by Olivia Drake
From the corner of his eye, he could discern the shadowy shape slinking from tree to tree, pursuing him. Witless scum. If the man were a footpad, then he’d better start praying to St. George.
Upon reaching the intersection, Kit headed down the side street. The corner mansion lay in darkness; the Earl of Hawkesford and his American countess must be away at their country manor with their brood of young children. The ache for a devoted family of his own washed over Kit in an untimely wave. But he steeled his will to the task at hand.
Luck met him. Near the entry to the mews, the gas lamp had gone out. When he reached the shadowed area, he ducked into the alley and flattened himself to the wall. The cold gritty stone met his cheek. A gust of icy wind buffeted him.
He waited.
The ripe scents of manure and rubbish assailed his nose. Within moments came the light patter of someone running. Then a pause. The stalker must be searching for his prey.
The steps resumed, slower, more cautious. As they neared his hiding place, Kit tensed himself for battle.
Her hands full of diamonds, Norah sat alone at the small table in the vault. The gems sparkled in the light of the oil lamp. The hush of nighttime allowed her to hear the quiet rhythm of her own breathing and the far-off sound of the wind rattling the eaves.
She had fallen into the habit of working late every night. Since her duties as owner of the shop ranged from settling disputes between the workmen to supervising the delicate assembling of each piece of jewelry, she had little time left to herself. Norah cherished the silence of evening when she could work in private.
Now, her entire awareness focused on the gems. She lifted them to her mouth and reveled in the cold feel of genuine diamonds. Paste gems, made of cheap glass, felt warm to the lips. It was one trick used to determine the authenticity of a stone.
Cradled in her palms, the diamonds looked like chips of ice. Pear-drop brilliants in graduated sizes, they had been shaped by the finest gem cutter in Amsterdam. She intended to use these stones to create the tiara for the Princess of Wales.
Norah could see the design in her mind. It was a simple yet elegant scroll, curving around the head with the cobweb texture of fine lace. Lightweight platinum would render the settings almost invisible, so the sparkling stones appeared like dewdrops floating on air.
But the tiara required a spectacular gem at its apex. Since Princess Alexandra favored purple stones, Norah intended to use the only lavender diamond known to exist. Fire at Midnight.
Her stomach plunged. She hadn’t yet heard from Upchurch that the Maharaja of Rampur was willing to sell the fabled gem, or if the agent needed her to send the purchase money for the ninety-eight carat stone. Today, her meeting with the bank director had unearthed a dismaying discovery. Back in November, Maurice had nearly defaulted on a loan. The bank had demanded full repayment and threatened court action.
He must have turned to Bertie Goswell in desperation.
The shop account held only a handful of guineas. The message had been implicit in the snobbish tilt of the banker’s chin, in the distaste with which he regarded her. If the trustees had encountered difficulty in dealing with a jeweler who embroiled himself in scandal, they most certainly would refuse to extend credit to his widow.
How had Maurice squandered their wealth? Was the answer the key to his murder? And where would she find the ready cash to pay back the oily Mr. Goswell?
Her limbs went weak, uncorking the stress she had kept bottled up all day. She bent and touched her forehead to the diamonds in her hands. Black Monday, she termed the day. It had been doomed from the moment she had set foot in the shop, for her solicitor had been waiting in her office to proclaim Goswell’s loan document legal and binding.
In a scant few days her fortnight’s grace period would end. The usurer would strut back into her office, demanding his due.
Norah raised her chin and studied the rows of steel drawers lining the walls. She faced the appalling prospect of reimbursing Goswell from her cache of gems here. Even given her limited business knowledge, she saw the danger in surrendering the raw materials required to produce additional pieces of jewelry. She lacked the resources to replace the precious stones.
On the other hand, because the scandalous circumstances of Maurice’s murder had been reported in the newspapers, the shop’s clientele had dwindled to a trickle of curiosity seekers, along with an occasional pesky reporter. Even though she had the one commission from Kit, soon she might cease needing new stock to replenish the showroom.
Her spirits funneled downward in a long, dizzying spiral. Dear Blessed Virgin. If only she could be as carefree, as confident of unlimited riches as Kit Coleridge.
