by Olivia Drake
Norah clamped her lips into an obstinate line.
“For God’s sake,” Kit snapped in frustration, “do you really want to live in the same house with the woman who murdered your husband? At least think about the possibility that she might be his cousin!”
Norah’s composure crumpled. A terrible shudder of anguish racked her body. Tears rolled down her cheeks. “I’ve done nothing but think!” she burst out. “How else do you suppose I’ve occupied myself since yesterday?”
She sank onto a step and pressed her hands to her eyes. Her misery sparked an answering agony in Kit and, again, the overpowering urge to offer comfort in the best way he knew now. Lowering himself to the wooden stair, he caught her against his chest and fancied she wanted him not merely for human solace, but for himself, for the man who had only just glimpsed his heart’s desire.
“Norah,” he entreated. “I want to help. Please let me.”
She melted into his arms—but only for a second. Then her body tensed. Like a panicked filly, she shied away, the cramped stairwell permitting only a few inches between them. She dashed fiercely at her tears and gulped hard.
“Stop it,” she cried. “Stop touching me. I am not one of your hussies.”
Her disgust hit him like a physical blow. He breathed deeply to dispel the hot rush of pain. “I know,” he murmured. “I’m only trying to assist you.”
“Why? Out of boredom? Is your life so empty that you have to seek amusement by stalking a murderess?”
“No!” Kit’s voice strangled to a stop. He saw the kernel of truth in her accusation, for his days and nights had been a meaningless round of parties, an empty game of carnal pleasures.
But how could he explain that he had a sense of purpose at last? He couldn’t. Norah would trust actions, not mere words.
“I regret the necessity of questioning your loved ones,” he said. “But we can’t risk letting your husband’s killer go free.”
“Let the police handle the case.”
“Unfortunately, the police are getting nowhere.”
The cold breath of dread tickled his spine. If someone had meant for Norah to be accused of murder, the attempt had failed. Had the murderess wanted only to draw attention away from herself?
Or had her true purpose been to see Norah executed for the crime? What if she tried again?
No, he couldn’t believe danger stalked her. The notion seemed inconceivable in this bright, clean place. Hoots of boyish laughter wafted down the stairs. The summery fragrance of roses eddied from Norah. Winter sunlight drenched her in radiance.
She drew herself up in perfect posture. Twin spots of pink colored her cheeks. “Pardon my lapse in manners,” she said in a formal voice. “I’m ready to cooperate now.”
He was beginning to think she used politeness as a shield. “For God’s sake, I’m not so callous as to criticize your manners when you’re overwrought. There’s nothing wrong with expressing your feelings.”
She lifted an eyebrow. Without preamble, she said, “Winnifred has no independent means of support and Maurice denied her a dowry. He opposed her marriage to Thaddeus.”
“Why?”
“He called Thaddeus a common workman, despite his royal blood. Maurice claimed he was doing his duty simply by providing Winnifred a home.”
The revelation made Kit see the ill-tempered woman in a kinder light. “So she’s been an unpaid servant.”
“Yes, since long before I married into the family. Maurice once hinted at a bequest for her in his will, but...he must not have gotten around to adding it.” As if suffering a sudden chill, Norah pulled her shawl tighter. “Do you suppose her desire for money and marriage could make her hate him so much?”
“It’s a possibility,” Kit said gently. “What about Thaddeus Teodecki? Could he have abetted her in a murder plot?”
Norah frowned. “He’s a quiet man. I’m not sure I know him well enough even to hazard a guess.”
“They had dinner together at his boardinghouse early in the evening, or so Winnifred claimed. Then she returned home and went straight to her room.”
“Without seeing anyone,” Norah murmured. “Or anyone seeing her.”
She sat lost in thought. Kit wanted to stroke away the worry lines on her forehead, but knew with a pang that his touch offended her. After a moment, he asked, “How about Ivy? She said she had a headache and went to bed early.”
“Yes.”
“Do you know of any reason why she might hate her brother?”
Norah gnawed her lower lip and turned her gaze to her lap.
“You do know something, don’t you? Something you didn’t tell the police. When she remained silent, he urged, “Talk to me, Norah. Please.”
