Never Trust a Rogue (9 page)

“I saw you with her tonight. If you cared a whit for Jocelyn, you would make the effort to behave as a gentleman. You wouldn’t consort with women of such dubious moral standards.” She brushed past him, then turned back. “And I’ll thank you not to curse in my presence.”

His fingers closed around her bare upper arm, preventing her from storming away in a righteous rage. As he leaned forward to stare closely at Lindsey, a shaft of moonlight lent hard contours to his features. “You’re jealous of my attention to Lady Entwhistle.”

Nothing he said could have startled—or infuriated—Lindsey more. It was the tone of his voice as much as the content of his words. He sounded confident . . . cocky . . .
amused
.

She jerked at his hold. “Why, you vainglorious fool—”

“You’re right; I must be a fool.”

On that cynical statement, he pulled her deep into the shadows of the arbor and brought his mouth down on hers. Lindsey was too stunned to offer more than a token resistance. His arms held her tightly, trapping her hands against his broad shoulders. His aroma and taste, his sheer maleness, engulfed her senses. All at once, her anger and antagonism transformed into a heat that burned at her core.

Without thinking, she closed her eyes and succumbed to the pleasure of his lips gliding over hers. The warmth of his muscled body clasped to hers was a delight unknown until this moment. She reveled in it, pressing herself closer to him, hardly understanding the need that induced her to utter small throaty sounds of desire. On some deep level, she was aghast at her own behavior, yet the temptation to enjoy the moment overwhelmed her.

“Sweet Lindsey,” he muttered, his breath hot against her skin. Then his tongue sought entry between her lips, exploring her mouth with a skill that had her melting in his arms. Nothing else mattered but to be held by him, to feel his hands stroking up and down her back. She ached for him to touch her more intimately, in ways no innocent young lady ought to contemplate. Unlike other girls her age, she knew a little of sexual matters from her time in India, where rules were more lax and where she often had eavesdropped on the raucous gossip of servants.

As abruptly as he’d grabbed hold of her, Mansfield lifted his head, his breathing harsh in the quiet night. She started to murmur a protest, but he placed his forefinger over her lips. There was a tension in his body, an alertness that penetrated her silken trance.

Voices emanated from somewhere nearby. The scuff of footsteps approached on a pathway.

A glimmer of sanity returned to her mind. She stood very still within the circle of his arms. Lud, there was a party in progress a short distance away. What had she been thinking, to permit him such a passionate kiss when anyone might happen by and see them?

What had she been thinking to grant this man a kiss
at all
?

Awareness of her wanton behavior bought a hot blush to her face. She hadn’t been thinking, that’s what. At one expert brush of his lips, all sense had flown from her brain. Even now, she reveled in the warmth of his body against hers. It shook her to realize how easily he’d aroused her base instincts—instincts that had lain dormant until this moment.

No wonder Mansfield was renowned for his prowess at seduction.

The chattering couple walked past the little arbor without spying them standing in the gloom. Lindsey had been waiting for the couple’s voices to fade before wrenching herself from his arms. But Mansfield released her first. He stepped back, a tall black shadow in the gloom.

“You’ll want to return to the ballroom before you’re missed.”

His formal tone nonplussed her; he might have been dismissing a disobedient child. Was he so unaffected by their fervent embrace? She told herself to go, to put as much distance between them as possible. Yet the devil of pride prodded her into asking, “Is that all you have to say for yourself?”

He didn’t answer at once. Music from the ballroom drifted into the silence. The orchestra had begun playing again, and the dancers would be forming sets. She waited on pins and needles, wishing to her shame for some acknowledgment that he’d experienced the same all-encompassing thrill as she had.

“I’d advise you to make haste,” Mansfield murmured. “Lady Entwhistle is due to join me out here in a few moments.”

His cool words made her humiliation complete. He had subjected her to an ardent kiss merely to pass the time while he waited for his lightskirt.

Drawing back her arm, Lindsey slapped him.

She scored a direct hit despite the darkness. The force of the blow traveled up her arm. Her palm stung with satisfying pain.

