Trust Me

Stacia Kane

Chapter One

Whitechapel, London

3 September 1888

“So she was a prostitute?” John leaned back in his chair. He didn’t want to hire a prostitute again. There had been too many of them, too many women he’d trained and come to know a little, only to have them leave again – usually carrying a piece or two of his silver and a bottle of liquor – and head back out to the streets.

At the same time, given the news that was all over the district this morning . . . how could he turn the girl away?

“She says no, sir.” Mrs Langley smoothed her black skirts with her hands. “But I’m not certain she’s telling the truth.”

John nodded. He could easily find out. “Send her in.”

Mrs Langley bobbed a quick curtsey and left the room, returning a moment later with the girl in question.

At first glance John thought her nothing special. Wisps of dark hair peeked out from under a respectable brown bonnet; her pale face floated above the neckline of an equally dull dress ten years out of date. She was slim and looked clean, and that was all that mattered. It wasn’t until he looked again that he saw how pleasing were the angles of her face, how delightfully plump her lips. She was quite attractive, no matter how or why she chose to hide it.

“Sit down, Mrs Richards.” He indicated one of the deep leather chairs in front of his desk, hiding his awkwardness behind a smooth, calm manner. Mrs Langley did all of the hiring and firing of household staff for his home in Westminster, and John barely noticed the maids who washed his dirty linens or scrubbed his fireplace.

But this was different, just as the house here was different. His home and offices in Whitechapel served a different purpose from his Westminster home, and if he hired this woman in front of him, she would be spending time here with him in addition to whatever other duties Mrs Langley would give her. He needed a woman who knew the area, a woman who would teach him about it. Most of all, he needed a woman who could be discreet.

For this Mrs Richards certainly looked the part. He would know more when she spoke. The thought of having a screeching Whitechapel harpie bludgeoning the English tongue in close quarters with him on a daily basis made the hair at the back of his neck stand on end.

Mrs Richards sat, folding her hands neatly on her lap. There was something dignified about her that John liked. It boded well for her.

“Tell me about yourself,” he said. “Have you worked in service before? How did you come to be here today?”

Mrs Richards paused a half-beat before she spoke. There was vulnerability in that pause, and it made John oddly protective of her. When she finally did speak, her voice was low and soothing, with no trace of the horrible East End accent he’d so feared.

“My husband died, sir. Almost a year ago. I’ve been in service ever since.” She paused again before the words “in service”.

“What kind of service?” John leaned forwards. “With whom?”

“I did laundry for Mrs Grant on Varden Street. I cooked a little for Mr Bright on Cannon Street Road.” She looked right at him as she spoke, steady and unflinching. Where had this woman gained such dignity, working as a laundress and a cook? Or had she always had it, and the travails of such employment had not managed to erase it from her?

He was intrigued enough to want to find out. “Did you do any other types of work?”

Pause. “What other types of work?”

John signalled for Mrs Langley to leave them alone, waiting until the housekeeper had bustled out of the room before speaking again. “Did you work as a prostitute, Mrs Richards?” He stood and opened the heavy sideboard, removing a crystal decanter of sherry and pouring her a glass. “Go ahead, take it. You look parched.”

She smiled her thanks, but did not look particularly grateful. This was surely the oddest interview he’d ever had in his life. She seemed to be sizing him up, not the other way around. He liked that, though. He realized he liked her.

“If I had,” she said, “I don’t see why it should matter.”

“I suppose it shouldn’t. But I would like to know, just the same.”

She shrugged. “Does the timing of my arrival here seem like a coincidence?”

“You mean the murders?”

“Yes.” Two of them now. Martha Tabram and, only two nights before, Polly Nichols. Both of them viciously slashed . . . mutilated.

John sat down on the edge of his desk, close enough to her to look into her eyes. He realized as he did so that he’d been curious all this time as to their colour, and the discovery that they were green was quite satisfying. They were also large and steady, and now that he was closer to her he found she smelled faintly of lavender and rosewater. Her skin truly was perfect, as pale as milk, from her face down the slender column of her throat. He could see her pulse beating faintly there, betraying her outward calm.

“I assume many ladies are trying to get off the streets,” he said as non-committally as he could. “Perhaps even ladies who just arrived on them.”

“Perhaps that life was not to their tastes after all, sir,” Mrs Richards said.

“Perhaps they could earn more money doing the same job privately, and enjoy it more as well.”

The minute it came out of his mouth he regretted it. Was he mad? This woman had come here to be a secretary to him. Now he was actually propositioning her, and he couldn’t for the life of him understand why, except he wanted to know what made her tick. He wanted to know what sorts of emotions hid beneath that calm face . . . what sorts of passions beat in the heart beneath the gentle swell of her bosom.

She blinked, once. The first show of emotion he’d seen from her. “Perhaps they could.” Another delicate pause. “If the terms were right, and the employer agreeable.”

“Do you find me agreeable, Mrs Richards?” His voice sounded hoarse, echoing strangely in his head; his trousers were uncomfortably tight. This was certainly not the type of interview he’d planned to have, but he found, as the minutes stretched while he waited for her answer, that he desperately hoped she would say yes. The desire to break through that calm exterior and see what lay beneath was almost overwhelming.

She shrugged again, a tiny smile playing across her face. “You’re a handsome gentleman, sir. What woman wouldn’t find you agreeable?”

He couldn’t wait any longer. His hands gripped her shoulders, lifting her from her seat to press against him as he lowered his mouth to hers.

That first taste of her . . . it was like nothing he’d ever experienced before. Sherry and honey, and the pure sweetness of her mouth. Whatever she’d been doing for the last year, she still tasted like a virgin.

