A Perfect Gentleman

by Barbara Metzger

  Ellianne stood up so suddenly his head bounced on the carpet. “I knew you’d say that!”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  London was in a taking. No one was speaking of anything else. Ellianne and Stony and Lady MacAfee’s cat were hardly mentioned. It was the murders that were on everyone’s lips, in all the newspapers. They were even mentioned in Parliament as a disgrace and a call for an official police force.

  Another woman had been found, her throat slit, her hair shaved off. Wig shops were searched, known bladesmen were rounded up, to no avail.

  This fourth young female was a serving girl at Lord Sandercroft’s. He was screaming loudest for the instant capture of the fiend. He had daughters, he said; he had maids who went on errands at night. He had a pretty young mistress who was too afraid to unlock her door, but he did not say that. He added to the reward money.

  The other servants at his house reported that Maisy had been walking out with a toff, a swell, a gentleman. The girl had been secretive about her lover, meeting him around the corner, but she’d boasted of his gentility.

  A gentleman committing these heinous crimes? One of the quality’s own? Impossible! Sir John Thomasford did not think so. A title was no guarantee against brutality, he told Ellianne, and she had to agree, thinking of Blanchard. High birth certainly did not exclude low behavior. Goodness, her own actions—and her own desires, even if she never acted upon them—were of questionable morality. Her mother would never have condoned such unladylike behavior as smashing a gentleman’s nose, although her father would have applauded heartily.

  Her conduct with Blanchard was the least of it. Ellianne blushed just thinking about the rest. Her father would not have approved, not at all. Ellianne did not even approve, and she was relishing the memory even as she took tea with Sir John in his office, her maid waiting properly just outside.

  He mistook the shiver that ran through her. “There is nothing for you to fear, my dear Miss Kane,” he told her. “The killer does not prey on decent women. The four victims were all females who sold their favors, not innocent maidens.”

  Ellianne was feeling less innocent by the day, but she ignored those qualms to say, “But what of the serving girl? Her friends said she believed her gentleman suitor had honorable intentions.”

  “What, a gentleman marry a mobcapped trull? The wedding bells rang only in her ambitious mind. I’d swear. The wench was taking money, by Jupiter. She was nothing but a whore.”

  Sir John’s vehemence surprised Ellianne, and so did the way he spoke of the poor murdered girl. Whatever Maisy may have done in her life, she did not deserve such a death. Still, Ellianne could sympathize with Sir John, too. His frustrations must be eating away at him like a tumor. All his knowledge, all his science, all his examinations of the victims could not give Bow Street a solid lead to follow.

  They knew the killer was above average height. He was right-handed, and owned a stiletto. He knew his victims, so he must have enough blunt to hire the expensive doxies. Oh, and he had a steady hand, for the women’s shorn heads had fewer cuts and scrapes than a gentleman received from his valet during his morning shave. In fact, one of the newspapers was demanding that Bow Street investigate every barber and gentleman’s gentleman in town. Sir John said that was a waste of time, but he could give no other avenues for them to pursue, and the defeat was killing him, too.

  He was gaunt and hollow-eyed, and his long hair hung against his waxen cheeks in stringy locks. He smelled of the morgue, and used words a gentlewoman was never supposed to hear.

  Perhaps, Ellianne thought, Sir John had to convince himself the dead girls were unworthy of his regard in order to excuse his failure to find their killer. He had to blame the women for their deaths, rather than blame himself for not stopping the murders. She also considered that, if the victims were beneath contempt, Sir John did not have to feel so sorry for them, the way Ellianne did.

  Every woman deserved some respect, in life and in death. Stony had shown her that. Not all women who plied the trade had a choice, other than casting themselves into the Thames or starving in the gutter. Some were even led astray by passion. The serving girl might have accepted a few coins from her beau, but what if she really loved him, really thought he would marry her? Then he was the unscrupulous one for stealing her chastity, not she. She was guilty of poor judgment, surely not an offense to die for. Half the women in Town could be accused of the same stupidity, trusting a man’s words when his sexual satisfaction was at stake.

