Night Falls Darkly Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Teaser chapter

  A Stolen Kiss

  Heat burned Elena’s cheeks. “If you’re not enjoying yourself, you can go on without me and do whatever it was you had originally intended.”

  She knew she sounded like a petulant child, but somehow Lord Black had a way of jabbing at her emotions and making her behave in ways she’d never act otherwise.

  Suddenly he pulled her against him, so fiercely that her breasts crushed into his chest.

  “I don’t want to go on without you.”

  Her heartbeat raced. Everything she had been feeling—the irritation and impatience—went into a complete reversal at his touch. He gazed down at her with sensual, almost intimidating intensity. She still heard the voices of the museum visitors in the next room.

  Lord Black kept his voice low and discreet. “I want to kiss you. To drag you off like the cretin you just vilified and ravish you behind that partition.”

  There was an earnest, raw tone to his voice that thrilled her to the core. Gone was his emotionless façade. Her guidebook fell to the floor, forgotten, as she grasped his forearms and instinctively leaned into him, boldly matching her hips against his.

  She gasped as he seized her by the waist.

  He murmured, “Do you see why I have stayed away?”

  “So, you were avoiding me,” she accused softly.

  “What is the alternative?”

  She peered up from beneath the curve of her bonnet. “Kissing me again.”

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  First published by Signet Eclipse, an imprint of New American Library,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  First Printing, October 2008

  eISBN : 978-1-440-64002-5

  Copyright © Kim Lenox, 2008

  All rights reserved

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  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  For Jon and Tristan,

  the best office assistants a writer ever had

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  The pursuit of authorship is no simple endeavor. Night Falls Darkly would not have become a reality without:

  Eric, the keeper of my heart, my “hero worth waiting forever for.” Even if you don’t read my books.

  My parents, who support me in everything. If I jumped off a cliff, they’d probably jump too, and I love them for it.

  Kelly, my brother—my earliest storytelling partner. You are a true modern-day warrior and an inspiration in all that you do.

  Author Cindy Miles, whose heartfelt friendship, zany humor, and care packages truly (truly) got me through the dark times. There just aren’t enough words.

  Kim Lionetti, my very talented agent, and the person who set me on the path to this book.

  Laura Cifelli, my editor at NAL. You made me think bigger and better, and I thank you for it. And also Lindsay Nouis, who always had an answer and a smile. You both made the publishing process a true pleasure.

  Kimberly Gardner and Julia Templeton, two writers I’ve known since “the beginning.” Thank you for the lightning-fast final reads and camaraderie. Life is better with friends like you.

  William Simon of Abberline Investigations, my very own Ripperologist. Thank you for all the friendship, knowledge, and documentation you shared.

  I am also very grateful to Lee Jackson, who created, and continues to compile sources for The Victorian Dictionary, which everyone can enjoy at www.victorianlondon.org, and also the phenomenal resource Casebook: Jack the Ripper , at www.casebook.org, Stephen P. Ryder, executive editor. Many thanks to the staff at the Hirsch Library, Museum of Fine Arts in Houston, and to the members of NWHRWA, WHRWA, and Hearts Through History chapters of Romance Writers of America, whose support and encouragement have always meant so much.

  Prologue

  Spitalfields slums

  London

  April 1887

  “Come out, Mr. Winslow.” Archer stepped out from the stairwell onto the dark tenement roof. “It’s your time to die.”

  Wind, biting and ruthless, sent the tails of his greatcoat snapping behind him. He wove between crumbling chimneys and piles of rubbish, avoiding the sagging tar paper and rotted beams that might collapse and send a more careless being into the black oblivion of the abandoned building below. He pulled the leather gloves from his hands and tucked them into his hip pocket. Another gust twisted his long hair about his shoulders. Inhaling deeply, he savored the scent of fear on the air.

  “How rude of you to run and hide, when I’ve traveled all this way just . . . to see . . . you.”

  This was his favorite part of the hunt, the exquisite, slow torture of his prey right before Final Reclamation. He could choose to darken into shadow and make quick business of things, but no—a devi
ant like Winslow deserved to be terrorized on a much grander scale.

  Archer closed his eyes and summoned the quickening. Heat seared his skin and fluxed through his veins. When he opened his eyes again, he knew they were no longer gray, but wholly black. He spread his palms at his sides. Eight claw daggers hissed out, nearly to his knees, their blades formed of equal parts fire and primeval silver.

