Fire at Midnight

by Olivia Drake

  She read the name. Her corset squeezed her ribs. Her heart galloped and her palms dampened, but she reined in her emotions. “Please show his lordship in.”

  Culpepper retreated. Winnifred sank back onto her chair, smoothing her black gown and tidying her plainly styled brown hair. “His lordship? Good gracious, it isn’t every day we can boast a titled visitor. Quickly now, tell me who...”

  Footsteps sounded from the entry hall. Norah couldn’t have spoken anyway. As the visitor strode into view, a strange pressure tautened her throat. She might have termed the feeling anticipation if the notion weren’t preposterous.

  On the threshold stood Kit Coleridge.

  He looked the perfect gentleman today. The white cravat formed a dazzling contrast to his bronzed features. His suit matched the onyx shade of his hair. He wore his clothing with faultless refinement, yet at the same time something in his manner suggested a wilder spirit caged within the civilized exterior.

  Norah’s every nerve blazed to life. It was the first time she had seen him since that terrible morning a week ago. He hadn’t bestirred himself to attend the funeral. Nor had he bothered to send her a sympathy note. So much for his avowed intent to make the tragedy easier for her, she thought. So much for his desire to help her see justice served. His compassion was as fraudulent as paste diamonds.

  So why had he bothered to come here?

  His gaze swept the parlor and stopped on her. With difficulty, she met his dark regard. Ungovernable heat crept up her neck and scorched her cheeks. In the past she had excelled in commanding her emotions.

  But this man had witnessed her one loss of control. He had seen her rip at his bed. He had held her close while she wept and thrashed. He had stroked her wet face and kissed her forehead.

  The memory washed her entire body in warmth. She had the uncomfortable feeling that her thoughts lay naked to him.

  Rising from the settee, she dipped into the smooth curtsy required by etiquette. “Good afternoon, my lord. What a surprise to see you.”

  “The pleasure is mine, Mrs. Rutherford.”

  He walked to her. His hand swallowed hers and he drew her upright, as if impatient with her homage. His grip was firm, his skin cold from the outdoors. His long fingers brushed her sensitive inner wrist. He stood too tall, too close. His touch frightened her and she pulled away.

  Willing strength into her wobbly knees, Norah performed the introductions as Lizzie entered with the silver tea service. “We were about to have our tea,” Norah said. “Will you join us, Lord Blackthorne?”

  “If I’m not imposing,” said the marquess.

  “Of course not.” She dispatched the servant after another cup. Jerome greeted him with a jerky nod colder than his usual warmth. Winnifred sank into the obligatory obeisance, though the rigidity of her pose conveyed disapproval.

  Kit Coleridge crossed the parlor and approached Ivy, who sat alone, a delicate spider spinning her web of lace. “You must be Miss Rutherford. May I escort you to tea? I should be most disappointed if you remain so far from us.”

  Her face bloomed with girlish prettiness. She set down her tatting and accepted his arm. “Oh, my. What a kind gentleman.”

  How had he known Ivy’s identity? Norah couldn’t answer the question, but his generosity in including the old woman softened her heart. She poured the tea while Winnifred passed around the hazelnut biscuits and apple sponge cake. Kit Coleridge declined to sit and stood by the fireplace, the bone china cup absurdly dainty in his large swarthy hand.

  “Miss Ivy,” he said, “you manage your loss with the grace of a true lady.”

  Ivy blinked behind her round glasses. “How sweet of you to say so. Maurice took the very best care of us. We all miss him.”

  “Humph.” Winnifred made a sound that could be interpreted as agreement or otherwise. She perched like a stiff crow on the wing chair and regarded his lordship. “I’m sure I speak for everyone when I say we are pleased that you would do us the honor of visiting our home, my lord.”

  He focused his intense eyes on her. “On the contrary, all of you do me the greater honor by tolerating my presence. I’m aware how little you must think of my character.”

  The case clock ticked into the silence. Norah sank onto the settee. Jerome cocked his head in thoughtful surprise. Ivy sipped her tea in bright-eyed innocence.

  Winnifred looked dumbstruck. “Oh?” she said on a nervous laugh. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Thank you for trying to spare my feelings. But in light of your recent tragedy, may we dispense with banalities and speak honestly with each other?”

