Ripped by Shelly Dickson Carr Page B

just chugged a foot-long stein of beer. Then he hurled the crystal glass into the fireplace where it crashed and crackled causing Katie to jump out of her seat.
    â€œGod’s teeth! I’ll not bungle this one!” the duke roared, as the fire embers sputtered and sizzled, lapping up droplets of brandy. “Send Collin to me at once . . . no, send Toby. I’ve a dark suspicion that Toby ’ s my man.”

Part III:

    Jack the Ripper Strikes

Chapter Ten

    Murder in Buck’s Row. August 31, 1888.
    S eventeen-year-old Georgie Cross had a round, clean-shaven, good-natured face that flushed with a strawberry rash whenever he got excited. He was wearing knee breeches and a ragged white shirt beneath his porter’s smock, and his hobnailed boots made loud clumping sounds against the cobblestones. It was early evening, and as Georgie ambled into Buck’s Row on his way to Spitalfields Market, he found himself joyfully whistling the tune of “Auprès de ma Blonde,” the French marching song—his knees stepping high along with the rousing melody.
    Georgie fisted his hand and pounded it to his heart like a Roman soldier pledging allegiance. Georgie was in love. Again . But this time it was true love . Dark eyed, dimple-cheeked, buxom Cecilia, a dancer at the Veux Music Hall, wasn’t a bit like his last twist ’n’ swirl, Monique. No, Cecilia was going to be his one and only true love forever.
    Georgie couldn’t read or write, but he was a great one for stories. He remembered them all in his head, and right now he was remembering that odd little fable about a wizard—or was it a warlock?—named Zeus, who, at the beginning of time, when all humans were born with two legs, two arms, and one head with two faces, decided to cut everyone down the middle and scatter their cleaved parts across the universe. Then he commanded all future generations to go out and search for their rightful other halves to make them whole again.
    It was a story Georgie had loved hearing his mother recite ever since he was a wee nipper. And Cecilia—Georgie felt it down to the tips of his toes—was his true other half, his twin flame. She just didn’t know it yet.
    Georgie flushed scarlet thinking about Cecilia’s long, shapely bacon and eggs, and her beautiful dark mince pies.
    Those ebony eyes of hers made the blood rush to his head when she chanced to favor him with a smile. True, she wasn’t the type of girl his mum would approve of. She wore far too much paint on her face. But Cecilia was a can-can dancer after all. She needed to rouge her cheeks and paint her eyes and smile encouragingly at the toffs at the dance hall in order to get an extra sovereign here and there. No harm in that. Underneath all the powder and dross, Georgie felt sure Cecilia was as demure as a saint. And those ruby lips . . .
    But thinking of Cecilia’s luscious red lips reminded Georgie unhappily of all the crates full of ripe fruit and vegetables he would soon be straining to load and unload well into the night, stacking them in the market stalls so as to be ready before dawn.
    With a heavy sigh, he glanced around. Buck’s Row was dimly lit, with only a few sputtering gas lamps casting flickering shadows into the gutters. The full moon overhead made the street appear brighter, illuminating Berber’s Slaughterhouse across the way in a pale, amber glow.
    A cat yowled in the distance.
    Georgie gave an involuntary shudder, not at the high-pitched cat wail, but at the slaughterhouse. As he approached, he couldn’t help but scrunch up his nose at the stench. He caught sight of Johnny Brisbane standing in front of the slaughterhouse with a group of butcher lads in blood-smeared leather aprons. Johnny Brisbane was Georgie’s mother’s cousin’s brother-in-law. He owned the East End Butcher shop called The Cut, near Petticoat Alley, but got his meat here at the