Alba blushed.
“You like the opera, don’t you, Alba?” Teddy asked as he plunged a spoon into his lobster bisque.
How on earth could she say she preferred the ballet? “Yes, I love the opera.”
“Splendid!” He seemed genuinely pleased.
And that is how the two-hour meal progressed. Between endless courses of deviled whitefish, creamed asparagus, sweetbreads, boiled fowl, salmon, pink champagne, and an impressive three-tiered birthday cake, the conversation sailed around Alba, but never involved her directly. The babble of voices and the clink of china droned through the air while Alba thought of Dimitri. Had he remembered that today was her birthday? How could he have?
She had told him the date only once, eleven years ago . . .
“. . . most unpleasant business,” Constance Rollingsworth was saying as she sipped her coffee.
Alba’s ears perked up.
“What’s unpleasant, Mother?” Harold asked patiently.
“A conversation I heard between two gentlemen at the physician’s office today. Couldn’t count on females at the hair salon to speak of it.”
“What conversation?” he asked.
Constance scowled. “The gentlemen referred to the fact that people believe the Whitechapel Murderer is merely taking a respite—to throw the police off track.”
“It has been quite a while since this so-called Jack the Ripper killed anyone,” Teddy chimed in. “Over five weeks, to be exact.”
Alba nodded. “The murderer may have done several things to throw the authorities off track. For instance, he might have feigned illiteracy in the letters he sent.”
“Perhaps,” Harold said. “The author was educated enough to observe the silent ‘k’ in ‘knif’ and ‘w’ in ‘whil’ in the From Hell note he mailed to the head of the Vigilante Committee.”
“Are you speaking of the letter that was accompanied by half a human kidney?” Constance asked loudly.
“Yes, Mother. That one,” Harold said. “But I don’t think it’s a prudent subject to discuss on Alba’s birthday.”
“Nonsense!” Constance clucked. “She’s studying to be a barrister and this is the most interesting conversation we’ve had all night.”
He took in a breath.
“Because the box this lunatic sent contained half a human kidney preserved in ethanol,” Constance went on, “maybe he’s an alcoholic himself.”
“We can only speculate, Grandmamma,” Teddy said as he laced his fingers together.
Constance sat up straighter. “Of course, there is another possibility. Considering how inept the police have been in the matter, maybe we are all being fooled.”
“What do you mean, Mrs. Rollingsworth?” Alba asked.
“I mean, what if the kidney in the box was a hoax concocted by some juvenile medical students? And what if the letters allegedly written by Jack the Ripper weren’t written by him at all?”
“I wouldn’t be so sure, Mother,” Harold said grimly. “I think the killer is taunting the police because he wants to get caught.”
Constance gathered the ends of her fur wrap together. “One thing is for certain. His victims have received no justice. No justice at all.”
“Maybe not,” Mavis replied quietly, “but you must admit that the killer is a genius.”
Silence filled the sequestered room.
Flustered, the nurse seemed to regret opening her mouth. “What I mean is, he brazenly murdered four women and the police can’t catch him.” She paused. “It’s as you said, Mrs. Rollingsworth. The victims of this diabolical killer have yet to receive justice.”
Alba felt as though her dinner would come back up. Justice. Supposedly justice had been served in the case of Tabitha Crowe. Saving Greta was an achievement Alba could live with. But the fact that she’d had a hand in Tabitha’s demise didn’t rest well with her at all.
She twisted her napkin. Who am I to determine people’s destinies? Being a barrister gave Alba a power she wasn’t comfortable with. What’s more, she could only imagine Monday’s headlines. Alba Spencer: heartless barrister sends ninety-year-old woman to the gallows . . .
She decided to speak to Mr. Rollingsworth. “About Tabitha Crowe’s sentencing . . .”
Teddy placed a hand on her arm. “Not now, darling. Let’s not spoil your birthday celebration. Discuss it with my father in the office on Monday morning, I implore you.”
Mr. Rollingsworth hadn’t heard Alba speak up, so she agreed not to bring up her professional insecurities any further.
Harold Rollingsworth lit a cigar and sat back in his seat. His expression bore concern. “With all this talk of a killer running wild, Alba, I want you to promise me something.”
