by Olivia Drake
“Your job is not to chase down criminals,” Kit broke in. “You may return to work now. There’s sawdust an inch thick in the new office.”
“Aye, sir.” His gloom visibly lifting, Lark dashed out.
Thaddeus opened the brooch with his thumb. He studied the inside inscription through Norah’s loupe. “This lettering was done by an amateur.” His slight sneer as he set the brooch down conveyed his opinion of the artisan.
Curious, she leaned forward. “Why do you say so?”
“The engraving tool slipped a fraction on the R, and the loops on the eights and the six aren’t uniform.”
“May I see?” She picked up the piece. In her initial paralysis, she hadn’t thought to scrutinize the jewelry for clues. “Heavens, you’re right.”
“An excellent observation, Thaddeus,” Kit said. “That may help identify the culprit. Miss Ivy, do you mind if I keep the brooch for a few days and show it to the police? I promise to take especial care of it.”
“Of course,” she said. “I trust you completely, my lord.”
Kit pocketed the brooch. “Mrs. Rutherford and I will look into this matter. You may go now.”
Winnifred and Ivy filed out, Thaddeus bringing up the rear. At the door Ivy turned back, a spry figure swathed in mourning, her wrinkled cheeks snow-white against the black crape of her gown. She shook a motherly finger at Norah. “Please don’t tarry here too late, dear. It simply isn’t safe.”
Suppressing a shiver, Norah watched Ivy leave. What if she were the one? Could her guileless features hide a cunning mind? Had she only said she misplaced the brooch? If so, she was an actress worthy of the Savoy Theatre.
Then had Winnifred purloined the brooch? When Maurice’s body had been laid out in the parlor, had she crept downstairs in the dark of night and snipped a few strands of his hair? The gruesome image left Norah cold and uncertain. Grumpy or not, Winnifred wasn’t a furtive woman. She stated her opinions in plain terms.
And what about Thaddeus? He possessed the tools to engrave the brooch. Had he left deliberate flaws in the inscription as a way to point the finger of suspicion away from himself? After all, he’d be the one to notice the defects. Could he desire the Jubilee commission so much he’d kill Maurice, then try to frighten her with a malicious gift?
The gentle pressure of Kit’s hand moved over her back. “I’m sorry you have to suspect your own family, Norah.”
His massage dissolved her reserve. Yielding to temptation, she turned to rest her head on his shoulder and let herself absorb his strength. Friendship, she thought. Surely there was no danger to her fragile emotions in accepting friendship.
“Oh, Kit. Each of them had the opportunity to slip the parcel out the back door while we were in the vault.”
“I know, dammit. I know. But anyone could have left the box on the back step. An errand boy, for instance.” Tension flowed from him, a tension reflected in the tightness of his arms around her. “Jesus God. I wish I could do something. This whole mess infuriates me.”
The steady rise and fall of his chest brushed her breasts in a way that tantalized her nerves. The haven of his arms became a prison. She abandoned his embrace and picked up the black leather jewelry case lying on the desk. “There’s something I almost forgot in all the uproar.” She snapped open the lid. “The brooch came in this box. It’s lined in crimson velvet.”
“So?”
“So our cases are done in white. Remember the South African diamond that Maurice was supposed to deliver on the night he was murdered? When he checked the box after finding it in Ivy’s sewing things, I caught a glimpse of the interior. That case was lined in red, too. And it was the same size and shape. Someone must have altered one of our boxes by switching the lining.”
Kit took the container from her and brushed his finger over the velvet. “Interesting. If this is the same case, it could prove the murderess also stole the gem. But why would she send you the brooch?”
“Because she resents me.” Norah looked down at her wedding band, her heart as heavy as the gold on her finger. “Because she was Maurice’s mistress.”
“Perhaps. Then again, perhaps not.”
At the odd note in his tone, Norah tilted her head back. His eyes as black as midnight, he scowled at the screen separating them from the rest of the shop. “Who else would play such a frightful trick?” she asked.
“I can think of one other person.”
