by Olivia Drake
“Oh, so this is my fault.” He jerked together the buttons of his trousers. “I forced you down onto the floor. I made you suck on my—”
“Don’t mock me, Kit Coleridge.” She pressed her fingers to her temples in an effort to calm the storm of confusion raging inside her. In a hushed tone, she added, “All I’m saying is that I have work to do, a royal commission to win. These past few weeks, I’ve barely been able to concentrate.”
His brooding eyes studied her. “So is marriage tying you down? Are you already growing weary of me?”
“No! That’s not what I mean.”
“But you’re suggesting I keep my distance.”
“Yes. No. I mean you should here at the shop.”
“Please yourself, then.”
Kit thrust his arms into his coat sleeves and yanked the lapels straight. He looked stern and remote, yet a weakening desire washed through her. She longed to throw herself into his warm embrace, but she knew where physical contact might lead.
“If you’ll excuse me,” he added coldly, “I’ll leave you to tend to your business. Enjoy your visit with Jerome.” He strode out, shutting the door.
Norah wilted onto the hard edge of the desk. Blessed Virgin forgive her, she had hurt him. Her turmoil dissipated into the torment of loneliness. “Why can’t you understand?” she whispered.
Silence answered her, a dreadful emptiness.
But she wasn’t empty. Her hand caressed her belly. Kit had brought spirit and sparkle into her life. Their love had wrought the miracle growing within her. In a matter of months she would hold their darling baby...Kit’s baby.
Yet she also needed the satisfaction of work. She required it, as she required air to breathe and food to eat.
But most of all, she needed her husband’s trust.
In heart-wrenching despair, she fingered the moonstones and diamonds at her wrist. Why couldn’t all her needs mesh as smoothly as the silver links of her bracelet?
Aching in body and soul, she reluctantly turned her mind to business. She had best find out what Jerome wanted.
As she walked out of her office, she watched for Kit’s dark head, his ready smile, his broad-shouldered form. But she saw only the rows of industrious artisans and assistants, heard the clink of their hammers and the rasp of their drills.
Thaddeus left his workbench and approached her. Bowing, he handed her a small envelope. “Mr. St. Claire left on an errand. He said to tell you that a messenger delivered this.”
The envelope was addressed in a curiously familiar feminine script that tugged at her memory. She tore open the envelope and drew out a sheet of lilac-scented stationery.
Her gaze flicked to the name at the bottom. She blinked in surprise. Jane Bingham.
With dawning anger and horror, Norah read the brief letter.
Chapter 18
The following afternoon, beneath a sky of pewter-gray clouds, Jerome helped Norah from the brougham, then escorted her toward the town house. A cold mist pricked her face and dampened her eyelashes. Despite the shelter of her merino cloak, she felt the wet April chill penetrate her bones.
Jerome halted her by the front steps. Fine droplets coated his groomed silver hair; he seemed to have forgotten the top hat in his hand. “I’m still not sure it’s wise for us to come here,” he said. “This matter of blackmail belongs in the hands of Scotland Yard.”
“Shall I let a troublemaker like Jane Bingham drag Kit’s good name through the muck?” Norah asked. “I can’t stand by and watch him suffer a false charge.”
Jerome sighed. “You’re right to defend your husband. I admit I’ve been suspicious of Lord Blackthorne. But the more I’ve seen of him these past weeks, the more I’ve grown to respect him. You’ve changed him for the better, Norah, and he truly does love you. That’s all I ever really wanted for you.”
His support gladdened her. She kissed his smooth-shaven cheek. “Thank you for saying so. Your good opinion means the world to me. You’re the best friend I’ve ever had.”
He smiled wistfully. “But I couldn’t help you win the royal commission. Are you sure there isn’t another suitable stone you can use for the tiara now that Sir Ian Playter refuses to sell his blue diamond?”
Hiding her acute disappointment, she shrugged. “Don’t worry, I’ll still enter the competition. Once we’re through here, I’ll return to the shop and have Peter Bagley fashion a cluster of amethysts in lieu of the center gem.”
“That’s a mere shadow of the spectacular tiara you designed.” He squeezed her hands. “My God, I’d do anything to get Fire at Midnight for you. Anything at all!”
