We’d tried hiding outside my house on Belgrave Square, camping out at all hours of the night, all times throughout the day, but never succeeded in catching Father coming or going. I’d even gone as far as etching his carriage for identification purposes, should we ever see it rolling about at night.
It was as if he always knew when he was being watched, sensed it like a wolf being tracked by something mad enough to hunt it.
Now it was time to test my theory out.
“For your information,” I said, holding the green dress up, “I am not going as a prostitute. I’m simply blending in.”
No amount of discussion would dissuade me from the path I’d chosen. If I couldn’t catch Father heading into Whitechapel, I’d plant myself there and wait for him to come to me. It was as fine an idea as any. One way or another, I was determined to figure out if Father was Jack the Ripper.
Thomas muttered something too quiet for me to hear, then marched to an armoire standing solemnly in the corner of the attic, yanking the doors open and rummaging through it with a vengeance.
“What in the name of the queen are you doing?” I asked, though he didn’t bother answering. Clothes flew over his shoulders as he tossed them out of his way, searching for something that fit his needs.
“If you’ll not be reasoned with I shall have to sneak about with you. Clearly, I’ll need an old overcoat and trousers.” He made a sweeping motion over his person. “No one in their right mind will think me an East End resident looking as wonderful as I do. I may even don a wig.”
“I am not in need of a haughty escort this evening.” I scowled even though he wasn’t looking. “I’m quite capable of taking care of myself.”
“Oh, yes. How silly of me to overlook that.” Thomas snorted. “I imagine the women who lost their organs thought themselves quite above being slaughtered as well. They were likely saying, ‘It’s Friday. I shall go to the pub, find a bit of food, pay my board, then get murdered by a madman before the night’s through. How lovely.’”
“He is my father,” I said through clenched teeth. “You honestly believe he’ll harm me? I do not think even he has a heart so black and rotten.”
Thomas finally stopped flipping through the moth-eaten overcoats, turning his attention on me. His expression was thoughtful for a moment.
“If Jack the Ripper is your father. You still haven’t found definitive proof. You’re basing all your bravado on the assumption you are, indeed, related to this monster,” he said. “I do not think you incapable, Audrey Rose. But I do know he’s murdered women who were alone. What, exactly, do you think you’ll do if you discover you’re wrong and there’s a knife pressed against your throat?”
“I’ll—”
He moved across the room so fast, I barely had time to register the object against the sensitive skin covering my throat. Thomas kissed my cheek, then slowly drew back, our eyes meeting. My heart hammered a panicked beat when his attention fell to my lips and lingered there. I couldn’t tell if I wanted to kiss him or kill him. Finally, he stepped back, letting the candle clatter to the floor, then picked up a crude walking stick as if nothing had happened.
“Interesting,” he murmured, admiring the stick.
Kill him, then. I definitely wanted to murder him. I clutched my throat with both hands, breathing hard. “Have you lost your mind? You could’ve killed me!”
“With a candle?” His brow quirked up. “Honestly, I’m flattered you think me so capable. Alas, I highly doubt I could do much damage with such a weapon.”
“You know what I mean,” I said. “If it were a knife I’d be dead!”
“Precisely the point of our little exercise, Wadsworth.”
He didn’t sound or appear the least bit sorry for scaring the life from me. He crossed his arms over his chest, staring me down. Stubborn mule.
“Imagine yourself alone in the East End,” he said. “Freezing like that would’ve cost you your life. You must be quick to action, always thinking your way out of any predicament. It all boils down to your blasted emotions clouding your judgment. If I were to do it again, what might you do differently?”
“Stab you with the heel of my boot.”
Thomas’s shoulders relaxed. I hadn’t noticed the tension in them until it was gone. “Good. Now you’re using that alluring brain of yours, Wadsworth. Step on the insole of someone’s foot as hard as you can. There are so many nerve endings, it’ll be a decent enough distraction, buying valuable time.”
His gaze traveled over me swiftly. It was more an assessment of my attire than a flirtation, but my cheeks heated all the same.
“Now, then. Let’s get you ready for a casual night of street walking and be gone. Oh, you can thank me for preparing you any time now,” he said, struggling to keep the smile off his face. “I wouldn’t protest a kiss on the cheek. You know, return the favor and all.”
I glared so hard I feared my face would get stuck that way. “If you ever try anything like that again, I will stab you in the foot, Thomas Cresswell.”
“Ah. There’s something about you saying my name that sounds like a blessed curse,” he said. “If you can work up a good hand gesture to go along with it, that’d be exceptional.”
I threw a boot across the room, but he’d managed to slip out and close the door before it made contact. I set my jaw, loathing him with each beat of my heart.
Though, he was right. I needed to be more emotionally prepared for my date with Jack. I walked over to the door, picked up the boot, and began dressing. The clouds were rolling in, covering the last sliver of the moon.
It was the perfect night to hunt a murderer on the streets of Whitechapel.
“Why in God’s name are you walking with a limp?” I whispered harshly at my idiotic companion, throwing cautious looks at people staring across the street. “You’re causing a dreadful scene and we’re supposed to be inconspicuous.”
Thomas had adopted the asinine lame leg the same time we reached the outer edges of Spitalfields. We’d been arguing about his acting the last few streets, garnering more attention than the queen parading through the squalor in her most expensive attire. Thomas was undeterred by looks and jeers we received.
If anything, he seemed to be enjoying himself.
“You’re simply upset you didn’t think of doing it first. Now go on and stumble a bit. If you don’t act intoxicated, we’ll never attract the Ripper.” He looked down his nose at me, a smile starting. “Feel free to hold on to me. My arms are all yours.”
I grabbed a handful of my skirts, sidestepping rubbish that had been dumped in the gutters, thanking the heavens Thomas couldn’t see my blush.
“You’ve gone and missed the entire point of this evening. I am not trying to lure the Ripper out, Thomas,” I said. “I’m trying to blend in and stalk him. See where he’s going and stop him from committing another murder. He’ll take one look at us and run in the other direction. Lest the lame-legged boy chase him with his walking stick.”
“It is a cane, and it is quite a handsome cane. The Ripper should be too pleased to be assaulted by such a work of rustic art.”
I glanced at the walking stick. It was barely even polished, and had cobwebs stuck in its grooves. It was rustic, indeed.
Silently, we crept through back alleys and squared-off yards, looking for any hulking shadows, and listening for any bloodcurdling screams. It was hard to see anything, though. The night sky was nearly black as ink, no flickering light shined down for us, and what little did from gas lampposts was quickly swallowed by thick fog.
We passed through one dark alleyway, hobbled across another street, and paused in front of a decrepit pub full of discordant music and laughter.
Drunken women draped themselves over the men standing outside, their voices louder and rougher than those of the butchers, sailors, and ironworkers they were trying to entice. I wondered briefly at their lives before prostitution.