by Olivia Drake
“If Lady Carlyle doesn’t interest you,” Kit put in, “I would be pleased to introduce you to an array of suitable women.”
“I don’t doubt you could,” Jerome snapped, “considering how many women you know.”
“Stop,” Norah hissed. “This is no place to argue.”
She felt the pressure of Kit’s hand on her shoulder. His nostrils flared as he glowered at Jerome. “My wife is right. I highly recommend marriage, St. Claire. Norah and I share a bliss you couldn’t even begin to imagine.”
His jealous ownership left a sour taste in her mouth. Why did Kit pursue this absurd rivalry? Didn’t he trust her love? Didn’t he believe her when she proclaimed Jerome a friend?
She was about to confront Kit on the matter when a voice piped in a stage whisper, “Yer lordship. Milady.”
Around the door that led toward the vault and workroom, Lark peeked out, his boyish face topped by spikes of unruly black hair. Excitement made his brown eyes enormous. A broom in one hand, he beckoned with a stubby forefinger.
Kit drew her toward the lad, who leaped back a step to let them enter the gas-lit passageway. “What is it, Lark?”
“’Tis the peeler from Scotland Yard. He came t’ the back door and asked fer ye. Mr. Teodecki set ’im t’ wait in yer office.”
“Inspector Wadding?” Norah said, her pulse leaping. “Perhaps he’s discovered something.”
“Maybe he finally caught ’er,” Lark said in a reverent hush. “The madwoman o’ Mayfair.”
Kit leveled a stern look at the boy. “Thank you for bringing the message so promptly. That will be all now.”
“Aw. Mightn’t I listen—?”
“Absolutely not. You’ve sweeping to do.”
His lower lip thrust out. “Aye, sir.” His feet dragging and his shoulders slumped, he preceded them down the passageway and into the workroom.
Watery sunlight flowed through the wall of windows. Over the past weeks the cavernous room had been restored to its original order. The scents of new plaster and paint joined the metallic aromas that spoke eloquently to Norah and renewed her fierce pride. This busy workplace truly belonged to her...and to Kit. Winning royal patronage would lure more customers to the showroom. Someday her designs would become as renowned as those of Garrard and Cartier.
Thaddeus glanced up from his workbench, his gaze tracking her progress through the busy room. The gold wire he held glittered against the tan leather of his apron. His pointed goatee and sweep of brown hair gave him a faintly sinister aspect. He turned away, stooping over the neat array of tools on his bench.
Foreboding lowered Norah’s high spirits. Could he and Maurice have been lovers? Could Thaddeus have stuck the hatpin through Maurice’s heart? Could he have hidden himself in the museum and thrust her down the stairs? After all, he coveted the royal commission.
Controlling a shudder, she clung tightly to Kit’s arm as they entered her new office. The lavish gilt furnishings had burned, praise heavens. Now, thanks to Kit, she had a cheerfully efficient workplace with lemon-yellow drapes at the windows, comfortable guest chairs, and a spacious mahogany desk with a hanging gas lamp to provide lighting while she sketched.
Scratching his elongated ear with the stub of a pencil, Detective-Inspector Harvey Wadding stood staring at one of her father-in-law s photographs, of an Indian fakir lying on a bed of nails.
“Inspector?” Norah said.
The policeman spun around, his equine face ruddy. He executed a clumsy bow. “Your lordship. Mrs. Ru—ahem—milady.”
Kit strode forward. “Have you any new information? Did you arrest the person who left the roses on Rutherford’s grave?
“I fear not. For the past month, a constable has patrolled Highgate Cemetery, but there hasn’t been a single rose delivered, and no visitors to the grave except the two Misses Rutherford.” Wadding shuffled his big feet. “I’m afraid I can no longer spare a man to keep a fruitless watch.”
“You’re giving up?” Norah exclaimed in dismay.
“We must. Last evening, the police commissioner’s wife was attacked by footpads outside Drury Lane Theatre. We’ve orders to place extra patrols in the Covent Garden area.”
“And what about the safety of my wife?” Kit demanded. “Two and a half months ago, someone pushed Lady Blackthorne down the stairs at the museum. You haven’t found the culprit yet.”
