The Dark Seduction of Miss Jane Read online

  “Were you able to see anything?” Wesley eyed the inspector and the men circled around him as he spoke. He appeared to be giving out instructions.

  “No, they’ve shielded something from the crowd.” Jane looked at Wesley, knowing that whatever it was, seemed very small. Wrapped in the hospital drape, it had taken only one man to carry it back to the ambulance. “Has this happened before? Do they have any leads?”

  Wesley hesitated, and then gently took her arm. “We’ll discuss this in private, Jane. Not here on the street.”

  She walked beside him, his arm looped through hers. She slowed as they passed by the inspector and the small group of men he spoke to, hoping to overhear some of what was being said. She was so focused on listening that she didn’t realize until too late the dark eyes of the inspector studying her. Transfixed, she regarded him and his brooding expression. His firm jaw looked as though untouched by his morning razor, clenched as his provocative mouth turned down in a grim frown. His eyes, unwavering, held hers, following her like a panther watching his prey. Despite the warm temperature, a shiver skated across her shoulders. Jane forced herself to look away.

  Chapter Three

  Later that afternoon, refreshed from a short nap, Jane enjoyed afternoon tea in the Writers House parlor. The inspector’s stormy expression drifted in and out of her dreams. “I hadn’t intended to rest so long,” she apologized as she took the warm teacup from Isabella.

  “You had to have been weary, my dear, from your long journey,” Isabella stated with a motherly smile. “Milk?”

  Jane shook her head. The unusual events of the morning had caused her a brief moment where she reconsidered the idea of staying alone in the house. But she reminded herself that, if she wanted to ever truly become liberated, she must learn to face her fears.

  Isabella cast her a worried look. “I must reiterate, my dear, that I still have misgivings about you staying here, even with Benning and Martha.”

  Wesley, who’d remained quiet up till now, interjected with a chuckle, “The woman has just traveled across the Atlantic, my dear.” He glanced at Jane with a smile. “My aunt worries far too much for her own good. She is the same with everyone, of course, which is what sets her above all other women, in that she cares so deeply.”

  Isabella blushed. “Go on, Wesley. You’re such a charmer.”

  Jane set her tea on the table and walked to the second-story window. The parlor of the club was bright and airy, filled with light from the tall, narrow windows overlooking the street below. The house was located not far from the bustling businesses of Fleet Street, right near the heart of London’s newspaper district. A thrill of excitement caused her to hug her arms as she thought of getting to read the paper that came from the printing press just around the corner. Tomorrow morning, in fact, she might read about the incident they’d seen on the street. “Has there been much publicity with regard to these strange murders?”

  Isabella’s gasp resulted in a coughing fit. Wesley patted her on the back. Jane rushed to be of help, but the rotund woman waved them both off.

  “I didn’t mean to alarm you, Isabella,” Jane said, holding the woman’s shoulder. “I am prone to blurting out whatever is on my mind, I’m afraid. A habit my aunt wishes I would learn to control.”

  Wesley tossed her a frown as he sat down. He seemed reluctant to speak, but with a quick glance at his aunt, he said, “The Yard is keeping this investigation very close to the cuff. The public has dubbed the discoveries the Thames mysteries. But more of a mystery is why the yard is keeping it so quiet. Some say the Queen has ordered the investigation to be carried out quietly, because of her Jubilee plans.” He took a sip of his tea. “Still, they’ve not made any of their findings official, so it’s hard to say whether they are murders.”

  Jane’s gaze widened. She’d heard the whispers, seen the small sheet-covered object. It seemed clear that someone was committing a crime. “Forgive me, but what else could it possibly be? Surely they don’t feel this is an accident?”

  Wesley shrugged. “All I’m saying is that there’s been no official release of what’s been found, or any report of the investigation.”

  “But how can you dismiss what we heard in the crowd today?” Jane asked.

