A Love For All Time

by Chloe Douglas

  * * *

  He’d been the odd man out at dinner. No two ways about it.

  Unaware that he was supposed to don his Sunday best for dinner, Mick had been garbed in one of Phidias’s hand-me-down frock coats while every other man at the table had been attired in black tie. If that hadn’t been bad enough, there’d been more than two dozen people at the table, and Lettitia had been seated out of communication range.

  Dinner itself had been a bacchanalian pig-out, with eight courses that included cod in oyster sauce, curried rabbit, roast suckling pig, a few vegetables thrown in for good measure, a couple of desserts, and a different wine with every plateful of food. God, what I wouldn’t give for a Tums.

  Bad enough that he’d looked like an outsider. Between Wortham’s arrogant sneers and Alfred Merryweather’s belligerent glares, he’d also been made to feel like an outsider. Everyone at the table had treated him like a leper. In fact, the minute he’d stepped into the dining room, Alfred had made it clear that he was none too pleased with Mick’s presence. However, since he was there as Lettitia’s guest, Old Man Merryweather had to suck it up and let Mick dine with the uppity-ups.

  Although he still didn’t know which of his two prime suspects—Lord Wortham or Alfred Merryweather—had murdered Emmaline, he was absolutely convinced that one of them was not only the guilty party; one of them was also Jack the Ripper.

  And that was the reason why Mick was now creeping down a dark, deserted hallway in search of Lord Wortham’s bed chamber.

  Because a lot of killers liked to keep trophies—small personal items that had belonged to the victims—as mementos, he intended to search Wortham’s room while the other man was in the gun room checking out the weapons for tomorrow’s shoot. If he was lucky, he might just find the murder weapon neatly hidden between Wortham’s clean undies.

  Locating the room that he was looking for—at least he hoped that it was the right room—Mick turned the door handle and slipped inside. From his coat pocket, he removed the nineteenth-century version of a flashlight: a candle and match. Seconds later, holding the lit candle aloft, he scoped out the room. Since there was nothing incriminating in plain sight, he began his search by opening the mirrored armoire.

  “Quite the fashionista, aren’t we?” he muttered as he flipped through more than a dozen coats and jackets. Just as he was about to close the armoire, Mick spied a small piece of leather luggage stuffed in the corner. “Hmm, wonder what you’re hiding in the doctor’s bag.”

  What his lordship was hiding was three bottles of something called Battley’s Sedative, which, according to the label, was laudanum, i.e., liquid opium. Mick also found a dog-eared copy of the Marquis de Sade’s Justine, the discovery of which incited a blast of impotent rage. His gut twisted in knots as he unwillingly envisioned Wortham sexually abusing Lettitia.

  I should’ve killed the sadist when I had the chance. Yeah, that’s right. I should’ve taken my fencing foil and reamed it up—

  “Good evening, my lord.”

  At hearing an unexpected voice just outside the closed door, Mick lunged to his feet and hurriedly closed the armoire. Then, furtively glancing around the room, he searched for a hiding place. Luckily, he found something better—an unlocked door that led to a connecting room.

  Blowing out the candle, he slipped through the door just as Wortham entered his bed chamber.

  Perusing his whereabouts, Mick was relieved to find that the connecting room was currently unoccupied. In no hurry to depart, he went down on bent knee and peered through the keyhole. Since he hadn’t uncovered any evidence in Wortham’s room, he hoped that he’d have better luck doing a little late-night surveillance.

  When, a few moments later, a knock sounded at Wortham’s bedroom door, Mick angled his head to get a better view, wondering who was calling on his lordship at such a late hour. To his surprise, Wortham opened the door and admitted an extravagantly gowned woman.

  “Ah, Fredericka. Beautifully attired as usual,” Wortham warmly greeted his late-night guest.

  Who the hell was Fredericka? Mick couldn’t recall that there’d been anybody with that name at the dinner table. In fact, the lady in question didn’t look like any of the snooty broads he’d met earlier.

  So, who was she?

