When We Touch (34 page)

“Oh, please! You're welcome here again!” Mrs. Hennesy said. “Perhaps my dear Billy will have just a word to say again, too. George, that is all right with you, isn't it?”

George was evidently thinking of the fact that he would owe very little for the night, since Mireau had given him such a fine stack of coins.

“Naturally,” George said.

“Well, we've certainly imposed upon your hospitality enough tonight,” Cecilia said, rising. The others did the same.

Maggie was desperate to get a word to Arianna. As they all headed for the door, she hung back, throwing her arms around her and proclaiming, “I didn't thank you, my dear. You blessed, blessed, wonderful girl!”

Ahead, they all stopped. But Maggie dared whisper, “Tomorrow night, you'll be out of here. Take care, just until then!”

To her amazement, Arianna hugged her back. And whispered in return,
“No, you fool! I won't come with you, he'll kill us all. He can do it, he'll kill us all. Even a hint of the police, and anyone in his way will die! Try to take me, and I'll scream, do you understand? He'll not think I was a part of it. Somehow, sometime, I'll get out of this!”

Aloud, she said, “I've done nothing for you, Mona, but . . . I know that tomorrow night, Jeremiah will give you the solace that you need.”

“Yes, yes, of course!”

There could be nothing else said. The man had returned. His huge hand was on her shoulder.

“Until tomorrow!” Maggie said, and then, Mireau was dragging her out of the house and she could only look back and see the sadness in Arianna's eyes.

A sadness like . . . death.

Chapter 16

The papers ran headlines that screamed across Britain and beyond.

Jack the Ripper had struck again. And again.

The first victim in the wee hours of the morning had been Elizabeth Stride, Long Liz, as she had been known, and the killer had evidently been interrupted, because the lady had lost her life, but not, as one article so crudely put it, her innards.

The second victim had not been left in one piece. She had been cruelly vivisected. Many of the newspapers were gruesome in their detail.

And speculation was running rampant. There was a gang, there was one madman, there was rumor that someone of influence and money was surely doing the crimes, entering into the district with horse and carriage, and thus disappearing without signs of blood upon his person. There was even speculation in a few of the papers that suggested there might be a conspiracy, reaching to very important persons in the country. Considering the behavior of some members of the highest of the high in society, God alone knew just what might be happening.

There were those who suggested that it was a midwife gone mad. Jill the Ripper.

It was someone with an extreme knowledge of anatomy—a doctor.

It was someone with a crude knowledge of anatomy—a butcher, a hunter, perhaps even a housewife who knew what to do with a chicken.

It was a late in the morning, nearly noon, when Jamie awoke at last. He had attended the autopsy of the second victim, Catherine Eddowes, also known as Kate Kelly, among a few other names, and he had left the mortuary feeling weary and ill, shocked. In all his days, and some of those in India, facing the continued threats of the Thugees, despite the fact that India was now part of the Empire, he had never seen such heinous butchery perpetuated upon one human being by another. But the autopsy had not been the most dismaying part of his night out on the Queen's behest.

Far worse had occurred.

The police must have been right on the trail of the killer. They had found a piece of the woman's bloody apron. And near it, on the black dado of a wall on Goulston Street, there had been a written message. Chalked by the killer? No one knew.

And there was not even a photograph of what might have been crucial evidence.

There was chaos over that fact. Detectives had guarded it, had pleaded with their superiors to leave the writing for daylight, so that it might be photographed. But Sir Charles Warren—of the Metropolitan police—had ordered that it be wiped down before it was seen by people in the area. He claimed that he was afraid there would be a riot. Englishmen were up in arms about foreigners, and there was a hotbed of hatred and fear in existence.

Warren had sworn that leaving the message would create a riot.

The papers clamored for Warren's resignation. Jamie had to wonder if it would be forthcoming.

Inspectors had crawled over the buildings; they had spent the night questioning people, and looking, ever looking, for any possible clues. But Jack had struck twice—and walked away, leaving a mass of confusion and accusation that shrieked across the land.

There were those working the streets of Whitechapel, Spitalfields, and the neighboring areas who might have ignored the first two murders.

No more.

The streets tasted of fear, sounded of fear.

No woman could consider herself safe.

There was far too much horror, and far too much speculation.

