Capturing the Devil (Stalking Jack the Ripper #4)(46)

Their belief that all would be well, or my grappling with the truth that it would not.

Thomas could work out impossible equations, but even he couldn’t make two and two equal five. I sipped my tea, relishing its sharpness. It was almost as bitter as my mood. I’d grown used to the taste of fresh herbs and looked forward to breathing in the aromatic scent.

It was especially calming as I sat in the center of my own disaster. My

wedding gown lay discarded beside me, a heap of tulle and petals and whimsy.

Which was a contrast to my reading material. Nathaniel’s journals lay strewn across what should have been my marital bed, his notes scattered and dismal like my current thoughts. I glanced at the pile and winced. I’d accidentally smudged ink on my wedding gown. It was one more loss to add to the day’s tally.

I shook my head. Death invaded even the most sacred of spaces in my life.

If it was intent on joining me in my darkest hours, I might as well welcome it.

I flipped through an entry, reading but not actually absorbing the information. I’d been so certain Thomas would visit me, but as the hours grew later, I couldn’t stop wondering if his devotion was another fantasy I’d concocted.

When the knock finally came, I sat straighter in bed, my fingers twisting my bedsheets as the door creaked open. He halted by the doorframe, leaning against it as if he were held there by some magic spell, a wary expression on his face.

After his initial inspection of me, he wouldn’t meet my gaze. How different it was from this morning, when he’d stared unabashedly into my eyes, our bodies melded into one. A thousand images fought their way into my mind—his hands in my hair, his lips on my throat, my fingers on his back, our hips pressed together. It had all been so wonderful, and now…

I clamped my jaw shut to keep from crying in front of him. The same fears were circling like vultures again, picking at the bones of my sadness. My reputation, my future. What did any of it matter? I didn’t want to think of marriage to another. Let the whole world talk of my wicked ways; they already did anyway. My lips trembled, snipping whatever cords had held Thomas in place.

In a few strides he was across the room, wrapping me in his arms. “I’m so sorry, Audrey Rose. I… I understand if you hate me or—or wish to end our—”

“Hate you?” I pulled out of his embrace, searching for any hint regarding his true emotions. His expression was carefully controlled, even now. “How could I hate you? You were unaware of the betrothal, weren’t you?”

Thomas released me to tug the letter Miss Whitehall had brandished from his jacket, holding it up by two fingers as if it were a stinking hunk of rotten meat he wished to toss away. I’d witnessed him nearly nose-deep inside more than one putrid corpse and his demeanor hadn’t been so distressed. He ran his free hand through his hair, tousling it in a most un-Thomas-like manner.

“I swear I had no inkling my father had arranged that betrothal.”

He tossed the paper to the floor, glaring as if his infernal stare might set it ablaze. An ounce of my worry dissipated. Only an ounce, however. Even though

Thomas was disgusted by this news, depending on the terms of the betrothal, there might not be anything he could do about it—his signature was on the letter.

In England, a letter requesting an engagement was as acceptable and binding as if Thomas had done so in person.

I wanted to fire a hundred questions at him, but I refrained. I watched as his icy exterior slowly melted, revealing the true depth of his own despair and worry.

“Though, given one of our last arguments in August,” he continued, “I’m not as surprised as I ought to be. Father had been rather put out that I hadn’t made more of an effort to court Miss Whitehall. I hadn’t—” He shook his head. “I hadn’t considered his motivations for doing so. Clearly, a mistake on my part.

She’s the daughter of a marquess. My father believes marriage is nothing more than a wise business transaction. It was a lesson he was trying to teach me the night I met you, actually.”

“How…” I felt my emotions bubbling up again. A marquess was several ranks higher than my father’s lordship in the British peerage. For Thomas’s father, himself a duke, allying with my family would be a much poorer match. I drew in another deep breath. “How did you meet Miss Whitehall? I thought you hadn’t courted anyone.”

I glanced up in time to see him flinch. “It was never—” He rubbed his face.

He looked tired, almost haggard. “My father requires I attend certain gatherings throughout the year. Mostly just one or two horrendous parties hosted by his friends. I met Miss Whitehall at her coming-out ball.”

He hesitated, which only made my nerves rattle more. When it seemed no further information was coming, I gathered my strength. I deserved to know.

“And?”

Thomas stood up and prowled around my small room, almost as if he were subconsciously searching for an escape route. “I knew my father wanted me to show interest, but it was the furthest thing from what I desired.” He snuck a glance at me, his lips almost quirking. “I wanted to be left alone. I considered science my one true love. Miss Whitehall was grating. She cornered me by the buffet, asking question after question.” At this memory, a full smile flashed across his face before he seemed to recall the horror of our day. “She agreed with everything I said, annoyingly so. Her eyes kept sliding over my shoulder, toward another young man. I began to understand that she was interested in my father’s title. That she’d tell me anything I wanted to hear. When I imagined how our life would unfold, I could think of no greater misery for either of us. I knew I needed