  Ellianne felt sorry for them all, and sorry for the dedicated scientist whose investigations bore so little fruit. Even now, he could not seem to warm his hands, cradling the hot teacup instead of drinking the sweetened brew.

  Ellianne could sympathize, but she could not make herself accept his invitation to dinner the next day. She was promised to Lady Wellstone, thank goodness, so she did not have to lie. She felt guilty enough planning to attend Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens while Sir John was immersed in death.

  Gwen thought they ought to be seen, to counter any gossip that might have arisen from her supposed illness and Stony’s supposed fall. Ellianne was looking forward to the evening of music and fireworks and the famous, heady punch served in the private boxes. Although the dark walks were closed for the safety of the highfliers who nested there, Ellianne imagined Stony asking to accompany her down one of the less traveled paths. Who knew what fireworks might follow? No, she could not think of such things, not now, not ever.

  She shook herself, and endured more remorse at her wayward thoughts. Her troubled feelings were no help to the murdered girls, though, or to the killer’s next victim. Instead of guilt and useless grieving, she added still more to the reward at Bow Street. Then she spent the rest of the afternoon at the Wellstone Home for Girls, where she really could make a difference. Aunt Lally was already there, teaching some of the girls to knit. There was always a need for caps and mittens, she swore. And money.

  Speaking of which, Mr. Lattimer called later that afternoon. He apologized, but he could not pursue her private investigation any further. Every available Bow Street man was being assigned to the Barber Murders, as they were being called.

  As Ellianne wrote a final check, she told the Runner that she was not ready to give up hope.

  Neither was Mr. Lattimer. He asked if he could call on Miss Kane.

  “If you have news of my sister, certainly. Otherwise, thank you for your assistance, and I wish you godspeed in finding that madman.”

  Lattimer stammered something about her generosity while staring at his shoes. Now Ellianne had something else to feel guilty about. She could not have said anything else, though, or offered false encouragement. Mr. Lattimer was a fine young man. He just did not make her pulse quicken. The thought of merely seeing Stony tomorrow had more effect on her heart rate than did sitting across the tea table from the Runner today.

  While Lattimer could not relieve her raw, raveled emotions, he could relieve one of her worries over Isabelle.

  “No, I don’t think your sister ran afoul of the fiend,” he told her, referring to his occurrence book rather than look her in the eyes after her rejection. “Miss Isabelle disappeared over a month before the first corpse was discovered, and that’s a good sign. What’s more, we would have come upon her body by now, because the killer puts his victims where they can be found. I think he likes the fame, getting talked about in all the papers. My superior says he is taunting us, or that he wants to be caught.” He scratched his head. “I don’t know about that. If he wanted so badly to get nabbed, he could knock on the door at Bow Street. Anyways, he could have hidden the bodies out on Hounslow Heath if he wanted, or dumped them in the Thames with weights. But he didn’t, so I think your sister is still alive. Unless some other villain got her, of course.”

  That was not exactly comforting, but Ellianne was glad to hear someone else say Isabelle was not dead. Aunt Lally was ready to give up and go home to mourn. Gwen’s eyes filled up with tears whenever I
sabelle’s name was mentioned, and Strickland, who had been taken into their confidence, asked the inescapable question: “If the gal ain’t dead, where is she? Why hasn’t she written to you again?”

  Ellianne wanted to know what Stony thought, but was afraid to ask. If he believed Isabelle was dead, then Ellianne might as well return to Fairview. She had accomplished everything she could, becoming almost as notorious as the murderer, and no one had mentioned more than a vague recollection of her sister.

  She wasn’t ready to go home yet. There was Vauxhall, for one thing, Wellstone’s home for girls for another. And his laughing blue eyes. Ellianne wanted to store a few more memories away, like a squirrel storing nuts for the winter. She feared it might be a very long winter indeed. She’d have ample time when she left London to examine her roiled feelings, to try to make sense of the alien emotions. For one of the first times in her life, Ellianne did not know what she wanted. She only knew that it was not waiting for her at home at Fairview.

  *

  Stony was more than a little confused himself. In fact, for a man who thought he understood women, he was confounded. What in Hades did the woman want from him, and was he prepared to give it?

