Free Never Trust a Rogue by Olivia Drake Page B

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.

Chapter 7

    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 mostgentlemen 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