He was going to try to leap the distance.
* * *
Jamie broke out onto the embankment just in time to see the man running.
He tore out after him.
Alexander leaped . . . and fell, but caught the last plank, just beneath Maggie’s feet.
She screamed.
The bridge gave entirely, and crashed into the stream.
* * *
She was in the water, and he had her ankle. She had so little breath, and was so blinded by the rush and the darkness above. He was trying to drag her back.
Had he lost the knife?
Her fingers curled around a rock in the streambed. She kicked out furiously.
Suddenly, his face appeared before hers in the water.
She screamed again, and choked on water, and struck out with the rock. Her hand moved slowly . . . so slowly through the water.
The rock connected with his face.
He stared at her.
His arm rose as they both kicked and struggled in the depths.
Then, just as she saw the knife rising above her arms, his wrist was wrenched back, and the man was ripped away from her.
Her ankle was free. Desperate for breath, she kicked her way to the surface. Gasping and screaming, she clawed her way to the embankment.
She saw a man rising from the water, and she backed along the damp, cold earth. “No!”
“Maggie!”
That voice . . .
“Jamie?”
She hadn’t the strength left, but she found it. She came to her feet, and leapt forward, into his arms. Then she drew away.
“Alexander?” she said desperately.
“He’s dead.”
“Are you certain?”
“I’m certain,”
She looked around his shoulder, and she saw him. Blood oozed from the slash against his throat. He was in the water, caught between two boulders in the stream. Eyes open, he stared up unseeingly at the night sky.
“Dead?” she whispered again.
“Dead,” he promised her.
She leaned against him, fell against him. Her knees gave. He held her. He lifted her chin, and searched out her eyes. “Maggie, was he . . . Jack the Ripper?”
She started to shake. She couldn’t laugh, and she couldn’t cry.
“Maggie?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know. I wonder if . . . if we’ll ever know!”
She couldn’t walk. He picked her up in his arms.
“Jamie?”
“Yes?”
“I love you,” she said, and touched his face, and waited.
“I love you, too,” he told her, and said no more, but made his way back to the cottage in the woods.
Epilogue
There were two books written about the whole affair.
Mireau’s book, unpublished I thought, was far superior to the one which was published just days after we had returned to London. Of course, reading Mireau’s, I was pleased. I had done everything in my power to save Arianna, I had seen to it that Prince Eddy had been defended in the press with the facts of his whereabouts, and I might well have met with the infamous and savage butcher who had all but brought London to its knees.
But in the other story . . .
I had blatantly murdered Charles. I had attacked a true spiritualist, a man of God, who had come to warn others of what was about to happen in the city. I had seduced anyone who had come my way, and consorted in the worst dens of iniquity in the city to seek out those that I might harm further. I had lured an innocent man to his death, and brought about the destruction of seven young men who had only needed jobs, and were seeking a way to go straight. I had gone to a home where my stepdaughter was working, and I had poisoned her, preferring to kill her myself rather than let her lead a life I didn’t control. I was a horrible, wicked, cruel stepmother!
Of course, my name wasn’t actually in it, not at all. It had been very cleverly written. Since I had been the object of scandal several times, there was no doubting, though, just whom was meant by the Lady Evelyn Quinn. And, of course, the gorgeous stepdaughter, Lady Bianca. Cecilia had been the one to first bring the book to my attention, and naturally, it had infuriated me. Especially since I had just returned to the city, and gotten to spend a single blissful night with Jamie before he had gone on to meet with the authorities . . . and sent a message that he would not be returning that night. At first, I understood. There hadn’t been another murder, but the last had been a crescendo, and the city remained in an uproar, as it would for weeks, months, and even years to come. At that time, though, we could only tell what we knew, what had been said.
And speculate. I realized that until the day I died, unless a madman was caught in the act at a future date, I would never really know.
Had the man been the heinous killer?
Or more frightening still, just another of his ilk?
So Jamie’s days with the authorities, inundated with meeting after meeting, detail after detail, went on and on. I could bear it. I could wait.
