his nose into it, a notion to which his wolf, and his stomach, thoroughly rebelled. Unfortunately, Archer’s expression made it clear that he hadn’t any brilliant ideas either.
Irritation swelled and then a thought hit Ian. “Have you her clothing, Poole?”
Poole’s eyes widened but he went to a storage locker. “Certainly.”
Under the watchful eyes of Lane, Ian accepted the ragged bundle of clothes. Archer stepped back toward the body of Alexis Trent. “If you would, Poole, I’ve a question about the damage done to the greater omentum.”
At Lane’s look of confusion, Ian smiled. “Fancy physician speak for that fatty looking mass in front of her intestines. You know, the lumpy yellow-gray bit hanging before them.” His grin widened as Lane went decidedly green. “If you are feeling faint, you can stay with me. I wouldn’t blame you in the least.”
The man glared at him, but strode off on wobbling limbs to stand by Archer’s side as the men waxed lyrical on many methods of evisceration. Ian shook his head, his smile remaining. Predictable as the sunrise, calling a man’s courage into question to get him to react.
But his smile faded as he studied the gown he set on a working table before him. It was in tatters but once quite respectable. A machine-made, plain cambric dress with wide skirts and a bodice slightly out of date. The clothes of the middle to lower class. And most thoroughly soaked in the same perfume as worn by the other victim—and the luscious Daisy Craigmore. He needn’t even inhale. It was there, just beneath the muck and dried blood crusting the fabric. Dread sucked at him. The
were
wasn’t attacking at random. It was attracted to the perfume. Daisy’s perfume.
Chapter Five
I an tracked her easily through the crowded streets. Though her mourning gown blended well within the sea of working-class worsted, the widow Daisy Craigmore stood out. Her pace was steady and serene as a lady’s ought to be and yet that stride of hers was pure eroticism, hypnotic in its bump and sway. The elaborate gathering of fabric over her bustle only served to highlight the motion, enough to glue more than one man’s gaze to her rear as she walked. And though his hackles rose with each covetous glance, she paid the men no notice. Beneath the black taffeta, her shoulders were set and tight, and he wondered if she thought of that night when death brushed its hand too close to her cheek.
That Daisy had chosen to walk after the funeral of Alex Trent wasn’t so strange. He understood the need to clear one’s head. Only he’d expected her to find a pretty park in which to take her promenade. Instead, she moved farther away from the safety of Mayfair. The neighborhood they entered was working class, but not so pooras to be dangerous. Simply a place decent men lived, worked, and played. Ian stuck out like a brass tack in old leather.
Not breaking stride, he took off his ruby stickpin and stuffed it into his pocket, along with his gold watch. He didn’t fear theft. Pity the man who tried it. But he’d rather not shout out his presence; the cut of his suit and the cost of the cloth already did that enough.
At the corner, a paperboy stood, his little voice a mighty shout as he waved the latest edition over his head. “Mad killer stalks the fair people of London! Victims’ livers eaten for his supper!”
Daisy’s pace faltered, a small bobble of her feet that had Ian wanting to stride ahead and take hold of her arm for support. He needn’t see her face to know she was as white as milk.
“When will he strike again?” cried the paperboy. “Who among us is safe? Read all about it!”
Daisy moved past the boy without a glance. With the ease of a frequent patron, she walked up to a tavern, the Plough and Harrow, and entered. He gave her a moment before following.
The taproom was dim and smelled of ale, men, and roasted meat. Filled with the midday-meal crowd, shouts of laughter and genial
Irritation swelled and then a thought hit Ian. “Have you her clothing, Poole?”
Poole’s eyes widened but he went to a storage locker. “Certainly.”
Under the watchful eyes of Lane, Ian accepted the ragged bundle of clothes. Archer stepped back toward the body of Alexis Trent. “If you would, Poole, I’ve a question about the damage done to the greater omentum.”
At Lane’s look of confusion, Ian smiled. “Fancy physician speak for that fatty looking mass in front of her intestines. You know, the lumpy yellow-gray bit hanging before them.” His grin widened as Lane went decidedly green. “If you are feeling faint, you can stay with me. I wouldn’t blame you in the least.”
The man glared at him, but strode off on wobbling limbs to stand by Archer’s side as the men waxed lyrical on many methods of evisceration. Ian shook his head, his smile remaining. Predictable as the sunrise, calling a man’s courage into question to get him to react.
But his smile faded as he studied the gown he set on a working table before him. It was in tatters but once quite respectable. A machine-made, plain cambric dress with wide skirts and a bodice slightly out of date. The clothes of the middle to lower class. And most thoroughly soaked in the same perfume as worn by the other victim—and the luscious Daisy Craigmore. He needn’t even inhale. It was there, just beneath the muck and dried blood crusting the fabric. Dread sucked at him. The
were
wasn’t attacking at random. It was attracted to the perfume. Daisy’s perfume.
Chapter Five
I an tracked her easily through the crowded streets. Though her mourning gown blended well within the sea of working-class worsted, the widow Daisy Craigmore stood out. Her pace was steady and serene as a lady’s ought to be and yet that stride of hers was pure eroticism, hypnotic in its bump and sway. The elaborate gathering of fabric over her bustle only served to highlight the motion, enough to glue more than one man’s gaze to her rear as she walked. And though his hackles rose with each covetous glance, she paid the men no notice. Beneath the black taffeta, her shoulders were set and tight, and he wondered if she thought of that night when death brushed its hand too close to her cheek.
That Daisy had chosen to walk after the funeral of Alex Trent wasn’t so strange. He understood the need to clear one’s head. Only he’d expected her to find a pretty park in which to take her promenade. Instead, she moved farther away from the safety of Mayfair. The neighborhood they entered was working class, but not so pooras to be dangerous. Simply a place decent men lived, worked, and played. Ian stuck out like a brass tack in old leather.
Not breaking stride, he took off his ruby stickpin and stuffed it into his pocket, along with his gold watch. He didn’t fear theft. Pity the man who tried it. But he’d rather not shout out his presence; the cut of his suit and the cost of the cloth already did that enough.
At the corner, a paperboy stood, his little voice a mighty shout as he waved the latest edition over his head. “Mad killer stalks the fair people of London! Victims’ livers eaten for his supper!”
Daisy’s pace faltered, a small bobble of her feet that had Ian wanting to stride ahead and take hold of her arm for support. He needn’t see her face to know she was as white as milk.
“When will he strike again?” cried the paperboy. “Who among us is safe? Read all about it!”
Daisy moved past the boy without a glance. With the ease of a frequent patron, she walked up to a tavern, the Plough and Harrow, and entered. He gave her a moment before following.
The taproom was dim and smelled of ale, men, and roasted meat. Filled with the midday-meal crowd, shouts of laughter and genial
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