by Olivia Drake
Too agitated to sit, she paced. Since that long-ago morning when she had come to see where Maurice had died, the master bedroom had been refurbished in sunshine silks. The change reflected the bright path her life had taken.
Her heart pulled taut. Dear God, if anything happened to Kit, she would know true grief, an irreplaceable emptiness. She breathed a prayer for the safety of her husband and her father.
To distract herself, she repaired her disheveled curls and then went down the passage toward the grand staircase. The marble pillars, the lofty ceiling painted in the palazzo style, gave her a thrill of pride. Kit’s home was hers now, too. Soon these walls would ring with the laughter of their children.
The sound of argumentative voices made her move to the balcony. Touching the cold marble guardrail, she gazed down into the entrance hall.
To her surprise, the front door stood wide open. Herriot held a black-haired urchin by the scruff of his neck. The lad swung his fist at the footman’s stomach. Herriot doubled over and the boy ducked past him, darting into the house.
“Lark!”
Norah hastened down the wide steps, her slippers scuffing against the marble. Lark met her halfway. His brown eyes were white-rimmed against his stricken face. “Milady. Ye gotta come quick. Somethin’ turrible’s ’appened.”
Herriot stumbled up the stairs. “Cheeky beggar,” he gasped out. “When I wouldn’t admit him, he picked the front lock and tried to walk right in.”
“It’s all right,” Norah said. “Lark is a friend. He works for me.”
Taking Lark by the arm, she guided him into the library and shut the doors. He was breathing hard, and she realized with a twist of alarm that the dirty streaks on his face were tear tracks. She rubbed him soothingly on his shoulder.
“Calm down now, and tell me what’s wrong.”
He scrubbed at his nose with his sleeve. “’Tis the madwoman o’ Mayfair. Only she ain’t no woman. She’s a man.”
A chill whispered over Norah’s skin. “Who told you that?”
“Nobody. I saw ’im. Me and the boys, we been takin’ turns watchin’ the grave. T’ see ’oo left the roses.”
“How did you know about the flowers?”
“Sorry, milady, but I listened at yer door. Tonight ’twas me an’ Screeve ’oo went t’ watch.” Lark stopped, gulping, his eyes watery.
“Go on, please.”
“Somebody tried t’ grab me from behind. I jabbed ’im in the ribs an’ got away. But the blighter caught Screeve. The red-caped bloke put a knife t’ Screeve’s throat an’ told me t’ fetch ye, t’ bring ye back inside an hour.”
“We must notify the police at once—”
“No! ’E said ’e’d kill Screeve if I told anybody else but you—” Lark’s voice choked on a sob.
A fist of fear squeezed Norah. Unwillingly her mind saw the gruesome image of the freckle-faced boy sprawled on the ground, blood seeping from his slit throat.
His hands clasped, Lark fell to his knees before her. “Oh, please, milady. Please ’elp ’im. Please don’t let the barstard murder me best mate.”
Chapter 20
Silence cloaked the dark, terraced hills of Highgate Cemetery. The damp night held only the swift tap of Lark’s footsteps and the muted rustle of Norah’s petticoats. Adjusting the hood of her mantle, she yearned for the heartening glow of a lantern.
But light would announce their approach to the murderer who lay in wait for her.
She edged a glance over her shoulder. Behind her stood the massive archway of lotus-decorated columns that marked the entrance to Egyptian Avenue. On the winding roadway beyond, she could discern the black shape of the hired hansom cab floating like a disembodied entity atop a cloud of fog. The high-perched driver looked none too pleased to be left waiting alone in the spooky chill of the graveyard.
Through the swirling mist ahead lay tombs decorated by granite angels and ivy-shrouded crosses. The shadowed maws of burial vaults were carved into the hillside on either side of the path.
At the juncture where the walk diverged into the two curves of a circle, Lark tugged at her mantle. His eyes were round and scared, and moisture dewed his spiky hair. “Maybe we should wait for ’is lordship,” he whispered.