But she didn’t kiss like one. The tongue that met his was sensuous, soft, accepting. The arms that wound around his neck as he squeezed her tighter were passionate, willing. He groaned into her mouth and she echoed it, and he believed. She wasn’t putting on a show. Something was happening, some spark had caught fire between them, and he for one wasn’t going to question it. Especially not at that moment.

His hands travelled down, cupping the curve of her behind and pressing her against him. He dipped his head, kissing that delicate throat. Beneath his lips her blood raced like a hare’s. He had to fight to control himself.

Damn those heavy skirts! He wanted to feel her, really feel her, but it was impossible with so many layers of petticoats in the way. “Turn around,” he managed.

She paused. Her lips looked plump and bruised from their passion.

“Turn around.”

Her brow furrowed slightly – he could only imagine what she must be thinking, if she’d truly been on the streets – but she obeyed him. Both actions pleased him. She had her own mind, but acknowledged his dominance. He’d never met a woman who did both before, not like this, with her particular cool control.

He couldn’t wait to watch her lose it.

Gently he pulled the tie of her bonnet and removed it. The pins holding her tidy bun in place slipped out easily, releasing a soft mass of hair that caught the light from the candles and sent it back in sparks of deep blue. Black as night, black as a sinner’s soul, her hair. He longed to see it spread over her pale naked flesh.

Still standing behind her, he reached forwards and unfastened the long row of buttons down her front. More of her neck and shoulders were exposed with every one. So pale. So beautiful. He pressed his lips over the delicate ridge of a collarbone, over the smooth curve of her shoulder, and swept her heavy hair off to the other side.

He glanced up. Her expression was still composed, but her lips were parted. Above the confines of her corset her breasts rose and fell rapidly. She may be able to hide her feelings on her face, but her body did not lie. Neither did his. When had he last wanted a woman this badly, been this desperate to take one?

Not yet. Not until he managed to break that steely composure.

Gently he slid the gown off her shoulders and down, so the pale ivory of her corset was her only covering from the waist up, her drawers and petticoat from the waist down. The petticoat he untied and tugged out from under the corset, letting it pool at her feet, before finally taking down the scrupulously clean and almost invisibly mended drawers.

Her skin was cool under his palm as he caressed one round cheek, then the other. He leaned forwards, running his hands down her front and resting them on her thighs, his thumbs barely touching the curls covering her sex.

Her breath hitched, but he saw no other reaction.

Those curls parted under his questing fingers easily, smoothly. His nose tingled with the musky, erotic scent of her. She shuddered in his arms, but still did not speak. Did not turn to look at him, did not move her hips eagerly forwards. But her throat worked as he began teasing her, exploring her with his fingertips.

“Mrs Richards,” he whispered, letting his lips tickle her ear. Her pale flesh was turning pink, the colour spreading over her breasts and throat like a winter sunrise. “Do you find that agreeable?”

Finally she moved. She reached back and ran one hand smoothly over the front of his trousers. “Do you find that agreeable, Mr March?”

He couldn’t take it any more. With a growl that seemed to come from somewhere below his waist he swung her around to face him, then moved once again so he could prop her on the edge of his desk. Desire glowed in her heavy-lidded eyes.

And her body . . . her breasts spilled over the top of her corset, her hips swelled like a cherry beneath it. Her thighs were slim and pale, the place between them perfect.

His cock leaped in his trousers, reminding him he had other things to do, more important things than simply standing here and staring at her all day. She was so calm. Even now.

And not a prostitute’s calm. Not boredom. She wanted him, he knew it. The evidence stared him in the face and still coated his fingers. But she was hiding something, a part of herself, and John couldn’t help but admire her for that. He did the same.

But he was better at it. He would defeat her in this.

He thrust his fingers under the cups of her corset and scooped her breasts out of it, dipping his head first to one, then the other, and rolling her nipples in his mouth. She gasped. A tiny gasp, but a gasp just the same. Otherwise she stayed still, with one lock of silky black hair falling over her shoulder and into her cleavage.

What would it take? He kissed her, taking another long taste of her sweetness, and found he could not leave again. The kiss continued while he put his hand back to work between her legs. Another gasp.

If he didn’t get a real response, a vocal one, from her soon he would explode. “Tell me you want me,” he demanded, his own voice none too steady. “Tell me.”

She didn’t reply. He withdrew his hand, withdrew himself, and faced her as she perched on the edge of the desk with her small pert breasts free from her corset and her legs spread. She looked, flushed with heat, less like a plain but alluring woman and more like a demon sent to tempt him, to steal his soul. Her eyes shone with hidden secrets.

Furiously he removed his own clothing, letting her see his excitement. Baring himself the way he desperately wished she would bare her thoughts. Her eyes widened. She bit her lower lip as he stepped close to her once more, until her heat bathed him. Her hips moved, urging him to enter her. He had to force himself not to close his eyes.

“Tell me.”

Again she pressed her hips forwards. Her body begged him, but her lips made no sound, and it was her words he needed.

“Tell me!”

“Please . . . ” Her calves wrapped around his waist, her wool stockings slightly rough against his bottom. “Please.”

It was something. Not what he’d demanded, but something. Maybe she deserved a reward.

A reward for her or for him? Slowly, oh so slowly, he thrust into her. Her eyes fluttered closed, her head fell back.

He pulled out, all the way. Her eyes flew open. Her calves jerked, trying to force him back, but he held fast. “Tell me you want me. Say it!”

“Oh God . . . I want you!” The cool, sweet voice he’d heard earlier was rough, desperate. “I want you, I want you, oh please . . . ”

The litany of her capitulation was lost in the roaring in his ears as he drove into her, hard, and kept driving, slamming into her with a speed and ferocity he’d not felt in years. He dug his fingers into her hips, bent to nibble at her throat. Her body thrilled him almost as much as her submission.

