by Olivia Drake
“And why did you trouble yourself to travel all the way to Belgium? Why didn’t you choose a girl from among the English gentry?” Kit jabbed his finger toward Jerome. “Or did you deliberately seek out an orphan without family or friends, a girl who was too naïve to see what you were up to?”
“Up to? You speak as if it were some devious plot.” Jerome gave a disbelieving laugh. “Maurice simply...knew the Mother Superior at the convent. They were old family acquaintances who agreed upon a decent alliance for Norah. Surely you wouldn’t have wanted a lovely girl to languish away in a nunnery.”
“Decent.” His jaw set, his fingers clenched around the gun, Kit took a step closer to Jerome, so they stood nose to nose. “You wed her to a deviant and you dare call it decent?”
The older man’s jaw went slack. “You’re ranting. Maurice Rutherford was a respected jeweler, a gentleman of refinement and taste—”
“His taste was for other men. He had no qualms about misusing his own wife when there wasn’t a boy available to satisfy him.”
Jerome recoiled. His cheeks flushed; just as swiftly his skin turned the opal-gray hue of his coat. His harsh breaths rasped into the charged silence. “No...”
Alarmed by his pallor, Norah leaped up. “Kit, your bluntness is unnecessary—”
“She’s right,” Jerome broke in. “You’re a cad to speak such coarse lies in front of a lady.”
“Didn’t you ever wonder why she was so unhappy?” Kit’s dark eyes held the savagery of a predator. “Didn’t you ever wonder why she never bore him a child?”
“He was a friend of mine for nearly twenty years. I would have known. Surely I would have known.” Jerome’s beseeching gaze focused on Norah. “Tell his lordship the truth. Please.”
Tears made his image shimmer. His distress ripped open the newly healed wound within her own heart. “It wasn’t your fault,” she whispered. “Maurice deceived me, too. I was too innocent to know better.”
The dullness of horror glazed his eyes. Jerome stood as if petrified in amber. Then he passed his hand over his ashen face and stumbled away, coming to a halt against the book-lined wall beside the mantelpiece. “God forgive me,” he mumbled. “I wanted the best for you. I thought I could make up for everything...”
Distressed by his rambling words and unable to bear his pain, Norah started toward him.
Kit caught her arm. His other hand gripped the pistol so tightly his knuckles shone white. Fury quivered in him like a tangible force, and she suddenly feared for Jerome’s life. “Put your gun away,” she murmured.
“No.”
“For heaven’s sake, does he look capable of harming me?”
Kit studied Jerome’s sagging figure, then slowly pocketed the pistol. “Your display of blamelessness is touching,” he told Jerome. “But maybe the truth is that you found Maurice a wife to cover up the fact that you and he were lovers.”
Jerome jerked as if struck by a bullet. “Scoundrel! Bloody heathen scoundrel—”
Norah saw only a blur as Kit sprang like a tiger. His forearm pinned Jerome by the throat against the shelves. Books thudded to the floor in an avalanche.
“Cunning bastard!” Kit snarled. “I ought to kill you for letting her suffer for nine years.”
Norah launched herself at him. “Stop! Stop it, both of you!”
She thrust hard at Kit’s arm. His flesh might have been granite, the statue of an avenging god.
Jerome shoved unexpectedly. Kit stumbled backward, his spine meeting the chair. He would have attacked again, but Norah threw herself between the two men. She slapped her palms flat against Kit’s chest. The tailored fabric of his gentleman’s suit belied the ferocity of his features.
“Enough,” she gasped. “He didn’t know about Maurice. Surely even you can see that.”
“I see a damned convincing actor. Playing to an altogether too-trusting audience.”
“I’m trying to keep an open mind.”
“Indeed? You’re forgetting about the stone, Norah.”
He scowled a challenge at her. The frenzied thumping of his heart slowed to a rhythm nearer its normal pace. Cautiously she lowered her hands and turned to Jerome.
His cravat askew, he rubbed his reddened throat. He gazed into the distance, his shoulders slumped. His pensiveness pierced her with the sharp impression of private grief.
“Jerome?”
He blinked and focused. “Norah, I truly didn’t know.”
