“Ah! But there you are wrong. The world can be saved… one heart at a time.” As Madame Mazursky peered at him, a frown puckered her brow. “I am worried about you, Michelangelo. A dark cloud hovers about your aura. Something has caused you to lose your faith in humanity.”
Mick stared at his teacup. Figuring that there was no sense in denying the charge, he said, “Something did happen a little over a year ago. And, yeah, it changed me.”
“The pain will ease with time,” Madame said, reaching over to gently pat his hand. “Love has a way of healing all wounds.”
“Then I guess you didn’t hear the news flash? My wife left me ten months ago.”
“As fate intended, in order to make way for a new love. Although I shouldn’t say ‘new’ as that is terribly misleading, given that the two of you have known each other throughout the ages.”
“I don’t mean to be rude, Phoebe. But what the hell are you talking about?”
“I am speaking of you and Lettitia, of course.”
“What!” Mick nearly bolted out of his chair. “I mean, yeah, I’m turned on by her. But most of the time she just plain aggravates the hell out of me.”
Chuckling softly, Madame refilled his cup from the samovar. “No one ever said that love was without its upheavals. Hopefully, in the few days allotted, you and Lettitia can work out your differences. The two of you have been butting heads for quite a few lifetimes, coming close, but never able to make the necessary compromises that would bring you together.”
“Well, don’t count on it happening any time soon,” he muttered, convinced that all of this New Age mumbo jumbo was a crock. Phoebe was a great gal, but nutty as a Christmas fruitcake.
“It will eventually happen. How can it not? You and Lettitia are soul mates who are bound to one another.”
“Jeez, Phoebe. You sure know how to scare a man, don’t you?”
“Lettitia has need of you… just as you have need of her.”
“Yeah, that’s what I thought yesterday.” Mick pushed out a frustrated sigh. “Believe me, I still haven’t recovered.”
The older woman’s lips curved in a wry half-smile. “I was not referring to your carnal needs.”
“Oh, right.” He laughed sheepishly.
“I was referring to your emotional needs. Each of you has suffered a tragic loss for which you need the comfort that only the other can offer. That is what I want you to keep in mind as you traverse this time and place. Remember, Michelangelo… you and Lettitia have only three days.”
* * *
After he left Madame Mazursky’s, Mick returned to Phidias’s townhouse in Knightsbridge.
Only to be informed that Lettitia had departed for St. Ursula’s Hospital.
Pissed off by this latest development, Mick immediately ordered Babu to drive him there. Given Lettitia’s strong conviction that Sir Willoughby was innocent, he had good cause to believe that she was about to louse up his investigation by doing something incredibly stupid. Like telling Sir Willoughby that he was a prime murder suspect.
No sooner did the carriage stop in front of St. Ursula’s than Mick leapt out and charged across the drive. The porter, observing his approach, swung the heavy front door open with a gusty flourish. Mick thanked the man with a terse nod.
At a glance, he could see that an emergency was in full-blown progress. Nurses and orderlies scurried pell-mell across the lobby; the joint exuded a frantic energy. Something was definitely wrong, and Mick worried that Lettitia was involved in the calamity.
As a nurse rushed pass, Mick seized her by the arm, pulling her to a halt. “Excuse me, Sister. Can you tell me what’s going on?”
The woman appeared shell-shocked. “It’s Sister Gillian. She’s in Sir Willoughby’s office wailing so loudly that we feared she’d come face to face with the Ripper.”
Christ, maybe she did. And what if Lettitia was with her? Shit.
Mick spun on his heel and raced down the hall. Charging through a pair of orderlies, he parted them like a hell-bent Moses before the Red Sea. When he finally caught sight of Lettitia standing in front of Sir Willoughby’s office, he gave a grateful sigh of relief.
“What in God’s name are you doing here?” he roared, his concern instantly transmuting into anger. Did she have any idea what a helluva scare she just gave him?
Like the nurse, Lettitia appeared traumatized.
“I came to… to get Mary Kelly’s address,” she told him, indicating the small, white card that she had clutched in her gloved hand. “Oh, Mick… it’s too awful for words.”
