by LENOX, KIM
“Perhaps some time in the conservatory would restore you,” Elena suggested, wanting to spare her a trip up the stairs.
“Yes, the conservatory. I need time alone to recover from the shock of this announcement.” Mrs. Hazelgreaves muttered to Archer, “Unless you can convince her to abandon her ridiculous quest, our list of eligibles has just been shredded to bits.”
Elena watched her companion go. As she turned, her lips twitched into a mirthless smile. “Aren’t we a fine pair?”
“What do you mean by that?” he answered curtly.
She laughed ruefully. “You the endearing guardian, and I your obedient ward. It’s like one of those awful penny dreadfuls gone rampantly awry.”
“You oughtn’t speak to me like that. So casually.”
He strode to the window and glared out. He radiated frustration, and she realized he didn’t have any idea how to deal with her. Was she so different than other young women?
It stung that he couldn’t even face her. A sudden wave of loneliness weighted her spirit.
“In two weeks’ time you’ll have departed London, and I’ll be on my honeymoon with some aristocratic wastrel who married me only because you threw a ridiculous amount of money at him. What will it all matter then?”
She didn’t want to hear his response. Instead, she swept from the room, pausing only to claim her stack of newspapers, if for no other reason than to give her shaking hands something to grip on to.
He was right. She shouldn’t have spoken to him in so bold a manner. Her cheeks burned with mortification. What had come over her? Perhaps she sought to provoke him, to demand whatever attention from him he hadn’t given her before. That just didn’t seem to fit with the Elena she had come to know in these recent months.
She didn’t know! She only knew the whole exchange had made her miserable.
She had worked to hard to discover her true self, and simplify her complicated life, for everything to be turned completely upside down by his arrival in London.
Mary Alice rushed toward her from the direction of the kitchens. “Oh, miss. I’ve been waiting for you to come out of his lordship’s study so I could tell you. Have you heard the terrible news?”
Oh, yes. She’d heard the terrible news. Her guardian, the man legally in control of her life, would likely demand she abandon everything that mattered, and marry into a loveless marriage, all for his own selfish convenience. But something told her the girl’s face wouldn’t be ghost-white over such news.
“What is it, Mary Alice?”
“There were two more murders in Whitechapel last night.”
Chapter Seven
“No!” gasped Elena, instantly forgetting her own problems. “Two? Two women?”
The maid’s head bobbed in confirmation.
Lizzy and Catherine, her mind morbidly supplied. No, certainly not. Most likely they were safe somewhere, and even now drinking a morning pint at their favorite local pub.
“Are you sure? Or is this merely rumor?”
“It’s certainly true, miss. Mr. Watkins, the footman, told me, and he’s never been one to jest.”
“Would this be in the morning papers already?”
She dropped her stack to a nearby table, and spread them out, scouring the dates. “Here’s this morning’s Lloyd’s. Let’s see . . . oh, my. Yes. An extraspecial edition, and look at the headline. More East End Tragedies.”
“So it’s true,” Mary Alice whispered.
“I’ll read the details. This Sunday morning, atrocious murder of a woman in Aldgate. The victim . . . oh, dear—”
Elena closed her eyes against the words she’d just read. Throat slashed. Mutilated. Disemboweled.
She shook her head. “The details are too terrible to be read aloud.”
Mary Alice shuddered, wrapping her arms about herself. “God bless their souls.”
Elena read further into the article. “They describe the killer as diabolically cunning. They must certainly be correct. What sort of person could do such things to another human being? He—or she—must certainly be mad.”
Mary Alice mused, “There’s some that believe those women deserved what they got because they are”—she lowered her voice—“ladies of easy virtue and of an oversexed nature.”
Elena scowled at that. “Ridiculous. I work with ‘those women’ at the hospital. They are just like you and I, only they have fallen on terrible times and have been abandoned by society. They have no other way to provide for themselves.”
Mary Alice nodded solemnly. “It could happen to any of us, I suppose. Poor souls. Speaking of falling on terrible times, I don’t wish to lose my own position. I’d best get back to my duties before Mr. Jarvis discovers me here speaking to you.”
