Stalking Jack the Ripper (Stalking Jack the Ripper, #1)(73)
“I’ve almost crossed you off my suspect list.” I shook out another dull dress. Dust tickled my nose as I laid it down. In its day, the deep-green silk must have been grand. “That’s quite an achievement.”
“Oh, yes,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Another of your fine ideas. As if I’d be messy enough to leave evidence behind. I’m with you practically day and night. Does that not absolve me from being a murderer? Or must we share a bed to prove my innocence? Actually… that might not be a terrible idea.”
Ignoring him, I removed a pair of brown lace-up boots from the same leather trunk and inspected them closely. They looked to be around my size, so I added them to my costume pile. Thomas had started following me around two hours prior, milling about and offering up his opinions like sacrifices I didn’t care to accept.
“We’ve done things your way for three solid weeks,” I reminded him. “Earning us nothing but mounds of frustration. Enough is enough, Thomas.”
We’d tried hiding outside my house on Belgrave Square, camping out at all hours of the night, all times throughout the day, but never succeeded in catching Father coming or going. I’d even gone as far as etching his carriage for identification purposes, should we ever see it rolling about at night.
It was as if he always knew when he was being watched, sensed it like a wolf being tracked by something mad enough to hunt it.
Now it was time to test my theory out.
“For your information,” I said, holding the green dress up, “I am not going as a prostitute. I’m simply blending in.”
No amount of discussion would dissuade me from the path I’d chosen. If I couldn’t catch Father heading into Whitechapel, I’d plant myself there and wait for him to come to me. It was as fine an idea as any. One way or another, I was determined to figure out if Father was Jack the Ripper.
Thomas muttered something too quiet for me to hear, then marched to an armoire standing solemnly in the corner of the attic, yanking the doors open and rummaging through it with a vengeance.
“What in the name of the queen are you doing?” I asked, though he didn’t bother answering. Clothes flew over his shoulders as he tossed them out of his way, searching for something that fit his needs.
“If you’ll not be reasoned with I shall have to sneak about with you. Clearly, I’ll need an old overcoat and trousers.” He made a sweeping motion over his person. “No one in their right mind will think me an East End resident looking as wonderful as I do. I may even don a wig.”
“I am not in need of a haughty escort this evening.” I scowled even though he wasn’t looking. “I’m quite capable of taking care of myself.”
“Oh, yes. How silly of me to overlook that.” Thomas snorted. “I imagine the women who lost their organs thought themselves quite above being slaughtered as well. They were likely saying, ‘It’s Friday. I shall go to the pub, find a bit of food, pay my board, then get murdered by a madman before the night’s through. How lovely.’”
“He is my father,” I said through clenched teeth. “You honestly believe he’ll harm me? I do not think even he has a heart so black and rotten.”
Thomas finally stopped flipping through the moth-eaten overcoats, turning his attention on me. His expression was thoughtful for a moment.
“If Jack the Ripper is your father. You still haven’t found definitive proof. You’re basing all your bravado on the assumption you are, indeed, related to this monster,” he said. “I do not think you incapable, Audrey Rose. But I do know he’s murdered women who were alone. What, exactly, do you think you’ll do if you discover you’re wrong and there’s a knife pressed against your throat?”
“I’ll—”
He moved across the room so fast, I barely had time to register the object against the sensitive skin covering my throat. Thomas kissed my cheek, then slowly drew back, our eyes meeting. My heart hammered a panicked beat when his attention fell to my lips and lingered there. I couldn’t tell if I wanted to kiss him or kill him. Finally, he stepped back, letting the candle clatter to the floor, then picked up a crude walking stick as if nothing had happened.
“Interesting,” he murmured, admiring the stick.
Kill him, then. I definitely wanted to murder him. I clutched my throat with both hands, breathing hard. “Have you lost your mind? You could’ve killed me!”
“With a candle?” His brow quirked up. “Honestly, I’m flattered you think me so capable. Alas, I highly doubt I could do much damage with such a weapon.”
“You know what I mean,” I said. “If it were a knife I’d be dead!”
“Precisely the point of our little exercise, Wadsworth.”
He didn’t sound or appear the least bit sorry for scaring the life from me. He crossed his arms over his chest, staring me down. Stubborn mule.
“Imagine yourself alone in the East End,” he said. “Freezing like that would’ve cost you your life. You must be quick to action, always thinking your way out of any predicament. It all boils down to your blasted emotions clouding your judgment. If I were to do it again, what might you do differently?”
“Stab you with the heel of my boot.”
Thomas’s shoulders relaxed. I hadn’t noticed the tension in them until it was gone. “Good. Now you’re using that alluring brain of yours, Wadsworth. Step on the insole of someone’s foot as hard as you can. There are so many nerve endings, it’ll be a decent enough distraction, buying valuable time.”