I’m certain he would have stopped on the stairs had there not been people behind us. “This isn’t the time or place for that conversation, Kathryn. And it really doesn’t concern you.”
Every time I was told that something didn’t concern me, it meant I had hit on something important.
Father left my side the moment we entered the drawing room, and I was certain it was because he didn’t want me to ask him any more questions.
After everyone quieted, Mother went to the front of the room and introduced Mr. Maybrick.
The audience clapped politely as Mr. Maybrick took his place. He wore a thick mustache and had combed his hair back into a shine. He caught my eye and dipped his head in my direction, causing several people to look at me and smile.
Soon, Mr. Maybrick was entrancing the audience with “NancyLee,” “Midshipmite,” and “They All Love Jack,” one of his more recent compositions—and one that hit too close to home. That morning, Annie Chapman’s body had been found in the small, enclosed yard at 29 Hanbury Street, and the reporters had gone wild with the news. The police surgeon had immediately linked it to Polly Nichols’s murder because both women had died in the same manner, their throats slit from ear to ear and their bodies mutilated. However, Annie’s had been even worse than Polly’s. She’d been disemboweled, and portions of her intestines had been placed over her right shoulder. I’d heard some people whispering about it tonight, but polite society wasn’t discussing it like they would in Whitechapel.
Mr. Maybrick’s performance came to an end, and everyone clapped, then it was time to begin the dance. Mother whispered into his ear, and he nodded and smiled, then came to me and offered his hand.
“May I have this dance?” he asked.
“Of course.” I couldn’t say no, not with everyone watching. “Your performance was wonderful,” I said with a genuine smile. “My mother seems very pleased.”
He took me into his arms for the dance and returned my smile, pulling me a little too close. “I hope my singing pleased you, as well.”
His behavior and tone made me uncomfortable, but I said, “Of course.”
The three-string orchestra began to play a waltz, and Mr. Maybrick twirled me around the room with confidence. As we passed the entrance to the drawing room, a new arrival caught my attention. He was handsome and stylish, but there were so many people and we moved so fast, I didn’t have a chance to catch his eye. He was probably another of Mother’s bachelors, invited to try to convince me to get married. Others were taking notice of him, too, as people turned their heads to look in his direction.
Mr. Maybrick was entertaining as we danced, complimentingmy abilities, though I wasn’t under any illusion that I was especially talented.
As the night progressed, I danced with each of the men on my dance card, making small talk, trying not to yawn or show my boredom. I looked for the stranger who had caught my eye before, but he remained elusive. No doubt he would appear at the appointed time, if my mother had anything to do with it.
When it was time for me to take a break, I slipped out of the drawing room and made my way to the back stairway, needing some time alone. The courtyard beckoned, and I wanted to escape before someone stopped me.
The night was cool, and the air was crisp as I stepped outside. Several of the windows were open on the second floor, allowing the faint strains of the orchestra to drift outside. A clear sky offered a brilliant view of the stars, and there were torches lit around the courtyard, though they offered scant light.
“I was hoping you’d come out here,” a deep male voice said from a corner of the courtyard, drawing my gaze down to earth again. “I hate crowds.”
The man I’d glimpsed earlier was sitting on a stone bench, and the soft glow of torchlight illuminated his handsome features. His voice was Austen’s, but his appearance was unfamiliar.
“Austen?” I asked as he rose and walked across the courtyard.
His transformation was remarkable. With no beard, he looked ten years younger—more like the boy I’d once known—though there was nothing boyish about Austen Baird.
He’d had a haircut, as well, and his evening clothes were fashionable and new.
My lips parted as he walked toward me, and my pulse began to pound in a way it had never pounded before.
I was suddenly aware of everything about Austen—the way he moved, the way he looked at me, the way my entire body responded to his presence. I was reminded of how he’d reacted when I kissed his cheek and the strange words he’d said to me in Whitechapelafterward. That if I didn’t know why I shouldn’t have kissed him, then he wouldn’t bother explaining.
I was suddenly very aware of why I shouldn’t have kissed Austen Baird.
We were no longer children.
The innocence that had once cocooned our relationship had fallen away, creating a sense of vulnerability that overwhelmed me. Our previous intimacy was meant for children, not grown adults.
How had I been so naïve?
This was a man—a handsome, mysterious, intriguing man.
The closer he came, the more aware I was of this truth, and I began to back up on instinct. It was as if a veil was lifted, and I could see clearly for the first time.
I didn’t know him anymore, not really, and that made me feel breathless. Excited.
