Never Trust a Rogue (36 page)

“You—you would do that?”

“Of course. We’re the best of friends, aren’t we? And Lord Mansfield won’t be jailed, you’ll see. This is just a terrible misunderstanding. It will all be sorted out, I’m sure. In the meantime, I’ll keep the diary and make certain no one but the earl sees it.”

Jocelyn bit her lip and nodded, although she still appeared somewhat apprehensive. Lindsey rang for tea, and after fetching the girl a drawing pad and pencil she sat down at one of the tables to compose a brief note to her parents.

In it, she wrote that Wrayford had attempted to abduct her but that she had eluded him and was now safe from harm. She would be returning home shortly and would explain everything.

Deciding that the missive would reassure them for the time being, Lindsey sanded the ink and folded the paper, sealing it with a blob of hot wax. Then she went to the entrance hall and handed it to the footman on duty at the front door. He was to slip it through the mail slot at her
house without telling anyone who had asked him to deliver it.

Only then did Lindsey allow herself to contemplate the latest murder. Walking slowly back to the library, she was struck anew by the horrifying death of Miss Valentine. It was one thing to read about the Serpentine Strangler in the newspaper and quite another to have known one of the victims herself.

Last night, Wrayford had been miles away in the country without any means to travel. Didn’t that eliminate him as the murderer?

A possible scenario occurred to her. Wrayford had been in a rage at her for pushing him out of the carriage. What if he’d hitched a ride in a passing vehicle and returned to London in the wee hours of the night? What if he’d then taken out his anger at Lindsey by strangling Miss Valentine?

Gripped by a cold shudder, Lindsey rubbed her arms. She didn’t want to think that she might have been the impetus for murder. It was just too horrifying. Now, more than ever, she wanted Thane to return, to see if he knew any additional details. In the meantime, she could read the diary herself to see what information it might contain to implicate Wrayford.

As she neared the library, the sound of voices caught her attention, one male and the other belonging to Jocelyn. The girl sounded distressed again. Was she upset with the footman who had delivered the tea tray?

The tea cart was there all right, but not the footman.

Lindsey was startled to see a visitor in the room. He stood a short distance from Jocelyn, who was still sitting in the chair. Astonishingly, she brandished her cane like a sword.

“Mr. Bott!” Lindsey exclaimed. “Whatever are you doing in this house?”

“Miss Brown,” he said, bowing to her. “I wonder if you might reassure Miss Nevingford that I intend her no harm.”

“Why did he call you Miss Brown?” Jocelyn asked.

“I’ll explain later,” Lindsey said. “Now, do put down that weapon. There’s no need for it.”

As Jocelyn reluctantly lowered the cane, Lindsey’s mind raced. Bott must have come through the connecting door from Thane’s residence. Was he looking for evidence to prove Thane’s guilt?

Dear heaven.
She had left the diary lying out in plain view on the oak table where she’d written the note to her parents. Although there had to be a logical explanation for its presence in Thane’s desk, it would serve no purpose to court trouble. She should ask Bott to follow her into another room. But that would require him to walk right past the diary.

Lindsey opted to move in the opposite direction from the table, so that Bott would keep his attention on her. The ploy worked. As she walked to the connecting door, he swung to face her, his back to Jocelyn.

He looked like a typical gentleman in the dark blue coat with the brass buttons, his cravat neatly tied beneath his chin. There was nothing remarkable about his wavy brown hair and even features; he was someone she might pass on the street and never really notice. Of course, that made him ideal for detective work.

“I can’t blame Jocelyn for being alarmed,” she said. “It’s highly inappropriate for you to intrude here.”

He ducked his chin. “Please accept my sincerest apology. I
did
knock before entering.”

“I only said come in because I thought you were one of the servants,” Jocelyn said with a sniff.

Bott glanced over his shoulder at her before returning his attention to Lindsey. “Forgive my imposition. It’s just
that I’m investigating a rather urgent case. I thought perhaps Miss Nevingford could supply me with information as to Lord Mansfield’s whereabouts.”

“She doesn’t know where he is,” Lindsey said. “She hasn’t seen him today. You would be better off asking His Lordship’s valet.”

Behind the Runner, Jocelyn rose to her feet, using the cane as leverage. Her purpose quickly became clear to Lindsey. The girl was making her way toward the diary. How foolish of her to take such a risk! Didn’t she realize she would only draw his attention?

