by Robyn DeHart
She was completely preoccupied with the desire for him to touch her again, and she wanted to touch him in return. It was odd, that, the feeling of desire. She hadn’t expected it to feel that way. She’d expected it to be nice and pleasurable, but the kind of pleasure one felt when hearing a lovely song or smelling a sweet flower. Not the sort that consumed her body, engulfing her in flames and making her want things she’d never considered before.
But that’s precisely how she felt. And for Drew Foster, the most interesting and irritating man she’d ever met. It was senseless.
And as if her mere thoughts of him could summon his presence, he entered the parlor. She came to her feet.
“Hello,” she said.
“I heard from Simon.” He held up a piece of paper.
“Another telegraph? I was expecting him to send by post; it must be urgent.” She stepped over to him, held out her hand.
He gave her the telegraph.
FAIRLY CERTAIN JACK HAS APPRENTICE
FOUND COMMUNICATION IN TIMES
SENDING MORE BY POST
THERE ARE TWO OF THEM
“Oh dear,” Anna said, and she fell back onto the sofa. She’d suspected as much, but seeing it there, in print, made it all too real. “Two killers. That is somewhat terrifying.”
Drew sat next to her, put a comforting hand on her knee. “For once in my life, I hate that I was right. Are you—?”
She waved her hand dismissively. “I’m right as rain. Just a little disconcerted, I suppose.”
“They’re communicating with one another,” Drew said.
She shuddered. “Even more terrifying. So what is there to be done about it?”
“Obviously, I need to figure out who the second killer is while still looking for the Ripper. Especially since no one else at the Yard will be working this angle with me.”
“I wish Simon were back,” Anna said.
“Your confidence in me is humbling.”
“Oh pish-posh, that is not what I meant.” She put her hand on his, which still rested on her knee. He grabbed her fingers and interlaced their hands. “You are perfectly capable,” she continued, “but you said yourself that no one believes you or trusts your judgment. If Simon were here, there would be no discussion.”
“Jeffries will not even entertain the idea of a second killer.”
“Not everyone can be as clever as you and Simon. I suspect he knew this about you and that is why he approached you for Scotland Yard.”
“No, he asked me to work there because the Ripper tried to frame me.” He was quiet a moment. “I’ve tried to figure out why the Ripper picked me. Only conclusion I’ve come to is that obviously he saw something in me that led him to believe that others would suspect me, that I would make a believable scapegoat. Otherwise, he could have just as easily selected Thompson or Richardson.”
She shook her head, not believing his words. “You believe that Jack the Ripper picked you because he thought you believable as a killer? As a savaging beast like him? Drew, no one who knows you”—she met his eyes, his soulful, sad eyes—“no one could believe that of you. It is why Simon and your brother kept fighting to have you released.”
There was more to this, more to his anguish. Anna knew it, but she also knew that Drew wouldn’t share everything with her. She could see he’d already ended the discussion in his mind.
Drew wouldn’t say anything else. He’d already said too much. As wrong as it was, he liked how Anna looked at him. He wouldn’t risk that with the truth. With telling her about all of his demons, all the darkness that consumed him.
“Regardless of what you think, I know Simon. Had you been as disposable as you think, it would be enough to ask you to participate in setting a trap perhaps, but not enough for employment. You’ve known one another since school. He knows the real you,” Anna said.
He looked down at her lap, where their hands were still intertwined. Despite his efforts to resist her pull, he was drawn to Anna. He craved her—her company, her smile, the sound of her voice. Yes, he enjoyed teasing her, but he also genuinely liked and respected her. He knew the attraction would get him into trouble, because with Anna, he wanted more. Things he suspected he wasn’t meant to have.
She sat quietly next to him. She was playing the prim and proper lady and stifling her own questions. He’d said too much and she wanted to alleviate his doubts, but he’d had to shut down the conversation. He wanted to say something to make her feel better, wanted to pull her close to him and run his hand down her back. Soothe all her worries.
But the fact that he wanted to do both of those things stopped him from proceeding with any explanations. Her perfect mouth was drawn into a line and furrows wrinkled her brow.
Here she was, obviously distraught that she couldn’t comfort him, and he was aroused. All he wanted to do was pull her onto his lap and spread kisses into her hair, trace his fingers across her body, then push himself into her. Make love to her until they both forgot about proper behavior and investigations and Jack the Ripper.
He shifted uncomfortably in his seat to alleviate the pressure. The need to touch her was great, as if she were the cure for all that ailed him. The soothing drink of water to a dying man. All he wanted was one more touch. Something to somehow remind himself that he wasn’t merely the bastard son of a duke, but also a man with a heart and a soul.
No, he could not force upon her such a burden. He stood and put physical distance between them. He would do the right thing if it killed him.
“I wish Simon would have included some instruction on how to proceed.”
“You keep doing what you’ve been doing,” she said. “You have a list from the tobacco shop and can follow it. And there’s Mr. Rodgers. We still need to locate him, ask him questions.”