She found his mouth, sucking his lips, biting them softly, as her arms stole around his neck and her legs urged him faster, deeper. “Mr March,” she gasped, her fingers tightening, gripping his shoulders almost painfully. “Do I have the job?”

“Yes, God yes!” Mrs Richards would have to stay.

Chapter Two

Whitechapel, London

5 September 1888

The pile of laundry sat on the floor in the hot, damp kitchen. Glancing around to make sure the cook and scullery maid were still outside, she started yanking clothes out of the pile. One white shirt after another, all limp and smelling of her employer.

Her employer . . . her lover. She hadn’t expected that to happen so quickly.

She hadn’t expected to enjoy it so much, either. From the moment he’d propositioned her during her interview, to the moment he took her on the desk in his office, they’d hardly kept their hands off each other. And when they weren’t together, she thought about him. Remembered him.

It scared her. If her suspicions were correct . . . she shook her head. What did it matter? If her suspicions were correct, it would be worth it. If they weren’t, it was worth it even more. John March was a truly talented man.

The shirts were clean. No spots of blood marred the white linen.

She hadn’t really expected there to be any, not really. Surely a man cunning enough to commit the murders – a man the press was now calling “Leather Apron” – wouldn’t put his bloodstained clothing in with the rest of his week’s washing, not when servants talked as much as they did. It had been worth a look, though.

She stood up, peering once more out the window. The heavy skirts of the two servants were still visible through the dusty glass. Good. Now if she could get into his bedroom without being seen, she could search there, too. John had spent the night at his other home in Westminster, and she had spent the night at her room on Leman Street. There hadn’t been much reason for her to be at the house if he wasn’t, and of course neither of them would dream of suggesting she accompany him to Westminster.

His bedroom was dark. She lit the candle that stood on the small shelf by the door, not wanting to open the curtains even though the sun was barely risen. Most fashionable homes were dark to keep the sun from fading the beautiful fabrics and expensive furnishings, but John went beyond the desire into something of a mania. Three sets of heavy red brocade curtains hung on all of the windows on the second floor, and woe betide any maid caught opening them while the sun still floated in the sky.

There was nothing in any of the drawers, either. No weapons, no small boxes filled with locks of hair or bits of cloth.

Sighing, she sunk to her knees by the bed and felt around on the dusty floor. She should really get the housemaid in here to clean. Shameful to let things get dirty like that.

Under the bed was even worse. She stuck her head and shoulders beneath it, wishing there was enough room for a candle.

“Euphemia?”

Oh, no. “John?” She was acutely aware of her skirted bottom poking up into the air, of how embarrassing a position this was to be caught in.

“My dear, what are you doing?”

Oh please let me think of a good lie. “I was lonely,” she said. “So I decided to come wait for you in here . . . but one of my hairpins fell out. I think it went under the bed.” She paused. Did he believe her? “You ought to speak to Mrs Langley. It’s very dusty under here.”

The amusement in his voice was at once a relief and a further humiliation. “We can’t have you getting dusty while you clamber around under my bed, can we?” His footsteps were quiet, but Euphemia felt them vibrate the wood floor just the same. She scooted out from under the bed, her feet hitting his legs in her haste, and straightened up, still on her knees but no longer bent over.

“Did you find it?” In the wavering light of the candle she’d set by the bed his eyes glittered. His skin looked almost eerily perfect, his handsome features slightly distorted. He was at once handsome and a little scary as he knelt on the floor just behind her. She had to crane her neck to look at him, but could not tear her eyes away.

“I’ll look later,” she said. “You’re here early today.”

“I’ve been here for an hour or so, in the office,” he said. “I didn’t see you there.”

“I was in the kitchen.” Her heart beat a little faster. Did he know what she’d been doing? Had he heard her opening drawers? He may even have stood and watched her doing it. She’d noticed he was incredibly silent when he wanted to be. “I was hungry.”

“Hmmm.” His hands found her waist and moved lower, stroking her hips through her heavy skirts. “I’m a little hungry myself.” He gently guided her back to her hands and knees before him.

Fear added an extra bit of spice to her excitement as his hands continued to roam, unbuttoning the long row of ivory buttons up the front of her gown, pulling the dress down off her shoulders to her waist. She waited for him to untie the strings on her plain brown corset and remove it, too, but he did not, instead he pushed the dress over her hips and tugged her drawers down. She felt the waistband slip out from under the bottom of her corset and the cool air that now caressed her exposed bottom.

Surely it was wrong to enjoy this so much. To know that her employer may well be evil, but to still crave the feel of his fingers on her skin, slipping between her legs to caress her soft wet flesh. To crave the moment when his fingers disappeared and were replaced by something even more satisfying.

It was shameful, and Euphemia Richards knew it. But that did not stop her from crying out her satisfaction when John started thrusting into her, sending shivers of pure delight through her body with every stroke. His fingers dug into her hips, urging her to push back against him, to match his rhythm.

Her head swam. He moved so slowly, so steadily, as if they had all the time in the world. She tried to push against him faster, to intensify the sensations that already made her body shake, but he would not comply.

“Only one of us is in charge here, my dear Euphemia,” he murmured. The words were almost enough to send her over the edge. Whatever this meant about her as a woman she did not want to analyse. All she needed to know was that he could control her with as much ease as he sipped his tea. A part of her she had never known was there responded to him like she had never responded to anyone else.

One hand left her hip, sliding down to touch her belly, to slip through the hair that covered her modesty and tease her most sensitive spot. She gasped and struggled to open her legs wider, but she could not.

The hard smack on her bottom caught her off guard, made her yelp in surprise.

“Only one of us is in charge,” he said again, more forcefully. At once he froze in place. “Perhaps you need to remind yourself who that is.”