“Of course, Mr. Rollingsworth.”
“Whether or not it was Jack the Ripper who wrote these letters cannot be proved. But this madman’s actions are bringing out the worst in people . . . copycats that may be getting ideas and such.”
She nodded.
“The city is gripped with fear. Promise me you will go nowhere by yourself.” He looked directly at her.
But how am I to see Dimitri tonight?
Seeing her old love was becoming a need that burned at her soul like the hottest fire. Swallowing her last morsel of honesty, Alba replied, “You have my word.”
Dimitri grasped a single red rose as he climbed the steps to Alba’s dormitory. After he adjusted his white bow tie, he knocked on the door. A heavyset woman wearing too much cheek rouge opened it. Drawing the lapels of her dressing gown around her fleshy neck, she eyed him with caution.
“May I help you, sir?”
“Pardon the intrusion, madame. I am looking for Alba Spencer. I’m an old friend and I’d like to escort her to supper for her birthday.”
“You must be Dimitri Grit-gross-goo,” Mrs. T. said.
He smiled cordially instead of correcting her pronunciation.
“You’re as handsome as my daughters claim!”
He looked embarrassed. “Is Alba here, Mrs. . . . ?” “Tuttlebaum. But you may use the ‘Mrs.’ in the loosest sense. I am a widow. Lost my poor Henry years ago. On the twenty-sixth of June . . .”
“Ah, yes. Mrs. T. Isn’t that what Alba likes to call you?” He was desperate to get the loquacious woman back on track.
“Yes,” she crowed. “Charming girl, Alba is. But I’m afraid she’s not here. Went out for the evening with her beau, Teddy Rollingsworth.”
Blast it to hell! Of course Alba had accompanied Teddy. I made no solid plans with her. In his own defense, he’d been searching for Ileana like a madman . . . “I would be indebted if you could tell me where they went, Mrs. Tuttlebaum. I have something very important to tell Alba.”
“My stars! I don’t know if I should.” As she stared into his topaz eyes, it didn’t take her long to change her mind. “Very well.” She blushed again. “They went to Chez François in Grosvenor Square. If you don’t catch them there, they are continuing on to the opera. Othello, I believe.”
“Thank you very much. I am forever grateful.” Dimitri took her hand and pressed his lips to its surface. Mrs. T. gave him a twittering “you’re welcome” before he went trotting down the steps of the dorm building.
Twenty minutes later, Dimitri’s hansom pulled up to Chez François. He was about to emerge from it when he caught a glimpse of Teddy helping Alba into a carriage across the street.
“Drummond, follow that carriage!” he commanded, banging his walking stick on the hansom’s ceiling. The vehicle took off with a jolt and Dimitri bumped along on its rear bench. He had to catch up with them. After all, he had a sneaking suspicion that Teddy would propose to Alba tonight. What better time than on her birthday?
Teddy tossed his cigarette to the ground, but its scent followed Alba and him inside the theater. The plush lobby abounded with men in black formal wear and jewel-clad women with cascading curls, wearing elbow-length gloves. There was a buzz of excitement in the air since the opera was about to
begin. Teddy and Alba had barely arrived in time for the overture because Teddy’s grandmother had suffered an acute bout of indigestion at the restaurant. Harold and her nurse had offered to skip the opera in order to attend to her at home.
The house lights dimmed, prompting the crowd to disperse in all directions. Alba slipped a hand through Teddy’s bent elbow as they made their way to a side staircase. Behind them, a loud banging began at the glass entrance doors.
“What the devil?” Teddy turned his head sharply. Unfortunately there were too many people barring the way for him to see what was going on.
“Some fellow is insisting upon entry to the theater,” a man behind them explained. “The sod doesn’t have a ticket. Why on earth would they let him in without one?”
Teddy murmured his agreement while he and Alba continued up the staircase. Once they reached Teddy’s velvet-padded box, Alba settled into a Chippendale chair and leaned over the balcony’s partition. Her eyes surveyed the beautiful décor of the theater—from its richly patterned walls to its scalloped private boxes and glittering chandeliers.