  He didn’t even know if she would expect or accept an apology. But she was the one who had asked for the kiss, he reasoned to himself over a glass of cognac. Of course, she had not asked to be fondled, but that was immaterial, part of the overall cataclysmic event. Hell, he had not asked to be so aroused that he could not exit the room gracefully, not without thinking of her knee and Strickland’s knobs.

  Thunderation, he could not think of her now without his body turning as satyrlike as a schoolboy’s. He hadn’t asked for that, by George, not from a skinny spinster heiress. So what was he going to do about it, besides have another cold bath?

  Absolutely nothing.

  He worked for the woman, by Jupiter. She was still an innocent, by some miracle. She was wealthy beyond counting, by her father’s grace and her own wits. By any reckoning, she was not for him.

  He could not, would not, should not, think of Miss Ellianne Kane as anything but an employer. Every fiber of his being—except the traitor between his legs, of course—was clamoring for him to recall his honor, his dignity, his pride. All he recalled was his head cushioned in her lap, her tongue so sweetly meeting his.

  No. He was not a trifler, damn it. He’d spent years building a reputation for trustworthy integrity. He was not going to throw it away for a moment’s pleasure, not even if Ellianne were willing.

  Whom was he fooling? A moment would not be nearly long enough. He doubted a lifetime would be long enough. And she would never be willing. She’d said herself that she would not wed; women of her age and upbringing did not have affairs. That left him…where?

  On one of the dark paths at Vauxhall, all night, in his dreams.

  *

  They traveled to the pleasure gardens by river, on a starlit spring night that was meant for lovers. The Chinese lanterns, the artificial waterfall, the acrobats and tightrope walkers, the gypsy fortune-tellers, all added to the magic of being in a different time, a different place. Vauxhall was two-faced: part sophisticated elegance, part country fair. Everyone was laughing, dancing, calling to friends, dressed in their silks and satins. Ellianne wore a green hooded cape, like a forest sprite, Stony thought.

  The music played; the wine flowed. Every sense was sent reeling by the sights and sounds and scents and tastes.

  Stony had hired a box for them, a private area in the tiered pavilion to view the activities without being jostled by the crowds. Painted partitions separated them from their neighboring revelers, and waiters hurried back and forth with Vauxhall’s famous arrack punch and shaved ham.

  Acquaintances strolled by, some to stop for a conversation with Gwen, some to finally be introduced to the heiress in this less formal setting. Friends of Stony’s arrived in waves, making their bows, then laughing as he sent them on their way with a wish that they would disappear. No, Miss Kane was not going to dance after supper. No, she was not going to watch the fireworks with this rake, or go have her fortune read with that fortune-hunter.

  All was in good sport, with the festive air and gay laughter aided by the heady punch, until Sir John Thomasford approached.

  Looking like a death’s-head figurine, he stopped in front of their box, ending all conversation.

  No one said anything after Ellianne’s polite “Good evening, Sir John. How do you go on?”

  He went on like one of his corpses, Stony thought, stiff, silent, unsmiling. Out loud he said, “I did not suppose such lively activities would appeal to one of your nature.”

  “No, they do not. I came to make sure Miss Kane was safe. A killer is loose, you know.”

  Everyone knew. No one wanted to be reminded, not that night. “I will look after her,” Stony said, dismissing the older man with a nod. “I would invite you to join us, but the box is filled, as you can see.” Strickland was there—he seemed to be forever underfoot these days, Stony realized—as were Lord Charles and Lady Valentina, and Gwen’s cousins. The harpy Mrs. Collins was not included, at Stony’s insistence. He did not trust the widow, not around Miss Kane, not around him. The social-climbing cousins were not impossible, until they started talking about their progeny. So far Stony had avoided meeting the unlovely children. He fully intended to continue his good fortune, despite hints from the cousins about visiting this summer in Norfolk, if he and Gwen were going to take up residence at Wellstone Park. The gray stones it was made of would crumble first.

  Ellianne felt sorry for Sir John. The man looked like he needed a meal and a bit of laughter. She told him, “Perhaps another night, then?”