  “Honestly?” she squeaked, the word foreign on her lips.

  “Yes.” He drank, then swirled the dregs in his cup. “Over the years I’ve earned the reputation of being a rake. Now your cousin has died under my roof, at the sort of party I must refrain from describing in the company of gentle folk.” His gaze traveled from Winnifred to Jerome to Ivy, and tarried on Norah just long enough to make her heart tumble. “I came here today because I wish to make amends. I want all of you to know that Maurice Rutherford did not die entirely in vain.”

  Flabbergasted, Norah said, “Kindly explain yourself.”

  “My unwitting role in your misfortune forced me to face my own failings. I took a close look at the way I live.” He grimaced. “The dissolute man I saw appalled me. Henceforth, I intend to mend my immoral ways and behave like a true gentleman.”

  His eloquence roused Norah’s suspicions. His humble tone was too suave, too facile to be genuine. He must be ingratiating himself.

  But for what purpose?

  “Oh, my,” said Ivy, her eyes flooding with tears. “That is most noble of you.”

  “It’s far too soon to praise me.” Lord Blackthorne passed her his starched handkerchief. “As the first step toward my goal, I accept any burden of blame you place upon my shoulders. And I welcome any penance you might wish to visit upon me.”

  Winnifred’s jaw flapped. “I hardly know what to say.”

  Ivy removed her spectacles to blot her eyes. “You, my lord, are a saint among men.”

  “Saints are a rare commodity,” Jerome observed, one silver eyebrow winged in droll disbelief as he helped himself to a biscuit. “Some of us achieve that stature in name only.”

  Kit Coleridge set his cup on the tea table. He straightened, one hand pushing back his coat to reveal his tapered waist. “What about you, Mrs. Rutherford?” he said softly. “Have you any desire to punish me?”

  Flecks of gold glinted in his dark eyes, like tantalizing secrets awaiting discovery. Norah inhaled the smoky heat of her tea and caught a whiff of his masculine musk. His purpose still eluded her. Was he sincere? Or was he a smooth-tongued charlatan who wished to absolve himself of sin?

  “Vengeance is for those who cannot let go of bitterness,” she murmured. “I would never presume to pass judgment on you.”

  “Indeed. I’m relieved to hear so.”

  By his half smile, Norah suspected that he knew her true feelings about him, that she had indeed found him wanting. The impulse to challenge him provoked her. “However, if you truly wish to prove yourself...”

  “I do.”

  “As a token of your sincerity, then, perhaps you would make a small donation.”

  He swept her a courtly bow. “Name your charity. I’ll have my accountant issue a check in the morning.”

  Typical aristocrat, she thought, using his wealth as a panacea. “I don’t mean money. I mean a contribution of your time and expertise.”

  An inky lock of hair slipped to his forehead, marring his perfect image and giving him the aspect of a rogue. “I’m delighted that you see desirable skills in me.”

  Was he teasing her or not? Frustrated, she said, “You need only the ability to read and an abundance of patience. I presume you have both?”

  “I attended Trinity College. And my stepmother says I showed patience even as an infant, when I survived a trek across wa
r-torn India. Will that do?”

  He hadn’t been very patient with Jane. Anticipating his reaction, Norah smiled. “Your task is to help me two mornings a week at the Sweeny Academy for Orphans. Beginning tomorrow.”

  One of his eyebrows cocked upward. “Help in what capacity?”

  “As a teacher. I instruct the children to read and write.”

  Rather than retract his offer in disgust, he merely said, “How admirable of you. I’m pleased to assist you however I can.”

  His compliance surprised her. Regretting her impulsive invitation, she shifted on the cushion. The way he watched her was most unsettling...as if she were a magnificent diamond and he a prince among thieves.

  “This is outrageous.” Winnifred half choked on a bite of cake. “Norah, how can you ask a man of his lordship’s stature to consort with filthy urchins from Seven Dials and the like?”

  “The children are washed and properly dressed,” Norah said. “If other people were freer with their time, I would not be forced to impose on him.” She clamped her lips. The marquess had so jangled her nerves that she resorted to bickering.