But then the next thing I knew . . .
The officer had come from Scotland Yard, and I had been informed that Lord James Langdon would be coming for me, and I would be taken to the Queen. So, here I was—held at Scotland Yard! All I could think was, that book! That awful book! People have read it, and believed it! Because they are looking for monsters now, they must have a monster, or a witch, as in my case!
I heard a noise behind me, and I spun around. Rather quickly. I still jump at the least sound.
Jamie had come.
Oh, he was imposing as he stood there! A tall hat upon his ink-dark hair, handsome fawn breeches accenting the length of his legs and the power within them. His waistcoat was a brocade crimson, and his overcoat was black, as was his cravat. He looked so respectable, every inch the lord. And stern, as I had seen him as well. For a moment, my heart fluttered. He could not have changed! He had been there the night of the séance, and the night the crazed killer had come to the cottage in the woods. He had spoken with Arianna, he . . .
Could he still wonder if I had killed Charles?
Then he smiled. “Maggie . . . are you quite all right?”
I frowned, afraid suddenly, keeping my distance. “Let’s see . . . I was twice accosted by a killer, and now I am under arrest! Am I all right? Quite frankly, no!”
And then he laughed, sweeping the hat from his head as he stepped into the room. “You’re not under arrest!”
My eyes widened. “I was escorted here by a burly police fellow I’ve never met. I was told you were coming for me—that I was to see the Queen.”
“Maggie, Maggie, Maggie!”
“Jamie, Jamie, Jamie!”
He shook his head, stepped forward, and his eyes were pure silver and mist as they stared down into mine. “The Queen is outraged for you. She wants to assure you that you have done her a tremendous service. And—”
“What?” I breathed. And as I did so, I thought that I would never fall out of love with his smile. With his eyes. With just the sound of his voice.
“She found out who wrote the book. The published book.”
“Who?” I asked cautiously.
“One of the misguided ‘dwarfs’—you know, one of Adrian’s young fellows, who is now rotting away in prison. Says he really does want to turn a new leaf, and the story is made up with names and notions he got from the papers.”
“Really?”
“The Queen intends to see that Mireau’s version finds an excellent publisher immediately.”
“Thank God,” I said, and yet remained a bit uneasy, for even in Mireau’s version, some things were a bit too personal.
“Are you ready?” he asked me softly.
“For . . .?” I breathed.
“Tea. With the Queen.”
“Oh! I . . . I, of course.”
He took my arm. “She sends her congratulations, as well.”
“Her congratulations?”
&nb
sp; He nodded. “On our marriage.”
This time, I caught my breath, went dead still, and stared straight at him. I was still in widow’s weeds.
“We’re getting married?” I asked him.
“Scandalously soon,” he advised me. “But . . . I admit to feeling something of a sense of . . . an extra sense, perhaps. I thought that they might talk about us far less if we rushed the wedding . . . and had the child within the bounds of wedlock. Well, either way, they’re going to talk.”
“You’re going to marry me?” I said to him.
“And soon, yes. There will be talk, you know that?”
And I started to laugh. “Whenever wasn’t there talk!”
“Um, I guess I’ll have to get used to it. Actually, it’s rather fun, in a way!” He had led me from the room, and out to the center of the station where there were many police officers about. “We’ll give them a bit more, shall we, eh?” he asked.
His eyes were silver with humor.
And then he kissed me . . .
And kissed me . . .
I didn’t hear any talk at all.
Only the applause.
Photo credit: Charles William Bush
About the Author
New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Heather Graham has written over two hundred novels and novellas and is a founding member of the Florida Romance Writers chapter of RWA. She has been published in approximately thirty languages, and has been honored with awards from Georgia Romance Writers, Affaire de Coeur, Romantic Times, and more. She has had books selected for the Doubleday Book Club and the Literary Guild, and has been quoted, interviewed, or featured in such publications as The Nation, Redbook, People, and USA Today, and appeared on many newscasts including local television and Entertainment Tonight.
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