The thought of him stopped her plunge into the fathomless shaft of despair. Her heart cavorted against her rib cage. Closing her fingers over the hard gemstones, Norah tried to deny the pleasant disturbance inside her.
But the feeling persisted, sparkling like a diamond in the brick wall around her emotions. As wicked as the truth might be, deep down she felt flattered that Kit found her so appealing he would choose her as his next conquest.
Yet she hadn’t seen him in two days, not since Saturday. If he were truly intent on ensnaring her, wouldn’t he come around more often? Or was the tiger toying with his prey?
Whenever you’re ready to learn my definition of a kiss, I’ll be happy to oblige you.
The memory of his silken voice tingled over her skin. Not that she ever intended to take him up on his offer, of course. She must represent a challenge to him, the one woman immune to his considerable charm. He had a method of mesmerizing a woman, of edging too close and stealing her will to resist. He would demand her full attention and her undivided loyalty. That was the way of men; they wanted to be coddled but they also wanted to control.
Norah curbed a violent shiver. She must stop thinking about Kit Coleridge.
Leaving the table, she went to the single opened drawer and let the diamonds trickle gently into the black velvet interior. The feel of the cold stones rolling from her fingers gave her an almost sinful jolt of pleasure. A passionate sense of ownership clasped her chest. Giving these precious stones to a man like Goswell was a sacrilege, a violation of their beauty.
Yet she saw no other way out of her financial dilemma.
The scrape of footsteps came from the passage outside. Into the vault stepped a burly man in braided uniform. Lines of age burrowed into his frowning, bulldog features. He brandished a cavalry sword. “You all right, ma’am?”
“Of course, Captain Ackerman. Shouldn’t I be?”
Steel grated as the guard slid his weapon back into its sheath. “Thought I heard a noise,” he said, sounding almost disappointed. “But it must’ve been you.”
“Why aren’t you carrying your lantern?”
“Can’t collar a thief if he sees you coming.” Ackerman jabbed his thumb at the medals adorning his chest. “I got eyes like a cat, I do. I was chief scout in the Abyssinian War, sneaked right up to the fortress of Magdala at midnight, and spotted a way over the walls. We won that war for the Queen, we did.”
Norah smiled. The pensioned-off military man never lost a chance to relate his exploits. His loyalty was a comfort after the hostility she endured from some of her other male employees. “How good to know I’m safe, that I can depend on you.”
Clapping his hand on the sword hilt, he came to attention. “No robber will sneak past Captain Archibald J. Ackerman, late of the Queen’s Dragoon Guards.”
He started to pivot on his heel, then returned. “Forgot something.” He pulled a jeweler’s case from his pocket and slapped it on the table. “I found this on the floor out front and didn’t know where it belonged. Cheerio, ma’am.” Ackerman marched off to patrol the premises.
Norah picked up the box and idly opened it. The empty, white velvet interior felt as soft as baby’s down to her fingertips. Each piece of jewelry purchased at the shop was nested in a case of the finest Russian black leather lined
with white velvet. The containers came in varying sizes and shapes; this square one reminded her of the case Maurice had brought home on the night of his murder.
A thought tiptoed from the recesses of her memory and pounced on her with staggering force. But there had been a difference.
She frowned, thinking hard. When that jeweler’s case had disappeared, then turned up in Ivy’s sewing basket, Maurice had opened it to check the contents. And Norah had glimpsed a flash of red fabric.
Until now she had forgotten the detail. Their row over his threat to put Ivy in a sanitarium had distracted her.
She snapped the lid shut, and sat for a few moments, pondering the riddle. Either Maurice had given the South African diamond to his murderess, or she had stolen it. With mounting excitement, Norah realized that if by some slim chance she could find the red-lined case, it could provide incriminating evidence.
Resolutely she snatched up the oil lamp. She left the vault and followed the narrow passageway to the workroom. There, the faint glow of moonlight filtered through the lofty wall of windows. Gloom lurked in the corners, beneath desks and workbenches. The air seemed unnaturally quiet without the tap of hammers, the murmur of voices, the clink of metal. Only the scrape of a tree branch on a windowpane disturbed the silence.