Mick grabbed her by the shoulders. “I want you to take a deep breath, Tisha. Then tell me what happened. Okay?”
Nodding her head, she complied, her chest heaving with the indrawn breath. “It’s Sir Willoughby. He’s… he’s dead.”
“What?” Stunned, Mick stared at her, the unexpected news changing the whole scope of his murder investigation. “Where’s the body?” he asked, needing to verify for himself that one of his suspects was really dead and gone.
Lettitia wordlessly raised a hand and pointed toward the closed office door.
Not bothering to knock, Mick opened it and stepped into Sir Willoughby’s office.
The scene that he encountered had high drama written all over it. The victim was sprawled in his desk chair, his eyes wide open, his mouth agape, while his wife, Sister Gillian, knelt at his feet weeping. Standing a few feet away, a dark-suited physician snapped shut his black leather medical bag.
Glancing at the top of the desk, Mick noticed an open patient file, an ink bottle, and a fountain pen. Evidently, Sir Willoughby had been doing his paperwork when—Wham-o!—the Grim Reaper came calling.
“Are you sure that he’s dead?” Mick asked the physician, guessing that the procedure for verifying death in the nineteenth century was primitive—the old mirror to the mouth and sticking the guy with a needle routine.
The physician shot him a dubious glance. “Quite. Sir Willoughby suffered a seizure. Not entirely unexpected, given his condition.”
Mick’s gaze immediately darted to the table situated behind the desk. Yesterday, when he’d been grilling Sir Willoughby, he’d noticed a collection of pharmaceuticals. The fact that the hospital administrator was now dead made him wonder if the cure had been worse than the disease.
To Mick’s surprise, Sister Gillian, having correctly intuited his thoughts, said, “My husband contracted an incurable disease while serving in the Queen’s army.”
Hearing that, Mick recalled that Lettitia had mentioned something about Sir Willoughby and Sister Gillian meeting during the First Afghan War. “I’m sorry,” he murmured. Sister Gillian’s grief was plain to see. “Please accept my condolences.”
Thrown into a quandary by the unexpected turn of events, he left the office. Taking hold of Lettitia’s elbow, he quickly ushered her toward the hospital lobby.
“Sir Willoughby had a seizure,” he said, giving her the update.
“Poor Sister Gillian.”
“My thoughts exactly. She seems like a nice lady.” Granted, she’d married a sleaze bag, but that didn’t take away from the fact that she was still a nice lady. “Let me have that card with Mary Kelly’s address.” When Lettitia handed it to him, Mick glanced at the street name. “How long will it take us to get to this Dorset Street?”
Lettitia stopped in her tracks, a horrified expression on her face. “I can not leave the hospital during Sister Gillian’s time of need.”
“I’ve only got three days to catch your sister’s murderer. You can stay here if you want, but I’ve got work to do.”
Lettitia’s eyes instantly filled with unshed tears. “As do I,” she whispered.
“Hey, are you gonna be all right?”
Nodding, she said, “Because of Sir Willoughby’s unexpected death, we shall never know if he had a hand in killing Emmaline.”
“He didn’t.”
“How can you be so certain? Only yesterday you were convince
d that he was the Ripper.”
“I had no idea yesterday that he’d be dead today,” Mick countered. Still holding onto Lettitia’s elbow, he headed toward the main exit. “And that means the Ripper is still out there somewhere.”
Lettitia shook her head, clearly befuddled. “Your meaning eludes me.”
“I’m certain that whoever killed Emmaline also killed Mary Kelly. Except Mary Kelly, the last of the Ripper’s victims, isn’t dead yet. Which leaves only two viable suspects: your father and Lord Wortham.”
“No, I refuse to believe that—”
“Come on,” he interjected, urging her to pick up the pace. “We need to find Mary Kelly before the Ripper does.”
* * *
A half hour later, they arrived at Dorset Street—a dark, winding thoroughfare made even darker by the storm clouds that hovered menacingly overhead.