She wiggled her hips, knowing what his reaction would be and shamefully craving it, too.

He smacked her again, harder this time. The imprint of his hand on her skin burned through her entire body.

“Who is in charge?”

She wanted to wait. For years her ability to stay calm, to stay controlled, had been her greatest charm. No silly giggling or ribald jokes for Euphemia Richards, née Euphemia Harte. She’d been born dignified, her mother once told her, and, as she grew up and realized she was too plain for such things anyway, she’d learned her composure attracted men as much as girlish simpering.

But something about John destroyed that placidity, as easily as a glass dropped onto a marble floor.

“You are,” she whimpered. “You’re in control.” Just saying the words had a physical effect.

“Good girl.”

His fingers found her again and he resumed his movements, thrusting into her hard and fast, his free hand bracing her hips in place.

It was enough. It was too much. Without warning or preparation her body clenched around him and burst apart, an explosion of pleasure so intense she was light-headed. She cried his name, her voice ragged and unfamiliar to her ears, and heard John join in her ecstasy, felt him jerk out of her to spill his seed on the candlewick bedspread beside him.

No man had ever made her feel like this, not her husband, certainly not any of the men she’d been with since becoming a widow and a sometime-prostitute in quick succession.

He lifted her gently, helped her onto the bed, and she lay there weak and shaking, wondering if it were possible to experience such pleasure and not actually die from it. And even worse, if it was possible to experience such pleasure at the hands of a monster, if one could fall in love with a man one could not trust.

Suddenly John spoke.

“Here it is.” He leaned over to pluck something from the floor by the bed, kissing her knee as he did so.

It was a hairpin. “It wasn’t under the bed at all.”

Euphemia smiled and took the little pin. “Thank you,” she said, but something cold and watchful had awakened in her breast. The hairpin, a cheap wire pin of the sort worn by local prostitutes, did not belong to her.

Chapter Three

Little Ilford Cemetery

6 September 1888

The setting sun cast long shadows as the women walked back to the road, leaving the grave of Polly Nichols behind them. On the dirt path the horses pulling the two mourning coaches made dull thumps, echoing the slow beat of Euphemia’s aching heart. She had not particularly liked Polly. Polly had not been her friend. But Polly had not deserved to die. Neither had any of the others.

“Any news, Euphemia?”

They’d been waiting to ask her this, Mary and Peggy and Caroline. All through the short service she’d felt their eyes on her. Now the other funeral attendees were barely out of earshot. Euphemia glanced around, hoping someone would be near so she did not have to speak. But she was unlucky. No one was there to overhear.

“I found something,” she said reluctantly, pulling the cheap hairpin from her pocket and handing it to Caroline. “But it was in the bedroom—”

“So he had a prostitute in his bedroom.” Mary snatched the pin away from Caroline and held it up to the sun, one eye closed. “You know, they think he might be killing some of them privately. In his home, I mean. And then bringing the bodies out. They say that might be why nobody’s seen him.” Her high-pitched voice never failed to get on Euphemia’s nerves, more so today. It was unholy, somehow, that bright, tinny chatter in the silence of the homes of the dead.

“Just because he might have had a prostitute in his room means nothing,” Euphemia said.

“It means he sees prostitutes,” Peggy replied. Her bushy eyebrows lifted, making her hooded, beady eyes appear a little bigger. She took the pin from Mary and repeated the latter’s actions, even sniffing it.

“Every man sees prostitutes, Peggy.” Why the casual judgment of her friends was so upsetting to Euphemia, she had no idea. Hadn’t she been just as certain that John was the killer? Hadn’t a cold rush of pure dread run through her body when she’d found the hairpin?

Since then she’d managed to find a thousand explanations for it. None of them convinced her. She had to admit there was still every possibility that John was the killer she sought, that the man whose hands made her tingle and shake, whose smile made her weaken, could be the same man who slit throats and eviscerated women she cared about.

“Every man may see prostitutes,” Peggy said. “But not every man has them in his home. Your John did. No lady of quality wears such things in her hair.” She said it as if she had intimate friends among the gentry. “So if he’s the kind of man who needs a woman for an entire night . . . well, he must be doing something special with them, mustn’t he? Something most men don’t do?”

The words sent a shiver of violent memory through Euphemia’s body. The things John did . . .

“If she doesn’t think he’s the killer, we should listen,” Caroline said. The other two rolled their eyes.

“We said we would all decide,” Peggy said. “That when someone was ruled out, it would be because we all agreed.”

The women were at the entrance to the cemetery now, ready to go their separate ways. “Do you have enough proof to convince us he’s not guilty?”

Euphemia shook her head.

“Have you been able to account for his whereabouts during any of the murders?”

Again, she shook her head. John had a habit of going out at night. She had no idea where he went. She didn’t always spend the night either, so she didn’t know what he did when she was not there. Loath as she was to admit it, both because of what it said about herself and what it said about him, she could not rule him out at all.

“In fact, this hairpin seems to prove he’s up to no good, doesn’t it?”

Sometimes she really hated Peggy. “I suppose so,” she mumbled.

Peggy sniffed. “Then get back there and do what you promised to do. Find us a killer, or prove he isn’t one.”

The three of them swept away, leaving her standing at the gate of the cemetery alone.

The Royal Alhambra was hot and crowded, just as it was every opera night. John paid his shilling to walk the promenade, past families – the women tired and clean-scrubbed, the men resigned to a late start at the public houses and dreaming of their first pint. He could smell the desperation of the women, the attempts to inject some happiness and semblance of respectability into their lives by doing something as mundane as attending the ballet.