They were quiet for several moments before she spoke again. “Are we going to talk about what happened between us the other night? You’ve been so distant, I’ve scarcely seen you and to be perfectly honest I should like to know what is so wrong with me.”
He eyed her a moment, not quite believing what he was hearing. “Why the devil would you assume something is wrong with you?”
“It is the only logical conclusion. You kissed me and made me feel . . .” Her voice became breathy and her cheeks flushed. “It is actually rather difficult to describe the sensation, and wonderful doesn’t even begin to describe it. Beautiful. You made me feel beautiful. And desirable and sensual.”
He took a step toward her, then stopped himself. “Anna, I didn’t make you feel those things. You are all of those things. I merely showed you.”
“Would you show me again? I’m not quite certain I remember everything.” She swallowed visibly. “And as a woman of science, it is crucial that I have a full experience.”
Christ, he wasn’t certain he had the strength to walk away from a request like that. “Anna, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Did you only find me attractive that night because I was dressed as a servant girl?”
“What the devil are you talking about?”
Her head tilted and she gave him a sideways glance. “I’m familiar with your reputation. You seduced one of my friend’s ladies’ maids. You have a fancy for pretty servant girls.”
“I do not have a preference for servant girls.” It wasn’t that he preferred girls with lower breeding, but more that he felt he didn’t deserve a woman like Anna. “I’ll have you know that I am very drawn to you right this moment, and you look nothing like a maid.”
She opened her mouth and then closed it again.
“You are a genteel lady, Anna, and I . . .” He shook his head.
“You are the son of a duke and an inspector with Scotland Yard.” There was such pride in her voice.
“Not because I earned that title. I am an inspector only because your brother made th
at happen.” And I am a bastard son. He maintained the distance between them; he had no business putting his hands on her body or his mouth on hers.
But she stood and sauntered toward him. “’Tis only a matter of time before you earn inspector. I should think you have earned it thus far—you suspected a second killer before anyone else. That makes you a true inspector.”
Her argument was persuasive. Not to mention she looked so damn beautiful standing there, peering up at him with her lovely green eyes. Those very eyes that looked upon him as if he were a man who deserved so much more than he did. He wanted to be that man, the one she saw. That man would walk away from her lusty request—but he’d never been that much of a gentleman. He pulled her to him. “I will not take your virginity.”
“I don’t recall offering it to you.”
“Such a sassy mouth you have.” He traced his finger over her lips. “Most men would find that off-putting.”
“And you?”
He tilted his head as if considering her question. “Well, I’m not most men.”
“I believe that might bode well for me,” she said. She gave him such a seductive grin he would have sworn she was far more worldly than he knew her to be.
“Is that so. Tell me, Annabelle, have you always been such a flirt?”
“No. Never, actually.” Then her brow furrowed. “Was I flirting?”
“You asked me to kiss you,” he reminded her.
“Indeed. Quite brazen of me.” She was quiet for a moment, gazing up at him, her green eyes searing into his own. “Will you?”
“Kiss you? Most definitely.” He cupped her chin and leaned in. His lips pressed against hers and it was as if the world stopped. She was pliant and soft beneath him, and she leaned in closer to him. He teased at her bottom lip with his teeth and then his tongue until she parted and allowed him entrance.
He kept things slow and gentle, seductively worshipping her mouth. When he heard a sigh escape her lips, deep satisfaction and desire surged through his body and he tightened his grasp on her. She met his intensity, which surprised him, and he squeezed his eyes trying to ignore his intense desire to slip his hand beneath her skirt. Not too far, he reminded himself. Not with this one. She was different. She needed protection. Even from him.
Her tongue slid against his and he groaned into her mouth. Desire surged through him as her hand clutched his shoulder. He could kiss her forever. Only her. He wanted to press her body against his as she met his passion beat for beat.
Her hands gripped his shirt and she kissed him with passion, not holding anything back. Their tongues met and molded against one another. He realized in that instant that this was the very best kiss he’d ever received. Anna Jacobs in all her innocence was far more intoxicating than the boldest of women he’d ever touched.
She deepened the kiss, clinging to him as if in this moment she needed his breath more than her own. It was a heady feeling, her desire for him. He moved a hand up to cup her breast over her dress. She whimpered, arched toward him, but the layers of fabric between their bodies prevented him from giving her what she wanted. He wanted desperately to see her breasts again, to put his mouth on them, but it was the afternoon and this was her family’s parlor and at any moment someone, her mother perhaps, could walk in on them. He ended their kiss, kissed her jawline, down her throat to her collarbone, where he nipped at her sensitive flesh.
“I could kiss you forever,” he admitted before he thought better of it. It was probably for the best he hadn’t been recruited to be a spy, as he would certainly share vital secrets with her without even realizing it.
“I would let you kiss me forever,” she said.
Chapter Eighteen
The Ripper stared at the notice in The Times and read it again. His fourth time through. Anger surged through him, and the need to destroy something, to tear, rip and cut something or someone, was overwhelming. He closed his eyes and clenched his hands into fists.
