by Olivia Drake
Her lips parted. Her gaze shifted, then returned to his face. She lifted her hands, palms up. “I’m sorry, Kit. In all the excitement, I must have forgotten.”
“Forgotten.” The word tasted bitter in his mouth. She didn’t trust him any more now than she had the day they met.
“She’s a lucky woman,” Wadding stated. “Luckier than many a poor soul at the hands of a heinous criminal. The intruder was frightened off by the fire. Mrs. Rutherford suffered only a glancing blow to the head.”
Kit felt like an actor thrust into a play in which he didn’t know the lines. “Blow? What blow?”
“The intruder struck her on the right side of the head.” The inspector peered at his notepad again. “According to her testimony to the constable, she ducked when the man swung at her. When she dropped the lamp and the fire started, the suspect ran off before she could see his face.”
Kit hastened to her. In the silky nest of hair behind her ear, his shaking fingers met a nasty lump. “Are you all right?” he said hoarsely.
“I’m fine, just a slight headache. The blow only stunned me, so I ran outside and summoned a constable. He helped me pull out Captain Ackerman, then telephoned the fire brigade.” She lowered her chin in a sheepish expression. “I suppose I should have told you earlier.”
“Yes, by God. You might have been killed!”
“But I wasn’t.” Her fingers brushed his wrist like the tentative sweep of a butterfly’s wings. It was the first time she had ever touched him of her own volition, and despite his wrath he felt the sting of desire. His distraction vanished when she added, “Please don’t be angry. It was only an oversight.”
More likely it was her damned independence. His heart beat a furious tattoo against his ribs. He wanted to blister her ears, but the presence of the inspector deterred him. “You’re conked over the head, forget to mention it, and call it an oversight?”
“I...had other things on my mind.”
“Ah, yes,” he said coldly. “Your precious jewels.”
Her emerald gaze skimmed over his face, then darted to the inspector, who stood gaping at the interplay.
Kit focused a glare at the policeman. “Proceed with your questions,” he commanded.
“Ahem—yes, milord, of course.” Wadding scratched his long ear. “Was anything stolen, Mrs. Rutherford?”
“I don’t believe so. I kept a copy of the inventory secured in the vault. When I went into the shop this morning, I spent several hours checking the catalogue.”
“Did you itemize the jewels in the showroom as well?”
“Yes. Several of the craftsmen helped me. I intend to do a more thorough check tomorrow.”
“Hmm. The office was gutted, though. Could you make a list of what was burned?”
She nodded. “I’ll be happy to, but it was mostly furniture. Thank goodness the ledgers were at my accountant’s office.” She pensively rubbed the amethysts at her throat. “The only item of value destroyed was a sketchbook of my designs.”
Wadding blinked, apparently uncomprehending of the loss. “Could anything have been stolen from the files? Important papers, perhaps? Loan documents?”
The color washed from Norah’s face. “I’m not sure. Why do you ask?”
Wadding hesitated, shifting his large feet.
Kit braced his hand at her slender waist. She must be stricken by the frightening memory of the moneylender. “Get to the point, Inspector,” he snapped. “Do you see a connection between the intruder and the murder of Mrs. Rutherford’s husband?”
“As a matter of fact, I do have another conjecture about the unfortunate’s death. Perhaps I may speak to you alone, milord—”
“No,” Norah said. “Whatever you have to say concerning my late husband, I would like to hear.”
Wadding shot Kit an appealing look. “Your lordship?”
Kit feathered his fingertips over Norah’s rigid back. He ached to spare her any suffering. But she had the right to listen. “State your theory.”
“Yes, milord.” Lowering his gaze, Wadding moved his pad from one rawboned hand to the other. “Mrs. Rutherford, I regret to say I’ve uncovered evidence that your husband was deeply in debt.”
She stood very still. “I’d found that out myself, just recently.”
The embarrassed red faded from his complexion. “Er, yes. He had dealings with a usurer from the Seven Dials area. Man by the name of Albert Goswell.”
“Who told you that?” Kit asked sharply.
