Fire at Midnight

by Olivia Drake

  Again, he fixed her with his feral stare. “My personal preferences are not at issue. I would rather take a close look at everyone you and your husband knew.”

  “Why should you bother yourself?”

  “The incident happened in my home. That carries a certain responsibility.”

  “Or perhaps you’re afraid of gossip, of newspapers spreading the word that the exalted Marquess of Blackthorne hosts the sort of parties where decent folk end up murdered.”

  His face might have been a bronze sculpture, etched in lines of cold arrogance. “Think whatever you like, Mrs. Rutherford. But if you sincerely wish to see justice served, you’ll cooperate.”

  Shame slithered past her anger. He suggested the sensible path, a start toward finding the truth. Norah forced herself to think. “I’m sorry, but I can’t imagine any woman of my acquaintance who would commit murder.”

  “And the men? It’s possible that a man paid this woman to do the deed.”

  She shook her head. “This is madness. Maurice and I don’t...didn’t befriend murderers.”

  “Perhaps it’s someone you don’t know well.” Hands clasped behind his back, Kit Coleridge paced the leaf design of the carpet. “Did your husband have any enemies?”

  “Of course not. Maurice might have been as opinionated as any man, but he got on well with people. After all, he needed finesse to deal with the most demanding of our highborn customers.”

  A slight quirk of his dark brows gave the only sign that the marquess had noticed her irony. “Perhaps he had a professional rival. I understand he was contemplating a royal commission. To make a tiara for the Princess of Wales to wear at the Queen’s Jubilee in June.”

  “Yes. We...he had competitors, other jewelers who plan to submit their own designs.” Worry over the commission seized Norah; she forced her mind back to the murder. “But to kill him? I can’t imagine who would have done so.”

  “Yet someone did. Had he quarreled with anyone recently?”

  One argument echoed an unwelcome refrain in her memory. But she had no intention of spilling out her private life to a stranger. “Maurice had occasional disagreements with people. Don’t we all?”

  “Yes, and in the heat of the moment, we can speak unduly harsh words. We can stir passions that might otherwise remain dormant.”

  “What are you saying?”

  He hesitated, one black eyebrow arched in keen absorption, as if he were assessing a flawed jewel. “I’m afraid the police will consider you a prime suspect, Mrs. Rutherford.”

  Her lungs froze in breathless surprise. “That is utterly preposterous.”

  “But unavoidable. Who would have more motive to kill her philandering husband than the injured wife?”

  The allusion to Maurice’s infidelity cut into Norah. “I can prove my whereabouts last night.”

  “So where were you?”

  He stood with his hands on his hips, the coat pushed back to reveal his trim waist and the powerful breadth of his chest. Resentment pricked her. She needn’t justify herself to this stranger. “That is between me and the police. Besides, you’re ignoring one salient point.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Why kill him here?” She pointed her index finger at the marquess. “Why did the murderess involve you, your lordship?”

  Moodiness descended over his face. He rubbed the back of his neck as if it pained him. “I wish I knew.”

  Clutching the black velvet of her skirt, Norah took a step toward him. By heaven, she must unravel the mystery. “Maybe you killed him.”

  He glared down at her, his mouth taut and pale. “I beg your pardon? What, pray, was my motive for doing in your husband?”

  His sarcasm angered her. She lifted her chin. “Inspector Wadding confirmed that Maurice may have been robbed. You see, when my husband left home, he was carrying an expensive diamond he meant to deliver to a client. That diamond is now missing.”

  His gaze sharpened. “Who is the client?”

  “I don’t know.” She extricated herself from the bitter swamp of memory. “Maurice didn’t tell me.”

  “I see. So you think I robbed your husband, stuck him with a hatpin, and arranged him in my own bed. All in the midst of a party in which scores of eyewitnesses can vouch for me.”

  Put in bald terms, the scenario seemed absurd. Whirling, she retreated to the drafty windowsill. “Inspector Wadding said there was only one witness—a woman who was your guest.”

  “Yes, that’s true.”

  “I should like to speak to her.”

  He shook his head decisively. “It would serve no purpose, Mrs. Rutherford. She’s already told her story to the police.”