  “Well! Would you criticize me when I manage this household?” Winnifred lifted her teacup in an all-encompassing gesture. “No one ever offers to lighten my burdens.”

  “Because you excel at your tasks,” Jerome put in smoothly. “Maurice often told me how much he valued your sense of duty.”

  “Bosh. He acted as if I were no more important than a dusty relic in a curiosity shop.” But the grumpy line of her mouth eased.

  “Did you and Maurice often argue?” Kit Coleridge asked.

  “Why, er, no...”

  He watched Winnifred closely. Like a lightning bolt, his purpose hit Norah. He considered Winnifred a murder suspect. He had come here to question all of them.

  Disbelief warred with anger. “I hardly think Winnifred’s domestic merits could interest you, Lord Blackthorne.”

  His lordship’s scrutiny entrapped her. “On the contrary, you...and your family fascinate me.”

  “Norah has important things to do, too,” piped Ivy. “She designs lovely pieces of jewelry.”

  Norah’s stomach plunged. Only a handful of people knew her secret. If word slipped out about her unladylike profession, she risked becoming persona non grata in society, when she had struggled so long to erase the taint of her bastardy.

  Winnifred wiped her mouth with a lace napkin. “Don’t heed Ivy’s prattling, my lord. She sometimes gets confused.” To Ivy, she muttered, “Perhaps you should return to your tatting, cousin.”

  Ivy firmed her chin in an earnestly stubborn expression. “I shan’t let you bully me this time, Winnie. His lordship can be entrusted with our secret. Can’t you, Lord Blackthorne?”

  He placed his hand over his heart in a faintly theatrical gesture. “You have my word of honor.”

  “On your new status as a gentleman?” Norah asked, her tone ironic.

  “A man has to start somewhere.” Grinning, he nodded to Ivy. “Go on, Miss Rutherford.”

  “For years Maurice struggled for success. No one seemed taken with his jewelry. Then he married Norah and started to use her pretty designs. Rutherford Jewelers became a smashing success.” Ivy nimbly jumped up and looked through Norah’s sketch pad until she found a drawing of earrings and a pendant with a lotus blossom motif. “See? The Duchess of Kent paid thousands for this set.”

  Kit Coleridge took the pad. “Lovely.” He riffled through the pages, stopped and studied a sheet, then slanted Norah a concentrated look from beneath the black slash of his eyebrows. “You continue to amaze me, Mrs. Rutherford.”

  “Men do find it difficult to accept talent or intelligence in a woman.” She rose and retrieved the sketch pad. Clutching it like a shield to her breast, she moved near Jerome. Standing made her feel less at a disadvantage to Kit Coleridge.

  “Norah may be a gifted artist, your lordship, but she is also a lady,” Jerome said in a hard-edged tone. “I trust you shan’t forget that.”

  The two men exchanged a long glance, intense and cryptic. “I have the utmost respect for her,” the marquess murmured, and turned to address Norah. “So now you’ll head Rutherford Jewelers?”

  Her stomach contracted with a yearning so acute it left her shaken. She fiddled with the pasteboard cover of the sketch pad. Maurice had left no instructions, but she knew his wishes in her heart. He would have ordered her to remain behind the scenes. He would have forbidden her to take an active role. He would have wanted her to appoint a man to oversee the business.

  But Maurice no longer dictated her actions.

  The realization struck away the cobwebs of indecision, the uncertainty that had lingered since his death. The future loomed before her, radiant with hope.

  A heady waft of freedom lifted her. “Yes,” she said firmly. “Yes, I will take over the shop. I’ll start tomorrow afternoon.”

  Winnifred’s fork clattered onto her plate. “But Mr. Teodecki is to be the new manager.”

  “Who is Mr. Teodecki?” asked the marquess.

  “The head craftsman,” Jerome said. “He’s a superior artisan, but...” His tone softened. “Forgive me, Winnifred, but he’s not a leader of men.”

  “Why, you upstart,” she sputtered. “He has plans for expanding the store, for drawing in new customers...”

  Kit Coleridge watched her closely. “Indeed?” he murmured.

  Norah’s heart beat faster. So now he was adding Thaddeus to his list of suspects. A niggling fear kept her silent. What if the marquess were right? What if someone close to her had orchestrated the murder? No, she simply couldn’t believe that.

