Temptations of Anna Jacobs (2 page)

Her mother leaned back and braced her hands on either side of her temples. “Annabelle, you try my patience so. Do you not realize I’m already consumed with worry about your brother, off chasing violent killers?” She shook her head. “But now I must constantly worry as to whether or not my youngest child shall ever marry.”

“I am concerned about Simon as well, Mother, but need I remind you he is not married either?” Anna asked.

“A fact I am well aware of. But he is a man and that is a different situation altogether. Also he has a paying position and can fend for himself.”

“Whereas I am utterly helpless and must find some strapping man to put food in my belly.” She set her fabric aside, careful to secure the needle first. “Mother, this is 1889. A woman can be nearly anything she wants to be. Once I have my medical license I shall have a paying position as well. I will not need to rely on a husband to care for me.”

“But do you not want to marry? To meet someone and start a family?” her mother asked.

Anna’s thoughts returned to Drew Foster. Her association with that scoundrel was far more intimate than any she’d shared with the young men who’d been present at the balls and soirees her mother had insisted she attend. She felt a flutter low in her belly, and her palms began to itch.

She’d wanted those things. Didn’t everyone? But wanting something did not equate to having it. She wanted a smaller bottom and narrower hips, too, but no amount of wanting had made her any less plump. She sighed. This argument was futile, she knew that. Why she’d allowed her mother to engage her in it today was a mystery.

“Of course I want those things, Mother. It is not that I am not looking. I’m merely looking whilst attending school. I still accompany you to the occasional soiree or ball.”

“Yes, but do try to remember there are plenty of men who will not find you the least bit appealing because of your schooling and headstrong ways,” her mother said.

“Duly noted. But I do not want any of those men. I want a man who will be proud to say his wife is a doctor. It is a good thing I am doing, Mother. Someday you shall see.” She squeezed her mother’s hand. “Simon approves.” She tossed that last bit out there knowing the mention of her mother’s beloved Simon would likely end this argument.

“Your brother is too smart for his own good, always has been. Simply because your family is forward-thinking, Annabelle, does not mean the rest of London is.” She pointed a finger at Anna. “Take note of that, my dear.”

“Of course, Mother. If only more people were like our Simon.”

“Indeed. I do hope they won’t have him in that godforsaken country for too long.”

In truth Anna was concerned about her brother as well. The day after their encounter with Lord Carrington and the ruffians, Simon had been sent on a fool’s errand to Edinburgh—a training assignment, they’d called it. But Anna knew what it was about. He was being punished for failing to catch Jack the Ripper. To add insult to injury he’d been unable to enlist help from the one man who might be able to draw out the killer: Drew Foster.

***

It was a good week before Drew could move without wincing. He’d had his valet remove the stitches placed in his side by the delectable Miss Jacobs, and he had to admit she had the makings of a decent physician. Not to mention the hands of a courtesan. If she’d slid them across his bruised chest one more time, he likely would have embarrassed himself right there in Simon’s study.

If he were to be honest, he could not see any reason why women should not practice medicine, even though most members of his sex would disagree. She’d been astute and quick about her treatment, and had even advised him on the care of his numerous injuries before her brother had returned to say the footpads had eluded him. She was as professional as . . . well, as Doctor Robertson, who’d had the care of Drew’s family ever since he could remember.

Despite Simon’s trying to convince him otherwise, Drew had refused to give him the names of the men who had jumped him that night in the alleyway. He knew all of their names, but saw no reason to make an ordeal of it. He had known that being accused and arrested for the Ripper murders would affect his reputation. And it would seem that plenty of Drew’s would-be peers thought to teach him a lesson. He’d lain low his first week out of prison, recuperating while he struggled to keep his thoughts off Simon’s exquisite sister as he worked through the notion that someone of his acquaintance was a vicious murderer. The same man who wanted Drew to hang for his killings.

Drew had every intention of assisting in capturing the man who’d worked so hard to frame him for the murders of those poor women. Perhaps in doing so he’d manage to repair his reputation to some extent. It mattered not to Drew, but it would be nice to have his brother, the Duke of Carrington, not be affected by Drew’s past behaviors.

He would have liked a drink. But that would only prove Anna Jacobs’s low opinion of him, for he was sure he had not impressed her. She, on the other hand, had impressed him, mightily. He never realized how stimulating a spirited woman could be. He’d enjoyed their banter and her clever rejoinders immensely.

But a woman like Anna Jacobs would never look twice in the direction of a man like him, his reputation made even worse by his stint in prison.

Now that he was mostly healed, he could put himself out into Society and watch and wait. He hoped that, for whatever reason, the man still held him in ill will and would attempt to pin another crime on him. To that end, his first foray into society was to the theatre, a notably more public place, than going to his club. No one would touch him with their betters watching.