The thinning of his mouth sparked a hot flash of comprehension. “You don’t mean... Jane Bingham?”
“I do, indeed. Pranks are her specialty.”
Norah stared. “Are you saying she killed Maurice?”
He slowly shook his head. “Even as avaricious as she is, I can’t imagine her killing a man.”
“Then how would she get the brooch and the red-lined case? And when did she clip a lock of Maurice’s hair?”
Grimacing, Kit pushed the hairs from the desk into the rubbish bin. “Jane is remarkably resourceful. God knows, she had her chance to steal the jewel and cut his hair when she was alone with his body.”
And how cleverly she’d enticed Kit back into her web.
Norah fought down a surge of resentment. She knew the answer before she even asked, “So what will you do?”
“Pay a call on her, of course.”
“What the devil is going on here?”
Kit spoke from the doorway of the morning room. His unbuttoned overcoat revealed a tailored suit of charcoal-gray. He shook a familiar necklace, the stones and metal rattling. His expression fierce, he stalked forward like a predator invading the sunny room with its rosewood paneling and sheer lace curtains.
Norah’s teacup clattered onto its china saucer. She pushed back her chair by the window and stood. “Why are you here so early? You don’t usually call for me until eight o’clock.” She glanced beyond him. “Where’s Culpepper?”
“Back in the pantry. I told him I’d show myself in.” Kit stopped before her and opened his hand, the stones spilling over his large palm. Sunlight struck the delicate silver trelliswork and ignited purple fire in the amethysts. “Answer me, Norah. Why the devil is your necklace displayed for sale in the front window of the shop?”
A sleepless night had chafed her nerves raw. His dictatorial tone rubbed salt into the wound. She poked her index finger at his broad chest. “Stop shouting at me. Better you should answer my question.”
“What question?”
“The one you haven’t given me a chance to ask yet. What happened in your meeting with Jane? You said you’d come by yesterday evening, after you’d spoken to her.”
His scowl eased a fraction. “I said I’d try to come by.”
“I waited up until after midnight. How long does it take to ask a simple question? It would have been considerate of you at least to send me a note.”
“Please accept my apologies.” He dropped the necklace onto the lace tablecloth, and it landed between the salt cellar and a sterling toast rack. “Jane was out and didn’t return until late. I thought you’d prefer me to wait rather than wake you at three o’clock in the morning.”
“You were with Jane Bingham until three? What were you two doing?” Heat rushed over Norah’s body. Quickly she amended, “Pardon me. I don’t want to know.”
A wicked gleam lit his dark expression. He feathered his fingers over her cheek. “Jealous?”
She backed up a step. “You may dally until dawn with whomever you like. I’m only anxious to know if Jane sent the brooch.”
He released a weary sigh and passed his hand over his face. “She claims she didn’t. I think she’s telling the truth.”
So he was still susceptible to Jane’s wiles. “She’s a born liar. How can you be sure of her?”
“If she were lying, she wouldn’t have looked me straight in the eyes. She would have tried to distract me.
Norah rubbed her arms beneath her black shawl. She could well imagine the manner of that distraction. Controlling another rise o
f hot jealousy, she said, “So what do we do next?”
“Let the police handle the matter. Wadding will take the brooch around the city and try to find out who did the engraving.”
“That could take days.”
“Then you have plenty of time to tell me about the necklace.”
Oddly embarrassed, she turned from his stern gaze and crumbled the cold crust of her toast. “I’m selling it.”
“That’s obvious. The question is, why?”
“I should think you’d know why. I can no longer afford extravagances.”
He slapped the table; china rattled. “Good God, Norah. You needn’t give up your personal jewels.”
“Why do you care if I do or not?”
“Because I know how much you value jewels.”
“I shouldn’t wear them, anyway. At least not until my first year of mourning is up. By the strictest rules, the amethysts are too ostentatious even for the second year of half-mourning.”
“Come now, do you truly care so much for convention? I’d hoped you were becoming a more free-thinking woman, Norah.” His voice lowered to a caressing murmur. “The amethysts look so lovely against your skin. Remember the day you wore them, when you came to see me after the fire? I neglected to tell you then, but you should always wear black velvet and jewels.”
