Fire at Midnight

by Olivia Drake

  She oughtn’t allow such familiarity, especially not when her name on his lips sounded like a caress. But a curious compulsion urged her to relent. “If you wish, my lord.”

  “Kit,” he corrected. “It’s what my friends call me. I hope you’ll consider me a friend.”

  Kit. Their relationship suddenly seemed unbearably intimate. Wary, she pulled her hands into her lap and twisted her wedding band. His smile sobered, as if she’d hurt him by drawing away. She was keenly aware that he was a seducer, a manipulator. Yet somehow his steady gaze melted the stiffness in her muscles. He had a way of disarming her, diluting her resentment.

  She forced her mind back to the murder. “How did Ivy know about the morphine?”

  “Months ago, she overheard Thaddeus asking Winnifred to fetch his medicine from the chemist. I suspect Ivy hears a lot that people don’t realize.”

  Fear and worry tangled Norah’s insides. She’d spent many a sleepless night turning over the problem in her mind. “Do you really suppose Thaddeus or Winnifred murdered Maurice?”

  “Someone laced his sherry with morphine.”

  “But morphine is as common as diamonds in South Africa. Anyone could have secured some. People take the drug for ailments ranging from rheumatism to nervousness.”

  “Norah, your husband was impeccably dressed and there was no sign of a struggle. He must have been killed by someone he knew and trusted.”

  Feeling ill, Norah sat back. She pictured Maurice climbing the darkened back stairs of Kit’s mansion, the convivial sounds of the party drifting from the distance, the mysterious woman in scarlet clinging to his arm. Stealing into a stranger’s bedroom, Maurice had drunk the glass of poisoned sherry. What had he been thinking? Why had he gone there, anyway? Had he been lured? Had he spent his last moments believing himself safe in the company of a friend...a cousin...even a sister?

  Or had he been kissing and caressing his mistress even as he’d slipped into a drug-induced coma? Another horrid but plausible thought choked Norah. Had the woman found his touch so painful, so repulsive that she’d murdered him on impulse?

  “Did you love him so much, then?”

  The softly spoken words tiptoed into her awareness. Norah blinked. Sitting on the desk, Kit leaned toward her, his elbow propped on his thigh. His bronzed features wore a look of mesmerizing intensity, a concentration that entranced her. It took a second for her to focus on an answer to his question.

  She got up and went to the window. “I was very fond of Maurice. He was my husband.”

  “That wasn’t what I asked,” he said, rising to his feet as well. “I wondered how much you loved him.”

  An ache opened inside her. If only Kit knew the truth. But he never would. “Are you seeing me as a suspect again?” she asked icily. “Wasn’t the word of the Sweenys good enough for you?”

  “I didn’t mean to imply that you’d killed him.”

  “Then why are you questioning me?”

  He raked his fingers through his hair, mussing the straight midnight strands into the look of a libertine. “I was curious, that’s all. Forgive me for prying.”

  How a man of his reputation could appear so innocent, could even make her feel guilty for her coldness, Norah didn’t know. Frost rimed the windowpane and she rubbed her fingertip over the ice. There wasn’t much to see outside; the office overlooked the alley and the brick wall of the adjacent tobacconist’s shop.

  “If you’re quite through,” she said over her shoulder, “I have work to do.”

  “There is one other reason I came here. I want to commission a set of matching jewelry... necklace, bracelet, brooch, and earrings.”

  She turned in surprise. “A parure? For whom?”

  One corner of his mouth tilted into a secretive smile. “A lady.”

  Distaste struck Norah with lightning force. He must intend to give the magnificent gift to Jane Bingham.

  She squelched her displeasure. If he wanted to squander his wealth, that was his choice. Considering the amount she owed to Bertie Goswell, she should appreciate the commission. “Well,” she said. “What exactly did you have in mind? South African diamonds? Burmese rubies? Kashmirian sapphires?”

  “I don’t know. I leave everything to your creative judgment. Cost is no object.”

  “What is this...lady’s taste?”

  “She’s attracted to me.” His smile deepened with boundless conceit.

  “You’ll have to tell me more than that,” Norah said. “Is she bold? Shy? Feminine?”