  From the fancy get-up, Fredericka sure as hell wasn’t the maid come to turn down the bed. Although Mick had the strange feeling that would happen soon enough. Particularly when Fredericka began to brazenly rub her hand over Wortham’s crotch. Clearly knowing her way around a pair of man’s pants, she opened the earl’s fly in record time. With a high-pitched giggle, she then pushed Wortham onto the bed right before she started to do a provocative little striptease. Lifting her skirts to her waist, Fredericka untied her lacy drawers and let the undergarment fall to her feet. Avidly watching the show, Wortham began to buff his banana.

  As Mick’s gaze roamed up a pair of shapely thighs, he suddenly choked on a surprised gasp.

  Shit. She was a he!

  And then it hit him: Fredericka was Lettitia’s brother, Freddy Merryweather.

  Given the intimate familiarity with which the two men interacted, Mick surmised that they were long-time lovers. Moreover, he felt certain that he now knew why Emmaline had been blackmailing Lord Wortham. In nineteenth-century England, homosexuality was a criminal offense. If he recalled correctly, Oscar Wilde had spent two years in prison for having engaged in “the love that dare not speak its name.”

  “Umm, Percy, your c-cock tastes like the f-finest Belgian chocolate.”

  Please tell me that I did not just hear that.

  Mick scrambled to his feet, unwilling to hang around for the finale.

  Although he still didn’t know who’d killed Emmaline, of one thing he was now certain—somehow he had to convince Lettitia to dump Lord Candy Pants.

  Chapter 14

  The shooting party got underway the next morning. Alfred Merryweather and his guests left Stag House bright and early to go bag ’em some birds.

  When Mick learned from a chatty chambermaid that Freddy Merryweather had declined to join the party, he decided to track down Alfred’s namesake and heir apparent. After witnessing last night’s little game of peek-a-boo, he had more than a few questions to put to young Freddy pertaining to his sister Emmaline. In fact, it had belatedly occurred to Mick that Freddy had a very good reason for wanting his sister permanently silenced. Particularly if Emmaline had threatened to publicly reveal that he and Wortham were lovers.

  Figuring that Lettitia would be livid to learn that Mick had put another one of her family members on the suspect list, he decided to question young Freddy without first obtaining a signed permission slip.

  Although it took twenty minutes of poking his head in numerous rooms, Mick finally found Freddy Merryweather in—for lack of a better name—the butterfly room.

  “Jeez, how long did it take you to catch all of these butterflies?” Mick asked, turning full circle. Each of the four walls was covered from floor to ceiling with framed glass display boxes, and each box contained one beautifully preserved butterfly. “There are hundreds of them.”

  Freddy looked up from where he sat at a long, wooden table, an assortment of butterflies spread in front of him on a piece of white parchment paper.

  “I d-do not c-catch them,” he replied disdainfully. “I c-collect them.”

  Mick couldn’t help but notice that Freddy’s speech impediment seemed more pronounced than usual.

  “You mean that you acquire butterflies as a hobby?”

  “It is a g-gentlemanly pursuit,” Freddy sniffed, picking up a magnifying glass. Ignoring Mick, he examined one of the butterflies on the table.

  Mick figured that the cold shoulder was on account of him having roughed up Freddy’s honey yesterday in the gymnasium.

  “Are you aware of the fact that your sister Emmaline is blackmailing your father?” he asked abruptly, hoping to catch Freddy off guard.

  The younger man’s eyes
opened wide. “Him, too?” A split-second later, evidently realizing what he’d unwittingly blurted, Freddy refocused his attention on the dead butterfly spread out on the sheet of white parchment paper.

  Mick hitched a hip onto the table and folded his arms over his chest. “Don’t worry, Freddy. You didn’t spill the beans. I already knew about Lord Wortham being blackmailed,” he quickly assured him, making it sound like it was no big deal.

  “S-such a horrid creature.” Freddy’s baby-faced features scrunched into a grimace.

  “Who, Emmaline?” When the other man nodded, Mick asked the logical follow-up. “What makes you say that?”

  “Because she b-broke off her engagement t-to Wortham.”

  “I understand it was a pretty scandalous affair for all involved.”

  “She p-purposely c-cuckolded him.”