  A crumbling stack of bricks stood at the south end of the roof. Though the fog was dense and the sky held no stars, he required no light to discern even the minutest detail. The air fairly quivered around the bricks. With a growl, he leapt the distance and leveled them with one blow.

  Winslow reeled into the open. Though he was Herculean in stature, his scream rang as high-pitched as a child’s. Unexpectedly, he dragged with him a tempest of woolen skirts, slender limbs and pale hair. Archer bit out a curse, his pleasure in the hunt instantly soured. He had sensed no other presence but Winslow’s. How could this be? Never before had he made such a grievous mistake. With a scowl, he advanced.

  “Wot the ’ell are you?” Winslow gaped, his eyes fixed in terror, first on Archer’s claws and then his eyes. Scarlet furrows scored one cheek, evidence of his captive’s mettle. “A demon, or the devil ’imself?”

  Winslow dragged the girl toward the far ledge.

  “Let . . . me . . . go!” She cuffed his jaw. Her lower lip was bruised and swollen. One of her sleeves gaped open, torn and flapping in the wind.

  Archer hissed. How was he to Reclaim his target without sacrificing the life of the girl?

  Winslow’s heel pierced a weak spot in the roof. Both went tumbling. Recovering quickly, he clamped one arm around her chest, the other in a high choke hold against her neck, and hauled her backward onto the ledge. Behind them the slum lay blanketed in sooty darkness. Heedless of the danger, the girl flailed her arms and kicked at the beast’s shins with her bare feet.

  “Stop fightin’ me, bitch!” Winslow ground out between yellowed and broken teeth. He struggled for balance atop the narrow ridge of crumbling mortar.

  Archer halted. Any fall would be fatal for both. He cared not about Winslow—nothing could save the bastard now—but he would not be held accountable to the Primordials for the death of an innocent.

  “I hope he kills you,” the girl shouted, clawing at the meaty hands, trying to pry them away. “Kills you for what you did to me. For what you did to the others.”

  “Shut your mouth.” A jealous animal guarding his claim, he wrenched her hard against his body. The ledge shifted. Bits of brick and mortar splintered out. “I’ll jump before I let ’im cut me wi’ them wicked blades, an’ I’ll take you wi’ me.”

  “Then do it now, coward!” challenged the girl, her voice a defiant sob. “Jump!”

  Archer searched the darkness of his mind and found her name there.

  Elena, he commanded in silence. Stop.

  She froze. Her arms and legs eased in their tension until the tips of her toes almost touched the muddied cuff of Winslow’s boots. She rasped, fighting for breath, and with visible effort, tilted her face to stare wide-eyed and disbelieving at Archer.

  What odd eyes she had. Brave eyes, one blue and one brown. Time, which usually rushed past him with the speed of a tumultuous, engorged river, almost stopped. His pulse—or hers?—beat in his ears, a dark cannonade. Beyond her tears he saw dignity and strength, and a reflection of himself as she saw him.

  Cruel. Violent.

  Beautiful.

  His mind reeled to another existence, to a time when he had lived and loved. Dreams or memories? He couldn’t be certain anymore.

  “Do what you will,” she whispered to Archer.

  Winslow spewed blasphemies, his face a mere blot against the background of the night.

  Archer stared at Elena, puzzled that he could not break the connection he had put into place between them. How could it be that with only a glance and a few words, a woman—a mortal woman at that—could penetrate him so completely? He felt all tangled up with her, something his mind rejected, but his soul craved.

  Unnerved, Archer looked away, and into the eyes of something he understood better. “It’s time we brought this dance of ours to an end.”

  “Go ahead,” Winslow warned, wrenching the girl’s head higher against his shoulder. “But she’ll die too.”

  “You think it all ends with that?” Archer whispered. “With death? I’m afraid not. You can’t escape, so let the girl go.”

  “She stays with me!” bellowed Winslow. His beefy fingers pressed into the pale flesh of Elena’s throat.

  Throughout time, Archer had always hunted with the dispassionate precision of a wolf, but now rage welled within him, so black and intense he felt he would disintegrate from the inside out. He cursed the limitations of his power, wishing he could slay by mere glance. Instead, left with no other choice, he darkened into shadow. With a frantic gaze, Winslow shouted and searched the rooftop. He sidled along the ledge as if to escape.

  Mortar crunched, then slid and crumbled. The girl screamed.