  His idle gaze roamed her up and down, as if seeing the image of another woman. “She’s a bit unconventional.”

  “Any woman who engages in your sort of relationship is unconventional,” Norah snapped without thinking.

  “Perhaps.” Oddly, a flush darkened his cheeks. He strolled around the office, touching a swan dish here and a jade table clock there. “Let me think. She’s witty. Intelligent. Warmhearted.” He angled an inscrutable glance over his shoulder. “And of course very beautiful.”

  “A paragon.” Norah struggled to keep the sharpness from her tone. How could he speak so highly of a hussy? “How lucky you are.”

  “I think so.” Kit came closer and fingered the brocade drapery beside her. “Design something unusual. Something you would like, Norah. I trust your taste.”

  “Thank you.” His scent and nearness, the intimate use of her name, threatened to scatter her thoughts. She had never before met a man who exuded seduction, a man who focused his natural charisma on each and every woman he met. She moved away on the pretext of picking up her sketch pad. “Perhaps a celestial motif with diamonds and moonstones. Very delicate and pretty.”

  On the wings of inspiration, she penciled a stylized moon against a bed of diamond chips. “I could even do some hair combs if you like. Or a diadem.”

  He peered over her shoulder and his warmth brushed her back. “Ah,” he said, his breath tickling her ear. “Lovely. I knew I could depend on you to come up with something original, even ingenious.”

  His praise glowed within her. She kept her tone crisp and businesslike. “You’ll want to see a complete set of sketches before we begin the actual work.”

  “Of course. When can you have them ready?”

  “If you’ll give me until next week...?”

  He nodded and walked away to don his topcoat. “Excellent. I confess I’m most anxious to present the jewels to my lady.”

  That strange twisting sensation assailed Norah’s stomach again. Before she could stop the words, she blurted, “Miss Bingham strikes me as the type who might prefer something more flamboyant. Are you sure she’ll like my design?”

  Kit paused with his hand on the doorknob. His dark eyes gleamed with an obscure amusement. “You must have misunderstood me,” he murmured. “I never said the gems were for Miss Bingham. You see, she and I have parted ways.”

  Chapter 6

  “Women.”

  The incisive voice jabbed into Kit’s concentration. He turned from his contemplation of the fire and looked at the man slouched in the wing chair in his library. “Pardon?”

  “Women,” repeated Adrian, his brown Byronic curls framing a droll expression. “I was beginning to fear not even that topic would engage your attention. For the last ten minutes, you haven’t heard a word I’ve said.”

  “Sorry.” Going to the sideboard, Kit splashed more brandy into his glass. He downed half in one stinging gulp, then lowered himself into a chair opposite Adrian and propped his feet on a stool. “Go on now. You have my complete attention.”

  “No one’s seen you with any women. You haven’t attended a single party in weeks. You haven’t even been out to Hurlingham. The fellows at the club have been wondering why you haven’t been exercising your horses.”

  “That’s what stable lads are for.”

  “You haven’t been racing any of the horses, either.”

  “It’s been too bloody cold.”

  Adrian cocked an eyebrow and grinn
ed. “Ah, so you’ve been chasing warmer prey. Do tell me about her.”

  Norah’s likeness burned into Kit’s soul, the hair as red and shining as a ruby, the skin as smooth and lustrous as a pearl, the eyes as cool and mysterious as jade. For once he felt disinclined to trade tales of conquest. He wanted to keep her all for himself. Besides, he hadn’t even come close to conquering her. “Never mind.”

  “Rumor has it you’re after the widow of that jeweler chap, the fellow found murdered in your bed. The story in this morning’s news sheet will only fertilize the gossip.”

  Kit cast a grim glance at the blackened remains of yellow newspaper in the grate. The shock and surprise of reading the report of the murder still reverberated inside him. “Only the bored read that drivel.”

  Adrian curled his lip. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Sorry. Just do me a favor and don’t remind me that everyone in London is reading the true account of Maurice Rutherford’s death.”

  “Come now, no secrets between friends,” Adrian cajoled. “She must be a hot filly to lift her tail when her husband’s not a month in his grave.”