  “Unless someone has the proof to back it up, then it is simply pure and unsubstantiated gossip,” he remarked, swallowing the remains of his tea.

  “But you saw the ambulance,” she argued.

  “Indeed, but I did not see what they hauled off, did you?”

  “A technicality,” she stated, fuming inside that Wesley was correct. She paced the room. “What other options are we talking about, then? Doesn’t the public have a right to know that there may be a murderer walking the streets?”

  Wesley looked up, his grin wry. “If you are indeed concerned, Jane, I can make it my solemn duty to watch over you day and night.”

  “Wesley!” Isabella’s cup clattered on her saucer.

  Jane smiled, enjoying the light flirtation. Wesley had a rebellious streak that she liked. “What a great relief that I have no need to worry my pretty little head as long as you’re around.” She stopped in front of the many library bookshelves, perusing the titles. “It might interest you to know that my father taught me how to handle a rifle when I was quite young, barely ten, as I recall. And I was winner of my junior-class fencing program at Bradford University. My parents believed that women should be independent and capable. What is your thinking along those lines, Mr. Hampton?” she asked, purposely goading him.

  He emitted a long-suffering sigh. “I do find a capable woman refreshing, Miss Goodwin. I have no qualms with a woman who wishes to be independent and, moreover, isn’t afraid to speak her mind.”

  She slid him a glance. “Indeed, I think your aunt is correct. You are a charmer.”

  He shrugged. “A woman can profess to be independent in many things, but there are still times when a man’s involvement is necessary.”

  “That is quite enough, Wesley Hampton,” his aunt spoke.

  “Name one,” Jane fired back as she crossed her arms.

  “Jane!” Isabella turned in her chair and pinned Jane with a shocked expression.

  Wesley’s mouth curled into a wicked smile. He lifted his brow and set down his cup. “A conversation left to another day.”

  She chuckled. It was refreshing to have the freedom to speak to an open-minded man, regardless of how much of a shock it was to his aunt. Jane moved to the desk, admiring the uncluttered workspace and the gleaming new typesetting machine. “There are those, Mr. Hampton, who would tell you that a man is not required for even that.”

  Wesley covered his laugh by clearing his throat. “Well, as intrigued as I am to hear more of what you have to say on that topic, I’m afraid I must be off. I have my weekly card game at the club to attend.”

  “Men only?” Jane asked.

  Wesley rose and faced her. “Unless you wish to make a stand about it? Are you any good at cards, Miss Goodwin?”

  “Lucky for you, cards are not my forte.” She returned to her seat.

  Wesley picked up his hat and stood looking down at Jane. “Then perhaps you’ll permit me the pleasure of teaching you something that you don’t excel in.” He grinned, offered her a bow, and then regarded her with a sincere look of concern. “Regardless of the fact that you are clearly a most capable woman, Miss Goodwin, I would caution you about delving into matters for which you are not trained. Our men at Scotland Yard are the professionals, highly qualified to investigate dangerous matters.”

  Jane held his gaze, and then nodded. “I shall not go nosing about anywhere without first informing you. Is that acceptable?”

  His gaze narrowed on her. “Spoken like a hard-headed woman.”

  She grinned. They were going to get on famously. “And that is just the response I would expect from a man.”

  Isabella blew out an audible sigh. “The pair of you spells trouble, I can feel it.” She shook her head, but h
ad a soft smile on her face.

  “Ah, but Aunt Isabella, I think you rather enjoy it.” Wesley plucked her hand from her lap and brushed a quick kiss over the back. “Ladies, I bid you adieu, enjoy your tea.”

  “He means well, you know,” Isabella said after Benning showed Wesley to the door.

  “He’s not unlike other men,” Jane responded. Wesley had a smart wit, but deep down Jane wondered just how liberal-minded he really was when it came to women.

  “In some ways,” Isabella said with a shrug. “But he has a sincere heart, and believe me, the women in this club have taken full advantage of that.”

