Capturing the Devil (Stalking Jack the Ripper #4)(59)

It was quite a morbid thought. One I did not wish to expand upon.

“Here.” I slid the envelope marked CONFIDENTIAL over to him. “Uncle received this earlier. It strongly suggests another Ripper murder occurred on the twentieth of December.”

Thomas read the report while I went back to Nathaniel’s journals. Or tried to.

“Tell me everything your uncle said.” His tone was calm enough for me to realize an internal storm was raging. “I need to know every detail.”

“All right…” I told him everything I could remember regarding Miss Rose Mylett’s death. He listened carefully and quietly, his jaw set and his expression perfectly placid. He politely demanded to know what Uncle had said about Blackburn, then pored over the journals, reading through them with the singular focus of a starving dog gnawing on a bone.

He didn’t say so aloud, but I saw the same fear etched into his features that had flashed in Uncle’s face. Somehow Rose Mylett might’ve been a subtle

warning directed at me. Whether or not that was true, I refused to yield to some madman who preyed upon women.

An hour ticked by, the clock on the mantel chiming ten bells. I lifted my hands above my head, stretching one way, then the next. I creaked these days more than some wooden chairs.

“I’m not sure if we’ll find anything useful for Jack the Ripper’s identity or possible location in these,” I said. “Thus far it’s simply disturbing.”

“Not nearly as disturbing as another potential Ripper murder.” Thomas ran his gaze over me as if to be certain I was still there, sitting beside him, scowling.

Another half hour flew by. I blinked, surprised to find a plate piled high with slices of cake and two forks before me. Chocolate with chocolate espresso icing and macerated raspberries in the center. A frothy glass of milk sat next to it.

Part of me longed for a bite, until I remembered it would’ve been served at our wedding. Aside from that, I was appalled by the thought of eating while reading such grotesque passages, but after a while, I gave in and ate two pieces myself.

Thomas smiled. “Terrified of clowns and spiders, but not devouring chocolate cake whilst elbows deep in morbid journals. You truly are my match, Wadsworth.”

The corner of my mouth lifted, but the easy retort quickly died. I might be in his heart and he in mine, but I was no longer his match. At least not the way we both wished to be.

His own smile faded and he returned to his work, the carefree moment floating away like a leaf on the wind. I resumed my own research, focused entirely on locating any hint or clue that might assist in our locating the real Jack the Ripper. Thus far, Nathaniel had been careful not to name his murderous comrade.

An icy fingertip traced a shiver along my spine when I turned to another disturbing section with pages upon pages of diagrams featuring intricate mechanisms fused with living tissues and organs. A heart with gears, a pair of lungs made from the leathery hide of an animal. Other organs were harder to place, though one resembled a uterus. Then there were hands, eerily similar to the steam-powered one I’d found in our home. In some ways his sketches reminded me of Mephistopheles, who was exceptionally talented at engineering.

In another life they might have been friends. I swallowed hard, suddenly overcome with emotion.

Thomas set his journal on the table, head canting to the side. “What is it?”

I pinched the bridge of my nose. “You’re not going to enjoy my thoughts.”

“On the contrary, I find them quite alluring. Especially when they’re untoward.”

This, at least, coaxed a smile to my lips. Reading about mad science and detailed murder seemed to be just the tonic Thomas required to continue flirting shamelessly. My smile disintegrated. “I was thinking about Ayden.”

“Mephisto?” Thomas narrowed his eyes. “Well, then. I hope you were picturing him fully clothed in one of his ridiculous masks and gaudy jackets.” He smiled, much too sincerely, and I braced myself for what had brought about such a contented look. “Covered in maggots might be fun, too. Remember when that happened to Prince Nicolae? It was one of the top moments of my life, really. I swear, sometimes I replay his expression as they shot out of that cadaver onto him and my mood is lifted all day. You ought to try it whenever you’re feeling glum. There”—he grinned widely—“I’m doing it right now and it’s marvelous.”

“Honestly? I scarcely remembered that, and with good reason.” I shook my head. “Also, by the by, we’re in the midst of an investigation and you’re still annoyed about Mephistopheles’s choice in sequins?”

“No.” Thomas bristled. “I’m annoyed I forgot mine and couldn’t strut around in my carnival best, too. Aside from his mediocre jokes, he truly had nothing else going in his favor. Perhaps it was best I didn’t upstage him in that regard as well.”

At my eye roll, he held his hands up. The scoundrel had definitely lightened my heavy mood and he knew it. Perhaps we could make this post-wedding friendship work. It wouldn’t be easy, but most things in life weren’t.

“All right, all right,” he relented. “What were you really thinking?”

“That he and Nathaniel would’ve been good friends.” I flipped the journal open, resuming my scan of the dark material. “Perhaps if my brother had found someone else who enjoyed crafting mechanisms… maybe he would have put his skill to better use. Maybe he’d still be alive.” I traced his writing. “Perhaps those poor women would never have been killed.”