If his father had allowed Bertram to take him in the carriage, rather than riding on his own, it had to mean that Ally was with him.
By the time he reached the city, much of the day had gone by. And in London, even knowing his father would be found in the Houses of Parliament, actually reaching Lord Joseph Farrow was no easy task. He didn’t find his father, but he did at last realize Bertram would have the carriage waiting, and when he found Bertram, he was directed to the museum.
At the museum, he had a moment’s peace when he found Camille. “Yes, Ally is here. She is about in the museum somewhere.”
The museum was vast. But no one had seen Ally in hours.
In the end, as dusk began to fall and it came close to closing time, he knew she had only used the museum as an excuse to roam the city, something that he, coming to know her so well, knew he should have realized earlier. It wasn’t that she intentionally lied. She simply believed in herself so strongly that she would humor others, so they, too, would believe she was safe, since she certainly believed she was in no danger herself.
He went back to Camille’s office.
“Camille, if she returns, hold her. Under lock and key if necessary,” he said, and then he left the museum, thinking he would begin looking for her at the post office. She simply didn’t understand the danger she had cast herself into if others knew she was writing as A. Anonymous, he thought in frustration.
LONDON WAS ALWAYS BUSY. Ally loved it and considered it a wonderful city. And yet, to her amazement, when she turned the corner, heading down the street to the museum entrance, it suddenly seemed very empty.
She could hear music from various pubs and restaurants. From distant streets came the clip-clop of horses’ hooves. But darkness was falling.
A streetlight flickered…and died. The shadows seemed to grow darker…deeper.
She hurried forward, trying to reassure herself. Businesses were still open. Workers were sipping their pints behind the doors of pubs.
Then she heard the sound of the carriage approaching.
She turned back to look.
It was a grand carriage, moving slowly down the street. Because of the shadows, she couldn’t see the driver.
Odd that it was moving so slowly.
She looked forward, quickening her pace again.
The carriage drew abreast of her.
And stopped.
“Alexandra!”
The sound of her name, called in a husky tone, sent shivers racing down her spine. She started to run.
The carriage moved again, drew past her, then stopped.
The door opened. A man stepped out. A big man.
“Alexandra!”
The voice was deep, rough. All she saw was the huge figure, a black cape swirling around it. She started to run, aware of footsteps behind her. She screamed as she felt a heavy hand clutch her shoulder.
“Stop!”
She was swung around—and found herself staring into the face of Lord Lionel Wittburg.
“Lord Wittburg!” He was flushed, his eyes wild. She fought his hand. He was old, but he was still powerful. She remembered that he had been a military man. He had never lost the physique or the strength of a hardened soldier.
“Come with me. You must. Now.”
“Lord Wittburg, you have to let me go—I’m expected at the museum.”
“No, you must come with me.”
She gasped as he reached for her, lifting her. She slammed her fists against his chest, but he was like a stone wall, half carrying, half dragging her toward the carriage.
Suddenly she was ripped from Wittburg’s hold and fell to the road as Wittburg let out a fierce bellow. Ally was aware of a second man in the street. Wittburg was like a man gone mad, swinging his fists. But the second man ducked, rose and sent a jab flying.
Lord Lionel Wittburg went down, a soft gasp escaping his lungs.
“Ally!”
It was Mark. Impossible…but real.
He came to her, helping her to her feet. There was the thunder of more footsteps, people streaming from the museum and nearby pubs, and from the carriage, a man jumping down to the street.
Mark was holding her close. She could hear his heart beating. She looked at him, but he was staring at Lord Wittburg. The man’s coachman was at his side by then. Mark left her and went to hunker down next to Wittburg. He stared at the coachman. “What was he doing?”
Wittburg groaned and opened his eyes. He clutched Mark by the lapels. “The truth…she has to know the truth. Tell her the truth.”
“Lord Wittburg, for the love of God, what truth?” Mark asked urgently.
Lord Wittburg’s eyes closed again.
Mark looked up at the crowd that was now beginning to surround them. “Someone, call an ambulance!”
LORD LIONEL WITTBURG was going to live; Mark had only knocked him out with his sound jab to the jaw.
But what happened after was chaos. The streets were filled with people. An ambulance took Lord Wittburg, his coachman at his side, to the hospital. The police spoke with Mark and Ally. Camille arrived on the scene, then Brian, and then Lord Farrow.
Lord Wittburg’s carriage was impounded by the police, to be held until the situation was cleared up. Ally insisted that the elderly gentleman had simply wanted to speak with her, not cause her harm, but he had not seemed himself, and yes, he had frightened her.
Finally they wound up back in Camille’s office. Hunter, whose office was next to Camille’s, joined them, as well.
Everyone was sweetly concerned about Ally, who kept insisting she was fine.
“I had thought you were staying in the museum,” Camille told her.
There was silence, with everyone staring at her.
“Where were you?” Mark asked quietly.
She was afraid to reply.
“Ally?” he persisted.
“I was looking in shop windows,” she said. It wasn’t really a lie. She had looked in several.