Captain Ackerman’s presence on the premises reassured her. She found Thaddeus’s workbench and slid onto the stool. Higher than a conventional table, the wooden surface was pristine, though scarred. Mallets and drills and saws hung in tidy rows. The tray beneath the semicircular cutout had been swept clean of precious gold particles. The spotlessness was exactly what she would expect from a meticulous man like Thaddeus Teodecki.
She wrestled with a moment’s guilt at invading his private domain. The domain of Winnifred’s prince. No money could be spared for a dowry now.
Norah cleared her mind of emotion. Even if she possessed all the wealth in the world, she must first determine if Thaddeus and Winnifred had conspired together to commit the murder.
She opened the top drawer and found loops of delicate gold and silver wire. The next held files in various lengths. She moved methodically down the stack of drawers, which revealed every manner of supply from calipers to buffing cloths. At the back of a drawer, her fingers met the smooth square of a calling card. She pulled it out, tilting it to the light. Frederick Gage, Gage and Brookman Goldsmiths, Ltd., Regent Street.
Why would Thaddeus have a card from another jeweler? Did he intend to seek another post? Another, more disturbing possibility occurred to her. Surely he wouldn’t steal gems and resell them. Or would he?
Dismayed, Norah tucked the card back into its hiding place. She mustn’t jump to conclusions. Tomorrow she would ask Thaddeus for an explanation.
In the meantime, she must think. Another employee could have hated Maurice. Peter Bagley? Or one of the other craftsmen?
A gust of wind thumped the tree limb against the window glass. The eerie sound, along with the chilly air, made her shiver. Drawing her shawl more securely around her shoulders, she hurried through the task of inspecting each desk. By the time an hour passed, she had found no red-lined jeweler’s case.
Discouraged, she headed slowly away. Her footsteps echoed in the cavernous workroom, then grew muffled on the Turkish runner outside her office. Darkness shrouded the short passageway. Why had Ackerman turned off the gas jet?
Crossing her threshold, she half-stumbled across a large object. The light of her lamp illuminated the brawny shape of Captain Ackerman. The guard lay sprawled on his back, arms and legs splayed, his weathered face in repose.
With a gasp, Norah shrank against the door frame. Her heart galloped. Then she sank to her knees beside him.
Willing herself not to shake, she put her ear to his chest. She detected the weak rhythmic rise and fall of breathing, the faint beat of his heart.
Praise God, he was alive. She gingerly turned his head and saw a bloodied lump matting his gray hair. Had he taken a misstep and fallen?
Or had an intruder attacked him? His drawn sword rested on the carpet near his slack hand. He had reported hearing a noise...
Silence suffocated Norah like a thick glove. She heard the tiny tick-tick of a clock and the thump of her own pulse. Her palm slick, she reached for the lamp. She must bridle the fear rampaging inside her.
She must run for help.
Even as she started to stand, Norah sensed the swoosh of movement in the passageway behind her. A scream gathered in her throat. She whirled. A black shape surged from the shadows, and a heavy object knocked her off balance.
She staggered against the door frame. Pain burst on the side of her skull. The lamp slipped from her fingers. Through a fog of dizziness she heard the tinkle of glass breaking, smelled the reek of spilled oil.
Flames as brilliant as diamonds blinded her.
In the icy gloom of the mews, Kit stood taut, ready for action. The fever of anticipation heated his veins. Damn, he was spoiling for a fight.
The footsteps came closer. The rasp of breathing sounded inches away.
Kit leaped out. He caught the brigand around the chest and yanked him backward. A solid body thumped against him. The man loosed a squeal of alarm, choked off when Kit hooked an arm around the skinny throat. The stalker squirmed and bucked.
Kit wrenched back one arm. A cry broke from the would-be thief. He went limp, sobbing like a child.
“Ow! Ow!” Fright radiated from his quivering muscles, his compact body. “’Elp! Somebody ’elp me!”
“Quit your sniveling.”
Disgusted, Kit marched his captive into the light of the nearest lamp. Keeping the wiry arm in a lock, he prepared to search for a weapon.