Mansfield staggered backward a step. His hand went to cup his cheek. But he said nothing and sought no retaliation.

Wheeling around, Lindsey went marching back toward the house. The slap had served as a cathartic release of white-hot fury. In the absence of that high dudgeon, she felt forlorn and mortified, dangerously close to weeping. How he must be laughing at her. All the while, when she’d responded fervently to his kiss, he’d been toying with her for his own amusement.

Blast him to Hell!

And blast Lady Entwhistle!

Memory returned to Lindsey in a rush. Her footsteps faltered in the shadows of the loggia, and she stopped just outside the open doors that spilled golden candlelight from the ballroom.

She knew now with sudden, cold clarity where she’d heard the name before. The first maidservant killed by the Serpentine Strangler had been employed by Lady Entwhistle.

The significance of that fact chilled Lindsey to the bone. Because it was one more piece of evidence to link Lord Mansfield to the murders.

Lindsey hadn’t realized how badly the coarse weave of a servant’s gown could itch.

Lifting the latch of garden gate, she paused a moment to roll her shoulders in an effort to relieve the prickly sensation along her back. She was accustomed to the finest silks and muslins, and linen chemises as soft as a cloud, not this cheaply made frock with its high, choking collar. Adding to her discomfort were the stiff leather shoes she’d borrowed from her maid. Since Flora had bigger feet, Lindsey had had to stuff the toe of each with a wadded handkerchief. As a result, her shoes made a clumping noise as she opened the gate and stepped into the damp garden.

The drizzling rain gave her an excuse to wear an old brown cloak with the hood drawn over her head. It reeked, rather unfortunately, of wet wool. Still, she had to congratulate herself on the perfection of the disguise. No one on the street had paid her the slightest notice as she’d trudged the three blocks from Berkeley Square to the mews behind Lord Mansfield’s house.

Pursing her lips, she risked a glance from beneath the hood at the upper windows of his home. The draperies were drawn shut in all the chambers. At this early hour of seven o’clock, Mansfield would be fast asleep like most
gentlemen of his ilk. Against her will, the image of him lying abed caused an irksome tension deep inside her.

Without a doubt, it was festering anger. He had tricked her for his own amusement, used his expertise as a seducer in order to humble her. Two days had passed since that ill-fated kiss, and she’d been fuming ever since. During that time, she’d also had to endure Lord Wrayford’s cloying attentions under Mama’s none-too-subtle encouragement. Lindsey needed the IOU that would implicate Wrayford as a gambler.

More important, she had made a promise to Flora to find Nelda. Lindsey had concocted a plan to borrow her maid’s clothes and infiltrate Mansfield’s house. So much depended on her success today.

Anyway, for all she knew, he wasn’t even at home. Perhaps he’d spent the night with his mistress, Lady Entwhistle. Or perhaps he’d been out murdering another unsuspecting maidservant.

The sobering possibility stalked Lindsey’s peace of mind. She was still struggling to reconcile herself to the mounting evidence against him. As much as she disliked Mansfield, it was difficult to place him in the role of cold-blooded killer. Surely peers of the realm didn’t go around strangling women.

Yet Lindsey had witnessed for herself the sight of Mansfield entering the study at Lord Wrayford’s house in the company of a pretty, blond housemaid.

Mansfield also had a direct connection to Lady Entwhistle, whose maid had been the first victim—Maria Wilkes, who purportedly had been on her way to meet a gentleman lover.

And Flora’s cousin, Nelda, was still missing. She had vanished from this very house less than a week ago.

Time and again, Lindsey had found herself wondering if there might be some truth to Jocelyn’s theory:
Perhaps
the earl had his way with Nelda. Perhaps she had conceived his baby, and so he did away with her before the scandal could come to light. Perhaps she’ll be found strangled like those other girls.

A grim sense of purpose conveyed Lindsey through the puddles in the garden and to a nondescript door, clearly the servants’ entrance. She rapped hard on the wooden panel, and a moment later the door was opened by a plump older woman in a black dress and white apron. The ring of keys at her waist marked her status as the housekeeper.