“I understand. Thank you for telling me about this, Mary Alice.”
After the maid had gone, Elena read on, searching for the names of the victims. There were no such particulars, but the deceased women were discovered in two different locations a shockingly short distance apart—only about a quarter of a mile. A double event, allegedly exacted by the same murderer! The idea was staggering. It was almost as if the killer were flaunting his horrible sanguinary skills to the authorities, and indeed, to the world.
To her surprise, in a separate article just below, there were details of another recent incident. Earlier in the month, a woman’s severed arm had been found floating in the Thames near Pimlico. Now, a second arm had been discovered in Southwark. An uncomfortable chill trickled down her spine. Really, what was the world coming to?
Elena returned her attention to the article about the Whitechapel killings. One of the victims was described as being between thirty-five and forty years of age, the age she would estimate Mrs. Eddowes as being. There was no such estimation for the other victim.
Elena folded the newspaper into her lap. She was being foolish. It was outlandish to fear that two women she’d met only yesterday had become victims of the most horrific murderer in London’s history. There were thousands of such women on the streets of the city, at all hours of the night, unprotected. The victims could be anyone.
Standing, she walked to the window and peered out to the street. Shining phaetons rolled past, boasting the world’s wealthiest men and most beautiful women, no doubt on their way to promenade through Hyde Park or pursue some other equally lighthearted diversion.
They didn’t know what it meant to pass the night sitting upright in a squalid alleyway, with only a wet newspaper for a blanket. Neither did she, for that matter. She couldn’t get Lizzy’s brave smile out of her mind.
Surely Lizzy and Catherine wouldn’t have spent the money she’d given them on something other than shelter.
“Good morning, madame,” a man’s cultured voice greeted from the door of the conservatory. “A lovely day, is it not?”
Surrounded by orchids and palms, Belinda Hazelgreaves sat in a large rattan chair, pondering the profusion of gray feathers on her pink silk parasol. She had purchased it in Paris nearly fifteen years before, and it still looked perfectly new, a testament to the quality money could buy. Three canaries chirped in a large gilt cage beside her. The silver flask containing her tonic sat on a small, metal side table, and beside it, an empty sherry glass.
Tall and golden, and perfect in every way, he quite simply took her breath away, and that hadn’t happened in a very long time. By her experience, the most handsome men were usually dangerous. She, being a wealthy widow, had to be careful of wolves in sheep’s clothing. Still . . . clothes said a lot about a man, and men who wore impeccable, finely tailored clothes, gold watches, and boots as fine as this gentleman were normally very rich themselves. He held his top hat in his hand, and idly tapped the brim against the side of his leg.
He tilted his head toward the manse. “I am early for my appointment with his lordship. I hate to be rude and present myself early. Might I sit with you a while to pass the time?”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “I suppose.”
/> He entered, ducking—for he was impressively tall—to walk beneath the threshold. Once before her, he bowed at the waist. “I am Alexander.”
“Ah . . . Lord Alexander?” She extended her hand. He bent to claim it, brushing his lips over her knuckles.
“Indeed.”
“I am Mrs. Hazelgreaves.”
“Hazelgreaves . . . ,” he mused. “Any relation to Ibbot Hazelgreaves, the cabinet member?”
She tilted her head. “I am his widow.”
“A very important man. It’s true what they say. Every successful man has a great woman behind him. You must be that great woman.”
Belinda smiled, for he spoke the truth. Ibbot had achieved great things, both politically and socially, because of her. So would her rebellious charge, whether she wanted to or not. She refused to allow Miss Whitney to be a black mark on her perfect record. She had been patient with all the nursing foolishness, but the announcement about medical school had gone quite over the line. Judging by his lordship’s reaction, she felt certain he believed the same.
“You and his lordship are friends?” she asked.
He leaned over the arm of the chair, gregarious and confiding. “Lord Black and I go a long way back. What about you, dear Mrs. Hazelgreaves? How do you find yourself here at residence at Black House?”