As Mick assisted her out of the carriage, Lettitia made a concerted effort not to look him in the eye. In fact, since that shameful interlude in her uncle’s study, she’d been studiously avoiding making any eye contact with Mick Giovanni.
Although yesterday’s episode had been excruciatingly shameful, she did not hold Mick directly responsible. She had, after all, succumbed to her passions, making overtures that no self-respecting lady would have ever made. Not only had she brazenly caressed him, but she’d acquiesced to his every request without giving thought to the consequence of her actions. She’d certainly not considered the ramifications of losing her virginity in broad daylight in the middle of her Uncle Phidias’s study.
Which only proved what she’d suspected all along–if one let their animal passions dictate the course of their life, one would live to regret it.
Admittedly, such passion had its enticements. Lettitia was still able to vividly recall that one shattering moment of incomparable pleasure.
Of course, there had also been that shattering moment of incomparable pain. But even that had been strangely moving. In that instant, when she and Mick had gazed into one another’s eyes, she’d felt as if she’d been waiting for that very moment her entire life.
Humph! The disgraceful truth was that she’d given her virginity to a man she’d known a mere few days.
What in heaven’s name am I going to tell Lord Wortham on our wedding night? It’d been nearly twenty years since she’d last mounted a horse and then only the one time. Even to her own ears that particular deceit sounded preposterous.
“Are you sure this is the right street?” Mick asked, glancing up and down the narrow lane. The dilapidated doss houses which lined the street were built so close together that they created the sensation of being in a stygian tunnel.
Lettitia glanced at the white card on which she’d copied Mary Kelly’s address from the patient records. “Yes. Dorset Street, number 9.” She cast a nervous glance at a trio of inebriated men huddled in a nearby doorway. “I admit, it does seem rather odd that we should warn Mary that her life is in mortal danger given that she resides in this neighborhood. I suspect, with such neighbors, her life is routinely in danger.”
“Looks to me like number 9 is at the other end of the lane. Come on. Let’s hurry and get this over with.”
As Mick took her by the elbow and guided her down the street, Lettitia cast a backward glance at Babu and the carriage, wondering if they should leave their coachman unattended.
“Here it is, number 9,” Mick said, gesturing toward a woebegone building. The windows were blackened with coal dust, and there was a tread missing from the front stoop. “Watch where you step. It looks like—Shit!” he suddenly hollered, ducking out of the path of a chamber pot being emptied from an upper window.
“And ain’t you the clever bloke for figuring that out,” a female voice croaked from the upstairs window. As the pinched-faced woman took their measure, her gaze suspiciously narrowed. “What business do a couple of swells like you have on Dorset Street?”
“We’re looking for Mary Kelly,” Mick informed her, eyeing the woman as if she were one of Shakespeare’s weird sisters. “Do you know where we can find her?”
Scowling, the woman shook her head. “I ain’t seen that tart in weeks. Good riddance, I say. I run a respectable boarding house. Though Mary Kelly seemed to forget that fact easily enough. It was disgraceful, what with ’er bringing ’er gentleman friends into ’er room.”
“Sounds like the old bat attended your lecture on the necessity of living a moral and decent life,” Mick said out of the corner of his mouth.
“Really, sir!” Lettitia’s face burned with heated color, self-consciously aware that, since meeting Mick Giovanni, she’d shamefully not practiced what she so ardently preached.
“Do you know where Mary is currently living?” Mick next inquired.
“No idea. But wherever it is, you can be certain she’s connived some bloke into paying ’er doss. That one never earned an ’onest farthing in ’er life.”
“Guess we’ve hit the proverbial dead end,” Mick said a few moments later, as he led Lettitia back down the lane.
“Nonetheless, it does not seem right that we should so readily give up the search for Mary Kelly.” Despite the fact that the ill-humored landlady had denounced her former tenant’s wanton ways, on the few occasions that Lettitia had come into contact with Mary at St. Ursula’s, she’d been struck by the young woman’s kind heart and blithesome disposition.