His violent mood dissipated like steam into the frosty night. He had seized not a man, but a lad. A lad with familiar wolfish eyes and spiky black hair.
Lark.
Kit let go. The boy staggered against the iron post of the lamp. “Ooh.” His breath whooshed out like smoke from a fired pistol. “Jesus! Ye scared me, sir.”
“I bloody well meant to.” Annoyed and exasperated, Kit planted his fists at his hips. “I ought to tan your hide, too. Would you care to explain why you’ve been following me?”
Lark rubbed his arm, his expression sheepish. “Ye weren’t suppose t’ see me.”
“Well, I did. So answer me.”
“Uh...we been guardin’ ye.”
“Guarding me?”
“Aye.” Lark sniffed, then scrubbed his nose on his coat sleeve. “Me an’ the boys been takin’ turns, sir. We couldn’t let ye come t’ no ’arm.”
“Harm from what?”
“From that ’orrible murderess, o’ course.”
Frowning, Kit cocked his head. “Are you referring to the woman who killed Mrs. Rutherford’s husband?”
“Aye. We ’eard the Rev say ye was searchin’ fer clues, on account o’ the fact that she did in Mr. R. at yer ’ouse. Me and the boys was afraid ye might be ’er next victim.”
Warmed by their concern, Kit tempered his sharp tone. “You needn’t worry about me. I’m not in the slightest danger.”
“Mrs. R’s husband might’ve thought that, too.” Lark glanced furtively to and fro. “But the murderess could be lurkin’ anywhere. Round any corner. Waitin’ t’ leap out an’ jab ye with ’er ’atpin.” Lowering his voice to a stage whisper, he added, “The madwoman o’ Mayfair.”
Tom between amusement and chagrin, Kit bit back a smile. Good Christ, if Norah knew how that six-penny novel was coming back to haunt him, she’d give him a blistering I-told-you-so. “And what did you intend to do if the murderess attacked me?”
“Why, whistle fer a constable, o’ course.” Lark reached into the pocket of his coat and pulled out a butcher knife. The blade glinted in the gaslight as he jabbed it into the night air. “An’ then I’d poke ’er in the gullet.”
Kit snatched away the weapon. “Where did you get this?”
Lark scowled. “I borrowed it from the Swee
nys’ kitchen. I ain’t no thief.”
“I never said you were.” Kit forced himself to speak calmly. “Lark, this is a deadly weapon. What if you’d cut yourself? Or stabbed the wrong person by mistake?”
“I been careful,” Lark said, drawing himself up so he stood on eye level with Kit’s cravat. “I’m almost a man, I am.”
“I know you are.” Kit racked his brain for a way to protect the boy without injuring his pride. “I’m flattered by your effort to keep me safe. But this is a matter warranting extreme caution. If the ‘madwoman’ should happen to see you lurking about, you might frighten her off before I could nab her.”
Lark scratched his untidy hair. “Didn’t think o’ that.”
“That’s why I need your cooperation. Your promise that you’ll stop trailing me.”
“I dunno...”
Kit clapped his hand onto the boy’s shoulder. In a tone of man-to-man confidence, he said, “Perhaps it would satisfy you and the other lads if I carried a pistol from now on. I hadn’t considered my own danger, and I must thank you for bringing the oversight to my attention.”
Lark locked his thumbs in his lapels. “Any bloke what knew the way o’ the streets would’ve done the same, sir.”
Kit held out the knife. “I trust you’ll return this to the Sweenys, then?”
“Aye, sir.” Lark put the weapon in his pocket. “If ye carry yer gun, me an’ the lads’ll leave ye be.”
“We’ve a bargain, then. Shall we shake like gentlemen?” Lark hesitated, then thrust out his stubby paw. Grasping it, Kit hid a smile of relief. “Now you must have missed your supper. Come along and my cook will fix you a plate of bangers and mash.”
The boy’s eyes rounded with awe. “Me, eat in yer fancy ’ouse?’
“Why not?” Kit said. “All of my friends are welcome there.”
As they started across the cobbled street and toward the square, Lark strutted like a cock. “Wait’ll the lads ’ear about this.”
