The Miss Mae Site
Pure Southern Genteel
What if you lived in Victorian London, the time of Jack the Ripper? What if you were one of the women he attacked, yet you managed to escape? And what if you knew he needed to find you and silence you before you identified him?
New maid Dorcy Edwards spurns her wealthy employer's attempts to seduce her. When he becomes a victim of the person the newspapers call "Jack the Ripper," estranged son Gareth Davenport returns to London to handle his father's affairs. Dorcy puzzles over what the handsome, brooding heir might be hiding behind his eye patch and black leather gloves. As circumstances unfold to expose the killer's identity, Dorcy's plunged into a nightamre, convinced Gareth is none other than the infamous murderer. But is Dorcy's life what Gareth seeks? Or nothing more easily broken than her heart?
Read an excerpt:
Dorcy rushed through the doorway, grabbing the hand railing to keep from falling down the slippery steps. Swirling fog cocooned her, the impenetrable moisture abruptly halting her frenzied flight.
Mr. Davenport!
The scream resonated long and loud inside her mind. With stunning clarity the image she’d seen rammed into her consciousness—a figure sprawled on the library floor, white shirt soaked with blood, the hilt of a knife stuck in his belly.
Numb with shock, she stood unmoving as the air erupted with noise. Hooves clattering against the cobble-stoned street signaled an approaching rider. Through a parting in the shifting fog she stared toward the corner gas lamp. Beneath its arcing light trotted a snorting gelding, a shrunken visage of a man hunched over the animal’s neck.
“A body’s been found in Mitre Square.” Raising his prune wrinkled face, the old man shrilled out his warning. “Lock yer doors. Stay inside.”
He spurred the horse down the street and the pair disappeared into the mist. His high, thin cry merged with the fading echo of the steed’s departing hoof beats.
Dorcy inhaled a shuddering breath, the sudden odor of human body sweat alerting her to someone’s presence. A deep, unfamiliar voice said, “Madame, I have some business with you.”
Gasping, she whirled to flee. But a strong hand gripped her arm and flung her against the wall of the house. Knocked breathless, she opened her mouth to scream.
“Oh no, my pretty lady.” Vise-like fingers clamped on her throat, preventing sound. “I think you’ll be telling no one that you saw me.”
She clawed at the attacker’s hand, her nails slashing his flesh as she fought to loosen his hold. Through the ringing crescendo of blood in her ears she heard the barking of a dog. The man jerked back and Dorcy twisted away. He grabbed at her, clenching her shoulder. She lashed out, her fists beating against the rough texture of his jacket. Strength born out of terrified desperation she tore herself free, squealing with pain as his fingers raked down her arm.
Terror guided her as she raced blindly through the fog-shrouded streets. Stumbling over an unseen object, she paused, whipping a disoriented look across her shoulder. A raspy cough rattled the air, and she jumped back. The mist thinned and a bulky shape materialized in front of her.
“Miss Edwards. You’re out and about early, ain’t you now?”
