by Olivia Drake
He glanced around the group. Thaddeus stood aloof, Winnifred grumpy, Ivy round-eyed.
Kit’s gallantry glowed inside Norah. How would she carry on once he left, as he surely would someday? To cover her confusion, she stepped toward the workbench. “Mr. Teodecki, Lord Blackthorne would like to view the bracelet.”
The craftsman clicked his heels. “As you wish, my lord.”
On the scarred surface of the desk lay a spool of silver wire, along with needle-fine pliers and a file. The loose-weave bracelet was stretched out and nearly finished. Pebble-sized moonstones studded the filigree work, like luminescent orbs scattering the heavens. Between the moonstones, diamond chips formed tiny stars.
“Oh my,” Ivy said, a white handkerchief clutched to her crape bodice. “How very pretty. It reminds me of teardrops on lace.”
Winnifred curled her lip. “Silver? How common. And the diamonds are rather modest.”
“You’ve a keen eye, dearest.” Thaddeus stroked his pointed goatee. “It’s no inconvenience to replace the chips with larger diamonds, my lord.”
Norah detected a hint of superciliousness in his tone, as if he would have designed a more elaborate parure. Misgivings assaulted her. Had she ventured too far in the unconventional design? She liked the airy feel of the jewelry, but would a noble-bred debutante prefer heavy gold and thumb-sized diamonds? Of course, maybe she wouldn’t care as long as the gift came from a marquess, the heir to a dukedom.
Kit stroked his brown finger over the delicate bracelet. “This is perfect. I wouldn’t alter a single stone. Your workmanship is superior, Mr. Teodecki.”
He bowed. “Thank you.”
“My lord, you must have a special lady in mind for so...interesting a piece,” Winnifred observed.
Kit merely smiled, a wolfish quirk of his mouth that roused a spasm of unwanted curiosity in Norah. Why was he so secretive? Because the parure was destined to grace his chosen wife, she thought. He must be waiting to disclose her name until the announcement of their betrothal.
Disliking her contrary emotions, Norah focused on business. “If it’s no inconvenience, Mr. Teodecki, I would like a word with you alone.”
He arched an eyebrow. “Of course, Mrs. Rutherford.”
“But our tea—” began Winnifred.
“We promise to keep your fiancé only a few moments,” Kit said. “If you ladies will excuse us.”
“I don’t mind waiting,” Ivy said. “Norah, may I walk around and look at all the lovely jewels?”
“Yes. Please, make yourselves at home.”
Ivy gaily waved goodbye. Winnifred clutched her black reticule and glowered.
“We’ll go to the vault,” Norah said. “At the moment it’s the only place where we can speak privately.”
She led the two men out of the workroom and down the gas-lit passageway. The carpeting muffled their footsteps. As she unlocked the vault, she glimpsed several customers browsing the elegant showroom beyond the passage. At least the storm of scandal seemed to be abating. Over the past few weeks, more and more clients had come trickling back.
She entered the vault. Kit closed the door, and blessed silence reigned. After lighting the brass lamp on the table, he crossed his arms and leaned against the drawer-lined wall.
At least they wouldn’t have another quarrel over who would direct the interview, Norah thought. She didn’t know whether to be relieved or nervous. Clasping her damp hands, she looked at Thaddeus, who was waiting by the door. The yellow light cast shadows over his thin features crowned by a sweep of brown hair.
“Mr. Teodecki, I understand you’ve had dealings with Frederick Gage.”
His face blanched. He lifted his hand halfway, then dropped it to his side. In a hollow tone he said, “How did you find out?”
“Never mind that. I know you’re planning to submit a tiara of your own design for the royal commission. And you needed the sponsorship of a respected jeweler.”
“Yes. I have little money of my own and no means to purchase the necessary stones.” His voice was stiff, his shoulders squared.
“Why did you not ask me or Maurice to help you?”
His lips compressed. His eyes flashed with anger. “I did so, just before Christmas. But Mr. Rutherford insisted that I devote myself to making the jewelry. He said that developing my own style would distract me from my work, perhaps so much that I would be tempted to make alterations in your designs.”
