Stalking Jack the Ripper (Stalking Jack the Ripper, #1)(74)

His gaze traveled over me swiftly. It was more an assessment of my attire than a flirtation, but my cheeks heated all the same.

“Now, then. Let’s get you ready for a casual night of street walking and be gone. Oh, you can thank me for preparing you any time now,” he said, struggling to keep the smile off his face. “I wouldn’t protest a kiss on the cheek. You know, return the favor and all.”

I glared so hard I feared my face would get stuck that way. “If you ever try anything like that again, I will stab you in the foot, Thomas Cresswell.”

“Ah. There’s something about you saying my name that sounds like a blessed curse,” he said. “If you can work up a good hand gesture to go along with it, that’d be exceptional.”

I threw a boot across the room, but he’d managed to slip out and close the door before it made contact. I set my jaw, loathing him with each beat of my heart.

Though, he was right. I needed to be more emotionally prepared for my date with Jack. I walked over to the door, picked up the boot, and began dressing. The clouds were rolling in, covering the last sliver of the moon.

It was the perfect night to hunt a murderer on the streets of Whitechapel.

“Why in God’s name are you walking with a limp?” I whispered harshly at my idiotic companion, throwing cautious looks at people staring across the street. “You’re causing a dreadful scene and we’re supposed to be inconspicuous.”

Thomas had adopted the asinine lame leg the same time we reached the outer edges of Spitalfields. We’d been arguing about his acting the last few streets, garnering more attention than the queen parading through the squalor in her most expensive attire. Thomas was undeterred by looks and jeers we received.

If anything, he seemed to be enjoying himself.

“You’re simply upset you didn’t think of doing it first. Now go on and stumble a bit. If you don’t act intoxicated, we’ll never attract the Ripper.” He looked down his nose at me, a smile starting. “Feel free to hold on to me. My arms are all yours.”

I grabbed a handful of my skirts, sidestepping rubbish that had been dumped in the gutters, thanking the heavens Thomas couldn’t see my blush.

“You’ve gone and missed the entire point of this evening. I am not trying to lure the Ripper out, Thomas,” I said. “I’m trying to blend in and stalk him. See where he’s going and stop him from committing another murder. He’ll take one look at us and run in the other direction. Lest the lame-legged boy chase him with his walking stick.”

“It is a cane, and it is quite a handsome cane. The Ripper should be too pleased to be assaulted by such a work of rustic art.”

I glanced at the walking stick. It was barely even polished, and had cobwebs stuck in its grooves. It was rustic, indeed.

Silently, we crept through back alleys and squared-off yards, looking for any hulking shadows, and listening for any bloodcurdling screams. It was hard to see anything, though. The night sky was nearly black as ink, no flickering light shined down for us, and what little did from gas lampposts was quickly swallowed by thick fog.

We passed through one dark alleyway, hobbled across another street, and paused in front of a decrepit pub full of discordant music and laughter.

Drunken women draped themselves over the men standing outside, their voices louder and rougher than those of the butchers, sailors, and ironworkers they were trying to entice. I wondered briefly at their lives before prostitution.

It was such an unfair, cruel world for women. If you were a widow or your husband or family disowned you, there were few avenues available for feeding yourself. It hardly mattered if you were highborn or not. If you couldn’t rely on someone else’s money and shelter, you survived the only way you could.

“Let’s go,” I said, turning as quickly as I dared. I needed to get away from those women and their tragic lives before my emotions got the better of me.

Thomas eyed the women then glanced at me. I knew very well he was seeing more than I wanted him to and didn’t want him thinking me fragile. To my surprise, he simply threaded my arm through his. A silent act of understanding.

My heart steadied. It was such a tiny action, but filled me with confidence in Thomas. Jack the Ripper would never show such compassion.

We ghosted through several more streets, emerging from the fog before hiding in its sanctity once more. Voices carried over to us, but nothing was out of the ordinary. Men talked about their day’s work, women chattered about the same.

Thomas gave up his limp the longer we pressed on, having no reason for gimping about when people couldn’t even see us.

Gas lamps offered otherworldly glows every few feet, their quiet hissing raising the hair along my neck. The mood of the night was ominous. Death was stalking these streets, staying just out of sight. I couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched, but heard no sounds of pursuit and accepted I was simply scared.

“Enough,” I said, defeated. “Let’s go home.”

It was after midnight and I was exhausted. My feet ached, the rough material of my dress itched against my skin, and I was thoroughly finished with walking through all the muck. I’d stepped in something rather squishy a few streets back and was contemplating amputating my own foot.

Blessedly, Thomas didn’t say a word as we turned and headed toward Uncle’s house. I wouldn’t have taken his criticism well in the miserable state I was in.