“I agree. Maybe you could make a few inquiries at St. Ursula’s. Perhaps someone there has—” Cursing under his breath, Mick suddenly grabbed her by the elbow and pulled her to his side. “We’ve got trouble,” he hissed, slowing his stride to a complete standstill.
Alarmed, Lettitia noticed that four men had stepped out of the shadows on either side of them, each armed with a wooden club. Hearing footsteps approach from behind, she deduced that there was a like number of bully boys to the rear of them.
Her heart began to erratically pound against her breastbone. Lettitia was suddenly afraid that they’d inadvertently wandered into the heart of darkness.
“Let me do all the talking,” Mick said in a lowered voice, shooting her a quick warning glance. “I don’t want any crazy-ass heroics, you understand?”
Lettitia wordlessly nodded, knowing that he referred to the incident at The Golden Dragon.
One of the bully boys stepped toward them. Outfitted in a bowler hat and patent leather spats, he had the look of a dandy about him—quite a contrast to his less fashionably attired cohorts.
“G’day to you both,” he said. There was an oily, insincere smile plastered on his face. “Looks like we’re in for a spot of bad weather.”
“What do you want?” Mick growled, clearly not in the mood for small talk.
“Nothing more than some friendly conversation,” the dandified thug replied, his smile broadening. As he spoke, fat drops of rain began to fall from the sky. “But first, how about we all step out of the rain?”
“We’re not going anywhere.”
At hearing Mick’s belligerent reply, the gang of bully boys began to pound their clubs against the palms of their hands.
Although his expression remained calm, Lettitia could feel the muscles in Mick’s body tense.
“Surely, it wouldn’t hurt to hear what these, um, gentlemen have to say,” she managed to utter, terrified by the orchestrated show of menace.
After a moment’s consideration, Mick capitulated and said, “Yeah, all right.”
As the eight gang members led them down a narrow passageway, Lettitia said in a hushed whisper, “I have some money in my reticule. Perhaps I could use it to—”
“Don’t bother. I’ve got a feeling they’re after something other than money. Besides, with these guys might is right.”
“As opposed to ‘money talks’.”
“You catch on quick.” Mick shot her a sideways glance. “I swear to you, Tisha, whatever it takes, I’ll keep you safe.”
For the briefest of moments, their glances met.
“I know,” she whispered, filled with dread at the thought that Mick would fight to the death for her.
A few moments later, they turned down another passageway, this one so narrow they had to walk single file. The bully boys were leading them through a labyrinth of alleyways, and Lettitia worried that, even if they could somehow escape, they’d never find their way back to Dorset Street.
Her fear escalated when they were ushered into a crumbling brick hovel.
One of the gang members struck a match and lit several oil-soaked torches that were mounted on the walls. In an orderly fashion, each gang member deposited his wooden club in an umbrella stand set next to the door. Given their numerical superiority, they clearly thought that their armament was unnecessary.
Glancing at all of the stacked boxes and barrels which lined the perimeter of the open space, Lettitia deduced that they’d been led to the pirates’ lair.
The bowler-hatted leader turned in her direction and said, “This is much cozier, don’t you agree?”
“I most certainly do not,” she retorted. “We were brought here under duress and to pretend otherwise does us both insult.”
“Well, ain’t you very now-and-never,” he said with a mocking bow. “Lucky for you, I ’appen to like a woman with a clever tongue on ’er.”
Hearing that, several of his cohorts snickered.
“I am clever enough to know that a life of crime and degeneracy will only lead to—” Lettitia abruptly clamped her jaw shut when she caught sight of Mick making the “zip it” motion.
“Okay, who are you and what do you what?” Mick growled, drawing the gang leader’s attention away from her.
“Where are my manners?” As he spoke, the other man swept his bowler hat from his head. “Bill Sweeney, at your service. As to what I want… I wants what you stole from Scotland Yard two nights ago.”
Mick shrugged. “Sorry, pal. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Sir Charlie said you might be a tough customer. Said I might ’ave to rough you up a bit.”
“You tell Sir Charlie that he can kiss my Italian ass. Or better yet, take me to him and I’ll tell him myself.”
A Love For All Time Page 16