by Olivia Drake
A crash sounded from the direction of the office, followed by a muffled curse. The pounding ceased for a moment, then resumed its rat-a-tat beat.
Raking his fingers through his hair, Kit angled a distracted glance over his shoulder. “All right,” he told Lark. “Your first task is to go to the Silver Swan Restaurant and fetch the crew sandwiches for their tea. But when you get back I’ll want a word with you.”
He flipped Lark a coin; the boy snatched it in midair. “Aye, sir.” He motioned Kit down and whispered in his ear.
Kit glowered, but nodded. “Out with you.”
The boy bolted into the workroom. A moment later, the back door slammed.
Kit lounged against the tall wooden screen, arms crossed, his sinews and muscles rigidly defined. Norah rotated the wedding band on her finger. She wished he had the decency to button up his collar. She wished she had the decency to tear her gaze from the glimpse of his teak-hued chest. Even after more than two weeks, she could recall the vivid experience of his kiss, the demanding pressure of his mouth, the invasive caress of his hands. The memory made her oddly light-headed, as if she had been sipping champagne.
Determined to hide her disconcerting reaction, she said, “Would you care for a cup of tea?”
“I was hoping you’d offer.”
The white flash of his smile melted her legs and his nearness heightened her senses. Norah retreated to dip a spoon into the canister of tea. The small pot of water bubbled on the spirit lamp. The dryness of sawdust tickled her nose, along with a metallic aroma from the enameling kiln and the rich scent of the tea. In between the construction noise, she could detect the muted sounds of industry beyond the screen—the rasp of files, the hum of conversation, the solid tap of a hammer on gold.
“Well,” she murmured over her shoulder, “what was so secret between you and Lark that I couldn’t hear?”
“It’s no secret. He asked if I was carrying my pistol.”
She spun around. Tea leaves scattered over the hot water and onto the tiny oak table. “Pistol! Why would you carry a weapon?”
“Lark and I made a pact the night of the fire.” Kit lowered his voice to a murmur. “He agreed to stop following me if I’d keep a gun on me at all times.
“I don’t understand. Why was he following you?”
“He had a misguided desire to protect me.” A slight quirk of Kit’s mouth indicated both humor and chagrin. “From the madwoman of Mayfair.”
“The mad man from the book?” Realization shuddered through her. “Oh...you mean the woman who murdered Maurice.”
“Precisely. The boys were following you, too. That’s why I arrived here so quickly that night—Billy spotted the fire from the alley behind the shop.”
“Why didn’t you tell me this before?”
“We’ve both been caught up in restoring the shop.”
“I see.” Slowly Norah set out two china mugs. She had taken Kit’s presence that night for granted; he had an uncanny way of appearing whenever she needed him. Another thought quickened her pulse beat. “Did Billy see the intruder? Could he give the police a description?”
“Unfortunately not. The poor lad was in a fine panic when he ran off to fetch me.”
She watched the black leaves settle to the bottom of the teapot, swirling like the dark longings inside her. “So Lark and the boys are afraid the murderess might come after me...or you.”
“Exactly.”
“I do hope you corrected them.”
Kit prowled the tiny space around her desk. He picked up her loupe, peered through it, then set it back down. “There’s a chance they may be right, Norah. It worries me that someone may have intended to hurt you.”
In her memory the dark shape leaped from the gloom. She stifled another shiver. “Don’t be absurd. It’s hardly extraordinary for a jewelry shop to be a target for robbery. I was in the way, that’s all.”
“He hit Ackerman, too. So the guard couldn’t come to your aid.”
“Captain Ackerman is back on the job now, so all’s well that ends well. I think we should put the incident behind us.”
Kit flattened his palms on the desk and leaned toward her. “And what about Wadding’s theory? The burglar could have been hired by the murderess to steal an incriminating paper that Maurice left behind.”
“All the files were burned, so there’s no evidence left. And no further cause to worry. Or to carry a weapon.”
“I pray to God you’re right. She’s already killed at least once. The next time may be easier.”
