Stalking Jack the Ripper (Stalking Jack the Ripper, #1)(13)
I planted my feet, refusing to budge, but Nathaniel simply dragged me behind him as if I were made of feathers.
“No, you’re not.” He handed me off to my classmate. “Take the carriage to my house, Thomas. I’ll come back on foot later.”
If Thomas was annoyed with Nathaniel bossing him around like a common servant, he didn’t show it. He simply wrapped his long fingers around my arm, tethering me to his side. I hated the surge of my pulse at his touch, but no longer struggled to break free. I stole a glance, noticing the smirk on his face.
He didn’t grip me as if I were an unruly child in need of scolding, choosing instead to hold me back from Nathaniel, as if he were the one in need of rescuing. It was high time someone noticed I was capable of looking after myself. Even if that someone was an infuriating boy. An intelligent, arrogant, handsome boy. I stood a little straighter, and Thomas chuckled—a delicious, rumbling sound I wouldn’t mind hearing again. My brother spared me one last look.
“Be sure to place a stick atop that windowsill in the drawing room.” He smiled broadly at the death glare I leveled at him. “Sorry, little sister. But I do believe you’ve had enough excitement for one evening. Count your blessings you encountered only the two of us out here and not someone more sinister.”
“Come,” Thomas said, directing me toward the carriage. “Your brother’s right. Something wicked lurks in these shadows.”
I twisted around to stare at him. “Something more wicked than you?”
Thomas opened his mouth before catching on to my teasing, then laughed in a way that set my heart racing again. Perhaps he was the most dangerous thing I could encounter out here, and my brother hadn’t a clue. One fact was slowly taking shape: I was in jeopardy of admiring Mr. Cresswell against my better judgment. A gust of wind tangled my hair, bringing with it a chill that caressed my skin.
I glanced around for my brother, but he’d already been taken by the fog.
FIVE
DARK AND HIDEOUS THINGS
WADSWORTH RESIDENCE,
BELGRAVE SQUARE
8 SEPTEMBER 1888
“You’re looking rather unwell this morning.” Father glanced at me over his paper. “Perhaps you ought to return to bed. I’ll send up some broth. Last thing we need is to have you coming down with an influenza or worse. Especially as winter draws near.”
He set the paper down and wiped his brow with a handkerchief. Out of our family members, Father was the only one who appeared unwell. He’d been perspiring a lot lately.
“Are… are you feeling all right, Father? You look a bit—”
“How I look is not your concern,” he snapped, then quickly amended. “You needn’t worry about my health, Audrey Rose. Attend to yourself. I should like it very much if you didn’t leave the house again for some time. I’ve heard more disease is spreading in the slums.”
After adding a few drops of tonic to his tea, he continued reading the news. I wanted to point out that gaining an immunity to certain things would keep me healthier, and the only way to gain such immunity was by leaving the house, but he’d never tolerated my knowledge of science or medicine. Keeping me in a bubble equaled safety to him, no matter how wrong that notion was.
He sipped from his tea, his presence filling the room but not warming it. My attention drifted to the clock. I needed to meet with Uncle soon. Nathaniel was still sleeping, so I was on my own for leaving the house.
I politely cleared my throat. “I’m in need of some new dresses and shoes”—I dropped my gaze, peering up through my lashes, feigning embarrassment—“and other more delicate items…”
Father waved me off, thoughts of corsets and undergarments too much for him to hear about despite his fears of my poor health. He blotted at his nose with the same handkerchief, then returned it to his pocket.
“Do what you must,” he said. “But be home in time for supper and your lesson on running a proper household. Your aunt says you showed little improvement last time she visited.”
I fought the urge to roll my eyes at his predictability. “Yes, Father.”
“Oh,” he said, wiping his brow once more, “wear a mask when you leave today. There’s talk of more East End sickness.”
I nodded. The “mask” was nothing more than a cotton neckerchief I tied about my nose and mouth. I doubted it would protect me from anything. Satisfied with my obedience, he went back to reading, the sound of his teacup hitting the saucer, his sniffling, and the flipping of pages our only talkative companions.
GHASTLY MURDER IN WHITECHAPEL
I read the headline aloud to my uncle while he paced in front of the specimen jars in his basement laboratory. The deep burgundy wallpaper was normally a warm backdrop against the frigid temperature and even colder bodies adorning the examination table most days.
Today, however, the red tones reminded me of spilled blood, and I’d had my fill of that substance lately. I rubbed my hands over the thin sleeves of my muslin day dress and scanned the article. There was no mention of the new body they’d found this morning; it was still detailing poor Miss Nichols’s death. The killer had taken mercy on her, compared to the nefarious acts he’d committed on victim number two.
I watched Uncle absently twist his mustache while doing his best to carve a path in the carpet. If he kept walking back and forth, I feared he’d wear through the wooden floorboards soon enough.