by Olivia Drake
“No, thank you. That won’t be necessary. It was overly warm in my office, that’s all.”
Lady Carlyle still looked worried. “May I offer my sincerest sympathy on your recent loss? I know what a difficult time this must be for you, the first few weeks of adjustment, if I may speak so frankly.”
Her kindly manner put Norah at ease. “Of course you may.”
“I’m pleased to see you here at the shop,” Lady Carlyle said. “Society might deem it proper for a widow to mourn in the privacy of her home, but when my own Hubert passed on a year ago, I found it comforting to occupy my days with worthwhile pursuits, to help me escape all the memories.” She pressed Norah’s hand. “You do the same, dear, no matter what any small-minded person says to the contrary.”
Norah smiled shakily. After Winnifred’s harping, she welcomed a noncritical person. “Your words are a comfort. I’ve had my doubts over whether I was doing the right thing.”
“You’re to be commended for carrying on your husband’s legacy. You have so many lovely pieces here.” Her ladyship indicated a necklace sparkling against the black velvet interior of a display case. “May I see this one?”
“Certainly.” Norah opened the cabinet with a key from the ring hanging from her waist. Reverently she drew out the necklace; diamond brilliants formed five stars which dangled from a sapphire-studded band. The beauty of the stones, the delicacy of their weight, brought a fierce rush of pleasure to her heart.
“How exquisite. The band represents the sky.” Lady Carlyle stroked her gloved fingertip over the midnight-blue stones lying in Norah’s palm.
“A head frame comes with the necklace. If you like, you can convert it into a tiara.”
“Indeed? How versatile.” The noblewoman studied the jewelry another moment, then tilted her elegant head at Norah. “Speaking of tiaras, will you still compete for the Jubilee commission?”
Norah s stomach curled. “I hope so.”
“I’m glad. I understand from the Princess Alexandra that your husband had located a diamond nearly as fabulous as the Koh-i-Noor in the crown jewels.”
“Yes, the gem is called Fire at Midnight. It’s the only lavender diamond known to exist.”
A thought continued to trouble Norah. In response to her repeated questions, Maurice had admitted in November that his agent, a Mr. Upchurch, had already departed for India to purchase the fabled gem. But whether or not Upchurch had taken the loan money with him, she didn’t know.
Impatient and frustrated, she resolved to send a telegram to India and find out. She needed Fire at Midnight. Winning the royal commission would secure her professional reputation.
“I’m waiting to hear from my agent,” she added. “He’s negotiating with the Maharaja of Rampur.”
“How proud you must have been of your husband.” Lady Carlyle touched the star necklace again. “He was a brilliant designer.”
Conscious of the fine gemstones in her hand, Norah braced herself against disapproval. “Thank you,” she murmured. “But I designed this necklace. And most of the other pieces here.”
“Did you? Why, how very clever.” Lady Carlyle’s gray-green eyes lit with a glow of awed surprise. “I never dreamed you were so talented, Mrs. Rutherford. Or that you shared my own love for art.”
Her unexpected praise warmed Norah. Yet a strange sadness seemed hidden within her ladyship, a melancholy that Norah ached to banish. “If you like this necklace, I would be happy to wrap it for you—”
“I think not.” A man stepped up behind Lady Carlyle. Fair-haired and slim, he wore a buttoned topcoat with a red silk handkerchief peeking from the breast pocket. A gold-knobbed walking stick was tucked under his arm, and white kid gloves concealed his hands. His scarred eyebrow lifted as he looked at the necklace Norah held, and his mouth formed a thin line beneath a perfectly trimmed mustache. “Gaudy piece,” he commented. “And inappropriate for your mourning period, Mother. Come along now. I’ve little patience for standing about and chatting with shopkeepers.”
His frosty blue eyes swept over Norah. The distaste there chilled her as much as his rudeness angered her.
The animation fled Lady Carlyle’s countenance. She lowered her gaze like a scolded dog. “Certainly, Bruce,” she murmured. “Good day, Mrs. Rutherford.”
“Please come back soon, my lady,” Norah said, pointedly ignoring her son. “You’re always welcome.”