“I am companion to his ward, Miss Elena Whitney.”
“Ah, I see.” He flashed his perfect white teeth. “Miss Whitney. I believe I caught a glimpse of her at the Kerrigan event last night.”
“You were there?” She beamed. “Miss Whitney is a lovely girl, is she not?”
“Stunning.”
“I expect, though, I’ll soon be returning to my son’s estate in Wilshire.”
“Oh, yes? Why?”
“His lordship wishes for Miss Whitney to marry, or at least to have entered into a suitable engagement, before he departs London again.”
“Interesting.”
“What about you, Lord Alexander?” She smiled suggestively. “Are you . . . attached?”
“Why, Mrs. Hazelgreaves.” His eyes glinted with mischief. “I am not.”
“Well, then, I am very pleased to make your acquaintance.”
“She’s gone!” Leeson charged into the library.
Anxiety radiated from him, something rare enough to command Archer’s attention. His secretary normally moved through his immortal existence with the unflappability of a bovine. The old man produced a handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket and mopped it across his brow.
Archer hadn’t been able to read Elena’s thoughts since that first night on the rooftop. Unfortunately, there were some rare exceptions to every rule. It was simply that way with some souls. Those souls simply left a different sort of trace, or trail behind in the wake of their movements. As such, he had sensed her absence as soon as she’d stepped off the premises of Black House. Perhaps, like him, she needed time alone to recover from their unpleasant exchange. Things had not gone at all as he’d wished.
“She, who?” Archer responded coolly, jabbing his ink pen into its berth.
His secretary’s eye narrowed. “The only woman in this house you give a damn about.”
Leeson paced the length of the library and waved an arm in an uncharacteristically dramatic gesture. “I saw her walking out to the street, but I couldn’t stop my driver quickly enough to intervene.”
“I’m sure she’s simply gone to the park for a walk.”
“She’s gone out alone, without a suitable escort or companion, and young English ladies from Mayfair are not supposed to do that. From all I’ve read and observed, it’s not considered seemly.”
In his green coat, he looked like a red-faced, one-eyed leprechaun. “Not only that, but she took off across the side yard like a common housemaid. Dressed like a common housemaid. And she summoned a hackney. A filthy, hired vehicle driven by a stranger. Why would she do that, when every luxury has been made available to her from the start?”
All at once Leeson went stiff. He shot a glare toward Archer. “What have you done?”
“Watch yourself, Leeson, or I’ll have you reassigned.”
Leeson fumed. So did Archer. He had vowed to the Primordials Elena wouldn’t be a distraction, but that was exactly what she had been from the moment he’d laid his ancient, jaded eyes upon her. He ought to just let her go, but the idea of her wandering about unescorted and unprotected left him uneasy.
Jack was out there somewhere, and “somewhere” was too close when Elena was concerned, even in this churning city of millions. Goddamit, he had to Reclaim the bastard quickly.
Archer drummed his fingertips atop the desk, and tersely confided, “Miss Whitney made it clear this morning that our current arrangement is not to her liking. I believe—though she did not specifically say so—she would prefer her independence.”
While pondering the appropriate course of action he glanced aside, into the garden. Moments before, Mrs. Hazelgreaves had been sitting in the conservatory, but he saw no trace of her now. Her open parasol, pink damask trimmed with gray feathers, lay open on the flagstones, fixed in place by its handle. He would dispatch one of the servants out to collect it, for she must have left it behind.
Leeson commandeered his field of vision. “Independence? You can’t allow it, your lordship. Our precious girl oughtn’t be out on her own in that city any day, let alone this one. News of the double murder has spread, and the city is in absolute turmoil.”
Archer closed his eyes, and wearily rubbed the narrow bridge of his nose, having expected to hear the same. Leeson collapsed into an upholstered mahogany chair.
“There are mobs in the streets, calling for blood. People are behaving like lunatics, suspecting everyone of murder and madness.” He leapt up again. “I’m going to find her and bring her home where she will be safe from all the wicked bastards ruling the streets out there.”
