Fire at Midnight

by Olivia Drake

  “’E were a thief just like me own dad were. Ye ain’t no better’n me.”

  “I said, that’s quite enough,” Kit bellowed. “There’s a time to fight and a time to talk.”

  Lark thrust out his lower lip. Screeve took sudden interest in his scuffed boots.

  Kit released Lark. “I want you two to shake hands.”

  “Ain’t gonna—”

  “I shall never—”

  “No more arguing,” Kit said in a steely tone. “Make your choice between a handshake and a caning.”

  The boys eyed each other with identical sullen expressions. Then their hands flashed out in a brief touch. The fastest handclasp in history, Kit thought, the cold sweat on his skin warming with relief. But who was he to argue with success?

  “Now,” he said, “you’re all going to take a turn at the book.”

  Twenty pairs of eyes stared uncomprehending.

  “I want to know how well each of you can read,” he explained.

  Billy waggled his pudgy hand in the air. “But the Rev made us recite from the ’Oly Scripture.”

  “My method is different.” Stifling a twinge of conscience, and deeming it wise not to humiliate Lark, Kit handed the book to Billy. “You go first.”

  The youth went as red as his kerchief. “Me, guvnor?”

  “Yes, you.”

  Misgivings written over his mottled face, Billy slowly opened the volume. He planted his thickset finger at the first sentence. “‘It was a...a...”

  Kit peered over his shoulder. “‘Quiet’”

  “…quiet day in Du...Duberry Place…”

  Pitiful, Kit thought with a wrench of compassion. Inside half an hour, he unmasked the deplorable truth. Other than Screeve, who could recite with the eloquence of a Shakespearean soliloquist, Billy was one of the best readers in the class. A few like Lark could decipher only a simple word or two.

  Yet they all wanted to hear the story and sat entranced on their benches as the tale unfolded of the madman stalking the mews behind fancy mansions and strangling lone maidservants, of the brave constable who slowly tracked a trail of clues leading to the murderer. Just as the hero’s sweetheart, a sweet-tempered lady’s maid, faced the evil killer in terror, Kit clapped the book shut. “We’ll read the next chapter tomorrow.”

  Lark sat with his brown eyes wide. “Mrs. R’s ’usband were murdered in cold blood, weren’t ’e? By a tart in a red cape.”

  “Where did you hear about that?” Kit asked sharply.

  “The Rev’s missus were grievin’ an’ carryin’ on,” Billy said. “’Er and the Rev went t’ the funeral, y’ know.”

  “The murderess is still at large, isn’t she?” Screeve said.

  “Aye,” added Lark in a stage whisper. “An’ she could strike again, stick ’er ’atpin into some other unsuspectin’ bloke—”

  “That’s quite enough,” Kit broke in. Good God, maybe he shouldn’t have read them the lurid novel. “You’re not to bother Mrs. Rutherford with your questions. Now let’s get to your lessons.”

  The boys grumbled but set to work, some writing their alphabet on the chalkboard, the more advanced students taking turns reciting from the Bible on the lectern. Kit regarded them with unqualified pride and weak-kneed relief. Lord, who would have imagined these rascally imps would settle down to penmanship and recitation? And with a master whose greatest educational accomplishment to date had been initiating bored ladies into the art of lovemaking.

  He liked the glow of success he felt now, the unadorned pleasure of helping others. It filled the empty feeling inside him, yet infused him with the keen hunger for more in his life than parties and mistresses.

  But doubtless Norah would condemn both his method of bribery and his choice of reading matter. He hid The Madman of Mayfair inside his breast pocket. She need never know his teaching techniques.

  He moved from boy to boy, checking on their work. Lark sheepishly displayed his crude rendering of the alphabet. The S’s and J’s were backward, but Kit praised him nonetheless. The youth shrugged and attempted to look nonchalant, though his shoulders were squared with self-importance.

  Now if Norah would only hurry up and witness this spirit of industriousness, Kit thought, he might even believe in miracles.

  Chapter 5

  She prayed for a miracle.

  When no lightning bolt of wisdom streaked down from the heavens, Norah huffed in disgust. She flung her pencil onto the ledger, propped her elbows on the desk, and massaged her weary eyes. The squiggly numbers danced like dervishes in her brain. Each time she tried to add them, the long columns of digits yielded a different sum.