  “For God’s sake, leave off!” Kit slammed his drink on the side table and surged up. “I won’t hear you talk about Norah that way. She’s a lady.”

  Unfazed, Adrian idly leafed through a copy of The Kama Sutra, then paused to examine one of the erotic illustrations. “Touchy, aren’t you? Most intriguing. I never knew a little scandal to transform you into Sir Lancelot.”

  “Jesus God,” Kit muttered. Half embarrassed and half angry, he prowled his library. This lovesick obsession with a woman had never happened to him before – at least not since he’d been a green youth. He had always been able to withhold his emotions, to enjoy women without laying himself open to hurt. Until now. “The matter is not up for discussion.”

  “I’m only trying to spur you back into your old self. I say, will you look at this?” Adrian turned the book to display a painting of an entwined, naked couple. “I wouldn’t have thought these acrobatics humanly possible, hmm?”

  “Amazing,” Kit said dryly. “To think there’s something you haven’t tried.”

  Adrian tsked. “I could say the same for you, old boy. In all the years I’ve known you, you’ve been faithful only to unfaithfulness.”

  “Then it’s time for me to change.” The power of conviction strengthened Kit. He couldn’t continue skimming along the surface of relationships, never delving fathoms deep into the pain and joy of commitment. “Maybe I’m ready to settle on one woman.”

  “More pressure from your father, eh?”

  “No. I haven’t been home since Christmas.”

  Adrian’s mouth slanted downward even as he shot upright. The book slid from his lap and thunked onto the Persian carpet. “Ye gods! Don’t say you of all men have been struck by Cupid’s arrow?”

  Humor glinted into Kit’s dark mood. Like him, Lord Adrian Marlow spurned polite society in favor of more sinful pastimes. But unlike Kit, who had confined himself to romantic liaisons, Adrian was a dedicated thrill seeker forever in search of new amusement, from smoking opium in the dens of the Devil’s Acre to sailing over Paris in a hot-air balloon. His current challenge, one he’d been pursuing for the past year, was to seduce the wife of every member of Parliament under the age of forty.

  Kit winced inwardly. That was precisely the sort of libertine Norah thought him. She still mistrusted his ability to reform, even though he’d dedicated himself to investigating the murder and teaching her orphan boys. Even though he’d tried to show his honesty five days ago by confessing about the sixpenny novel.

  Out of desperation, he’d been forced to resort to subterfuge. Surely she couldn’t despise a man who ordered a complete set of her jewelry. Once she found out the recipient of the parure, surely she would relent. In the meantime, a spot of jealousy gave him hope that at least she cared for him.

  He drummed his fingers on the mantelpiece. If she were truly jealous. Being in love was so new to him. God Almighty, what if his plan fizzled? What if only his monstrous pride made him believe that beneath her chilly manner Norah needed him? What if she reacted to his proposal with shock and disgust—

  “You’re doing it again,” said Adrian.

  “Doing what?”

  “Not listening. Not answering.”

  “What exactly do you want to know?”

  Adrian sat with his hands tucked beneath his chin, like a lost boy deprived of a playmate. “Tell me you’re jesting. That you only mean to make the widow Rutherford your mistress.”

  Pity touched Kit. How could he explain to a nonbeliever the exquisite agony of falling in love? “Marriage is hardly a death sentence,” he said inadequately. “I only hope I can convince Norah to accept my suit.”

  “By God, you are serious.” Then Adrian brightened. “But you haven’t asked her yet?”

  “No.”

  “And she’s in mourning. Can’t hobble yourself to her for at least a year. Anything can happen in that time.”

  Precisely, Kit thought. The idea of Norah giving her heart to another man pierced him like a sword. In particular, he couldn’t forget the possessive way Jerome St. Claire regarded her, as if she were his personal property.

  “To hell with convention.” Kit slapped his palm on the mantel, the framed photographs rattling. “If I thought I could convince her, I’d elope with her tomorrow.”

  Adrian grimaced, his shoulders again drooping with gloom. “You’re truly set on this course to hell, then.”

  “I prefer to call it a course to heaven.” In sudden curiosity Kit looked at his friend. “Surely even you’ve given a thought to begetting an heir someday.”

