“You lie like a Wadsworth.”
My smile remained frozen in place. I did not think her sour mood was entirely due to the unpleasant news of a mutilated corpse. I had no doubt she’d been informed of yesterday’s events, and dread filled me. First Miss Whitehall, now Grandmama. If Thomas’s family arrived next, I might turn to religion after all.
While she inspected me from crown to toe, I subtly did the same. Her silks were deep turquoise with silver stitching, the details of the design reminding me of fabrics from her native India. Diamonds sparkled at her wrists, ears, and neck in the light. She’d dressed impeccably, as always. I let out a silent prayer of thanks for choosing my own dress with care. While I’d felt like donning a burlap sack to match the new bags under my eyes, I’d ultimately gone with a daring French-inspired design from Dogwood Lane Boutique.
It was deep scarlet edged with delicate gold lace, the colors bringing out the green in my eyes and the blackness of my hair. I’d slipped on one of the extravagant—yet functional—pairs of shoes Thomas had had made: black with gold flowers and vines embroidered on them, the toes peeking out in their own dazzling way.
If I were destined to be jilted, I’d look my best in the process. It was petty, especially since this situation was not entirely her fault, but imagining Miss Whitehall seeing me dressed like a goddess of the underworld offered a twinge of satisfaction I desperately needed.
Grandmama continued scanning me, her expression impossible to decipher. I straightened under her scrutiny, hoping I appeared less nervous than I was. Her gaze was watchful and sharp like a hawk’s. And I was done feeling like prey.
“How was your trip?” I asked sweetly. “It’s been a while since you’ve returned to India.”
She motioned with a gnarled hand to come closer, as if she hadn’t already inspected me within an inch of my life. Arthritis had plagued her for years and now seemed to pain her greatly. After each movement, I noticed a flash of a wince.
“You look as if you’ve been sent to chop onions as a punishment. Your eyes are too red.” She grabbed my collar, tugging me close enough to sniff dramatically. “You smell like lemon verbena. And sorrow.”
“I drank a cup of tea in my rooms,” I lied. “It scalded me.”
We stared at each other a moment, her brown eyes rich as mocha. I caught a whiff of the peppermint candies she was fond of sucking on, the scent bringing me straight back to my childhood. Looking into her lined, light brown face, it seemed a lifetime ago.
“How did you sleep?” Liza asked cheerfully, trying to shift the subject. I dared a glance around the room. Aunt Amelia had the social graces to stare into her cup of tea, pretending nothing was amiss and a wedding hadn’t been ruined and my grandmother wasn’t interrogating me. In this moment, I felt like hugging her. “Would you like me to make some of that herbal tea you like?”
“No, thank you.” I smiled wanly. “I’d like some gingerroot. My stomach is a bit queasy this morning.”
Liza’s gaze dropped to my stomach, as if she might locate the cause of my ailment through careful analysis. My suspicions regarding her herbal blend had been correct. I was heartbroken, not with child. Aunt Amelia clucked, swatting at her daughter’s hand. “How’s your mending coming along? I’d like to visit the orphanage this morning.”
“Honestly, Mother?” Liza asked, exasperated. “Are we going to carry on as if nothing upsetting happened yesterday? Audrey Rose needs our support.”
I poured myself some tea and added a scone from the sideboard to my plate, slathering it generously with clotted cream and raspberry preserves before joining them at the table. I wasn’t sure what it was about them, but sweets always seemed to go down easily, no matter how much one’s heart ached.
“Actually,” I said, between bites, garnering a swift look of reproach from both my aunt and my grandmother, “I’d much prefer to pretend nothing happened.” I glanced around the room, relieved it was only the four of us. “Where is everyone?”
I silently hoped Miss Whitehall had had a change of heart during the night and withdrawn her end of the betrothal. Perhaps Thomas, Daciana, and Ileana had been kind enough to send her and her trunks back to England. Alone.
