Nine Buck's Row (34 page)

Very few people knew about that. The servants, of course, knew there had been some altercation that night, but Nicholas coolly informed them that he had apprehended a prowler attempting to break into the house. Only half a dozen people would ever know what had really happened. It had taken on a blurred, misty quality in my mind, and although I would never be able to forget it, it was like a nightmare, as insubstantial, something that had never really happened at all.

I listened to the bird's throaty song. I watched sunlight splattering on the flagstones. The breeze fluttered my hair, causing my brown and beige skirt to rustle over ruffled muslin petticoats. Waiting, I thought about the incredible knowledge I had finally come to possess.

I understood now why Nicholas hadn't wanted me to know the truth, and I understood the need for secrecy. The truth, if it were generally known, could have a disastrous effect on the whole country. That Jack The Ripper was actually an heir to the throne of England was unbelievable, yet it was undeniably true. I was one of the few people to know.

Sir Reginald Belmount himself had escorted me into the parlor. Calmly, without flourish, he had talked while the lamps burned low. He talked for over an hour, and when he had finished all the questions had been answered, all the pieces of the puzzle fitted together.

The young duke had been a moody, surly child, given to outbursts of violent temper. He liked to sit for hours at a time, painting pictures, making sketches. As he grew older, he expressed a desire to become an artist. It was out of the question. An heir to the throne of England couldn't be pottering about with dirty brushes and pots of paint. Still indulging in fits of rage, he conformed, doing what was expected of him in public, but his private life was a different matter altogether. Officials tried desperately to cover up the trail of scandals he blazed behind him. He contracted a social disease from one of the prostitutes he consorted with. The disease unhinged him, bringing on the madness that had always been dormant inside. He began to disappear for long periods of time. His doctors feared he was subject to split personality, the Jekyll-Hyde phenomenon Nicholas had described to me.

The duke was cold and imperious, the public figure duty demanded, but Daniel Lord was carefree, living the life denied a duke. When the murders began, there were reasons to believe he was committing them. A prostitute had infected him, causing the final split, and he was avenging himself on all her kind. There was no proof of this, and the matter had to be handled with the utmost delicacy. Sir Reginald was put in charge. He enlisted Nicholas' help. It was a difficult job, made even more difficult by the antics of Sir Charles Warren, who felt he was serving his Queen by concealing vital evidence and directing suspicion elsewhere. It wasn't until he had the diamond bracelet that Nicholas was able to prove that the duke was, indeed, Jack The Ripper. He traced it to a certain jewler. The bill of sale was in the duke's name. It now remained to find the man, for they had no idea what identity he assumed when he disappeared into the East End jungle. Millie was responsible for that information. Had she not been attacked, had she not seen his face and identified him, he might still be at large.

A harrowing search ensued. With only four handpicked men to help him, Nicholas prowled the backstreets of the East End, exploring the pubs, the peep shows, searching the brothels, visiting every low dive in search of the man he could now clearly identify. It seemed futile at first. There were so many streets, so many sordid rooms, so many lost souls who hadn't seen the artist with the neat blond mustache. Going without sleep, barely pausing for food, Nicholas searched, and he finally found ‘Daniel Lord' in the dingy basement of a doss house, sharing a squalid bed with a prostitute who would never know what a narrow escape she had had. He fought like a savage, crazed, demented, shouting obscentities, but they finally subdued him. He was committed to the asylum, and he remained there until the afternoon of November ninth.…

It was over now. Daniel Lord, the man who never was, had been taken back to the asylum. He was under constant observation. There would be no more opportunities to escape. The duke had been “hospitalized” for an unspecified illness. Hounded by press and public alike, Sir Charles Warren had been forced to hand in his resignation, a man doomed by his own misguided sense of loyalty. Seeking newer sensations, the press was already losing interest in Jack The Ripper, and extra police were no longer patrolling the East End. It was over, and the Ripper murders would remain officially unsolved.…

The sound of footsteps interrupted my thoughts. I looked up to see Ted strolling toward me, moving briskly past beds of rosebushes, sunlight gilding his brick red hair. Further away, I could see Vic leading the muscular black stallion into the stables. I braced myself, trying to smile as Ted came nearer, but the corners of my mouth trembled.