Beyond the families, and in some cases intermingled with them, were the whores. Less of them than usual, since the murders had started, but still more than enough. Some people wondered why they didn’t just get off the streets. John knew why. They needed to eat. They needed their gin. There was no other way to escape the misery of their lives, their terrible huddled existences spent with their legs spread and their chests pressed against walls while men they did not know took them from behind.

It was a life he could not even imagine. The misery and pain, the struggle to survive. But John knew what it was like to hate yourself for what you must do to live. He’d long ago made peace with that part of his nature that required violence. He’d had to. It was that or kill himself, and somewhere in the darkness of the everlasting night, he’d realized there were too many good things in the world. Things he did not want to leave.

Through the crowd he spotted her. She could be his tonight. Her pale hair was gathered under a tattered bonnet, her blue dress clean enough under the gaslights.

She was not Euphemia. She was neither as lovely nor as dignified. But none of them were like Euphemia. One of these days he would tell her how special she was becoming to him. How important. Maybe then he could tell her what he was, what he did, and she would forgive him. Maybe she would join him.

He could only hope and think of her as he crossed the room to talk to the frail blonde, the music from the ballet making his pulse beat in time, a steady rhythm. Already the taste of her blood was in his mouth.

8 September 1888

Whitechapel, London

“Another murder.”

“Another murder.”

Everywhere Euphemia went the same words fell from everyone’s lips. Annie Chapman. Murdered. Eviscerated. Discarded like a tattered stocking not five feet from the back steps of a rooming house. What devil could have done this – and done it undiscovered? How had he disappeared so quickly, fading into the shadows of the night while steam still rose from the body?

The brows of the shopkeepers furrowed as she walked past. Women she knew eyed her with suspicion, and she knew why. John. He’d come to Whitechapel only weeks before – just before the death of Martha Tabram. Euphemia and her friends were not the only ones who suspected him. He kept to himself. He never went out during the day.

She had not seen him the night before. Mrs Langley had not seen him either, swore he’d not been in his bed when she’d arisen at five. But when Euphemia arrived at seven he was there, asleep.

Annie had died half an hour past five. Lizzie Long had seen her, about to earn her bed money with a dark man wearing a deerstalker hat.

John had a deerstalker hat.

Was this possible?

No. It couldn’t be. She knew John. It had only been a week since the day she’d walked into his house, but she knew him. The way he spoke to her, the things they talked about, the way he called responses from her body and soul she’d never thought herself capable of experiencing.

No. No man who encouraged her to speak her mind so freely, who held her so tenderly, could do such a thing to a woman, to any woman. The words ran through her mind, a pleading litany, as she entered the house and placed her purchase – three new pens – on John’s desk. She snuck into his bedchamber. On the shiny dark floor lay a pile of white linen in a graceful heap. The shirt he’d stripped off when he climbed into bed.

She picked it up. Even in the dim light the blood was evident. Just a few drops, dotting the collar. A smudge on the right sleeve.

She couldn’t breathe. It can’t be him, it can’t be him, it can’t be him . . . But how to explain this?

Calm down, Euphemia. Perhaps the barber cut him while shaving. Perhaps he pricked himself with a pin while affixing his collar. This isn’t a lot of blood, hardly any at all. Surely Leather Apron would have been covered in blood, bathed in it, if the tales she’d heard about the state of Annie’s remains were true.

“Euphemia? Are you well, dear?”

The shirt fell to the floor. “John!”

“Yes. At least, I am fairly certain it’s me.” He smiled. In the gloom she saw him look down at his bare chest, so beautifully cut with muscle and bone, a sculpture in white marble. “Is something the matter?”

“I – There’s been another murder.”

He didn’t move. Not a flicker of an eyelash, not a muscle. “Where?”

“Hanbury Street.”

“But that’s . . . ” He shook his head. “Come here.”

She did. It felt like treading through sewer slush. Was that terror making her blood pound, or something altogether more base? What was wrong with her? There could be blood on his hands, and yet she still wanted those hands on her body. He could be a cold-blooded murderer yet she still felt, as all silly women did when faced with such things, that it couldn’t possibly be him. Not this man, the one she’d started to think of as hers, the one she was falling in love with so rapidly it made her dizzy.

He pulled her onto the bed and tucked the covers over her, ignoring her protests about her shoes.

“I can’t imagine how this must hurt you,” he murmured into her ear. “I’m so sorry.” In the circle of his arms she could feel her heart pounding against her ribcage. Did he mean the murders, or her suspicions?

Surely he meant the murders. He couldn’t know why she was really here. “But that’s . . . what?”

“Hmm?” His lips tickled her throat.

“You started to say something. ‘But that’s . . . ’ You didn’t finish. What were you going to say?”

“That it’s terrible. I was going to say, ‘But that’s terrible.’”

She wasn’t sure she believed him. She wasn’t sure she trusted herself to believe him. But when his hand slid forwards to cup her shoulder, to gently encourage her to slide further under the covers to where his excitement awaited her attentions, she forgot everything.

Because she wanted to.

Whitechapel, London

17 September 1888

John adjusted his collar and headed out onto the chilly streets, with Euphemia’s hand tucked firmly into the crook of his arm. It would happen again soon, he knew it. He could feel it in the air. Time was running out.

He tried to ignore the looks on their faces as he passed. Members of the St Marylebone Female Protection Society, handing out their flyers, trying to use the crimes to get women off the streets. Members of the Mile End Vigilance Committee, trying to seem casual and looking at nothing but, watching them. Watching him. Suspecting him. They’d zeroed in on him faster than he’d expected; the residents may be poor and uneducated, but they were not stupid.

He hoped this little trip out might calm them, might let them see he was nothing more harmful than a gentleman of means, but it seemed to be backfiring. He appeared to be taunting them with his presence, flaunting his money as though it made him better than they. Unapproachable. Uncatchable.