The woman critically looked Lindsey up and down, nodded briskly, then motioned her inside the house. “Come in, come in. Ye look a bit skinny, but praise God, ye’re ’ere at last. The place ’as been sorely neglected this past week.”

Startled by the hospitable reception, Lindsey stepped into a narrow corridor. Obviously, the housekeeper was expecting someone else. “I think—”

“I’m Mrs. Yardley and ye’re the girl from the agency. Come along downstairs, ye’ll tell us yer name and meet the staff. No sense in wastin’ time chatterin’ since there’s much work t’ be done.”

The housekeeper pushed open a door and headed down a steep staircase that had a sharp turn. Lindsey had no choice but to follow, ducking her head to avoid the low ceiling. Disregarding her own advice, Mrs. Yardley continued to gabble as she descended the steps, and Lindsey could only catch a word or two out of every three.

“Ye’ll share wid . . . upstairs . . .’alf day off . . . third Monday . . . watch ’Is Lordship . . . mind ye . . . no flirtin’ . . .”

They emerged into a long passageway with open doorways leading to various workrooms. Scurrying to keep up with Mrs. Yardley’s vigorous strides, Lindsey glanced into
the rooms as they passed, seeing a maid ironing diligently in one, a footman polishing silver in another.

The housekeeper sailed through a doorway and Lindsey found herself in a cozy kitchen with copper pots hanging from a rack and window slits set high in the stone walls. A coal fire burned merrily in the large stone hearth.

“Wait ’ere,” Mrs. Yardley instructed, then vanished into an adjoining room.

A stout cook stood at the stove, stirring a pot, talking over her shoulder to a tiny young maid who sat at a long wooden table, paring potatoes and then tossing them into a basket. Both turned to stare, and Lindsey found herself subjected to another uncomfortably close scrutiny. Perhaps they thought it odd that she hadn’t lowered the voluminous hood of her cloak now that she was out of the rain.

Mrs. Yardley bustled back into the kitchen, carrying a pile of clothing, which she handed to Lindsey. “ ’Ere’s yer gown. ’Is Lordship ain’t one to complain, not like some o’ the Quality, but ye best keep yer apron spit-spot clean. We’ve standards in this ’ouse, we do.”

Lindsey automatically held out her arms for the heap of folded garments. It dawned on her that the housekeeper assumed her to be a newly hired housemaid sent by an agency.

Nelda’s replacement.

“This ’ere’s Cook, and Essie, our scullery girl,” Mrs. Yardley said. “An’ ye’re . . .” She looked expectantly at Lindsey.

“Sally.” Lindsey blurted out the first name that came to her mind. “Sally Simmons.”

Feverish thoughts raced through her head. Should she correct the housekeeper’s mistake? Her original plan had been to pose as a relative looking for Nelda, in the hopes of eliciting information about the girl’s disappearance.

But now Providence had dropped a golden opportunity into Lindsey’s lap. In the maid’s garb, she would have unbridled access to the upstairs rooms. With any luck, there would be a chance to rummage through Mansfield’s desk for the IOU that would implicate Wrayford as a gambler. In the process, she might just stumble across a clue that would shed light on whether or not Mansfield was the Serpentine Strangler.

Her heart pounded. Did she really dare do this?

Yes, but she could only spare an hour or two. Any longer and Mama would notice her absence at breakfast. After conducting a swift search here, Lindsey would have to contrive an excuse to quit her post.

And during her brief employment, she’d have to be extremely careful not to run into the earl. It was a daunting prospect, for he was certain to recognize her on sight. He was too observant a man for her to hope she’d fade into the background like other servants.

Yet how much danger was there, really? By the time he roused himself from his bed, she would be long gone.

Thane stood lathering his face by the washbasin in his dressing room. He rinsed off his hands and dried them on a linen towel. Then he picked up the long razor, tilted his head to study himself in the mirror, and carefully shaved his jaw.

The glass reflected the image of his manservant moving behind him, laying out various articles of clothing. Thane squinted at him and frowned.