“Hello there,” he said quietly, spreading his legs apart and folding his arms over his chest.

“Hello, Ted.”

“I've been worried about you. You've been ill—”

“It—it was nothing serious,” I said hesitantly.

“I assumed as much. You're looking lovely.”

“Thank you.”

“You seem nervous. Any specific reason?”

I nodded, turning away from him.

“Afraid you can't control yourself?” he asked lightly. “Afraid you'll hurl yourself into my arms and—”

“Ted—”

“You've sent for me so that you could give me your answer. I'll try to make it as easy as possible for you. Go ahead, get it over with.”

“How did you—”

“How did I know? You've been avoiding me for three weeks. That isn't characteristic of a girl head over heels in love, eager to rush to the altar with her beloved. Your eyes—the expression in them when you saw me approaching just now—” He paused. His voice was grim. “The answer is no, isn't it?”

“The answer is no,” I said.

Ted curled his lips in a pleasant smile and lifted his shoulders in an elegant shrug, taking it well, yet he couldn't hide the disappointment in his dark brown eyes. It had been hard, very hard, to say that word, and I still wasn't sure I had done the right thing. I had rejected him, yes, but for what? Had I carelessly thrown away my chance for happiness? The breeze blew strands of golden-brown hair across my face, and I brushed them aside.

“I can't really say this comes as a surprise. You never pretended to love me. Just the same, I'd hoped—you have your reasons, Susannah. I won't question them.”

“I'm sorry, Ted. I—I'm very fond of you.”

“But you aren't in love with me,” he said.

“I wish I were. I wish I could be. Please believe that.”

“I understand,” he replied.

He grinned engagingly and thrust his hands into his pockets. He wore tall, highly polished brown boots, tight tan trousers, a loosely cut tan jacket and a waistcoat of bronze and white striped silk, a vivid orange stock at his throat. Lean, muscular, he glowed with health, exuding an affable charm even under these circumstances, and I had a moment of wild regret. I wanted to take back my words. I wanted to give him the answer he had hoped for. I wanted to love him.

“You—you'll get over this,” I said quietly.

“I daresay I will,” he replied.

“You're everthing a girl could hope for: handsome, charming, manly. There must be hundreds who—” I paused, finding this extremely difficult. “You can have any girl you want, Ted.”

“You've just demonstrated the fallacy of that statement. I wanted you. I've lost you. It's as simple as that.”

“I”

“No hard feelings,” he said in a husky voice.

There was a moment of silence. Sunlight spilled down in silvery rays. The ivy rattled in the breeze. A bird soared overhead, finally perching on a bough of the oak tree and scolding us vociferously. The gardens smelled of soil, roots and leaf mold. Ted sighed, peering into my eyes. His brick-red hair gleamed bronze in the sunlight. His deeply tanned face wore a pleasant expression, but the hurt and disappointment were there in his eyes. His mouth curled in an amiable smile. He rested his hands on my shoulders and kissed me lightly on the lips.

“Goodbye, Susannah,” he murmured.

I stood there by the wall, watching him walk through the sun-splattered gardens toward the stables. He moved in long, easy strides, his shoulders rolling, the tail of his jacket flaring out. Vic brought the black stallion out, and Ted swung into the saddle. H
e turned and lifted his hand in a gesture of farewell, and then he rode away. It was one of the saddest things I had ever witnessed. I didn't cry, but there was a fragile, hollow feeling inside. It would be a long time before I'd be able to forget that blithe, noble gesture.

I walked slowly back to the house, filled with melancholy. Although I knew I had done the right thing, there was still a feeling of loss. I had been honest with myself, honest with Ted, but I hadn't known it was going to leave me with such an emptiness inside. Ted would get over it. He would meet another girl and, in a few months, forget all about me. It wouldn't be so easy for me. I had nothing to look forward to, no plans, no prospects whatsoever.