  “Ye gods, you sound like my father. The old curmudgeon keeps nagging me to sire the twelfth earl, and I’m not even number eleven yet. He wants me to have a whole litter of brats.” Adrian shuddered. “One whelp tucked away in the country is the most I could ever tolerate. Even so, I refuse to give up my freedom until I pass forty at the very least.”

  Kit chuckled. “What if you fall in love before then?”

  “It’ll never happen.” Adrian shook a finger. “I’ll make you this vow. I’ll marry if and when I meet a woman—a respectable lady—who’s bold enough to sneak into Buckingham Palace and make love to me in Queen Victoria’s own bed.” Satisfied with the impossibility of his requirement, he eased back into his chair.

  “I wonder what your father would think of your criterion for a bride?”

  “I rather suppose he’d chain me to a mustachioed nag as long as her blood was blue.” Combing his fingers through his curls, Adrian assumed a thoughtful frown. “Speaking of bloodlines, old chap, word has it Norah Rutherford is baseborn.”

  “Jesus God,” Kit said in mock fear. “This half-caste could never bear the disgrace.”

  “Now don’t get sarcastic with me. Even though you’ve faced down plenty of bigots over the years, we’re speaking of marriage here. I’m wondering what the duke will say.”

  “That the small-minded people of society can go to the devil. My father is tolerant enough.”

  “Ah, yes. How could I forget what he gave you on your eighteenth birthday?’ Adrian picked up The Kama Sutra and flipped the pages again. “This book and a box of condoms. I remember envying you his indulgence.”

  The memory wrested a smile from Kit. Then he looked down at the grate, and his grin crumpled like the ashes of newspaper he scattered with the toe of his shoe. The duke had also advised him to treat women with respect. “Unfortunately, my father won’t be so indulgent when he sees today’s newspaper story about a murder under my roof. If I know him, he’s scribbling off a telegram this very moment, demanding my presence at once. I might as well resign myself to spending the next few days in Kent.”

  “Who do you suppose leaked the story to the scandal sheets?” Adrian asked.

  An iron band of hatred clenched Kit’s chest. Over the years he’d learned to turn the other cheek. But not this tim
e.

  This time Norah would be hurt by the scandal.

  Softly he said, “I’ve a notion who the culprit is. Bruce Abernathy.”

  “Mm. The sly goat never gives up, does he?”

  “He will this time.” Kit smiled harshly. “And I mean to pay him a call.”

  “I’m so glad you came to call.” Norah drew her visitor over to the parlor sofa and seated herself beside him. “How I’ve missed you this past week.”

  “I bought a copy of the Times at a stall in Hamburg. But the newspaper was two days outdated. The moment I read the story, I caught the first train back to Le Havre.”

  “Thank you. But you needn’t have hurried so.”

  “Norah, I had to be with you now that people know Maurice was murdered—and where.” Frowning, Jerome St. Claire clasped her hands tight. His skin retained a trace of cold from the outdoors and his silver hair was untypically mussed. “I couldn’t bear to think of you enduring the gossip alone.”

  Reluctant to worry him any further, she fabricated a smile. He needn’t know about the snubs on the street, the whispers at the shop, the snooping reporters who had been hounding her for more dirt until she had run them out of the store. “Nothing earthshaking has happened. Besides, I have Ivy and Winnifred.

  “Those two.” Uttering a snort, he loosed her hands. “Ivy, bless her soul, wouldn’t comprehend cruelty until it slapped her in the face. And Winnifred? I wouldn’t trust that shrew not to join the rest of society in vilifying you.” He glanced around. “By the way, where are the grand dames?”

  “Winnifred is mending the linens, I think.” Norah touched a lace doily on the side table. “And Ivy is in bed. She’s having one of her bad days.”

  “Hmm. The poor dear. I hate to think of any nasty gossip reaching her maidenly ears.”

  “I’ve done my best to protect her.”

  Jerome narrowed his blue eyes. “And meanwhile, who’ll protect you?”

  “Let the old biddies cluck all they like,” Norah said with an airy wave of her hand. “You should know by now that I’m not one to crave socializing—it was Maurice who enjoyed those endless soirees and dinner parties.”