Come and find me,
he thought as he looked out across the lobby.

But at the moment no one was coming near him. Apparently, the ton was a trifle worried about his arrest. They obviously thought him guilty of the murder he’d been arrested for, even though he’d been released from Scotland Yard. People whispered and looked his way. Women stepped out of his path with horrified looks on their faces.

They were afraid of him. Normally he’d ignore this entire situation with a bottle, but the one good thing about being in the hole was that it had removed him from the drink that had poisoned his mind and taken so much of his memory away. Had he been more alert in the previous months, during the tirade upon Mayfair, perhaps he wouldn’t have been such an easy target for the Ripper to frame. If Drew had been able to provide one tiny shred of evidence suggesting his innocence, then he might never have been arrested in the first place. But he’d been unable to do so because he’d spent much of the last year drunk. Hell, he’d been drunk for longer than that.

For too long he’d used the shock of finding out he was a bastard to justify his excesses, but no more. Regardless of how much his mouth craved the taste of brandy and how much his mind longed to be dulled to his surroundings, he would not succumb. He shook off the desire and leaned against the wall.

At least if his brother and his new bride had been back from their honeymoon then Drew would have had someone to speak with, but
they had not yet returned. He couldn’t blame them, as Mia had been attacked by the Ripper before their wedding. Though she had shot the murderer and saved herself, she needed time away from London. So Alex had taken her to Paris to see the sculptures.

He didn’t need companionship to stalk his prey, but he feared his prey wouldn’t scurry out of the shadows if he were alone.

From across the lobby, he caught sight of a flash of red. A lovely and deliciously curvaceous woman met his gaze. Intensity flared in her fiery eyes. She said something briefly to her companion and then started off in Drew’s direction. Every nerve in his body clenched tightly as Anna Jacobs approached him. It appeared she had something to say to him.

***

Anna recognized Drew Foster immediately. He had not been far from her mind in the past week since she’d patched him up.

She did not know how such a scoundrel could plague her thoughts the way he did, but ever since she’d had her hands on his bare skin, she’d been hard-pressed to keep her mind on her studies. She reminded herself that Foster was the main reason why her brother had been sent to Scotland, and bolstered enough courage to go and speak to him.

“Pardon me, Mother, I have someone I need to speak with,” she said, but only managed to leave her mother’s side because several of Lady Wickersham’s friends had surrounded them.

She started in Foster’s direction, and when Anna met his gaze, her breath caught. Remnants of the blackened eye shaded above his eyebrow, but this man standing before her looked vastly different than the man she’d worked on. Dressed head-to-toe in black, his clothes were perfectly tailored and accented his broad shoulders and narrow waist. He was far more dashing than he’d been when bloodied and injured. She swallowed hard, shaken by the effect of his eyes on hers. A shiver of awareness slid through her and her step faltered. But only for an instant.

He might possess the most astonishing good looks she had ever encountered, but physical perfection meant nothing. He was merely a man. A rude and terrible man who had let down her brother, and he deserved to be called out on precisely that.

“Lord Carrington,” she said tartly when she reached him. She angled her head to look up at him. He wasn’t overly tall—not like his brother, the Duke—but Andrew Foster was still taller than she. Moreover, he had a way of looking down at a person that made her feel quite insignificant. She knew how he felt about a woman in her profession, but she wasn’t easily intimidated.

“Miss Jacobs.” He bowed. “We meet again, although in much better circumstances this time, I am happy to say.”

So, he
could
be charming. Not that Anna cared. “You have done my brother a disservice,” she said.

He gave her a puzzled look. “I do not see how that is possible. I believe he is on holiday in Scotland.”

Her brows rose. “Holiday! You truly believe he’s on holiday?” She poked a finger in his chest. “I’ll have you know, Lord Carrington, Simon was sent there on a so-called training exercise, but in truth it is merely Scotland Yard punishing him.”

The man had the audacity to appear surprised. “How is that possible? Your brother seems to be the only one following the right paths.”

“It is possible because you refused his request for help with the investigation.”

“I refused?”

“I heard you with my own ears.”

He glanced around them, then took her arm and drew her through a doorway that opened into a dimly lit hall. “You could not have heard something I did not say.” He stood quite close and spoke quietly to her, as though he did not want anyone else to hear. Anna felt the same thrill of intimacy she’d experienced while tending to his wounds in his study and had to resist the most unseemly desire to lean closer to him.

“But you did, Lord Carrington.
You
told Simon you would not change your mind.”