She flung up her chin, her glare fierce. “I never gave you leave to address me so intimately.”
Damn, she must be proud of her married name. He swallowed and said, “Pardon me, Mrs. Rutherford. What happened that gave Ivy a headache? Did she and Maurice disagree?”
Norah surged to her feet, petticoats rustling. Her expression troubled, she pressed back against the window frame. “Yes! Yes, they did.”
“What about?”
She took a deep breath and paced before the staircase. “When he came home, he hung his coat on the hall rack. He left a small jeweler’s case in the inside pocket. Later, Culpepper saw Ivy examining the coat. But Ivy claimed she never touched the case.”
“And what happened?”
“Maurice was frantic when he couldn’t find the case. He said it contained a twelve-carat diamond he wanted to deliver to a client that evening.”
“To whom?”
“He didn’t say.” She threw up her hands in despair. “But Maurice found the case in Ivy’s sewing basket. He said the diamond was safe inside.”
“Wasn’t the stone insured?”
Her brow wrinkled. “I don’t know. Maurice was furious. He...he threatened to put Ivy away in a sanitarium.” Her voice fell to an anguished whisper. “A madhouse.”
Fragile Ivy, who expressed herself in lacy designs, would wither away in the cold, inhuman atmosphere of an institution. Kit’s opinion of Maurice Rutherford sank even lower. “A beastly threat to give a charming old soul.”
“I know. I told Maurice so.” Norah rubbed her arms. “Ivy is forgetful at times, but who isn’t? A poor memory is hardly evidence of insanity.”
But murder might be. The unspoken words hovered like an evil specter in Kit’s mind. “Did your husband play cards?”
“What?” She blinked. “Most parlor games bored him.”
“Perhaps he might have incurred gambling debts—obligations he couldn’t pay.”
She regarded him coldly. “My husband was not a wastrel to squander his hard-earned money on hedonistic pursuits.”
Ouch, Kit thought. Her jab pushed him over the edge of frustration. “No, he was only a skinflint who refused to dower his cousin and wanted to lock his own sister in a madhouse.”
She reared back as if slapped. “Lest you forget, Maurice died in your bed. Perhaps one of your former mistresses was seeking revenge on you for spuming her.”
Sitting on the stair, he felt like a schoolboy facing the governess. He focused on the onyx and pearl mourning pin fastened at her throat. “I’ve considered that. I plan to interview each of them as soon as I can.”
“That should keep you busy for the next ten years at least,” she said tartly. “In the meantime, I should like to know why you lied to me.”
His gaze bolted to hers. “Lied? About what?”
“You claimed you didn’t know my husband. But I understand you came into Rutherford Jewelers once. With one of your females.”
To his mortification, Kit felt a flush travel up his neck to his cheeks. He hoped his dark skin hid the color. “Who told you?”
“Winnifred heard about the incident from Thaddeus. So you don’t deny it?”
“No. But I never spoke to your husband. A salesman showed me some brooches, th
at’s all.”
“How do I know you’re telling the truth?” She looked him up and down. “I want you to know that even as you examine the people in my life, my lord, I intend to be examining you.”
She held herself so prim, so priggish, he felt furious and amused all at once. Obeying an irresistible impulse, he said in his most silken voice, “I’m always happy to oblige a pretty woman. If it pleases you, we can go to my house straightaway and you can begin your examination.”
Her face blanched. She gripped the shawl so tightly over her breasts that her knuckles were white against the black lacework. “In case you’ve forgotten, you have work to do. And you’ve made me late enough already.”
She went past him and scurried up the stairway. Glimpsing her slim ankles and plain black stockings, Kit followed at a slower pace. Hadn’t she recognized his teasing tone? Any other woman of his acquaintance would have giggled and flirted. Of course, he wasn’t used to decent women.
Yet Norah’s manner seemed to reflect a high emotion beyond ladylike coyness or the offended sensibilities of a recent widow. Fear? Absurd. Unless she felt repulsed. He went cold inside. Perhaps his half-caste blood really did repel her.
