Fire at Midnight

by Olivia Drake

  Jerome looked unconvinced. “Nobody had better shun you in front of me, by God. Or I’ll give the wretch a lecture about rudeness and manners.”

  Warmed by his loyalty, she smiled. “Thank you, but I’m sure that won’t be necessary.”

  “What about the shop? Has the gossip affected your clientele?”

  The strong voice of temptation bade her to tell him about the usurer, Bertie Goswell, and the missing twelve thousand sovereigns. A month ago, she would have spilled her troubles to Jerome. But with dawning independence, she wanted to solve her own problems. To that end, she had scheduled a meeting with the bank director on Monday to answer her financial questions.

  “Business is off a bit, yes,” she admitted. “But that’s likely due to the post-holiday lull.” Her heart lurched as she thought of Kit. “And I’ve won a choice commission. Things will pick up even more when the weather grows warmer.”

  Concern continued to crease Jerome’s brow. “Speaking of commissions, have you finished your entry in the competition for the royal tiara?”

  “Not yet.” Norah thought of the unanswered telegram to Upchurch; the agent must not have reached India and purchased Fire at Midnight yet. With effort, she controlled her impatience. “But you needn’t worry. I have the diamonds in the vault.”

  Most of them, anyway, she added silently. If she told Jerome the truth, he’d try to interfere.

  He nodded, though his head remained cocked at a worried angle. “Norah, not everyone will accept that a woman can be a fine designer. People believe the success of Rutherford Jewelers depended on Maurice’s artistic talents, not yours.”

  “Then I shall have to prove otherwise to them.”

  “The scandal surrounding his death is bound to drive away even the most loyal of customers.”

  “I’ll manage somehow.”

  “But you’re alone now.” He touched her black sleeve. “Let me at least act as your business adviser. I know I’m often gone for weeks at a time—”

  “Six months last summer and autumn.”

  “Er, yes. But nevertheless, you need a man to watch out for you. God knows, you never had a father around as a child.”

  The sadness on his face threatened the firm ground of her determination. “Stop trying to coddle me,” she said, more sharply than usual. “I’m an adult woman, and I don’t need a parent. I can take care of myself.”

  Lizzie walked in to deliver the tea tray and then left. Brisk and businesslike, Norah set herself to pouring. When she passed Jerome his cup, she noticed a strange pensiveness shuttering his fine-lined features.

  “Forgive me for presuming to manage your life,” he murmured. “Sometimes I forget you’re no longer the innocent sixteen-year-old girl who crossed the North Sea to marry a virtual stranger.”

  “And I’m sorry I snapped at you.” Contrite, she hugged him. His scent of tobacco and peppermint wrapped her in the comfort of an old friend. So many times over the years, when Norah had been left alone while Maurice spent the evenings at his club, Jerome had been there, to escort her to the theater or to simply enliven her solitary dinner. “Oh, Jerome. You are a dear.”

  The tautness on his face eased into a whimsical grin. “A cup of hot tea on a cold day and a beautiful woman for company. Now, how could a man ask for more?”

  Norah offered a plate of pastries. “You could ask for an apricot tart.”

  “Ah,” he said, helping himself. “Your cook bakes the best tarts this side of Paris.” He ate in silence a moment, then asked, “Have the police uncovered any new evidence?”

  “Very little, I’m afraid.” Disquiet stirred to life inside Norah. “Did you know that Mr. Teodecki once took morphine?”

  “No. Now that’s a twist...” Jerome fingered his lace napkin. “Well, at least it sounds as if Inspector Wadding is doing his job.”

  “It wasn’t the inspector who found out. It was Lord Blackthorne.” Norah’s stomach fluttered. His name tasted as hot on her lips as the tea in her cup. She’d thought long and hard about their last encounter over a week ago, when he’d left her with the news of his break from Jane Bingham. According to Reverend Sweeny, Kit had gone out of town on business.

  Business indeed, she thought. More likely he had shirked his classroom duties at the orphanage so he could run off on an illicit assignation with a new lover.

