His tone gave me pause, my silk shoes straddling the threshold. He sounded no louder than a church mouse squeaking inside a grand cathedral.

Moving back into the room, I waited. I’d allow him the courtesy of saying his piece, then be on my way. I plopped onto the chair, exhausted from the day’s events, while Nathaniel checked the hallway before closing the door.

He paced, as all Wadsworth men were prone to do, agitation or nervousness shrouding him. It was hard to tell which emotion was getting the better of him. Nathaniel crossed the room to the buffet, removing a crystal decanter and matching glass. He poured himself a healthy amount of amber liquid, drinking it down in a few gulps.

That was very un-Nathaniel-like. I sat forward. “What is it?”

My brother shook his head, still facing the decanter, and refilled his cup. “I can’t begin figuring where to start.”

The utter loathing in his tone chilled me. I got the impression we were no longer talking about him telling Father I’d sneaked out of the house this morning. My anger dissipated. Was something else wrong with Father? I couldn’t take another emotional upheaval. There was too much to sort through as it stood.

“Most start around the beginning,” I said, hoping to keep the fear from my voice and force levity into it. “Tell me what’s been troubling you. Please. Let me help.”

Nathaniel stared at the crystal glass in his hand. It seemed easier for him to speak to it rather than meet my worried gaze.

“Then I’ll speak quickly, in hopes of causing you less pain.” He took a sip of liquid courage, then another. “Mother wasn’t the last person operated on by our loving uncle.”

I was grateful he paused, allowing me time to absorb the enormity of his words. Everything else in the room stopped, including my heart. This was a subject we were banned from discussing by both Uncle and Father.

“He… he’s been attempting to complete a successful transplant since he and Father were young men.” My brother pinched the bridge of his nose. “Father, while dealing with his own demons, reacts in such a way because he knows Uncle keeps secrets from you.”

“Secrets? I know all about Uncle’s former experiments,” I said, sitting straighter in my chair. “His attempt at saving Mother’s life is why I started studying under him in the first place.”

“Saving her, was he?” Nathaniel gave me a pitying look. “For the good of London, they should’ve kept him locked away. He’s never stopped his experiments, Audrey Rose. He’s only gotten better at hiding them.”

“That’s not true.” I shook my head. How my brother could think such a thing about Uncle was preposterous. “I’d know about any experiments.”

“I promise you, it is true. I hoped you’d outgrow your desire to apprentice with him, and thought it unnecessary to divulge such… delicate matters.” Nathaniel took my hands, squeezing gently until I met his eyes. “Just as I do not wish to burden you with too much now, Sister. If you need some time—”

“Oh, I’m more than ready to learn the truth. The entire truth, no matter how horrid it may be. Do enlighten me further, and make it quick.”

He nodded. “Very well, then. The entire truth is this: Your… friend, Thomas Cresswell, he…” Nathaniel sat back and took another sip from his drink. I wasn’t sure if the pause in the story was for my benefit or his. My stomach tied itself in knots as I waited for the next horror. “Are you sure you’re all right? You look a bit peaked.”

“Please, tell me the rest.”

“All right, then,” he said, releasing a shaky breath. “Thomas’s father came to Uncle after Mother’s death. His wife experienced severe abdominal pain around that time. He’d heard rumors of Uncle’s research.” Nathaniel swallowed. “Thomas’s mother passed away shortly after ours of gallbladder issues. Uncle tried saving her life, too.”

“Wonderful. So you’re saying Uncle killed Thomas’s mother?”

Nathaniel reached for me, slowly shaking his head. “No, not exactly. Thomas has been obsessed with searching for a true cure ever since. It’s all he talks of when the Knights of Whitechapel meet. I can practically conduct the research myself. He’s gone into that much detail.”

“He hasn’t mentioned anything to me about it at all.”

Chills stuck their nails into my back, repeatedly dragging themselves downward. That wasn’t entirely true. Thomas had insisted I remove the gallbladder from the cadaver he’d gotten from the Necropolis. A memory of the latest crime scene flashed through my mind—I was almost positive a gallbladder had been taken from one of the victims, too. I felt utterly sick to my stomach.

Could I have been so blind or so wrong about Thomas?

No. I wouldn’t accuse him of sadistic murders simply because he was different from other people in our closed-minded society. He was purposely cold and detached working a case, and it was brilliant. And necessary. Wasn’t it? My head suddenly pounded. Maybe I was making excuses for him. Or perhaps they were excuses he’d deftly planted in my brain. He was certainly cunning enough to do such a thing. But would he?