“I know,” she murmured. “But we don’t know who stole the diamond. And the deadline is only two days away. I’ll just have to make do with what I have.”
Jerome seemed to realize how painful the topic was, for he sighed and looked up at the three-story edifice. “This place isn’t what I expected.”
Norah agreed. As they mounted the steps to the town house, she studied the unobtrusive brown stone dwelling with its plain wooden shutters. A flamboyant mansion decorated by naked statuary would have better suited the occupant.
She tamped out a spark of pity. Jane reaped what she sowed. And today, she would reap a bitter harvest.
Grasping the damp brass knocker, Norah rapped firmly. A coarsely handsome footman opened the door. He ushered her and Jerome through a dim foyer and into a drawing room.
The footman’s smile verged on a leer as his gaze slid up and down her form. “May I take your wrap, milady?”
Norah clutched the edges of the cloak. “No, thank you. We shan’t be staying long. Now kindly fetch your mistress.”
“As you like.” With a glower at Jerome, he strolled out.
Fury and fear tangled her insides. Had she made a mistake in coming here? No. Remembering the threat in the letter, she shuddered. Jane could cost Kit his liberty—even his life.
In the meantime, Jerome would keep her safe. Herriot and Wickham, the coachman, waited outside. And against her thigh, Norah felt the comforting weight of the muff pistol in her pocket. She shied from the notion of needing to use the weapon.
She also tried not to think of how furious Kit would be when he returned from the bank and discovered she had ventured here with the man he completely mistrusted.
“Odd place, this,” Jerome remarked, wandering around the room.
For the first time, she noticed the curio shop decor of the gas-lit room. Shelves held a hodgepodge of Greek pottery, copper vessels, and jade figurines. A dented bronze shield occupied a place of honor over the fireplace. Display cases exhibited a plethora of coins and shards and ornaments. Even the pair of white turtledoves by the hearth lived in an antique brass cage. Their soft cooing served as a counterpoint to the snapping of the coal fire and the jangling of Norah’s nerves.
She picked up a battered Egyptian bracelet and rubbed her thumb over the lapis design. Half the blue stone had broken away, leaving forlorn gaps in the gold. The artistic swirls caught at her imagination. The design could be used in a modem piece of jewelry—
“I thought I told you to come here alone,” Jane said.
Swathed in pink silk and frilly ecru lace, she scowled in the doorway. Her elaborate tea gown had a low neckline and half-length sleeves, trimmed with jabots of more lace. A rosette of ribbons dangled long streamers from her upswept blond hair.
Squaring her shoulders, Norah girded herself for battle. “Your letter said not to bring the police or Kit. Mr. Jerome St. Claire is a friend of mine. Jerome, the Honorable Jane Bingham.”
He bowed mockingly. “Miss Bingham.”
Jane’s lips eased into a pouty smile. She stroked one fingertip over her cleavage. “A friend of the brand-new Lady Blackthorne’s, are you? If you promise not to interrupt, I may permit you to stay.’’
“I promise to abide by Norah’s wishes.” Narrowing his eyes, he glanced around at the jumble. “I’ve just now realized. You must be the daughter of Sir Hu
bert Bingham. I’ve heard of his illustrious contributions to historical research.”
“Yes, the man who squandered our fortune on his expeditions to dig up these dusty relics.” Jane kicked a brass urn and winced. “The brilliant Sir Hubert Bingham, archeologist extraordinaire. Rubbish collector is what I call him.”
Surprised interest kindled in Norah. “He must be a fascinating man. I’d love to meet him.”
“You’d have to travel to Turkey, then. He’s off on a quest to find the ark of the covenant or some such nonsense. I’m left here to contemplate my lovely inheritance.” Jane waved her hand at the antiquities that overflowed the drawing room.
Norah fingered the damaged Egyptian bracelet. “I wouldn’t so quickly discount these artifacts. If they’re genuine, a museum or a private collector might pay you well.”
“Truly?” Jane’s eyebrows perked up, then lowered in a glower again. She minced closer, her hands on her hips. “Oh, you’re a sly one, my lady. Slyer than I gave you credit for. Any woman who could trick the Marquess of Blackthorne into marriage is sly enough to try to distract me from our business today. And from the money you’ll pay to keep me silent.”
