Capturing the Devil

by Kerri Maniscalco

  He glanced up sharply. “You are free to choose; I’ve always said—”

  “Yes, yes.” I waved my hand about. “You’ve always said. My father’s always said. Uncle has always said.” Unable to meet his gaze directly, I stared down at my hand, realizing I hadn’t yet returned his family ring. I stopped looking at it and focused on Thomas again. “It’s one thing for others to tell you what’s best, but without experience of your own?” I shook my head. “I am not perfect, nor will I ever aspire to be. Flaws are what build character. They make us more human. More—”

  “Susceptible to heartbreak?”

  “Well, yes, I suppose that’s true.” I met his gaze full on. “If I lived out the rest of my days worrying about perfection or achieving The Angel in the House standard of what women ought to be—that is a cage I will not set myself in. I’m sorry I hurt you, Thomas. I cannot apologize enough for my doubt, momentary though it might have been. But my struggle was always between what life I wanted for myself, not which man I wanted to spend it with. You accuse Mephistopheles of manipulation, and you’re not wrong. He never pretended his bargains weren’t in his favor. He told me directly he is an opportunist. I knew that. He is flawed, but show me a person who isn’t. My hope for him is to learn his own lesson in the future. He’s scared of being vulnerable; I should think you know a thing or two about that.”

  “What of my offer of living outside society with me?”

  “I decline your offer because there is another who is officially committed to be your wife, Thomas. Were you unattached, and if it wouldn’t harm our families, I might consider living our life however we wanted to live it. No rules. No society terms. Just you and me. I would take you without a ring or a home or any document declaring you were mine. That is not the situation we find ourselves in at present. And that is the only reason your brand of debauchery doesn’t suit me. No matter how hard he tried wooing me, I never pursued a courtship with Mephistopheles. It’s always been you for me, even when I didn’t know who I was anymore. It will always be you, Thomas. No matter who tries to come between us. You are my heart. No one can take it.”

  Thomas gazed at me for a moment, then dropped into a chair, his head in his hands. “I despise this.”

  “It’s a horrid situation, I know. But we will get through it. We have to.”

  “No, no.” Thomas glanced up. “I despise being the one having an emotional dilemma. It’s much more enjoyable being the one consoling you. You haven’t even offered to let me sit on your lap. You’re terrible at this.”

  We tentatively smiled at each other. Our grins were both gone as quickly as they’d come, but it was a start. As sick as it made me to think of beginning anew with Thomas Cresswell.

  “Well.” I searched for something else to do or say in the awkward silence. The curious part of me that always seemed to win could no longer contain itself. “What did you do today?”

  He assessed me from head to toe, paying careful attention to my face. I knew he was studying every miniature movement and plucking apart my emotions. His own impenetrable mask was back in place. I hoped I appeared strong enough to withstand whatever he said. The slight frown he let slip made me think otherwise. “I… I did pay a visit to Miss Whitehall—”

  “All right.” I abruptly held up a hand. He closed his mouth, his expression strained. “Please. I don’t mean to be rude, but I feel a little ill. I-I can’t hear about this now or I may vomit. It’s too much.”

  Thomas’s attention strayed to my stomach, a line of worry creasing his brow.

  For the love of the queen, I was not with child. My ever-vigilant cousin had been making me drink those herbal blends for weeks. Well before Thomas and I had consummated our—I exhaled. We needed to find another pursuit.

  “Would you… I’m going to study Nathaniel’s journals. You’re welcome to join.” I looked up in time to notice him wince. “If you’d like.”

  He tapped an anxious rhythm on his thigh while he considered. Finally, he dragged his chair closer and pulled a journal in front of himself. He might jest about my curiosity, but his was equally piqued. A tiny sense of relief blossomed. Things were easier between us when we had a mystery to solve.

  “Le bon Dieu est dans le détail,” he said, his tone reverent. At my knitted brow, he amended, “Flaubert.”