He stared down at his feet, the polished leather shoes ridiculously elegant against the plain wooden steps. God, was he a stupid fool? Or dare he dream that once he proved his dedication to changing his knavish nature, she would soften toward him?
The noise of boyish voices grew louder. At the top of the stairs, Kit found Norah waiting in a narrow passage. The plastered walls bore embroidered beatitudes in simple wooden frames. She swept open a door. Like steam gushing from a valve, laughter and shouts poured out.
She ushered him inside. “Your classroom, my lord.”
Her face wore a bland expression. Yet he could have sworn her green eyes twinkled. Then the roomful of boys captured his attention. Roomful of devils, he amended.
In a cleared space at the back, two youths fought a sword battle with long wooden pointers. The other boys were gathered around, cheering. A few at the rear stood on benches and peered over the crowd. The dull crack of sticks rang with the clamor of voices.
Bloody hell. He was supposed to teach these rapscallions?
Kit swung around to ask Norah for assistance. The door was shut. She had gone.
The truth slapped him in the face. What a damned fool he was. Of course she had never meant to help him. She expected him to fail. Hell, she wanted him to fail. So she could prove him incapable of achieving any ideal higher than a romp in bed.
Panic gripped him in an iron fist. Now what? Somehow he had expected younger orphans, five or six years old. He had pictured neat rows of tractable children, their shiny faces tilted up to drink in his every word.
Not these almost-grown savages.
The lads didn’t notice his presence. One of the swordsmen was a big brute of a boy with spiky black hair and wolf-like cunning in his eyes. His scrawny opponent, a towhead with fair freckled skin and crooked teeth, fought gamely back, parrying every thrust and sidestepping the low blows.
The combat sparked a painful memory of Kit’s own schooldays. Because of his stepmother’s excellent tutelage, he had entered boarding school one form higher than other boys his age. Consequently he had been among the smallest in his class. That, along with his dusky Hindu skin, had made him a prime target for fagging. The bigger boys, James Woodfern included, had forced Kit to tote their books and fill their coal scuttles, to endure kicks and curses and vile nicknames like Blackie. Until he’d grown large and crafty enough to avenge himself on their ringleader, Bruce Abernathy.
Yet even that satisfying encounter, which had left a permanent scar on Bruce’s eyebrow, failed to erase the scars on Kit’s heart. The memory of his helplessness still stung like an unhealed wound.
He rallied himself to his present dilemma. Boys were like sheep. They would follow the strongest among them. Discipline the leader, and the rest of the group would fall into line.
Hell, he just might have a chance to prove Norah wrong. And to win her admiration.
Kit put his fingers to his lips and whistled. The shrill sound sliced through the din.
Heads swung around. The lads poked each other in the ribs. A few mutters and comments broke the sudden silence.
“Ye’re in trouble now, Lark,” one gleeful voice called.
The spike-haired bully named Lark lowered his makeshift sword. “Shut yer trap, Gaff. Where’s Billy? Bleedin’ barstard was the lookout.”
A stout youth wearing a bright red kerchief cowered against the wall. “I got a penny ridin’ on ye,” Billy whined. “Can’t expect me to keep me eyes peeled to the door—”
“Quit yer snivelin’. That goes for the lot o’ ye.” Lark swung the stick and the other boys shrank back. He aimed a scowl at Kit. “’Oo’re ye?”
“An’ where’s the Rev?” demanded another boy.
Hostile echoes of the question swept the group.
Good God, Kit thought. No wonder the Reverend Elias Sweeny had been so eager to hand over the job.
“The Rev won’t be teaching you today.” With more brashness than confidence, Kit strode forward. The boys opened a path for him. He stopped before Lark, whose belligerent eyes were on level with Kit’s chin. “I’m your new master, Mr. Coleridge,” he said, deeming it judicious to conceal his nobility.
Lark studied the tailored cut of Kit’s suit. “Ye ain’t no teacher. Ye’re a bleedin’ toff.”
“Toff or not, I’m in charge here.” Kit wrested the pointer from Lark. The younger lad, who crouched a yard away, gave up his weapon more willingly. Kit slapped the pair of long sticks against the palm of his hand. The wood made a satisfying whack. “I wonder,” he mused, “whose ears shall I box?”