  The notion scalded Norah. His lack of morality had irked her from their very first meeting, when he’d caught her on his bed and kissed her brow. With reckless disregard for respect and fidelity, he flitted from one conquest to the next. To Kit Coleridge, women were playthings to be bought with diamonds and moonstones.

  Jerome threw down his napkin. “I must say, I don’t care for his lordship’s interference. It would be far better for your reputation if he divorced himself from the case.”

  “Whether I approve or not, he’s been involved from the start.”

  “And now people are wondering why Maurice attended a party hosted by that profligate.” Jerome leaped up and began to pace, his hands thrust in the pockets of his impeccable gray suit. Anger radiated from his jerky steps. “Blast it all, I wish I knew the answer.”

  Norah nibbled a tart. The apricot pastry melted on her tongue, but she was too distracted to enjoy its sweetness. “I understand it was quite the hedonistic gathering. Perhaps Maurice went there at the urging of his mistress.”

  Jerome came closer and tilted her chin up. “Norah, I swear before God that if Maurice kept a paramour, I never knew about her.”

  “Maybe he simply didn’t tell you.”

  “Men talk about...these things. But he never breathed a word. And believe me, if I’d ever thought Maurice had hurt you, I’d have killed him myself.”

  The bloodthirsty tightness on his face startled her. “Truly?”

  His savagery faded. “For heaven’s sake, Norah, I’m only speaking figuratively.” Smiling, he tapped the tip of her nose. “Besides, infidelity makes no sense. Why would any husband stray from a lovely wife like you?”

  Because the sexual act repulsed me...

  She dragged herself from the mire of memory. Jerome was teasing to make her feel better. Yet she could still see fury shadowing his eyes, along with something almost furtive. Was he trying to distract her? From what?

  Before she could sort through the puzzling impression, Culpepper knocked and entered the parlor. His white-gloved hands held a salver on which lay a small parcel. “A delivery for you, madam.”

  “From whom?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know. Someone knocked and left it on the front step.” He gave her the parcel and departed.

  Her name was written across the top in a feminine hand, with scrolls and curlicues. The aroma of lilacs clung to the floral paper. The tissue rustling, she unwrapped the box and lifted the lid.

  Inside lay a heap of rubbery objects. Mystified, she picked one up. It dangled limply from her fingers. “What in the world is this?”

  Jerome snatched it from her. His cheeks blanched; then red color suffused his face. “What in the hell…!”

  She had never before heard him curse. “Tell me what’s wrong, Jerome. What is that?”

  His mouth opened and closed. He stuck the floppy article in his pocket. “It isn’t important. I’ll take care of this.”

  He reached for the box, but she hugged it to her chest. “For heaven’s sake. I deserve to know what was delivered to me.”

  He tilted his head to the ceiling, a muscle in his jaw working. Then he exhaled loudly and muttered, “It’s a condom.”

  “A condom?”

  “A sheath.” Obviously discomposed, he hesitated. “Sometimes a man uses one when he’s...with a woman.”

  A thunderbolt of awareness exploded in Norah. She forced herself to hold his gaze. “But...for what purpose?”

  “To protect against disease. Or to prevent conception.”

  Her gaze fell to the contents of the box. Unwillingly, her mind conjured a picture of how the condom fit a m
an. Even as she suppressed a shudder of revulsion, another thought made her giddy.

  Was this why she hadn’t conceived? Had Maurice used these?

  No, she thought, the brief hope flickering out. He had sometimes forced her hand on him. Even in the dark she would have known this rubbery sensation.

  “I’d like to know who the devil played such a trick on you,” Jerome snapped. “Is there a note?”

  “I’ll look.” Pushing aside the clammy sheaths, Norah found a card tucked in the side. Aloud she read, “‘If I may offer a piece of advice from one woman to another, use these. After all, a moment of prevention is better than being burdened with an illegitimate brat. J.B.

  “P.S.: His lordship will expect you to order his condoms with extra length.’”

  Norah’s pulse drummed in her ears. She gripped the box so tightly her nails dug into the pasteboard. His lordship. She might have guessed that even being acquainted with Kit Coleridge would soil her with his filth. If he had left her alone, Jane wouldn’t have gotten the wrong idea.