The afternoon passed slowly. Nicholas was closed up in the library as usual. He had gone back to work immediately after that nightmare night, determined to let nothing interfere with the report. I sat in the parlor, a book in my lap. Outside, the sun began to vanish, filling the gardens with black and gray shadows, sharply etched, the sky fading from blue to amethyst, growing darker. Damon stepped into the parlor to inform me that dinner would be served half an hour earlier tonight, as per Master Nicky's instructions. I went upstairs to dress.

Scrappy perched on the edge of the bed, waving his tail and watching as I changed into a dark royal blue dress, the bodice scooped low, frothy white lace edging the elbow-length sleeves. The full taffeta skirt crackled as I sat down to brush my hair. My face was pale, the skin stretched tightly over the high cheekbones, the natural pink mouth drooping down sadly at the corners. My eyes were dark, melancholy, deep mauve shadows about the lids. Listless, dejected, I brushed my hair, fastening a silver clip in back.

Nicholas was waiting for me at the foot of the stairs. He was wearing a black broadcloth suit and a vest of white satin heavily embroidered with navy blue flowers. A smile played on his lips, and his eyes glowed darkly as he watched me come down the stairs. He took my hand, leading me into the dining room. I was bewildered by the formality, his exquisite manners as he pulled a chair out for me.

“You look downcast,” he remarked.

“I have a headache.”

“Indeed? I'm sorry to hear that.”

“
You
certainly seem to be in an unusually good mood tonight.”

“I am. With good cause. I finished the book this afternoon.”

“Wonderful,” I said dully.

“Your enthusiasm is overwhelming. Ah, Damon, you've brought the wine, I see. Pour Miss Susannah a large glassful. Perhaps it will help improve her disposition. She's frightfully sullen.”

I shot him a venomous look. The mocking smile continued to play on his mouth. He seemed to be charged with energy, almost merry as he talked about his plans for the book. I was silent, barely touching the food, but that didn't bother him in the least. Bright, expansive, he continued to chatter until I thought I would scream.

“We'll be going to London in a few days. I'll have to haggle with the publishers for at least a week. Maggie will be delighted to see us. Perhaps you can visit with your friend Millie. How is she, by the way? Didn't you receive another letter yesterday?”

“She and Jamie have finished furnishing the cottage. They're gloriously happy.”

“I hope they enjoy it while it lasts. She'll grow sharp and shrewish. He'll grow restless and discontented. They'll soon be squabbling like cats and dogs. It's inevitable.”

“You think so?”

“I know so, my dear.”

“You're a hateful cynic, Nicholas.”

He merely laughed, pouring another glassful of wine. I wanted to hurl my plate at his head. He sensed my animosity, and it amused him all the more. I asked to be excused and left the table abruptly. Nicholas smiled, sipping the wine.

A fire was burning in the fireplace in the parlor. The room was warm, stuffy. I opened one of the French windows and stood looking out at the night-shrouded gardens, silver and black. A breeze caught up the draperies and caused them to billow. The tapestries hanging on the walls rustled, making a soft, flapping noise. The breeze cooled my cheeks. I gripped the brass handle of the window tightly, my knuckles white. It couldn't go on like this. I couldn't take any more.

He followed me into the parlor, lounging against the wall, watching me with a mocking, amused expression.

“You seem terribly wrought up,” he said lazily. “I noticed young Elliot riding away this afternoon. Is he the reason you're in this mood?”

“That's none of your business!” I snapped.

“But it is, my dear. Anything that concerns you is my business. Did you give him the answer he's been waiting for?”

“I turned him down,” I said stiffly.

“Indeed? Do you really think that was wise? Elliot is quite the best catch in the county. You'll not find another like him. He's wealthy, industrious, nice looking—”

“I had my reasons.”

“Did you? I can't imagine what they might be.”

“No, Nicholas, I don't suppose you can.”

“Would you care to explain?”

“No! No, I—I wouldn't. Leave me alone, Nicholas! Stop tormenting me.” I couldn't go on without bursting into tears. I gripped the handle and stared out into the darkness, my shoulders trembling.

He seized my arm roughly and pulled me around to face him. The mockery had gone. He was no longer amused. His face was grave, the mouth tight, eyes full of dark agony.