Nine Buck's Row (32 page)

“I'm listening.”

“Will you marry me?”

“No, Ted. I can't.”

“Is there someone else?” he asked, miserable.

“N—o. No, there isn't.”

“Then why—”

“Please,” I protested.

“Forgive me. I've acted like a bloody fool, rushing you like this. A girl needs time to think, to consider. You
will
consider it, won't you?”

I nodded silently. Ted stepped over to me and laid his hands lightly on my shoulders, his remarkable brown eyes peering into mine. The rain was slackening, its fury spent.

“I'll make you very happy,” he said in a husky voice. “I promise you that.”

Hands grasping my shoulders firmly, he covered my mouth with his own. It was a chaste kiss, but I could sense his intensity, the passion he repressed with such effort. He let go of my shoulders and wrapped his strong arms around me, holding me securely against him. His body trembled just a little, and I could feel his heart pounding against his ribs. A moment later he stepped back, heaving his chest. The rain stopped. The sky was a soft purple filled with rolling gray clouds.

“I'd better start back, Ted,” I said quietly.

“Of course.”

He rode across the muddy field and fetched my mare, leading her back. Rain dripped from tree limbs overhanging the road, and the road itself was pitted with newly made holes filled with muddy water. Ted turned back when we neared the house, and I rode on alone. A strange carriage was standing in the drive, a ponderous brown vehicle with metal-rimmed wheels, two wet brown stallions standing in harness. I wondered who on earth could be calling in this weather.

Leaving the mare with Vic, I hurried into the house, stopping in the hall to remove Ted's voluminous cloak. The door to the library stood open. I heard a loud, excited voice, so shrill as to be almost incoherent.

“—escaped sometime yesterday! Another murder last night in Miller's Court, Dorest Street, bloodier than ever! This past month—he's grown worse—completely berserk! Quickly, man, quickly! There's not a moment to spare. We must catch him before he strikes again—”

19

“Calm down,” Nicholas said. His voice was stern, yet I detected a note of urgency he couldn't quite contain. “Tell me what happened. Clearly. This is no time for hysterics.”

“Yesterday afternoon he overpowered his guards—wounded one of them. He climbed over the fence, disappeared. Everyone at the asylum was alerted and a search party was formed. They had no luck. This morning the body of Mary Jane Kelly was found in the wretched hovel where she lived. Evidently she had picked him up, brought him to the room. It was—”

“You can give me the details later,” Nicholas said tersely. “We'll leave at once. I'll get my coat, speak to the servants.”

They came into the hall, Nicholas and a stout, ruddy-faced man wearing a well cut black suit and black silk stock with gold stick pin. He had the appearance of a prosperous clerk or secretary, one of those solid, hard working men who hover in the background of every important official. At the moment his cheeks were ashen, his dark eyes full of alarm. Both men were startled to see me in the hall. The stranger gasped. Nicholas glared at me with impatient fury.

“I heard,” I said. “Nicholas—”

“I've no time to talk to you now, Susannah. You heard, you must know how urgent it is. I'm going for my coat.”

He started up the stairs to his room. I followed him. He was already in his room, taking his coat from the wardrobe, before he realized that I had come after him.

“You're going to London—” I began.

“Yes, I'm going to London!”

“Then it's true. You
were
working for Scotland Yard. You—you captured Jack The Ripper, he was put away, and now—”

“And now I'm going after him again. Get out of the way, Susannah. I have no time for—”

“Nicholas,
why?
Why you? Why can't the police—”

He seized my arms, grasping them tightly. His eyes were dark and savage, and he bit each word off sharply.

“I captured Jack The Ripper, yes. He was put away in an asylum. Now he has escaped. He has killed again. I am one of half a dozen men who know who he is. Not even his keepers were aware of his identity. It is imperative that his identity remain a secret. Imperative! I know his haunts, his habits. I'm going after him because I
have
to.”

“That man downstairs—”

“That man is Sir Reginald Belmount's secretary. Sir Reginald is waiting for me in London at this moment. I've got to leave now. I shouldn't be gone more than twenty-four hours. We know whom we're looking for, we know where to look. You'll be all right here in the country.”

