by Robyn DeHart
She swatted his hand away. “Are you saying you did not refuse to help my brother?”
“I am saying that I refused to give him the names of my assailants the other evening. That was the extent of our conversation.”
She pressed one hand to her breast, but quickly dropped it to her side when she saw how well he took note of her anatomy. It should have been unnerving to be the object of such direct perusal, but . . . Anna moistened her lips and concentrated on the matter at hand. “Th-then why has he been sent away to Scotland?”
“Do you know you have the most intriguing dimple just here, when you are puzzled?” His finger traced the divot in her chin.
“Lord Carrington, I—”
He dropped his hand away and shrugged. “Who am I to understand the machinations of Scotland Yard?”
Her pulse thundered through her veins, and she had the completely uncharacteristic impulse to strike Lord Carrington. How dare he stand there flirting with her whilst he could be out there trying to find Jack the Ripper? “You should be ashamed of yourself,” she said.
“Believe me,” he murmured with an earnestness that could only be faked. “I most certainly am.”
Anna stared openmouthed at him, struggling for a reply. Before she could summon one, her mother appeared at her side and grabbed her elbow. “Annabelle, what are you doing to this poor gentleman? My apologies, sir, my daughter does not know when to hold her tongue.”
He nodded. “No harm done,” he said, then he turned and walked away.
“Have you lost your senses?” her mother hissed. “You cannot walk up to men in public and berate them. You looked very much ready to be sent to Bedlam.”
“That man was Andrew Foster,” she said.
“The murderer?” her mother asked. She brought a hand to her throat. “Good heavens, Annabelle! Why on earth would you engage the attentions of such a man? Why would you put yourself in danger? We should leave and return home immediately.”
“Honestly, Mother, he’s harmless. An arrogant prig, but harmless. Let us go and enjoy the show.”
Unfortunately, she had the feeling she would barely observe the performance. How could she possibly watch the opera while her mind raced over those few moments of conversation with Drew Foster, and the way he’d flirted and touched her so casually? His arrogance and disdain were unparalleled and unforgettable. She had lied to her mother—he was not a murderer, but he was far from harmless.
Chapter Two
The Ripper shifted in his chair and winced as pain surged up his arm. He stared out the window watching the rain fall in heavy sheets. Bloody wet country.
“Begging your pardon, my lord,” the maid said from the doorway, her Scottish brogue an instant reminder of where he was currently stuck. Not that he could forget, even for a second. He loathed Scotland. “Her majesty received your message and sends her condolences about your hunting injury.”
“Very good. Thank you, Cecily,” he said.
She nodded. “Will you be requiring anything else?”
“Not at the moment. I wish to be left alone to my thoughts.”
“Yes, my lord.” A short curtsey and then she fled the room.
Cecily. She was a pretty thing, red hair and freckles. He could cover her in red. Slice her up and—
No, he could not think of such things. At least not right now. Cecily was far too close. If he cut her, they’d know for certain who he was.
Beads of water hit the window with hollow pops. Another shudder of pain ricocheted through his arm.
Damn that bitch for shooting him. The gunshot wound was healing, he knew that, but still it hurt like the devil. The injury had forced him to leave London for the time being while he reassessed and while he healed. He’d told his family it was a hunting injury and he needed to stay where he was, doctor’s orders, until he was well enough to travel.
So it was that he’d found himself at Balmoral for the past few weeks. And here he’d stay for a while longer. Which meant he had to wait before he could go hunting again. He’d taken a break from cutting the whores once before, he could do it again. He merely needed patience.
He forced himself to slow his breathing. Patience had never been one of his virtues, but he did know how to wait, if it was required. He’d almost had the last woman, Mia Danvers, but she’d been smart. Something he hadn’t anticipated. He’d assumed because of her blindness she would be easy prey. He’d obviously underestimated her. Suffice it to say he wouldn’t make the same mistake twice.
Here in the country, life was slower. But he was getting good care; the doctor had cleaned his wound and stitched him up. There had been a few questions—how had the wound happened, where had he been? But they had believed his clever story.
He’d been hunting before it was officially the season to do so, he’d been eager and, well, it would seem a land-owner had not been amused and had shot. Thankfully he’d missed any vital organs. And they’d all had a good chuckle. These simple country Scots were easy to fool.
So for the time being he’d wait here, heal up and make plans for his return. His work wasn’t done. The whores were still there. All over London with their stench and pox. He shuddered with hatred. His palms itched to grip his knife, but it was secured in his room upstairs. Waiting.
Always waiting for the next one to cut.
Chapter Three
When Drew had accepted the undercover position with Scotland Yard, he’d assumed he would be working closely with Simon. But when the Ripper had evaded capture, the commissioner decided it would be best for Simon to go to Edinburgh to train with some new recruits there. It was nothing more than a punishment. Everyone knew as much.
Still Simon had sent Drew a telegraph telling him everything he’d need to know as well as giving him instructions to go to his townhouse and read through Simon’s case notes on all of the Ripper’s crimes. It would be the best way for Drew to familiarize himself with the details not included in the sensational news stories.
