Stalking Jack the Ripper (Stalking Jack the Ripper, #1)(53)

He rubbed his hands together, hardly able to contain his dark glee. If I were a good girl I’d go home and pretend I had no inkling of what Thomas was up to. I’d climb into my bed and attend breakfast with my aunt and cousin. We’d discuss the circus and plan another tea while stitching seams and napkins for our future husbands. But I wasn’t like my cousin or aunt. I was not wicked, simply curious.

I wanted to study the body as much as Thomas did, even if the acts of human dissection and going home with a boy damned me to a wretched death in society.

Half an hour later we were outside his flat, paying the man who’d delivered the cadaver. He glared at me before pocketing the money. His eyes were two black holes, void of human emotion. It took my entire concentration, but I managed to hold in my shudder. Thomas motioned me inside, then shut the door. I’m not sure what I was expecting, but a simple foyer and a staircase leading to a flat upstairs wasn’t it.

“Cozy,” I said. A small table was set with a tray of biscuits that smelled as if they’d been freshly baked and laid out within the hour.

Thomas nodded toward the food. “Help yourself. Mrs. Harvey can be quite insufferable when her treats get stale overnight.”

I wasn’t hungry, but didn’t want to offend this mysterious biscuit-making woman he kept hidden God only knew where.

We reached the door to his flat and Thomas hesitated only slightly before pushing it open. Inside, papers and journals were scattered about in haphazard piles, towering three feet high. Taxidermy animals lined the shelves around the room, and scientific tools were lying about in disarray.

A strong scent of laboratory chemicals lingered in the air. In the far corner stood a portable table with the fresh cadaver on it.

I was momentarily speechless. Not because of the body, but because of the room itself. How Thomas found anything in this mess was another mystery to figure out. I was getting used to expecting the unexpected when it came to him, but this still managed to pry a bit of shock from me. His person was so neat and clean, and this… this was not.

“Where are your parents?” I asked, noticing a photograph of a pretty dark-haired girl on a shelf. A fist clenched in my chest. Was Thomas promised to someone else? His family was titled and an early betrothal wasn’t out of the ordinary. I didn’t care for that thought one bit. I motioned toward the picture. “She’s lovely.”

He turned his back on me and walked toward it.

“She is quite lovely,” he said, picking up the photograph. “Enchanting, really. Those eyes, and perfectly proportioned features. Comes from a magnificent family, too.” He sighed happily. “I love her with all my heart.”

He was in love. How exceptionally wonderful for him. I wished them both a lifetime of misery with ill-mannered children. I swallowed my annoyance down and plastered on a smile. “I hope you’ll both be very happy together.”

Thomas whipped his head around. “Pardon? You…” He studied the set of my jaw and forced indifference of my features. The scoundrel had the audacity to laugh. “She’s lovely because she’s my sister, Audrey Rose. I’m referring to the superior genes we have in common. My heart belongs only to you.”

I blinked. “You have a sister?”

“I assume you haven’t come here to ask questions about my personal life, or tell me about the circus you attended with your brother this evening.” He glanced in my direction, his grin spreading. “Much to my dismay you’ve not come here for a clandestine tryst, either.”

“How did you know about the cir—”

He cocked his head, taking in the rest of my attire. “Perhaps you’d like to tell me what you learned at the asylum, though…”

I rounded on him. “How do you know I’ve been to an asylum?”

“The sawdust caught in the folds of your skirts didn’t come from time spent at the Olympia. There aren’t many places in London a girl would come into contact with said material. I couldn’t picture you spending time in a carpentry shop, low-end pub, or morgue this late, so where does that leave us?” he asked without expecting an answer, ticking off each place on his fingers.

“Laboratories, workhouses, and asylums. Narrowing that down further, I saw rust stains on the palms of your hands. Most likely you’d encountered old bars. Then there’s the matter of your torn skirt, and the little package you’ve tucked away.” He raised his brows. “It’s all right to act impressed. I know I would be.”

“Oh, get on with it already.”

“Anyway, it didn’t take much to conclude you’ve been to the asylum and have shown up here to discuss your findings,” he said. “Another rather obvious conclusion as I assume you were visiting your uncle.”

“Show-off,” I said, subtly rubbing my palms down my skirt, a memory of hanging on to the bars crossing my mind. I hadn’t even realized my hands were stained from such a brief contact. It took every last ounce of energy to prevent myself from rolling my eyes at the smug look on his face.

I offered a slow clap. “Well played, Thomas. You figured out the obvious. Good for you. Now, then, we need to figure out what Uncle was drugged with. If it’s standard asylum tonic, or something more sinister.”

“What do you mean?” he asked. “How was he acting?”

I filled Thomas in on the evening’s events while pulling out my makeshift satchel of the porridge and testing its contents. “It was as if he were lost in some trance.”