  “I meant the sentence, Cresswell.” Unable to help myself, I rolled my eyes. Leave it to Thomas to quote the author of Madame Bovary—in French—at a time such as this. His theatrics truly knew no bounds. “‘The “God” is in the detail’ ought to be shifted to the ‘devil.’”

  He laughed. “True. There’s certainly nothing holy about the notes in these devil’s journals.”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  VIVISECTIONS AND OTHER HORRORS

  GRANDMAMA’S UPSTAIRS STUDY

  FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK CITY

  7 FEBRUARY 1889

  A few hours later, Thomas and I had fallen into a familiar, peaceful work rhythm. Sir Isaac tried assisting in our endeavor a few times by batting my nibs of ink off the tables. I glared while Thomas howled with laughter. After he’d stolen Thomas’s favorite pen, the cat found himself back on his cushion, washing himself without a care in the world.

  Though that was where our levity ended. Our reading material made my stomach twist into intricate knots. I could barely bring myself to read this secret and hideous part of my brother. On more than one occasion I had to close one of his journals, steeling myself once more before pressing onward. It was a monumental task—there were over one hundred notebooks, some filled entirely from cover to cover with small script, while others had bits and pieces of ideas sprinkled every few pages. The handwriting shifted with Nathaniel’s moods. The more wild and outlandish the idea, the more illegible the script became.

  His sketches, however, remained eerie in their precise lines and careful shading. My brother was always a perfectionist. From his carefully pomaded hair to his finely tailored suits. Despite what he’d done, I missed him.

  My rose and hibiscus tea sat untouched, its steam having long since stopped breathing fragrant wisps into the air. Now it looked like a cup of chilled blood. A memory of another time and place played across my mind. Nathaniel had had a bottle of congealing blood in a bottle in his laboratory. I wondered now if it had been animal or human.

  “I cannot believe he performed so many ghastly experiments.” I tugged a chenille throw blanket tighter. “Vivisections.” I nearly gagged at one of his sketched images of a live animal flayed open; my brother spared no detail of its torture. “I don’t understand. My brother loved animals. He was the one who’d cry himself to sleep if he couldn’t save a stray. How could he have done this? How could I have not seen the wickedness in him sooner?”

  Without lifting his head from his book, Thomas sighed. “Because you loved him. It’s normal to reason away oddities in his behavior. Love is wonderful, but as with most forces of nature, there’s lightness and darkness within it. I believe in some instances the greater the love, the more we ignore facts that are obvious to others. You did not see the signs because you could not. It’s not inadequacy on your part—it’s simply self-preservation.”

  I snorted. “Or denial.”

  “Perhaps.” Thomas shrugged. “If you accepted the truth of your brother, you’d be forced to confront your own darkness. You’d discover your morals aren’t defined in terms such as black or white, good or bad. Most shy away from that level of introspection. It makes us realize we’re villains. At least in part. We also all have the capacity to be heroes. Miss Whitehall might think me a villain for trying to break our engagement, while you believe me to be a hero for that very same act. At some point, we’re all someone’s hero and another’s villain. It’s all a matter of perspective. And that changes as frequently as the cycles of the moon.”

  It was quite a morbid thought. One I did not wish to expand upon.

  “Here.” I slid the envelope marked CONFIDENTIAL over to him. “Uncle received this e
arlier. It strongly suggests another Ripper murder occurred on the twentieth of December.”

  Thomas read the report while I went back to Nathaniel’s journals. Or tried to.

  “Tell me everything your uncle said.” His tone was calm enough for me to realize an internal storm was raging. “I need to know every detail.”

  “All right…” I told him everything I could remember regarding Miss Rose Mylett’s death. He listened carefully and quietly, his jaw set and his expression perfectly placid. He politely demanded to know what Uncle had said about Blackburn, then pored over the journals, reading through them with the singular focus of a starving dog gnawing on a bone.

