Stalking Jack the Ripper (Stalking Jack the Ripper, #1)(23)
It contained a letter of reference from her previous employer, a letter from Scotland Yard stating she’d never been under investigation, her monthly wages, allowances, and board wages, and a photograph of her in her typical cook’s attire.
I scanned a few more files, finding they all resembled our cook’s.
On a hunch, I dug around in the drawer until I found another servant who’d been dismissed for no better reason than having stayed with our family more than a month. Her file looked precisely like Miss Nichols’s, confirming my suspicion that Father must clean out the majority of their information once they were no longer employed.
I closed the folders, taking pains to place everything back exactly where I’d found it.
Cursing my father for keeping pointless records, I wished I could set the whole mess of papers ablaze.
As I slid the last file into place, a familiar name caught my attention. I hesitated briefly before removing the folder and flipping it open. It contained a lone newspaper clipping. A brutal coldness enveloped me where I sat.
Why did Father have an article on Miss Emma Elizabeth Smith’s murder?
EIGHT
BRING OUT YOUR NEARLY DEAD
GREAT WESTERN ROYAL HOTEL,
PADDINGTON STATION
11 SEPTEMBER 1888
The tearoom in the Great Western Royal Hotel was unbearably warm.
Or perhaps it was simply the fiery rage burning inside me. Sitting with my hands folded politely in my lap, I prayed for the strength I’d need to stop myself from reaching across the table and wrapping my fingers around a neck instead of cucumber sandwiches and petits fours. “You look as if you’ve not slept, Mr. Cresswell.”
“Who said I did, Miss Wadsworth?”
I raised my brows. “Doing subversive things at indecent hours?”
“Would it offend you if I were?” Thomas smiled at the waiter and leaned in, whispering in his ear. The waiter nodded, then marched off.
Once we were alone, he turned his steady focus on me, calculating a thousand things simultaneously. I lifted the porcelain cup to my lips, forcing a sip of tea down.
I’d agreed to meet him here only to go over case details. Now he was doing that infuriating thing where he’d inevitably guess my secret plans, and I’d have to murder him. In front of all these witnesses, no less. What a pity.
“Sir.” The waiter came back to the table, presenting Thomas with three things: a silver ashtray laid out with cigarettes, matches he produced from his black trousers, and an orchid. Thomas handed the flower to me then plucked a smoke from the tray, allowing the waiter to light the end. A gray cloud puffed into the air between us. I purposely coughed, batting the smoke back toward his side of the table.
“I cannot believe you’d buy me a beautiful flower only to ruin it with smoking,” I said, scowling. “How incredibly rude.”
Smoking in front of a girl without her permission was against social mores, but Thomas didn’t seem to care for that rule one bit. I set the orchid down, staring at him through a fringe of slitted lashes, but he only took another drag, slowly letting the toxic air out before dismissing the waiter.
He reminded me of the caterpillar from Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, sitting upon his giant mushroom, lazing about without a care in the world. If only he were small enough to squish beneath my boots.
“That’s a disgusting habit.”
“So is dissecting the dead prior to breakfast. But I don’t scorn you for that unseemly habit. In fact”—he leaned closer, dropping his voice into a conspiratorial whisper—“it’s rather endearing seeing you up to your elbows in viscera each morning. Also, you’re quite welcome for the flower. Do place it on your nightstand and think of me while dressing for bed.”
I dropped my finger sandwich onto my plate, shoving it away with as much vehemence as I could muster. Thomas pulled in another lungful of smoke, meeting my gaze with a flash of defiance and something else I couldn’t quite read.
“Well, then. I see there’s nothing more to say. Good day, Mr. Cresswell.” Before I stood, Thomas’s hand shot out, gently circling my wrist. I gasped, drawing my hand back, and glanced around. Thankfully, no one had seen his indiscretion. I swatted away his second attempt to hold me, though I didn’t exactly mind his touch. “I see your addiction has addled that brain of yours.”
“On the contrary, dear Wadsworth,” he said between puffs, “I find nicotine gives me an added boost of clarity. You ought to try it.”
He flipped the awful thing around, offering it to me, but there were limits I’d set for myself as far as amateur sleuthing was concerned. Smoking was one of them. He shrugged, returning to his nicotine intake.
“Suit yourself,” he said. “Now, then, I’m coming with you.”
I looked him squarely in the eye. Thomas was no longer showering me with cool indifference; he was warm as an August afternoon, his lips turned up at the corners.
A flame flared across my body when I realized I was studying the shape of his mouth, the way his bottom lip was slightly fuller and all too inviting for a girl without a chaperone to take notice of.
I collected my thoughts like specimens to be dissected further. Clearly, I was experiencing some sort of degenerative medical condition if I was thinking such indecent thoughts about the scoundrel. He was likely goading me into a kiss.