  “Mr. Thaddeus Teodecki is Winnie’s beau,” said Ivy, peering up at Lord Blackthorne over the rim of her teacup. “It’s so romantic, so tragic. He is the grandson of a Polish count—”

  “Prince,” snapped Winnifred. “His grandfather was Prince Leopold of Krakow until the rabble government deposed him. So you see, Mr. Teodecki is far more suited to governing the staff than a mere woman.”

  Pity tempered Norah’s resentment. Winnifred had been crushed to discover that Maurice had left her no dowry. Now even her hope for elevating Thaddeus’s salary had been dashed. Norah resolved to rectify the injustice somehow. “The responsibility is mine,” she said. “From now on, I shall be spending my days at the shop.”

  “You won’t win the commission from the Princess of Wales. You mark my words.”

  “Thank you for the warning.” Norah pressed her damp palms together. “But I shall manage just fine.”

  “Had you borne an heir to carry on the Rutherford name,” Winnifred grumbled, “you would have no time to meddle in manly affairs.”

  The criticism sliced open the scar on Norah’s emotions and released the sting of pain. She felt as empty as a mollusk shell in which no pearl had grown. Her life had taken a different course, she comforted herself. One that graced her with newfound opportunity and independence.

  “That is quite enough,” she murmured. “Remember our guest.”

  Winnifred closed her mouth. Her robust features drew into a scowl. Then she lowered her gaze to the cake crumbs on her plate.

  Kit Coleridge’s face was as smooth and sleekly handsome as a bronze mask. Yet a perceptive light glowed in his keen dark eyes. Despite the sketch pad flattening her breasts, Norah again had the eerie sensation that her feelings lay open to his scrutiny.

  She went to the window and feigned an interest in the dreary January scene. Dusk settled like gray fog over the cobbled street and barren trees. A hansom cab clattered past, the horse releasing its breath in misty plumes.

  The others were making small talk about Jerome’s business trip to Italy. Norah bent to stroke Marmalade. The cat stretched and yawned. Its purr vibrated against her cold hand.

  The future unrolled in an endless series of evenings, she and Winnifred and Ivy seated near the hearth, the tall clock in the corner ticking away their lives. Two old maids and a widow. Each y
ear a little grayer, a little lonelier, a little more eccentric.

  She banished the maudlin image and moved restlessly around the parlor, smoothing a lace doily, straightening a framed print of The Last Supper. Her new plan for her life left nothing to spare for sentiment. Tomorrow she would begin work.

  But first she would go to the school. With Lord Kit Coleridge.

  His gaze stalked her. She could feel it burning into her back, following the shape of her torso, sliding down over her modest bustle and black skirt. Irritation bit at her stomach. Wait until he faced a roomful of boisterous orphans; his fine and fancy lordship would retract his spurious vow to change his wicked ways. He would turn tail and run. Smiling at the ridiculous image, she swung around to find him standing directly behind her.

  “May I speak to you in private for a moment, Mrs. Rutherford?”

  He had crept up on the silent paws of a tiger. She tamed the wild beating of her heart. Her alarm was irrational. She had nothing to fear from him.

  “As you like.” Ignoring Winnifred’s sulk, Norah told Jerome, “His lordship and I will be in the morning room.”

  Jerome tightened his lips. He surged up and put his arm around her. “I’ll go with you.”

  So Jerome distrusted the marquess, too. His protectiveness warmed her. “Thank you, but finish your tea. We’ll only be gone a moment.”

  Leaving the parlor, she felt Kit Coleridge’s hand brush her back. It was the impersonal touch of a gentleman, yet awareness prickled her skin. His imposing presence struck the air from her lungs. Petticoats swishing, she swept quickly down the dim hall. The chill in the air made her long for her shawl.

  He seemed not to notice her discomposure. As they entered the morning room, he examined the frilly decor of Wedgwood blue and white lace, the round table and cozy chairs, the fringed lamps. A gas sconce hissed, shedding pale golden light over the furnishings.

  He fingered the lace shrouding a sideboard, the snowy cloth stark against his dusky skin. “How kind of you to use so much of your sister-in-law’s handiwork in your house.”