She watched them walk toward the door. She had the unpalatable sense of being dismissed like a nameless servant. The brief intimacy between her and Lady Carlyle might never have existed. Odd, how such a free-minded woman had overlooked her son’s discourtesy and acceded to his wishes. The ambiguity uncovered an emptiness in Norah, a vague feeling of loss.
Pauvre petite. She is the product of sin. She can never wash away the taint of her bad blood.
Nonsense, she told herself. Lord Carlyle didn’t know of her bastardy. He was only another haughty aristocrat who believed himself superior to anyone beneath his own exalted stature.
A tall, dark man approached the shop. He paused to greet the Carlyles, then strode inside. The din of street noise rushed in before the beveled glass door quietly closed.
Kit Coleridge, the Marquess of Blackthorne.
Norah’s spirits took a giddy jump. At the same time, the impulse to flee clamored within her. Indecision held her immobile. He had already seen her, anyway. He moved through the exclusive shop like a bee homing in on a rose.
Hatless, his coat collar turned up against the icy weather, he walked with assurance and strength. Ah, he is handsome, she thought. As perfect and pleasing to the eye as the Black Prince’s ruby. That must be why his image stole into her mind so often. Because she appreciated beauty in any form.
At present he looked irked, embroiled in inner thought. The crease marring his brow smoothed when he came up to her. “I see you’ve met Lord Carlyle,” he whispered for her ears alone. “Prissy swine, isn’t he?”
Norah swallowed a startled laugh. “I’ve seen his sort a number of times here at the shop,” she said in a low-pitched voice. “His uncharitable attitude seems to be representative of the nobility.”
“You wound me. Not all of us are so uncharitable. Here, I brought you a gift.” Kit Coleridge held out a small parcel.
She gazed at him in surprise. “For what occasion?”
“Need there be one?”
With a single step, he closed the gap between them and pressed the package into her free hand. He smelled of crisp, cold weather and his own faint, exotic musk. Surreptitiously she glanced around the shop; the breadth of his body half shielded her from the prying eyes of customers and salesmen.
Her heart thumping, Norah set down the parcel while she carefully replaced the star necklace on its velvet bed inside the display case. Maurice had given her presents on her birthday, on their wedding anniversary, and on Christmas. But never so unexpectedly. She felt awkward, unsure of what to do.
“I shouldn’t accept this,” she murmured.
“Open it,” the marquess urged.
Curiosity prodded her into untying the string. Beneath her fumbling fingers, the brown paper crackled. Inside lay a dog-eared novel with a garishly illustrated cover.
She eyed him in puzzlement. “The Madman of Mayfair?”
“Yes.” He ducked his head in an oddly boyish gesture, then cleared his throat. “I have a confession to make.”
“Confessions seem to be becoming a habit with you,” she couldn’t resist saying.
“Yes, well. This is something that’s been weighing on my conscience. Something I’ve kept from you.”
She couldn’t imagine what his guilty expression had to do with the six-penny book in her hand. Half-jokingly she said, “Don’t tell me you’re the author of this rubbish?”
His black eyebrows shot up. His white teeth flashed in a meltingly attractive smile. “Sorry, I can’t claim that honor.”
“Then kindly get to the point.”
“Th
e point is the boys.”
“The boys?”
“At the school. You see, I know you’ve been wondering how I got them interested in reading. Well...”
The Madman of Mayfair suddenly stung her fingers. The book thunked onto the glass-topped counter. She glanced around to make sure no one else in the shop had noticed. “That?” she whispered. “That is what you’ve been using to educate impressionable young minds?”
Lord Blackthorne shrugged self-consciously. “The lads liked it.”
“Of course—they don’t know any better. But the children need to learn how to survive in polite society.” She jabbed her finger at the book. “This is melodramatic drivel, without a lesson or a moral to speak of.”
“It does have a moral. Justice and honor prevail in the end.” He planted his hands on the display cabinet and put his face closer to hers. “Have you ever read one?”
Wary at his nearness, she retreated a step. “Of course not.”