“Your father had business to tend to; Jonathan is in the study—throwing books around if the noise is any indication.” My aunt pressed her lips together; clearly she disapproved of such antics. Father’s business was likely an excuse to be free from Grandmama’s scowl. She didn’t care for the Wadsworth side of the family, and not much had softened her over the years. Honestly, I never understood why she’d disliked my father. It certainly wasn’t because he was English. She’d married an Englishman herself, after all. “Thomas and his sister, as well as Ileana, left in a coach this morning. They only said they’d return this afternoon.”
I considered the odd combination of relief and disappointment I felt. It was maddening how I could experience both in equal measure. A treacherous thought elbowed its way into my mind. I wondered if they had gone to call upon Miss Whitehall. Then I wondered where she’d gone after the chaos she’d unleashed.
Truthfully, I hadn’t paid attention to anything other than remembering to breathe. I imagined like in most cases of trauma, once the initial shock wore off, I’d need to face plenty of unpleasant questions. A few snuck through the barriers I’d erected, bringing with them a sudden renewal of fear. Was Thomas trying to dissuade her from their betrothal? Or had he decided to do as his father bid? It felt as if the walls were sliding closer together. My head swam with worry.
I concentrated on breathing, though it did little to slow the rapid pounding of my pulse. I knew my family was pretending not to notice, and that only made me feel worse. If I could not act decently in front of them, I shuddered to think how I’d be around Thomas.
I pushed a piece of scone around the clotted cream.
“Stop frowning,” Grandmama scolded. “You won’t accomplish anything but wrinkles.”
My aunt harrumphed in agreement and I almost rolled my eyes. It was shaping up to be a tremendously long day and it wasn’t much past nine. Perhaps escaping upstairs to mend socks would be fun after all. I sipped my tea, focusing on the spicy flavor of ginger.
At least Grandmama managed to distract me from my growing internal hysteria. I could feel her probing stare and pretended not to notice. We hadn’t seen each other in a few years and—just as I know I haunted my father—I probably reminded her too much of my mother. The older I got, the more I bore a striking resemblance to her.
“Who is this boy who’s betrothed to another?” she finally asked.
I set my cup down, the porcelain clinking in the sudden quiet. “His name is Thomas Cresswell,” I said primly. It was best to answer with as little detail as possible.
Grandmama struck her fork against the teapot, the clanging loud enough that my aunt jolted in her seat. “I asked who he is, not what his name is. Do not toy with me, girl.”
I followed her gaze as it landed on my cane. Without really thinking of the symbolism, I’d grabbed the dragon’s-head knob today. I flicked my attention up to hers. Grandmama truly missed nothing. Thomas had some competition in the deduction area. I couldn’t decide if it would be interesting or downright terrifying when they finally interacted.
I looked at my aunt and cousin, both of whom were politely sipping from their cups, appearing to have intensely taken up the art of tea-leaf reading. Though I knew they were listening with keen interest. Thomas’s lineage was his story to tell. He’d been careful with what people in London knew, and I didn’t wish to be the one who divulged his secret. I still had much to learn about his family. My aunt meant no malice, but she enjoyed chatting with acquaintances over tea. I did not want her to inadvertently make Thomas the center of more gossip.
“Well?” Grandmama pressed. “Will you tell me who he is before I go to my grave?”
“He’s the son of a duke.”
Her eyes narrowed. Though she’d fallen in love with an Engli
shman with a title of his own, she did not care for the English or their peerage. She never let anyone forget that the English—most of them, anyway—were nothing but colonizers who wished to obliterate cultures instead of enrich their own by learning the ways of others. She spoke the truth freely, which made others uncomfortable. Confronting demons was never a pleasant task, especially when they were your own.
“Duke?” she echoed, lip curling.
“The Duke of Portland,” I said, purposely misunderstanding her meaning. “He’s quite a formidable man, from what I’ve heard.”
“I imagine that’s true, considering how loathsome he must be, ruining his heir’s happiness. What sort of devious person arranges a betrothal of such a dubious nature?” She shook her head. “It’s for the best you didn’t marry into that household. They’d be the sort who’d steal the silver and peddle it off to the gambling halls. Think of all the pounds you’ll save not having to replace the silver.”
