Capturing the Devil (Stalking Jack the Ripper #4)(52)

Though I knew they were listening with keen interest. Thomas’s lineage was his story to tell. He’d been careful with what people in London knew, and I didn’t wish to be the one who divulged his secret. I still had much to learn about his family. My aunt meant no malice, but she enjoyed chatting with acquaintances over tea. I did not want her to inadvertently make Thomas the center of more gossip.

“Well?” Grandmama pressed. “Will you tell me who he is before I go to my grave?”

“He’s the son of a duke.”

Her eyes narrowed. Though she’d fallen in love with an Englishman with a title of his own, she did not care for the English or their peerage. She never let anyone forget that the English—most of them, anyway—were nothing but colonizers who wished to obliterate cultures instead of enrich their own by learning the ways of others. She spoke the truth freely, which made others uncomfortable. Confronting demons was never a pleasant task, especially when they were your own.

“Duke?” she echoed, lip curling.

“The Duke of Portland,” I said, purposely misunderstanding her meaning.

“He’s quite a formidable man, from what I’ve heard.”

“I imagine that’s true, considering how loathsome he must be, ruining his heir’s happiness. What sort of devious person arranges a betrothal of such a dubious nature?” She shook her head. “It’s for the best you didn’t marry into that household. They’d be the sort who’d steal the silver and peddle it off to the gambling halls. Think of all the pounds you’ll save not having to replace the silver.”

I sighed, staring longingly at my scone. The raspberry preserves now looked as if I’d dragged the bloody remains of my heart across my plate. I pushed my breakfast away. It was one more casualty of the last twenty-four hours. “How was India?”

“Would that Her Majesty, the imperial empress and giant donkey’s ass, decided to stay out of our affairs, it might have been well.”

Aunt Amelia subtly crossed herself. Speaking ill of the queen was treasonous, but I had to agree with my grandmother on this point. Invading



another country, warring with its people, and then forcing them to adopt your ways was the epitome of barbarous. A term often thrown around regarding the innocent people who’d been conquered by the true barbarians. My grandmother loved my grandfather wholly, but that did not mean she ever forgot who she was or where she hailed from. I believe he’d loved her all the more for her conviction.

“I’ve heard—” I snapped my mouth shut as Uncle banged the door open, spectacles askew. I recognized his look immediately. Either a new body lay waiting for our scalpels to explore, or there was a new development in our Ripper-like case.

“I need to speak with you.” He jabbed a finger in my direction. “At once!” he barked when I hadn’t moved instantly. As if noticing the other women in the breakfast room, he nodded, his attention pausing on my grandmother. “Good morning, Lady Everleigh. I trust you’re well?”

“Hmmmph,” she grunted, not bothering to elaborate. “Mind your manners, Jonathan. They’re abysmal.”

“Yes, well.” Uncle turned on his heel, letting the door shut behind him. As if my life hadn’t already reached a crescendo in turmoil, things were boiling over everywhere I turned.

I bid my grandmother good-bye and hurried after Uncle, my cane clicking in time with my heart. The day had only just begun, and I already wished for the comfort of my bed.

“That bloody fool arrested a man.” Uncle slammed the newspaper down on the large writing desk in Grandmama’s library. “Apparently, Frenchy Number One was the unfortunate pick.”

EXTRA.





Frenchy No. 1


————

Is He the Man Who Murdered





Carrie Brown in the


East River Hotel?

————

Arrested Last Friday and at

Police Headquarters





Ever Since.


————

BloodStains on His Hands and

Clothes and in His





Room.


————

I scanned the Evening World newspaper article, shaking my head. “They mention blood being found on his doorknob, but that isn’t true.”

I thought back to the crime scene. The papers alleged that the man who’d been arrested, a Mr. Ameer Bin Ali, had rented the room across from Miss Brown, and they’d found bloodstains on the interior and exterior of his door. The only blood I recalled outside of the victim’s room had been droplets found in the corridor, leading very much away from the crime scene and the supposed killer’s own door.

“Did they inquire about his profession?” I asked, remembering the butchers’

row located not far from the hotel. “For all they know, it might be animal blood.

If there was in fact blood present.”

Uncle twisted his mustache, attention focused inward. After another moment of inner debate, he slid an envelope over. “This arrived from London. It’s late in finding me, as it traveled to Romania first before getting forwarded here in New York.”

A plain, otherwise unremarkable envelope with a large red CONFIDENTIAL