by Olivia Drake
Kit came back to the present to find himself slumped against the dressing room wall. Emma’s prejudice still burned inside his chest like a white-hot fist. That pain scorched him worse than what had followed. On learning of the episode, James Woodfern and five of his cohorts, Bruce Abernathy included, had ganged up on Kit, blackening both his eyes and bloodying his nose. With a parting punch, Bruce had warned him never to touch a white woman again. The stern headmaster had been quick to blame Kit for instigating a fight. Only the close of the term had kept him from being expelled.
And only the scars on his soul remained. Those scars hid a resentment toward the mother he had never known, the woman who had passed on the legacy of Hindu heritage that had festered like a thorn in his side.
He moved into the bedroom and paced to the window, where an icy draft seeped. He had decided back then to pretend that the slurs didn’t matter, to hold himself aloof from women. In time he had discovered an advantage to his sensual nature: he became adept at flattery and at enticing the physical passion of cool English beauties. He had used their bodies while guarding his own emotions behind a shield of indifference. There were an infinite number of ladies who willingly set aside their scruples for the chance to bed a wealthy, titled lord.
But now the years of pointless pleasure left him ashamed, in need of warmth and light to fill the void within him. In need of a woman like Norah Rutherford.
You black-hearted scoundrel.
He winced at her acid words. Surely Norah Rutherford had been referring to his reputation as a philanderer, and not to the color of his skin. His soul cried out for the love and grief that had driven her to tear at his sheets in agony. He wanted to feel emotions as deeply as she did, to know the loyalty and adoration of a good woman.
But first he must end the affairs and the worthless parties. He must find the sense of honor that lurked beneath the trappings of a rogue. He must prove to Norah Rutherford that he was a changed man, a man of integrity.
The fierce desire to clear his name goaded Kit. By God, he’d unravel the mystery of her husband’s death. He’d prove himself worthy of her. He’d win her respect.
And in the process he’d thaw her heart.
Chapter 3
If they didn’t stop discussing it, she would lose her temper. She wanted to scream. She wanted to curse. She wanted to add her own cutting commentary.
Instead Norah sat quietly on the medallion-backed sofa in her parlor. As the conversation swirled around her, she used pencil and sketch pad as an outlet for her frustration. In quick bold strokes she captured the profile of the man sitting beside her.
Jerome St. Claire wore his double-breasted coat with the easy elegance of an aristocrat. A monogrammed handkerchief peeked from his pocket. His wavy silver hair held the faint sheen of macassar oil. Norah sketched his high brow, the patrician straightness of his nose, the neatly trimmed mustache over lips that usually perked upward in the aspect of a man who viewed life as a whimsical adventure.
But today Jerome wasn’t smiling.
His face bore a look of sober tolerance as Maurice’s cousin Winnifred told her own embellished version of the past week’s events.
“It was the most dignified funeral I have ever seen.” A sturdy, handsome woman of forty-two, she held her chin high and her shoulders virtuously squared beneath her gown of black bombazine. She touched a crape-edged handkerchief to her tearless brown eyes. “The hearse was pulled by no less than four black horses decorated with twenty-three plumes of ostrich feathers. We engaged only the best for dear Maurice, of course.”
“Of course,” Jerome murmured.
“He was so well-loved. Near two hundred mourners attended the service at St. George’s. The Reverend Mr. Newberry gave a stirring eulogy about Maurice’s faithful attendance at church and his admirable character.” She dabbed her eyes again. “Oh, Mr. St. Claire, can you imagine how everyone grieved for my dear departed cousin? There he lay in the fine oak coffin that was draped by a magnificent black velvet pall. He looked so distinguished, so venerable, so eminently respectable—”
“We’re entranced by your excellent description,” Norah broke in. She restrained the urge to remind Winnifred that she and Maurice had clashed more often than not. “But perhaps Jerome doesn’t care to hear every particular.”
Winnifred aimed her disapproving gaze at Norah. “Can you in good conscience take so little interest in your own husband’s demise? These past seven days you’ve left me to receive most of our sympathy callers.”
“Only because you entertain them so well.”