Arrests had been made. The man everyone had suspected, whose nickname of “Leather Apron” had been given to the killer, had been caught and released. He had an alibi for the night of Annie Chapman’s murder, and for Polly Nichols’ as well. The killer was still out there, increasingly nicknamed “Jack” by a public desperate to put a name to evil. The similarity of that name to his own did not escape him.

The streets filled with edgy prostitutes and edgier men. Drinking both soothed and angered them, making them even more unstable than they already were.

In the middle of the night someone had thrown a brick through the front window of his home. John was starting to wonder if it wasn’t time to pull out. Let someone else take over.

But then he felt the warmth of Euphemia’s skin through his clothing, glanced to his side and saw her sweet profile. She felt it too, the glares of the crowd, but was as always unflappable. Breaking through her silent reserve thrilled him, and the thrill wasn’t getting old. Almost three weeks now he’d had her in his life, in his bed. The three best weeks he could remember.

Her body, so small and light and alive in his arms. Her voice, ragged with thrilling, ever-rising need. It had started as a curiosity, a desire. It was becoming a compulsion.

And more than that. He . . . liked her. He cared about her. The story of her life was all too common – shopkeeper’s daughter from the South-west, married, moved to London, left a widow. Never enough money. Never enough food or warm clothing. But through it all she had the dignity of a duchess.

Then he would make her laugh and suddenly she was a mischievous child, and he would laugh too. She made him feel young again. Carefree. Good about himself.

He knew she had her suspicions. He knew he would have to explain soon, to tell her what he did and why, and hope she would see what really lay beneath his actions here in Whitechapel. That she would be able to forgive him for not telling her.

For now, though . . .

“You look lost in thought,” she murmured, squeezing his arm.

“I am.”

“What about?”

He hesitated. “I was thinking about you.”

“Me?” She smiled, but it only took a second for that flicker of doubt to enter her eyes.

“About how lovely you look this evening.” He glanced around them. They were passing St Mary’s Church, and the pedestrian crowds were smaller. He thought he saw a few women behind them who looked familiar. Hadn’t he seen one of them every time he went out lately?

No matter. He leaned over and gently scraped Euphemia’s ear lobe with his teeth. “But how much lovelier you look without your clothes on.”

Even in the dim light cast by the moon he could see her blush. “John . . . ”

He kissed her again, on the lips this time, not caring who saw them. What difference did it make? Who cared about his social standing in Westminster, when this beautiful woman stood before him and bit her luscious lower lip, her eyes darkening with desire?

He’d have to leave London soon anyway.

“Who’s in charge, Euphemia?”

“You are.” No hesitation. Her hand slid a little on his arm, rubbing against his chest.

“Step into that alley.”

Her eyes flicked back towards the women – ah! – that explained it. But she obeyed. He could smell her desire already, warring with the faint touch of nervousness and fear in her eyes. She squared her small shoulders as she walked ahead of him.

Her entire body shook as he placed her back against the high stone wall of the building behind. “Are you cold?”

“No.” The word was barely a whisper.

“Euphemia . . . are you frightened?”

She shook her head. He knew it was a lie.

“Look at me.”

She did, her big eyes glittering with tears. His heart nearly broke. Not just because she doubted him, but because he hadn’t told her everything. He was falling in love with her, but still lying. Hiding.

“You’re in no danger, my dear.” He leaned forwards to kiss her, tasting her passion and worry, and the faint sweetness of her mouth. It intoxicated him, made him reckless. He wanted her, now. He’d meant to talk to her. It could wait.

He bent down, kissing her chest through the stiff fabric of her gown, kissing down her stomach, until he could lift her skirts up to her waist.

“John!”

“Hush.” He returned to standing and kissed her lips again, and again, catching her thighs in the crooks of his arms and lifting them. His lips travelled down her neck, over her pulse, over the delicate smoothness of her skin. Her fragrance filled his nose. He was lost. Lost in her body, in her hands fumbling at his trousers and opening them. Lost as he tore away her drawers. Lost as he drove himself into her.

A soft cry escaped her. He barely heard it over his own, just as he barely heard the gasps of passers-by as they saw the two of them, against the wall, with her legs wrapped around his waist and his hat fallen off onto the cold ground at his feet. He didn’t care, because inside she was all soft wet heat, gripping him, encouraging him to go harder, faster.

He didn’t. He slowed down. Her fingers dug into his back. Her hips pushed helplessly forwards, begging him for more.

He wanted to give her more. Wanted to give her everything, anything, as long as she promised they could do this again, do this for ever. Her curious mix of passion and restraint, her clever mind, the way she challenged him everywhere but in bed. She was everything he’d ever wanted.

She gripped the hair at his nape with her right hand, tugging gently. He sped his pace, harder and faster, until he couldn’t think or breathe or do anything but feel her around him. Her muscles contracted, hard, not on the wave but getting ready, and he was ready too.

“Come for me.” He pulled his head back to watch her, her mouth open, her eyes closed, but did not slow his movements inside her. “Come for me, Euphemia.”

“I . . . I . . . oh John!”

Her hips moved forwards as her back arched so violently he thought for a moment they would fall over. And then he didn’t care, because she was exploding, and so was he, and it was the closet thing to magic he’d ever felt in his life and it wasn’t until he managed to set her down some minutes later that he realized two things.

One, they’d attracted quite a crowd; and two, he’d forgotten to pull out of her as he came. He’d never forgotten to do so with any other woman.

Chapter Four

Whitechapel, London

30 September 1888

3.30 am.

“Send him out!”

“Send him out!”

Euphemia sat up in bed and instinctively felt for John beside her. The empty expanse of cold sheets taunted her. He wasn’t there.

They’d gone to sleep together early. When had he gotten up?