  He didn’t say so aloud, but I saw the same fear etched into his features that had flashed in Uncle’s face. Somehow Rose Mylett might’ve been a subtle warning directed at me. Whether or not that was true, I refused to yield to some madman who preyed upon women.

  An hour ticked by, the clock on the mantel chiming ten bells. I lifted my hands above my head, stretching one way, then the next. I creaked these days more than some wooden chairs.

  “I’m not sure if we’ll find anything useful for Jack the Ripper’s identity or possible location in these,” I said. “Thus far it’s simply disturbing.”

  “Not nearly as disturbing as another potential Ripper murder.” Thomas ran his gaze over me as if to be certain I was still there, sitting beside him, scowling.

  Another half hour flew by. I blinked, surprised to find a plate piled high with slices of cake and two forks before me. Chocolate with chocolate espresso icing and macerated raspberries in the center. A frothy glass of milk sat next to it.

  Part of me longed for a bite, until I remembered it would’ve been served at our wedding. Aside from that, I was appalled by the thought of eating while reading such grotesque passages, but after a while, I gave in and ate two pieces myself.

  Thomas smiled. “Terrified of clowns and spiders, but not devouring chocolate cake whilst elbows deep in morbid journals. You truly are my match, Wadsworth.”

  The corner of my mouth lifted, but the easy retort quickly died. I might be in his heart and he in mine, but I was no longer his match. At least not the way we both wished to be.

  His own smile faded and he returned to his work, the carefree moment floating away like a leaf on the wind. I resumed my own research, focused entirely on locating any hint or clue that might assist in our locating the real Jack the Ripper. Thus far, Nathaniel had been careful not to name his murderous comrade.

  An icy fingertip traced a shiver along my spine when I turned to another disturbing section with pages upon pages of diagrams featuring intricate mechanisms fused with living tissues and organs. A heart with gears, a pair of lungs made from the leathery hide of an animal. Other organs were harder to place, though one resembled a uterus. Then there were hands, eerily similar to the steam-powered one I’d found in our home. In some ways his sketches reminded me of Mephistopheles, who was exceptionally talented at engineering. In another life they might have been friends. I swallowed hard, suddenly overcome with emotion.

  Thomas set his journal on the table, head canting to the side. “What is it?”

  I pinched the bridge of my nose. “You’re not going to enjoy my thoughts.”

  “On the contrary, I find them quite alluring. Especially when they’re untoward.”

  This, at least, coaxed a smile to my lips. Reading about mad science and detailed murder seemed to be just the tonic Thomas required to continue flirting shamelessly. My smile disintegrated. “I was thinking about Ayden.”

  “Mephisto?” Thomas narrowed his eyes. “Well, then. I hope you were picturing him fully clothed in one of his ridiculous masks and gaudy jackets.” He smiled, much too sincerely, and I braced myself for what had brought about such a contented look. “Covered in maggots might be fun, too. Remember when that happened to Prince Nicolae? It was one of the top moments of my life, really. I swear, sometimes I replay his expression as they shot out of that cadaver onto him and my mood is lifted all day. You ought to try it whenever you’re feeling glum. There”—he grinned widely—“I’m doing it right now and it’s marvelous.”

  “Honestly? I scarcely remembered that, and with good reason.” I shook my head. “Also, by the by, we’re in the midst of an investigation and you’re still annoyed about Mephistopheles’s choice in sequins?”

  “No.” Thomas bristled. “I’m annoyed I forgot mine and couldn’t strut around in my carnival best, too. Aside from his mediocre jokes, he truly had nothing else going in his favor. Perhaps it was best I didn’t upstage him in that regard as well.”

  At my eye roll, he held his hands up. The scoundrel had definitely lightened my heavy mood and he knew it. Perhaps we could make this post-wedding friendship work. It wouldn’t be easy, but most things in life weren’t.

  “All right, all right,” he relented. “What were you really thinking?”