“Sorry, but I daren’t name my informant—”
“Peter Bagley, no doubt,” Norah murmured. She glanced up at Kit, her eyes like moist green jewels against the paleness of her features. “He’s one of my craftsmen. He showed Goswell into my office.”
The pain of betrayal on her face tightened Kit’s throat. “I’ll show the bastard into the gutter, then.”
“Please. I have nothing to hide.” Her voice composed, she frowned at the inspector. “Do you think Mr. Goswell had something to do with what happened?”
“It’s one possibility. Could be he was aiming to steal back his money. I’ve been trying to pin something on that slippery eel for years. His kind don’t care what laws they break.”
“But you’re forgetting one thing,” Kit said. “Even if the intruder and the murder are connected somehow, Goswell had no motive to kill Maurice Rutherford. The loan hadn’t even come due yet.”
“Aye, that brings us to a more likely possibility.” Wadding paused, glumness pulling at his long face. “Goswell mightn’t be involved in either crime. Forgive me for saying so, ma’am, but your husband may have owed a debt to someone else, too.”
“You’re referring to the woman who killed him,” Norah said.
“Then there may have been another loan document in Maurice’s desk,” Kit said, pacing slowly before the shelves crowded with books. “One that could have linked the woman to the murder.”
The inspector nodded. “She may have hired an accomplice to steal back the paper. Do you recall seeing any notes or papers like that, Mrs. Rutherford?”
“I’m afraid not. With so much other work, I hadn’t gone through all the old files yet.”
“Ma’am, I hesitate to ask this again, but have you recalled anything at all that could lead us to your husband’s mistress?”
Closing her eyes a moment, Norah pressed her fingers to her brow. “No. No, nothing.”
“A pity. With your permission, ma’am, my constables will search the ruined office for evidence.”
“Of course.”
Wadding bent his lanky frame into a bow and scurried out the door, leaving them alone in the library.
Norah sank onto a leather chair and tucked her hands beneath her chin as she gazed into the blaze on the hearth. Her mournful expression washed Kit in tenderness and anger. He swore under his breath. Maurice Rutherford had left her mired in debt and scandal. He hadn’t deserved her adoration, her loyalty.
But at least her coming here today had been like manna from heaven. Granted, she was using him. He could accept that as a minor nuisance. Because, of all men, she had chosen him. Surely he could break down the barrier of her mistrust.
Even if their partnership couldn’t expunge the jealousy eating at his heart.
He hunkered down before her chair. “For God’s sake, Norah. You mustn’t dwell on the memory of that self-centered hypocrite.”
Her forehead wrinkled. “Pardon?”
“Weren’t you thinking about Maurice?”
“Why, no. It was my sketch pad. All my drawings from the last six months were burned to cinders.”
“Oh.” His frustration winked out like fire plunged into water. “I’m sorry. I suppose you lost your sketch for the royal commission?”
“Yes, but I can redraw it from memory.” She paused. “My design for your parure was in the notebook, too.”
He gently circled her wrists with both his thumbs and forefingers, when he really wanted to kiss her until she welcomed him
into her heart. The tiny shush of her breathing sounded over the snap of the fire. At least she didn’t pull away. He reveled in that small victory.
“Hmm,” he said. “I’ll have to wait a little longer to present the gift.”
“You’re not in a hurry, then?”
“I am, but I can restrain myself.”
She slanted him a look from beneath the copper-tipped fringe of her lashes. “I don’t mean to pry, but it would help to know the name of the recipient. I much prefer to tailor a commission to a specific person.”
The stiffness to her voice pleased him. He repressed a smile. If she were jealous, there might yet be hope that she would open herself to him. ‘That’s my secret. Partners needn’t tell each other everything.”
Norah extracted her hands and lowered them to her lap. In a formal tone, she began, “Your lordship...”
“Kit.”
“Yes, well. I really should have told you about the intruder. I’m truly sorry.”
The reminder cast a shadow over his lightened spirits. What if the criminal had been seeking not jewels or a loan document, but Norah herself? After all, the murderess had used Norah’s hatpin. Perhaps in an effort to see Norah executed for the crime...
