A Love For All Time

by Chloe Douglas

  “I will not make light of the situation and say otherwise.” Although a difficult concession, it was nonetheless a truthful one. “But while it may be difficult to leave these familiar environs, I would rather live in your world with you than live out the rest of my days without the benefit of your love.”

  “I promise, Tisha, that I’ll make it worth your while.” Mick’s earnest expression, so utterly sincere, tugged at her heart strings. “And I’ll be a good husband. I’ll cut back on the hours at work. I’ll make more time for—”

  Lettitia placed a gloved hand over his lips, silencing Mick’s litany in mid-stream. “Pray do not change too much, sir. I shall scarcely recognize you if you do.”

  Mick removed her hand from his mouth and gently clasped it. “A little bit of change never did a man any harm. Probably do me a lot of good. Although I’ve gotta tell you that just being with you makes me feel like a new man. It’s like I’ve got a new lease on life. Like I can finally put the past behind me.”

  His confession touched her deeply. In truth, she was awed to think their love had the power to bring about such inspired renewal.

  “I, too, have undergone a change,” she confessed. “What with Emmaline’s death, and now this horrible business with Freddy, I would have surely fallen into the deepest despair if I’d not had your love to buoy me.” Sadly, she thought of her mother, forced into a miserable marriage with a man whom she did not love. Lettitia was acutely aware that would have been her lot in life had she not met Mick Giovanni.

  “For both our sakes, I’m glad that I came along when I did.”

  “I beg your pardon. If my memory serves correctly, you did not ‘come along’ willingly at all. Moreover, because of your pig-headed obstinacy, I had to resort to an outright subterfuge in order to get you through the time portal,” she teased, amused by his faulty recollection of events. “At the time, you were none too pleased with me.”

  “Hey, water under the time portal. All that matters is that I’m tickled to death now. Which, given recent events, probably isn’t the best choice of words,” he said with a slight grimace. “What I meant to say is that I can’t wait to take you with me to the twenty-first century. You’re gonna love it. Modern conveniences aside, you’ll be able to think and speak your own mind. Do what you want when you want. And if you like, you can go to college and get a degree in any subject that interests you.”

  Flabbergasted, Lettitia’s breath caught in her throat. “Are you serious? Of course, you are,” she said somewhat giddily, answering her own question. “Other than the favor of your love, you could not bestow upon me a more wonderful gift. Attending a women’s college is something that I have always yearned to do.”

  Mick chortled, clearly amused with her unbridled enthusiasm. “Did I mention that in the twenty-first century most colleges are co-ed?” When she raised a quizzical brow, he obligingly elaborated. “You know, co-educational. As in men and women attending classes together.”

  “Good heavens! How thoroughly… modern.”

  Still holding her hand in his, Mick pulled her over to his side of the carriage. “You know, I’ve got a funny feeling that the next forty or fifty years are going to be a blast,” he said as he slung a congenial arm around her shoulders.

  “Is ‘a blast’ a good thing?”

  “Oh, yeah,” he said huskily just before his lips lay claim to hers.

  The purity of emotion contained within Mick’s kiss was a tender bounty. A balm that healed all of the old wounds and soothed all of the old pain.

  Wrapping her arms around his neck, Lettitia opened her mouth to him. As their two tongues mated, she thought of those forty or fifty years that Mick had mentioned, glad-hearted to think they had a lifetime ahead of them. A lifetime of hopes and dreams to share with one another.

  Slowly, taking joy in the moment, she suckled on Mick’s bottom lip, and his low guttural moan filled her heart with womanly pleasure. Needing to touch him, to feel his strength, she slipped a hand under his frock coat and caressed the muscled plane of his chest.

  Holding her face between his two bare hands, Mick moved his lips back and forth across hers, the kiss becoming more ardent. Certain that she’d never tire of his kisses, Lettitia matched his passion, kissing him with all the abandon of a woman who had lost love—then, suddenly and unexpectedly, had it returned to her.