Anna’s breath caught when he lifted his hand and touched the neatly arranged curl near her temple. She could not move as he caressed the shell of her ear. “Perhaps you ought to have your hearing examined, Miss Jacobs. You might need an ear trumpet, at least for when you’re eavesdropping.”

She swatted his hand away. “Are you saying you did not refuse to help my brother?”

“I am saying that I refused to give him the names of my assailants the other evening. That was the extent of our conversation.”

She pressed one hand to her breast, but quickly dropped it to her side when she saw how well he took note of her anatomy. It should have been unnerving to be the object of such direct perusal, but . . . Anna moistened her lips and concentrated on the matter at hand. “Th-then why has he been sent away to Scotland?”

“Do you know you have the most intriguing dimple just here, when you are puzzled?” His finger traced the divot in her chin.

“Lord Carrington, I—”

He dropped his hand away and shrugged. “Who am I to understand the machinations of Scotland Yard?”

Her pulse thundered through her veins, and she had the completely uncharacteristic impulse to strike Lord Carrington. How dare he stand there flirting with her whilst he could be out there trying to find Jack the Ripper? “You should be ashamed of yourself,” she said.

“Believe me,” he murmured with an earnestness that could only be faked. “I most certainly am.”

Anna stared openmouthed at him, struggling for a reply. Before she could summon one, her mother appeared at her side and grabbed her elbow. “Annabelle, what are you doing to this poor gentleman? My apologies, sir, my daughter does not know when to hold her tongue.”

He nodded. “No harm done,” he said, then he turned and walked away.

“Have you lost your senses?” her mother hissed. “You cannot walk up to men in public and berate them. You looked very much ready to be sent to Bedlam.”

“
That
man was Andrew Foster,” she said.

“The murderer?” her mother asked. She brought a hand to her throat. “Good heavens, Annabelle! Why on earth would you engage the attentions of such a man? Why would you put yourself in danger? We should leave and return home immediately.”

“Honestly, Mother, he’s harmless. An arrogant prig, but harmless. Let us go and enjoy the show.”

Unfortunately, she had the feeling she would barely observe the performance. How could she possibly watch the opera while her mind raced over those few moments of conversation with Drew Foster, and the way he’d flirted and touched her so casually? His arrogance and disdain were unparalleled and unforgettable. She had lied to her mother—he was not a murderer, but he was far from harmless.

The Ripper shifted in his chair and winced as pain surged up his arm. He stared out the window watching the rain fall in heavy sheets. Bloody wet country.

“Begging your pardon, my lord,” the maid said from the doorway, her Scottish brogue an instant reminder of where he was currently stuck. Not that he could forget, even for a second. He loathed Scotland. “Her majesty received your message and sends her condolences about your hunting injury.”

“Very good. Thank you, Cecily,” he said.

She nodded. “Will you be requiring anything else?”

“Not at the moment. I wish to be left alone to my thoughts.”

“Yes, my lord.” A short curtsey and then she fled the room.

Cecily
. She was a pretty thing, red hair and freckles. He could cover her in red. Slice her up and—

No, he could not think of such things. At least not right now. Cecily was far too close. If he cut her, they’d know for certain who he was.

Beads of water hit the window with hollow pops. Another shudder of pain ricocheted through his arm.

Damn that bitch for shooting him. The gunshot wound was healing, he knew that, but still it hurt like the devil. The injury had forced him to leave London for the time being while he reassessed and while he healed. He’d told his family it was a hunting injury and he needed to stay where he was, doctor’s orders, until he was well enough to travel.

So it was that he’d found himself at Balmoral for the past few weeks. And here he’d stay for a while longer. Which meant he had to wait before he could go hunting again. He’d taken a break from cutting the whores once before, he could do it again. He merely needed patience.

He forced himself to slow his breathing. Patience had never been one of his virtues, but he did know how to wait, if it was required. He’d almost had the last woman, Mia Danvers, but she’d been smart. Something he hadn’t anticipated. He’d assumed because of her blindness she would be easy prey. He’d obviously underestimated her. Suffice it to say he wouldn’t make the same mistake twice.

Here in the country, life was slower. But he was getting good care; the doctor had cleaned his wound and stitched him up. There had been a few questions—how had the wound happened, where had he been? But they had believed his clever story.

He’d been hunting before it was officially the season to do so, he’d been eager and, well, it would seem a land-owner had not been amused and had shot. Thankfully he’d missed any vital organs. And they’d all had a good chuckle. These simple country Scots were easy to fool.

So for the time being he’d wait here, heal up and make plans for his return. His work wasn’t done. The whores were still there. All over London with their stench and pox. He shuddered with hatred. His palms itched to grip his knife, but it was secured in his room upstairs. Waiting.

Always waiting for the next one to cut.