“It’s obvious you are in danger,” Mark said. “Why are you so determined to provoke it? And the shops are long closed.”
“I…tarried too long,” she said. She was seated, drinking tea laced with whiskey. Camille sat near her. The men all stood, staring at her.
“Ally,” Brian said, “it’s not like you to cause so much concern to those who love you.”
Those words hurt the most.
“Forgive me,” she said simply. “I’m truly sorry.”
“If you’re so sorry, perhaps you could consider telling the truth,” Mark said.
She stared at him. Again there was silence in the room.
“I was at the newspaper office,” she said flatly.
“Why?” Hunter demanded.
“I was going through old articles,” she said.
Her answer seemed to baffle everyone but Mark, who continued to stare at her. She decided to change the subject. “What happened tonight is sad, not dire,” she told them. “Lord Wittburg needs your concern, not me. I think the poor man is losing his mind.”
“All right, we’re solving nothing here,” Brian said. “We all need to go home, have dinner and get some rest.”
The look Mark was giving her was chilling. “I think…I think I should return to my aunts.”
“The cottage in the woods? No. Would you risk their lives?” Camille asked.
“You will come back to the lodge,” Mark said.
She started to shake her head. The others, she knew, would acquiesce to him—she was about to become his wife, after all. They didn’t know everything she did, not how things stood between them.
She was startled when he came to her, drawing her to her feet. “Don’t come with me because I have demanded it. Come with me because I am asking you to do it. Because you care that it is so important to me.” She was stunned by the heat and depth of emotion in his words, and by the cloud of passion in his eyes.
She found she couldn’t speak, so she simply nodded.
“Tomorro
w we will, I hope, find a sane explanation for all of this,” Brian said pragmatically.
As it was so late by then, Lord Farrow suggested that they spend the night at the town house, and it was agreed. Ally protested that she had no possessions there, but as Kat and Hunter lived in the city, Hunter promised to see that clothing and toiletries were sent over for her disposal.
Mark rode in the carriage, his horse tied behind. At the town house, Ally met another of Lord Farrow’s servants, a charming man named Jeeter, who greeted them at the door. He didn’t cluck over her like a mother hen, but he was efficient, starting a meal, drawing a bath and serving brandy all at once, so it seemed. Ally found herself in another elegantly appointed room, and while she bathed away the dirt and grime of the city, a messenger arrived with fresh clothing. As she lay at her ease in the tub, she was aware of the faint sound of voices below: Mark and his father. She closed her eyes.
Mark had said nothing about Lord Wittburg’s words when he had accosted her. She, too, had remained silent, realizing Mark had probably decided to speak to his father alone. He had been so angry with her because she had gone to the newspaper….
And yet…
He had been there in her defense, appearing miraculously, when she had been in trouble. And then he had come to her, asking her to stay with him….
She was in love with him. No matter his name or person. If she could just…learn to understand him.
No. If she could just somehow convince him that he must love her as she was.
WITH ALLY UPSTAIRS and Jeeter doing his best to create an impromptu meal, Mark faced his father in the parlor.
“This situation cannot go any further. Lionel Wittburg was absolutely convinced he had to speak with Ally. And when he looked at me, he told me that I had to tell her the truth. What truth, Father? I must know what’s going on. And why, in God’s name, would you not trust me?” The last he asked with a certain amount of anguish.
Then he was sorry, when he saw how weary Joseph Farrow looked as he sank into the leather chair by the fire, shaking his head. “I was sworn to secrecy.”
“Father—”
“Yes, I know. And I trust you. I have always trusted you. You know that. But some secrets are meant to be taken to the grave.”
“Not when they are putting others in peril.”
Joseph was silent again for a moment. “Brian Stirling and I agreed that you and Alexandra would be promised to each other because…the queen requested that it be so.”
“The queen?”
Joseph leaned back. Mark took the chair opposite him, waiting for his father to talk. At last Joseph looked at him. “To many a tale, there is a grain of truth. This all came about when you were young and Ally only a child. It all goes back to the Ripper.”
“The Ripper?” Mark said, astounded.
“I swear to you, the man the police believed to be Jack the Ripper is dead. Have you never wondered why the investigation stopped soon after the death of Mary Kelly?”
“The investigation didn’t exactly stop,” Mark said. But his father was right. He had been young at the time. Still, many of those involved had alluded to the fact that the never-identified man popularly known as Jack the Ripper was dead.
His father exhaled. “There were many who tried to create a link between the murders and the Crown.”
“You’re not going to tell me that the Crown was involved?” Mark demanded. “And how do you know all this?”
“Because Lady Maggie was nearly killed by the murderer. Thank God the killer lost his own life instead. I don’t know all the details of those horrid times. I have never asked Maggie or James to explain everything. There is no absolute proof, no way to truly close the books. But the man died near the cottage where Ally grew up. Despite the rumors, there was no Ripper conspiracy involving the Crown, but the theory was born because Prince Eddie did, in fact, go through a form of marriage with a Catholic girl named Annie. As you know, the prince was ultimately destroyed by syphilis. And Annie…was not well. And, of course, a Catholic marriage wasn’t legal.”