“Then please withhold judgment.” He pushed the book toward her. “I hadn’t read one either before last week, and I was pleasantly surprised. That’s why I decided to confess my secret and pass the novel on to you. I thought you might consider using popular literature in your class, too.”
Kit Coleridge looked so hopeful and appealing that Norah caught herself from melting toward him. She folded her arms. “My girls are studying The Illustrated Manners Book. It’s a classic of well-bred accomplishments and good behavior, to enable them to find work someday in millinery shops or as lady’s maids.”
He grinned. “Commendable, but I can imagine how well rascals like Lark and Billy and Screeve would like your book. They need to learn more useful skills.”
“Reverend Sweeny is under the impression they’re reading the Holy Bible.”
“And so they are—for part of their lesson. But I had to find a more creative way to hold their attention.”
“With this?” Using thumb and forefinger, she gingerly picked up the lurid novel by the spine. “Where in heaven’s name did you unearth it?”
“Never mind that. The object is to teach the boys to read. Unless you’d rather see them back on the streets again.”
The marquess had a point, Norah admitted. A vital, indisputable point. Was she being too closed-minded? She, who prided herself on avoiding prejudice? Somehow Kit Coleridge seemed to bring out the worst in her. He made her search inside herself and see her own faults.
She rewrapped the book in brown paper. “Very well, I’ll look this over.”
“I knew you’d listen to reason.” Smiling, he rounded the counter, his hands thrust in the pockets of his coat.
His nearness rattled her. Only, she thought, because he alone had witnessed her most private emotional outburst. She would gladly pay the cost of the Koh-i-Noor diamond to erase that embarrassing episode. She still quivered to recall the pressure of his mouth against her brow, the feel of his hard body entrapping her.
“Now,” he said, “I should like to meet Mr. Thaddeus Teodecki.”
Her lips parted at the abrupt reminder of the mystery. “I thought you’d lost interest in investigating the murder.”
“Then you’re wrong. I have a few questions to put to Mr. Teodecki. Is he here?”
“He’s working in the back.”
She led Blackthorne through the passageway, past the door to the vault, and to the workshop. Rows of craftsmen sat at their benches, each workstation consisting of a desk with a half-circular indentation from which hung a leather skin to catch the lemel, or scraps of precious metal. Each man had his own set of tools—handsaws and tweezers, tongs and pliers.
At a round table sat a group of assistants shaping gold wire. Norah absorbed the low level of noise, the rasp of a file, the ping-ping of hammering, the thump of a hand drill. The thrill of ownership seized her heart. Despite the guarded glances from the men, she felt proud and confident as she escorted the marquess through her domain.
In front of the bank of windows, she found Thaddeus standing at his workbench. Tall and stoop-shouldered, he had a crowning glory of wavy brown hair, its neatness identifying it as his one vanity. He bent over the desk to position a wooden jig, which held a single pearl in preparation for drilling.
“Mr. Teodecki?” she said. “Excuse me.”
He pivoted and bowed. His pointed goatee gave him a faintly sinister air. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Rutherford,” he said, the trace of a Polish accent in his voice.
In deference to her, he rolled down his shirt sleeves. He always acted almost too respectful, too humble. She wondered what thoughts lay behind his composed expression.
“Lord Blackthorne, I should like you to meet Mr. Teodecki, one of our master craftsmen. Mr. Teodecki, his lordship has some questions for you.”
Kit Coleridge held out his hand and Thaddeus gravely shook it. “Miss Winnifred mentioned you,” he said.
“Ah. And she praised your artistry to me. May I see what you’re working on?”
Thaddeus moved aside. “As you wish, my lord.”
On the table lay the almost finished piece, a foliage design sprigged with collet-set diamonds from which hung three tiers of flawless, milky pearls. Lord Kit leaned closer to study the sketch tacked to the backboard of the desk.
“It’s a stomacher brooch,” Norah murmured. “A commission for Lady Churchill.”
He straightened. “It’s unusual and stunning...lovely. I’m beginning to recognize your unique style.”