He absorbed her soft beauty, the halo of crimson curls enhancing the pure skin of her face, the dusting of freckles across the bridge of her nose, the noble tilt of her chin.
Damn, why would anyone want to see her dead?
He leaned back on his heels, Indian fashion, in the way he’d sometimes seen his father sit. “I’m glad you mentioned the intruder. We’re going to set down some rules.”
“Rules?”
“Yes,” he stated. “For one, there’ll be no more working after hours.” He ticked off the items on his fingers. “I’ll come by for you in my carriage each morning. I’ll escort you home each evening. You’re not to leave the building by yourself, either.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she grumbled. “I need a partner, not a bodyguard.”
She sat so proud and so alone...no husband, no parents, no relations to turn to for protection. Ivy and Winnifred he discounted. One was too sweet and the other too sour. As for Jerome...Kit resolved to fill her need for a male companion.
He ached to lock Norah safely away, his own priceless jewel hidden in the plush confines of his Devon estate. But even velvet bonds would chafe her. “I shan’t get in your way,” he promised. “Neither will I stand by and let you be hurt again.”
“The break-in was likely an isolated incident, done by a random thief.”
“Then the jewels might lure another robber, especially if he knows you’re alone at the shop.” He hated to alarm her with vague suspicions, yet he burned with the need to warn her. “Someone killed your husband, Norah. Until we know why, it’s best to take precautions.”
She studied him, her hand stealing up to touch the lump behind her ear. At last she nodded. “If you’re taking on your share of the work, I suppose I won’t need to stay late anyway.”
“Excellent.”
But even her concession failed to quiet his troubled thoughts. Why would someone want her dead? The unresolved question dug like talons into his peace of mind. Damn, he lacked too many facts.
Slowly Kit rose to his feet. A half-formed idea took shape.
Perhaps there was something else he could do.
Chapter 10
“Mum?”
The boyish voice drew Norah’s attention from her contemplation of the milky sheen of a moonstone. She placed her loupe and the stone on her desk. Around the high wooden screen that formed the wall of her temporary office peered a lad with wolfish eyes and scruffy black hair that poked out in disarray.
“Lark,” she said in surprise. “What are you doing here?”
“Come t’ see ye, mum.”
The noise of sawing and hammering echoed in the shop and obscured the quieter sounds of the craftsmen at work beyond her corner cubicle. She waved the boy closer. “Please, come in. I can hardly hear you over the din.”
Lark jerked a glance backward. Cap in hand, he strutted the few feet to her desk. His cheeks were red from the cold outside. “Buildin’ ye a new office, is they? I knew ’is lordship would take care o’ ye.”
His implication bothered Norah. Even as a fledgling, the male of the species assumed the dominant role. The female had to work harder to gain any ground. “A woman doesn’t need a man to watch over her, Lark. We’re perfectly capable of managing our own affairs. Don’t forget, the British Empire is ruled by a queen.”
Lark scratched his untidy hair. “Beggin’ yer pardon, mum, but are ye sayin’ girls is as clever as boys?”
Yes.” She surprised herself with the force of her conviction. It was true, she reflected, despite the nuns teaching her to be humble and subservient, despite Maurice expecting her to act the modest and feminine wife.
“But...don’t some man got t’ be the master?”
“No. Men and women can work together as equals.”
“Equals?” Lark tasted the word as if it were a worm. “Ye mean I gotta be equal mates with ’Enrietta Banks?”
“Even her.” Smiling, Norah pushed away from the desk. “Why aren’t you in school today?”
“Snuck out o’ teatime. The Rev and his missus pairs us lads off with the girls.” He crinkled his pug nose. “Teachin’ us manners, y’know.”
“Let me guess. Henrietta Banks is your partner.”
“Aye, an’ she waggles ’er baby finger when she ’olds ’er cup.” He made a comedy of slurping tea, his stubby finger extended. “Like she were a royal princess instead of a dollymop’s brat.”