  Jane considered whether he was the instigator or the recipient—or perhaps a measure of both. “Well, I find him delightful. I can’t remember when I’ve felt so utterly at ease in speaking to a man. I am very much looking forward to spending more time with him.”

  “Excellent.” Wesley’s aunt clapped her hands together. “Because I have asked him to be your escort while you are here.” Isabella’s smile was filled with pride. Jane recognized the gleam in her eye—a matchmaker. While Jane anticipated that she and Wesley were to be great friends, she had no designs of allowing anything further to develop. Despite the wishes of her aunt and Isabella, coming to London to find a man was not her intent. “I doubt that his services will be necessary, though I thank you. I am quite capable on my own.”

  Isabella placed her teacup down and pinned Jane with a motherly look. “We may be forward thinking here at Writers House, but we abide by a few rules. It is for your own safety, my dear, that I insist Wesley accompany you.”

  Jane smiled pleasantly, understanding that the topic was no longer up for debate. However, she had opened the door to another matter on Jane’s mind. “Speaking of safety, has the newspaper printed any articles about the—what did Wesley call them? The Thames mysteries?”

  Isabella’s smile dissolved. “Young woman, while I admire your tenacity to pursue journalistic endeavors, perhaps it is best to begin with a less gruesome—perhaps even less dangerous—topic?”

  Jane was mildly surprised at Isabella Hampton’s discomfiture, but pressed on. “While standing in the crowd today, I overheard one woman say to another that it was a leg they’d found—severed at the hip.”

  “So you were eavesdropping,” Isabella interjected. “Bad form, if I may remind you, insofar as valid reporting.”

  “I prefer to think of it as practicing the fine art of listening. At any rate, when I asked Wesley, he refused to speak about it. I had hoped to find a way to have a moment or two with this Inspector Mansfield to ask him a few questions.”

  “Inspector Mansfield is a very busy man.” Isabella straightened her shoulders. “And I am not sure that this is the type of journalistic endeavor you should pursue, Jane.”

  “Ah, then you feel that I should instead focus my writing on such riveting articles as social etiquette at tea, and the latest in fashion from Paris?” Jane’s response was dry. “Is that all that women are allowed to write about?” She had hoped that the members of Writers House had a better association with the local papers.

  “Well, yes and no. Jonesy, one of our members, once wrote reviews on London theater. She did so anonymously and was really quite successful.”

  “What happened?” Jane asked.

  Isabella refreshed her tea, stirring in a lump of sugar. “She used a non de plume and sent her article in by courier each week. No one ever saw her and no one questioned that it wasn’t a man’s viewpoint. It was simply assumed. Impressed by her work, they requested a meeting to discuss a possible series of articles on the changing face of the theater. The problem was that when she walked into the meeting, they refused her admittance, dismissing her without an explanation. The poor editor who once praised her work was immediately fired. Within a week another writer, a man, had taken over the column in the reviews section.”

  “That’s utterly ridiculous.” Jane stared at Isabella in disbelief. How could a successful newspaper see the popularity of a column and yet be unwilling to give credit to its author because she was a woman? “What did she do?”

  Isabella sighed. “What could she do? No lawyer would take on such an issue. She was bloody angry at first and took up writing speeches for women’s groups and underground papers. Now she is working on writing her memoirs.”

  “Her memoirs?” Jane responded in surprise. “That’s an adventuresome undertaking.”

  “As you will understand more fully when you meet her. Jonesy is a formidable woman, to say the least. When she sets a goal, she usually achieves it,” Isabella remarked.

  “As do I,” Jane said fiercely. “I must be frank. When a subject is of great interest to me, as is this one, I am not above stepping outside the rules of social protocol. But I would prefer your help. If I do not follow my instinct for news, then how am I to learn to be an investigative reporter?”

  “You are not going to let this rest, are you?” Isabella darted Jane a worried glance. She sighed. “Writing about murder,” she whispered, “is far different than writing reviews, Jane. If your aunt knew that I encouraged this, she would have you on a ship by morning.” Isabella fidgeted with the buttons on high-neck blouse.