  “Why did she do that? I mean, Wortham seems like a nice enough guy.” If you happen to like arrogant opium addicts who are into sadism.

  Freddy’s jaw tightened and a shifty look came into his gray eyes. “How should I know?”

  “But you just said that she ‘purposely’ cuckolded him. That implies you know the reason why she did it.”

  “I misspoke.”

  Mick had the niggling suspicion there was something here that he wasn’t seeing. It made no sense that Freddy was upset with Emmaline for dumping Lord Wortham. If anything, Freddy should’ve been glad-hearted about the breakup, given that he and his sister had been vying for the same man. But he wasn’t. Quite the opposite, in fact.

  “Do you see much of your sister Emmaline these days?” Mick inquired nonchalantly.

  “She is a slut! A c-common whore.” Freddy’s eyes burned with a heated emotion. “Women are such p-perfidious creatures.”

  Hearing Freddy speak about women in the plural nabbed Mick’s attention.

  Holy shit. Could Freddy Merryweather be Jack the Ripper?

  It was a possibility that Mick hadn’t considered until just that moment. Whoever murdered Emmaline and the four Whitechapel prostitutes had to have a deep, pervasive hatred of women. Moreover, there had been no evidence that any of the victims had been sexually molested or raped prior to their slaying.

  “Yeah, women are damned perfidious,” Mick reiterated, hoping to egg Freddy into making a confession.

  “Stupid, f-foolish creatures.”

  Mick nodded in agreement. “Nothing but bitches in heat.”

  From the guarded look in Freddy’s eyes, Mick surmised that he’d gone too far with the male bonding.

  “You’ve b-been spending a great deal of t-time with Lettitia,” Freddy suddenly accused. “She is to m-marry Lord Wortham.”

  “Does that upset you? The fact that Lettitia is engaged to the earl?”

  “Upset me?” Mick watched as a transformation came over Freddy; his expression became downright beatific. Like an enraptured martyr on a stained glass window. “I am enthralled.”

  Which wasn’t the response that Mick had been expecting. And that made him suspect that Freddy Merryweather was a true psychopath—his brain was hot-wired differently from the run-of-the-mill killer who picks up a knife and murders someone in the heat of passion.

  As if to prove that very point, Freddy’s expression underwent yet another dramatic change. “You s-stay away f-from Lettitia,” he hissed, his gray eyes animated with a dark malevolence.

  One side of Mick’s mouth quirked upward in an amused smile. “You threatening me?”

  The little twerp sullenly glanced away, not man enough to stay the course.

  “Word of warning, Freddy… See that you don’t.”

  Having squeezed everything out of Freddy Merryweather that he could, at least for the time being, Mick departed from the butterfly room.

  He now had three prime suspects—any one of whom could be the Ripper—and less than two days to catch him.

  * * *

  Lettitia worriedly gnawed on her lower lip.

  Moments ago, she’d overheard the butler inform the housekeeper that the police commissioner, Sir Charles Warren, was due to arrive at Stag House later that afternoon. Although she’d been en route to the library to retrieve a book, she immediately changed course; Mick needed to be apprised of this latest development.

  Hoping she might find him in his bed chamber, Lettitia headed toward the main staircase.

  To her great dismay, she and Mick had not seen one another since last evening’s supper. Moreover, because of the cursed seating arrangement, they’d been unable to speak during the whole of that gluttonous feast. Later that night, when she’d tiptoed to his room, he’d been unaccountably absent. Crestfallen, she’d then hoped to see him at breakfast, only to have been informed by a footman that Mick had already broken his fast.

  Small wonder that she despised her father’s mausoleum of a house; it was nearly impossible to find anyone other than by prearranged meeting.

  Skirts in hand, Lettitia charged up the staircase. While she was not usually given to such unladylike displays, she was in too much of a hurry to bother with decorum. She and Mick had less than two days left. That they were spending the time apart from one another pained her greatly.

  At the top of the steps, Lettitia made a sharp turn to the right, managing to collide into the very man she sought.

  Mick caught her by the shoulders. “Whoa. Slow down.”

  “I have need of you,” she unceremoniously blurted.

