“Do you think Jack the Ripper is—”
Thomas’s shoulders stiffened, and his face became still. “I don’t know nothing about any of that.”
“But—”
“I already told you enough.” He held out his hand for another penny.
I gave it to him and opened my mouth to ask another question, but he glanced over my shoulder as the shadow of a man fell across the wall. Thomas swallowed hard before he stepped inside and closed the door in my face.
My heart pounded as I turned, knowing there was someone standing behind me.
It was Austen.
“Kathryn, what are you doing here?”
My heart leapt at the sight of him and relief made me feel weak. I ran into his embrace, not caring what the tenants thought of me. I had ached for Austen.
He embraced me, his heart beating hard against his chest.
“What amIdoing here?” I asked, laughter and joy in my voice. “What areyoudoing here?”
“I was just pulling up to my townhouse when I saw you get into the cab. Miles and I followed you here, but lost you in traffic several times. Thankfully Miles recognized the cab, and we were able to locate you.” He looked at the dirty courtyard, a myriad of emotions playing on his face. One was frustration. “You promised you wouldn’t come here without me.”
“This isn’t Whitechapel.”
He lifted an eyebrow.
“I’m finished,” I said as I tugged him toward the passage. Thomas Conway’s door had been firmly closed in my face, and I knew he wouldn’t open it to me again. “I have so much to tell you.”
I put my arm around his waist and pressed against him as his arm went around my shoulders.
After thanking the cabby for waiting for me and paying him the few pennies I had left, Austen helped me into his carriage.
As soon as the door was closed, I went into his arms.
“Kate,” he whispered as he buried his face against my neck.
The carriage began to move, and I wrapped my arms around him, my heart soaring and breaking in the same moment. I couldn’t stop thinking about him as an old man with pain in his eyes, a pain I would cause. But I also reveled in the joy we brought into each other’s lives here. Now.
He pulled back and slipped a hand up to my cheek, caressing my skin with his thumb. His eyes were shining. “You’re so beautiful,” he whispered as he lowered his lips to mine and captured them in a kiss.
I had been waiting for this moment for weeks, and it was better than I imagined. All the love I felt for him in the past, in the present, and in the future mingled together in exquisite bliss.
When he finally pulled back, he whispered, “I thought about this kiss every moment I was away from you.”
I leaned into his touch, but then I remembered the paintings, and I sat up straight. “Why didn’t you tell me, Austen?”
He pulled back and frowned. “Tell you what?”
“About your paintings?”
Comprehension flickered in his eyes. “How did you find out?”
“Sir Rothschild, the keeper of the London Museum in 1938, has just borrowed them from the Royal Museum of Scotland and will be putting them on display.”
“They’re putting my paintings on display?” he asked with afrown. “But I’ve sold them to people all over Europe, ensuring that no one knew my identity. How did they collect them?”
“Someone has been accumulating them through the years. Why didn’t you tell me you are a painter?”