  “Wednesday?”

  Ellianne looked to Gwen for an excuse, but Lady Wellstone was fixing her turban, which had tipped over her eye. “Yes, Wednesday will be fine.”

  Before Sir John had taken ten steps away, Stony was berating Ellianne. He did not trust the man, and she should not be accepting invitations from a coroner as queer as a two-headed hen.

  Ellianne was ready to climb on her high horse to retort that it was none of Stony’s business whom she conversed with, when they heard another conversation, this one coming from the next box.

  The men spoke loudly, slurring their words, and the women giggled too shrilly.

  “Do not listen,” Gwen ordered. “They are not fit for polite company.” Which meant, of course, that Lady Valentina and Gwen’s cousin’s wife strained their ears to hear. Lord Charles peered over the partition to confirm what both Ellianne and Stony suspected: Godfrey Blanchard and a group of likeminded maggots and their doxies occupied the next supper box.

  Blanchard must have known they were close, for he spoke to be heard and to be offensive. “That’s right. That’s the bitch who broke my nose. Ellis Kane’s daughter. Rich as sin and mean as a snake.”

  “I thought it was Wellstone who broke your nose?” one of his fellows asked, laughing uproariously. One of the women squealed as the man dropped a piece of shaved ham down her gown, then went after it.

  “What, that coward?” Blanchard answered. “He passed out at the first hint of a fight. Just like his friend Brisbane fled rather than face Earl Patten on the dueling grounds. Lily-livered cowards, all of them. And those highborn bitches? Whores, all of them. Give me an honest slut any day.”

  Stony was on his feet, but Ellianne grabbed his coattails. “Let it be. He only wishes to make trouble.”

  Stony sat, sharing glances with his friend Charlie that promised retribution on Blanchard when the ladies were not present. Gwen was chattering to her cousins, trying to drown out the dreadful talk, but Lady Valentina’s lip was trembling. Ellianne was pale but composed. “He is not worth having our lovely evening ruined over.”

  But Blanchard was not finished. “Wellstone can keep the shrew, and good riddance. I’d wager his pockets are empty, else he’d find greener pastures to graze. I don’t know what the Kane bitch is paying h
im, but she couldn’t offer me enough. The woman’s so cold, it’d be like screwing an ice sculpture. Freeze a man’s rod right off. Some chaps will do anything for money, I suppose.”

  Stony was halfway out of the box, Charlie beside him. “Take the women home,” he told Strickland and the cousin.

  “I am not going.” Ellianne clutched her reticule, a large one tonight.

  “Take them home, Strickland,” Stony ordered again, not looking at her.

  The women in Blanchard’s box ran off, screaming, when Stony burst in, Charlie at his heels. Two of the men pushed out past them. “Not our fight, don’t you know.” They’d seen Wellstone working out at the boxing parlor.

  Blanchard sneered. “What, have you come to challenge me to a duel? What’s it to be, Wellstone, vinaigrette at twenty paces? Or you, Hammett.” His lip curled at the sight of Lord Charles’s yellow Cossack trousers. “Quizzing glasses at dawn?”

  “No,” Stony said. “Duels are for gentlemen, not scurvy swine like you.” He lunged in a move that would have made Ellianne’s bulldog proud, straight for Blanchard’s throat. He grabbed a fistful of neckcloth in one hand, and drew his other arm back. He wasn’t about to aim for the dastard’s nose. It was already broken anyway. The man’s jaw offered too many possibilities for cut lips, broken teeth. So he swung as he did at practice, straight for Blanchard’s midsection. The rotter’s gut was not half as hard as the leather punching bag, but the sound he made was a whole lot more satisfying.

  Stony hit him again, to make sure all the air was out of the blowhard. Then, still holding him upright, he shook the cur like a dirty rug. “If I ever see you in Town again, Blanchard, or hear one word from your filthy mouth, I will finish this, for once and for all. Do you understand?” Just in case he did not, Stony drove home his point with another blow to Blanchard’s middle, just below his ribs. Well, maybe not far below, for Stony heard a distinct crack when his fist connected.