His anguished statement held a convincing eloquence. Yet she couldn’t resume faith in him, not yet. “Kit and I had an audience with the Maharaja of Rampur on the Isle of Wight. We found out that Maurice lied to me about sending an agent named Upchurch to India to fetch the diamond, Fire at Midnight. Why didn’t you tell me that Maurice sent you there instead?”
His blue eyes lowered, then fixed to her in a steady gaze. “He asked me not to. I saw no reason to go against his wishes and possibly cause trouble in your marriage.” His grimace reflected the irony in his words. “Now I wish to God I’d wrung the blighter’s neck.”
“But why would he keep it a secret?” Kit demanded. “Norah knew he was sending someone after the diamond. What did it matter if that person was you?”
Shrugging, Jerome folded his arms. “I thought perhaps...he was jealous of my friendship with his wife.”
Norah slanted a look over her shoulder at Kit. “My, how unique,” she murmured.
He caught his hands around her waist in a warmly tender gesture that surprised her, considering his foul mood. His hard gaze bored into Jerome. “Now that we know his sexual bent, he couldn’t have been jealous.”
Jerome averted his eyes. “Who knows what went through his mind? Clearly I didn’t. Perhaps he had some reason for wanting me out of England for six months. Maybe he thought people would talk if I were seen often with his wife.”
“That’s a lame excuse,” Kit said.
“I’m only trying to read the thoughts of a dead man. If you think you can do better, then get on with it.”
At the threat of another quarrel, Norah asked quickly, “So what did you do with the gemstone?”
“I gave it to Maurice shortly before he was murdered.”
Kit snorted. “How do we know that? Or are we expected to blindly accept your word again?”
Jerome’s brow pleated. “Now I am confused. The diamond is in the vault. You yourself told me so, Norah, weeks ago.”
Guiltily she recalled his questions about the royal commission on the same afternoon she had received Jane Bingham’s prank gift of condoms.
“The stone isn’t there,” Norah said. “To my knowledge, it never was.”
“It likely disappeared on the night of Maurice’s murder,” Kit added. “Norah saw him with a red-lined jewelry case. He said it contained a South African diamond, but it must have been Fire at Midnight instead.”
“My God,” Jerome breathed. “I had no idea...”
“Forgive me for misleading you,” she murmured. “I was reluctant to take advantage of our friendship and burden you with my financial troubles.”
Jerome took a tentative step toward her. “You’ve never been a burden, Norah. Never.”
Despite his avowal, he looked tired and old, his dignified features etched by lines she had never before noticed. Yet as always, wistful warmth lit his eyes and his smile. Suddenly the radiance of restored trust shone like a beacon in her heart. Jerome had never betrayed her, he could never hurt her.
She surged toward him and tucked her head onto the shoulder of a true friend. “Thank you for caring so much. Your companionship has been a treasure to me.”
“I’m glad,” he said. “You’ve brought light into my life.”
The surprise of their hug caught Kit off guard. Instinct urged him to snatch her back, to whip out his pistol. Yet he stood frozen by the agonizing tableau of his wife embracing the one man with the power to steal her affections.
Tears moistened Jerome St. Claire’s eyes. He nuzzled
his aging cheek against her hair. His arms clasped her with the intimacy of a lover.
Jealousy burned in Kit. Yet in that moment he was certain Jerome wouldn’t draw a knife or a gun. The man truly loved Norah.
Did he covet her so much that he’d murdered Maurice in order to free her to remarry?
But that would mean someone else must have pushed Norah down the stairs. Could there be a second killer, someone who hoped his actions would be blamed on her husband’s murderer?
Jerome held her by the shoulders. “My lady,” he murmured. “I shall have to accustom myself to your new status.”
“Please don’t be formal,” she said. “Our friendship can endure the trials of the past.”
“I hope you’re right. So much has changed.”
Jerome glanced over her head at Kit. The shadowed wariness in those blue eyes roused Kit’s suspicions. His mind leapfrogged to a chilling notion. If Jerome were the culprit, would he now seek to kill her second husband?