  “That he and Nathaniel would’ve been good friends.” I flipped the journal open, resuming my scan of the dark material. “Perhaps if my brother had found someone else who enjoyed crafting mechanisms… maybe he would have put his skill to better use. Maybe he’d still be alive.” I traced his writing. “Perhaps those poor women would never have been killed.”

  Thomas was up and out of his seat in the time it took me to blink. He sat next to me, wrapping an arm about my shoulders. “Do not travel down that path, Wadsworth. It will only lead to heartbreak. Maybe, perhaps, what if, if only; they all ought to be stricken from the world. At least in our world they ought to be outlawed.” He pressed his lips to my temple, their warmth shocking and pleasant. “Nathaniel made his choices. Regardless of any infinite number of paths he could have taken, he might always end up in that laboratory, flipping that lever. Those women, as brutal as it may sound, would always be in danger based on the nature of what they’d been forced to do to survive. If your brother didn’t kill them himself, if someone else was truly wielding that knife, then their fate might have always been decided. No amount of altering a few facts might change that.”

  “Do you truly believe that?”

  “I do.” Thomas nodded fiercely. “You spoke of choices and mistakes earlier. Nathaniel chose his path. Granted it was a mistake that turned out to be fatal, but he had every right to make it. No matter how wrong we know his actions to be.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “If it’s true for you and me and anyone else who makes mistakes,” Thomas said, “then it applies to your brother as well. Just because his were on a grander, more wretched scale, doesn’t negate that basic fact. If you can forgive yourself and learn, then see this for what it is. A terrible mistake—on many levels—that ended in tragedy for many people.”

  Something deep inside uncoiled slowly at first, then more swiftly. Guilt. Only in its absence did I realize how tightly I’d been holding on to it. Guilt had stalked me since my mother died, and had followed more closely after my brother passed on. I’d blamed myself for both their deaths. I’d grown so used to it, I was almost terrified to let it go.

  Forgetting about secret fiancées and all the reasons I ought to keep my distance, I sank against Thomas, using his steadiness as support.

  “It’s hard,” I said, swallowing hard. “Letting go.”

  “You don’t ever have to let go of them.” Thomas rubbed my arm soothingly. “But you must learn to part ways with both guilt and blame. If you do not, they will latch on like thirsty leeches, bleeding you dry.”

  “I know. Sometimes I wish I could change the past. Just once.”

  “Ah. That might be a mathematical impossibility for now, but you can alter the future. By taking what you’ve learned yesterday and putting it to practice today, you can build better tomorrows.” He leaned closer, smiling against my neck. “Speaking of a better future. I’ve been thinking of solutions for our problem. At least for—”

  “Father will be here within the hour,” Daciana said by way of greeting. Her face flushed a brilli
ant scarlet as she stepped into the room. “He’s come to take you back to England. With… with Miss Whitehall.”

  TWENTY-SIX

  THE DUKE OF PORTLAND

  GRANDMAMA’S GRAND FOYER

  FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK CITY

  8 FEBRUARY 1889

  Grandmama did not enjoy being interrupted, whether it was while reading a good book or choosing her next move in a game of chess. She most certainly despised being woken up at an indecent hour, forced to receive guests she wished to toss into the snow-covered streets.

  She inspected Thomas in a way that made me reconsider whether or not I believed in the power of prayer. After what felt like an eternity, she nodded curtly. “You better be worth all the trouble you’re causing.”

  Thomas flashed his most charming smile. The very same one he’d used on my father to get him to grant me permission to attend the academy in Romania, and then on the train ride there. A feat I was still impressed by, considering Thomas’s reputation as an unfeeling automaton in London society. Because of his refusal to play by their rules, there were rumors early on that he’d been the ruthless killer we sought. Some still whispered his name in connection with the crimes. The idea that Thomas could be the notorious Jack the Ripper was too ludicrous to even consider.