When We Touch

by Heather Graham

  There were those who suggested that it was a midwife gone mad. Jill the Ripper.

  It was someone with an extreme knowledge of anatomy—a doctor.

  It was someone with a crude knowledge of anatomy—a butcher, a hunter, perhaps even a housewife who knew what to do with a chicken.

  It was a late in the morning, nearly noon, when Jamie awoke at last. He had attended the autopsy of the second victim, Catherine Eddowes, also known as Kate Kelly, among a few other names, and he had left the mortuary feeling weary and ill, shocked. In all his days, and some of those in India, facing the continued threats of the Thugees, despite the fact that India was now part of the Empire, he had never seen such heinous butchery perpetuated upon one human being by another. But the autopsy had not been the most dismaying part of his night out on the Queen’s behest.

  Far worse had occurred.

  The police must have been right on the trail of the killer. They had found a piece of the woman’s bloody apron. And near it, on the black dado of a wall on Goulston Street, there had been a written message. Chalked by the killer? No one knew.

  And there was not even a photograph of what might have been crucial evidence.

  There was chaos over that fact. Detectives had guarded it, had pleaded with their superiors to leave the writing for daylight, so that it might be photographed. But Sir Charles Warren—of the Metropolitan police—had ordered that it be wiped down before it was seen by people in the area. He claimed that he was afraid there would be a riot. Englishmen were up in arms about foreigners, and there was a hotbed of hatred and fear in existence.

  The Juwes are not

  The men that

  Will be

  Blamed for nothing

  Warren had sworn that leaving the message would create a riot.

  The papers clamored for Warren’s resignation. Jamie had to wonder if it would be forthcoming.

  Inspectors had crawled over the buildings; they had spent the night questioning people, and looking, ever looking, for any possible clues. But Jack had struck twice—and walked away, leaving a mass of confusion and accusation that shrieked across the land.

  There were those working the streets of Whitechapel, Spitalfields, and the neighboring areas who might have ignored the first two murders.

  No more.

  The streets tasted of fear, sounded of fear.

  No woman could consider herself safe.

  There was far too much horror, and far too much speculation.

  Jamie lay in bed after he woke, staring dully at the ceiling, still feeling exhausted. His first course of action, once he had returned home, had been to soak in a very long bath. It had seemed to take forever to breathe in what did not seem like the stench of blood.

  And with it, the stench of poverty and disease.

  The Queen would be sending for him, he knew. She was, despite the many years she had secreted herself away, a very kind and caring person, and felt her sense of duty keenly. She was going to be appalled, and horrified, and she was going to wonder how these things were happening, when so many people who were supposedly so qualified were in charge.

  He dreaded seeing her. How to explain that he had been there, been on those streets, and seen nothing? He groaned aloud, and then fell silent, listening. There had been a tap at his door.

  He was surprised. Randolph had known of his exhaustion. He would not awaken him.

  “Yes?”

  “My lord?” It was Randolph, but he wasn’t alone as he cautiously opened the door. Maggie burst in around him. He’d been sleeping in the nude, since he’d crawled from the bath into a towel, and straight into bed from there.

  “I explained that you had a late night, my lord, but Lady Maggie is rather insistent,” Randolph explained.

  “Maggie,” he breathed, sitting up in the bed, chest bare, sheet to his waist. “Well, do come in. Be forewarned, I had a very bad night.”

  “A bad night!” she exclaimed. “You cannot imagine.”

  “You cannot imagine,” he snapped back angrily.

  She flushed then, realizing that she stood with Randolph, and that Jamie was in a state of complete undress. But then again, Randolph must be very aware of certain things that he kept entirely to himself.

  “I’ll just leave the two of you,” the man murmured, and stepped out, quietly closing the door behind him.

  Jamie rose then, his temper truly vile, heedless of her being there. It was not as if she had not seen him so before, and she’d had the rudeness to push her way in.

  He walked into the bathroom and splashed cold water on his face, calling back to her, “Lady Maggie, I really don’t give a damn about your petty problems this morning. Don’t you read the papers?”

  “Of course I read the papers. And it’s appalling. But—where are you going? I need you to listen to me.”

  He wrapped a towel around his waist and walked back out to the bedroom. He was annoyed to realize that despite his anger, despite the sense of tempest raging in him, the sorrow, the horror, she could take him away.

  She was standing there in a day dress of blue, skirt embroidered elegantly, bodice beautifully fitted. A shawl of a darker shade, cobalt, like her eyes, was cast around her shoulders. Her hair was pinned back, but gold ringlets of it curled about the length of her throat. She was breathtaking, and he felt the urge to sweep her up, and hold her. Hold her, and believe that he could always keep her safe, that nothing so horrible as what he witnessed could be real. He suddenly wanted assurance of life, be that in the strength of the way that he would put his arms around her, or in the oblivion to be found when he drowned in the depth of her eyes, in the sensuality of her flesh.

  Except that . . .

  He had to keep his distance from her. The other day . . .

  He had behaved abominably himself. She was Charles’s widow, no matter what the circumstances. Every step he had taken with her had been wrong. And now, she was proving to be a thorn in his side. He’d had to chase her down in Whitechapel, of all places. He’d burst into her bedroom then, and now . . .

