DR. JONATHAN WADSWORTH’S RESIDENCE,

HIGHGATE

8 NOVEMBER 1888

I pulled the tattered navy dress from a trunk in Uncle’s attic; its stitches were coming loose at the seams and the smell of must filled the space as I shook it out in the pale moonlight.

There was no hope of making it fashionable; too much time and not enough care had passed since it was first worn by Miss Emma Elizabeth.

Uncle had gathered nearly all her belongings from a family no longer wanting to be associated with her, taking pains to leave things as she had, frozen in time as if they were captured in a photograph. Except with a thick covering of dust and a few too many hungry moths having had a fine dining experience over the last several years.

The dress was a little too old, a little too ragged, a bit too big.

If I were to wear this ghastly dress out, I’d look as if I belonged in the East End, begging for work to feed my addictions, and Aunt Amelia would surely perish on the spot. I doubted even Liza would be able to make it pretty.

It was absolutely perfect.

Thomas leaned against the door frame, arms crossed, watching me in that silent, calculating way that drove me mad.

“I don’t see sense in what you’re doing, Wadsworth. Why not confront your father and be done with it? Sneaking about like a prostitute is by far the worst idea you’ve ever come up with. Congratulations,” he said, unlatching his arms and clapping slowly. “You’ve achieved something memorable, even if it’s ridiculous.”

“I’ve almost crossed you off my suspect list.” I shook out another dull dress. Dust tickled my nose as I laid it down. In its day, the deep-green silk must have been grand. “That’s quite an achievement.”

“Oh, yes,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Another of your fine ideas. As if I’d be messy enough to leave evidence behind. I’m with you practically day and night. Does that not absolve me from being a murderer? Or must we share a bed to prove my innocence? Actually… that might not be a terrible idea.”

Ignoring him, I removed a pair of brown lace-up boots from the same leather trunk and inspected them closely. They looked to be around my size, so I added them to my costume pile. Thomas had started following me around two hours prior, milling about and offering up his opinions like sacrifices I didn’t care to accept.

“We’ve done things your way for three solid weeks,” I reminded him. “Earning us nothing but mounds of frustration. Enough is enough, Thomas.”

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.

It was such an unfair, cruel world for women. If you were a widow or your husband or family disowned you, there were few avenues available for feeding yourself. It hardly mattered if you were highborn or not. If you couldn’t rely on someone else’s money and shelter, you survived the only way you could.

“Let’s go,” I said, turning as quickly as I dared. I needed to get away from those women and their tragic lives before my emotions got the better of me.

Thomas eyed the women then glanced at me. I knew very well he was seeing more than I wanted him to and didn’t want him thinking me fragile. To my surprise, he simply threaded my arm through his. A silent act of understanding.

My heart steadied. It was such a tiny action, but filled me with confidence in Thomas. Jack the Ripper would never show such compassion.

We ghosted through several more streets, emerging from the fog before hiding in its sanctity once more. Voices carried over to us, but nothing was out of the ordinary. Men talked about their day’s work, women chattered about the same.

Thomas gave up his limp the longer we pressed on, having no reason for gimping about when people couldn’t even see us.

Gas lamps offered otherworldly glows every few feet, their quiet hissing raising the hair along my neck. The mood of the night was ominous. Death was stalking these streets, staying just out of sight. I couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched, but heard no sounds of pursuit and accepted I was simply scared.

“Enough,” I said, defeated. “Let’s go home.”

It was after midnight and I was exhausted. My feet ached, the rough material of my dress itched against my skin, and I was thoroughly finished with walking through all the muck. I’d stepped in something rather squishy a few streets back and was contemplating amputating my own foot.

Blessedly, Thomas didn’t say a word as we turned and headed toward Uncle’s house. I wouldn’t have taken his criticism well in the miserable state I was in.

Lost in thoughts of failure, I didn’t hear a sound until our attacker was upon us. A scuffle of boots on cobblestones, the sound of a punch landing true, and Thomas was facedown on the ground, a bulky man kneeling on his back, twisting his arm around.

“Thomas!” Someone else emerged, holding a blade to my throat, shoving me deeper into the alleyway. I tripped over my skirts, but the man wrenched me forward, his fingers digging painfully into my skin. Fear held my senses hostage. My mind shut down, unable to process what was going on. Was this Jack?

“Whatcha got ’ere, boy? Been following you, I been. Think yourself clever, dressing like the riffraff?” The man speaking to Thomas had breath that smelled of rotten teeth and too much alcohol. “Shame. I hafta take from you same as you took from me.”

From the ground, Thomas jerked around, his eyes frantic as they fell upon mine. His attacker shoved his face into the stone. My limbs were leaden and useless.

