Stalking Jack the Ripper (Stalking Jack the Ripper, #1)(65)

“Those who deserve respect are given it freely. If one must demand such a thing, he’ll never truly command it. I am your daughter, not your horse, sir.”

I stepped closer, enjoying the way Father leaned away from me as if he were just now discovering that a cat, while precious and cute, also had sharp claws. “I’d rather be a lowly wretch on the streets than live in a house full of cages. Do not lecture me on propriety when it’s a virtue you so grossly lack.”

Without waiting for a response, I swept from the room with nothing but the sound of my heels ringing out against the silence. There would be no skirts or bustles to wrangle with anymore. I was through with things confining me.

Uncle’s laboratory was a wreck, much like the man who resided there.

Papers were scattered about, tables and chairs upturned, and servants were nervously cleaning on all fours, their attention flitting between their work and Uncle’s never-ending tirade. Whether he was upset because his precious work had been tampered with or because he’d come close to being caught for his crimes, I couldn’t tell.

But I was not leaving here without finding out.

I’d never seen him in such a state. Police brought everything back from the evidence chambers when he was released from Bedlam, but threw it back in the laboratory without a care. It seemed Blackburn was no longer interested in winning my affections.

“What miserable fiends!” Another crash reverberated in the small room off the main lab. “Years and years of documentation, gone! I’ve got half a mind to set Scotland Yard ablaze. What sort of animals do they hire?”

Thomas entered the room, taking stock of the mess. He righted a chair, then folded himself into it, annoyance scrawled over his features.

I studiously ignored him, and he responded in kind. Clearly, he was still put off by our argument. Or maybe he felt my suspicion taking form and pointing a finger toward him.

Uncle didn’t remember much from his time in the asylum. The drugs proved too strong for his mind to battle, or so he claimed. He didn’t recall mumbling his name repeatedly or any revelation that might have stepped forth from the darkness.

“Don’t just sit there!” Uncle bellowed, tossing a handful of papers in Thomas’s face. “Fix this! Fix this whole bloody mess! I cannot function like this!”

Unable to watch the madness continue, I slowly approached Uncle with my hands up, as if he were a dog driven mad and cornered. I imagined his nerves were frayed as the tonic they’d given him left his body. Uncle’s occasional outbursts were never so loud or disorganized.

“Perhaps”—I motioned around the room—“we should wait upstairs while the maids tend to this.”

Uncle Jonathan looked ready to quarrel, but I’d have none of that. My new lack of tolerance extended to all Wadsworth males. Even if he proved innocent of the Ripper murders, Uncle had other things to answer for.

I pointed to the door, leaving no room for argument. Maybe it was my new attire, or the stern set to my jaw, but the fight left Uncle rather quickly. He sighed, his shoulders slumping with defeat or relief as he tromped up the stairs.

We settled in the drawing room with cups of tea and pleasant music spilling from a steam-powered machine in the corner.

Thomas sat across from me, arms crossed and jaw set. My pulse spiked as his eyes met mine and sent sparks through my body. I longed to yell at him, demanding to know why he kept things from me, but bit my tongue. Now wasn’t the time.

Next order of business was more difficult to bridge. There was a river of lies and deceit that needed to be crossed in a short amount of time.

I looked at my uncle. He’d been raging and throwing things since I walked in until this very instant. Even now his eyes were slightly glazed over, seeing some wretched thing no one else could. New anger burned quietly under my skin. I hated what Blackburn had done to him.

I went to bury my hands in my skirts, then stopped, remembering I had no skirts to hide in. “I know what happened with Thomas’s mother.”

Thomas froze, teacup halfway to his lips, eyes wide. I turned my attention on Uncle. The fog surrounding him instantly dissipated, replaced by hardness I’d never really seen in him before. “What are you getting at?”

I met his furious gaze dead-on. “After she died you and Thomas began working together. Performing secret… experiments.”

Thomas leaned forward, nearly toppling out of his seat. His hawk attention homing in on Uncle’s response. If only I could decipher his actions!

Uncle laughed incredulously when he saw the seriousness in my face.

“What does it matter if we did? We haven’t performed a surgery in nearly a year. None of this relates to our Ripper. Some ghosts should remain good and buried, Niece.”

“And some ghosts come back to haunt us, Uncle. Like Miss Emma Elizabeth Smith.”

Uncle Jonathan’s expression was as dark as my father’s, and I feared he’d send me away for intruding on his memories.

When he sat back, stubbornly crossing his arms over his chest and sealing his lips, Thomas spoke up. “I see. You ought to just tell her.”

“You don’t see anything, boy,” Uncle spat. “You’d be wise keeping it that way.”

I walked across the room and slammed the door shut, shifting their attention to me. “If it weren’t necessary to this investigation, I’d leave you to your peace. As there’s a madman on the loose, ripping women apart, and potentially trying to use their organs the way some in this room have done in the past, we do not have that luxury.”