by Olivia Drake
“I thought so, too. But there’s very little cash left. And since word got out about Maurice’s murder, only curiosity seekers have come in. The stones are my only assets.”
“Surely there’s an enormous profit on jewelry. Where has the money been going?”
She lifted her shoulders in despair. “I don’t know. The ledgers are a mystery to me. I took them to an accountant, but he couldn’t decipher some of the symbols and notations. There were curious debits to initials I don’t recognize.”
Kit thrust his hands in his pockets and began to pace the room. “And you think all this—his liabilities—may be related to Maurice’s murder?”
The keen observation caught her off guard. “No. I mean, I hadn’t considered the possibility.” She wrung her fingers. “That’s not why I’m telling you this.”
“Then why?”
She wrestled with a final attack of guilt. Nonsense. He’d offered his aid. She might have already burned her bridges with him, but she’d never know without asking. Besides, she was speaking of business, not pleasure.
His darkly handsome form loomed only a few feet away. His unflinching regard made her unaccountably warm in a way that both fascinated and frightened her. She took a deep breath, then released it slowly.
“I need an investor,” she said huskily. “Please, Kit, will you help me?”
Chapter 9
Kit’s face might have been chiseled from agate. He looked her over, as if assessing her sincerity. Norah held herself straight. Clearly, he no longer had any romantic interest in her. The success of the shop depended upon her artistic ability and business acumen. He had every right to ascertain the integrity of her offer.
Now that she’d taken the plunge, she felt more confident, ready to present her list of persuasive arguments. “I think you’ll find the shop an excellent investment,” she began. “It’s in a choice location near Mayfair. As soon as the scandal fades, business will pick up. Granted I’ve suffered a few setbacks recently, but the tiara will win me royal patronage—”
Kit held up his broad palm. “There’s no need to convince me. Of course I’ll help you.”
She closed her mouth, then opened it. “Just like that, you’ll agree?”
“My money and your talent.” Beneath his finely tailored suit, his shoulders lifted in a shrug. “I’m always willing to gamble on a winning combination.”
The specter of failure lifted from her soul, like a door opening to a world of bright possibilities. She hadn’t discerned until this moment the depth of her fear. Finding her voice, she managed to say, “I’m pleased you think so.”
“I have only one stipulation.”
“What?”
“I want to be more than a silent investor.”
Suspicion dimmed her sparkle. Gripping the chair arms, she watched him pace toward her, a sleek predator moving in for the kill. A slow, warm pounding started deep inside her. “I thought we’d settled that issue last night,” she said.
He stopped abruptly. “For God’s sake, Norah. I’m not referring to the bedroom. Surely you don’t believe I’d stoop to buying your favors—or imagine you would sell them.”
The lowering of his brow, the tightening of his lips, cracked his stony facade. He looked annoyed, but wounded too. Yesterday she had convinced herself that she had injured only his male pride. Now she wondered if his feelings for her ran deeper, if she had truly caused him emotional pain.
The thought rattled her. “I’m sorry,” she murmured. “I misunderstood. I’m also sorry for calling you a blackguard yesterday. I meant no slur against your heritage.”
Her apology eased the tension bedeviling Kit. Not her words as much as the utter sincerity in her green eyes, the candor softening her lower lip. God save him, he’d hand over his entire fortune if it made her happy. Who would have thought she would march in here today and present him with this golden opportunity to win her over?
He wanted to kick up his heels in exultation. Instead, he sat down in the chair opposite her and loosely laced his hands. “If I’m to invest in your shop, I intend to keep a close watch on where my money is going.”
“That’s fair enough.”
“I want a fifty-fifty venture.”
“Of course you’re entitled to an equal share of the profits. And I’ll pay back all the money you lend me plus interest.”
“I’m speaking of more than the revenues. We’ll split everything down the middle, including the work. You do the designing and oversee the production, and I’ll take care of the business end. If I’m to straighten out the finances, I’ll need access to the ledgers and the inventory list. Starting tomorrow.”