“Mind how you speak to her ladyship,” Jerome snapped.
The reminder of her purpose struck the air from Norah’s lungs. With cool deliberation, she set the bracelet on a littered shelf. “Please, Jerome, I’ll handle this.”
Looking furiously at Jane, he thinned his lips, folded his arms, and planted himself in the center of the rug like a robust silver birch.
“I’m not trying to distract you,” Norah told Jane. “On the contrary, I’m most anxious to discuss our business and return to my husband.”
“Come now, there’s no rush.” With an impatience that belied her words, Jane drummed her fingers together. “I took the liberty of ordering tea. Where is that laggard, Oswald?”
Pacing to the drab brown mantelpiece, she jerked on the bell cord so violently that the frayed strip of maroon velvet nearly gave way from the ceiling. As if on cue, the rough-featured footman strolled through the doorway, hefting a tarnished silver tray, which he set on the table by the fire.
“It took you long enough.” Jane dogged his heels. “Stopped to nip at the brandy again, did you?”
“No, Miss Bingham. If you would care to check for proof in our usual manner...” In a crudely sensual gesture, he ran his tongue over his thick lips.
“Oaf.” She snatched up a napkin and slapped him on his rump. “You’ll show me respect or you’ll be back begging in Covent Garden before sundown.”
Oswald merely smiled. “Of course...mistress.” Bowing, he swaggered from the room.
With a grimace, Jerome stroked his fingers over his silver mustache. Poor Jane, Norah thought, reduced to bedding her servant.
Cheeks as pink as her dress, Jane dropped the napkin and picked up the pot. As sweetly as if she were a vicar’s daughter, she said, “Do sit down, both of you, and join me in a cup of tea.”
Cold resolution hardened Norah. “No, thank you. We would like to see your bogus proof that Kit murdered Maurice.”
“All in good time. First, how about a damson tartlet?” Jane offered them a china plate of gooey purple pastries and triangular rolls. “They’re far superior to these dried-up scones that Cook insists upon serving.”
Norah curtly shook her head. Jerome, bless him, followed her lead. “We didn’t come here for refreshments,” she said. “Your letter stated that on the night of the murder, you never saw a woman in a scarlet cloak leaving Kit’s bedroom. You said that Kit paid you to lie.”
Clearly annoyed at her inability to manipulate the meeting, Jane sat down, holding the plate in her lap. “That is correct.”
“You also told a preposterous tale that Kit had had an affair with Alexandra, the Princess of Wales. When Maurice found out, he tried to blackmail Kit.”
“And so Kit silenced him. Forever.”
The woman’s cunning smile infuriated Norah. “That is the most utterly ridiculous piece of fabricated nonsense I’ve ever heard. No one will believe a word of it.”
“Oh?” A crafty gleam lit Jane’s blue eyes. “Here’s a fact, then. It seems your dear departed Maurice needed the blackmail money most desperately.”
Norah’s legs nearly wilted. To steady herself, she grasped at the shelf of antiquated curios. Only a handful of people knew the truth. Inspector Wadding. Jerome. Ivy. Winnifred. Thaddeus. Kit. Bertie Goswell...
One by one, Norah rejected each person.
“Who told you he was in debt?” Jerome asked Jane.
“That’s my little secret.” Affecting a pout of concern, Jane rose from her chair and glided to Norah. “Poor dear, you look entirely too pale. Here. Sweets can keep one from swooning.” Jane selected a scone, then pushed the plate of pastries into Norah’s hands. “Do take a tartlet.”
The fruity aroma of plum preserves ordinarily would have tempted Norah, but lately her stomach churned at the oddest times from her pregnancy. Swallowing, she set the dish on the tea tray. “No, thank you.”
Jane’s pretty features twisted sourly. “I suppose it’s best, Kit prefers his women slim...and lusty.”
Hips swaying, she stalked to the brass bird cage and began tearing off bits of scone. The pair of plump doves fluttered down and pecked at the crumbs. “So,” she said over her shoulder, “how does it feel to be married to the man who made you a widow?”
“Your accusation is absurd,” Norah snapped. “Kit had no motive for murder because he never had an affair with the Princess of Wales. It’s common knowledge that Princess Alexandra is a faithful and honorable wife.”
