Capturing the Devil (Stalking Jack the Ripper #4)(72)

Thomas and I were silent. As much as I wished otherwise, Uncle had a very decent point. It did not sound like the attention-seeking man we’d been terrorized by back in London. Nor did it sound as if it were similar to the New York murder. Each of those killings were spectacles in their own right—ways for the murderer to flamboyantly show off his ability to thwart police efforts.

“I fear we left New York on a whim,” Uncle said. “Bits of poetry and newspaper clippings affixed to journals do not indicate Jack the Ripper lives. Or that he’s chosen this city to taunt next, out of the whole of America, if he has survived. I want you both to tear those journals apart, find me a bit of irrefutable proof that this isn’t some fanciful folly conjured up by your need to escape your father, Thomas.” He turned his attention on me and I withered beneath his

scornful gaze. “I sincerely hope you didn’t insist on coming here so you might dodge your own responsibilities and live in sin.”

Thomas didn’t so much as breathe.

I drew myself up. “I wished to come here because I thought this was where the Ripper was. I am not ruled by my heart, sir. Nor am I running from my heartbreak. Coming to Chicago had nothing to do with what happened in New York.” Even as I said it, I knew that wasn’t entirely true. I was all too happy to rush from New York without a second thought. What he’d said about Thomas, though… I stepped forward, fists clenched at my sides. “And are you suggesting Thomas invented a lead for his benefit alone? You know him better than that, Uncle. He would never abuse your trust or our privilege—”

“It would not be the first time a young man has twisted the truth in order to get what he most wants.” Uncle held up a hand, not permitting me any further liberty to speak. I was so angry I feared steam was spewing from my ears. “Find me proof that this is where Jack the Ripper is hunting now, or we’ll return to New York by week’s end.” He met Thomas’s gaze. “No matter how brilliant you are, Thomas, I’ll deliver you back to London personally, should this have been an elaborate stunt to corrupt my niece.”





THIRTY-ONE

DEVIL’S DOMINION

GRANDMAMA’S ESTATE

CHICAGO, ILLINOIS





10 FEBRUARY 1889


Sleet pelted the tin roof of our borrowed home, the drops steady and rhythmic. It took some getting used to at first, but soon it became comfortable background noise, almost lulling me to sleep despite our newest task. I took a sip of mint tea, relishing the fresh, clean taste. Thunder crashed in the distance, lighting the room in a flash of silvery white. I pulled my shawl closer. While I hadn’t recently conjured up images of wolves or other dark creatures stalking the night, on evenings such as this, my mind played devilish tricks.

A second crash of thunder had me sucking in my breath. I looked at the window as the night sky was set ablaze. Thin lines of ice crept along the windowpane, as delicate as lace. Mother Nature was a fine seamstress, her stitches almost as carefully worked as mine when I closed up a corpse.

Thomas lifted his head from his own work, a slight smile starting. “Are you afraid of thunder, Wadsworth?” I gave him my most unpleasant look, not deigning to respond. He already teased me endlessly about clowns and spiders.

“I wouldn’t mind holding you under the covers until the storm passes. I would feel quite gentlemanly.”

I inhaled sharply and the room felt as if it did, too. Images of our pre-wedding night flashed through my mind. Thomas watched me very carefully, his expression a mixture of desperate hope and unrelenting fear. Hope that I’d tease him back in our familiar way. And fear that I wouldn’t, that his father had truly

succeeded in driving us apart for good. My pause lasted only a moment, but it felt like forever.

“You would offer to do that, wouldn’t you?” I said, finally collecting myself.

“I’m surprised you didn’t suggest we do so without our clothing. You’re losing your Cresswell touch.”

Relief instantly replaced the building tension in the room.

“Actually, I was about to suggest that next. And not for entirely selfish reasons, either.” His expression was too innocent, which indicated trouble. “Did you know snuggling skin to skin releases endorphins which assist with increased brain activity? If we decide to forgo clothing and hold each other until the storm passes, we might solve this case faster.”

“What medical journal did you read that in?” I narrowed my eyes. “I thought laying skin to skin was proven effective during hypothermia.”

“Don’t be cross with me.” Thomas held his hands up. “I cannot help quoting scientific fact. If you’d prefer proof, we could we test this experiment out. Let’s see who’s right.”

“Would that it were actual scientific fact and not an attempt for wanton follies, I might agree to it.”

“What better kind of follies are there?”

My attention strayed to his lips, but I quickly banished any longing for them.

If we didn’t work on proving Chicago was the most likely place Jack the Ripper would strike next, I’d have to watch him leave for England to marry Miss Whitehall.

Ignoring that misery, I shoved the journal away. “Maybe Uncle is correct.

Maybe the Ripper is truly dead and we’re chasing his ghost.”