don’t be so certain of that. There was a witness to the first one in Mayfair,” Drew said abruptly. After the words had left his mouth he realized he probably shouldn’t have said anything. But these two blokes were his closest friends, he trusted them, as much as he trusted anyone. And no one was listening to them.

  “A witness?” Richardson asked. “There was no such report in the newspapers.”

  Drew glanced around them and saw that everyone at the tables near them was engaged with their own parties, fully involved in their own discussions. “It hasn’t been reported on,” Drew said. “My brother told me about the witness. He’s spoken to her himself,” Drew said. He lit a cigarette and inhaled slowly.

  “Someone saw the killer?” Richardson asked. “Perhaps I was wrong, perhaps they will catch him after all.”

  Chapter Eleven

  “A woman who lives in the cottage at the edge of my family’s property,” the Ripper overheard the man say. “She’s lived there for years, on her own.”

  He leaned forward, ignored the pounding in his head. He needed to stay calm, make certain it wasn’t obvious that he was eavesdropping. But he needed to get as much information as possible from the men at the next table. Someone had seen him.

  “For whatever reason she hasn’t spoken to the police, at least as I understand it. And I was told she was mad, though when I met her she seemed quite capable. But my brother has spoken with her, and gathered what information she has to give to the investigators.”

  “So they could catch him,” another man said.

  The first man nodded. “It is likely.”

  The Ripper relaxed some. There might be a witness, but all he needed to do was continue to listen and these blokes would tell him where to find her. He’d said she lived on his family’s property. Once he knew where that was, he could find her. First things first, he’d need to discover the identity of the man speaking.

  “That’s unfortunate about her credibility,” the other man said. “Someone should stop him.”

  “Indeed,” the first man said. “It’s funny.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The killer. It could be either of you or me.” He shrugged and inhaled his cigarette. “The first murder occurred right near Danbridge Hall, a place I obviously frequent and you both have certainly been there on more than one occasion. And the second happened at the Pattysfield ball and we were all there that evening.”

  One of the other men, the one called Thompson, eyed the speaker for a while before he spoke. “You’re in rare form tonight, Foster.”

  Foster. Danbridge Hall. This must be one of the Carrington brothers.

  “Am I wrong?” Foster asked.

  “No,” the third man said. “Evidently he enjoys the same sorts of parties we do.”

  “Well, I could never kill someone,” Thompson said. “That is to say, I could kill either one of you, but that’s only in the ring.”

  The Ripper rolled his eyes heavenward at stupid men who didn’t even know what the hell they were talking about. None of them could cut a woman the way he could. But that Foster fellow was right about one thing—it could have been any of them as far as opportunity. Which meant one thing, that any of those men were prime for averting suspicion, something he would need to do sooner or later.

  It was true that ultimately he wanted the credit for his work. He wanted the world to know who he was, but he needed more time. And handing the fools at Scotland Yard a suspect would add amusement to his game, so much so that he wondered why he hadn’t thought of it before.

  Clearly this fellow was not the Duke of Carrington, which meant he was a younger brother. It was enough information. The cottage was behind Danbridge. Now the Ripper knew where to find the witness. But tonight had also provided him with a perfect suspect to give to the fools at the Yard. Tonight was turning out to be a most perfect evening.

  “What about the Toliver ball tonight?” the third man asked. “Are you going?”

  Foster nodded. “I wouldn’t miss it.”

  He had one stop to make first, but perhaps he too would put in an appearance at the Toliver ball. Watch this Foster and see what sort of ways he could prove the man’s words true. If he so badly wanted to be Jack the Ripper, then Jack would let him pretend, if only for a little while. But first he had a witness to find.

  ***

  Not half an hour later, the Ripper made his way to the outside of the small cottage at the edge of the Carrington property. Outside sat remnants of clay and a handful of carving tools. Perhaps this madwoman didn’t live alone. He should take care so he helped himself to one of the particularly sharp tools then made his way over to the door. He knocked and waited for whatever madness was inside to come out and greet him. He chuckled at his own cleverness.

  But no one answered the door.

  He knocked again and waited. The cottage was hidden by shrubs so no one would see him standing here unless they, too, were coming for a visit. He found the door locked, but easy enough to open, especially with the tool he’d retrieved from the sculpture table.