“Thank you.” Winnifred, clearly missing the irony, released a long-suffering sigh. A martyred tautness pinched her lips. “A lady must perform her duties, however distressing or unpleasant.”
Jerome grasped Norah’s hand. The firmness of his grip matched the intensity of his blue eyes. “I’m so very sorry I was away during your ordeal. If only I’d given you the name of my hotel in Naples, you might have wired me the unhappy news.”
Affection softened her ill humor. Their friendship extended back to the early days of her marriage, when as a close acquaintance of the Rutherford family, he had been the only one to notice her lonely confusion, the only one to coax laughter from a disillusioned young bride. “You’re here now,” she said, “and that’s all that matters.”
“I’ll be in London for at least a fortnight. Then I’m to meet with a client in Hamburg at the end of the month. I may be able to change the appointment—”
“Please don’t on my account,” Norah said. “It’s kind of you, but you mustn’t alter your life to accommodate me.”
“Would that I could have spared you this misfortune,” he burst out, his hand squeezing hers. The fervency in his expression was extinguished, and only a somber shadow remained. He sat back. “If it won’t distress you, I would like to ask a few more questions.”
“I don’t mind. I want answers myself.”
“I’m unclear about the circumstances of Maurice’s death. How was he acquainted with the Marquess of Blackthorne?”
Norah clenched the pencil. Over and over, she had relived the memory of their meeting. She felt a strange, unsettling throb every time she thought of his tiger eyes, every time she recalled the heat of his body pressed to hers. “Maurice wasn’t invited to the party,” she said, doodling on the pad again. “His lordship claims no knowledge of how my husband came to be there.”
“Praise heavens we’ve quelled the rumors of Maurice being associated with that half-caste,” Winnifred said. “Can you imagine the scandal if word gets out? I let everyone believe that Maurice died of a seizure here at home.”
“You told a falsehood,” quavered a voice from a corner of the room. “That was wrong.”
Ivy sat in a biscuit-tufted chair by the window. Haloed by the hazy afternoon light that filtered through the fine lace curtain, Maurice’s maiden sister was hunched over her tatting like a crone at her spell-casting. Although only six years her brother’s senior, Ivy seemed ancient. A dainty cap shrouded her thin gray hair. She wore unrelieved black, as she had since the death of her parents some thirty years past. Rimless spectacles magnified her aquamarine eyes. Her orange-striped cat, Marmalade, slumbered at her feet.
“Bosh!” said Winnifred, angling herself toward Ivy. “Is it a sin to spare our family’s reputation? Even you should see the necessity of protecting the respected name of Rutherford.”
“A lie is a lie.” Ivy dropped her lacework and leaned earnestly forward, her spidery hands gripping the arms of the chair. “God will surely punish you. He will punish all of us.”
“Nonsense. Mr. Teodecki says the good Lord will forgive our need to stifle the evil breath of gossip.”
“Oh, dear. Then Mr. Teodecki must be careful lest he also endanger his eternal soul.”
Norah stopped drawing. “I’m afraid Winnifred is right, Ivy. The scandal would drive customers away from the jewelry shop.”
Winnifred arched her bristly brown eyeb
rows. “And we would no longer be able to afford this house. You wouldn’t wish to move away, would you? Of course not.”
Ivy’s face went as white as the lace in her lap. “This is my brother’s home. You can’t sell it.”
“Norah owns the house now,” said Winnifred. “Or have you already forgotten that Maurice left everything to her? You and I live here on her sufferance.”
Ivy blinked, her eyes like opaque blue-green jewels behind the thick glasses. Her fingers trembled on the brocade of the chair. “Norah will take care of me. She wouldn’t sell my home.”
Norah cast a furious look at Winnifred. “That’s absolutely right, Ivy. You’ve nothing to fret about.”
A sigh wisped from the older woman. She rummaged first in the voluminous pocket of her apron, then in her sewing basket on the floor. “Where is my shuttle? Winnie, did you hide it again?”
“Really!” huffed Winnifred. “You’re the one who forever hides things, then can’t remember where you put them. The shuttle is right there in your lap.”