Mark stared at his father. “You’re telling me that the rumored child of this affair is…Ally?”
Joseph nodded. “She had to be protected, you see,” he said softly. “As I was trusted, so I am now entrusting this information to you. But the truth can never be known.” He sighed softly. “Haven’t you seen how fanatical people can be when ideas of right and wrong are involved? How men can allow their concept of a greater good to lead them to heinous murder? There are those who fear—as they have done through the centuries—that a Catholic connection to the royal bloodline would be dangerous. There is no reason for us to allow the truth of Ally’s lineage, to be made public. She should live a life unburdened by the fears and sins of the past. No one must know. But she is the queen’s grandchild. A brilliant young woman, and a beauty. She must never be endangered by her position or wounded by her illegitimacy. No one must know. That was the queen’s request.”
“There are obviously others who know the truth. Lionel Wittburg, for one. And I would have been in a far better position to understand and protect Ally if I had known the truth, as well.”
“I’m sorry. I gave my word, and I do not give my word lightly.”
Mark lowered his head. His father’s story was fantastic. He found the entire situation almost impossible to believe. He shook his head. “So Lord Wittburg…none of his…wandering has to do with anything current? In his mind he has seen the state of affairs now and confused it with something that happened in the past? He is combining the two—suspecting the monarchy might have been involved then and so might be involved now?”
“I don’t know,” Joseph said. “I just don’t know.”
Mark stood and walked to the hearth, gazing at the flames. “We held him up the other day, you know. He must not have reported the incident to the police, because I have neither seen nor heard a mention of it. I searched his carriage. Not a spot of blood. Ian remains convinced the murderer has escaped each crime scene in a carriage. I believe he is right. But…I went to see Hudson Porter’s housekeeper today, and she was behaving very strangely.”
“So we are no closer to the truth?”
Mark shrugged. “I feel we are closer, but we are missing something. When I spoke with the woman today, I actually found myself thinking it might be a conspiracy of housekeepers. But these men were killed by someone with strength. And then there is Ally. Was the cottage in the woods attacked because she has suddenly been deemed a danger due to current events, or because someone has become aware of her birth? Or are the two connected in some way? Were some too quick to assume that, since the victims were anti-monarchists, the Crown was involved? Were others too willing to think martyrs to a cause would make it all the more meaningful? Drawing attention to the past forces one to see that what seems obvious is not always the truth.”
Joseph was frowning at him.
“What?”
“You’re not concerned…about Ally’s identity.”
“Only if it puts her in danger.” Mark shook his head. “I don’t care who her parents were. Ally matters to me.”
Joseph smiled slowly. “You two should marry and leave the country. Go to a distant hilltop in America, find a place in Australia. Get away from all this. Let others sort it out.”
“We can’t do that,” Mark said. “We can’t spend the rest of our lives looking over our shoulders, wondering.”
He fell silent, seeing Ally appear at the top of the stairs. Joseph followed his son’s gaze, saw her there and stood.
“Ally, you look refreshed and lovely,” he said cheerfully.
Mark could see her face, and he knew she was aware that she had been the topic of conversation. But he could see in her eyes the determination to play along with his father’s light approach.
“This is a beautiful home,” she said, coming down the stairs. “And my accommodations are quite lovely. You are ever the gracious host, Lord Farrow.”
; “Let’s see if Jeeter has concocted a meal for us, shall we?” the older man asked, offering his arm to escort her into the dining room.
Mid-meal, Joseph asked Ally if she was dismayed that the planning of her wedding was not in her own hands.
Ally laughed and told him, “Castle Carlyle is as fine a place as one could hope for. The aunts would be brokenhearted if they could not put their talents into a dress. I am not at all dismayed. The vows are what two people share. The rest is for others, and if it makes them happy to plan, then that makes me happy, as well.”
When the meal was finished, Joseph stated that he was retiring. Ally wished both men good night and preceded Joseph up the stairs.
Mark followed more slowly, taking a brandy upstairs with him. He knew he would not sleep. It didn’t torment him in the least, knowing Ally’s background. He was not dismayed at the illegitimate circumstances of her birth, nor was he impressed that she had a connection to royalty. Truth was not always as important as it should have been, though he knew that the perception of truth could be damning.
It had been a long day. He drew a bath, sipped the brandy and tried to keep his head from spinning.
Monarchists.
Anti-monarchists.
Housekeepers.
Jack the Ripper.
Conspiracy theories.
The true identity of Jack the Ripper remained unknown. Even those convinced they knew the truth were not absolutely certain. But most of those with access to the facts tended to agree that the heinous killer had not been a prince gone insane, nor even a guardian of that prince. He had been a deranged individual, most probably a man unknown outside his small world.
Where did that get him?
Perhaps the murders now were not on a grand scale. Perhaps…
Perhaps the political angle was but a facade to hide something far more mundane.
He rose and dried himself off.
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