Simon’s staff had been notified ahead of time, so when Drew arrived on the doorstep that morning, they showed him right in and straight into Simon’s study. A large table situated beneath three windows would act as his desk. Atop it he found all of Simon’s notes. Drew nodded to the butler and stepped over to the table.
“You’ll find a bell there; ring if you need anything,” the butler said.
“Yes, very good,” Drew said. The man closed the doors behind him and left Drew in the large study. He stood for several moments wondering if he’d made a foolish mistake. What the devil made him think he was qualified to pursue such a professional task? No. He shook his head. For now, his doubts about skill didn’t matter. There probably wouldn’t be a position with the Yard when this was done. He was here to do one thing: help catch the Ripper.
He pulled a wooden chair out and sat. It mattered not that he had no skills investigating anything, let alone the most violent killer in England’s history. That same murderer had pegged some of his crimes on Drew, and he’d ended up in prison for it. If for no other reason than that he would at least try his hand at detecting.
Drew looked at the stack of materials in front of him: illustrations, reports from medical officials and notebooks filled with Simon’s own perceptions. Drew released a sigh. If he was to become familiar with the case, he might as well start at the beginning.
Mary Ann “Polly” Nichols, murdered 31 August 1888. Her body was discovered around four in the morning at a gated stable entrance to Buck’s Row in Whitechapel. Her throat had been deeply slashed and her lower abdomen partially ripped open by a deep, jagged wound. The killer had also made several other incisions in her abdomen with the same knife.
Annie Chapman, murdered 8 September, 1888. Her body was discovered shortly after five thirty in the morning. She had similar injuries to those of Polly Nichols and was missing her uterus.
E
lizabeth Stride, murdered 30 September, 1888. Her body was discovered in Dutfield’s Yard, off Berner Street, just after one in the morning. The killer had cut her throat, severing her left artery, but no other slashes or incisions had been made. It is believed that no other mutilations were done because the attack was interrupted, yet no witness came forward.
Catherine Eddowes, murdered 30 September, 1888. Nearly an hour after Stride’s body was found in Dutfield’s Yard, Eddowes’ body was discovered in Mitre Square, within the City of London. Eddowes’ throat had been slashed and her abdomen torn open with a deep, jagged wound. She was missing her uterus and part of her left kidney.
Mary Jane Kelly, murdered 9 November, 1888. Her body was discovered in her own flat on Miller’s Court, off Dorset Street. She was horribly mutilated, beyond recognition. Her abdominal cavity had been emptied and both her breasts removed. He had also removed skin and hung it around the room. Her heart was also missing.
Drew sat back and pinched the bridge of his nose.
He was a monster, the Ripper. Drew had known that, everyone knew that, from the stories in the newspapers, but the details in these notes were worse than he would have believed possible. He suppressed a shudder. It was nothing short of horrifying.
And people still believed Drew himself capable of such horror, people who had known him since he’d been but a boy. Even though he’d been released from prison and all charges dropped, there were still those who believed him guilty. He took a sobering breath. Alex had tried to warn him, to tell him evidence was mounting against him, but Drew had ignored him. He’d continued to pour brandy into his body, effectively shutting out the world around him.
He pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. A vision of a feisty woman in a curve-molding red dress flashed through his mind. Annabelle Jacobs had to be the most interesting woman he’d met in years, perhaps ever. How was it in a city where most women crossed the street to get away from him, she would storm up and confront him in a room full of people? Soon she would be a lady physician, an act that defied convention in more than one way. She possessed an uncommon beauty, as well—with eyes that saw too much, but held a soft vulnerability.
He leaned forward. What a fool he was, contemplating her attributes. She was a woman with a purpose that did not include being seduced by the likes of him. He turned back to the manuscripts at hand. Things were different now. His mind was clear, and now he was alert and paying attention. Perhaps a little too late, but he hoped he could still make a difference. Drew made notes of his own as he reviewed everything. He created a timeline, mapped out the locations, and then added in the more recent murders, the ones in Mayfair. The ones he himself had been accused of committing.
What did Mayfair and Whitechapel have in common besides the Ripper crimes? Little to nothing. The people who lived in Mayfair never even crossed London to see the filth and poverty spilling out of the East End. Well, except for people such as himself and a handful of others like him who went for the cheap drink at the pubs bordering Whitechapel.
That was where the Ripper had found him, had selected him. The answer was here. Drew merely needed to dig it out.
***
Anna clutched her bag to her as she stepped down from the carriage. She’d always studied at Simon’s townhouse—well, either there or the library. Today, though, the library was closed, so she sought refuge at her brother’s, despite him not being in Town.
Their mother could not abide her medical books and Anna simply didn’t have the room required to lay everything out in her own bedchamber. Simon’s study, on the other hand, had a perfect table, large enough for her to spread out her books and make notes and drawings and the like.