She wanted to. Dear Blessed Virgin, she wanted to feel the security of Kit’s presence at her side. If only they had had the time to fetch him. If only Bruce hadn’t ordered her to come alone.
She turned a composed face to the boy. “You know I dare not,” she murmured. “Herriot ran to alert Kit, to bring him here. But only I can save Screeve.”
Norah suppressed a bone-deep shudder. An hour had passed since Lark had hailed a cab and hastened to fetch her. An hour in which an innocent boy had been at the mercy of a murderer.
“You’ll stay right here,” she said in a low voice.
“Nay, milady! I can protect ye—”
“Carlyle said I was to come alone. He might panic if he sees you.”
“But I want t’ ’elp.”
“You have. His lordship doesn’t know the precise location of the sepulcher. You can listen for his arrival and then guide him to me.”
“Ye might be killed—”
“You’ll hear if I scream for help. If you don’t obey, Lark, you’ll endanger Screeve.”
He hunched his shoulders and hung his head. “Aye, milady.”
Before she could lose her nerve, Norah started down the left curve of the path. The faint aroma of cedar and earth hung in the damp air. The trees that looked so neatly manicured in the daylight now appeared to reach for her with bony limbs. Drawing out her muff pistol, she hurried past the black outlines of crypts, the pale oblongs of tombstones. Her advance stirred thick snakes of vapor that coiled along the ground.
Taking care to be quiet, she mounted the stone steps cut into the terraced hillside. At the top of the short flight, she paused to get her bearings. The heaviest of the fog hung below, though the misty darkness here obscured her vision. Were the evening clear, she would have seen the vast expanse of the cemetery and the glow of London to the south.
Tonight, the gloom pressed as heavily as a funeral shroud.
Relying on memory, she cautiously picked her way along the murky path. A pebble went rolling down the slope, the sound as loud to her heightened senses as the hooves of a runaway horse. She froze. Nothing moved against the charcoal canvas of the night. Hearing only the swish of blood in her ears, she went on.
When she reached the inky facade of the Catacombs, she used the wall to guide her. Cold rough stone met her fingertips. Tendrils of ivy tickled her skin as she groped along the curved length of the structure. Every few feet, there yawned an open door and a tomb hidden within the darkness.
At the end of the row, a faint glimmer beckoned. Maurice’s crypt. The place Bruce had designated for their meeting.
Heart hammering, Norah tightened her hand on the diminutive stock of the gun. Her index finger caressed the slim metal crescent of the trigger. She tiptoed forward, hoping to take Bruce by surprise. It was a dismal plan, but her choices had dwindled to none.
She dared a peek around the corner. A candle guttered atop the marble sarcophagus. Its yellow glow bathed the single red rose lying on the tomb. Shadows played over the visage of a life-sized stone archangel. And there, bound and gagged at the base of the statue, sat Screeve.
A bolt of relief pierced her. Though unhurt, he looked small and forlorn, his freckled face pale against his fair hair. He saw her and his blue eyes widened over the white cloth covering his mouth. He wriggled frantically. Mewling sounds emerged from his throat.
Where was Bruce? Could it be he’d given up on her?
Or was this a trick?
Shaking and anxious, she rushed to untie the boy. She had only started to jerk open the knot at his ankles when she heard a sound from behind. Before she could whirl, an arm clamped around her neck to cut off her breath. Yanked backward, she slammed into solid flesh. The cold steel of a knife met her th
roat.
“Give me your gun, Norah.”
Her half-brother’s voice sluiced over her like ice water. The pressure of the blade at her throat held a deadly threat. Her head spun from lack of air. Glancing down at the tears pooling in Screeve’s blue eyes, she relaxed her fingers.
Bruce snatched the weapon away. Awareness of her vulnerability plunged her into terror before her emotions ascended into rage.
He abruptly released her and she stumbled away, rubbing her sore throat. “You horrid bastard,” she choked out.
A scarlet cape fringed in jet beads hugged his black suit like a splash of blood. His face was as hard as marble beneath his styled blond hair. He might have been a study in perfection but for the scar that made his eyebrow slant in diabolical query.