Jamie lay in bed after he woke, staring dully at the ceiling, still feeling exhausted. His first course of action, once he had returned home, had been to soak in a very long bath. It had seemed to take forever to breathe in what did not seem like the stench of blood.

And with it, the stench of poverty and disease.

The Queen would be sending for him, he knew. She was, despite the many years she had secreted herself away, a very kind and caring person, and felt her sense of duty keenly. She was going to be appalled, and horrified, and she was going to wonder how these things were happening, when so many people who were supposedly so qualified were in charge.

He dreaded seeing her. How to explain that he had been there, been on those streets, and seen nothing? He groaned aloud, and then fell silent, listening. There had been a tap at his door.

He was surprised. Randolph had known of his exhaustion. He would not awaken him.

“Yes?”

“My lord?” It was Randolph, but he wasn't alone as he cautiously opened the door. Maggie burst in around him. He'd been sleeping in the nude, since he'd crawled from the bath into a towel, and straight into bed from there.

“I explained that you had a late night, my lord, but Lady Maggie is rather insistent,” Randolph explained.

“Maggie,” he breathed, sitting up in the bed, chest bare, sheet to his waist. “Well, do come in. Be forewarned, I had a very bad night.”

“A bad night!” she exclaimed. “You cannot imagine.”

“You cannot imagine,” he snapped back angrily.

She flushed then, realizing that she stood with Randolph, and that Jamie was in a state of complete undress. But then again, Randolph must be very aware of certain things that he kept entirely to himself.

“I'll just leave the two of you,” the man murmured, and stepped out, quietly closing the door behind him.

Jamie rose then, his temper truly vile, heedless of her being there. It was not as if she had not seen him so before, and she'd had the rudeness to push her way in.

He walked into the bathroom and splashed cold water on his face, calling back to her, “Lady Maggie, I really don't give a damn about your petty problems this morning. Don't you read the papers?”

“Of course I read the papers. And it's appalling. But—where are you going? I need you to listen to me.”

He wrapped a towel around his waist and walked back out to the bedroom. He was annoyed to realize that despite his anger, despite the sense of tempest raging in him, the sorrow, the horror, she could take him away.

She was standing there in a day dress of blue, skirt embroidered elegantly, bodice beautifully fitted. A shawl of a darker shade, cobalt, like her eyes, was cast around her shoulders. Her hair was pinned back, but gold ringlets of it curled about the length of her throat. She was breathtaking, and he felt the urge to sweep her up, and hold her. Hold her, and believe that he could always keep her safe, that nothing so horrible as what he witnessed could be real. He suddenly wanted assurance of life, be that in the strength of the way that he would put his arms around her, or in the oblivion to be found when he drowned in the depth of her eyes, in the sensuality of her flesh.

Except that . . .

He had to keep his distance from her. The other day . . .

He had behaved abominably himself. She was Charles's widow, no matter what the circumstances. Every step he had taken with her had been wrong. And now, she was proving to be a thorn in his side. He'd had to chase her down in Whitechapel, of all places. He'd burst into her bedroom then, and now . . .

Now, he gritted his teeth. There was business at hand, and he could neither forget himself by seizing her up with or without her consent, nor could he allow himself to be waylaid by any silly domestic situation.

“What?” he barked.

“It's Arianna.”

“Lord above us!” he raged. “Arianna, Arianna! Madam, the girl was left to your guardianship! What, are you jealous of the lass? What is your problem with her! Sit down, have a heart to heart talk. You married Charles, you rule a fortune, and you have every possible luxury at your disposal. Don't come to me. You have no desire, ever, to be told what to do. Therefore, madam, you're on your own! Whatever it is, deal with it yourself!”

He turned again, leaving her there, staring at him openmouthed.

This time, he slammed the door to his bathroom.

And instantly, he felt regret.

No one else could understand what he was feeling this morning—unless it was one of the men who had witnessed the discovery of the body last night. No one could understand his sense of failure and helplessness—except for those who walked the streets as well, and came up empty-handed.

And still . . .

He was sorry. So very sorry. She had enraged him because of the night of sadness and horror he had just endured....

And because he was so very much in love with her, and it was simply so very wrong.

He swung the bathroom door open, ready to step out and apologize, beg her pardon, try to explain, even if he couldn't really tell her everything.

But when he stepped out that time, Maggie was gone.