The pounding on the door finally galvanized her. She slid from the bed and grabbed the silk wrapper he’d given her, tying it hurriedly around her waist as she ran down the stairs.

The light coming in through the gaps in the drapes looked eerily bright. Lurid.

Not daylight, but fire.

She glanced at the clock, and cold fingers squeezed around her heart.

“Euphemia!” Peggy’s imperious voice carried through the windows. “Is he in there? You send him out!”

With the firelight hurting her eyes, it was hard to see Peggy at first, but there she was, on the street, only a few feet from the front door. Behind her was . . . what Euphemia would have termed a “crowd”, if the word “crowd” had not implied innocence. This was a mob, an angry one, carrying torches like a sixteenth-century woodcutting.

“Two of ’em!” shouted a man from the back. “Two women he’s kilt tonight!”

Two! It couldn’t be possible. It couldn’t be John, it just couldn’t. No man so tender and caring could also be so vicious and cruel, so monstrous.

She dropped the curtain and stepped back, wishing the room wasn’t so chill. She thought she might never feel warm again. They’d had dinner. They’d made love twice, once here, then again in bed, his fingers so gentle on her body, his mouth so warm . . .

They’d fallen asleep. And now he was gone and two more women – two! – were dead.

Mrs Langley wasn’t in the house. No one was. Just her, facing a horde of drunken, angry people with torches.

She had to get dressed, at least. She would not, could not, open the door, not until she knew what was really happening. She felt too vulnerable with only the thin silk to cover her nudity.

“Euphemia.” Something about his voice sent tremors through her body. It was not cool, not smooth, not amused. Not even rough with passion, but with something else.

She turned, her eyes adjusting to the darkness, and saw him standing in the hall beyond the stairs. He hadn’t been there a moment ago, she was sure of it.

Nor was he usually covered in blood, but he was tonight. Dark smears of it decorated his face and shirt. She thought she might faint. Dear God it was him. It was him all along, you stupid, love-struck fool . . .

“Send him out, Euphemia! You give him to us!”

Euphemia didn’t move, not even when the first brick sailed through the window with a terrible, high crash.

“How could you?” she whispered.

“How – my God, Phemie, you don’t – Oh, no.” He took a step towards her. She took one back. “Please, listen to me! I tried to stop him, I tried to catch him, I was too late—”

“Don’t lie!” The scream ripped itself from her throat before she could think about it. “Don’t lie to me!”

She’d noticed before how smoothly and silently he could move – just like a killer – but she’d never realized he was so fast. He was in front of her in less than the blink of an eye. Blood soaked his shirtfront and his coat, and slicked the knees of his trousers. He put his hands on her shoulders. She shuddered as blood seeped through her robe. “Look at me, Phemie, look at me! I know what you suspect, but I swear to you it’s not me.”

Tears ran down her face. She should be more afraid than she was, she thought, but perhaps it was resignation that made her stand and cry instead of fighting. She could not fight any more. She loved him, and if through her love she’d allowed him to commit more murders, she deserved to die at his hand. “I can’t believe you. Look at you. How can I trust you when you’re covered in blood, when that hairpin wasn’t mine, when—”

“Because I love you.”

“I heard ’im! He’s in there!” The crowd outside started roaring, cursing. Another brick shattered a windowpane and clattered on the wood floor.

“I love you, Euphemia. Please believe me. You don’t have any reason to trust me. I’ve been lying to you, I admit it, and I’ll tell you the truth when we have time but we have to get out of here. You have to come with me now.”

She could barely speak. “I can’t.”

“You must. He’ll kill you if you stay. He knows who you are.”

This time it wasn’t a brick. It was a bottle. A bottle with a flaming rag stuck in the top. Fire leaped over the carpet. Euphemia screamed and tried to pull away from John, but he was too strong for her. Outside the crowd roared.

“We have to get out of here!”

“I can’t, I can’t go with you. Not after what you’ve done . . . ”

“God damn it. We must go. The house will burn down around our ears if we stay!”

The curtains had caught now. Orange light flickered eerily off John’s face; the blood on his clothing was a hellish design.

“I can go,” she said. “I can walk out that door, and let you burn.”

He recoiled as if she’d slapped him. “You could.” He paused. “If you don’t love me.”

“How can I love a fiend? I don’t even know you. You’re not the man that I – the man that I thought—”

She wanted to finish the sentence but couldn’t, because his arms were around her and his lips on hers. Feverish, tempting as a pact with the devil and ten times more arousing, he took her mouth without mercy, and she kissed him back with every bit of passion she owned.

“I love you,” he whispered fiercely. “By God, Euphemia, I love you. And I’m not a killer. I tried to catch him. I’m here to catch him. I almost had him but he got away. He’s too powerful for me . . . ” His lips moved to her throat. “Believe me, I didn’t hurt those women.”

“But the blood on your shirt . . . ” She wanted to trust him. Hearing his words of love made her ruined heart sing. She loved him, she did, and it might have been enough for her if only she hadn’t trained herself to be quite so practical, so collected.

He pulled away, and looked down. His chest still rose and fell with his rapid breaths.

It was almost as bright as day in the room. The fire was growing, consuming the draperies and furniture. Sweat beaded on Euphemia’s forehead and trickled between her breasts.

He spoke, but the words made no sense.

“What?” She couldn’t quite make out what he’d said.

“I’m a vampire.”

“What?” Dear God, was there no end to it?

He opened his mouth wide, and her fist flew to her lips. His teeth . . . so long, so white. How was this possible?

“I’ll explain later. We have to go. Please, my darling, my love. Please come with me.”

Her gaze flew back to the front door. Outside it lay freedom, from the fire and from blood and from the sight of John’s unnaturally long . . . fangs. There was no word for them but fangs.