  She slapped the leather-bound volume shut. Arithmetic had never been her forte. Even simple household accounts mystified her. But there was no need to rush, she reminded herself. The vault held adequate cash to meet the payroll. She could go over the ledger another day.

  Allowing herself a moment’s rest, Norah lounged against the cushioned chair. It was the only comfortable seat in the office, the spacious room Maurice had occupied until three weeks ago. The gray afternoon light oozed over the white-and-gilt Louis XIV furnishings. The decor was too extravagant, too pretentious for her tastes. The spindly guest chair looked as if it couldn’t support an elf. The pearly paint on the desk hid the rich patina of oak. From above the ornately carved mantel, the portrait of a cavalier in a long feathered hat glared balefully at her.

  But with a fierce feeling of reverence, Norah cherished every stick of furniture right down to the gold-leafed rubbish bin. Rutherford Jewelers belonged to her now, from the pens and inkpot on the desk to the diamonds and rubies in the walk-in vault.

  She picked up a presentation box from the desk. Designed to hold a parure, or matching set of jewelry, the green nephrite box had rose diamond chips set in a silver trellis pattern. Her fingertip brushed the MR stamped into the base. Sudden jealousy consumed her. She had designed the piece. Her initials ought to be emblazoned across the bottom.

  Norah swallowed the unladylike swell of resentment and set down the box. Henceforth, she could take credit for her own work. She would supervise every piece from design to polishing and see her own trademark imprinted on each one. The daring thought inspired the dream that once had been only a sparkling jewellike secret to be drawn out and revered in privacy.

  Yet frustration dimmed her spirits. If Maurice had included her in the daily routine, she might be able to decipher the ledgers. She knew more about serving tea than managing a business. Assuming leadership a fortnight ago had been an act of courage...or the act of a fool.

  She still wasn’t sure which.

  Norah plucked the pencil from inside the ledger. Mistrustful of accountants, Maurice had tallied the records himself. Which meant she lacked even a bookkeeper to consult. Whom could she rely on for advice?

  Kit Coleridge.

  She tried to banish his image from her mind, but his wicked eyes and pirate smile lingered. He was as trustworthy as sunshine on a winter’s day in London. An idle rich man like him would disdain a topic as crass as finances. Doubtless his knowledge of money matters extended to how much coin he should spend on French perfume and Worth gowns to pamper his mistress, the Honorable Jane Bingham.

  Yet he had kept his pledge to help out at the Sweeny Academy for Orphans, and amazingly he was succeeding at the task. He stood at the front of the classroom as if he were born to the role of teacher. How had he inspired such awe and interest in the boys?

  Nibbling the wooden end of her pencil, Norah pondered the enigma. He certainly hadn’t caned the lads. They had acted eager, not subdued. Somehow he had bred loyalty into them, for they kept mum about his methods. The conspiracy of silence intrigued her. She must sleuth out the truth.

  Teaching must be another game to him, she decided. He had seized her suggestion as a personal challenge, a dare of sorts, another gamble to win. Like any profligate nobleman, he would tire of the sport soon enough and go in search of new amusement. Just as he w
ould weary of pursuing the puzzle of Maurice’s death.

  Yet she acknowledged a softening inside her. For all his shortcomings, Kit Coleridge had worked wonders with the boys, Lark in particular. He had yanked the youth from the pit of delinquency and dragged him by the scruff of the neck into a world of possibilities. The Sweenys had almost given up on saving the orphan from a wretched life of crime. But after only a few sessions of the marquess’s tutelage, Lark could read whole sentences. Hope lifted her heart; someday he might obtain a suitable post as a merchant or a teacher.

  A shaft of memory pierced her with pain. She worked at the orphanage to fulfill her longing for a houseful of children. As a lonely girl surrounded by nuns too involved in their prayers to notice her, she had once imagined having a large, loving family. Over the years her bright hope had dimmed to a flicker and now had died with Maurice. Some flaw in her body had kept her from conceiving. She could find only one spark of solace in the matter. Never again need she fetter herself to a husband, never again endure a man’s hands groping her in the dark...

  Peter Bagley, one of the craftsmen, poked his ruddy face into her office. His leather work apron stretched across his portly middle. “A man to see you, Mrs. Rutherford. He raised a ruckus when he found out the master had passed on.”