The gaslights lowered to a flicker and a spotlight materialized in the center of the curtains. While the orchestra dove into an exciting overture, Alba accepted a pair of opera glasses from Teddy, as she had forgotten her spectacles. The drapes parted to reveal a set depicting a seaport in Cyprus. When five singers appeared onstage, Alba watched them intently.
Throughout the opera, she felt herself carried away by the tragic love story of Desdemona and Othello. Seeing that she was touched, Teddy drew her close and feathered his fingers up her arm. He held her hand tenderly throughout the duration of the performance. In the end, Alba found herself moved to tears as Othello lamented over Desdemona’s passing—before he killed himself with a dagger. The eternal bond the lovers strove for had been tragically cut short. Had it offered her a glimpse of her and Dimitri’s fate?
Sorrowful chords closed the curtains and Alba melted into an emotional mess.
The gaslights sparked again. “That was lovely,” Teddy whispered. Reaching up, he swept a tear from her face. Ever so lightly, his touch lingered on her face. He parted his lips and pulled her into a long kiss. The kiss didn’t succeed in comforting her, though she suspected that had been his intention.
He drew away wearing a self-conscious expression. “I’m sorry, Alba. I don’t know what came over me. Your reputation . . . I . . . I hope no one saw us.”
“It’s fine,” she reassured him softly. Inside, however, she continued to feel unnerved.
“That wasn’t a very uplifting opera to see on your birthday,” Teddy said as he helped her stand.
“No,” she admitted. She wanted to rip off her too-tight shoes and confining stockings and run all the way home. She was exhausted from fear and sentiment, and all she wanted to do was sleep.
Trying to disguise a yawn, she slid a glance in Teddy’s direction.
He looked hurt. “Am I as boring as all that?”
“Of course not. It’s just that the Crowe sentencing took everything out of me today.”
Teddy gripped her elbow. “Are you sure that’s it? You must tell me the truth, Alba.” Anger tinged his words. “Do you have feelings for me or not? I must know.”
She was shocked by his antagonism, but she stopped herself from reacting to it. After all, Teddy had gone to great lengths to ensure a pleasant birthday celebration. “I do have feelings for you, Teddy. You are a wonderful man.”
Relief brought his shoulders forward. “I’m so glad to hear that,” he stammered. “I’m sorry, Alba. I just wanted tonight to be special. Please, indulge me. Say you’ll have a drink with me at the Hotel Metropole before I take you home.”
“Very well.” She tried to smile. “If it means that much to you.”
The couple left the theater. It had begun to rain, but luckily the hotel was located just across the street. As the theater patrons disappeared quickly from the streets, Teddy opened the door for Alba. He encircled her waist with his hand and drew her close.
“I want to wish you an official happy birthday,” he whispered against the collar of her frock coat. He lowered his chin and closed his eyes, but the kiss he leaned in for was interrupted by a horrendous flapping sound. They turned to see a bat as dark as night swoop upon them in a violent frenzy. Hissing, the creature dodged for the vein in Teddy’s neck.
“What the devil?” he yelled out. He tried to swat at the bat with his hands, but the animal’s claws scraped the skin of his palms and wrists. Blood began to drip on the pavement.
Fear exploded within Alba. “Run!” she cried as the bat persisted in its attack. She grabbed Teddy’s arm and pushed him toward a hansom meant for someone else.
“I’ll give you fifty pounds if you go!” Teddy screeched to the driver as they tumbled inside the carriage.
“What the hell was that all about?” Teddy turned to Alba, clutching his wounded hand.
Alba tried to slow the feral pumping of her heart. Her plan to seek Dimitri out would have to wait because the time to tell Teddy everything had come.
Chapter Nineteen
Dimitri paced outside the theater like an alert panther. Giuseppe Verdi’s muffled love strains seeped through the building’s bricks, deepening his anger. He’d made a scene in his attempt to gain entry—and the way the staff aggressively rejected him had added to the drama.
Was Teddy proposing to Alba during the opera? The possibility flushed red-hot rage through him.