Her heart tumbled, both at the compliment and his implication. She’d worn the amethysts when she’d asked him to invest in her shop. Now his tone suggested a latent immorality in her act, as if her purpose had been to entice him.
“I’m selling the necklace and that’s that. I won’t be beholden to you for a single penny more than necessary.”
He reared back, his face a mask of displeasure. “Ah. So you’ll borrow my money, but you want nothing else to do with me.”
“I want us to be friends, too.”
“Do you?” His eyes bleak and cold, he shoved his hands into his coat pockets. “Then why do you shun me at every turn? Does it degrade you to associate with a half-caste?”
Startled, Norah shook her head. “Your heritage has nothing to do with this discussion.”
He slanted an eyebrow. “Then you’re not ashamed to be seen with me?”
“Of course not. What a bizarre notion.”
“Is it?”
The penetrating quality of his gaze made her wonder what he was thinking and feeling. He reacted so strongly to any slight, real or imagined. What had happened in his past to make him so sensitive? The question perched on the tip of her tongue, but she was afraid to ask it, afraid to open herself to acknowledging his deepest emotions, afraid to strengthen the bond of friendship already linking them.
He leaned toward her, attracting her with his earthy male scent. “Beginning Friday next, there’s a special exhibit at the British Museum, featuring gemstones from every corner of the empire, in honor of the Queen’s Jubilee Year. Will you go with me to the gala opening?”
Her lips parted with an automatic rejection. Recent widows didn’t attend public functions in the company of a male nonfamily member. Especially not a man whose illicit romantic affairs had placed him outside the circle of acceptable society.
But if she refused him, he might think his skin color offended her. She couldn’t bear to hurt him. In her most private self, she adored his exotic looks. She had to curl her fingers to keep from touching his warm flesh, from stroking the strands of onyx hair that had slipped onto his brow, from tracing his high cheekbones and the strong brown column of his neck.
A wild leap of excitement lodged in her throat. Dear God, she wanted to accept. She wanted to attend the glittering engagement with Kit Coleridge as her escort. The strength of her longing shocked her. “I’ll go,” she heard herself say.
He flashed his most beguiling smile. His eyes glinted with too much triumph for a man who had looked so heart-meltingly vulnerable only moments before. “I’ll be looking forward to our evening together, Norah.”
The gray-haired matron in puce velvet spied Norah and Kit, stuck her sharp nose in the air, and deliberately veered off into the throng of people at the British Museum.
Norah had but an instant to wonder at the slight when Kit steered her straight into the pudgy woman’s path. “Why, Lady Romney,” he said in a voice as smooth as pudding. “What a delight. I haven’t seen you in ages.”
Unable to avoid them, her ladyship gave a stiff nod, her multiple chins jiggling. “We hardly frequent the same social circles. I didn’t know you took an interest in gemstones.”
“I do now, since Mrs. Rutherford and I have become partners.” His placid tone didn’t fool Norah. She could feel the rigidity in his muscles where she held on to his arm. He added, “May I introduce you to Mrs. Norah Rutherford?”
Mumbling something in between a greeting and a harrumph, Lady Romney lifted her lorgnette and examined Norah, up and down.
“I’m pleased to meet you, my lady.” Determined to ease the tension, Norah went on, “I see you’ve shopped at Rutherford Jewelers. I designed the Oriental pearl collar you’re wearing.”
Lady Romney clutched her throat as if the jewels choked her. “I purchased it before the scandal.” As if in afterthought, she added, “A pity about your poor husband.”
“Your rudeness is the greater pity,” Kit said, his voice low yet cutting. “One day you’ll learn some manners.
“Well! You always were an impertinent young man.” Her fat cheeks flushed, she shook her lorgnette. “I intend to write to your stepmother about you. I always did feel sorry for her, forced to accept a half-caste as a stepson.” Turning, she flounced off in such haste that her bustle bounced on her overstuffed rump.
Norah seethed with resentment. “How dare she insult you.”