She knocked and the butler actually seemed rather surprised to see her. “Rutherford,” she said, “there is no need to make excuses, I know very well where my brother is and why.” She swept past the servant into the entryway. “I simply need the use of his study if you don’t mind. I do not believe I shall require any refreshments, but I shall let you know.”
“Yes, of course, Lady Annabelle, but . . .”
She entered the study and stopped short when she saw it was already occupied. By Andrew Foster.
Her heart did some strange little dance in her chest when he looked up, and she turned around to leave.
“Miss Jacobs!” He rose from his chair and quickly came to stand in front of the door, blocking her exit. “There is no reason to leave on my account.”
“M-My Lord. I—” She swallowed. “I certainly did not expect to see you here in my brother’s study.” Had those words truly come out so breathlessly?
“No, I don’t suppose you did,” he said. “I presume you’ve come here to study.” He took her heavy bag from her, then led her back into the room. “I’ve been going over Simon’s notes on the case. As he requested,” he added.
Anna barely heard his words, for her body was all too conscious of his hand at the small of her back, sending frissons of sensation shooting through her, to her most vulnerable parts. This physiological reaction had never been taught by any of her professors . . . she could only conclude that she was reacting to him, to his touch, to the scent of his shaving soap. Funny, she’d never taken notice of the way her brothers smelled. Nor had she ever been particularly aware of a man’s hand on her back. It wasn’t an especially intimate touch, but rather a completely innocuous means of escorting her forward.
“That will be all,” she managed to say to the butler.
Rutherford nodded and closed the door behind him looking rather relieved to be removed from the situation. Coward.
“Sit.” Drew offered the empty chair across the table from where he’d been sitting.
She took it without questioning. “Precisely what are you doing here?” she asked.
He gave her a lopsided grin, or what she supposed was a grin. It was halfhearted, at best. He returned to his seat.
She leaned forward to see the papers he had spread out on the table. “Those are my brother’s notes,” she said. “His notes on the Ripper murders.”
“Indeed.”
She eyed him for a moment, but he said nothing more on the matter. Then his words echoed in her mind. I’ve been going over Simon’s notes on the case. As he requested.
He looked far too comfortable sitting here in her bother’s study. Not to mention the man wore no cravat or tie—rather scandalous for a man of his birth. Perhaps it was the time he’d spent in prison, as she imagined even a day spent in that hovel could strip a man of his civility.
Her eyes were drawn again to the place where his cravat should have been. It was a small swatch of his neck she could see at the opening of his shirt, nothing more. Yet the peek at his flesh was ridiculously distracting.
As if he was inviting perusal of his body, he leaned back in this chair, bracketing his fingers across his lean stomach. Good heavens. She was the one being ridiculous. A man’s chest was certainly nothing to get that excited about. After all, she was going to be a physician. She had a more than passing familiarity with the male form. However, nothing in her texts had prepared her for how disconcerting it was to see the chest of a living man to whom she was not related.
“Did you say that Simon had requested you read his notes?” she insisted, forcing herself to look at his face.
His brows rose slowly. “Indeed. I am to familiarize myself with the crimes. I cannot very well work on the investigation if I am unfamiliar with the finer details.”
“But you said you were not going to accept the assignment,” she said.
“No, you said that. I merely didn’t argue with you,” he said, and when he smiled at her, his perfect white teeth gleamed in mockery.
She opened her mouth to argue, but realized he spoke the truth. She had hurled accusations at him, but the fact was she had no notion of whether he had accepted the offer. The last she had heard on the m
atter, Simon had intended to ask and did not expect the man to accept. Then Simon had been sent off to Scotland and she’d assumed Drew had said no.
Drew still grinned at her, looking rather proud of himself. “So then you are working for Scotland Yard?” she asked, ignoring the transformation the smile made to his face. There was absolutely nothing appealing about him, she reminded herself. When he did not answer, she added, “I can be discreet.”
“I am, though it is not common knowledge outside of the Yard,” he said.
“Indeed.”
Simon had obviously set all of this in motion. She knew Rutherford would not give Drew entrance and access to Simon’s private notes without her brother’s consent. So it appeared Drew had every right to be here, and she was the one who perhaps owed the explanation.
“I came here to study. I usually study here, as my mother cannot abide my books,” Anna said.
He shrugged. “It is not my home, so do as you normally would and let me know if I get in your way.”
Anna flipped over her bag and it landed with a heavy thud. She retrieved the books and set them out, along with her notes. She should apologize to him. She knew that. She hated the very idea, but it was true. She’d been rude to him.
He eyed her, then went back to reading Simon’s notes.
“I should apologize,” she said.
“Very well,” he said.
She opened her book and was quiet for several moments.
“Are you going to?” he asked.
“Going to what?”
“Apologize?”
She frowned.
“You said you should apologize,” he said. He opened his palm up as if waiting for her justification.
His grin was irritating. Not to mention attractive, which made it all the more irritating. “I see,” she said. “Yes, well, then I am quite sorry I was so rude to you the other evening at the theatre.”
He nodded. “Apology accepted.”