A deeper fear gnawed at Kit. The cherished flower of her love might be rooted in the uncertain ground of physical attraction. He had known the fickleness of passion enough times to convince him that his own love for her would last into eternity. But Norah lacked his experience. Someday she might regret her impetuous remarriage. When the newness of desire began to fade, she might wish she had wed her devoted friend, Jerome St. Claire.
Unless Kit could keep her passion at a fever peak.
The beginnings of a smile crooked his lips. Maybe his years of philandering might prove an asset, after all. He could use his expertise to hold Norah in such a high state of excitement that she would scarcely have time to draw a breath.
Let alone yearn for any other man.
Chapter 17
“May I ask why you’re looking at him so strangely?”
Norah addressed Lady Carlyle, who stood on the other side of the glass-topped counter in the jewelry shop. All traces of smoke damage from the fire had been cleared from the showroom. The walls were repapered in subtle stripes of blue and silver. The Waterford chandeliers, cleaned of ash, now sparkled against the scalloped ceiling.
A fair number of customers browsed in the shop. Norah felt the sharp glances of curiosity seekers who had heard of the Marquess of Blackthorne’s unconventional marriage. London society had never seen a marchioness in trade. But at least business had picked up. As long as they bought her jewelry, and left her and Kit in peace, she refused to care.
Lady Carlyle’s attention kept straying to the back corner of the room, where Jerome sat at a small mahogany table and studied a tray of emeralds through his loupe.
At Norah’s question, pink misted the woman’s pale, ageless cheeks. She focused on Norah, who carefully tucked a diamond-studded bar pin into a velvet-lined case. “Was I staring?” Lady Carlyle asked. “Pardon my rudeness.”
On impulse Norah touched her ladyship’s gray-gloved fingers. “I didn’t intend to imply you could be anything but the epitome of politeness. I merely wondered if you knew Jerome.”
“Oh, no. He looks like...someone I once knew. Perhaps a beau from my days as a debutante.” Again, Lady Carlyle edged a melancholy look at him. “It’s only a quirk of the light, I’m sure.”
To Norah’s amazement, Jerome also surreptitiously glanced at her ladyship, his eyes penetrating and interested. Did the spring air nurture a budding romance? She hoped so. “Jerome St. Claire is a dear friend of mine. I’d be happy to introduce you.”
“No,” Lady Carlyle said hastily. A frown crimped her milky brow. “You’re too busy. Perhaps you would show me a bracelet? I’ve been admiring the one you’re wearing. The mix of moonstones and diamonds is clever and unusual.”
Her ladyship was trying to distract her, Norah realized. Lady Carlyle must be more affected by Jerome than she cared to admit. “Thank you. The bracelet was a gift from my husband. Now do let me call Jerome.”
“Please don’t bother yourself—”
“It’s no bother. Truly.”
Drawing Lady Carlyle behind the counter, Norah motioned to Jerome. He froze, a green stone sparkling in his fingers, surprise stark on his urbane features. Then he bent and carefully locked the tray of emeralds in the top drawer of the table.
He had come by the shop often in the past few weeks, offering to share his expertise in pricing her gems and evaluating the inventory. No matter how she tried to reassure him, she knew he flailed himself for not guessing the truth about Maurice.
Even as Jerome rose, Kit appeared at her side. Awareness quivered through her. He had an uncanny sense for Jerome’s proximity and never once left them alone together. Their rivalry exasperated and frustrated her.
Kit slipped his arm around her, his eyes conveying a covertly erotic promise that flooded her loins with an untimely liquid heat. In the month since their wedding, she had ridden the high crest of dreams and desire. He kept her buoyed on a constant cloud of excitement, and consumed by the perpetual hunger for his touch. It disturbed her to feel this wanton desire even in the presence of others.
Kit turned to the viscountess. “How good to see you again, Lady Carlyle.”
“My warmest congratulations on your marriage, my lord. And I must say, I’ve never seen you so happy, Mrs. Rutherf—” With a nervous laugh, she shook her head, setting the white osprey feather on her gray hat to trembling. “Do forgive me. I must accustom myself to addressing you as Lady Blackthorne.”
“Please call me Norah. And here’s Jerome now.”