His meaning crashed into Norah like a slab of granite. “You’re coming to the shop every day?”
“Yes.”
“But you can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because...” She picked up a lace doily and drew it through her fingers, over and over. The prospect of working so closely with Kit disturbed her. She had counted on him to supply the capital, accept his portion of the profits, and go on his merry way. “Because you have other things to do.”
“Such as?”
“Well...whatever you’ve always done.”
He leaned indolently against the chair, the burgundy leather a choice backdrop for his faintly foreign handsomeness. “I raced horses. Attended parties. And, of course, romanced women.” Again, he subjected her to a potent scrutiny that made her toes curl. “All pursuits I’d give up for the chance to work at a real job.”
She searched for an excuse to dissuade him. “You’ll grow bored.”
“I doubt that.”
“You won’t have time to teach the boys.”
“You manage. So will I.”
“What about the murder investigation?”
“What about it?”
“You said you wanted to find the killer.”
“Then let’s look upon this as a golden opportunity,” he said. “I’ll have a chance to observe Thaddeus Teodecki. Besides, maybe there’s a clue in the ledgers.”
She dropped the doily and snapped her fingers. “Thaddeus. The fire made me almost forget.”
Quickly she told Kit about the business card she had found.
“Good work,” he said, approval glinting in his brown eyes. “Perhaps he was stealing gems. I’ll look into the matter.”
“We’ll both look into it.”
One corner of his mouth curled upward. “Does that mean we’re partners, then?”
His silky tone immersed her in a choppy sea of uncertainty. Never had she expected to meet a man who could make her quake inside with one bold look, a man who could make her melt with one warm compliment, a man who could make her shiver with one casual touch. This couldn’t be happening, not to her. She groped for the life raft of anger. “I suppose you think you can’t trust me with your money. Because I’m a woman.”
To her surprise he smiled warmly, displaying even white teeth and dazzling her senses. “I think you can accomplish anything you set your mind to doing, Norah. However, you’re an artist, a designer. I doubt you enjoy plodding through a mire of numbers.”
“You’re a marquess and heir to a dukedom,” she countered. “I doubt you want to dirty your hands with commoner’s work.”
The smile vanished. He sat forward, his face sober. “I want to work for the same reasons you design jewelry, Norah. To challenge myself. To gain a sense of accomplishment. To find worth in my life.”
The parallels between them shook the foundations of his image. In a startling flash, she saw beyond the suave nobleman to the man within, a man with needs equal to her own, a man with doubts and dreams, a man who could admit to human longings. Unaccountably, she recalled the smooth slide of his lips against hers and the heat of his hard body pressed to hers.
Feeling warm, Norah rose and went to the window. A cold draft restored her senses. He might be lying. Why would he abandon his plush life in favor of work? “You may still chan
ge your mind. I haven’t told you everything.”
“Skeletons in your closet?” He quirked a diabolical eyebrow. “This sounds interesting.”
“It’s about the moneylender. His name is Bertie Goswell.” She rubbed her arms at the chilling memory. “Back in November, Maurice borrowed twelve thousand sovereigns from him. A week and a half ago, Goswell came to me and demanded the first payment. He gave me a fortnight to come up with the cash. He is...not a pleasant man.”
Fists clenched, Kit surged to his feet. “Did he threaten you?”
“Not in so many words. But I have to pay him a thousand pounds by the end of this week. And I simply don’t have the funds without selling some of the jewels from the vault.”
“Why did your husband need the money?”
She lifted her hands, palms out. “I’m not certain. Perhaps to purchase Fire at Midnight, the center stone for the royal tiara.”
“I see. Well, forget about Goswell. I’ll take care of him.”
His defense weakened her knees. She clutched the icy windowsill behind her. “Thank you.”
Kit prowled toward her, then stopped a few feet away. “You could have told me about your financial problems before today. Why didn’t you?”
She found herself watching his sensual mouth, remembering his kiss. She wrenched her gaze away. “I’m an independent woman, that’s why. I’d hoped this was only a minor setback.”