“We questioned the guests, but since she didn’t see who—”
“Someone also sent her that blasted mourning brooch. Why the devil couldn’t you track down that clue?”
As if to escape Kit’s wrath, Wadding ducked his head. “I called on every engraver in the city, even went into the rookeries. I’m sorry—”
“Sorry. Good God!” His face stiff with frustration, Kit slapped the flat of his palm on the desk. “Suppose the villain chooses tonight to resume delivering the roses?”
“Then we’ll set up a watch again.” Wadding spread out his chapped hands. “I will, of course, continue my investigation regarding” —he glanced at Norah, and his blush deepened to crimson— “your other information.”
She kept her gaze steady. “If you’re referring to my late husband’s secret, then I’d like to know what you’ve found out. Have you learned of him frequenting any such brothels?”
“Not yet. But it takes time to ferret out places that cater to, er, peculiar tastes. Seeing as how they don’t advertise their services in The Times.”
“Then work harder,” Kit growled. “Her ladyship’s life is in danger. I want the culprit locked behind bars before I end up putting roses on Norah’s grave.”
“Aye, milord.”
Outside the office, Lark wielded his broom along the wooden baseboard, his ears attuned to the snatches of conversation that drifted through the inch-wide crack of the opened door.
The tramp of footsteps alerted him. He quickly swept his pile of debris toward the rear of the workroom and hummed a tuneless ditty.
The office door opened, then clicked shut.
He edged a glance over his shoulder. The peeler strode past the rows of workbenches and then disappeared out the alley door.
Agitation beat in Lark’s chest. He leaned on his broom, clutching the stick for dear life. Some bedlamite had been lurking about the cemetery, sneaking roses onto Mr. R’s grave.
The madwoman! It must be her!
And the peelers, God rot them, were swearing off the case.
Except for checking the brothels. Lark curled his lip. Poor ladyship didn’t deserve a man who’d cheated on her with red-caped tarts. At least the barstard had met his just reward. At least now she had a hero for a husband.
Peter Bagley came up from behind and grabbed Lark by the collar. “Lolling about, are you? That’s what comes of hiring riffraff. Get on with you now. The privy could use scouring.”
Lark glowered as the portly craftsman ambled back to his workbench. The blinkin’ old fart. Never missed a chance to make a bloke’s life wretched.
He brandished the flat of his broom at that broad arse. He’d cheerfully give his last copper to see Bagley sprawled out like a gin-sotted drunk.
But he had bigger fish to fry, Lark told himself. Slowly he lowered the broom and headed toward the privy in the rear corner of the shop. He had plans to make. He would keep the marquess’s lady safe.
He would nab the madwoman o’ Mayfair.
“I can’t believe the police failed. The roses were our best clue yet.” Kit raked his fingers through his hair. “If I didn’t need to stay close to you, I’d keep surveillance on the cemetery myself. This mystery is so damned frustrating.”
Like a caged tiger, he prowled hack and forth across the office. He’d removed his coat and rolled up his sleeves. His forearms were as brown and hard as burnished teak. The white shirt embraced his broad shoulders and led Norah’s attention downward to his trim waist and taut posterior.
She knew the feel of his long, muscular legs entangled with hers. She knew the arms tha
t could wrap around her as if never to let go. She knew the rasp of his unshaven cheek against her belly, the lick of his tongue on a place so intimate she blushed even to think of it...
Languid heat sapped her energy. She shifted in the desk chair and forced herself to concentrate on the list before her. The competition deadline of May first loomed only a few days away. Under her close supervision, Peter Bagley had fashioned the royal tiara. Thaddeus was the better craftsman, but to avoid a conflict of interest, he had declined to make her entry.
She picked up the unfinished tiara. It weighed surprisingly little because she had used platinum instead of the traditional, heavier gold. The innovative metal also made the brilliant white diamonds appear to float around the curve of the headpiece. Cut in graduated sizes, the stones formed a delicate cobweb pattern that resembled the texture of fine lace.
Only the center prongs remained empty. She could no longer put off the inevitable task of finding a replacement for Fire at Midnight.
