“Miss, your hat and gloves,” she called after me.
I ignored her, not caring if I was properly attired. Instead, I rushed down the hallway to the staircase and came to a halt when I met Father at the top of the stairs.
He gave me a frustrated, disgruntled look and said, “I’ve arranged for a special license. You and Austen will be wed one week from today at St. Paul’s with a small wedding breakfast to follow.”
He didn’t give me time to respond but continued down the stairs toward the breakfast room.
St. Paul’s, Knightsbridge, was an Anglican church just around the corner from our townhome. We’d attended there faithfully since I was a child. It was a beautiful Gothic structure and would make a lovely place for a wedding—if I was getting married in 1888.
There were far too many things to worry about before I could think about that, so I pushed Father’s news aside and continued down the stairs and out the front door.
The rain was falling steadier now, and I ran to the townhouse next door and vigorously knocked until Brinley answered.
“Miss Kelly,” he said, stepping back to allow me to enter without any formalities. “Come in.”
“Is Austen at home?”
“He’s just coming down now, miss.”
Austen stood at the top of the stairs but quickly descended as Brinley closed the front door behind me and quietly slipped out of the entrance hall.
Austen was dressed, but he hadn’t shaved, probably not wanting to waste any time, either. When he met me at the base of the stairs, he took me into his arms without a word.
I melted into his embrace and pressed my cheek against his chest, feeling the reassuring beat of his heart.
He held me tight, as if he didn’t want to let me go, and finally whispered, “You don’t know how thankful I am that I can still do this.”
I closed my eyes, wanting this moment to last forever. But we didn’t have much time, so I pulled back and said, “I know who Jack is.”
Austen stared at me for a heartbeat before saying, “Is it Michael Maybrick?”
“No. It’s his brother, James.”
“James—the brother he visited at the cotton merchant’s building yesterday?”
“Yes. I’ve seen his picture, and there is no mistaking that he is Sir Rothschild. I found a folder in Sir Rothschild’s desk a couple months ago with information about James Maybrick’s death. He is supposed to die at noon today, of an apparent murder by arsenic poisoning. His wife will be arrested and put on trial, with Michael Maybrick as her lead accuser. She’ll serve fourteen years, but the sentence will eventually be overturned.”
“Do you think she did it?” he asked.
“I don’t know. But part of me wonders if he was researching the case in 1938 because he plans to change history and not get murdered here. Either way, we need to find him. I need to talk to him and let him know that if he doesn’t release Papa in 1938 tomorrow, I will tell the world his identity as Jack the Ripper.”
Austen studied me much the same way as Mama had before he said, “You would be willing to risk changing history and forfeiting this path again?”
“If Papa’s life wasn’t in danger, I wouldn’t risk it. But heisin danger, and I cannot let Sir Rothschild get away with this.”
Austen nodded, resigned. “I couldn’t sleep last night, thinkingabout you, Kate. Thanking God that I had one more day with you.” Sadness and disappointment filled his gaze as he said, “But I can’t help feeling that no matter what we do, I’m going to lose you.”
My heart fell at his words, and I grasped the lapels of his coat, trying to anchor myself to him, to this moment, and to this path. I wanted to beg him not to say those words, but I couldn’t. Because I had the same feeling.
“I’m sorry,” I said, since there was nothing else I could say.
“It’s not your fault.” He hugged me, and I wished his embrace could banish all my fears. But it didn’t.
“We need to find James Maybrick.”
“I can’t believe we’re going to face Jack the Ripper.” He pulled away and took his jacket off the coat-tree. “I’ll never get used to any of this.”
“I’ve faced him countless times,” I said. “And each time I recall being alone with him in 1938, I shudder.”