“I can’t blame you for wanting to succeed on your own. Rutherford kept you under his thumb for nine years.”
His criticism annoyed her. Yet she couldn’t deny the truth in his statement. “My husband owned the shop, not me. He had every right to do business the way he saw fit.”
“Even if it meant claiming your designs as his own? Even if it meant leaving you in debt and forcing you to deal with a backstreet moneylender?” Reaching out, Kit skimmed his fingers down her sleeve in the idle gesture of a friend. “Norah, I admire your loyalty. But you deserve far better than the muddle he left you.”
She thought so, too, but to voice her doubts seemed an act of betrayal. Absently she moved the heavy gold wedding band up and down her finger. “I do have to meet the payroll, buy supplies, and manage a hundred other expenses. It’s more than I can handle on my own. Finances simply aren’t my strong suit.”
“You can’t expect to be a genius at everything. My stepmother says I’m hopeless at appreciating the classics of literature.”
She glanced toward the desk. “You have Paradise Lost on your shelf there.”
Humor brightened his eyes to topaz. “That’s Mother’s old copy. She gave it to me for my eighteenth birthday. I read it to please her, but to be honest, I much prefer the racing forms. Until recently, that is.”
“Oh.” Hearing the fondness in his voice when he spoke of his stepmother, Norah felt an odd tightening inside her. “Well. The fire made me realize that I was taking too much on myself. I needed to ask someone for help.”
His eyes caressed her. “I’m glad you came to me. What made you change your mind?”
“I should think that’s obvious,” she said lightly. “You have money.”
“Doesn’t Jerome St. Claire?”
The keen edge to Kit’s voice intrigued her. His skin drawn taut over his high cheekbones, he stood with his hand braced on the back of the wing chair. He waited, watching her as if his very life depended upon her reply.
“Jerome was Maurice’s friend,” she said. “I hoped to avoid telling him about the predicament Maurice left me in. Besides, Jerome is too...paternal, too gallant. He’d feel obliged to take on all of my problems in addition to his own work.”
“I’d call him possessive,” Kit stated. “He’d like to own you like those jewels he pawns for the rich.”
Anger flared in her. “He cares for me—I’ve told you so before. I resent you putting a sordid connotation on our friendship.”
Kit thrust up his hands in a parody of alarm. “I’m sorry. Please don’t start throwing things at me again.”
Norah realized she was gripping her wedding band like a rock about to be hurled. His reference to the condoms caused an absurd bubbling of mirth in her. Unbidden, a smile rose to her lips. “Relax, my lord. I promise not to be violent.”
Lowering his arms, he smiled back. “Thank God for that. I wouldn’t wish to regret our partnership.”
He could look so utterly appealing, his eyes warm and dark, his handsome features as alluring as those of an exotic prince. She slipped the circlet back down her finger, the weight familiar and constricting, ending the brief closeness of humor. “You’re misjudging Jerome,” she said.
“Trust me to recognize obsession in a man. He covets you, Norah.”
“The way Jane covets you?”
“No. That’s different.”
“How?”
“She’ll go after anything in trousers. But Jerome wants only you.”
Was Kit right? She shook her head. “Well, I don’t believe you. He’s an honorable, upstanding gentleman.”
“So am I. At least I’m trying to be.” His voice mellowed to a velvet murmur and he reached for her hand. “You need a younger man. A man who can be your equal partner in more than mere business.”
His thumb stroked over her knuckles and smoothed the back of her hand. Lassitude purled over her, a sweetly sharp feeling that made her feel light-headed. A single, stunning thought blazed like a comet across the firmament of her soul. Kit still desired her. She could see the fire illuminating the gold flecks in his eyes. His body heat tingled up her arm and warmed her breasts. He stood so close, she might touch the faintly stubbled strength of his jaw; she might unbutton his shirt and learn the hair-roughened contours of his chest...
Curiosity and panic churned in her stomach. She pulled her hand free. “I don’t need anyone,” she said. “Not that way. Not ever again.”