Worried, she set down the tiara. “I could use the emerald the maharaja gave me,” she murmured.
“Pardon?”
“I said, the maharaja’s emerald might suit the royal tiara.”
Kit stopped pacing. “You’re not giving away a wedding gift, for God’s sake.” His stern mouth softened; his ruffled hair made him look enticingly attractive, as if he’d just risen from bed. “Especially not a gift that matches your beautiful eyes.’
His aura of sensuality threatened to distract her, as it had so often in the past month. She ought to have found another suitable stone weeks ago. “Well. The Bayhurst estate auction is scheduled for tomorrow.” Norah pulled a catalogue from the drawer and flipped through the pages. “See this sketch? Family history claims the Viscaino ruby ring dates back to Henry VIII.”
“Impressive.” Kit flicked a glance at the opened page. “So let’s buy it and reset the stone.”
Norah sighed. “I don’t know. The ruby is too...red. It wouldn’t suit Princess Alexandra’s ethereal beauty.”
“So what else is on your list?”
He circled the desk, propped one hand on the back of her chair, and planted the other on the desk. As he bent over her shoulder, his warm breath stirred the fine hairs above her ear. His male scent disturbed her concentration.
She picked up her pencil and stabbed the point at random on the paper. “There’s the Playter necklace. The central stone is a forty-one-carat blue diamond once owned by Peter the Great.”
“Who owns it now?”
“Sir Ian Playter, of Edinburgh. Rumor has it he’s in debt and needs to sell the piece.”
Kit lightly massaged the nape of her neck; tiny shivers rippled down her back and around to her breasts and lower. “It’s settled, then,” he said. “If you’ll give me his address, I’ll have my solicitor telegraph him.”
She resisted the lassitude spreading like warm honey through her veins. “A man trained in law knows little about jewels. Perhaps Jerome should go instead.”
The pads of his fingers faltered, then resumed the magical caress. “Capital idea. We can suggest he take a long holiday in the Highlands while he’s there.”
The hint of dark humor in his voice annoyed her. She swung her head up. “For heaven’s sake, Kit, he’d have to hurry straight back with the stone. And I do wish you and he could be friends—”
“Let’s not quarrel, love. Not now.”
His white teeth gleamed in the instant before his mouth descended to hers. The pencil slipped from her fingers and plopped unheeded onto the desk. Closing her eyes, she wreathed her arms around his neck and strained upward, the better to feel the thrusts of his tongue. The taste of his lips intoxicated her like fine wine. His incessant desire thrilled her, caused her stomach muscles to contract with voluptuous yearning.
He drew her up out of the chair. Her spine met the hardness of the wall, her bustle cushioning her derriere. The gentle warmth of hand covered her abdomen. “Have I told you how happy I am about our baby?” he murmured.
A rush of pleasure filled her. “At least a dozen times in the past twenty-four hours.”
“Mm. Then this time I’d like to tell you in more than mere words.” His hand slid lower, where a wealth of petticoats guarded her womanhood. Pressing his palm there, he rubbed in a slow circular motion that penetrated the layers of muslin and liquefied her loins. “Unbutton my trousers,” he whispered against her lips.
She tilted her head back against the wall. “Here?”
“Yes, here.” His gold-flecked dark eyes glittered with the promise of treasures to come. “It’s time we christened your new office, don’t you think?”
Arousal quickened her, enticed her to a deliciously wicked longing. She glanced over his shoulder at the closed door. “The craftsmen—”
“Have orders not to enter without knocking.”
“But someone still might hear—”
“So don’t cry out loudly.”
“I never cry out,” she protested, then paused. “Do I?”
He cradled her warm cheeks. “There’s no need to look so mortified, darling. Whatever we do together is natural and right, an outpouring of the love we feel for each other.”
The adoration in his voice dealt a swift blow to her modesty. The surety of his affections ignited the burn of desire in her heart, a desire that seared downward and coiled tight, like a tendril of fire. Unable to resist, she caressed him; a telltale thickness announced his readiness and stifled any last prickling of propriety. The fevered work of her fingers released his buttons. Reaching inside, she took him into her hand.