  So mesmerized was she by the power of that searing kiss, it came as something of a surprise when the carriage suddenly slowed, signaling their approach into London. Reluctantly, they pulled apart. Lettitia laughed self-consciously as she straightened the brim on her hat.

  “I, for one, am looking forward to forty or fifty years of such kisses,” she said flirtatiously as she settled herself on the other side of the carriage.

  “Yeah, but are you still going to want to climb in between the sheets with me when I’m old and gray?” Mick challenged.

  Lettitia blushed, knowing full well to what activity he referred. “You are already gray, which has not deterred me from being intimate with you. And in the most unorthodox of places, I might add.”

  “The billiard room was a first.”

  “Indeed.” So, too, the carriage and the oast house, although she declined to mention them lest they have a repeat performance of the former.

  As the carriage made its way through nighttime London, Lettitia was surprised by all of the animated activity on the street. The lane on which they traveled was crowded in both directions, creating a wheeled ebb and flow. Even on the pathway that lined the road, there seemed to be a flurry of pedestrian movement. In fact, the traffic was so thick that their carriage soon came to a complete stop.

  In the distance, Lettitia heard the shrill blast of a constable’s whistle.

  “Given the level of commotion, one would think the Queen had died,” she murmured, bewildered by the congestion.

  No sooner were the words out of her mouth than a newsboy’s strident voice rang out across the heavily trafficked thoroughfare. “Murder most foul! The Ripper strikes again!”

  Hearing that, their gazes instantly collided across the dimly lit carriage.

  “Dear God.”

  “Shit.”

  Although the utterances differed significantly, their simultaneous exclamations contained the same note of stunned disbelief.

  Mick flung open the carriage door. “Hey, newsboy! Over here.”

  A tattered-clothed boy, with a torch in one hand and a stack of late-edition newspapers under his arm, ran over to their vehicle. Mick rummaged through his trouser pocket, found a halfpenny, and paid the boy for a paper. Closing the door, he sat beside her, and both of them leaned toward the meager beam of lamplight cast by the carriage’s exterior lantern as they read the front page of the Pall Mall Gazette.

  Lettitia quickly scanned the lead article: Once more terror strikes in the heart of London’s Whitechapel district. The ruthless murderer known only by the alias Jack the Ripper has killed another unfortunate, a young woman identified as Mary Jane Kelly.

  “Oh, no, not Mary,” she murmured, jamming a balled fist to her mouth to stifle a grief-stricken sob.

  Forcing herself to continue, she felt her heart slam against her chest as she read the next sentence: The slain body was found earlier this evening in a flat on Miller’s Court.

  “Th-that’s where Emmaline lived,” she sputtered, horrified to think that she and Mick had been at that very address only a few days ago.

  “Not only did I miss an important clue, but I was looking at the wrong suspect pool.” Slowly shaking his head, Mick said, “Given the timing of Mary Kelly’s murder, it’s obvious that Freddy isn’t the Ripper.”

  “And neither is my father nor Lord Wortham,” she said quietly, stupefied as to the killer’s identity.

  “In order to find out who killed Emmaline, I need to get to the crime scene while the evidence is still fresh.”

  “You can’t,” she protested, grabbing Mick’s arm. “It’s far too dangerous.”
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  He smoothed his fingers over her cheek, the gesture, no doubt, intended to reassure her. “Hey, you forget that I’m a homicide detective. If I can get there before the evidence is compromised, I might be able to help the London Police nab the killer.” Wrapping his hand around the nape of her neck, Mick tenderly kissed her. “Babu can drive you to your uncle’s townhouse. We’ll meet there later, okay?”

  Trying to maintain a brave front, she wordlessly nodded. Investigating and solving murders was Mick’s chosen profession. She must learn to accept the fact that he would forever be charging into dangerous situations.

  With another quick kiss, Mick was gone.

  With her heart in her throat, Lettitia watched as he dashed down the lane, soon disappearing into the frenzied crowd.

  Settling herself against the seat cushions, she drew a woolen blanket over her legs to ward off the November chill that had settled in the air. As the carriage made its way through the congested streets, she silently repeated the same litany, over and over, Dear Lord, please keep him safe.

