Capturing the Devil (Stalking Jack the Ripper #4)(50)

It was the hardest, most treacherous act I’d ever been forced to commit.

Though in truth I had not done this to him. That blame rested solely on his father.

“We must both be strong.” I stared at my feet, at the slippers he’d so lovingly had made. These new ones were pale blue with tiny white orchids. “I cannot bear it otherwise. I cannot—” I swallowed hard. “Please, Thomas. Please do not make

this harder than it is. I fear I might collapse.”

Thomas stood for another moment, hands limp at his sides. I didn’t believe he knew what to do or where to go next, either. We’d fought for each other, had been through so much and had grown together, only to have our future snatched away in an instant by an enemy we hadn’t seen coming. He was eerily quiet. I dared a glance up, meeting his fierce expression. There was a look of battle in his gaze that startled me. I waited, breath held, for him to speak. To declare this was not how our love story ended.

He offered a jerk of his chin and walked stiffly to the door. I kept staring as he disappeared through it, his footsteps receding down the corridor, and discovered I’d been wrong once again. I was capable of many more tears. One drop, followed by another, hit the tops of my satin slippers, staining them a deeper hue. I kicked them off and plunged under my covers, listening as my heart snapped in half.

On this day, one we were supposed to cherish for eternity, I wept on top of Jack the Ripper’s journals. I could not control my sorrow, and I cried until the sun rose, turning the sky a vicious, deep red. Once I’d exhausted myself, I fell unwillingly into a fitful sleep.

There, the devil waited, his lips pulled into a sneer. I’d once again fallen into my own personal Hell. This time I couldn’t tell what was worse—my dreams or my reality.





Saint Michael the

Archangel: the fall of the

dragon and the rebel

angels defeated by St

Michael





TWENTY-TWO

A QUEEN ARRIVES

GRANDMAMA’S DINING ROOM

FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK CITY

7 FEBRUARY 1889

After much internal debate, I walked into the breakfast room, head held high, ready to face Thomas in the aftermath of our failed wedding—and almost tripped over my velvet skirts at the unexpected sight that met me there. I bit the inside of my cheek to be sure I wasn’t hallucinating. A shock of pain indicated I was indeed awake. I almost preferred to be conjuring up images again.

There, looking like a queen on her throne, sat Grandmama. And she did not appear pleased. My gaze traveled to the newspaper set before her, quickly scanning the headline.

OUR JACK THE RIPPER.





HE DISEMBOWELS A WOMAN


IN NEW-YORK.

————

He Leaves His Mark In the Shape of a

Cross Cut on the Spine—Police Mystified, but Working Hard.

“Grandmama.” I offered my most humble curtsy. I wished to run to her, fold myself into her arms, sit in her lap, and have her smooth each of my worries

away. But she wouldn’t tolerate such acts. At least not in front of the others in the room. “What a wonderful surprise.”

“You lie like a Wadsworth.”

My smile remained frozen in place. I did not think her sour mood was entirely due to the unpleasant news of a mutilated corpse. I had no doubt she’d been informed of yesterday’s events, and dread filled me. First Miss Whitehall, now Grandmama. If Thomas’s family arrived next, I might turn to religion after all.

While she inspected me from crown to toe, I subtly did the same. Her silks were deep turquoise with silver stitching, the details of the design reminding me of fabrics from her native India. Diamonds sparkled at her wrists, ears, and neck in the light. She’d dressed impeccably, as always. I let out a silent prayer of thanks for choosing my own dress with care. While I’d felt like donning a burlap sack to match the new bags under my eyes, I’d ultimately gone with a daring French-inspired design from Dogwood Lane Boutique.

It was deep scarlet edged with delicate gold lace, the colors bringing out the green in my eyes and the blackness of my hair. I’d slipped on one of the extravagant—yet functional—pairs of shoes Thomas had had made: black with gold flowers and vines embroidered on them, the toes peeking out in their own dazzling way.

If I were destined to be jilted, I’d look my best in the process. It was petty, especially since this situation was not entirely her fault, but imagining Miss Whitehall seeing me dressed like a goddess of the underworld offered a twinge of satisfaction I desperately needed.

Grandmama continued scanning me, her expression impossible to decipher. I straightened under her scrutiny, hoping I appeared less nervous than I was. Her gaze was watchful and sharp like a hawk’s. And I was done feeling like prey.

“How was your trip?” I asked sweetly. “It’s been a while since you’ve returned to India.”

She motioned with a gnarled hand to come closer, as if she hadn’t already inspected me within an inch of my life. Arthritis had plagued her for years and now seemed to pain her greatly. After each movement, I noticed a flash of a wince.

“You look as if you’ve been sent to chop onions as a punishment. Your eyes are too red.” She grabbed my collar, tugging me close enough to sniff dramatically. “You smell like lemon verbena. And sorrow.”