His ominous tone tiptoed like a spider over Norah’s skin. The idea of herself in danger seemed absurd, like the melodrama in a six-penny novel. She heated her cold hands on the pot while she poured the tea. “Do you think Lark wanted a job here so he can play constable and track down the murderess?”
Kit sat on the edge of the desk and steepled his long fingers beneath his jaw. “Precisely. He knew I’d try to stop him from interfering. So he appealed to you.”
“Well, I think it’s sweet of him. We should encourage his desire to help other people, Kit.”
A look of smoldering sensuality lit his face. He skimmed his fingertips over the back of her wrist, the sensation so startling and delightful that she nearly dropped her mug. “I’m pleased you’ve finally decided to end the formality and call me by my first name.”
He didn’t know it, but she had thought of him in her mind as Kit for quite some time already. Heat settled in the depths of her belly, as smoky-warm as the tea on her tongue. But she banished the feeling. He’d find a noble wife soon, a woman who could bear his children. “We’ve been working together for weeks,” she said crisply. “We needn’t stand on ceremony.”
“You called me Kit on the night of the fire, too.”
“Did I? I don’t remember,” she lied.
“You did.”
His confident tone implied an intimacy that made her restless and uncomfortable. She inched toward the brick wall, as far away as she could given the minuscule dimensions of her temporary office. “We were speaking of Lark. I do hope we keep him on.”
Kit drained the contents of his mug, making her aware of his strong brown throat and unbuttoned collar. “I suppose there’s no harm in his presence. So long as you leave at a reasonable hour, he won’t be tempted to linger and get himself into trouble. I’ll take you both home.”
“Agreed.” The arrangement would ease the awkwardness of riding alone with Kit, when the interior of his brougham enclosed them in a shadowed bower. Her nerves were rubbed raw from having spent over a fortnight enduring the occasional brush of his hand against hers, inhaling his male scent, listening to the caress of his deep voice. And trying to fathom why he affected her so.
She curled her hands around the cup. “So, do you have a pistol?”
He reached into his pocket and drew out a pearl-handled gun the size of his broad hand. “Small, but effective at close range.”
Norah grimaced. “Surely you won’t need it.”
“It’s a precaution, that’s all.” He tucked the weapon away again and picked up the moonstone from her desk. Cut in cabochon style, the jewel shone with a faintly bluish tinge in the gathering dusk. “If nothing else,” he added, “maybe I’ll stop another thief from trying to steal your gems.”
He had every right to say our gems. Already he had ferreted out Bertie Goswell and repaid the entire twelve thousand sovereigns plus interest. He had taken charge of reconstructing the damaged portion of the shop. He had gone over the ledgers with his own accountant. Best of all, he had freed her to create and design.
Of late, she had found herself rethinking her opinion of Kit. Maybe he really had changed.
“Moonstone,” he said, peering through her loupe at the semiprecious gem. “A form of feldspar?” He looked to her for confirmation.
“Correct. Can you guess where it’s from?”
“Testing me again?”
“You seem to enjoy it. So, answer the question.”
He thought a minute. “Siam?”
“Close. Ceylon.” A sense of guardedness tainted her artistic pride. “It’s to be one of the center stones in the necklace for your parure.”
“Perfect. You couldn’t have chosen better.” Smiling, he rubbed the pad of his thumb over the smooth rounded surface, the motion hypnotizing her. “When will the set be ready?”
She dragged her gaze to his. “In about a week. Thaddeus is working on the bracelet right now.”
“May I watch later?”
“If you like.”
“We’ll look together.”
His financial investment granted him the right to pry in the shop wherever he liked. Yet Kit had asked permission and included her. Not once had he lorded his superior position over her. More and more she glimpsed the gentleman inside the trappings of a rogue. Rather than reassuring her, though, the distinction somehow made her feel gawky, overly conscious of her own common background.
Pauvre petite. She is the product of sin. She can never wash away the taint of her bad blood.
“What are you thinking?” Kit asked. “You look so serious.”
“Nothing important.” Pierced by his stare, Norah put her teacup down with a clink. “Shall we go?”