“I’ll go,” Archer interjected, standing.
If he left now, he would still be able to pick up her trace. Besides, now that his senses were returned to center, he needed to submit himself to the tangled confusion of the city. Total immersion would ensure the deadly precision he sought. “You stay here and finish your review of the books.”
Leeson waved his hand. “There’s time for the books. I’ll go with you. Who knows where or how far she’s gone by now We can split the city between the two of us.”
“Finish the books, Leeson. I will bring her home.”
A quarter of an hour later, Archer descended the concrete steps into the Baker Street station. Travelers milled about on the platform, awaiting the next train. Nearly all of their thoughts were consumed by the morning’s horrific news.
A newspaper boy circulated, shouting,“Ripper kills again. Two murdered, just last night.”
The papers were snatched from his hand, one after the other, almost faster than he could collect payment.
Archer found Elena standing off to one side, near two older ladies, in a proximity he assumed was intended to give the impression to strangers that she companioned them in some way, either as a poorer relation or a maid. She didn’t see him, of course, because he’d followed her in shadow. As Leeson had reported, she had garbed herself as a lower-class female, wearing a shabby, black straw bonnet decorated with a cluster of black flowers and a faux cardinal, a threadbare black coat and striped gray skirt. All had likely been purchased at some secondhand, street-market stall. A faded patchwork purse hung from her wrist.
Screeching metal, piercing light and billowing steam announced the arrival of the eastbound train. Archer followed Elena onto the second-class car, where she flashed her token to the conductor and took a seat on the bench beside the two women. Archer situated himself in the aisle before her. As the train lurched into motion, she pulled from her bag a small book, bound in blue linen. He glimpsed the title as she parted the pages to begin reading. The Bacterial Theory. He could not help but smile at that.
His smile dropped, though, r
ealizing several male passengers stared at his ward, obviously as intrigued as he. Though she kept her head tilted forward, so that her hat obscured much of her face, her lush, pink lips were clearly visible. And worse, a stray tendril had escaped her bonnet to rest upon her shoulder.
A pale, glossy tendril. Goddess hair. He could still remember the delicious scent and feel of it. But he could not allow himself to act upon impulse. Not again. He would do what was honorable by her and ensure the security of her future, even if she despised him for it in the end. Curse him, but somehow, in this short bit of time he’d come to care deeply for her.
She did not get off the train at either the King’s Cross or Farringdon Street stations with the two older ladies. She did not tuck her book away until the conductor called out “Aldgate.”
When the doors opened, he shadowed her off the train into a churning crowd. His young ward had perfected the confident, no-nonsense walk of an East End woman—a woman without a true protector, someone who must be on guard at all times. She pushed her way through the dim station, firmly smacking the hand of a sailor who ventured too close. Because she moved so quickly, Archer tamped down the urge to smite the young fool, and followed her up the stairs onto the crowded sidewalk.
Off to the side, colorfully dressed Mountebanks called to the newly disembarked, offering peep shows and slight-of-hand entertainments. An old man played a crank organ while his monkey, adorned in a cap and vest, danced with a tin cup in hand. Omnibuses, hackneys and wagons scuttled past in both directions.
Elena proceeded down Whitechapel. At first he assumed her destination to be the hospital, but almost immediately she turned north onto Commercial Street. A quarter mile later, Christ Church towered above them, but unfortunately she didn’t climb the steps to the church—she went to the pub just across the street.
Archer’s mood went decidedly dark. What respectable reason would his lovely ward have for patronizing a Spitalfields public house midday on a Sunday?
The sour-stale stench struck Elena full in the face as she pushed inside the Ten Bells Pub. She paused, allowing her eyes a moment to adjust to the dim light. The windows on each side of the door did little to illuminate the dreary interior, or the faces of the customers. A long bar spanning the back wall was serviced by two barmaids against a backdrop of walls tiled in green, red and dingy yellow. A number of tables and chairs cluttered the room and were populated by a grim, midday crowd.