  Twenty minutes later, the carriage stopped at the curb in front of her uncle’s Knightsbridge residence. Before she could open the door, a fashionably dressed gentleman ran forward to assist her from the carriage.

  Smiling her thanks as the stranger opened the carriage door, she began to disembark only to gasp aloud in the next instant, having suddenly recognized the individual standing across from her.

  In utter disbelief, Lettitia stared at the knife blade that was pointed directly at her abdomen, still stained with what she instantly presumed was Mary Kelly’s blood.

  The fiend had fooled us all!

  Lettitia knew that the person now crouched beside the opened carriage door had killed Emmaline as well as the other five unfortunates. That person was none other than Jack the Ripper.

  Chapter 18

  In the next instant, Lettitia opened her mouth to scream.

  “Unless you wish to be cleaved in half, I suggest that you keep silent,” the monster calmly warned. The demonic gleam in the Ripper’s eyes attested to the fact that the threat would indeed be carried out. “I have need of you this night, and you would be wise not to arouse my anger.”

  To the casual observer, nothing in their encounter would seem amiss. The knife held to Lettitia’s stomach was hidden within the folds of her cloak. Flinching from the knife blade, she nodded, too terrified to speak.

  “Already you display a wisdom sorely lacking in most other women,” the Ripper said with a humorless smile. “Now if you would be so kind as to give your coachman this address, we can be on our way.”

  Lettitia took the slip of paper handed to her. The lantern hanging from the side of the carriage cast enough light for her to read the address.

  “I d-don’t understand,” she sputtered. “What purpose do you have in going here?”

  “My purpose is simple enough. The time has finally come for me to escape the dread existence to which I have been condemned.”

  The words sent an ominous chill down Lettitia’s spine. There was little doubt that the Ripper had planned some evil enterprise, the fiend’s blood lust not yet satiated.

  Wordlessly, Lettitia maneuvered herself onto the carriage step and told Babu the address, the coachman unaware of the macabre drama being played out between her and the well-dressed interloper.

  A few moments later, as she resettled herself in the landau, the Ripper took the seat opposite hers.

  As the carriage rambled through the stately streets of Knightsbridge, Lettitia experienced a fear unlike any she had ever known. Almost compulsively, her gaze kept darting to the bloodstained knife that her captor held with an almost negligent ease. She could not help but conjure in her mind’s eye the chillingly graphic crime scene photograph of Emmaline’s corpse, certain that would also be her fate before night’s end. Without a weapon at her disposal, she had little hope of defending herself against her hell-born adversary.

  No. I will not go like a lamb to the slaughter. More importantly, she would not surrender to her fear.

  If she could learn what motivated the fiend, perhaps she could somehow use that information to her advantage. While the Ripper was the one who wielded the knife, her captor was not invincible. The monster was still human. She had only to find the chink in her adversary’s armor.

  “What are you carrying in that Gladstone?” Lettitia inquired, jutting her chin at the ominous-looking bag that the Ripper had placed on the floor of the carriage.

  “Tools of the trade… mine and Mary Kelly’s,” the fiend cackled, clearly amused.

  “There was no reason for you to kill Mary. She was a good-hearted girl.”

  “She was a syphilis-ridden whore! Such women are unconcerned that they pass the disease onto honorable men. And when that happens, do you know how many innocent wives must suffer in silent shame because their husbands consorted with these degenerate Cypriots? Too many, I tell you. The whores of London are a pestilence. One that must be eradicated.”

  “I take it that you have you contracted the deadly disease,” Lettitia ventured. It would certainly explain the Ripper’s demonic madness. From her volunteer work at St. Ursula’s, Lettitia was familiar with the ravaging effects of syphilis upon the mind.

  “That is what I have always admired about you, Miss Merryweather,” the fiend replied. “You are possessed of an innate intelligence seldom seen in women of the indolent class.”

  “Emmaline was not syphilitic,” Lettitia argued, determined to uncover the reason why this monster had so savagely murdered her sister. “If, as you claim, you mean to rid London of these diseased women, there was no reason for you to kill her.”