Too many emotions swirled through my head to keep track of.

If Thomas experienced the kind of heartache that came with watching as a loved one passed on, then perhaps he might do anything—even murder—to discover answers he’d sought. Then again, didn’t I suffer from a similar heartache when Mother died? I supposed it was a decent enough reason for Jack to steal organs. But was Thomas, the arrogantly charming boy I knew outside of the laboratory, truly capable of committing such atrocities in the name of science?

I hardly thought he could become that cold and remote. Still…

My head spun. The ladies at tea claimed he was odd enough to be the madman, but that was merely idle gossip. I clenched my fists at my sides. I refused to believe my instincts were so wrong about him, even if there was strong evidence to the contrary.

Which was the exact notion that got the Ripper’s victims murdered. I dropped my head into my hands. Oh, Thomas. How do I sort this mess out, too?

TWENTY-TWO

SAUCY JACK

WADSWORTH RESIDENCE,

BELGRAVE SQUARE

1 OCTOBER 1888

Early morning light slanted in from the cathedral windows of our dining room, but I could stare only at the two pieces of evidence scrawled in Jack the Ripper’s hand while my breakfast cooled.

The days of holding back his ghastly deeds were apparently over. Jack wanted everyone to know he was responsible for these horrendous crimes. He was like an actor or king soaking up the attention of adoring fans and countrymen.

Troubled as I was by Thomas’s past, the idea of him being the Ripper didn’t sound quite right. The day Thomas Cresswell didn’t show off his brilliance was the day I’d find a unicorn for a pet. Jack wanted adoration. Thomas would surely have slipped by now.

Then again, he did keep his work with Uncle on transplants secret all these weeks. I cursed my softness toward him. I needed to detach my emotions, but it was proving more difficult than I’d envisioned.

I rubbed my temples and read the paper again. I wasn’t surprised the serpent side of Mr. Doyle resurfaced; it was only a matter of time before his paper sensationalized this for all the money it was worth.

“Honestly,” Liza whispered while slicing into her breakfast sausage, “I wish we weren’t leaving so dreadfully early. I’ve never seen such excitement in the city! Victoria’s throwing a masked ball, encouraging boys to come as the Ripper. Tall, dark, and completely anonymous. It’s terribly thrilling, wouldn’t you agree?”

I stole a glance at my aunt, who was watching me with a quirked brow. This was a test of good manners. I smiled pleasantly. “It certainly is terrible.”

“True. I don’t care what people say of those women, no one deserves to be slain like that. You simply must stop whoever it is.” Liza stared off, then shook herself into the present. “I’m going to miss you, Cousin. Come and stay with us soon.”

I smiled, realizing I couldn’t wait to see Liza again. My cousin was smart, unabashedly feminine, and comfortable playing by her own version of society’s rules. Her clever remarks and cheerful presence would be missed. “That would be lovely, I will.”

I took a sip of Earl Grey, my focus returning to the paper while my aunt and cousin chatted about yesterday’s tea I’d missed.

Either Blackburn had kept his promise to seek the editor out and run a copy of the “Dear Boss” letter, or Mr. Doyle had decided to do so himself. I didn’t trust Blackburn anymore, so my faith lay with the editor releasing the details.

I reread the letter, getting lost in the manic cursive of the killer’s script. Thinking back on the murder scene, there was an eerie number of similarities. The postcard depicted on the same page was something new, however. As it was dated from the night before, it was clear the murderer only recently posted it.

Wretched ideas had assaulted me last night with the growing list of suspects. I didn’t know who was responsible, but some memory kept creeping up on me.

Miss Emma Elizabeth Smith possibly knew her attackers. Could that be Uncle and Thomas? In Uncle’s notes she’d told investigators one assailant was a teenager. Uncle was betrothed to her… and clearly, it ended in some manner in which she resorted to prostitution.

If Thomas was in on it, it’d explain how the murders continued while Uncle was in the asylum. It also meant I’d been inadvertently working with Jack the Ripper and possibly falling under his spell myself. My stomach twisted.

There had to be something else.

I thought of Thornley, recalling the day Thomas and I had learned of Uncle’s connection to Miss Emma Elizabeth. Thomas’s shock appeared genuine enough. But was it all a farce? Perhaps he was as talented at acting as he was at flipping his emotions on and off. If only my wretched heart could shut itself off from him completely!

There was something even worse to consider.