Capturing the Devil (Stalking Jack the Ripper #4)(74)

I brushed my lips against his, relishing the way his gaze darkened with the same longing I felt. I tipped his face up, wanting to fall into the depths of his rich brown eyes.

“Yes.” I kissed him again, more fully. “I’d enjoy going on an adventure with you very much.”



He gripped me by the waist, pressing me against the table, deepening our embrace until I worried we might not make it from this room before tearing each other’s clothes from our backs. Most unexpectedly, he stepped away, his breathing uneven.

“Grab your coat. I’ll go ready the hansom.” His eyes sparkled with mischief as he rubbed his hands together. “You, my love, are in for quite a treat.”

I stood there, mouth agape, trying to collect myself. It seemed our ideas of nighttime adventures were vastly different, though this turn was no less intriguing. After taking a few steady breaths, I called for my cloak.

Snow replaced ice and rain on our ride through the city, turning the buildings a riot of color. It was magnificent, seeing the multihued lights of theaters and saloons set against a backdrop of purity. Vices versus morals; the ultimate struggle of this city.

I glanced around, one hand gripping my cane, the other my cloak. While I’d envisioned cuddling in bed, Thomas had brought me to a rather questionable establishment. Snow covered much of the disrepair of the building like a thick layer of stage makeup hiding imperfections. Rats rustled in rubbish bins in the nearest alleyway.

“Well?” he asked. “Aren’t you excited?”

I was cold, snowflakes were finding every chink in my wintry armor, and I’d no idea how this would aid our current investigation. Perhaps he’d brought us here to get stabbed for giggles. “You brought me to a bawdy saloon, Thomas.

I’m not quite sure how I feel.”

He grinned like there were more secrets he was keeping and held an arm out.

“Once you sip some brandy and dance on the tables, I’m sure you’ll feel fine.”

“Honestly, what is your obsession with drinking spirits and dancing on tables?” I shook my head but followed him into the saloon, my curiosity piqued.

If the White City had been angelic, this saloon—appropriately named the Devil’s Den—was most certainly its opposite in every way. The interior was like stepping into an empty body cavity or deep cavern—deep plum curtains, ebony walls, and a long bar made of a wood so dark it might have been inspired by the blackest of nights. I stared at it, noticing that carvings of devils with raven wings decorated each end.

Electrical chandeliers sat like spiderwebs above us, every other bulb burned

out. Absinthe bottles glowed an unearthly green while looking glasses sat behind them, magnifying their etherealness. I expected there to be music, some hedonistic drumming, but the only symphony was the sound of voices.

Men and women chatted happily, if a bit drunkenly. Some women wore burlesque costumes; others were covered to their necks in finery. People from every class mingled, though some seemed more uneasy than others. There was almost something familiar about the—A young dark-haired man bumped into me, apologizing a bit too zealously.

“It’s all right.” I didn’t spare him more than a quick glance. I was too worried I’d be swept into dancing the cancan like I’d done with the Moonlight Carnival.

Which was exactly what this reminded me of—the performers-only party I’d attended on the Etruria. Thomas watched me carefully, his mouth twitching.

“What? Why are you smirking like that?”

He lifted a shoulder, his grin spreading.

“Let me buy you something to make up for my rudeness,” the young man insisted. I’d already forgotten him. “Have you tasted the green fairy? She’s quite delightful.”

Pushing Thomas’s amused expression away, I turned back on the drunken man, doing my best to hold both my tongue and cane in check. “That really won’t be— Mephistopheles?”





THIRTY-TWO

THORNE IN MY SIDE

THE DEVIL’S DEN

CHICAGO, ILLINOIS





10 FEBRUARY 1889


I blinked as if he were an illusion. He was not. There stood the young ringmaster of the Moonlight Carnival, as proud as a peacock, practically preening. “What on earth are you doing here?” I asked. He looked at Thomas, brows raised, and I braced myself. In any universe where they were conspiring, it meant trouble.

“Did you arrange this meeting?” Thomas gave me a sheepish look. Letting that anomaly slide, I studied the ringmaster. “Where’s your mask?”

“Safely tucked away for when we begin traveling again.” He chuckled. “It’s absolutely a joy to see you again, too, Miss Wadsworth.” His dark eyes traveled to the ring on my finger as he took the liberty of kissing my hand. “Or is it Lady Cresswell now?”

I might have imagined it, but it seemed as if his question held a note of sadness. Misplaced if so, considering we’d only known each other for a little over a week.

“Easy now, Mephisto,” Thomas interrupted. “She’s not interested in your games or paltry two-bit bargains.”

“My games?” he asked, rolling his eyes. “If I recall, Mr. Cresswell, you were the one who requested this meeting. And she seemed fond enough of our last bargain. I thought we’d become good friends.” He sniffed as if injured. “It’s rather rude, coming into my theater, spilling my drink, and flaunting your beautiful bride.”