  “My aunt is well aware of my passion for this type of journalism, I assure you. But if it concerns you, then she needn’t know. I am merely curious to find out why there have not been continued updates to the public concerning these findings. If Scotland Yard is in charge of the investigation, then doesn’t it make sense that they would want my facts to come from the head of the investigation?” By the conflicted look on Isabella’s face, Jane knew that the woman was beginning to concede.

  “True, I appreciate you asking my aid. You should. I promised your aunt I would look out for you. The inspector is a fine man, professionally speaking. A bit of a recluse, though. There’ve been rumors…about his past. I’m just not sure that I feel comfortable about you meeting with him alone.” She shook her head. “No, after further thought on the matter, I’m not at all comfortable with this idea you’re pursuing.”

  Jane made an appeal to her sense of civic duty. “Isabella, surely you must feel as I do that the better informed the public is, the better help they may be to the authorities.” She saw the flicker of acceptance in the woman’s eyes. “Besides, I am not intimidated merely by rumors.”

  Isabella gave her a speculative glance. “It is true that the CID has encouraged the public to come forward if they have seen anything suspicious that might help with the case.”

  “Excuse me, what exactly is the CID?”

  “The Criminal Investigation Department. It was created with the hope of bridging the ever-widening gap between the people and Her Majesty.”

  That alone was intriguing news. “Is that to say that there is unrest with palace authority?” she asked. “Do you suppose these crimes involve someone trying to send her a message, albeit a grim one?” Jane’s thoughts swam with questions.

  Isabella shrugged. “I doubt it. The unrest in London goes beyond its governing bodies.. It is human nature—the rich despise the poor and the poor feel the same about the wealthy. As far as the inspector and the ugly rumors that haunt him…well, that comes partly from the fact that he is one of the youngest inspectors to achieve a coveted spot in the CID. They say he’s driven by the demons of his past, though no one really knows. Much remains mere speculation.”

  Jane remembered his dark look of resolve and his purposeful stride. Of all people, she could appreciate how the past could drive a person—either forward or back. She had no desire to revisit her past. Forward then, she marched on. “I assure you I am not interested in making life difficult for your inspector or his investigation. I simply wish to ask him a few questions.”

  Isabella studied Jane, her eyes lighting with an idea. “There might be a way you could have a few moments to speak with him, right here at the Writers House, if he is agreeable.”

  “I am all ears.” Jane leaned forward.

 
“Each Friday we host an open tea for potential new members. We have a program and refreshments. This week we have a Russian illusionist coming to speak with us about his tour at the Royal Pavilion.”

  “It sounds lovely.” Jane thought immediately of the teas her aunt held on Thursday afternoons with the Beacon Hill historical society. She’d observe unseen, watch the plumes of their ornately embellished hats bob to and fro as they spoke. What a group of women could talk about for so many hours was beyond her. The best part for Jane was sneaking into the kitchen afterwards to sample the small teacakes left on the polished silver tray.

  “We will use it to introduce you to members of our artistic community, and invite Inspector Mansfield. He, Clarice, and Jonesy are old acquaintances. Surely, he would find it a benefit to meet some of the public whom he works so hard to please.”

  “Tea…for a man whose schedule is so full? Do you really think he will come?” The thought of the austere man she’d bumped into sipping tea didn’t seem to fit. Nonetheless, an unexpected thrill skittered up her spine.

  Isabella shot Jane a coy grin. “One would think that a handsome, single man such as the inspector wouldn’t miss the chance to formally meet our lovely, young aspiring journalist from America. And it gives him a room full of people to speak with as a representative of his department. It is quite possible that he’ll find your idea of printing articles about the investigation helpful, instead of letting the public stir the rumor mill. You will need his permission,” she cautioned. “We certainly prefer to stay on the good graces of the law.”