Fire at Midnight

by Olivia Drake

  Suddenly Jane screamed.

  “Where the devil is my wife?” Kit demanded.

  Wickham hunched lower in the coachman’s seat as if to elude his master’s wrath. Herriot, the footman, caught at the back handle of the brougham to keep from tumbling off the narrow running board. His young face was blank with surprise, his brown eyes wide with guilt. “M-milord!”

  “Answer me, dammit,” Kit growled. “Where is she?”

  “Inside, milord.” His Adam’s apple working, Herriot pointed at the mist-shrouded town house. “I know you gave orders not to leave the shop without you, but milady insisted—’’

  A muffled female shriek sounded inside.

  “Follow me!” he snapped at Herriot.

  Kit sprinted up the wet steps. His heart had been pounding with dread since he found the note Norah had left him at the shop. Pray God he’d reach her in time. He whipped out his pistol, wrenched open the doorknob, and plunged into the dimly lit foyer. The musty odor of lilacs slapped him with the abhorrent memories of sex without love.

  Into his mind flashed the image of his wife lying somewhere in a bloodied heap. “Norah!”

  A keening feminine wail issued from the drawing room. He veered there, his quickened steps thudding on the marble floor.

  In the doorway Norah almost collided with him, her mantle swirling around her slender form. Worry etched her fine cheekbones, and alarm shadowed her green eyes. She caught at his arms to steady herself.

  “Kit! Oh thank goodness, you’re here.”

  He seized her in a fierce embrace, rejoicing in her warmth and life. “What happened? Why did you scream?”

  “I didn’t. It was Jane.”

  Below a bird cage with its door hanging open, Jane knelt in a frothy puddle of pink skirts. Her blond head was bowed, her ivory shoulders slumped. In her lap she cradled a fluffy white lump.

  Jerome St. Claire stood over her, his debonair features stark with shock.

  Setting Norah behind him, Kit walked forward, gun in hand. He realized Jane held a pair of fat doves, their bodies still. Their beady black eyes stared sightlessly.

  She lifted her tear-blotched face. “They’re dead. I found my poor little darlings lying at the bottom of their cage.”

  Herriot hovered in the doorway. A crudely handsome manservant pushed past him. “What the bloody ’ell was all the screechin’ about?”

  “They’re dead,” Jane repeated. “Oh, Oswald, my sweet babies are dead.”

  Oswald stared stupidly. “What ’appened to the buggers?”

  “I don’t know,” she cried. “They were cooing and eating just a moment ago.”

  Kit felt the pressure of Norah’s fingers on his arm. Straining upward to his ear, she murmured, “Jane fed them a scone from our tea tray.”

  Foreboding chilled his blood. A few crumbs lay scattered on the bottom of the cage. The tea tray sat on a nearby table, the silver pot still steaming, the plate of pastries full.

  He caught her cheeks in his hands. “Did you eat or drink anything?”

  “No.”

  “Thank God.” He pocketed his pistol, grabbed a napkin, and crouched before Jane.

  “Oh, please.” Her lashes clumped and wet, she held the birds to her breasts. “Please don’t take them away, Kit.”

  “I’m sorry, but I must.” He gently wrapped the napkin around the plump bodies, still warm and feathery soft. Rising, he handed the package to Harriot. “Put them in the carriage. The police will want to check for poison.”

  “Aye, milord.” He turned on his heel and left.

  The dullness of disbelief glazed Jane’s teary face. “Poison?” she gasped. She struggled to her feet, assisted by Jerome. “That can’t be, not in the scones. The poison was in the—” She pressed her carmine lips shut.

  Jerome released her, then scrubbed his hands together as if to cleanse himself. “I knew we were right not to trust you.”

  Kit jerked his head at Oswald, who stood gaping. “You—get out. And I’ll have no listening ears at the keyhole.”

  Oswald bobbed a clumsy bow as he moved backward. He bumped into a brass urn, then hastily righted it. The doors clicked shut.

  Kit drew Norah close again. Her scent of roses invigorated him with heartfelt relief. He’d nearly lost her. God help him if his trifling jealousies ever drove her away again.

  He turned his hard stare at Jane. “Talk, Jane. I want to hear about this poison.”