  “Who is J.B.?” Jerome asked in angry bewilderment.

  “Jane Bingham.” Hands shaking, Norah dropped the card back into the box and replaced the lid. “One of Lord Blackthorne’s lovers.”

  “How dare she slander you like this! Why would she imply that you and he were carrying on?”

  “I don’t know. But I intend to find out.”

  The hot lava of rage propelled Norah to her feet. She would discover for herself if Kit had returned from his tryst. Brushing past Jerome, she marched into the foyer. “Culpepper!” Her voice echoed, shrill and loud.

  The butler opened the green baize door at the end of the passageway, a silver polishing rag in his hand and an apron around his thick middle. “Madam?” he said in surprise.

  “Fetch my mantle and gloves immediately. And order the carriage brought round.”

  “Yes, madam.” He vanished.

  Jerome appeared. “Where are you going?”

  Marching from the newel post to the parlor entry and back again, she shook the box at him. “To give these to the person who needs them most.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You don’t need to. This is my problem and I’ll manage it.”

  Concern creased his brow. “This isn’t like you, Norah, to go flying off the handle.”

  He was right. Then again, what had restraint ever gained her? For too many years, she’d held her emotions in check. Now the volcano inside her seethed for release. “Pardon my abruptness. I’ll explain everything to you later—”

  A staccato rapping interrupted her. Annoyed, she flung open the front door. On the front step stood Kit Coleridge.

  Like a blast of wintry wind, his unexpected presence froze her. More than a week’s absence had only magnified his handsomeness. A lock of black hair dipped rakishly over his brow. Healthy color glowed on his bronzed cheeks. His taupe overcoat made him seem taller, more princely than ever. He carried a large sack at his side.

  “How delightful to see you again, Mrs. Rutherford.”

  His wolfish smile fed the fury bubbling inside her. “Well!” she snapped. “You’ve saved me a trip.”

  “Pardon?”

  “I was just on my way to visit you.”

  His keen eyes devoured her form. “Then do ask me in. It’s cold out here.”

  Without awaiting her permission, he brushed past her. She took meager pleasure in slamming the door just as Culpepper hastened in with her mantle.

  “My plans have changed,” she told the butler. “I’ll be staying in after all.”

  “Er, yes, madam.” Bristly brows arched, he waited while the marquess put down his parcel, peeled off his gloves, and removed his coat.

  Kit narrowed his eyes. “Good afternoon, Mr. St. Claire.”

  Jerome nodded curtly. “Blackthorne.”

  The marquess looked from Jerome to Norah. “I have the distinct impression I’ve interrupted something.”

  “Heavens, no.” Norah clutched at both the box and her temper. “More to the point, you’ve started something.”

  His face sobered. He strode forward and took her hand. “Have you learned the identity of the murderess?”

  “No.”

  “Then is it that news story? Has someone insulted you? Tell me who.”

  His show of protectiveness and the gentle pressure of his fingers rattled her. She stepped away. “It’s nothing like that. If you’ll come into the parlor—”

  “Whatever is the ruckus down here?” Like a sharp-eyed Hera poking her head from the clouds, Winnifred materialized at the head of the stairs. “Oh, we have visitors.” Her tone lowered to genteel politeness. “Good afternoon, Mr. St. Claire. And Lord Blackthorne.”

  “Ah, Miss Rutherford,” he said as she descended the steps. “How good to see you again.”

  She curtsied. “If I may echo the sentiment, my lord.”

  He peered closely at her. “You might be interested to know that last week, I had the pleasure of meeting your fiancé, Mr. Teodecki.”

  “Yes, he told me.” The pinched lines bracketing her mouth deepened, as if she were debating whether or not to revile Kit for considering Thaddeus a murder suspect. Her posture rigid, she swung to Norah and said in an undertone, “Your voice carried all the way into the sewing room. You disturbed my mending.”

  On the verge of exploding, Norah said tightly, “Then do return to your work. After all, you can eavesdrop from there as well as from here.”

  Winnifred’s jaw dropped. “How dare you speak to me so uncivilly?”

  Norah bit back another retort. Better she should expend her ire on the man who had sparked it. “Pardon me. It’s just that I’m anxious to have a word with Lord Blackthorne.”