His breath emerged in a hot gust against her brow. He rubbed his hands up and down her arms. “Norah, you’re mine,” he said hoarsely. “No other man will ever have you.”
“And no other woman will have you.”
They kissed again, an open kiss that foretold the mating Norah craved. All the while the pads of her fingers tiptoed up and down his hardened member, from the moist crown to the velvety sacs. He groaned into her mouth and with a dizzying sense of authority, she took hold of his shoulders and pushed him down onto the plush carpet, so the desk shielded them from the window.
Kit rolled up on his elbow. “Let me undress you—”
“No. Lie still.” She knelt beside him, her pale lilac gown fluffing out like a summer cloud. “Your thirtieth birthday is only a few days off. Let’s consider this my early gift to you.”
He melted back onto the carpet, his fingers digging into the fine pile. “I’m yours. Do whatever you wish.”
The completeness of his surrender empowered her with wanton urges. She let her fingers roam along the firmness of his collarbone, the breadth of his chest, the rock-solid thighs beneath the smooth fabric of his trousers. He was a beautiful model of manhood, from the sculpted planes of his face to the rigid branch springing from the black forest at his groin.
He lay waiting, watching her, his eyelids half lowered. She ached to assure him of the depths of her love, but words never seemed enough to satisfy him. She wanted to show him once and for all that he had no cause for jealousy.
Cupping him like a gold chalice in her palm, she bent closer and drank deeply. The harsh rasp of his response rewarded her; his fingers dipped into her hair and mutely encouraged her. Following instinct, she kissed and tasted and explored until he caught her by the arms and gasped out, “No more. For God’s sake, have pity or I’ll spend my seed before I satisfy you.”
“Your seed has already taken firm root, my lord,” she murmured. “And I trust you’ll satisfy me, one way or another.”
“How about this way?”
Taking hold of her waist, he lifted her over him so that her skirts billowed and her center settled against steely heat. His hands stole beneath her hem, rode up the path of her silk stockings, and spread the opening in her cambric drawers. Needing no further encouragement, she braced her hands on his chest, lifted herself and plunged. The resulting fullness wrestled a low moan from her throat. Gr
itting her teeth against further outcries, she shifted her hips and savored the luscious slide of velvet against vigor.
Freedom of movement gave wing to her passion and swept her swiftly toward the crest of completion. The love swelling her heart pushed her over the edge. Even as her feelings burst, inundating her in a shower of shudders, she felt Kit arch upward with the explosive force of his own release.
“Norah. Norah, I love you.”
Limp and appeased, she melted onto him. Beneath her ear, his chest rose and fell, gradually slowing to its regular rhythm. Too replete to stir, she let herself drift in a mist of contentment.
A knock erupted into the quiet room. “Norah? May I come in?”
Jerome.
Panicked, she sat halfway up. “No!” Coercing steadiness into her voice, she added, “I’ll be out in a few moments.”
A pause. Then beyond the door, footsteps tapped away.
Awareness of her wanton posture washed over her in a hot wave. Like a hedonist unable to restrain her physical appetites, she sprawled over Kit, his length still embedded deeply within her.
And just outside her office lay the workroom filled with her employees.
“Oh, dear God,” she breathed. “Everyone will guess what we’ve been doing in here.”
“Relax, darling.” Kit idly stroked her bottom beneath her petticoats. “You’ve hardly committed a sin. I certainly hope you’re not ashamed for Jerome to know that you love your husband.”
Anger seared her, anger at him for his lax attitude and at herself for behaving irresponsibly. Scrambling up, she smoothed her trembling hands over the wrinkles in her gown. She hated the ugly suspicion that took shape in her mind, yet she couldn’t step the words from tumbling out. “And I hope you didn’t seduce me simply to parade your power over Jerome.”
His brow creased with annoyance, Kit rolled lithely to his feet. “You’re my wife, Norah. I love you, I desire you. And I could hardly have known he was going to knock on that door.”
His logic failed to soothe the sting of her embarrassment. “I’ve labored long and hard to win the respect of the men out there. If you truly love me, you wouldn’t jeopardize my position here.”