Patience. He merely needed some additional patience. It would only be for a little while longer, and then he could return to London and kill all the whores.
Instead of praising Jack’s skills and seeking guidance on how to perfect his own art, the fool, the imbecile, had the gall to challenge him, to pretend he was somehow above the Ripper. It was laughable and would not do.
Once he’d tried to reach out to the damned fool who was so obviously attempting to take Jack’s place in Whitechapel, it had taken a few messages before he’d received a response. Now they’d shared a couple of correspondence.
There had to be something said, but it would take him some time to find the perfect response. In the meantime, he’d occupy himself by reading the article about the whore he’d taken the other night on these very streets. Edinburgh was talking about him now, claiming to have their own Ripper, as it would seem everyone still assumed he was working in London. It was time to teach his student a lesson, one he wouldn’t forget.
He took the quill and scrawled out the note, then carefully picked up his copy of the Inferno, the one he’d used the first time, and found the passages he needed and set the code down. He’d have to go to the telegraph office himself to drop it off, but he was safe here in Scotland, far from the streets of London.
The telegraph worker was too ignorant to understand his message in any case, so the Ripper was safe.
Once his student—he’d decided to call him that—replied, Jack could begin the man’s education, teach him the real way to off the whores. Of course this student would need to find his own hunting ground. London belonged to the Ripper, and he intended to return as soon as he was able.
Chapter Nineteen
His plan was working.
The authorities believed the most recent murder was at the hand of Jack the Ripper. And the Ripper himself had already reached out to communicate with him. It was safe to say he’d garnered the killer’s attention. It was only a matter of time before they’d meet face to face, and then he would get all the credit at Scotland Yard. They wouldn’t be able to deny him a promotion then. Hell, they’d probably make him chief inspector.
He knew, though, the only want to fulfill his plan was to continue to irritate the Ripper. The most recent communication from old Jack, printed in The Times, referred to him as the Ripper’s student. That vile bastard thought to teach him? If that’s what it took to bring the Ripper out from hiding, he could pretend he needed teaching, but in order to do that he’d need to kill another one.
He didn’t kill because he enjoyed it. He killed because it was the only way to get the fools at the Yard’s attention. He deserved to be promoted, and this would be his way to achieve it. The Ripper was a maniacal killer, whereas he—he was far more than that.
Down at the end of the alleyway stood two women, both whores. He knew it by listening to their cockney accents, by the way their dresses hung down too far on the bosoms. One of them heckled a man passing by on the street. The man turned and looked and then beckoned the tart over to him. She said something to her friend, then went and followed the man. They slunk off into the shadows of a building down the way. He knew, once they were out of sight, he’d fuck her up against the cold, hard bricks.
He watched them leave from his own position in the shadows. Hell, he’d done the same thing. But that wasn’t why he was here tonight. Tonight was just for cutting and killing. He’d find a girl and slice her up good, just like Jack did. And tonight he’d do it without losing his dinner, as he’d done the first time. He didn’t have to enjoy the killing—it was a necessary means to an end.
The damned fools at the Yard were all intimidated by his intelligence, nothing more. But this would be his way to the top, and no one would overlook him again. He’d show those bastards.
He crept through the darkness of the alleyway behind the Tin Bells pub and waited for the whore he would cut tonight. The street around him stank with body waste and r
otting food, and he shook his head. Filth, nothing but filth. Soon he could return to his home and wash his hands, but first he needed to cut someone.
He saw her then. Older than his first victim, she’d no doubt been working the streets for far too long. She staggered toward him, humming a drinking song, then stopped when she caught sight of him leaning against the brick building.
“ ’Ey there, looking for some company?”
“I might be. What are you offering?”
She gave him a wide toothless grin. “Anything you want. And for you, because you’re so handsome, half price.”
“My lucky day.”
“Oh, it is, it is.”
He led her deeper into the shadows to a darkened spot where they were surrounded by buildings. It was a perfect location, completely secluded with nowhere for her to run.
He withdrew the knife from inside his coat, and before she even knew what was happening, he had slid the blade across her throat.
Warm blood spurted out, covering his hands. Her eyes widened and her mouth opened in a noiseless scream. The blood gurgled and hissed out of her throat, life wheezing from her. He dropped her and her body slumped to the ground.
Nausea surged through him and he retched violently next to her bloody body. He withdrew the handkerchief in his coat and wiped off his mouth, did his best to wipe his hands. He supposed he never would get used to the feel of blood on his hands. All the well, and a reminder that he wasn’t like the Ripper. His kills would serve a purpose, bring about a greater good. He knew he wasn’t finished, though. He looked back at the woman.
The monster always carved them up more.
When he’d made this plan, he’d decided to come to Whitechapel because that was where Jack had started. It seemed fitting to kill here. He knelt over her body, her eyes opened wide, the gaping wound at her throat still oozing blood. He suppressed a shudder and then sliced her dress open at the bodice and down to her waist and ripped the fabric open, revealing her body, her breasts, her overly thin stomach. He cut her open, sawed at her flesh to get inside. Jack always cut them open.