  “Like I told you the other night, I’m yours,” he said, leaning over to kiss her on the lips. “And it’s good to see you, too.”

  Flustered, Lettitia pulled out of his embrace. Somewhat anxiously, she peered over her shoulder, verifying that his affectionate display hadn’t been witnessed by anyone.

  “I meant that I need to speak to you,” she clarified, folding her hands in front of her waist. “I have something very important to tell you.” In the very next instant, suddenly recalling one other item that she wished to discuss with him, she corrected herself and said, “Actually, I have two matters to take up with you.”

  “Does one of them include chewing me out for picking a fight with Lord Wortham?”

  “Make that three items. Thank you for reminding me,” she said with a polite nod, having momentarily forgotten about yesterday’s unfortunate incident.

  “Yeah, I figured that as soon as you caught up to me, you’d want to read me the riot act. You seemed none too pleased that Wortham and I were going at it like a couple of Roman gladiators.”

  “You are quite correct. I was far from pleased. In fact, I was greatly disappointed in your behavior. I had thought better of you.”

  “In case you forgot, I wasn’t the only one with a foil in my hand,” Mick argued in his defense.

  “Yes, but you are the better man.” Embarrassed that she’d revealed more than she intended, Lettitia abruptly changed the subject and said, “I have just learned that Sir Charles is due to arrive at Stag House within the next few hours.”

  To her surprise, Mick seemed undaunted by the announcement that the police commissioner would soon be in their midst.

  “Sounds like the chickens have come home to roost.”

  “And that is a good thing, I take it?”

  “Absolutely,” Mick confirmed with a nod. “It means we’ll have all the principal players under one roof.” Rather gleefully, he rubbed his hands together. “And that means we should be able to get to the bottom of this case by day’s end.”

  “Which brings up the second matter that I wish to discuss with you.” Lettitia straightened her shoulders and looked him squarely in the eye. “Since our arrival at Stag House, you seem to have forgotten that we are equal partners in this investigation.”

  “I haven’t forgotten. It’s just that…” He paused, becoming uncharacteristically reticent. “Our relationship changed the other night and, um, murder investigations can get kinda dangerous, you know? I just thought it would be better if… if you weren’t as actively involved as you had been.”<
br />
  “While I am touched by your tender regard, I have amply proven that I can handle a dangerous situation,” she was quick to inform him, “the incident with the nefarious Bill Sweeney being a perfect case in point.”

  Mick smiled broadly. “And you were none too shabby with the nefarious kung fu twins at The Golden Dragon.”

  “Ah hah!” Lettitia exclaimed triumphantly. “Even you cannot deny that I stood you in good stead that day.”

  Exhaling a deep breath, Mick took her right hand in his, entwining their fingers together. With his free hand, he brushed a tendril of hair from her cheek. “I’m not denying that you haven’t been a big help. And I’m not denying that you haven’t saved my sorry hide a time or two. What I’m saying is that I’m very close to discovering who killed Emmaline. And that also means that I’m very close to uncovering the true identity of Jack the Ripper. As brave and valiant as you are, Tisha, even you are no match for this guy. The Ripper isn’t your run-of-the-mill murderer. He’s a psychopathic serial killer. A killing machine who doesn’t feel any remorse or pity or guilt.”

  Her eyes brimmed with tears, terrified to think that Mick would attempt to slay the bloodthirsty dragon all by himself. While she didn’t believe that her father or Lord Wortham had killed Emmaline, the worrisome fact remained that, whoever the Ripper was, Mick was determined to do battle with him.

  Embarrassed by her teary-eyed reaction, Lettitia turned her head. Now was not the time to show any weakness. Pulling her hand free from his grasp, she hastily wiped at an errant tear, claiming as she did that she had a lash caught in her eye.

  “For all the reasons just cited, I am more convinced than ever that you need my help,” she said, once she’d regained her composure. “Please, Mick. Let me assist you with the investigation.”

  He vehemently shook his head. “Uh-uh. Nothing doing.”

  Rather than argue the point, she decided to come at the bulkhead from another direction. “I take it that you still haven’t spoken to my father.”