Page 122 of When We Touch

The papers clamored for Warren’s resignation. Jamie had to wonder if it would be forthcoming.

Inspectors had crawled over the buildings; they had spent the night questioning people, and looking, ever looking, for any possible clues. But Jack had struck twice—and walked away, leaving a mass of confusion and accusation that shrieked across the land.

There were those working the streets of Whitechapel, Spitalfields, and the neighboring areas who might have ignored the first two murders.

No more.

The streets tasted of fear, sounded of fear.

No woman could consider herself safe.

There was far too much horror, and far too much speculation.

Jamie lay in bed after he woke, staring dully at the ceiling, still feeling exhausted. His first course of action, once he had returned home, had been to soak in a very long bath. It had seemed to take forever to breathe in what did not seem like the stench of blood.

And with it, the stench of poverty and disease.

The Queen would be sending for him, he knew. She was, despite the many years she had secreted herself away, a very kind and caring person, and felt her sense of duty keenly. She was going to be appalled, and horrified, and she was going to wonder how these things were happening, when so many people who were supposedly so qualified were in charge.

He dreaded seeing her. How to explain that he had been there, been on those streets, and seen nothing? He groaned aloud, and then fell silent, listening. There had been a tap at his door.

He was surprised. Randolph had known of his exhaustion. He would not awaken him.

“Yes?”

“My lord?” It was Randolph, but he wasn’t alone as he cautiously opened the door. Maggie burst in around him. He’d been sleeping in the nude, since he’d crawled from the bath into a towel, and straight into bed from there.

“I explained that you had a late night, my lord, but Lady Maggie is rather insistent,” Randolph explained.

“Maggie,” he breathed, sitting up in the bed, chest bare, sheet to his waist. “Well, do come in. Be forewarned, I had a very bad night.”

“A bad night!” she exclaimed. “You cannot imagine.”

“You cannot imagine,” he snapped back angrily.

She flushed then, realizing that she stood with Randolph, and that Jamie was in a state of complete undress. But then again, Randolph must be very aware of certain things that he kept entirely to himself.

“I’ll just leave the two of you,” the man murmured, and stepped out, quietly closing the door behind him.

Jamie rose then, his temper truly vile, heedless of her being there. It was not as if she had not seen him so before, and she’d had the rudeness to push her way in.

He walked into the bathroom and splashed cold water on his face, calling back to her, “Lady Maggie, I really don’t give a damn about your petty problems this morning. Don’t you read the papers?”

“Of course I read the papers. And it’s appalling. But—where are you going? I need you to listen to me.”

He wrapped a towel around his waist and walked back out to the bedroom. He was annoyed to realize that despite his anger, despite the sense of tempest raging in him, the sorrow, the horror, she could take him away.

She was standing there in a day dress of blue, skirt embroidered elegantly, bodice beautifully fitted. A shawl of a darker shade, cobalt, like her eyes, was cast around her shoulders. Her hair was pinned back, but gold ringlets of it curled about the length of her throat. She was breathtaking, and he felt the urge to sweep her up, and hold her. Hold her, and believe that he could always keep her safe, that nothing so horrible as what he witnessed could be real. He suddenly wanted assurance of life, be that in the strength of the way that he would put his arms around her, or in the oblivion to be found when he drowned in the depth of her eyes, in the sensuality of her flesh.

Except that . . .

He had to keep his distance from her. The other day . . .

He had behaved abominably himself. She was Charles’s widow, no matter what the circumstances. Every step he had taken with her had been wrong. And now, she was proving to be a thorn in his side. He’d had to chase her down in Whitechapel, of all places. He’d burst into her bedroom then, and now . . .

Now, he gritted his teeth. There was business at hand, and he could neither forget himself by seizing her up with or without her consent, nor could he allow himself to be waylaid by any silly domestic situation.

“What?” he barked.