  “Unless she lied at your urging.”

  “Oh? Where is your proof of this lie?”

  His affronted glare daunted Norah. His hands were balled at his sides, his mouth tight, his dark eyes glittering. She wondered how far Lord Blackthorne would go to protect his sterling name. What if he were more involved than he admitted?

  She must tread carefully. She mustn’t forget he was a tiger, dangerous and unpredictable. And probably above the law.

  “Perhaps lie is too strong a word,” she amended. “I merely thought you or the police might have intimidated the witness into saying what you wanted to hear.”

  His lips quirked unexpectedly into a half smile so impudent and appealing that she glimpsed his allure to a certain type of female. Not herself, of course. “So,” he said, “you think I bullied the poor woman?”

  “It’s possible. I wish to meet the witness. To hear her account for myself.”

  “I’m sorry, but she isn’t available. She left last night—”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  The husky sound of Jane’s voice made Kit spin around. His heart jerked. “What the devil—”

  His mistress stood in the shadowed doorway of the dressing room. Her blond hair cascaded in an immodest mass down to her waist. She wore his maroon silk smoking jacket... and nothing else, judging by her naked calves.

  Trust Jane to make a dramatic entrance.

  He flashed a look at Mrs. Rutherford. Across the bridge of her nose, a charming cluster of freckles sprinkled her pearly skin. High color tinted her cheeks. She held herself stiff and straight, one auburn eyebrow arched, her eyes jewel-green in the morning light.

  Bloody hell. He could imagine the condemning thoughts racing inside Norah Rutherford’s head. She had accused him of murder; now she had proof to denounce him as a philanderer, too. Shame washed over him. Damn, he was weary of being judged a lecher, a walking phallus with no more to offer a woman than an illicit romp in bed. He needed more than meaningless sexual encounters. He knew a desperate wish to see Norah Rutherford’s lovely features kindle with esteem and admiration instead of suspicion and censure.

  Like the lady of the household, Jane stepped into the bedroom. “I don’t mind answering your questions, Mrs. Rutherford,” she said in her best upper-crust tone. “But first, allow me to extend my deepest—”

  “Please refrain from extending anything.” Kit strode grimly to intercept her. “Why are you still here?” he said in a harsh whisper. “It’s quite obvious you’ve been eavesdropping.”

  “I fell asleep on the cot.” Jane waved a hand at the dressing room. “Your voices awakened me. I could hardly avoid overhearing you, darling.” She spoke as if he were the one at fault.

  “Then I’m sure you’ll hear this clearly enough: get back in there and attire yourself properly.”

  “I’ve nothing to hide—”

  “Go.”

  “But Kit, darling—”

  “Now.”

  Her kittenish features settled into a fine sulk. She yanked at the tasseled tie of the robe and minced away in a huff.

  “Stop,” said Norah Rutherford. “I insist on having a word with you.”

  Jane swirled back around, the image of injured womanhood. “Yes?”

  Jesus God. Things were going from bad to worse.
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  Kit stepped to Norah’s side. ‘Come with me, Mrs. Rutherford. We’ll wait downstairs.”

  Ignoring him, she focused on Jane. “Pardon me, but are you the witness?”

  “The one and only.” She smoothed her palms over the dressing gown. “I’m the Honorable Jane Bingham. What was it you wished to ask me?”

  Norah Rutherford’s gaze traveled up and down his mistress. “I’ve changed my mind. I believe my questions have been answered adequately already. She turned to Kit, and her withering look revealed her doubts of his witness and her condemnation of him. “Thank you for your hospitality, my lord. I can see myself out.”

  Tongue-tied with a woman for the first time in his adult life, he watched Norah Rutherford walk out the bedroom door.

  He saw himself through her eyes, a self-indulgent profligate whose most notable achievement was his sexual conquests. A man whose word she mistrusted. A man she denounced as a black-hearted scoundrel. The insult still pained him. He prayed her opinion didn’t stem from his half-caste heritage.

  He massaged the crick in his neck. Damn, he felt old and jaded. Hell of a condition to develop before he’d even reached his thirtieth birthday.