“The Countess of Romney does as she pleases,” Kit murmured in Norah’s ear, so that none of the other guests could overhear. “The family might count William the Conqueror among their ancestors, but her husband is a drunken lout. Passed out cold last week on the floor of the House of Lords. It proves she’s no judge of character.”
Despite his attempt to make light of the cut, Norah felt troubled by the chilly reception of icy stares. She clung to the crook of his arm as he led her past haughty duchesses and monocled gentlemen, giggling debutantes and dandified swains. The jeweled hues of ladies’ evening gowns wove a spectacular pattern threaded by the black suits of the men. The newfangled electric lighting made the gems on the women sparkle—the ruby-studded necklaces, the floral sapphire earrings, the diamond bowknot brooches.
A few younger ladies gazed boldly at Kit, and Norah wondered if he had known any of them intimately. Her stomach clenched. Perhaps she shouldn’t have come, even with Ivy and Winnifred and Thaddeus trailing somewhere behind as chaperones. People undoubtedly took malicious delight in recounting the scandal of Maurice’s death, and the appearance of his widow with the notorious Marquess of Blackthorne.
Her cheeks heated. She ducked her head. No doubt everyone assumed she was Kit’s mistress.
Mistress to a man with half-Indian blood.
The thought jerked her chin up in a fit of prideful anger. Why let the opinion of these supercilious aristocrats deflate the excitement that had buoyed her all week? Let them trade their mean-spirited rumors. She would enjoy her outing with Kit. More to the point, she would enjoy the exhibition.
Stately columns soared to the high ceiling and led her gaze upward to the classic moldings. Her senses expanded with the echo of voices and the smell of perfume, with the heady delight of viewing the gems. Table cases centered in four spacious rooms displayed the permanent collection of minerals, while the special exposition filled the glass-fronted cabinets around the perimeter of the rooms. The white electric light glinted off a huge chunk of reddish-brown cairngorm from Scotland, and beside it the Eureka diamond, the first diamond found in South Africa.
“A black opal from Australia,” Kit said, stopping before a case.
On a bed of white satin, the egg-sized gem sparked mysterious flas
hes of red and violet inside its midnight depths. “I’ve never seen one so large,” Norah breathed. “A pity we don’t sell more opal jewelry. People believe the stone to be unlucky.”
“I prefer to think we make our own luck.” His voice deepened to rough silk. “Better a man should pursue his heart’s desire than wait for the whims of chance.”
“And what’s a woman to do?”
“Whatever the man tells her.”
She would have challenged him, but his tone was teasing. He cocked one eyebrow at a lazy angle. A heavy heat flooded her veins. Flustered, she turned from his mesmerizing gaze. She could feel the tautness of Kit’s arm muscles beneath her gloved fingers. Dimly she noted that Winnifred and Ivy and Thaddeus had vanished into the multitude of people.
The throng parted. A rotund man came into view, trailed by a retinue of uniformed men and elegant women. A close-cropped beard and mustache framed his pale features and heavy-lidded eyes. His perfectly tied cravat was anchored by a leek-green peridot of at least ten carats.
Awe left Norah speechless. Queen Victoria’s heir. Edward, the Prince of Wales.
“Ah, Blackthorne,” he said.
Kit bowed. “How good to see you again, Your Royal Highness.”
“I was beginning to think you’d stabled yourself with those racehorses of yours. You even missed Daisy Brooke’s reception last week.”
“I must beg your pardon, sir. I’ve been occupied with business matters of late. Jewels, to be precise.”
Edward examined Norah with a torpid stare that drifted from her styled red hair to the hem of her black velvet gown. “One jewel in particular, I see. And who might this gem of femininity be?”
Kit covered her hand on his arm. With surprise she realized he was staking his prior claim. She had heard the prince was as ardent a womanizer as he.
“May I present my business partner, Mrs. Rutherford?” Kit said. “She’s the brilliant designer who made a success of Rutherford Jewelers.”
Glowing with pride, she sank into a deep curtsy. “Your Royal Highness.”