  Now, he gritted his teeth. There was business at hand, and he could neither forget himself by seizing her up with or without her consent, nor could he allow himself to be waylaid by any silly domestic situation.

  “What?” he barked.

  “It’s Arianna.”

  “Lord above us!” he raged. “Arianna, Arianna! Madam, the girl was left to your guardianship! What, are you jealous of the lass? What is your problem with her! Sit down, have a heart to heart talk. You married Charles, you rule a fortune, and you have every possible luxury at your disposal. Don’t come to me. You have no desire, ever, to be told what to do. Therefore, madam, you’re on your own! Whatever it is, deal with it yourself!”

  He turned again, leaving her there, staring at him openmouthed.

  This time, he slammed the door to his bathroom.

  And instantly, he felt regret.

  No one else could understand what he was feeling this morning—unless it was one of the men who had witnessed the discovery of the body last night. No one could understand his sense of failure and helplessness—except for those who walked the streets as well, and came up empty-handed.

  And still . . .

  He was sorry. So very sorry. She had enraged him because of the night of sadness and horror he had just endured....

  And because he was so very much in love with her, and it was simply so very wrong.

  He swung the bathroom door open, ready to step out and apologize, beg her pardon, try to explain, even if he couldn’t really tell her everything.

  But when he stepped out that time, Maggie was gone.

  * * *

  Maggie paced the library, staring at Mireau. “He was awful, horrible! I couldn’t talk to him.”

  “Maggie, in this situation, you simply have to behave in a very mature manner. Whatever your problems are—”

  “Mireau, you’re not listening. He refused to talk to me. He just started screaming a
t me, and slammed the door.”

  “But Arianna’s life is at stake.”

  Maggie stopped dead-still and nodded grimly, her arms folded over her chest. “That’s why I decided, after I left, that what happened was the best possible thing.”

  “What?”

  “Mireau, we don’t dare bring Jamie in.”

  “Now you’ve really lost your mind.”

  She shook her head. “You don’t understand just how frightened Arianna was. I know she believes that if anyone so much as reaches for her, she’ll be shot or stabbed on the spot.”

  “But you just explain that to Jamie and—”

  “I’m afraid. Afraid that she’ll panic. Don’t you see, Mireau? We can go in there with big guns blazing . . . a half dozen policemen, good heavens, we could get the military! But it wouldn’t help anything because Arianna might well be dead before we could even begin to attack.”

  “You’re losing me,” Mireau said. “What on earth are we going to do then?”

  “I’m still working on it. But honestly, it will be best if Jamie is not involved.”

  “Um, sounds best to me. We’ll just go in and get ourselves killed.”

  “No, you see, what we have to do must be incredibly clever and—subtle.”

  “All right, Maggie, go ahead—explain to me how we’re going to subtly handle a pack of thugs and murderers.”

  “We have to make it appear that Arianna is dead.”

  “Maggie—”

  “No, no, hear me out! Remember how we all had a sip of brandy last night? Well, we’ll have to do the same tonight. And into Arianna’s brandy, we’ll slip enough laudanum to cause her to pass out.”

  “Great—what will that do?”

  “Keep her from fighting us, for one. Because we’ll have laced all the rest of the brandy as well. Then, once we’re out on the street . . . I can’t tell Justin exactly what I’m doing, but I will ask him to be in the street, and be wary—there’s so much going on, that he should bring a few friends, and my cousin Tristan, who has decided that he wants to be a police officer.”

  “Maggie, why not just explain it all to your brother?”

  “Because he’d stop me, and I know what I’m doing makes sense, and that I can make it work.”

  “It doesn’t make sense to me.”

  “Mireau, it does! And believe me, I’ve gotten to know laudanum very well. We can do this. Listen to me! Once those hoods are under, we carry Arianna out. We have help waiting, warned that they need to be armed. We send them in for the thugs, once we’ve gotten Arianna and ourselves out, and we’re all safe.”

  “You’re scaring me, Maggie.”

  “Why?”

  “Because, in a very bizarre way, you are making sense. But, what if . . .”

  “No! We can’t deal with any ‘but, ifs . . .’! We have to make it work.”

  “What if we can’t get them all to drink brandy?”

  “They drank it. They all drank it last night.”

  “Except for ‘Jeremiah.’ ”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll think of something.”

  There was a knock on the door. Maggie jumped. “It’s probably just the oh-so-charming Mrs. Whitley,” Mireau said with a smile.

  It wasn’t, and no permission was needed to cause the caller to open the door.

  Jamie was there.

  “Lord James!” Mireau murmured uncomfortably. “Good afternoon.”

  “Jacques,” Jamie said, glancing his way, then giving his attention to Maggie. “I’d like to speak with you. Forgive me, Mireau, but I’d like to speak with Maggie—alone.”

  “We were in the middle of a discussion,” Maggie said stiffly.

  “Ah, now, that’s all right. We can speak again later. I was just leaving.”

  “You were not.”

  “Maggie?” Jamie said politely.

  “I’m on my way!” Mireau said cheerfully, rising. He mouthed the words, “Don’t worry, I’ll be back.”