A jerky slowness marred his steps. The cordial smile beneath the trim silver mustache held a fixed quality. In an uncommonly anxious gesture, he smoothed his hand over his black suit and adjusted the monogrammed handkerchief tucked in his breast pocket.
“Did you need me for something, Norah?”
“I wanted to introduce you to Lady Carlyle. My lady, may I present Mr. Jerome St. Claire?”
They stared at each other. Jerome’s cheeks reddened slightly and his mouth went soft. As if by afterthought, her ladyship presented her kid-gloved hand. He bent and brushed a courtly kiss over the backs of her fingers.
“It’s an honor to meet you,” he murmured. “In all my travels on the continent, I’ve never met a lady so fair.”
Her blush deepened into a charming rose hue. “Thank you.” She compressed her lips, then went on, “So you are an avid traveler, Mr. St. Claire. Will you stay in London for long?”
“For another month at least,” he said with a sidelong glance at Norah. “Business often takes me abroad, but personal reasons keep me here at the moment.”
“Perhaps we shall encounter each other again sometime. I, alas, must return to the country on the morning train.” Her tone cool, Lady Carlyle drew back her hand and reached for her parcel, lying on the countertop. “I fear I must take my leave now. My son will be wondering where I’ve disappeared to.”
“Give Bruce my regards,” Kit drawled. “And perhaps you wouldn’t mind passing along a bit of good news.”
“News?” asked Lady Carlyle, her expression mystified.
“Since Bruce and I are neighbors, you might warn him to watch out for the nursemaid wheeling her pram along the square next spring.”
Silence as thick as fog enveloped the quartet. The indistinct murmuring of customers and salesmen floated in the background, though Norah knew they couldn’t have overheard.
As if to recapture the treasured secret, she crossed her arms. The thought of cradling his sweet, dark-haired baby was like an enchantment so precious that speaking it aloud might break the spell. “Kit!” she chided softly. “You weren’t supposed to say anything just yet.”
He stroked the nape of her neck. “Forgive me, darling, but I couldn’t wait.” His eyes caressed her with eloquent love; then he addressed the others in an undertone. “My lady and I are expecting an addition to our household. He—or she—should make a debut sometime just after Christmas.”
Jerome’s widened gaze strayed to her midsection. “Is this true?” he
said hoarsely. “You’re, er, in a delicate condition?”
“Yes. At least the doctor I consulted yesterday thinks it likely.”
Lady Carlyle’s gray-green eyes held a sheen of tears. “I’m so happy for you both.” She gathered Norah in an embrace that wafted the scent of violets. “I do wish my Bruce would marry. Grandchildren would be such a blessing.”
“Indeed,” Jerome murmured.
Lady Carlyle’s gaze flicked to him. She lifted her hand to her throat in an oddly agitated gesture. “If you will excuse me.” Skirts swishing, she glided out of the shop, a liveried footman holding open the beveled glass door.
Poor lady, Norah thought. If Bruce’s taste in women included Jane Bingham, he might never marry. Then again, Kit had...
Jerome stared at the door, as if willing Lady Carlyle’s return. The frown grooving his brow intrigued Norah. Moving closer, she whispered, “Well? What do you think?”
Think?” Refocusing on her, he blinked. “I’m pleased for you and the marquess. If nine months pass between the wedding date and the blessed event, perhaps people will cease their whispering.”
“People who gossip,” Kit broke in coldly from beside Norah, “are people I don’t care for my wife to associate with, anyway.”
Disheartened by the enmity between the two men who meant so much to her, she said, “Jerome, I was referring to Lady Carlyle. What did you think of her?”
“Oh. She’s quite lovely. Is she one of your regular patrons?”
His wooden tone contrasted with his earlier aura of absorption. “She shops here every now and then,” Norah said. “Apparently she spends a lot of time in the country since her husband’s death last year. But I could find out when she next plans to visit London—”
He cut her off with a slash of his hand. “I appreciate your effort to matchmake, Norah. But I’m far too old for romantic games.”
“You’re not old.” Fondly she viewed his tidy silver hair and handsome features. The lines of humor bracketing his mouth now held a disturbing dejection. “Any woman would be proud to receive your court.”