  “Far be it from me to intrude where I’m not wanted. If you gentlemen will excuse me.” With an injured sniff, Winnifred flounced up the stairs.

  Jerome took Norah’s arm. “I think we had better move into the parlor,” he murmured.

  “Yes.” Automatically, she let him escort her.

  Kit followed and deposited his sack on a chair. “Perhaps you would be so kind as to leave us now, Mr. St. Claire.”

  Jerome kept his protective stance at her side. His eyes as hard as agates, he said, “With all due respect, my lord, I wouldn’t leave a withered spinster alone with you.”

  “Since Norah doesn’t fall into that category, you’re excused.”

  Norah fingered the sharp edges of the box. The haughty way Kit assumed control fanned the flames of her anger. “Lord Blackthorne, it isn’t your place to order my guests out of my house.”

  “I was merely trying to expedite matters—”

  “When I require your help, I’ll ask for it.” His jaw went rigid, but she swung around, her petticoats rustling. “Jerome, I must ask you to wait in the morning room.”

  “I hardly think—”

  “I’m a widow, remember? Not a girl fresh out of the convent.”

  His fists clenched and unclenched. His lips compressed beneath his silver mustache. Then he made a jerky bow. “As you wish, then. I’ll be nearby if you need me.” He strode out and closed the doors.

  “He spends a good deal of time on the continent, doesn’t he?” Kit asked. Like a tiger on the prowl, he paced the parlor, pausing only to pet Marmalade, who snoozed on the hearth. “What sort of business is he involved in?”

  “He buys and sells jewelry for the nobility. Those who lack the ready cash to keep up their huge estates.”

  “Ah. A pawnbroker to the elite.”

  “No!” Her temper flared dangerously hot. “He’s engaged in a legitimate business. He acts as an intermediary for those aristocrats who have squandered their inheritance. Those who disdain to go into a shop and sell the gems themselves.”

  “You’re quick to defend him. Why?”

  “I won’t have you criticize Jerome. He’s a dear friend, my guardian angel.”

  An odd tension hovered about the marquess. He
stopped pacing and focused his dark eyes on her. “I see. Perhaps he hopes to become more to you than a protector.”

  Norah stared blankly. Then his ugly meaning struck. The restraint on her fury burst.

  “How dare you?” she said, swooping toward him. “How dare you reduce a cherished friendship to your own misbegotten standards?”

  She tore open the box and hurled the contents at him. He ducked, but a shower of condoms rained over him.

  “Jesus God!”

  Transfixed, she stood, her chest heaving. She had meant to give him the vulgar objects, not sling them like a fishwife from Billingsgate Market.

  The fire crackled a merry note into the charged silence. Kit swiped at the sheaths clinging to his broad shoulders. Condoms draped his black hair like a cap. Another dangled from his ear. The sight awakened her dormant sense of humor. Assailed by a weakening rush of mirth, Norah sank onto the settee and hugged the empty box in an effort to contain her laughter.

  “You look bloody proud of yourself,” he snapped, plucking off his makeshift hat and tousling his hair in the process.

  A giggle broke from her. “And you look absurd.”

  He grimaced. “What the devil are you doing with these things, anyway?”

  “They were delivered to me. A gift from the Honorable Jane Bingham.”

  He froze for a moment, then dropped a condom onto the carpet. A crimson flush heightened his teak-hued skin. “That sounds like one of her tricks,” he muttered. “I should have anticipated she’d make you her next victim.”

  “Oh?” Norah scoffed. “It’s utterly ridiculous to imagine that you and I could ever become involved.”

  As if sharing the loathsome thought, Kit scowled. Going down on one knee, he scraped the condoms into a pile. Then he got up and came toward her, his hands overflowing with the floppy objects. He seemed to have trouble meeting her eyes.

  “The box,” he mumbled.

  His awkward manner amazed Norah. The suave Kit Coleridge, embarrassed? This was a moment to savor. Yet somehow her triumph dissolved into tenderness, into the shocking desire to straighten the onyx strands of his hair, to smooth the furrow on his brow.