Panic clogged Dimitri’s throat as he continued to pace. The end of the performance was nearing and his mouth was growing dryer than week-old bread. Completely parched, he was forced to leave the theater. As he cut through a winding alley, he tossed the rose he’d planned on giving Alba to the ground. Once he was hidden from sight, he morphed into a bat and soared to a less-than-desirable neighborhood.
Entering the blackened mouth of a side street, he spotted a young prostitute posed against a wall. He glanced around to ensure that they were alone and then Dimitri approached the girl. Her garishly painted lips spread into a smile.
“Yer an elegant one,” she said. “’Andsome at that!”
She pushed herself off the brick wall and unbuttoned her coat. Her creamy cleavage rose in half-circles over her whalebone corset and shone under the moonbeams. Dimitri slipped forward, his mesmerizing eyes leading the way. The girl’s eyelids grew heavy as she stroked the rise of her breasts alluringly. While Dimitri’s body built with thirst, he hunched toward her and cradled her small face in his hands. Sliding his thumb over her cheek, he wet his lips in a slow, seductive motion.
“That feels nice,” she purred.
She reached inside his cape and tried to fondle his shaft.
“No,” he commanded. “Let me do everything to you.”
Any number of men would have reacted to the young girl’s advances, but not Dimitri. He wanted no woman but Alba.
He continued to caress the prosser’s chin and mouth until she was like putty in his hands. Shifting her head to the side, he stared at the smooth column of her neck, and in no time, his fangs descended. Lowering his lips to her skin, he bit down. The girl moaned—first in pain and then in pleasure as a narrow trickle of blood angled to her nape.
Dimitri fed until the girl slipped to the ground, without memory of their encounter but still very much alive. As he pulled his pocket watch from his vest, he studied the time. With a whirl of his cape, he retraced his steps to the theater and arrived in time to see its patrons exiting.
Where were Alba and her ever-persistent beau?
Dimitri hastened across the street and looked inside the window of the Hotel Metropole. There was no sign of them. Transforming into a mist once he rounded a corner for privacy, he peered inside every hansom that passed in the vicinity. He even traveled to Alba’s dormitory.
Where on earth can they be?
A sickening thought rose to Dimitri’s mind and his gut wrenched. Perhaps Teddy had taken Alba to his hou
se so that he could seduce her.
Anger twisted his thoughts like a debilitating disease. The image of Teddy caressing Alba’s glossy hair, stroking her velvet thighs, was more than he could bear. Insane with jealousy, his fangs descended again—which caused him to morph back into human form. He gripped his silver-knotted walking cane until his knuckles turned white. As he left the wealthy London district, he planned to go to Teddy’s home so that he could find Alba and rescue her. But first he needed to have something with him when he did.
The bracelet of Amenhotep.
Tonight he would steal it and then convince Alba to run away with him. If he presented her with the enchanted bracelet, she would feel safe from the cruel prophecy associated with the Egyptian amulet. At the very least, Dimitri thought ruefully, she won’t kill herself if she destroys me.
There was a second half to his plan. Dimitri had made a vow to destroy Ileana before he left London. And that was exactly what he intended to do after he lured Alba to the safety of his home.
The gigantic doors that marked the entryway to the British Museum stood locked.
“I don’t know what I was thinking,” Alba said, reevaluating her idea to bring Teddy here.
“You wanted to show me something inside, and I’ll not disappoint you,” he said.
Teddy banged loudly on the doors. When no one came to open them, he took Alba around back to the employees’ entrance. “My father used to bring me here when I was a child,” he explained as he beat on the steel portal. “I knew everyone here. It’s been two years since I visited last, but I assume Wickley is still a night guard.”
“Wickley?” Alba said faintly. Her feet were killing her and all she wanted to do was sit and relay everything to Teddy. She’d tried to do so inside the carriage, but he had been in too much pain. While she had laced her handkerchief around his bloody scrapes, he’d sagged against her with his eyes closed.
“I have no idea what Wickley’s first name is, but he’s always been a helpful fellow.” Teddy pounded on the massive door again with his uninjured hand. “Wickley! It’s Teddy Rollingsworth. Let me in!”
Snow White and the Vampire (The Cursed Princes) Page 14