“Screeve,” Lark said quickly. “’E started it. ’E tried to kick me in me better parts.”
“Well, Screeve?” asked Kit, looking down at the youth. “What have you to say for yourself?”
Screeve clamped his lips tight. Though his chest still heaved from exertion, his narrow shoulders were squared and his steady blue eyes flashed stubbornness. The boy wouldn’t tattle, not even to implicate a brute and save himself.
From the guilty looks that passed among the other classmates, Kit guessed more had touched off the conflict than Lark would confess. Kit sympathized with their tribal solidarity. What else did these street boys have but pride? Just staying alive was a daunting task.
“See?” Lark bragged. “’E can’t deny it. Go on, cane ’im, if ye’re really the master.”
“I’ll give the orders here,” Kit said. And maybe he could teach the youngsters a survival skill in the process.
On impulse he tossed the stick back to Lark. The lad caught it in mid-air. “’Ey! What’re ye doin’?”
“We will have a quick lesson in swordplay. You were a sloppy fighter.”
Lark stared as if Kit had sprouted fangs. “If ye’re thinkin’ t’ trick me—”
Kit smacked his pointer against his opponent’s. “En garde!”
Before Lark could do more than blink, Kit dealt him a series of swift blows. Forced into retreat, the boy lashed out with his makeshift sword. His grip was clumsy, his thrusts wild. The air resounded with the whack of wood on wood.
Lark’s spine met the wall. His tongue stuck in the corner of his mouth, he gamely deflected the attack. Kit feinted to the right. Lark swung in that direction. With the ease of practice, Kit pinned the tip of his pointer against the boy’s stocky chest.
“Give up or die.”
Lark’s jaw dropped. His stick clattered to the floor. His panting rasped into the silence.
His classmates gathered around. “Blimey!” said Billy. “’Ow’d ye do that so quick, sir?”
“I put him on the defensive. Then I tricked him.” Kit looked around at the sea of attentive faces. “Brawn might be an asset in a fight, but cleverness can conquer even the biggest bully.”
“Will you teach us, sir?” Scree
ve asked, his towhead upturned.
“If you like.”
The enthusiastic clamor almost deafened Kit. With Screeve as a partner, Kit demonstrated several techniques, showing the lads how to hold their weapon, how to fight on the offensive. “Don’t strike out blindly. Discipline your thrusts. Watch for a weak spot. Think about what your opponent will do next.”
The boys eagerly imitated him, using imaginary swords to engage each other in mock combat. Twenty minutes of exercise had vented their excess energy, Kit finally decided. Despite the groans and protests, he put the sticks away and turned to Lark. Subdued but not beaten, the lad glowered back.
“Something tells me you were collecting penny bets for thrashing a smaller boy,” Kit said. “I needn’t check with the Reverend to know that gambling breaks the house rules. Not to mention fighting.”
Lark’s gaze wavered. “But Screeve’s always lordin’ ’is learnin’ over the lot o’ us.”
The bully glowered toward the corner, where a tattered book lay on the floor. Kit scooped up the slim volume. The pasteboard cover depicted a sinister man in black clothing and slouch hat, a length of rope in his dirty hands as he crept around the corner of a stone mansion toward an unsuspecting lady. The six-penny novel was entitled The Madman of Mayfair.
Aha, Kit thought. “This is your book?” he asked Screeve.
“Yes,” the towhead admitted defiantly. “I didn’t steal it, though. I found it lying in the rubbish at Farringdon Market.”
Kit wondered at the boy’s cultured accent. “I didn’t say you’d stolen it. I merely meant to ask if you would share the story with the other boys.”
“Lark wouldn’t know a book from privy paper. He’d probably use the pages to wipe his arse.”
Lark snarled like a wolf and lunged. Kit grabbed the boy’s rough-spun shirt. “That’s enough.”
The boy brandished his fists at Screeve. “Think ye’re so ’igh an’ mighty ’cause yer dad were a screever ’oo could write fancy letters.”
Screeve squared his scrawny shoulders. “He was a gentleman down on his luck.”