  Sullenness dragged at her fine features. She crossed her arms, so that her breasts pillowed above her bodice. “I don’t know anything.”

  “The police can test the tea cakes. You’ll be arrested for attempting to murder Norah.”

  “But I wasn’t going to murder her. It was only a purgative, in the damson tartlets.” Jane cast a glance of unveiled resentment at Norah. “He said it would keep her perched on her chamber pot for at least three days.”

  “Who is he?” Norah asked.

  Jane shifted her gaze away. “Why, the chemist who filled the prescription.”

  Frustrated beyond control, Kit sprang forward and grasped her arms. He gave her a shake. “Jesus God, stop lying. Whoever you’re protecting isn’t worth your loyalty. He tricked you. He put his lethal poison in the scones, too. He must have meant to kill both of you.”

  Her china-blue eyes went watery again. A fresh flow of tears streaked down her cheeks. “He wouldn’t,” she whispered. “I can’t believe that.”

  “This time you’ve gone too bloody far with your pranks,” Kit snapped. “While your friend goes free, you’ll be trapped behind bars. You’ll go to prison for abetting a murderer.”

  Unsightly weeping contorted her face. “For the love of God, it was supposed to be only a little trick. I swear I never meant her any real harm.”

  “Harm?” he said harshly. “Damn you, you almost killed Norah. Or at the very least you might have caused her to miscarry the baby.”

  “Baby?” Aghast, Jane sagged against him. “I didn’t know she was pregnant.”

  Norah gave him a quelling look. She felt sorry for Jane, who had been an unwitting participant in a murder attempt. “Of course you didn’t know,” she told Jane. “I’ll testify that you fed the scone to the doves yourself, so you couldn’t possibly have known about the poison.”

  She passed a handkerchief to Jane, who blew her nose with inelegant force. “I like you,” Jane admitted, sniffling. “That’s what irked me so much. You and Kit truly belong together.”

  “Please help me,” Norah said. “Tell me who talked you into this scheme.”

  Jane dabbed at her reddened eyes. “Bruce Abernathy.”

  Jerome emitted a harsh, strangled gasp. “Viscount Carlyle?”

  Kit barely heard. The name slammed into him like a blow to his solar plexus. For a moment he couldn’t draw a breath. Carlyle had tried to kill Norah.

  Why? Could he despise Kit so much?

  On the heels of the baffling question sprang another. Had Carlyle and Maurice been lovers? Dredging through his schoolboy memories, Kit recalled that Bruce had been a model student, the favorite of the teachers and, in particular, the pet of one effeminate algebra master.

  Kit drilled Jane with a pointed stare. “Did Bruce ever make love to you?”

  Her woebegone eyes peeked over the handkerchief. “Why would you care? You’re no longer my protector.”

  “Answer me, dammit. He escorted you to the museum the night someone pushed Norah down the stairs. Did you and he make love that evening?”

  She lowered the handkerchief. Her chin quivered. “Bruce is a true gentleman. He treats me like the lady I am.”

  Her oblique denial gave Kit his answer. He met Norah’s troubled gaze. Softly she said, “He and Maurice...?”

  “Yes.” Seeing the reawakened pain of memories in her eyes, he drew her close and breathed the scent of her skin, rubbed his cheek against her smooth temple. “At last we know.”

  “Oh, Kit. Bruce must have dressed up in the scarlet cloak.
He lured Maurice to your bedroom and murdered him. He must have stolen Fire at Midnight, too.”

  “Murdered?” Jane squeaked. “No, you’re wrong. Bruce was ever so gallant. He brought me jewelry and presents...”

  “He plotted to kill Norah,” Kit stated. “And apparently you, too, to remove any witnesses. The police would have called you the spurned mistress, so distraught you’d commit murder, then suicide.”

  Sick awareness paled her face. “Bruce suggested I trick Norah with the fake letter. When he saw how...how enraged I was about your marriage.”

  “Here’s where that letter belongs.” Bending, Norah scooped the piece of stationery from the floor and flung it into the hearth. The paper flamed, the edges curling to black ash.

  Jane pressed her forehead against the empty bird cage. “He told me it was safe to eat the scones. He knew they were my favorite.”