  Norah stood, and the ring of keys at her waist jingled faintly. “Who is he?”

  Bagley shrugged. “Wouldn’t give his name. Dressed fine enough, but vulgar. Says Mr. Rutherford owed him money. I bade him wait by the back door, lest he offend the customers in the showroom.”

  “Thank you. Show him in here, please.”

  Bagley’s lip curled beneath his sweeping mustache. “Mr. Rutherford wouldn’t have wanted you to meet alone with that sort.”

  “Thank you. But Mr. Rutherford can hardly object now.”

  “Suit yourself, then.”

  As he sauntered out, Norah caught herself clenching her fists so hard that her nails left little half-moon shapes on the tender skin of her palms. Would she ever overcome the disapproval of the men here? Already two workers had resigned rather than take orders from a woman. The attitude of the others ranged from quiet distrust to outright enmity.

  Everyone expected her to fail, from the gem cutters to the metalsmiths, from the assistants to the salesmen. Even though they now knew that many of the pieces they had been making and marketing came from her designs, her talent.

  Footsteps drew her attention to the door. A great hulk of a man strode inside, his gait lopsided from a slight limp. He wore a black cloth coat and trousers, and a shiny silk hat which he swept off. When he bowed, Norah saw that his oiled brown hair had been combed carefully over a bald spot. Despite his dapper dress, he exuded a coarseness that repelled her. Thick side whiskers half concealed his sallow complexion. His squat features brought to mind a toad.

  Maurice had owed money to this man?

  The stranger sent his hat sailing onto the desk. With an impropriety that made her skin crawl, he looked up and down her black-gowned figure. “My, my. Ye’re as tempting as a fancy tea cake. Ol’ Maurice never mentioned that he kept a pretty piece like ye ’idden away.”

  “I beg your pardon?” she said, icing her voice with politeness. “How may I help you?”

  “Me name’s Albert Goswell. Me friends call me Bertie—like the Prince o’ Wales, ye know.” He paused, his vested chest puffed out like a bullfrog seeking notice by a female.

  Deliberately Norah remained standing. She must learn to hold her ground with men. “Kindly state your business, Mr. Goswell.”

  Without asking, he flung himself into a gilt chair. It creaked ominously under his weight. He peered up at her. “So,” he said, sneering, “yer husband didn’t mention ol’ Bertie, eh?”

  “Indeed, he did not.”

  “Fancy that. An’ me an’ ’im almost like partners.”

  “Do explain yourself. Or I shall be forced to show you to the door.”

  “’Ere now, don’t bust yer corset.” Goswell grinned, displaying a set of gold-capped teeth. “I only come by for me first monthly payment.”

  Cold fingers of apprehension tingled down her spine. “Payment?”

  “Aye. ’Tis two days overdue and I ain’t a patient bloke.” He propped his booted feet on the white desk and shook his stubby finger at her. “Yer man might’ve passed on, but ye’re still bound ter meet ’is obligations. Owed me a pretty pile o’ coin, ’e did.”

  “How much?”

  “Twelve thousand gold sovereigns.”

  Norah’s legs threatened to give way. Willpower held her upright. She had drawers full of precious gems in the vault. Even so, the huge sum staggered her.

  “Why would my husband borrow so much from you?”

  “I ain’t a nosy man. I don’t ask no questions.”

  Hiding her dismay and disbelief, she gazed into his crafty eyes and grasped at a strengthening thread of anger. She’d heard of scoundrels who victimized the bereaved. “What proof have you?” she demanded. “How do I know you didn’t hear about my husband’s death and seize this chance to bilk me?”

  “Me? Swindle an ’elpless widow? Why, ye wound me, ye do. Bertie Goswell’s an honest man, ’e is. The proof’s right ’ere.”

  Goswell swung his boots down, leaving black smudges on the white painted desk. He reached inside his coat, drew out a paper, and spread it across the ledger book. His nearness gave her a cloying whiff of his oily hair tonic.

  Willing her hand not to shake, she picked up the document and scanned it. Dated the previous November, it stated that Maurice Rutherford of Rutherford Jewelers, Bond Street, London, had agreed to repay the loan at the rate of one thousand pounds per month, at a ten percent interest rate, compounded monthly, whatever that meant. Across the bottom of the page unrolled Maurice’s tidy, familiar signature.