She started out, her skirts brushing him in the small space despite her effort to maintain a distance. He grasped her arm and drew her back into the cubicle, where the screen hid them from the workmen.
“Not until I tell you why I came in here.” He lowered his voice. “Norah, you should know—”
A burst of hammering muffled his words. Automatically she leaned closer. “Pardon?”
Kit put his mouth close to her ear. “I found proof in an old ledger that Maurice was deeply in debt when he married you. Fifteen years ago, when he first opened the shop, he made a huge investment. That liability isn’t entirely paid off yet.”
His breath blew rhythmically against her neck. The warm sensation stole inside her high collar, crept down into her corset, and tingled over her breasts. “I...” With difficulty, she absorbed his words. He was saying that nine years of marriage had been founded on the lie of prosperity. “I didn’t know that.”
Kit snorted in disgust. “I’m not surprised. Doubtless he wanted to impress you with his wealth. I suspect he had too much pride to let his wife think he couldn’t provide for her.”
The rasp of sawing joined the pounding. The cacophony disturbed her far less than Kit’s nearness. She forced herself to think back. “Maurice was a lavish spender, too. He had the finest Saville Row suits, kept a fancy carriage, belonged to the best clubs, entertained his society friends.”
His friends. In the tumultuous weeks since the funeral, none had paid more than a duty call. After sizing them up and discarding them as suspects, she had let their names and faces fade from her mind like poorly cut stones.
“Then five years ago,” Kit went on, “Maurice borrowed heavily again when he moved to this location, a more expensive shop.”
“That’s about when I began doing much of the design work. He also expanded the stock.”
“That accounts for the disappearance of some of the profits.” Kit paused, his eyes moody and his expression grim. “There’s something else you should know.”
“More bad news?”
“The one initial investor Maurice hadn’t fully repaid is Jerome St. Claire.”
Stunned, Norah sank onto the desk. “Jerome? He never mentioned Maurice owing him any money.”
“Jerome is the consummate gentleman.”
For once, she ignored his acid tone. “Dear Blessed Virgin. I’ll have to pay him back. How much do I owe him?”
“We owe him six thousand pounds.”
Squeezing her eyes shut, she raised both hands to her mouth. Her sigh wisped between her fingers. “I feel as if I’m in a pit that gets deeper every time I try to climb out.”
“Norah, don’t be despondent. I’ll see that Jerome is repaid.”
The independent side of her chafed at the need to ask for more help. Yet when Kit’s hand feathered over her cheek, she felt herself drowning in the scandalous desire to turn her head and kiss his palm, to take the pads of his fingers into her mouth and taste his warm flesh.
She snapped her eyes open. How could she yearn for what would only lead to a disgusting experience? Kit wasn’t the man for her. No man was.
He stood over her, so close she could see the faint black stubble peppering his cheeks and jaw. His half smile suggested sin and sensuality. Perception gleamed in his brown velvet gaze, a keen understanding that invaded her mind and read her most intimate thoughts.
The impression rattled her. He couldn’t possibly have guessed her absurd longing.
Could he?
Breathlessly she admitted, “It seems I’m always depending on you to settle my debts.”
“You’ve already begun to repay me, partner.” He tapped her on the nose. “Don’t forget the parure.”
“Speaking of which, shall we go see Thaddeus now?”
She rose, but Kit caught her arm again. “There’s one more thing.”
“Yes?” She stared, entranced by the circle of his brown fingers on her tender white wrist.
“Remember the calling card you found in Thaddeus’s drawer?”
Between the commotion of rebuilding and the turmoil of working with Kit, she had let the matter slide to the back of her mind. “Yes. From Frederick Gage.”
“This morning I paid a call on Mr. Gage.” Kit paused, and in the dusky light a shadow seemed to slip over his face. “Thaddeus wasn’t looking for another post. Nor was he stealing jewels. He sought Mr. Gage’s sponsorship. You see, Thaddeus intends to submit his own design for the Jubilee tiara.”
The air slid from her lungs. “Thaddeus, a designer?” The notion jolted her as much as his underhanded action.