“Henrietta can’t help that her mother had fallen on hard times.” Norah went to the spirit lamp in the corner. Her cubicle abutted the brick side wall of the shop. “I was just about to make tea myself. Perhaps you’d join me.”
“No, ma’am. I mean, thanks, but I come ’ere t’ work.”
She swung around, tea canister in hand. “To work?”
“Aye, mum. I was ’opin’ ye’d gimme a job.” He bent his head and scuffed the toe of his boot over the carpet. “I’d like t’ earn me own way in the world.”
“But what about your schooling? You’re learning to read so well.”
“I know, mum. I want t’ come after class an’ work a few hours, till closin’ up time.”
“I see.” She set down the canister. “What sort of job did you have in mind?”
He craned his neck to see past the screen. “I can sweep floors an’ wash windows an’ empty the rubbish bins an’ such. Ain’t no job too ’umble for me.” Lark got down on one knee and clapped his palms together in prayerful supplication. “Please, mum, say yes. I know I ain’t worth much. Just a few coppers is all.”
His zealous appeal touched her heart. Perhaps she’d been wrong to think a bully like Lark lacked ambition. Then again, perhaps Kit had inspired a sense of responsibility in the boys. The thought nestled warmly inside her.
She put the water pot on to boil. “You underestimate yourself, Lark. You’re worth ten shillings a week at the very least.”
“Then I got the post?”
“Yes. You may start immediately with the window washing. But if you fall behind in your studies, you’re fired.”
He wiggled forward on his knees, seized the hem of her gown, and kissed it. “Oh, thank ye, mum. Ye won’t regret it. On me dad’s own gravestone, I vow ye won’t.”
Half embarrassed, she reached down to grasp his stocky arms. “Come now, stand up and I’ll introduce you around the shop—”
“What’s going on here?”
Hands planted on his hips, Kit towered in the opening beside the screen. He had discarded his coat and cravat and rolled back his cuffs halfway up his muscled forearms. The white linen shirt made a brilliant contrast to his topaz skin. Irritation scored his forehead, and his black eyebrows clashed into a frown.
“Blimey.” Lark bounded to his feet, hunched his shoulders, and turned
his cap to his hands. “Didn’t know ye was ’ere, milord.”
“I’m supervising the workmen in Mrs. Rutherford’s new office. Why you’re here is more the question.”
“I been chattin’ with Mrs. R. I’ll be off now.”
As he edged toward the door, he gave Norah a small, furtive shake of his spiky hair.
Puzzled, she said, “I thought you wanted to begin work today, Lark. Have you changed your mind about the job?”
“Uh...”
“Job? Why aren’t you in school practicing the verbs I assigned yesterday?” Kit took a step to the side to block the opening and folded his arms across his broad chest. “Ah. I’m beginning to see what mischief you’re about.”
The disapproval in his tone surprised Norah. “It’s enterprising of Lark to seek employment for a few hours after school. He deserves praise for his resourcefulness.”
Lark puffed out his chest. “I do at that. I—”
Kit glared him into silence. “He’s resourceful, all right. I’ll grant him that.”
“For heaven’s sake, you should be proud of him.” She brushed her hand over the desk and blew the sawdust off her fingers. “With all this dust from the construction, we could use help with the custodial duties.”
“You might have consulted me, Norah. May I remind you, we haven’t enough work to keep our craftsmen busy.”
His dictatorial manner honed her anger. She drew herself up. “You can’t expect the craftsmen to empty the rubbish. Besides, it isn’t often we have the opportunity to hire a worker as clever and enthusiastic as Lark.”
“I’m worth ten shillin’s a week, I am.” Lark jabbed his thumbs at his lapels. “Me and Mrs. R, we got us a bargain. Men and women can work together like equals, y’know.”
A lone hammer punctuated the thickness of tension. Kit’s taut mouth eased into its naturally sensual slant. “Interesting philosophy,” he said dryly, aiming a look at Norah. “I wonder where you heard it.”
She pressed her lips together to discipline a smile. “Never mind that. The point is that Lark needs this job. And he is precisely the sort of dedicated employee this shop needs.”