  Archer retracted his claws and lunged for her, but too late. A flash of petticoat, and she disappeared with Winslow over the edge.

  Frantic to save her, he fell against the bricks and thrust out his arm, his only reward a brush of fingertips and her terrified stare locked onto his as she spiraled out of reach.

  Chapter One

  September 29, 1888

  Elena grasped the girl’s wrists. With the weight of her body and every bit of her strength, she pinned the young prostitute to the table.

  “Bastards!” Lizzy shrieked, and heaved herself up with such force she nearly threw Elena off.

  “Shhhh, shhhh,” Elena soothed. “He’ll make sure it goes fast.”

  With a pop, the bone slid into place.

  “Success,” announced Dr. Harcourt.

  “You see?” Relief coursed through Elena, along with an electrifying charge of pride. “That wasn’t so bad, was it? I told you he was good.”

  She eased off Lizzy, but carefully. In her brief time on the ward she’d learned one could never be certain of a patient’s response. Some reacted with gratitude, others with a strike to the jaw. Glancing down, she saw twin rivers of tears streaming over Lizzy’s temples and into her bright red hair. The girl’s pallor nearly matched the white enamel of the table beneath her. Smelling salts might be in order.

  “Lizzy?” Elena smoothed an unruly curl off a freckled forehead. The girl was very young and clearly alone in the world. “Are you all right?”

  Suddenly slender arms seized Elena in an embrace so fierce her feet rose inches off the floor.

  Lizzy sobbed, “Oh, thank y’, miss. Thank y’ for stayin’ wi’ me. I ain’t never been so scared in all me born days.”

  Her patient smelled of tobacco and gin rather than soap and flowers as a young girl should, yet Elena felt sympathy for her and admittedly, a sort of kinship. Who could say she wouldn’t be living on the street and doing anything to survive if fate hadn’t handed her a different set of circumstances?

  “You’ve been so brave through all of this, Lizzy.” Elena gave her a squeeze. Stepping back, she slipped a hand into her apron pocket and pulled out a handkerchief. “Two days ago I watched a grown man fall to pieces when faced with the same procedure.”

  “Truly?” Lizzy gave a sheepish smile and gratefully accepted the folded square of linen. She dabbed at her eyes.

  In the corner of the tiny room Dr. Harcourt gave instructions to the young medical student who had assisted with the procedure. Elena listened as well, hungry for any bit of knowledge, be it simple or complex. They would employ a wood splint and sturdy bandaging to ensure the girl’s knee remained safely aligned for the next several days. His instructions given, the doctor strode toward the door.

  “Wait, Doc,” Lizzy called out, raising herself onto an elbow. Her threadbare waistcoat stretched across narrow shoulders.

  Dr. Harcourt paused, a shock of blond hair tumbling
over one eye until he brushed it aside. “Yes, Miss Harper?”

  He wore a physician’s smock and trousers, an understated uniform for the highborn second son of one of England’s wealthiest and most influential families. He was tall and athletic of build, and the top of his head nearly met the upper frame of the door.

  Lizzy blurted, “I’m ever so sorry to ’ave called you a bastard.” She glanced toward the student. “You too, sir. So very sorry.”

  Harcourt flashed a warm smile, the one Elena saw him employ often with his patients. Unlike many of the older physicians on staff, he had a way of putting his subjects at ease. His gaze lifted to Elena for a brief moment before returning to the girl. “Don’t think of it again. I’m pleased to have been of assistance.”

  With that, he disappeared into the hall.

  Lizzy’s grin revealed a row of crooked teeth. “Lor’, if the doctor ain’t the most ’andsome man I ever seen. ‘Ow can you even stand workin’ with ’at one?”

  Elena laughed softly but offered no response. Harcourt was a handsome man, but he had been her personal physician in the months following her accident. Now he was her mentor. Though over time they’d become something like friends, she didn’t think of him in terms of attractiveness.

  Oh, bosh. That was a filthy lie if she’d ever told one.

  But she did take her position at the hospital very seriously. Only out of desperation had Harcourt dropped his insistence that she devote herself to “pursuits more appropriate to her station” and granted her a probationary role among the nurses. The proximity of the vicious Whitechapel killings to the hospital infirmary had inspired a wave of panic amongst its female employees. A number of nurses had resigned their posts, leaving the London sorely understaffed. It had been a full three weeks since the last murder, but in that time the authorities had made no firm arrests, and a thick pall of fear hung heavy across the district.