“I assure you. I’ve not taken from you, sir.” Thomas winced as the man forced his head back down. “Whatever your issue with me, leave the girl go. She’s done nothing.”

“Ain’t how I see it.” The man spat next to Thomas. “Think taking them from the cemetery is decent? Poor deserve respect, too. My Libby”—his hand shook, the blade piercing my skin—“she didn’t deserve to be cut up like that. You ’ad no right. I know what you done. Oliver told me hisself.”

A sob broke free of the man’s chest. A slight trickle of blood ran down my neck. Its warmth cleared my frozen thoughts. If I didn’t act now, we were going to die. Or be maimed. Neither was on my list this evening. Remembering Thomas’s lesson on dealing with an attack, I lifted my foot and stomped down with all my might. My heel crunched bone with a snap. It was enough of a distraction, just like Thomas said it’d be.

“Bloody ’ell!” The man stumbled away, jumping on his good foot. Thomas’s attacker eased up long enough to watch his friend, allowing Thomas time to flip over and land a swift punch to his gut. The man doubled over, cursing impressively.

Springing to his feet, Thomas grabbed hold of my hand, racing us through the twisted streets as if Satan himself was chasing us down.

We wove in and out of passageways and alleys, running so fast I had to eventually tug Thomas to stop. “What… was… he… talking about?”

Thomas held on to me as if I might turn to ash and disintegrate in his hands if he let go. He glanced up and down the alley we hid in, his chest rapidly rising and falling. There was a wild, untamed look in his eyes. I’d never seen him so unraveled.

On the inside I felt the same, but hoped I was doing a better job hiding it. I took a steadying breath. Thomas was a complete wreck. I gently touched his face, drawing his attention to me. “Thomas. What—”

“I thought I was going to lose you.” He ran both hands through his hair, pacing away and coming back. “I saw blood—I thought he’d slit your throat. I thought—”

He covered his face with his hands, collecting himself for a few breaths, then fixed his attention on me, swallowing hard. “You must know what you mean to me? Surely you must know how I feel about you, Audrey Rose. The thought of losing you…”

I’m not sure which of us moved first, but suddenly my hands were cradling his face and our lips were crashing together, propriety and polite society be damned.

There was no Jack the Ripper or midnight attack. There was just Thomas and me terrified of losing each other.

I wove my arms around his neck, drawing him closer. Before I wanted it to end, Thomas pulled back, kissing me sweetly one last time. He tucked a stray lock of hair behind my ear, pressing his forehead to mine. “Apologies, Miss Wadsworth.”

I touched my lips. I’d read about dangerous situations bringing about spontaneous acts of romance and thought it foolish. Now I understood. Realizing the very thing you love most could be taken away without warning made you clutch onto it. “I believe I acted first, Thomas.”

He stepped back, wrinkling his brow, then laughed. “Oh, no. I’m not at all sorry about kissing you. I’m talking about the deranged lunatic holding a knife to your throat.”

“Oh, that.” I waved a hand, feigning nonchalance. “He’s lucky you had the foresight of preparing me this evening.”

Thomas’s eyes twinkled with a mixture of amusement and incredulity. “You’re truly magnificent. Smashing bones and fighting off attackers in abandoned alleys.”

“It’s too bad,” I said. “Your reputation will be completely ruined once people discover I saved you.”

“Destroy it for all I care.” Thomas laughed outright. “You can save me again if it ends with a kiss.”

“Did you know?” I asked, turning serious. “About the cadavers?”

His jaw clenched. Thomas carefully took my hand, motioning for us to keep moving. “Unfortunately, I did not. Obviously, the bodies aren’t unclaimed as Oliver says. I do not appreciate being lied to or researching on someone’s family member without permission. No advancement in science is worth causing pain.”

I let go a sigh I was holding. It was all I needed to hear. Thomas was most certainly not involved in the Ripper crimes. He was interested in saving lives, not ending them.

“What will you do about Oliver?” I asked. “He cannot continue lying about the bodies. I doubt you’re the only one he’s done this to.”

“Oh, I’ll be having words with him, believe me.” Thomas pulled me close. “I despise having put you in unnecessary danger.”

“We are stalking Jack the Ripper,” I pointed out. “I’m already putting us in danger.”

Thomas shook his head, mirth replacing tension, but didn’t say more.

Intent on leaving the East End, we trudged across Dorset Street, our attention scattered from the attack, when I nearly walked straight into a hansom cab. I stopped, staring in disbelief. Incredibly, the night took a larger turn for the worse. A snake coiled around my torso, striking at my innards.

A scratch ran down the side of the cab in an unmistakable M, a feature I was very familiar with, as I’d made it myself last week. It was my identification of a murderer.

This carriage belonged to my father.