I sighed, staring longingly at my scone. The raspberry preserves now looked as if I’d dragged the bloody remains of my heart across my plate. I pushed my breakfast away. It was one more casualty of the last twenty-four hours. “How was India?”
“Would that Her Majesty, the imperial empress and giant donkey’s ass, decided to stay out of our affairs, it might have been well.”
Aunt Amelia subtly crossed herself. Speaking ill of the queen was treasonous, but I had to agree with my grandmother on this point. Invading another country, warring with its people, and then forcing them to adopt your ways was the epitome of barbarous. A term often thrown around regarding the innocent people who’d been conquered by the true barbarians. My grandmother loved my grandfather wholly, but that did not mean she ever forgot who she was or where she hailed from. I believe he’d loved her all the more for her conviction.
“I’ve heard—” I snapped my mouth shut as Uncle banged the door open, spectacles askew. I recognized his look immediately. Either a new body lay waiting for our scalpels to explore, or there was a new development in our Ripper-like case.
“I need to speak with you.” He jabbed a finger in my direction. “At once!” he barked when I hadn’t moved instantly. As if noticing the other women in the breakfast room, he nodded, his attention pausing on my grandmother. “Good morning, Lady Everleigh. I trust you’re well?”
“Hmmmph,” she grunted, not bothering to elaborate. “Mind your manners, Jonathan. They’re abysmal.”
“Yes, well.” Uncle turned on his heel, letting the door shut behind him. As if my life hadn’t already reached a crescendo in turmoil, things were boiling over everywhere I turned.
I bid my grandmother good-bye and hurried after Uncle, my cane clicking in time with my heart. The day had only just begun, and I already wished for the comfort of my bed.
“That bloody fool arrested a man.” Uncle slammed the newspaper down on the large writing desk in Grandmama’s library. “Apparently, Frenchy Number One was the unfortunate pick.”
EXTRA.
Frenchy No. 1
————
Is He the Man Who Murdered
Carrie Brown in the
East River Hotel?
————
Arrested Last Friday and at
Police Headquarters
Ever Since.
————
Blood-Stains on His Hands and
Clothes and in His
Room.
————
I scanned the Evening World newspaper article, shaking my head. “They mention blood being found on his doorknob, but that isn’t true.”
I thought back to the crime scene. The papers alleged that the man who’d been arrested, a Mr. Ameer Bin Ali, had rented the room across from Miss Brown, and they’d found bloodstains on the interior and exterior of his door. The only blood I recalled outside of the victim’s room had been droplets found in the corridor, leading very much away from the crime scene and the supposed killer’s own door.
“Did they inquire about his profession?” I asked, remembering the butchers’ row located not far from the hotel. “For all they know, it might be animal blood. If there was in fact blood present.”
Uncle twisted his mustache, attention focused inward. After another moment of inner debate, he slid an envelope over. “This arrived from London. It’s late in finding me, as it traveled to Romania first before getting forwarded here in New York.”
A plain, otherwise unremarkable envelope with a large red CONFIDENTIAL stamped across it indicated its importance. I flicked my attention to Uncle and he motioned for me to open it. Inside was a postmortem report signed by a Dr. Matthew Brownfield. I read it quickly.
Blood was oozing from the nostrils, and there was a slight abrasion on the right side of the face.… On the neck there was a mark which had evidently been caused by a cord drawn tightly round the neck, from the spine to the left ear. Such a mark would be made by a four thread cord. There were also impressions of the thumbs and middle and index fingers of some person plainly visible on each side of the neck. There were no injuries to the arms or legs. The brain was gorged with an almost black fluid blood. The stomach was full of meat and potatoes, which had only recently been eaten. Death was due to strangulation. Deceased could not have done it herself. The marks on her neck were probably caused by her trying to pull the cord off. He thought the murderer must have stood at the left rear of the woman, and, having the ends of the cord round his hands, thrown it round her throat, crossed his hands, and thus strangled her. If it had been done in this way, it would account for the mark not going completely round the neck.
I knit my brows together. “If this was prepared by Dr. Brownfield, why does he refer to ‘he’ in the text?”