He pocketed the knife and aimed her own pistol at her. “Tut, tut, my lady. Haven’t you guessed the truth yet? You’re the bastard. My mother’s by-blow.”
His condescending smile taunted her. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Screeve wriggling his ankles. The rope appeared less than taut. Pray God she had loosened his bonds enough that he might work himself free. She stepped in front of him, so that her gown shielded him from view. “If you think to shock me,” Norah said, forcing steadiness into her voice, “I already know about the love affair Lady Carlyle had with Jerome.”
“Love had nothing to do with it,” Bruce growled. “St. Claire violated her, then abandoned her.”
“Did he? I’ll be happy to tell you his side of the story if you’ll let the boy go.”
Brace stood still. Only his eyes moved, assessing her up and down. “And allow him to sound an alarm before I’m through with you? I think not.”
Through with you. The words shivered like a nightmare inside her. Dear God, the baby. She would never see her sweet baby. She would never again feel the tenderness of Kit’s embrace.
Norah fought a sickening wave of panic. She must stall Bruce, divert his attention from Screeve until Kit arrived.
Suddenly behind her, the boy scrambled to his feet. Bruce lunged out, but Screeve ducked under his arm and sprinted off into the darkness.
“Come back, you little scum!” Bruce started out of the crypt. Then he wheeled around again, his red cape swirling. “The brat had better not run for help, or I’ll make you sorry.”
Screeve’s departure gave her a brief twist of triumph before despair returned. Striving to blank her expression, she said, “Whatever you have planned won’t work. The police know everything. There isn’t a corner in England where you’ll be safe. So you may as well let me go, too.”
As she spoke, Norah inched toward the doorway. He stepped over to block the opening. He cocked the pistol with a sharp click. “No. When I go down, dear sister, you’ll go with me.”
Determination glinted in his frosty blue eyes. She stood petrified. The eerie hoot of an owl drifted from outside the crypt.
Distract him, she thought. Distract him.
But her mind emptied of all save the black eye of the gun aimed at her heart. She wrenched her gaze away. And saw the red rose.
“Why have you been leaving flowers on Maurice’s grave?”
His face changed, bitterness drawing down his fine mouth. “Because you never did. You’re his widow, but you never honored him the way he deserved.”
Carefully she said, “I gave Maurice nine years of my life. I made a comfortable home for him, obeyed his every wish. I even cared for his relations, and let him take credit for my designs. Given his predilections, I think that was enough.”
“Obviously it wasn’t. He strayed from you. He needed a lover who could satisfy his desires the way I did.”
His contemptuous scorn sickened her, but she dared not anger him. Pressing her damp palms together, she said, “Please, I must know. How did it start? How did you meet him?”
“It started when Mother confessed the truth last spring and told me she was changing her will. I investigated you and found out that your husband sometimes frequented establishments that catered to...sophisticated tastes. I thought it might prove amusing to dally with my own brother-in-law.” His head cocked in contemplation, Bruce lowered the gun a fraction. “Maurice was like a ripe plum, waiting to be plucked. We met several times a week, sometimes every evening. Your husband was quite the passionate lover. He showered me with expensive gifts, especially jewels.”
Norah swallowed a glut of infuriated disgust. Now she knew why Maurice had left her so deeply in debt. “So why did you murder him?”
“Later, he tried to end our liaison. He said it wasn’t fair of him to deceive his wife. Imagine...he wanted to discard me in favor of you.”
Ugliness twisted all humanity from his features. He stood like a demonic apparition in the doorway of the crypt, the weak candlelight wavering over his bestial yet beautiful face.
She wished she had the courage to run. To run from those feral eyes, run into the sheltering darkness of the cemetery. But he had the pistol. She’d never get past him. “Of course Maurice felt guilty. He was betraying his marriage vows.”
“What about betraying me? My God, he didn’t even love you. He loved me.”
The painfully raw edge to his voice roused a dawning awareness in her. “And you fell in love with him, too.” On impulse she added, “Oh Bruce, I am sorry.”
His harsh breaths rasped into the quiet crypt.