“Oh. Oh, my. So it is.”
“Maurice was right about your forgetfulness. What if one night you neglect to snuff your candle and burn the house down? It might be safer for all of us if you lived somewhere else, under the proper care of doctors—”
“Stop it,” Norah snapped. “You’ll frighten her.”
“Don’t put me away!” Ivy leaped up, shuttle and thread tumbling to the carpet. Marmalade awoke and streaked away. “Please, Norah, don’t let her lock me up in that dreadful place. I’d be all alone. I couldn’t bear it. I couldn’t.
Laying aside her pencil and pad, Norah crossed the parlor. She took her sister-in-law’s hand. Papery skin covered remarkably strong bones. “No one is sending you anywhere.” She spoke with quiet firmness. “Now do sit down. I’ll fetch your things.”
Ivy wilted into the chair. Marmalade crept back and curled into sleep. Norah collected the lacework and placed it in Ivy’s shaking hands.
“Oh, thank you. You’ve always been so very kind to me. Now I simply must finish this tablecloth for the morning room.” As if her work were a talisman against the outside world, Ivy crouched over her tatting, her fingers flying over shuttle and thread.
Poor dear, Norah thought. The house dripped with the fruit of her labor—the tall window panels, the antimacassars on every chair, the bedspreads and napkins and lampshades. Norah tolerated the frilly decorations because their creation kept Ivy content.
“If you’ve no objections,” Jerome said, “I’ll ring for tea.”
“Thank you.”
As he tugged the bell rope by the fireplace, Norah lowered herself to the settee. After giving the parlor maid instructions, he took his seat beside Norah. Quietly he said, “We need assurance that the police won’t let the story slip to a newspaper reporter.”
“Inspector Wadding seemed a discreet man,” Norah said.
“What about the guests? I understand his lordship’s parties attract large crowds.”
“None of the gentlemen would dare to speak out for fear of ruining his own good name.”
“There were also a number of ladies present.”
Winnifred snorted. “Ladies! How loosely you use the word, Mr. St. Claire. Only one class of female would attend a soiree hosted by the Marquess of Blackthorne.”
Norah saw a vivid picture of the Honorable Jane Bingham garbed in his lordship’s oversized maroon robe...and nothing else. Their intimate relationship had been as obvious as an inclusion trapped within a piece of amber. Norah had felt the inexplicable urge to slap his lordship’s too-handsome face.
The only witness to the murder was his mistress.
Oddly, Norah felt no enmity toward Jane Bingham. Jane was a woman who openly embraced the darker side of human nature. A woman who lured men to her bed without the blessing of holy matrimony. The alien idea both repulsed and intrigued Norah. She wished she’d had the chance to find out why a woman of Jane’s genteel birth had strayed so far from the path of grace. She wondered why any woman would seek the painful physical union only men craved. For money?
Toying with her pencil, she realized with a jolt that she’d sketched a picture of Kit Coleridge...the high cheekbones and brow, the pitch-black hair, the devilish eyes. She slapped the pad shut. She had always prided herself on being open-minded. One person ought not impose his prejudices on another.
Nevertheless, she resented him for the way he lived, spending his lust on one woman after another. He possessed an allure that enslaved a certain type of female. No person deserved so much power over another. Jane might even have lied at his bidding.
Norah pondered the possibility. He and Maurice hadn’t known each other. So why would his lordship ask Jane to concoct a tale of seeing a woman in scarlet? Had they conspired to rob Maurice?
“Norah?” Concern etched Jerome’s distinguished features. “Are you quite well?”
“Pardon me. I was distracted.” She fumbled to pick up the thread of conversation. “Inspector Wadding assured me the female guests likely won’t spread any rumors. Drawing the attention of society would threaten...their way of life.”
Jerome nodded. “Of course. No gentleman would ally himself with a woman who was known to be indiscreet.”
“Wadding should never have come here in the first place,” Winnifred snapped. “Only a common sort like him would plague the bereaved family with impertinent questions so soon after our loss.” She waved her black-edged handkerchief like a flag of honor. “Can you imagine, him thinking one of us the guilty party? I sent him packing, you can be certain of that.”