But inside was John. The man she loved and the man who, despite everything, she believed. And if he led her to her death, surely God’s mercy awaited her on the other side.

Her neck felt stiff as she nodded.

His eyes widened. “You’ll come with me?”

“Yes.”

She expected him to kiss her, to tell her again how he loved her, but he did not. Instead he touched her hand and said, “I’ll be right back. Don’t move.”

She watched him run up the stairs, her chest heaving. Somehow she’d been so focused on him she hadn’t noticed the room filling with smoke. It was hard to see, hard to breathe. She coughed once, twice, and then she couldn’t stop coughing; couldn’t catch her breath.

“John?” She tried to shout, but between the crowd shouting and cursing outside, cheering as the flames grew, and her lack of air she didn’t think he would hear her. No one would hear her. She’d made a mistake, a terrible mistake, and she was about to pay for it with her life . . .

Her back had been to the door. If she turned and walked carefully – crawled, perhaps – surely she could find it . . .

But before her knees hit the floor John’s strong arm was around her shoulders, scooping her up, carrying her back towards the hall. Through the smoke haze she saw him twist one of the banisters on the staircase, saw a door open at the end of the hall, and then he carried her through it and darkness enveloped them both.

“John?” Before she was fully awake the word escaped her mouth, but she was glad it had when his hand grasped hers.

“I’m here.”

She opened her eyes. Like all rooms John occupied, only a single candle illuminated it, but she could still see. Pale walls rose to a high, gilded ceiling. Heavy furniture sat against the walls, light glinting from shiny carvings. And silk-covered softness cradled her naked body.

Her throat hurt. “Where are we?”

“Westminster. We’re safe, Phemie. You’re safe.”

The room swayed as she sat up. “Westminster?”

“The tunnels lead here. My house. We’ll be safe enough, for a day or so. Until we get everything packed.”

“Packed?” Her head felt stuffed with wool. What was he – Oh. It all came back, the fire, the blood, his . . . fangs.

“We have to leave London. We can’t stay, not when they’ll be after me. I’m sure your friends back in Whitechapel have told them everything they know.”

Euphemia listened carefully for a trace of bitterness in his voice, but didn’t find one. “My friends . . . ”

“Don’t fear. You were doing the right thing. We were on the same side, my dear.”

“How did you know?”

His free hand stroked her neck, pushing her hair back over her shoulder. “Vampires know things. We see things. I wanted to tell you so many times, but I couldn’t. If everyone suspected me it would put him at ease. I needed him at ease, so I could catch him.”

“Him?”

“The killer. Leather Apron, or Jack, or whatever they’re calling him now. He’s not a vampire, but he’s almost one. He’s a ghoul, a thing made of pure evil, which eats flesh and bathes in blood. I was sent to Whitechapel as soon as we had word he was in town. We hoped to catch him before he managed to harm anyone, but . . . ” His eyes darkened. “I failed.”

“I don’t understand this. I don’t understand any of this.”

“You will, in time. If you still love me.”

She didn’t reply.

“If you like . . . ” She heard him swallow. “If you like I can send you back. I’ll get my driver to take you, or give you fare for a hansom. And something more, to help you. If this is all too much for you, I . . . I understand.”

She didn’t understand why those words changed everything for her. Perhaps she never would. But it was at that moment, when he gave her back to herself, that she knew, really knew, that he was telling the truth. She’d believed him before. She’d trusted him enough to take the chance despite her fears.

But this was more than trust or belief. This was knowledge, rock solid. He loved her. He would never hurt her, or anyone else.

And she loved him. Her body filled with light, so bright it made her grin. A very undignified, un-Euphemialike grin, but it seemed to please John well enough.

“You think I’d give up a man as wealthy as you?” she teased.

His reply was a kiss, so soft and slow she felt her insides turn into liquid. “I don’t want you to ever give me up,” he whispered. “Not ever.”

“I won’t.”

Their kiss deepened, their tongues meeting, entwining. Heat pooled between her legs, spreading up to her stomach, as if she’d just sat in a hot bath. There would be many nights in bed together. Years and years.

“Euphemia.” His dark eyes twinkled. “Who’s in charge here?”

“You are.”

“And I always will be.”

She smiled, too full of joy and love and desire to speak. He understood, she knew he did; knew she would never have to hide her thoughts or the wanton need he inspired in her. Never have to pretend anything, ever again. Because she’d finally found a man she could trust, completely and fully. For ever.

Whitechapel, London

9 November 1888

6 am

John and his brothers waited in the shadows outside 13 Miller’s Court. Too late. John cursed himself. If they’d been a little more clever, if they’d gotten here just a little sooner . . .

The sun would rise soon. They needed to get back into the tunnels before it did. But so did he.

Finally the door opened, then closed. Their prey, who’d made so many women his, stood in the passageway between the two buildings, his work done for the night. His very presence coloured the air with stifling evil.

They fell on him. No more murders. His reign of terror would end, and end now.

The killer must have been waiting for them, must have known they would catch him eventually. He was prepared. His bloodstained knife sliced the air, caught Edward’s neck, Cyril’s arm, John’s shoulder. He fought silently and hard, as the rest of them did, managing with the skills of their kind to avoid disturbing any neighbours. But just before the sun peeked over the horizon, John drove the stake into “Jack”’s heart as Cyril swung his sword and took the killer’s head off. They stood silently and watched as he crumbled into dust at their feet.

It was over.

Truly over. The reign of terror in Whitechapel had ended, and with it the loneliness of centuries. John never thought he would be grateful to a ghoul, to something that never should have existed. But he was. Because if not for him John never would have met Euphemia, and as much as it made him sick that lives had ended, he knew his own had just begun again. His new life. The one he would share with Euphemia for ever.