  “You are quite right. Your sister did not carry the whore’s pox. But her friend and cohort Mary Kelly did.”

  “And for that Emmaline had to die?”

  “Your sister had no qualms about earning her living below the waist. For the price of a loaf of bread, she’d indulge any man’s base passions. Did she care what grievous injury she wrought with her whorish ways? Did she ever consider the innocent lives she affected? I tell you, she did not!”

  “While I abhor the thought that a woman would be forced to sell her—” Lettitia paused, searching for a seemly word—“her favors to earn her way in the world, that same woman would not earn so much as a farthing were it not for the men who willingly purchase her body. Those men are just as complicit in the sin, are they not?”

  “They are lured by the siren’s song,” the Ripper replied, absently thumbing the blood-stained knife.

  “No, they seek her out,” Lettitia exclaimed heatedly, unconcerned whether she caused insult. “Men are as much to blame in the spread of this deadly disease as the prostitutes they engage. Perhaps more so. For we both know that a man has the ability to protect himself from contracting the disease, thus safeguarding his innocent wife.”

  The Ripper leaned against the seat cushion and stared at her with a pitiless gaze. Lettitia could only guess at the dark ruminations that swirled through the killer’s mind.

  “Considering that I am the one holding the knife, you are inexplicably brazen.”

  Refusing to be cowed, Lettitia said, “Whether I am meek or bold-tongued, I doubt it will affect the outcome of this night. Better to meet one’s death with a stout heart.”

  “Anyone else in your position would be trying to placate rather than annoy me.”

  “Given your infamy, I am hard pressed to believe that you would spare me.”

  “What I will spare you from is a long and torturous death,” the Ripper hissed, menacingly jabbing the knife blade in her direction. “When the time comes, your death will be swift.”

  “Your mercy knows no bounds,” Lettitia retorted, not bothering to hide her sarcasm.

  “Silence! I grow weary of your prattle.”

  With that, a tense stillness ensued.

  Without moving so much as a muscle, Lettitia cast a furtive glance at the carriage window. In order to escape t
he Ripper’s blade, she had first to escape the carriage. While she did not relish the thought of flinging herself onto the cobbled pavement, thoughts of Mick and their deep love bolstered her resolve.

  Seeing the glow of sidelights from an oncoming carriage, Lettitia suddenly lurched toward the door, intent on escaping the landau and summoning help from the passing vehicle. Grabbing the latch, she turned it, swinging the door wide open. Heedless of the potential danger, she made a move to leap from the carriage.

  “Unhand me,” she screeched when her forward momentum was brought to an abrupt halt.

  To her horrified dismay, the Ripper had grabbed hold of her dress bustle and yanked her back. Hindered by her voluminous skirts, Lettitia stumbled backward onto the floor.

  Yanking the door closed, the Ripper hovered over her. The fiend’s facial muscles were contorted into a malevolent glower. “Treacherous bitch! I should run you through with my blade here and now.”

  “Then why don’t you?” Lettitia wailed, her vision blurred by tears. With the failed escape, her death knell had sounded. She’d lost her one chance to gain her freedom.

  “Because I have need of you. Now wipe your face,” the monster ordered, tossing a handkerchief at her. “We approach our destination.”

  As the carriage slowed, Lettitia did as ordered and dried her tears. Lifting herself onto the carriage seat, she hid her fear as best she could.

  In a parody of civility, the Ripper assisted her from the carriage.

  Walking side by side, they approached the designated townhouse. Lettitia surmised from the golden light that illuminated several windows that the home’s residents had not retired for the night.

  She braced herself and lifted the bronze knocker.

  When the door was opened a few moments later by a visibly surprised butler, she said, “We are here to see Madame Mazursky.” Upon feeling the bloodied knife prod her in the ribs, Lettitia added, “It is a matter of grave importance.”

  * * *

  “Sir Charles Warren sent me to assist with the crime scene investigation,” Mick told the uniformed constable. The lie rolled off his lips with surprising ease.