* * *

Maggie paced the library, staring at Mireau. “He was awful, horrible! I couldn't talk to him.”

“Maggie, in this situation, you simply have to behave in a very mature manner. Whatever your problems are—”

“Mireau, you're not listening. He refused to talk to me. He just started screaming at me, and slammed the door.”

“But Arianna's life is at stake.”

Maggie stopped dead-still and nodded grimly, her arms folded over her chest. “That's why I decided, after I left, that what happened was the best possible thing.”

“What?”

“Mireau, we don't dare bring Jamie in.”

“Now you've really lost your mind.”

She shook her head. “You don't understand just how frightened Arianna was. I know she believes that if anyone so much as reaches for her, she'll be shot or stabbed on the spot.”

“But you just explain that to Jamie and—”

“I'm afraid. Afraid that she'll panic. Don't you see, Mireau? We can go in there with big guns blazing . . . a half dozen policemen, good heavens, we could get the military! But it wouldn't help anything because Arianna might well be dead before we could even begin to attack.”

“You're losing me,” Mireau said. “What on earth are we going to do then?”

“I'm still working on it. But honestly, it will be best if Jamie is not involved.”

“Um, sounds best to me. We'll just go in and get ourselves killed.”

“No, you see, what we have to do must be incredibly clever and—subtle.”

“All right, Maggie, go ahead—explain to me how we're going to subtly handle a pack of thugs and murderers.”

“We have to make it appear that Arianna is dead.”

“Maggie—”

“No, no, hear me out! Remember how we all had a sip of brandy last night? Well, we'll have to do the same tonight. And into Arianna's brandy, we'll slip enough laudanum to cause her to pass out.”

“Great—what will that do?”

“Keep her from fighting us, for one. Because we'll have laced all the rest of the brandy as well. Then, once we're out on the street . . . I can't tell Justin exactly what I'm doing, but I will ask him to be in the street, and be wary—there's so much going on, that he should bring a few friends, and my cousin Tristan, who has decided that he wants to be a police officer.”

“Maggie, why not just explain it all to your brother?”

“Because he'd stop me, and I know what I'm doing makes sense, and that I can make it work.”

“It doesn't make sense to me.”

“Mireau, it does! And believe me, I've gotten to know laudanum very well. We can do this. Listen to me! Once those hoods are under, we carry Arianna out. We have help waiting, warned that they need to be armed. We send them in for the thugs, once we've gotten Arianna and ourselves out, and we're all safe.”

“You're scaring me, Maggie.”

“Why?”

“Because, in a very bizarre way, you are making sense. But, what if . . .”

“No! We can't deal with any ‘but, ifs . . .'! We have to make it work.”

“What if we can't get them all to drink brandy?”

“They drank it. They all drank it last night.”

“Except for ‘Jeremiah.' ”

“Don't worry. I'll think of something.”

There was a knock on the door. Maggie jumped. “It's probably just the oh-so-charming Mrs. Whitley,” Mireau said with a smile.

It wasn't, and no permission was needed to cause the caller to open the door.

Jamie was there.

“Lord James!” Mireau murmured uncomfortably. “Good afternoon.”

“Jacques,” Jamie said, glancing his way, then giving his attention to Maggie. “I'd like to speak with you. Forgive me, Mireau, but I'd like to speak with Maggie—alone.”

“We were in the middle of a discussion,” Maggie said stiffly.

“Ah, now, that's all right. We can speak again later. I was just leaving.”

“You were not.”

“Maggie?” Jamie said politely.

“I'm on my way!” Mireau said cheerfully, rising. He mouthed the words,
“Don't worry, I'll be back.”

And then he left her. She wanted to throw something after him, and call him a deserter.

But he was gone, and the door was closed, and she was left standing there, staring at Jamie. And he looked wonderful, dark hair smoothed back, crimson waistcoat, dark trousers, and matching cravat. Freshly shaven, sleek, tall, imposing, immaculate . . . entirely handsome, completely powerful, suave, and seductive.

“What?” she said quietly, not daring to move, her voice very low.

“I came to apologize.”

“Apology accepted,” she said simply.

Her hiked a dark brow. “That easily?” he said skeptically. “Maggie, I slammed a door in your face. I cannot believe that you're just standing there so sweetly.”