“When did he visit?” Jerome asked.
“A few days ago, after the reading of the will,” Norah said.
“This sordid investigation appalls me,” Winnifred went on. “A Rutherford would never willingly involve himself with a vulgar class of female. Clearly, Maurice was lured there by an unsavory trick. His murderess must have stolen the jewel.”
Frowning, Jerome sat straighter. “What jewel?”
“Maurice told me he was delivering a twelve-carat South African diamond to a client that night,” Norah explained. “I don’t know who, or even if he handed over the gem. But it wasn’t found on his body.”
Eyes narrowed, Jerome stroked his mustache. “Is the buyer logged in the ledger?”
Norah shook her head. “I couldn’t find the reference. Perhaps Maurice meant to record the sale when he went to the shop the next day.”
Winnifred leaned forward in a conspiratorial manner. “I say they should start their search with Lord Blackthorne. Now there’s a devil who would stoop to any wickedness. Who knows, he might have hired this woman to rob Maurice and do him in.”
“He’s heir to the Duke of Lamborough,” Jerome pointed out. “The Coleridges are one of the wealthiest families in the land. Why would he stoop to stealing?”
“Because he’s also half Hindu,” Winnifred stated, with a sage nod. “And the Hindu race is amoral by nature. God alone knows what compelled the present duke to marry a woman of dark skin.”
“The Duchess of Lamborough is from India?” Norah asked.
“No. That one was murdered in the Sepoy Mutiny, some thirty years ago. The present duchess is the Marquess of Blackthorne’s stepmother.” Winnifred shook her handkerchief again. “You mark my words, he’s our culprit. You know what they say about bad blood.”
Unexpected anger flared in Norah, like heat rising from the smoldering ashes of memory. Long ago she had overheard the nuns at the convent whisper, Pauvre petite. She is the product of sin. She can never wash away the taint of her bad blood.
“His lordship’s lineage is hardly responsible for his character, Winnifred. People choose whether to be good or evil.”
“I agree with Norah,” Jerome murmured. His lips quirked into a sly smile. “If people were judged by their pedigree, none of us here would belong in this elegant setting. Not even you.”
Winnifred turned beet-red. “Fiddle. Mr. Teodec
ki says his lordship openly consorts with wicked women. Why, he even had the gall to bring one of his demi-mondaines into the jewelry shop.”
Norah tensed, her fingers digging into the settee cushion. Jane? Or another of his conquests?
Her mind vaulted to another startling thought. Perhaps this was the connection between Maurice and Kit Coleridge.
“Did he?” she asked, feigning casualness. “When?”
“A few months ago, or so I gathered.”
“Who was she?”
“I don’t know.” Winnifred peered suspiciously. “Why should you care to acquaint yourself with the identity of such a woman?”
“I like to know our clientele. I hadn’t realized his lordship had ever purchased anything from us.”
“He hasn’t. Mr. Teodecki said they looked at diamond brooches. And what do you suppose happened next? The ill-bred hussy made a scene, of course. She begged for an expensive ring. His lordship refused to purchase it and half dragged her out the door.”
“I see. And he never returned?”
“No, thank goodness. Vulgar displays only drive away the more respectable customers.”
“Maurice never mentioned the incident to me.” Even as she spoke, Norah tasted the bitter reason why. Seldom had he shared the particulars of his workday because he had believed a woman should take no interest in commerce. Only rarely had Norah been allowed to visit the jewelry shop.
Winnifred rose to give the bell rope an imperious tug. “Where is that Lizzie with our tea? Likely flirting with the footman again. One of these days I shall be forced to dismiss her—”
The doors clicked open. The butler, Culpepper, loomed against the dimness of the hall. A silver tray in his white-gloved hands, he walked at a stately pace toward Norah.
“A visitor, Mrs. Rutherford.”
Stifling a sigh at the thought of enduring platitudes from yet another sympathizer, she plucked the calling card from the salver. The unglazed square held simple black print which lacked the usual flourishes and curlicues.