Norah understood his resentment. From the distance of time, she could see that Maurice had cared for only his own interests. How dare he stifle the need to create rather than craft? She kept her expression neutral. “How long have you been designing?”
“For years, a little bit here, a little bit there.” He made a dismissing motion. “Small pieces I sold to insignificant shops.”
“Until you approached Mr. Gage four weeks ago,” Kit added.
“Yes.” Thaddeus held himself with the hauteur of a king. “He offered to hire me, but I felt...I could not leave Mrs. Rutherford, considering her recent tragedies.”
“How noble of you,” Kit drawled.
Thaddeus ignored the sarcasm. “Even Miss Winnifred did not know of my plans until recently. I had hoped we might at last...” He lowered his eyes.
He had hoped to earn enough money to marry Winnifred. The unspoken words softened the pain of his betrayal.
Yet Kit’s frown reflected the suspicions clawing at Norah’s mind. In his quest to win the commission, had Thaddeus stolen the South African diamond? Had he murdered Maurice in a fit of fury? Beyond Winnifred’s word, Thaddeus had no alibi for his whereabouts on New Year’s Eve.
He bowed to Norah. “If you will excuse me, I will pack my belongings now and leave.” His back straight and his face composed, he reached for the doorknob.
“Wait,” Norah said on impulse.
He eyed her warily. “I have committed no criminal act, I swear so on the holy bones of St. Stanislaus. If you mean to call in the police—”
“No, I don’t.” She looked to Kit for guidance, but his stony expression offered no clue to his thoughts. If Thaddeus left now, she knew, the ill feelings would linger. When he and Winnifred married, she might never see them again. Winnifred might even influence Ivy to move out. Exasperating as they sometimes might be, they were Norah’s only family. “I would like you to stay on at Rutherford Jewelers.”
Thaddeus gaped at her. “But...how can I? I have made myself your rival.”
“I expected competitors. The Princess of Wales will make her own choice.”
A moment of silence ticked away. He bowed his head. “You are not like your husband, Mrs. Rutherford. I am ashamed to have deceived you.”
Norah took a step toward him. “You’ve been a diligent employee and a superb craftsman. If you prefer to work for Mr. Gage, then go with my blessings. But I should like to give you the freedom to design, too. So long as you vow never to lie to me again.”
Thaddeus stood unmoving. Then with surprising suddenness, he crossed to her, bent on one knee, and pressed his lips to the back of her hand. The bristly brush of his goatee tickled her skin. In a choked voice, he said, “May God reward you for your kindness. Of course you have my word of honor.”
His courtly gesture was oddly reminiscent of Lark kissing her hem. For the second time that day, she found herself embarrassed and deeply touched. “I would be delighted to see some of your designs later,” she said, drawing her hand free. “For now, though, please escort Winnifred and Ivy to their tea.”
He rose. Moisture glinted in his eyes. “You will not regret your decision to trust me.” He strode out of the vault, closing the door behind him.
Her throat felt thick, her eyes hot. She took a calming breath and turned to Kit. His moody frown and stiff pose brought her an unwelcome start of dismay.
“You don’t approve,” she stated.
He smiled slightly, his black lashes lowering in a lazy perusal of her. “On the contrary,” he said, “I’m glad y
ou have a tender heart.”
Every time she tried to summon dislike for him, he caught her off guard. “Then why were you scowling?”
“I’m wondering why you can soften toward other men and not toward me.”
The wistful curve of his mouth suggested vulnerability. Lamplight gleamed off his black hair and midnight eyes, making him impossibly attractive. The memory of the last time they’d been alone in the vault came flashing back, the aggressiveness of his kiss, the hardness of his body, the warmth of his embrace. A peculiar weakness spread through her, the sensation akin to the breathless wonder she’d felt on viewing the crown jewels. With effort, she reminded herself that he wanted to conquer her, to check her name off his list of challenges.
“If I’ve acted unduly harsh toward you,” she said, “please forgive me. Personal feelings have no place in our business arrangement.” Her words sounded stilted, even to her own ears.
His solemn expression held a bleak quality that made her chest ache. Abruptly he said, “You were sixteen when you married Maurice, were you not?”
She nodded. “But what has that to do with our partnership?”