“Come now. We both know Kit’s persuasive talents in the bedroom.” Jane artfully ducked her head. “He does wield a mighty sword, doesn’t he?”
“Miss Bingham!” Jerome bit out.
Fury scalded Norah. Her gloved hand closed around a palm-sized pottery vase.
Before she could succumb to her violent impulse, Jerome stepped forward, brandishing his top hat. The startled doves flapped their white wings. “That’s quite enough, miss. You’ll show Norah the respect due her.”
“For the love of God, don’t frighten my little darlings.” Waving him away, Jane broke apart the rest of the scone. The doves fluttered back down to snatch greedily at the pieces. “There, sweetings. Mama will protect you from that nasty man.” She slid her finger between the brass bars of the cage and stroked the snowy feathers.
With effort Norah relaxed her fingers on the vase and banished the image of Jane opening her pale thighs to Kit. Their affair was long over. “No one will believe my husband would commit murder in his own bedroom in the midst of a New Year’s Eve party.”
Jane arched an eyebrow. “A jury of his peers might disagree. Lest you forget, there are many lords who resent having a dark-skinned Hindu in their exalted midst.”
Men like Lord Carlyle.
Chilled by the reminder of his bigotry, Norah saw the unwelcome scenario in her mind. As a titled nobleman, Kit would stand trial before the House of Lords. Certainly he had allies in the venerated group, Lord Adrian and his own father among them, yet in the eyes of the intolerant, Kit’s notorious reputation and his mixed blood would damn him.
“Regardless of prejudice, the court will demand irrefutable evidence,” Norah said. “Show me the letter that you claim to hold.”
“Gladly.”
Dusting the crumbs off her hands, Jane reached into her bodice and drew forth a sheet of paper, which she passed to Norah. “There, feast your eyes on the proof that will settle a noose around your beloved husband’s neck.”
At the top of the stationery reared a lion with a black thorn in its paw. Kit’s heraldic seal. Dear God, that bold scrawl was unmistakably his.
Gripping the edges of the paper, Norah breathed deeply to contain her shock. It was a love letter, addressed to Princess Alexandra, and full of bawdy references to white breasts and long members and vows of undying passion. The prominent
signature at the bottom belonged to Kit.
Norah felt ill. Over the past weeks, he had penned a few notes to her, but never so graphic. Crudeness wasn’t his style.
Jerome peered over her shoulder, his scent of peppermint and cigars somehow giving her strength. “Is it a forgery?” he whispered.
“It must be.” Clearing the fog of fear from her mind, she studied each inked character. In dawning excitement, she spied the slight curlicue at the end of an E and a feminine slant to a T, reminiscent of Jane’s own hand.
“This is not Kit’s penmanship,” Norah stated.
Jane snatched back the paper. “Prove it. Or pay me ten thousand pounds, and I’ll destroy the letter. The choice is yours.”
The idea of submitting to blackmail rankled Norah. “You wrote the letter.” Bolstered by conviction, she stepped forward. “You concocted the story out of spite. You want revenge on Kit for spurning you and marrying me.”
Her slim nostrils flaring in anger, Jane retreated to the dove cage. “He’ll spurn you, too. A prissy bore can hardly interest him for long. Put him in a room with another woman, and Kit Coleridge won’t keep his prodigious cock inside his trousers.”
“Mind your wicked tongue, Jezebel.” Jerome shook his hat again. “If you dare hurt Norah by letting out this trumped-up charge, you’ll only bring the wrath of our Queen onto yourself—”
The walls of Norah’s own private hell shut out the rest. She despised the doubts that ripped her heart. Could she hold Kit? After their quarrel the previous afternoon, he had acted cool and reserved. For the first time, he had turned his back to her in bed that night. At the moment she’d been relieved, for if he had taken her into his arms, she might have spilled out her anxieties about the threat from Jane.
Regrets slammed Norah like a hammer wielded by a heavy-handed apprentice. She hugged her hands to her stomach. Would her devotion to work drive Kit away? Was he already losing interest in the wife who jealously guarded so much of herself? Would she be forced to make the painful choice between her designing and the family she craved? Of course, she would choose Kit—