  She itched to fling the paper into the fire.

  Goswell intercepted her glance at the hearth and smiled. “I got me another copy tucked away safe, I do. Both signed and lawful.”

  “I should like my solicitor to examine this.”

  “Please yerself. Just don’t be gettin’ any notions about cheatin’ ol’ Bertie.”

  Swallowing, Norah kept her expression neutral. “I fully intend to repay you, Mr. Goswell. Once I confirm the legality of the document.”

  “Oh, no,” said Goswell. His mouth hardened into a cruel line. He stabbed his finger toward her face. “Ye ain’t gonna weasel out o’ this one, missus. Ye owe me a payment today.”

  “I don’t keep large amounts of coin lying about,” she said. “You’ll simply have to wait until the will has been probated. That’s the best I can offer you.”

  “Is it now?” Goswell snatched up the presentation box and turned it over in his hairy hands. “’Andsome piece. Real silver and diamonds. Must be worth a pretty penny. Aye, an’ it might even be the price o’ givin’ you a fortnight’s extension.” He tossed the box into the air and deftly caught it, tucking it under his arm.

  “Put that down—”

  “Now mind your manners, missus. Me favors ain’t cheap, ye know. Ye owe me—lemme see, ’ow do ye fine folk call it? A token o’ good faith, eh?” He clapped on his top hat. “Cheerio, Mrs. Maurice. Bertie Goswell’ll be back afore ye know it.”

  Whistling a cheery ditty, he limped out the door.

  For long moments Norah stood petrified, her breath searing her chest with icy fire. In jerky movements, she made the sign of the cross. Then she thrust the document into the desk drawer. Feeling soiled, she scrubbed her hands together. A fortnight. She had a fortnight. Surely if need be, she could sell some gems and scrape together the cash.

  Never before had she met a lout of Goswell’s ilk. As thick as the sickening scent of his hair oil, the stench of his corruption tainted the room. The need to escape pricked her.

  Rushing from the office, she passed through the high-ceilinged workroom, where gas lamps augmented the watery daylight seeping through the wall of windows. She scarcely
noticed the artisans at work, or the clink of hammers and the metallic aromas that usually gratified her.

  The mystery of why Maurice had gone to the vile moneylender poisoned her spirits. If the shop was short of funds, why had he not borrowed from a bank? Surely his credit was beyond reproach.

  And to where had the twelve thousand gold sovereigns vanished? The ledger had held no such immense entry. Had Maurice bought a supply of stones? Or perhaps the South African diamond that had vanished on the night of his death?

  No, a twelve-carat diamond would account for only a fraction of the sum. Suddenly Norah recalled the design for the Jubilee tiara. Its centerpiece was to be a spectacular lavender diamond known as Fire at Midnight. Had Maurice been forced to borrow to buy that legendary diamond for the royal tiara? Again she resented him for sharing so little information about the business.

  She emerged into the showroom. Plush carpeting in a subtle rose pattern cushioned her feet. A pair of Waterford chandeliers sparkled against a scalloped recess in the ceiling. Glass display cases lined in black velvet discreetly exhibited the jewelry, necklaces and chokers, scarf pins and opera glasses, rings and bracelets. On this dreary January afternoon, only a few customers roamed the premises, each attended by an elegantly dressed salesman.

  Norah leaned against a tall mahogany cabinet. A great weight of fear crushed her chest. Dear Blessed Virgin. What if she couldn’t pay back the money? What if Bertie seized the store? What if she had to relinquish the wonderful dream that had only just become a reality? What if Ivy and Winnifred were thrown into the gutter of poverty?

  “Mrs. Rutherford?”

  She blinked at the tall woman clad in a miniver-trimmed cloak. Fine age lines enhanced her lovely features, and a violet velvet hat with a white egret feather crowned her graying hair.

  “Lady Carlyle,” Norah murmured, plucking the name from the fog inside her head. She had met the noblewoman months earlier, on a rare visit to the shop. “How are you?”

  “Never mind me.” Her ladyship touched a gloved hand to Norah’s arm. “You look altogether too pale, my dear. Please, let me help you to a chair.”