Stepping closer, he leveled the gun at her. “Don’t you dare pity me.”
Her brief softening dissolved into dread. She backed up into the outstretched arms of the stone archangel. “I’m only saying I understand,” she said hastily. “I know what it’s like to love someone.”
“Blackie?” Bruce stopped and gave an unpleasant laugh. “God, you two deserve each other. A heathen and a bastard.”
Norah stiffened. “My husband is a fine man. He has a rich and wonderful heritage. You’re too blind to see his goodness.”
“He’s a black devil. It’s a shame I went through all the trouble of dressing like a woman and tempting Maurice to Blackthorne’s bedroom. I was hoping the scandal would taint him.”
Tamping down her anger, she asked, “How did you convince Maurice to sneak into Kit’s house in the middle of a New Year’s Eve party?”
A sly smile curled Bruce’s lips. “Much as he tried to resist his base urges, Maurice still lusted after me. So I played the spurned lover, too hurt to give in to his advances. I told him he could have me again only if he proved his love by the ultimate test: risking discovery by a houseful of people.” He swept his hand dismissingly. “And so he did. The rest was simple.”
Repugnance twisted deep in her belly. “If you truly loved Maurice, how could you look him in the eyes and kill him?”
“I didn’t.” For a brief moment, Bruce had a faraway luster to his gaze, as if he peered into the past. “He was unconscious by then from the morphine I put in his sherry. He never even felt the pin pierce his heart.”
Norah kept her gaze on the gun. Dear God, he was close. Too close. If she kept him talking, he might lower his guard. It was her only hope. “You tried to put the blame on me.”
“The emerald hatpin was a nice touch, was it not?”
“But your ploy didn’t work.” Surreptitiously she felt behind her; only cold smooth stone met her fingers. She had no weapon but her tongue. “I’m curious, what did you hope to accomplish by sending me that mourning brooch with Maurice’s hair inside?”
Bruce scowled. “You were getting too close to Blackie. I wanted to remind you of your duty to mourn your own husband.”
“None of your schemes has hurt me. Not your pushing me down the stairs at the museum. Not your attempt to break into my shop and hit me.”
“That wasn’t me,” he spat. “It was a felon I hired. Needless to say, the bungler didn’t live long enough to collect his fee. Just as you won’t live long enough to bring Blackie’s heir into the world.”
Her legs shook. Somehow she managed to keep standing, her eyes fixed to his
aristocratic features. His scent drifted to her, an elegant hint of spice that mixed with the musty smell of decay in the air and the acrid taste of fear in her mouth. “I’m your sister. My baby will be your niece or nephew, your own flesh and blood.”
“You’re a by-blow,” he snapped. “Yet you had the temerity to outrank me by marrying Blackthorne. Both of you are a blemish on English society.”
Norah saw the tension in his slim body, the faint tightening of his hand on the gun. “If you murder me,” she said in desperation, “the whole story will come out. You’ll bring shame onto the Carlyle name.”
His face darkened with diabolic hatred. “You brought shame onto my family’s honor. You, by the filthy fact of your existence—”
A sudden movement erupted behind him. Lark and Screeve came barreling inside the crypt, each boy brandishing a tree branch like a sword. “En garde, you bloody toad,” Lark shouted.
Bruce started to wheel around.
Norah acted without thinking. She lunged at him, bringing both her fists down on his forearm. The gun flew from his hand. It landed with a thump and skidded into the shadows beside the sarcophagus.
She dove for the weapon. Her cold fingers closed around the warm metal stock. In a crouch, her skirts pooled around her, she lifted the pistol.
But the boys were too close for her to risk a shot.
Their sticks jammed into Bruce’s stomach, Lark and Screeve forced their opponent against the side wall near where Norah knelt. Their young faces, one rough-featured and the other scrawny, reflected a kindred sense of bloodthirsty purpose.
“Give up or die,” Lark snarled.
Bruce stood with his cloak thrown back, his arms raised in surrender. The cunning in his blue eyes alarmed Norah. “Careful,” she murmured. “Don’t trust him—”