“From what I’ve gathered, the marriage was arranged.”
“Yes, by the Mother Superior.” Lest he misunderstand, Norah added, “I did have a choice. I could have refused the offer.”
“So why didn’t you?” Kit pushed away from the wall and strolled toward her. “Why did you marry a man twice your age, a man you hardly knew?”
She forced herself to hold her ground against his advance, even though panic nipped at her composure. “I wanted to escape the convent. I wanted...”
Kit stopped mere inches from her and pressed one palm on the table. “Wanted what?”
His faint aroma of musk unfurled like tendrils of fire around her senses. She blurted, “I wanted something I never had: a family of my own, lots of children to love.”
“You and Maurice never had any children.”
He breathed the comment on a soft note of sympathy. Untimely tears blurred her eyes. Blinking hard, she looked down at her wedding band. “No. And a gentleman wouldn’t say so.”
“Come now, we’re friends.” The gentle nudge of his fingers brought her chin up. “You could marry again, Norah. You could have a second chance.”
The brilliant rays of unfulfilled dreams illuminated her mind; then she slammed the door on impossible hopes. She stepped back and shook her head emphatically. “Never.”
“Never?”
“You heard me. I’ve no wish to surrender my independence to an autocratic man.”
“Marriage needn’t be a prison. Not if you choose the right man. Tell me what qualities you’d require in the ideal husband.”
She hugged her arms to her bosom. If only he knew that for her, marriage had been worse than a prison. Never again would she endure the degradation of physical coupling. “This conversation is absurd.”
“Perhaps, but humor me.” His mouth easing into a dazzling smile, he added, “Please?”
He looked so appealing, so exotically handsome, her heart melted, puddling in a slow, warm pulsebeat in her loins. The strange sensation disconcerted her. How could she feel drawn to him when she knew the ultimate intimacy he would demand of his mistress?
Yet she focused on the shiny wall of drawers beyond him and found herself saying, “I would want a man who shared my interests in jewelry and art, a man who would treat me with the respect of a friend. He would be my knight in shining armor, a man of untarnished honor and faithfulness. He would commit his heart and soul to me, and never hurt me...”
Her voice soft and unguarded, she faltered to a stop. Her gaze strayed irresistibly to Kit and she found him watching her, one arm propped on the other, his fingers framing his perfect cheekbone. A paragon. The description jolted her. If she didn’t know better, she might have thought him a masterpiece, the ideal of masculinity.
“Suppose you find that man?” Kit asked. “Would you change your mind about remarrying?”
A miserable emptiness opened inside her. The raw and painful feeling startled her. She thought she had adjusted to the course of her life by letting her career as a jewelry designer fulfill her need for happiness and worth. But suddenly her soul cried out for more. She ached to share her lonely life with a caring husband and a houseful of children. The futility of her longing clenched in her breast like a fiery knot. On the ragged edge of emotion, she almost blurted, What’s the use? I can’t conceive. No man wants a barren woman.
Her near-slip mortified her. She sidled away from Kit, away from his tempting warmth and the fantasy that could never come true. “No, I wouldn’t,” she answered. “Now, pray excuse me. I have work to do.”
Blindly she stormed out of the vault. How foolish to voice her broken dreams to a rake of the caliber of Kit Coleridge.
She headed for the sanctuary of her makeshift office. Thaddeus and the Misses Rutherford were nowhere to be seen. The hammering had stopped; the laborers sat on sawhorses, drinking their tea and munching sandwiches. Lark perched in their midst, gesturing and talking, no doubt earning indulgent grins for some imaginative tale.
Restless and aching, Norah plunged into her cubicle only to frown at the sight of a small parcel on her desk. She picked it up. Printed in black letters was the address: Mrs. N. Rutherford, Rutherford Jewelers, Bond Street.
The paper crackled as she unwrapped it to find a leather jeweler’s case stamped RJ in Romanesque type, the shop’s trademark. Had someone returned a defective piece?
She opened the case. In a nest of crimson velvet lay an egg-sized brooch that looked vaguely familiar and frankly sentimental. The minute pastoral scene depicted a willow tree with a raven weeping seed pearl tears. A small ivory sarcophagus sat beneath the tree.