“He’s a traitor.” Kit rubbed the inside of her wrist. “Norah, this gives him another motive for killing your husband. He may have been trying to get rid of a rival, first Maurice and now you. Winnifred could have encouraged him in the matter.”
“No, I can’t believe that. He’s practically my cousin-in-law.” She wrested her hand free. “I’ll speak to him on the matter.”
“Better you should leave him to me. He could be dangerous—”
“No.” She turned on her heel before Kit could object. Beyond the screen, long rows of hanging gaslights penetrated the gloom of late afternoon. Sawdust floated on the air. Against the far end of the workroom, the wooden framework for her new office stretched from floor to ceiling. The crew of four nailed up the wall planks, steadily enclosing the space.
As she passed Peter Bagley at his workbench, he stood up and gestured, his ruddy face disgruntled. Pointedly ignoring Kit, Bagley said, “Mrs. Rutherford, I need a word with you.”
She paused. “Of course.”
“I shouldn’t be restringing pearls.” He waved a disdainful hand at the lustrous set lying on the scarred surface of his desk. “I grasp the temporary need for economy, but we must rehire some of our employees. This is the work of an apprentice.”
Blessed Virgin, what next? She couldn’t afford more trouble. “Lady Muldoon specifically requested your excellent services. She simply doesn’t trust anyone but you.”
His bulbous nose tipped pridefully into the air. “I’ll make an exception this time, then.”
As she walked on, Kit whispered in her ear, “Very diplomatic, Mrs. Rutherford. I would have booted the old goat out the door.”
“And gotten stuck with restringing the pearls yourself,” she murmured dryly.
To her surprise, when they arrived at Thaddeus’s desk, they found Winnifred and Ivy there talking to him. Light through the wall of windows outlined his rounded shoulders and his magnificent pelt of wavy hair. The similarities between him and Winnifred struck Norah. Of uniform physique, both had brown hair and hazel eyes. Yet Winnifred looked like a dowdy crow beside a sovereign eagle.
Ivy waved
her lace handkerchief. Behind the round spectacles, her eyes glowed like aquamarines, the color youthful against her ancient features. “Hullo!” she called over the hammering. “Winnie and I rode here on the omnibus. I sat beside the most fascinating man, an actor from the Savoy Theatre—”
“Humph.” Winnifred brushed her black gloves as if they were soiled. “Rubbing elbows with the common folk. All because we can’t afford to keep a carriage.”
“Oh, don’t be a prune on such a splendid occasion, Winnie. We’ve come to take tea at the Silver Swan. Won’t you join us, Norah?” Like a bright-eyed wren, Ivy dipped her head. “You too, Lord Blackthorne.”
“Thank you,” Norah said, “but his lordship and I have already had our tea in my office.”
“Alone?” Winnifred elevated a bristly eyebrow. “I hardly think that’s proper. Especially with a man of dubious reputation.”
“Come now, Miss Rutherford,” Kit said, his voice low so that no one beyond their small group could hear. “Even I would stop short of ravishing your cousin-in-law where anyone could walk in on us.”
Winnifred went beet-red. “Can you blame me for worrying? Her reputation reflects upon myself and dear Ivy. Time was when Norah stayed home, where she belongs. People are whispering about your unseemly partnership.”
The warmth of Kit’s hand at her waist gave Norah the courage to ask, “Who is whispering? I should like to know their names.”
“A lady never repeats gossip.” Winnifred thinned her lips in a virtuous line.
“Then the people you overheard must not have been ladies,” Kit said dryly. “Ergo, we can ignore their small-minded comments.”
“Gossip is a lamentable pastime of society,” Thaddeus murmured. “If one ventures into a hornet’s nest, one must expect to be stung.”
His bland gaze wandered over Norah. At one time she would have thought his words an innocuous comment on rumormongers; now she wondered if he also jeered at her effort to perform a man’s job.
“There’ll be no more innuendos in this shop.” The hard edge of Kit’s voice sliced through the construction noise. “Should I hear anyone sully Mrs. Rutherford’s name, I shall teach him the error of his ways.”