  “Thank heavens neither of us ate anything,” Norah said. Her hand stole over her stomach, and Kit knew with poignant warmth that she was thinking about their baby, their hope for a happy future, untainted by murder and ugly secrets.

  One piece of the puzzle didn’t quite fit. He stroked her hair, curlier than ever from the mist outside. “Why you, Norah? If Bruce wanted to punish me by poisoning my wife, why did he take particular care to stick your hatpin into Maurice’s heart? I hadn’t even met you back then.”

  “It must be happenstance. Don’t you remember Maurice had taken my stickpin into the shop for repair? Bruce must have found it in Maurice’s pocket.”

  “Maybe. But I’m beginning to think Bruce wanted you to be hanged for the murder. If you hadn’t had an alibi with the Sweenys, you’d have been the prime suspect.”

  Norah shook her head. “Perhaps he only meant to direct suspicion away from himself.”

  “But it’s too great a coincidence that he’s still trying to kill you. There must be a connection we’re missing, a clue we’ve overlooked.”

  “There is, my lord,” Jerome said, his voice a thin rasp behind Kit. “God help me, I can tell you why Carlyle wants to kill Norah.”

  Chapter 19

  Surprised, Norah studied Jerome, who leaned heavily against a shelf crammed with antiquities. He still clutched his black top hat against the front of his dark tweed coat. A sweaty grayness tinged his face and an uncharacteristic grimness pulled at the lines of humor around his mouth. He looked alarmingly old and weary, an aging lion on the verge of collapse.

  “Jane,” she murmured. “Kindly fetch him a glass of water.”

  For once, Jane obeyed without protest. Her expression subdued, she trudged from the drawing room.

  Norah went to Jerome and helped him to a chair. “Come, sit down.” As if he were her child, she released the gold buttons of his coat, pried the hat from his stiff fingers, and set it on the side table.

  Falling back against the brown chair, he drew an uneven breath. “God forgive me, I had no inkling that Bruce even knew of Norah’s past, or I would have spoken out instantly.”

  Kit pressed his hands to Norah’s shoulders, his presence warm and supportive. “Spoken out about what?” he asked.

  “The connection between Bruce and Norah.” Jerome passed his hand over his face. His gaze lifting to the bronze shield above the mantel, he said haltingly, “Twenty-six years ago, Bruce’s mother—Lady Carlyle—engaged in an illicit romance with a scoundrel. It was an impetuous affair that happened while she was traveling in Italy, without her husband. Understandably, Lord Carlyle was outraged when he discovered her pregnancy. He banished her to Belgium, where she gave birth in secret.”

  Hot and cold flashes paralyzed Norah. She denied the incredible notion that seized her heart. “What are you saying?”

  Jerome focused on her, his gaze both sorrowful and oddly proud. “That baby was you, Norah. Bruce’s mother is also your mother.”

  “No...”

  The news plunged her into a cocoon of unreality. She pictured Lady Carlyle, the fine aristocratic features, the gentle nature, the impression of secret sadness. That sweet-tempered lady was her mother. Her mother. The faceless woman Norah had spun dreams about in her lonely youth. The woman who had nurtured her for nine months, then blithely left her to a solitary life, the only child in a convent of pious nuns who had little patience for an inquisitive and rambunctious girl.

  Tears washed her vision. Norah slipped her hands over her abdomen, where her womb sheltered her own baby. Stormy protectiveness whirled forth to lash at her. “Dear Blessed Virgin,” she said. “How could any woman give up her child?”

  Jerome slapped his fist on the arm of the chair. “She had to. Her husband gave her no choice in the matter.”

  “She could have left him.”

  “And abandoned her four-year-old son? She was a fallen woman, wife to a powerful lord. A divorce court would have remanded Bruce to the custody of his father.”

  “So she abandoned me instead.”

  “She didn’t want to.” Jerome leaned forward, gripping his knees, his knuckles white with strain. “My God, Eleanor was heartbroken. No doubt she still is.”

  “How do you know all this, St. Claire?” Kit asked in a strange, soft voice.

  Lips pressed tight, Jerome lowered his gaze to his hands. The fire hissed into the silence. Then he looked straight at Norah and said, “Because I’m the scoundrel who seduced Lady Carlyle.”

