Page 59 of When We Touch

“We need stronger deterrents. Quick action. Why, just the other week, I might well have been shot and killed because of a wretched charlatan pretending to be a great medium! And what did the police do? Let the head fellow escape! One was killed outright; the woman involved was a pretty thing and the police were kind to her, though she might well have committed murder herself! I tell you, if it weren’t for the ordinary citizens there . . . I shudder to think of what might have happened to me.”

Maggie felt herself growing increasingly uncomfortable.

“And, I tell you, it is coming to a truly wretched state!” Marian continued. “Have you kept up with the papers? There is a real monster afoot in the East End. Surely a foreigner, for no Englishman would ever be such an insane animal! There will be more, mark my words. Now, I grant you that this madman is killing women who can hardly be granted such a term in themselves, drunkards they are, the worst kinds of street harlots. But still, cattle are surely put down with less frenzy! We should rid the country of all of these people!”

Maggie turned away, as if seeking another glass of champagne, and she turned directly into Jamie.

His eyes were dark, like the stormiest day in the midst of winter. She trembled the instant she saw him, for he was stark, imposing, and incredibly attractive in the black dress attire he’d chosen for the occasion.

“Well . . . Auntie Maggie,” he said dryly. “Will you dance with me?”

She floundered, lifting the empty glass in her hand. “Ah, more champagne,” he continued. “Well, you do seem to gain incredible . . . energy . . . on champagne.”

He took the glass from her, setting it down on a silver tray carried by a passing waiter. Then she was in his arms, and they were swirling across the floor.

“You left rather abruptly,” he said.

She couldn’t find her voice at first. “It seemed the proper thing to do.”

“Proper, yes, of course. And here we are; you’re duly wed.”

“What should I have done?” she whispered miserably.

“Called it off.”

She lowered her head, shaking it. “You don’t understand. It wouldn’t have been right.”

“Um. That’s right. You’d already been paid for services to be rendered.”

“Do you have to be so vulgar and hateful?”

“Well, I rather think I’m being honest. Let’s see . . . it wouldn’t be right to call off the wedding. But it wasn’t wrong that you didn’t call it off—after last night.”

“Last night was—”

“A terrible mistake, of course.”

She felt as if she had been slapped. What had she expected?

“A terrible mistake,” she agreed.

“Never to happen again.”

“Of course not!”

“Still, it should have shown you that you should never have married Charles.”

“Last night I was not married.”

“And now you are. And look at you! Not in the least the worse for . . . wear.”

Her cheeks colored. “I am quite miserable enough, thank you,” she said.

He didn’t skip a beat in leading the dance, but his lashes lowered and his eyes seemed to pin her where she stood, tight in his embrace. “Well, as the saying goes, you have made your bed, and now you must lie in it. God help my uncle.”

“If you felt so, sir, you had your chance to protest.”

“It wasn’t my place to protest. It was yours.”