  His charm had always won him favor with women. He fulfilled their erotic fantasies and gratified his own physical urges. Yet no woman had ever brought lasting joy to his life. The future loomed before him, an endless string of aimless affairs and fair-weather friends. Suddenly Kit yearned to find the great love his father and stepmother shared.

  The powerful love that had driven Norah Rutherford to tear at the bed in mindless grief.

  Misgivings assaulted him. He wasn’t sure he knew how to love a woman completely, to offer her spiritual and emotional support. But if learning by example could work, his parents were fine teachers. He had grown up protected in a close-knit family, and not until he went off to boarding school had he been forced to fight prejudice against his damnable Indian blood.

  “Well!” said Jane. “I never expected Rutherford’s widow to be so young. Thank heavens I wasn’t cursed with hair in that bold red hue.”

  In grim humor, Kit watched Jane primp her sleek tresses. “Thank heavens indeed. You’re bold enough just as you are.”

  She draped herself against his chest. “Oh, darling. You’re not still angry with me for intruding, are you? I waited ever so long for you to come to bed last night.”

  “What torment you must have suffered. Since you’d failed to scratch your itch with Rutherford.”

  A tiny frown disturbed her sultry expression. “I told you last night, I never meant to seduce him—”

  “Spare me the lie.” Shaking her off, Kit walked away and worked at his sleeve link. “I know your proclivities too well. And they don’t lean toward fidelity.”

  “Fidelity! That’s as antiquated an idea as those dusty relics my father is forever digging up.”

  Kit unbuttoned his shirt. “Nevertheless, faithfulness was our agreement.”

  “Come now, nothing really happened.” From behind him, she glided her fingertips over his ear. The heat of her body left him cold. “And speaking of proclivities, mine are telling me a certain stallion needs to ride his mare.”

  He pulled away. “For once you’re wrong.”

  “Then why are you undressing?”

  “I’m going to wash up. And you’re going home.” Impelled by weariness and discontent, he made a snap decision. “For good.”

  Her provocative mouth opened and closed. She planted her hands on her hips. “Just like that, you’re pitching me out?”

  “Just like that.” Seeing the baffled shock in her blue eyes, he gentled his tone. “It’s inevitable, Jane. You always move on to another man every few months.”

  “On my own terms, yes.”

  “I’m sorry, but this time it’ll be on my terms.”

  Her lower lip thrust out. Her eyes narrowed to slits. She glanced at the rumpled bed, then poked her spike-nailed finger at him. “It’s that woman.”

  “What woman?” he scoffed, going into the dressing room to deposit his sleeve links on the clothes-press.

  “That Rutherford woman.” Jane followed him. “You’re taken with that prissy, sharp-tongued widow.”

  “That isn’t true.” But even as he spoke, Kit felt the truth burning like a fire inside his chest.

  “Hah! Now who’s lying? I saw how you looked at her.” With an ill-humored curse, Jane snatched up the untidy heap of her clothing. “But the joke’s on you, my lord. You’ll never get your prodigious cock under her skirts. I know her kind—she’s the sort who keeps herself locked in a chastity belt. And her husband probably swallowed the key before he died.” Jane tossed one final glare as she headed for the door, trailing a silk stocking. “You’ll regret spurning Jane Bingham. I’ll make bloody certain of that!”

  Kit only half heard her diatribe. Memory enthralled him with the feel of Norah Rutherford’s body beneath his, the passionate spirit hidden behind her ladylike facade, the ethereal beauty enhanced by her keen mind. He ached to think that the ice of grief encased her in sadness.

  If only he could help her.

  Yet in his heart he feared she would never accept help from a reprobate. God, maybe he was a fool for hoping she wasn’t intolerant. Hadn’t he learned his lesson about snide Englishwomen at the tender age of fourteen? As much as he tried to dam them, the painful images came flooding back.

  Images of Emma Woodfern.

  The first time he had seen Emma, she had been sitting on a wrought-iron bench outside the headmaster’s office. Kit had been studying in the cavernous silence of the refectory, his private retreat whenever his classmates shunned or taunted him.

