Capturing the Devil Page 31

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 earlier. 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.