“I’m afraid the fellow wasn’t very cooperative,” Bott said ruefully, his blue eyes on Lindsey. “He seems to have taken an unfortunate dislike to me.”

“No doubt he sees you as impertinent for lingering around His Lordship’s house. I would think the best course of action for you is to leave a note for the earl and then return to Bow Street to await his summons.”

She was babbling, hoping the Runner wouldn’t look over his shoulder. Jocelyn had nearly reached the table.

Lindsey went on, “I do believe you should leave now. There can be no further purpose for you here. Good day, Mr. Bott.” She stepped aside to give him access to the connecting door. “I would suggest you go out the same way you came in.”

“Perhaps you wouldn’t mind answering one last question. Do you know where Lord Mansfield was last evening?”

She kept her face impassive, although her heart thudded hard against her ribs. “Why would I? I’m merely a visitor here, a friend of Miss Nevingford.”

He looked at her closely. “But when you came to see me, you seemed to have particular knowledge of—”

Jocelyn uttered a muffled cry. She’d caught the tip of her cane in the rug and stumbled against the table. The
diary slipped from her fingers and tumbled to the floor. Lindsey rushed to her aid, but Bott arrived there first. Clutching the table for support, Jocelyn tried to reach down for the journal, but he took it up in his hands.

“What’s this?” he asked, scowling as he opened the flyleaf. His fingers visibly tightened around the diary. “Why do you have a book belonging to Miss Valentine? Did His Lordship ask you to hide this for him?”

“Leave her be,” Lindsey began.

At that moment, the connecting door opened and Thane strode into the library. He appeared angry, his mouth set in a grim line as he glared at the Runner. “Bernard told me you were here—”

Thane stopped abruptly. “My God,” he said, his gaze honing in on Jocelyn. The severity of his countenance softened with wonder. “You’re standing up.”

Jocelyn lifted her chin proudly. “I can walk now. I’ve been practicing for weeks. See?”

Using the cane, she took a few tottering steps. But as she passed Cyrus Bott, she turned suddenly and attempted to snatch the diary out of his hands.

The Runner held resolutely to the small book. Their silent tug-of-war lasted the space of only a few seconds.

Both Thane and Lindsey rushed toward them. “What the devil are you doing?” he demanded. “If she wants the book, then by God give it to her.”

Bott stepped back with the journal in his hands. “No. This is evidence against the Serpentine Strangler.”

“Evidence?” Thane repeated with a questioning frown.

“Yes indeed. This diary belonged to Miss Harriet Valentine. She was strangled to death last night and left in Hyde Park.”

Thane’s dark eyes widened as a fleeting surprise played across his face. It was clear he’d known nothing of the
murder. Then a stony bleakness thinned his mouth. “Miss Valentine . . . that name sounds familiar.”

Lindsey’s heart sank. So she’d been wrong to believe he’d found the diary himself. That could only mean someone really
was
trying to implicate him as the murderer.

She touched his arm. “She’s the clerk at the shop, remember? The place where Jocelyn ordered her gowns.”

“She was
murdered,
” Jocelyn cried, her beseeching eyes on Thane. “And this dreadful man is trying to blame it all on
you
.”

Thane aimed a lordly stare at Bott. “Is that so?”

The Runner gave him a wary look in return. “I’ve had certain suspicions these past weeks. It seemed a bit odd to me the way you, a nobleman, came to the magistrate to offer your assistance. And the diary does put you in a rather unfavorable light, my lord, seeing as it was discovered on the premises here.”

Thane swung toward Jocelyn. “Where exactly did you find it?”

“I-I don’t know. It-it was just lying about somewhere.”

Going to her, he placed his hands on her shoulders and bent down to look deep into her eyes. “The truth, sprite. You won’t help me by spinning tall tales.”

A tear trickled down her cheek. “In-in your d-desk. Someone hid it there to-to make you look guilty.”

His expression grim, he turned to the Runner and held out his hand. “Let me see the diary.”

“I’m afraid that’s impossible,” Bott said, tucking it into an inner pocket of his coat. “You know the rules. I’m obliged to turn over all evidence to the magistrate. He’ll want to see you, too.”

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.”

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.