  Peering idly out the leaded window, he spied her in the garden. The unusual sight of a girl at a boys’ school riveted him; she must have been there to fetch her brother home for the weekend. The fresh green of early spring foliage made a backdrop for her radiant features. She was a wood nymph with petal-white skin, an aura as pure as newly fallen snow, and an abundance of cinnamon hair draping her shoulders. Her slender form was bent over the primer in her lap.

  Kit fell instantly in love. He was racking his brain for an excuse to go out and meet her when her parents emerged from the dormitory with a boy in tow, James Woodfern. Even now, Kit felt his muscles tense with anger. James was a thickset, stupid lad devoted to two sports: cricket and the game of ridiculing Kit about his heritage. How James with his ugly bulldog features and cruel manner had gotten a nymph for a sister, Kit couldn’t say.

  But he dared not introduce himself to her now. Torn by frustration, he watched her depart with her family. Only by shamelessly rifling through James’s trunk was Kit able to discover her name, in a letter she’d written to her brother, full of poignantly girlish complaints about her studies with a governess.

  Emma. Emma Woodfern. Even the name held an unearthly quality, sweet and mysterious.

  The following weekend, he left a sprig of violets on the wrought-iron bench, with her name written on a card. Then he kept watch out the refectory window. He had almost given up when at sunset she strolled into the garden, a wand-slim fairy gliding with grace and beauty through the shadows of early evening. She found the violets and lifted them to her nose, then tucked them into her white lace collar.

  Her expressive blue eyes and delighted smile encouraged Kit. She looked around, as if to search the bushes and trees for her secret admirer. He stayed hidden inside the darkened refectory. She would come to love him; slowly he would win her affections. Only then would he reveal himself.

  The next week he left her a belated Valentine with a poem he’d laboriously composed when he ought to have been studying algebra. He scored woefully low on his exam, but earned the prize of Emma’s pleasure when she read the love verse.

  Each week, he left her another small treasure: a lace handkerchief embroidered with her initials, a cluster of fragile forget-me-nots, a sketch of her refined profile. After a time, he began to pen her letters, too, e
xtolling her virtues and lauding her loveliness. He could tell by the spring in her step as she hastened to the bench, and by the brilliance of her smile, that she cherished each new gift.

  His own parents asked in bewilderment why Kit never wanted to take the train to join them in London on the weekends anymore. He wove a tale of needing to study, of enjoying the quiet atmosphere when many of the other boys were gone. Lying shamed him, yet he couldn’t disclose to anyone his love for Emma Woodfern.

  Until the summer holidays approached, and he faced the prospect of not seeing her again until autumn. That Friday, he scraped up his courage and changed into his best suit. He even took a razor to the black fuzz that was beginning to sprout on his cheeks and jaw. Then he slipped into the refectory to wait.

  She came through the garden gate and hurried to the bench. Today he had left the most expensive gift of all, a crystal bottle of perfume, which had required him to save his allowance for a month. Smiling, she sat down and sniffed daintily at the bottle, then applied a dab from the stopper to each wrist.

  Now. He must go to her now.

  His palms sweating and his heart thumping, he opened the heavy oak door and went outside, into the balmy twilight. Emma would love him, he told himself. She wasn’t like her nasty brother. She was a nymph, shining with goodness and purity.

  Reckless hope spurred Kit down the stone path. She looked up, the smile fading on her flawless complexion. The delicate scent of gardenias wafted through the air. Before he could turn coward, he sank to one knee and reverently kissed the back of her pearl-smooth hand. “Miss Woodfern. Emma.” Her name tasted as sweet as forbidden wine on his lips.

  “Who are you?”

  The harsh demand daunted him for a moment; then he realized she hadn’t yet connected him with the gifts. “I’m Christopher Coleridge. I left you the perfume and all the other things. I’ve waited so long to tell you—”

  “You!” She recoiled, yanking her hand free and shrinking against the back of the bench. Horror lit her blue eyes. “But you’re...Blackie! My brother says you’re a heathen, from the wilds of India.”

  Then she had hurled the perfume bottle onto the flagstone path, where his costly present smashed into a thousand shards. Numb with disbelief, he had watched her run out of the garden, leaving only the reek of gardenias and the terrible wound of rejection throbbing inside him.