“Nicholas, I—”

“I'm
sorry
, Susannah,” he said harshly.

He shoved me roughly aside and moved briskly out of the room. I hurried after him. He was already downstairs, taking his cloak from the stand and flinging it around his shoulders while Sir Reginald's secretary opened the front door. Damon was standing in the hall. Nicholas said something to him, and the old servant nodded, a worried look in his eyes. I stumbled down the stairs, my heart beating wildly. Nicholas and the secretary went outside. I ran after them.

The secretary had already climbed into the carriage. A driver I hadn't seen earlier was sitting on the box seat in front, the reins in his hands. Nicholas had one hand on the carriage door, ready to climb inside. I called his name, frantically, and he turned, his face a grim mask.

I seized his arm, entreaty in my voice.

“You—you must be careful!” I cried. “If anything happened to you—Oh God! Please, please be careful.”

He understood. It was there in my voice, in my eyes, and he couldn't help but understand. His expression unaltered, he took hold of my hand and removed it from his arm. He climbed into the carriage and closed the door. The driver clicked the reins. The still-damp horses began to move. Metal-rimmed wheels crunched over the drive. The ponderous brown carriage rolled away, gathering speed, disappearing from sight. I stood on the front step, my heart still palpitating.

The afternoon passed somehow. I wandered around the house, upset and restless, unable to concentrate on anything. It was dark outside, the purple sky deepening, black-edged clouds gathering and shutting out any sunlight. The house was like an empty shell without Nicholas, and the rooms seemed desolate, waiting for his return. Clocks ticked. Windows rattled. The servants went about their duties silently, as though they, too, felt the desolation. I told Mrs. Stern not to bother about dinner. She and the house maids left at seven, eager to get home before it rained again.

I sat in the shabby parlor, watching the fire die down in the marble fireplace. One lamp glowed, casting weak light on the faded Gobelin tapestries and ornately carved Jacobean furniture. Scrappy was asleep beside me on the sofa. He was longer, thinner than before, growing from kitten into sleek gray cat. The draperies were pulled back from the French windows leading into the gardens. Through the panes I could see occasional flashes of lightning, skeletal silver fingers ripping at the sky. The floor creaked as Damon stepped into the room.

“Will you be requiring anything else, Miss Susannah?” he asked in his ancient, raspy voice.

“No, Damon. I—I'll just sit here a while before going up to my room. You can go on to bed.”

“Very well, miss.”

The old servant hesitated, concern in his watery blue eyes. Tall, his frail shoulders hunched forward, he wore a black uniform shiny with age, almost green in spots. His face sagged, the skin paper thin and crisscrossed with lines, his silver hair wispy and yellowing, yet the dignity and reserve that had stood him in good stead for decades were still very much in evidence. He wanted to say something to me and was obviously wondering if it would be proper after I had dismissed him.

“Yes, Damon?” I said kindly.

“About Master Nicky, miss. I shouldn't worry about him. He can take good care of himself, always has been able to.”

“Did—did he tell you why he was going to London?”

“Said he had some business to take care of, but I could tell from your demeanor that you were worried. You think a lot of him, and, if it isn't too presumptuous of me, I might add that Master Nicky thinks a lot of you. Doesn't properly know how to express it, but I can tell. Changed his nappies, I did, scrubbed his face when he was a rowdy little boy falling out of trees. I know him through and through. Afraid, he is, and rightly so after what happened with that Valerie woman. I'm hoping everything works out for the best. We've all grown very fond of you.”

“Thank you, Damon.”

Worried that he had stepped out of line, afraid he had said too much, Damon made a creaking bow and shuffled out of the room.

I listened to the ormolu clock ticking the minutes, one after another, a constant metallic tick-tock-tick that made a background to my thoughts. I tried not to think about London, about Nicholas' reasons for going there. I didn't understand any of it, and I was too exhausted mentally to try and puzzle it out. I wished I could sleep, but I knew that sleep would be impossible for several hours.

