Stalking Jack the Ripper (Stalking Jack the Ripper #1)(12)

I nodded slowly, collecting my racing thoughts. Somehow, that voice was familiar. He gently pulled me into the shadows, our bodies pressed together most inappropriately, and even though I thought I recognized his voice, I didn’t make his job easy. I’d show him how right my mother was about roses having both petals and thorns.

Digging my heels in, I kicked and tried scratching his arms, with little success. We stumbled into the alley, our limbs knocking together, and he ooomphed as my elbow connected with his stomach. Good. If I died now, at least I’d have some satisfaction of having injured the beast. My momentary victory was short-lived—my bulky skirts weighed down any more attempts at fleeing, and the monstrous fog finally swallowed us whole.

Once we were far enough away from the pub and the gas lamps lining the cobbled streets, my attacker released me as promised. My chest heaved with fear and rage. Bracing myself for a fight, I spun on my heel, blinking disbelief away.

Thomas Cresswell stood with his arms crossed at his chest, a slight frown turning down his handsome features. He, too, was dressed solidly in black, with the addition of a cap pulled low over his brow. His profile cast sharp shadows in the waning light.

There was an almost dangerous aura about him cautioning me away, but anger seethed through my veins. I was going to kill him.

“Are you completely mad? Was that necessary?” I demanded, both fists planted on my hips to avoid strangling him. “You could’ve simply asked me to follow you! And what do you think you’re doing skulking along the streets at this ungodly hour?”

He eyed me warily, then ran a hand down his tired-looking face. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think he’d possibly been worried. “I could ask the same of you, Miss Wadsworth. But I’d rather save that spectacle for your brother.”

“My—” I didn’t have time to finish my sentence before Nathaniel appeared like the Ghost of Christmas Past, looking less than amused. For once, I was without words.

Nathaniel nodded toward Thomas, then grabbed me roughly by my elbow, pulling me deeper into the shadows and out of earshot. I wrenched around, glaring, but Thomas’s attention was fixed on the arm Nathaniel was latched onto, the muscle in his jaw clenching. His reaction confounded me enough to go along with my brother peacefully.

“Please spare me any of your ridiculous stories, Sister,” Nathaniel whispered harshly when we were far enough away. “I don’t even want to know why you thought it a fine idea to traipse around darkened streets while a murderer is stalking women. Do you have some sort of death wish?”

I got the impression this was a rhetorical question. I kept quiet by squeezing the material of my skirts between my fingers. What I wanted to do was shake his rough hand off my elbow where he was still gripping me a bit too hard. I also wanted to scold him for being as overprotective as Father and reacting hysterically.

But couldn’t bring myself to do either of those things.

Nathaniel released me, then tugged at his fine leather gloves until his face slowly returned to a more natural color instead of the blazing red of the Queen’s Guard.

He sighed, running a hand through his fair hair.

“Losing Mother was bad enough.” His voice caught and he coughed the emotion away, yanking his comb out from beneath his overcoat. “Don’t expect me to sit back and watch you recklessly endanger yourself, little sister.” His eyes dared me to say one stupid thing. “It would destroy me. Understand?”

As quickly as my temper flared, my ire was quelled. For the last five years it was the two of us against the world. Father was too lost in sorrow to really be present. Putting myself in Nathaniel’s place, I could see the minute cracks of my emotions shattering should I ever lose him.

“I’m sorry for worrying you, Nathaniel. Truly.” I meant every word of the apology. Then a thought struck. I narrowed my eyes. “Why, might I ask, are you trolling around back alleyways with that devil Mr. Cresswell?”

“If you must know,” Nathaniel said a bit haughtily, adjusting his collar, “we’re not the only ones out here.”

Now this had my full attention. I raised a brow, waiting while my brother scanned the abandoned area around us. “A group of us are doing a bit of our own inquiry. We’ve taken up posts throughout Whitechapel and are looking for suspicious persons. We’re calling ourselves the ‘Knights of Whitechapel.’”

I blinked. The only people who looked sorely out of place were my well-dressed brother and his ridiculous hat-wearing lackey. I could only imagine what the rest of the highborn boys looked like in this neighborhood.

“The Knights of Whitechapel,” I repeated. My brother wasn’t capable of hurting a common housefly; I hated imagining what some diabolical killer might do to him out here in the dark. “You cannot be serious, Nathaniel. What would you possibly do if you came face to face with this murderer, offer him a silver comb or perhaps some French wine?”

A dark look crossed my brother’s face.

“You’d be surprised what I’d manage should the need arise.” Nathaniel gritted his teeth. “He’d soon discover he’s not the only one who can induce fear. Now, then”—he angled me back down the alleyway toward the lone figure standing near the end—“Mr. Cresswell will see that you make it home safely.”

The last thing I wanted was to be escorted home by Mr. Thomas Cresswell. He was quite smug enough. “If you’re staying out here, then so am I.”