Mourning jewelry. Grimacing, she touched the stiffened leaves, made of gray human hair. She had never understood the popularity of keeping morbid relics of the deceased.
Why would someone send the brooch to her?
Norah turned it over in her hands. No inscription embellished the gold back.
Spying the tiny hinges, she used her thumb to flip open the clasp of the brooch. And recoiled as the contents spilled out.
Chapter 11
A short while later, Norah studied the faces of the people assembled around her desk. Thaddeus frowned in concern, Winnifred pursed her lips in disapproval, and Ivy blinked in perplexity as she twisted her lacy handkerchief around her gnarled fingers. Lark hovered in the entry to the cubicle, his eyes agog as he hopped from one foot to the other in an effort to see past Winnifred’s thickset form.
Kit’s swarthy palm cupped the dull metallic gleam of gold. But he ignored the brooch and studied the silver and brown strands scattered over the oak desk.
“You’re certain that’s Maurice’s hair?” he asked Norah.
“Yes.” Now that the initial shock had passed, she could speak calmly, without the shuddering queasiness in her stomach. “If you’ve any doubt, the engraving inside the brooch should convince you.”
One black eyebrow edged upward as he read the inscription: “‘Whose hair I wear, I love most dear. Maurice Rutherford, 31 December 1886.’”
“Oh my.” Ivy reached beneath her spectacles to dab at her eyes. “It was never meant to honor my brother’s demise. Maurice made the brooch himself thirty years ago, as a remembrance of our parents’ passing. It was the very first piece of jewelry he ever crafted. I wore it to church every Sunday, until it was stolen.”
Aha, Norah thought. So that was why the brooch had looked familiar.
Winnifred snorted. “The brooch wasn’t stolen, Ivy. You lost it out on the street, just as you lost your hat last week. Given half a chance, you’d misplace your own head.”
Ivy’s lip quivered. “That isn’t true. Someone filched my precious memento.”
“I see. A footpad walked into our house, ignored the silver and jewels, and went straight up into your chamber to take a near-worthless brooch, did he
? How ridiculous can you be—”
“Stop your bickering.” Norah’s patience snapped. “Clearly the brooch wasn’t lost, Winnifred, because someone took it to play this cruel trick on me.”
The air reverberated with tension. Lark poked his head past Winnifred, the whites of his eyes vivid against his street-rough features. In a dramatic whisper, he said, “It ain’t just anyone. It’s ’er. The madwoman o’ Mayfair.”
“Madwoman?” Thaddeus craned his neck to glare at the boy. “You surely cannot mean the female who murdered Mr. Rutherford.”
“Aye, I do.”
Hearing her own suspicion voiced aloud jarred Norah. Dear Blessed Virgin. Why would someone go to the trouble of stealing the brooch and delivering it to her? Even worse, who would clip a lock of Maurice’s hair, then hold on to it for so many weeks?
A chill slithered over her skin and dampened her palms. Someone who loved him? Or someone who hated him?
“Hush, Lark,” Kit said, glowering at the boy. “Miss Ivy, when did you first notice the brooch was gone?”
“Last November seventeenth.” Setting her chin as if to dare Winnifred to disagree, Ivy added, “I remember especially, since it was Marmalade’s ninth birthday.”
Kit snapped the brooch shut and placed it on the desk. “And no one here saw the piece again until Lark found the packet on the back step?”
In unison, they all shook their heads.
Lowering his gaze, Lark scuffed the toe of his boot over the carpet. “I should’ve been quicker fetchin’ the tea,” he muttered. “I might’ve nabbed the bloody bitch.”
Winnifred harrumphed. “Watch your language, young man.”
A red flush augmented the misery on his face. “Beggin’ yer pardon, mum.”
“Winnifred, I’ll chastise my own employees, thank you.” In a softer tone, Norah added, “Lark, you had no way of knowing what was inside the parcel.”
“But I thought ’twas a odd place t’ leave mail.” He scrubbed his nose on his sleeve. “I should’ve gone lookin’ down the alley at least.” He hung his head lower. “Maybe ye’ll be wantin’ Screeve t’ work ’ere instead o’ me. If I ain’t gonna be no use—”
