Stalking Jack the Ripper (Stalking Jack the Ripper, #1)(32)

Thomas counted off boats, reading names under his breath as we made our way down to the Mary See.

“I borrowed him.” He stopped in front of a new basin of ships, the forest of masts looming high above our heads, swaying and creaking with the rolling tide.

This section was noisier; I could hardly keep a thought in my head without it turning into some sailor’s boisterous tune. Nathaniel would be horrified if he knew I was hearing such vile language, making it all the more appealing, somehow.

Goats bleated and exotic birds cawed from the deck of one ship, encouraging me to crane my neck until I caught a glimpse of brightly colored macaw feathers flapping against a cage. On the very same boat, an enormous elephant trumpeted, stomping its feet as a slew of deckhands tried unloading it.

Names on the crates suggested they were part of the traveling circus arriving in town. Up until the last few weeks, I’d been looking forward to attending the event with my brother. The human curiosities attractions were world famous and boasted of several “must-see-to-believe” acts.

“I’ve heard rumors of a man who swallows fire,” I said to Thomas as we passed the ship. “And another who’s got four legs, if such things are to be believed.”

“You don’t say,” he said. “Personally, I’d rather stay in, reading.”

Queen Victoria was a great fan of the circus, and would make an appearance on opening night. Everyone who thought themselves important—and some who actually were—would be in attendance.

“Look,” I pointed to the ship we’d been seeking, “there it is. The Mary See.”

“Stay close, Wadsworth,” he said. “I don’t care for the look of these fellows.”

I peered up at Thomas, a subtle warmth spreading through my limbs. “Be careful, Mr. Cresswell. Someone might think you’re beginning to care for me.”

He glanced in my direction, drawing his brows together as if I’d said something particularly strange. “Then I should like to meet that person. They’d be quite astute.”

Without uttering another word he walked forward, leaving me gaping after him a moment, stunned. What a horrid liar he was! I gathered myself and hurried after him.

The ship was the size of a small man-made island of steel, gray and desolate as a normal London day. It was easily twice the length of every other ship at dock, and the crew looked twice as mean.

As we approached the captain, a burly man with black eyes and broken teeth, docile-seeming Toby took on the ferocity of a dire wolf, baring his canines and growling loud enough to be intimidating.

The captain took a look at the dog, then passed a quick glance over us. “This ain’t no place for a young lady. Move along.”

I had half a mind to bare my teeth as Toby had—it was working wonders for him—but smiled sweetly, showing just the right amount of my pearly whites. Aunt Amelia always said men could be charmed easily. “I’m looking for an Alistair Dunlop. We were told he’s under your employ.”

The captain—vile creature he was—spit into the water, eyeing me suspiciously. “What’s it to you?”

Thomas tensed beside me, his hand flexing at his side.

I smiled again, this time staring purposely at a point over the captain’s shoulder. I tried my aunt’s cunning and polite way; now it was time to do things in my own manner.

“I’d hate to make a scene and call that charming custom house officer over here,” I said. “Really, one shouldn’t operate such an important ship without the proper documentation for all their cargo. Wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Cresswell?”

“Certainly,” Thomas said, letting Toby’s leash go slack. The captain took an unsteady step away from the growling mutt. “Not to mention it’d be catastrophic if men hiring such a ship discovered part of their cargo was being sold on the side. Doesn’t your family know most of the aristocracy in Europe, Miss Wadsworth?”

“Indeed,” I confirmed while the captain visibly squirmed in his boots, “we do. You come from equally good stock, don’t you, Mr. Cresswell?”

“Indeed,” he answered, smiling, “I do.”

A look of pure hatred crossed the captain’s face. Apparently, he wasn’t someone who enjoyed being bested by a clever-mouthed boy and girl. The captain grunted. “He’s making a delivery at the Jolly Jack. Should be unloading round in the alley.”





ELEVEN


SOMETHING WICKED


JOLLY JACK PUBLIC HOUSE,

LONDON

13 SEPTEMBER 1888

Thanks to poor directions given by the unpleasant captain, we wandered down a few dead-end streets before finding ourselves at the disreputable but lively public house.

A painted wooden sign depicting a grinning white skull on a black flag hung over the door. Inside, men sat hunched over tankards, swigging pints and wiping their mouths with torn sleeves, while women slunk around like wild cats on the prowl. Giving up any pretense of fitting in, I strode through the room with my head held high, stares and whispers rolling in my wake.

Most highborn women didn’t roam around in all-black riding ensembles with leather boots and gloves. While wearing riding habits when one wasn’t riding was slowly coming into fashion, the color of my attire and material was what set me apart.

I hoped I inspired a sense of unease, even if it was fleeting.