  Inside he found a small, but functional cottage, though the lighting left much to be desired. He, of course, was quite used to being in darkened places, but when he was home, he preferred a brightly lit room. Here, the only light came from the windows in the sitting area. The overcast late afternoon did nothing to brighten the space.

  The kitchen was off to his right, and he noted that someone had been working on the cupboard doors. Two were pulled off their hinges, but leaned up against the wall and tools sat neatly on the countertop. Either a man did live here, or she had one in her life that took care of matters. It wasn’t that he was against killing men, but that seemed so unnecessary, and he hadn’t had to since his brother and that had been so very long ago. A partially sculpted bust sat on a small table shoved against the wall.

  To his left he found a small sitting room, with worn furniture that sagged. He made his way to the hall that led to the rest of the cottage. In the back of the cottage he found two bedchambers, both with simple beds. The beds were neat and tidy and plainly dressed. Nothing decorated the walls, no pictures or portraits. He entered the first room, dresses hung in a nondescript wardrobe, they were petite and well maintained but woefully out of fashion. Was this her room?

  Next, he stepped into the larger bedchamber. Definitely a woman’s room as well. Foster had said the witness lived here and had for years, which meant that more than likely this was her home and therefore, this larger room was the one she occupied. He picked up a dress that currently hung over the back of a chair, he put it to his nose and inhaled, rubbed the rough wool against his cheek. There was a small armoire, more the size for a child than an adult, and the dresses inside bunched at the bottom of the closet, not having enough room to hang nicely. More drab woolen dresses, all gray, brown or dark blue. On the floor next to the armoire sat two pairs of ladies’ boots. He closed the wooden doors and scanned the rest of the room. Nothing much of interest.

  If she was mad, as Foster had suggested, he was surprised that the room was as tidy as it was. The woman who lived with her must take care to see that things were kept this neat. Because certainly someone suffering from madness would not be able to keep their living quarters free from clutter.

  He himself had an exceptionally tidy estate. Of course he had an army of servants, though he himself knew precisely where things went. And he liked it that way.

  He turned to leave the room and something caught his attention. In the corner, on a small table, sat the bust of a woman. Whoever the sculptor was, they were gifted, the piece was lovely, perfectly capturing the model’s face and serene expression. He picked up the sculpture, bringing the effigy closer for inspection. Her hair was pulled back off her face and hung along her neck in a braid. She had high, defined cheekbones giving her an aristocratic air. The woman had a narrow nose and full lips. She was beautiful, this partial woman of stone. Something in her cold lifeless expression called to him.

 
He tucked the sculpture beneath his arm and stepped out of her bedchamber. In the sitting room he took the liberty to sit upon her worn settee and wait a while longer for her. He withdrew his pocket watch and checked the time. He’d already been here for a while and still his little witness hadn’t come home. He couldn’t afford to stay for much longer before he’d be missed at the Toliver ball, and he needed to start watching Foster to plan his next step.

  Madwoman or not, she was evidently a witness and therefore she had to be killed. He couldn’t allow witnesses to run free regardless of their mental capacity. So he’d have to return at another time.

  He had to admit that the thought of someone watching his handiwork was exhilarating. How much had she seen? Where had she been hiding to watch him while he’d cut that whore and watched her bleed all over the ground? Did this woman now have nightmares about him?

  The Ripper smiled.

  Oh, how he longed to meet this witness. Would she know him as soon as she walked in and saw his face? Would she be afraid instantly? He imagined the scenario of her stepping into the front door and seeing him casually sitting on her furniture. Perhaps she would scream. But he’d be fast enough to grab her, cover her mouth with his hand. He’d slam her up against the door. Knock her head against the heavy wood to let her know just how dangerous he was.

  Then he’d pull out his knife and he’d press it to her cheek. Perhaps he’d make a small cut, watch the blood drip down her pristine skin. He chuckled to himself as he exited the small cottage.

  Chapter Twelve

  Mia and Rachel walked the rest of the way from the shops to their cottage. “Thank you for suggesting the shopping trip. It was a wonderful diversion,” Mia said. She carried a small bag. She never had much in the way of funds to be spent on frivolous items such as hair ribbons and the sort. But today she’d used some of her money to purchase some badly needed stockings as her last pair had nearly disintegrated from the holes.