“Why? What happened between you and Maurice that made you dislike physical intimacy?”
“Nothing!”
“Something about it bothers you. I can’t even touch your hand without you flinching.”
“You’re invading my privacy.”
“You’re evading the issue.”
She pressed her palms to her aching head and shrank against the frosty windowpane. “Stop it. Stop!” Hearing the high edge to her words, she lowered her voice. “Your questions are rude and insufferable. We’re business partners, no more and no less.”
“Norah, forgive me.” His gentle hands drew her arms down, then slowly let go. “I hope you’ll answer me someday. In the meantime, please don’t ever be afraid of me.”
Sincerity haunted his eyes. He seemed disappointed, yet somehow he also looked as swept away as she by the powerful currents between them. The storm tide of alarm ebbed, leaving a peculiar glow on the shores of her heart, like the sensuous softness of warm sand against her skin. Their kiss illuminated her memory, the taste of his mouth and the tenderness of his caresses. Again, she swayed with the inexplicable urge to touch him, to be touched by him...
A knock sounded. Kit scowled at the library door. “Come in.”
A footman entered. “Beg your pardon, milord. Inspector Wadding is here. You did leave orders never to keep him waiting.”
“Send him in, Herriot.”
As the retainer departed, Norah said, “Do you suppose the police have found the murderess?”
Kit shrugged, then cocked his head at her. “How would that make you feel?”
“Relieved. Free, somehow.” The honesty of her words shamed her. “Is that beastly of me? To consider the mystery of his death a burden?”
“God, no. You can’t dwell on the past forever. You need to get on with your life.”
He stroked her arm with the intimacy of a companion, and this time she felt an acute sense of privation when he drew back and turned to the doorway.
Detective-Inspector Harvey Wadding stepped into the library. His shoulders hunched like those of a schoolboy summoned to the master’s office,
he gazed reverently at the ornate ceiling and rich furnishings. His gaze stopped on Norah. He bent into a rusty bow and stammered a greeting.
Kit suppressed a wry grin of kinship. So the gangly inspector was staggered by Norah’s unconventional beauty, too. The softer hairstyle barely restrained the riot of coppery curls. The low-cut gown and amethyst necklace complemented her pearly skin. Kit wanted to slide his hand inside her bodice and...
He clamped a lid over the untimely fantasy. “Please proceed, Inspector.”
“Er, yes. So glad I’ve caught up to you, Mrs. Rutherford. I went to your home, and Miss Ivy Rutherford directed me here.”
Norah hastened forward. “What is it? What did you wish to tell me?”
Wadding blinked. “I was hoping you would tell me something. I’ve some questions about the fire last night.”
So they hadn’t identified the killer, Kit thought on a stab of disappointment. He was beginning to think the woman would never be found. Norah would never again be free to love.
“Certainly I’ll cooperate,” she said. “But...are you working on this case, too?”
“Yes.”
“Why would a fire involve the police?” Kit broke in, fixing the inspector with a frown. “Do you suspect arson?”
“Surely not, the blaze started when I dropped my lamp,” Norah explained. “I told that to the constable last night.”
“Indeed so,” Wadding said. “Today I went to St. Mary’s Hospital and interviewed the guard.” He consulted his dog-eared notepad. “A Captain Archibald J. Ackerman.”
“How is Captain Ackerman?” Norah asked. “I sent Winnifred with a basket of pastries and jam to visit him, but she hadn’t returned when I left.”
“Yes, I saw Miss Rutherford on my way out of the ward. Quite the opinionated female on the role of the police.” A crimson blush stained Wadding’s horsey face. “Ahem—I mean no criticism toward your kin, ma’am.”
“I understand.”
“The captain is suffering from a concussion, but he’s otherwise well. Unfortunately, he could add little to your story. He didn’t see the intruder, either.”
“Intruder?” The news struck Kit with the stinging force of an ice storm. He wheeled toward Norah. “You never said anything about an intruder.”