  And then he left her. She wanted to throw something after him, and call him a deserter.

  But he was gone, and the door was closed, and she was left standing there, staring at Jamie. And he looked wonderful, dark hair smoothed back, crimson waistcoat, dark trousers, and matching cravat. Freshly shaven, sleek, tall, imposing, immaculate . . . entirely handsome, completely powerful, suave, and seductive.

  “What?” she said quietly, not daring to move, her voice very low.

  “I came to apologize.”

  “Apology accepted,” she said simply.

  Her hiked a dark brow. “That easily?” he said skeptically. “Maggie, I slammed a door in your face. I cannot believe that you’re just standing there so sweetly.”

  She shrugged. “You were right. I need to deal with Arianna on my own.”

  He sighed. “Listen, I haven’t been fair to you. I have an appointment in about an hour, but I can take a few minutes to talk to her. It’s just I know that, if you two give it a chance, you’ll get along fine.”

  “It doesn’t really matter, does it? In a few months she’ll reach her majority . . . and you two will be together.”

  He frowned. “She’ll reach her majority . . . and we’ll remain relations, and I rather hope we’ll always be close.”

  “How much closer could you be than man and wife?”

  “Man and wife? You want me to marry my cousin?”

  “I don’t care what you do. Isn’t it what your uncle wanted?”

  Jamie stared at her, honestly puzzled. He shook his head. “No.”

  “But I thought—”

  “He did have someone in mind for her.”

  “But I thought . . . it was someone rather . . . in the family.”

  “Maggie, Charles was very fond of Justin. Oh, your brother made some mistakes, but most of us make a number of mistakes. I was nearly thrown out of the service. Justin got into gambling. Seems he’s taking politics very seriously though, now. He is going to prove to be an asset to the Empire one day, I’m certain.”

  Her knees suddenly felt very weak. He was not going to marry Arianna.

  Of course, that didn’t mean he had any really serious feelings for her....

  She suddenly had to moisten her lips to speak, nonetheless. “Arianna isn’t here,” she told him.

  “Oh? I’m sorry I missed her. But I will speak with her.”

  Maggie nodded.

  He frowned. “Are you all right?”

  She nodded again, hesitated, and said, “So . . . you have an hour.”

  “Yes, just about.”

  She smiled wistfully. “Would you talk to me for that time, then?”

  For a very long time, he was just as still as she was. Then he walked to her, where she stood next to the old oak library desk. He brought his knuckles to her chin, and drew them slowly against her flesh. “Maggie, honestly, I’m very sorry. I was there, last night, you see.”

  She leaned against him, cradling his hand against her face. “In Whitechapel?”

  She didn’t dare look at him.

  “Yes. I saw them, both of the victims.”

  She drew back from him. “Why? What were you doing there?”

  “Trying to catch the man,” he said ruefully.

  “Hundreds of policemen are trying to do just that,” she said.

  “I know, but . . . the Queen is truly a good woman, and of course, worried about the monarchy as well, but . . . honestly, there’s no one who can remain untouched by these terrible events.”

  She nodded gravely. “But, Jamie . . . the policemen there know that area. They know the people. They could arrest the prostitutes many times, and don’t. They could charge them for drunkeness, but they don’t, they know the poor women can’t pay the fines.”

  “Do you know, that was one of the saddest things about last night was that they had Catherine Eddowes in a cell at a station for being drunk. She sobered up, and they let her out. And she met the Ripper.”

  Maggie nodded. “She was one of mi
ne,” she said softly. “She came, for bread, really, not because she was fascinated to hear me talk. I saw the sketch in the paper this morning. Poor woman, truly. She was a sad creature, so sad!”

  “And quite out of her misery now,” Jamie said, closing his eyes for a minute. “Well. I should go.”

  She shook her head. “No.”

  “No?”

  “You said you had an hour.”

  “Yes. But I should leave.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t,” she told him.

  “Oh?”

  “I wish that you would just hold me,” she told him, and though he was close, so close she could almost feel the texture of his coat, she didn’t move. She gazed into gray eyes as deep as the mist at night.

  He reached out and pulled her against him, his hand cradling the base of her skull, fingers moving through the length of her hair. She laid her hand against his chest, and felt the beat of her heart rise to an erratic pulse. For a moment, she felt his tenderness. And it was very sweet, something to be cherished. She felt, as well, the deep depression and futility that had assailed him, and experienced a tremulous moment of fear herself. Life was fragile, no matter whom one might be, from the most noble lord to the poorest, most pathetic of humanity.

  Fragile, and precious, and she was learning that there were moments that must be taken, and savored.

  “An hour . . .” she murmured.

  “An hour, and I am glad to hold you.”

  She leaned back her head, smiling very slowly as she looked into his eyes. “Well, to be quite frank, I rather wish you would do more.”

  A grin crept to his lips. “In the library? I don’t believe you’re referring to the enjoyment of a good book.”

  She shook her head. “It’s a large house, and offers other rooms. Such as mine.”

  “What will the servants say?” he asked her.

  “I haven’t the least idea. Nor could I care less.”

  “Ah, but people could talk.”