Uncle tapped the section I’d inquired after. “Dr. Harris, his assistant, examined the scene. Dr. Brownfield wrote the report after.” He shifted his finger, pointing out the date of the attack. “The twentieth of December.”
Thomas and I had still been in Romania attending school, and Uncle had likely been getting ready to come fetch us. Which explained why he hadn’t attended the scene or known about it.
“This is all unfortunate,” I said slowly, glancing over the report once more, “but I’m afraid I don’t understand. Why did Scotland Yard send this to you with such urgency?”
“Blackburn sent this.” Uncle turned his attention on me, his expression dour. Blackburn was the young detective inspector who’d worked on the Ripper case with us. He’d tried to court me as part of a secret agreement with my father, which did not end well for Detective Inspector Blackburn when I’d discovered their plan. “The victim was a prostitute by the name of Rose Mylett. Known as Drunken Lizzie by some. She was murdered not far from Hanbury Street, her limbs positioned in a way as to remind the police sergeant who’d found her of the Ripper.” My blood chilled. “He also felt her strangulation, though hard to detect with the naked eye, was quite reminiscent of Miss Chapman’s injuries.”
I circled the desk until I came upon the chair and slumped into it with all the grace of a sack of potatoes. “If Jack the Ripper was in London on the twentieth of December, that means he very well could have been on the Etruria on the first of January. With us.”
It also meant my brother could not have committed that crime.
Uncle nodded slowly. “It does not escape my notice that this victim was named Rose. I hope it wasn’t meant as a warning, but we will tread most carefully in the days and weeks to come.”
I met Uncle’s eyes. For a brief moment he appeared almost as frightened as my father once looked. It quickly passed. Ignoring chills that dragged spindly fingers down my flesh, I turned my attention back on the report. It was yet more proof that Jack the Ripper lived.
Perhaps some monsters were immortal after all.
Roses, Robert “Variae”
TWENTY-THREE
WHAT’S IN A NAME?
GRANDMAMA’S SITTING ROOM
FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK CITY
7 FEBRUARY 1889
I felt silly loitering in the corridor outside my grandmother’s private sitting room, but I couldn’t quite bring myself to cross the threshold. I stared at the door, pulse racing as I lifted my hand to knock, pausing just before I made contact with the carved wood. Again. Which was so foolish I could have screamed. I wasn’t afraid of my grandmother. I’d missed her terribly. However, I was unsure that I could withstand more questions about Thomas or the wedding.
Knowing Grandmama, I was certain she wasn’t satisfied by my lack of exposition on the matter and would demand to know each painful detail. I released a breath. There was no escaping this conversation, so I ought to face it straight on. At least Thomas was still out; it would make it easier, knowing he wasn’t lurking too close. I shook myself out of my hesitation and lightly rapped my knuckles against the door. Best to strike quickly before I lost my nerve.
“Come in, Audrey Rose Aadhira.”
I pushed the door open and was immediately struck by the colorful palette Grandmama had chosen for this room. Turquoise and fuchsia, sparkling greens and rich yellows. All edged in gold, all utterly decadent yet still inviting. From the finely woven rug to the shimmering wallpaper and tapestries, it was like stepping into a vivid dream.
A silver tea set released a pleasantly spicy aroma into the air. It was also beautiful—intricate swirls resembling vines and coriander leaves decorated the entire set of the teapot, creamer, and sugar bowl. Something she’d brought from India, no doubt. She watched me in that appraising way that said she’d missed nothing. Warmth entered her features.
“It’s yours, if you want it.” She motioned to the tea set. “I didn’t get a gift for your wedding. Though I also didn’t receive an invitation.”
She puckered her mouth as if she’d sucked on a lemon, and I couldn’t help but laugh. I nearly dropped my cane in my haste to throw my arms around her, breathing in her comforting scent. This time, without an audience, she embraced me affectionately. It felt good to hold her; too many years had passed. I knew it was hard for her—between her dislike of my father and the loss of my mother, she never stayed in England for long. Grandfather had passed on a few years before my mother had, and I could only imagine how deep her own pain went. I nestled beside her on her settee, which was covered in a rather gorgeous peacock fabric.
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