I decided to take a walk in the gardens. Perhaps that would help. The cat was too snug and comfortable to join me, so I left him on the sofa and opened one of the French windows, stepping out onto the small terrace that led into the gardens. It was cool, but I merely folded my arms around my waist, not wanting to go in for a wrap.

I strolled aimlessly, moving away from the house. Feeble rays of moonlight seeped through the ponderous black clouds, illuminating the gardens with a misty light. It was a world of tarnished silver and velvety black shadows, shrubs rustling, the pungent odor of soil and plants filling the air, an occasional flash of lightning blazing blue white, outlining everything brightly for half a second. Crickets rasped under the rocks. A bird cried out, and there was a flutter of invisible wings. I could see the stables in the distance, shrouded in darkness. Vic and his father must have gone to sleep. I walked slowly, passing under trees, enjoying the solitude.

What a day this had been! Was it only this morning that Ted and I had been in the musty old barn, listening to the rain? It seemed an eternity ago. That morning episode had been so overshadowed by what followed that I had hardly given it another thought. I thought about it now, remembering Ted's impassioned sincerity, the ardor he had forcibly restrained during that brief kiss.

He wanted to marry me. It seemed incredible, yet it was undeniably true. I wondered if I should accept his proposal. It was an opportunity I would be foolish to pass up, a far better match than I had any right to expect under the circumstances. Ted knew of my background, and it didn't matter in the least to him. How many eligible young men would have that broadminded attitude when it came to selecting a bride? Very few. He was in love with me. Perhaps in time I could return his love. Yes, any reasonable girl would leap at the chance to make such a satisfactory alliance, but would it be honest? I admired Ted, I was fond of him in my way, but I didn't love him. Could I marry a man I didn't love for purely mercenary reasons?

I strolled toward the herb garden, a small square enclosed by a gray stone wall, on the very edge of the property. The woods were near by, a dark mass of trees full of rustling noises. The house was in the distance now, a sprawling block of darkness with a single shaft of light streaming from the parlor. It must be nearly nine o'clock, I thought, peering up at the cloudy sky. Where was Nicholas now? What dark backstreet was he roaming? What danger was he facing? I shook my head, refusing to dwell on it. I couldn't allow myself to think about that. Someday, perhaps, I would understand everything. Until then … until then I must try to put it all out of my mind.

There was a sound behind me. I stopped, suddenly paralyzed. My blood seemed to turn icy cold, chilling my veins. I turned around and peered into the darkness. The flagstone paths gleamed dull silver, winding among shabby flower beds veiled with shadows and misty light. Tree limbs swayed in the breeze, their leaves making crisp, crackling noises. The evergreens tilted back and forth, whispering. A bird scolded. The crickets continued their scratchy serenade. I had been thinking about dark back-streets, remembering, and I had imagined the sound. Surely I had imagined it. What I had taken for a foot step crunching on the ground had been merely a figment of my imagination. Hadn't it? I stood very still, listening, but there was nothing to hear but the ordinary noises of the night.

A cloud passed over the moon. The gardens were cast into total darkness, pitch black, impenetrable. I was trembling, even though I knew it was absurd. Far away the parlor light glowed, a single yellow shaft in the distance. Thunder rumbled. The wind blew stronger, stirring the darkness, and then a jagged streak of lightning tore the sky, silver blue light exploding all around me. In a split second of illumination I saw the shadow on the wall, a black silhouette against the gray stone. There was no time to trace its source. The light vanished. Darkness descended again. My throat was dry, and fear was a palpable thing, holding me paralyzed.

Minutes passed. Each second was agony. I couldn't move. I hadn't imagined the shadow: tall, unmistakable, a deerstalker cap pulled low, a wide cape billowing, long legs planted wide apart. He was here. He had come for me. I knew it. For several minutes sheer panic tore me asunder, and then some sort of sanity prevailed. One of the shrubs had cast the shadow. I was acting like a hysterical fool. How could he be here? He had escaped, yes, but how could he know where I was?
Why
would he have come for me? I managed to reason with myself, and after a while I found enough strength to start back to the house.

“Susannah—” The wind caught the word, shattered it into fragments. “Susannah—”