Never Trust a Rogue by Olivia Drake Page B

censorious look of disappointment. She remembered their anguish the previous year when Portia had run off with Colin, Viscount Ratcliffe. Lindsey couldn’t bear the thought of causing her family such shame.
    But the alternative was to marry Mansfield.
    He was too wicked, too dictatorial, too full of his own prideful superiority. He would never allow her the freedom to live her own life as she pleased. She would be trapped in a rarified world of parties and fashion and snobby aristocrats who would always regard her common background with disdain.
    And that wasn’t the worst of it. What if Mansfield really
was
the Serpentine Strangler?
    No one would believe a peer capable of such heinous acts, least of all her parents, who worshipped the nobility. Lindsey needed proof positive that he was the culprit. . . .
    An idea sprang full-blown into her head. Why not turn the tables on him, use the situation to her advantage? By stalling, she would gain the time to investigate him. Then once she’d exposed him as a criminal, there would be no question of a betrothal.
    Lifting her chin, she met his watchful eyes. “All right,I will yield to your proposal. But you must agree to one condition.”
    “You’re hardly in any position to make demands.”
    “Nevertheless, I must insist that we delay announcing the engagement until the end of the season in June. People will gossip otherwise. It will reflect badly on the both of us—and on Jocelyn—if you don’t spend time courting me first.”
    “Courting you.”
    “Yes. You’ll have to act the swain, send me posies, ask me to dance, write me romantic poems.”
    Mansfield thinned his lips. His possessive gaze swept her servant’s gown as if he was weighing a postponement against the prospect of immediate ownership of her.
    “A fortnight and no longer,” he countered. “And there will be no poetry.”
    “One month,” she bargained. “You’ll have to permit me to visit Jocelyn, too.”
    He continued to stare at her in that unnerving manner. “The middle of May, then. That should be sufficient time to satisfy the gossips. And to commence our courtship, I’ll call on you tomorrow at eleven.”
    But he didn’t.
    The following morning, Thane crouched beside the corpse of a young woman. Dawn was a mere thread of luminosity to the east. Its light had not yet penetrated this thicket of willows along the banks of the Serpentine.
    The ground was muddy, the shadows deep, the air heavy with the odors of lush earth and murky water. By day, this bucolic area of Hyde Park was a pleasant spot to stroll. But at this early hour, fog shrouded the pathways and caressed him with icy fingers.
    The fair-haired maidservant lay sprawled on her side as if sleeping. Her arms were folded neatly, her eyes closed.The white mobcap and stark black gown confirmed her menial status. The reddened ligature mark around her neck indicated that she had been strangled.
    Although he knew it was futile, he pressed his thumb to the inside of her cold wrist. Then he glanced up at Cyrus Bott, who stood over him with a lantern. “No pulse, of course.”
    “Exactly as I told you, m’lord,” Bott said gravely.
    The Bow Street Runner had already been on the scene when Thane had arrived. A messenger from the magistrate had banged on Thane’s door only twenty minutes earlier and a footman had come to rouse him from bed. Thane had thrown on whatever clothing he could find. His eyes still felt gritty with sleep. By contrast, Bott looked as dapper as ever, his blue coat neatly brushed, his neck cloth perfectly arranged.
    Thane had known a few like him in the military, men who arose early to preen, men who met in secret with other like-minded fellows. Thane had never been able to fathom their peculiar tastes, but he could spot them a mile off.
    The grizzled old watchman who had stumbled upon the girl shuffled closer. His fearful gaze flitted to the body. “Is it . . . is it the Strangler, then?”
    “Indeed so,”