  Kit’s firm arm held her upright. Through a mist of disbelief, she saw Jerome: his steadfast gaze, his silver hair and mustache, the visage of the man she had cherished as a friend.

  “You’re...my father?”

  “Yes. I don’t deserve you, but...yes.”

  His gruff whisper echoed amid the litter of her long-broken dreams. She tried to reconcile his familiar image with the blow of his revelations. A white-hot fist tightened in her chest. He claimed to love her. Yet he had been a co-conspirator in the plot to forsake a helpless baby. “You’ve lied to me these past nine years. It wasn’t Maurice who knew the Mother Superior, it was you.”

  His blue eyes shimmered, though whether from her tears or his, she didn’t know. “I wanted to tell you,” he murmured. “So many times. But I was afraid you would despise me for the mistakes I’d made.”

  “So you and Lady Carlyle rectified your mistake by hiding me away in a convent, by denying me a loving family.”

  “We found you a safe haven where you could grow up in peace. Please try to understand why.” He furrowed his hands through his hair, rumpling the tidy strands. “Twenty-six years ago, I wasn’t the respected man I am now. I was a burglar, a common thief. I met Eleanor when I broke into her hotel room one night. I thought no one was there, but she sprang out of bed and almost unmanned me with the fire iron. We quarreled, then somehow began to talk...for hours. And well, one thing led to another.” He spread his hands wide.

  Norah’s heart pulsated with the grief of ripped-open scars. “Is your story supposed to make me feel better? To know I was conceived in lust, by a would-be robber and a wife who betrayed her marriage vows?”

  “Eleanor was a lonely woman trapped in an unhappy marriage. And I was a lonely man, raised on the streets of London. She encouraged me to stop stealing, to make an honest man of myself.”

  “You weren’t honest, not with me.”

  He bowed his head in acknowledgment. “I couldn’t be. When her husband discovered our affair, she begged me to stay away from her. So I never saw her again until yesterday, in the shop. I felt...”A faraway look gentled his face. “I felt the same way as when she swung that poker at me, her eyes so fierce. I wanted to hold her in my arms and show her how much I adored her.”

  “Love at first sight,” Kit murmured. “Now there’s a devilish predicament I can understand.”

  His tone was thoughtful, commiserating. With a shock, Norah saw that he was actually smiling at Jerome. How could her husband be so disloyal? Didn’t he recognize the pain Jerome had put her through since birth?

  Jane trotted back into the drawing
room with the glass of water. His hands shaking, Jerome drank deeply, heedless of the droplets that spotted his pristine coat.

  In a move of typical brazenness, Jane settled into a chair and watched him, her kittenish face keen with interest.

  “Leave us,” Kit told her.

  “For the love of God, this is my house—”

  “Go.”

  “But you can’t order me around—”

  “Now.”

  Mouth pinched, she rose with exaggerated grace and flounced to the door. “Murderer or not, Bruce has better manners than you, Kit Coleridge.” She slammed the double doors.

  Kit drew Norah over to a settee and pulled her down close to him. Still shaken, she let him take her hands. “Darling, we have to forget the past for a moment and think about the danger you’re in now,” he said. “At last we have a motive. Bruce is your half-brother.”

  The extraordinary thought struck into the agony that embroiled her heart and soul. After all these years, she did have a sibling...and the memory of his cruel disdain chilled her to the bone. “He killed Maurice,” she whispered. “And he hates me enough to see me dead, too. My own brother.”

  “I wonder how he found out about you,” Kit mused. “Lady Carlyle must have said something.”

  Jerome set down his glass with a thump. “It wouldn’t surprise me if Eleanor had decided to acknowledge you, Norah. She’s free to do so now that her husband passed away last year.”

  Kit snapped his fingers. “Good thinking. If she’d voiced her intentions to Bruce, he would have threatened her into silence. He’s vain about his flawless bloodline. He’d be livid to learn he had a sister born on the wrong side of the blanket.”

  “One would think he’d be thrilled,” Jerome said. “To claim a beautiful and talented woman like Norah as his sister.”

  The wistful softness of his mouth and eyes burrowed into her heart. She groped for the angry sense of betrayal. “Why should he? You didn’t claim me. You denied a helpless child the security of a true family.”