“Miss Kathryn,” he said, his eyebrows raised.
“Is Mr. Baird at home?”
“Yes, of course. Please come in.”
I entered the house, and Brinley led me to the parlor before he left to tell Austen I was there. It felt like an eternity before there was a noise at the door.
I turned, and my breath stilled as my gaze met Austen’s. His hair was disheveled, and he had a shadow of a beard on his cheeks, but I’d never seen him look so handsome or attractive—or so desperately in love. Now that I recognized that look in his eyes, Irealized I’d seen it countless times. I wanted to run to him, to throw myself into his arms and give in to the ache that had been building inside me, but there were so many things I still didn’t understand.
“Is it true you came from Italy to convince me to love you?” I asked, just above a whisper.
He didn’t have to answer because I saw the truth in his eyes.
I rushed across the room and entered his embrace.
He put his arms around me, holding me with a sense of urgency that took my breath away.
“I’ve been such a fool,” he whispered close to my ear.
I held him tighter, needing the reassurance of his love and friendship more than anything else. “So have I,” I said, pulling back to look at his dear face.
It would have been so much easier if he was in 1938 so that my choice could be simple. I didn’t want to lose Austen—not now and not in the future.
The longing in his eyes soon changed, and he pulled away, his face growing serious. “I went to your house earlier tonight to tell you that I hired a private investigator to find Mary. And I just received word that he found her, Kate.”
I blinked several times, hope filling my heart. “You found Mary? Where? Is she safe?”
He was quiet for a moment as he studied me, sadness filling his face. “She is going by the name of Marie Jeanette Kelly, and she lives at 13 Miller’s Court.”
It felt as if a fist landed in my gut and all the air was knocked out of my lungs. The hope I’d held that she was not Jack’s victim bled away, and dread filled its place.
“I’m so sorry, Kate.”
“I want to go to her immediately.”
“It’s too late. I’ll take you there tomor—”
“I’m going now, Austen, whether you’re with me or not.”
He pressed his lips together. “Fine. But you must change. I won’t take you there looking so—so elegant.”
His compliment would have pleased me if I wasn’t reeling with the truth.
History claimed my sister would be Jack the Ripper’s last victim.
For the first time in my life, I hated history. And I wouldn’t let it win, no matter what it cost me.
It felt as if my entire world had shifted in an instant. I had known it was a possibility that Mary was Jack’s last victim, but now that I knew it was true, everything was different.
As the carriage turned onto Commercial Street, the filth and stench of London’s East End clawed at my throat. If I had thought being in the glittering West End at night was terrifying, it was nothing compared to entering Whitechapel after dark, especially knowing Jack the Ripper might be stalking the streets.
Austen had been silent since we entered the carriage, but now he asked, “What will you do?”
“I don’t know.” It was the truth. Plain and simple. “I can’t be rash or foolish. Papa warned me not to change history before it’s necessary because it could cause so many other problems.” I pressed my lips together as I thought about my sister’s life. “I still don’t know if she’ll be a random victim or if she’s part of a Freemason plot.”
“What Freemason plot?” he asked with a frown.
We still hadn’t spoken about his parents’ involvement with the Freemasons, or why they had been in Jerusalem with my parents in 1874. But he had made it clear in the garden, speaking to Mr. Maybrick, that he had no interest in joining the brotherhood.