His admiring smile curled her insides. “Thank you.” Of course his compliment pleased her, she thought. The act of publicly acknowledging her work was still new and exciting, a hunger to be satisfied, like consuming a forbidden fruit.
Blackthorne turned to Thaddeus. “What do you think of Mrs. Rutherford’s talent?”
“I am happy to render her handsome creations.”
“How long have you known that she designed the jewelry and not her husband?”
Thaddeus stroked his goatee. He glanced hesitantly at Norah. “Several years ago, Miss Winnifred told me the truth. Of course, I would never have betrayed her confidence.”
“Of course.” The marquess paused. “She wanted you to manage the shop. You must have been disappointed to remain in your present position.”
A tiny compression of Thaddeus’s lips gave his only indication of emotion, though whether of annoyance or anger, Norah couldn’t discern. “I am an artisan, no more and no less,” he said. “And I shall remain so, despite Miss Winnifred’s grandiose dreams.”
Blackthorne peered closely at Thaddeus. “Did you see the hatpin Mr. Rutherford brought here for repair after Christmas?”
“If you refer to the one which caused his death, then I did not.” Thaddeus made a disdainful gesture. “Assistants perform the minor repairs.”
“I understand you once took morphine, did you not?”
The query took Norah unawares. Her fingers tensed around the paper-wrapped book. Dear God, was it true? Could drugs tie Thaddeus to the murder?
But he merely nodded. “Last year I suffered from a bout of headaches, and my physician prescribed the capsules. I used up the medicine months ago. Since you consider me a suspect, I will give the name of my doctor so you may verify this.” He scribbled the name on a slip of paper.
“Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Teodecki.”
Thaddeus clicked his heels and bowed. “I only pray you find Mr. Rutherford’s slayer, your lordship.”
They left him at his worktable, a modest and grave man already reabsorbed in his labor.
Burning with questions, Norah conducted the marquess into her office. The sight of the ledger on her desk jarred her. Dear Blessed Virgin. She had almost forgotten about the repulsive Bertie Goswell and her financial problems.
More and more she could see that Kit Coleridge possessed the power of commanding her attention; he also had an instinct for handling people. Both traits lay at the root of his charm...and explained why he fascinated her even as the force of his ma
sculine nature discomposed her.
He shrugged out of his topcoat and slung it onto the gilded rack by the door. Hands on his hips, he stood watching her. “Why did you let your husband take credit for your work?”
His implied criticism roused Norah’s ire. “What else was I to do?”
“Claim your just due, of course.”
“How simple you make it sound. But women must live within the restrictions imposed by society. At least Maurice was kind enough to allow me the chance to see my designs grace the people who can afford them.”
“Kind?” The marquess strolled closer, his eyes dark and alive. “Selfish and cowardly is more to the point. I suspect it would have hurt his pride to admit that his wife had far more talent than he did.”
Norah had long thought so herself, but the private person inside her refused to admit it aloud. Especially not to Kit Coleridge. “Men are always so quick to imprison women with the rules of society. Then they have the temerity to blame us for conforming to their rigid guidelines.”
“Not all men think alike. I, for one, appreciate cleverness in a woman.”
The smoldering fervency on his face sparked an uneasy fire in Norah. She retreated to the desk and dropped The Madman of Mayfair onto the loan document, venting the steam inside her by slamming the drawer. “Enough philosophizing. I want to know how you found out about the morphine.”
Raising an eyebrow at the spindly chairs, he settled onto the edge of the desk. “From Ivy. I had tea with her yesterday.”
Norah sank into the chair behind the desk. The ease with which he invaded her private life rankled her. She folded her hands atop the ledger. “She didn’t tell me you’d been by.”
“Because I asked her not to. I wanted the chance to speak to Thaddeus first. To see what I could glean from his response, which, as it turns out, revealed little enough.”
“You didn’t trust me to judge my own employee?”
“Rather, I was thinking of you, Norah. You have to work with him every day. Better he should resent me for considering him a suspect.” He feathered his fingertips over her hand, prickling her skin in a strangely pleasant way. “May I call you Norah? It seems simpler since we’re working together.”
