by Olivia Drake
Even as she hastened to her feet, he lashed downward with his arms. Both sticks broke under the swift blow. Rather than attack the boys, Bruce thrust himself sideways, straight at Norah.
She leaped in swift retreat to the back corner of the crypt. She aimed the barrel at his chest. But her finger hesitated on the trigger. Bruce was her brother. Her brother.
The second of opportunity vanished. He caught her wrist and twisted hard. Pain streaked up her arm. The pistol dropped from her bloodless fingers and into his hand.
He yanked her around and imprisoned her arms. The gun barrel was a tiny cold circle against her temple. “Bitch! This time you’ll die—”
“And you’ll answer to me, Carlyle,” Kit said.
He loomed in the doorway of the crypt. Norah’s heart took a giddy surge. Grim-featured, his black hair tousled, he leveled his own gun at Bruce while Lark and Screeve watched, big-eyed, near the wall.
Bruce’s arm tightened reflexively. The pistol remained a deadly pressure against the side of her face. “Throw down your gun,” he said. “Or I’ll shoot your beloved wife.”
Kit hesitated. Then his mouth tightened to a strict line. Never taking his eyes from Bruce, he carefully dropped his pistol. It thunked to the ground.
“Now kick it away.”
Kit obeyed, his shoe scuffing on the damp earth as he knocked the weapon into the pitch darkness beyond the door. “I see you have Norah’s muff pistol,” he said. “It carries only a single shot. So you can be damned sure I’ll take you alive. And by God, I’ll make you pay for hurting my wife. The sordid story of your trial will be splashed across every newspaper in England.”
“No one will believe you, Blackie.”
Kit laughed, a harsh sound that echoed off the stone walls. “Your petty bigotry is meaningless now. The entire country will learn the intimate details of your tryst with Maurice. Your precious name will be dragged through the dirt. Even the lowliest barmaid will be laughing at you, the pitiful viscount who fornicated with other men and abducted young boys.”
Norah felt the hot gust of Bruce’s breath against her ear. His muscles were strained around her. He exuded the sweaty scent of a cornered beast. Bile burned her throat. She was so afraid to die. Kit couldn’t help her. She could only help herself.
“You can’t possibly get away,” Kit said in a low, taunting voice. “The police should arrive at any moment. So what will you do with your one shot, Carlyle? Use it on Norah and be arrested for murder? Or use it on yourself?”
Jerome dashed into the doorway. Panting, he burst out, “My God! Let her go!”
Now or never. She drove her heel down onto Bruce’s instep. He yelped in surprise.
Wrenching herself free, she threw herself to the ground. And heard the deafening blast of a single shot.
The sound echoed in her ears. She tasted dust in her mouth.
Behind her, Bruce lay sprawled on his side by the sarcophagus. The scarlet cape pooled around his slim body. The gun barrel was still pressed in his mouth. The back of his head was a bloodied hole. His wide eyes stared at nothing.
Dear God. He had shot himself.
She trembled, too stunned to speak. Then Kit bent over her and drew her up. She clung to him, craving his warm strength, the blessed life of the man she loved.
“Thank God you’re safe,” Jerome said.
He stood by the wall, heartfelt relief shining in his blue eyes. Smiling tremulously at his familiar debonair features, she threw herself into his arms. “Oh, Father. I was so afraid when I heard you’d gone after the diamond.”
He hugged her tight, then held her at arm’s length. “Your husband caught up to me and raked me over the coals. But not before I found this in Carlyle’s safe.”
Reaching into his pocket, he drew forth a lavender stone the size of a baby’s fist. The pale candlelight sparked a mysterious glow within its depths.
Norah caught her breath. “Fire at Midnight.”
“My skills were a bit rusty,” Jerome said modestly, “but a good thief never forgets how to crack a safe. Now my daughter can earn the first of many royal commissions.”
“You’re a fine man for wanting to help me,” Norah said. “The best father in the world. But you didn’t have to steal the stone to win my heart.”
“We tried to ’elp, too,” Lark piped up. His face mournful, he added, “We used our brains instead o’ brawn, milord, just like you taught us.”
“But our sword ploy didn’t work,” Screeve added, hanging his towhead in dejection.
Kit put an arm around each boy. “I’d call you both heroes for trying.”
They smiled, then glanced back at the corpse in disgusted awe.
“Time to go,” Kit said.
He drew Norah out of the tomb, into the misty darkness and the fresh damp air. But a tug of sadness brought her to a halt.
“Wait,” she murmured.
She went back inside, lifted the red rose from Maurice’s tomb, and bent to lay the flower on her brother’s still chest. Tears blurred her eyes, but she blinked them away.
Then she left the crypt and walked into her husband’s waiting arms.
Epilogue
London, June 21, 1887
“Do you think the Princess of Wales will come here tonight?”
Norah heard someone in the crowd whisper the question that occupied everyone’s mind. Resisting the pull of excitement, she greeted the earl who had just arrived at her front door.
With the windows thrown open to the balmy evening, the Mayfair mansion blazed with gaslight. The air reverberated with chatter and laughter from the glittering array of gentlemen and ladies who thronged the grand staircase hall.
As she and Kit welcomed their noble guests, Norah felt buoyed on a dreamy cloud of bliss. A few busybodies murmured behind their fans, no doubt rehashing the old gossip about the indecent swiftness of her remarriage. Yet in her heart she could only pity the people who had nothing better than tale-telling to amuse them.
Her gaze strayed to Kit’s princely features, the bold jaw and handsome cheekbones, the warm dark eyes that could convey both teasing and tenderness. Six months ago, she had been locked into a barren, unhappy marriage. Now she was blessed with a devoted husband, a precious baby due by year’s end, and a future illuminated by the radiance of love.
Near a massive marble column, Thaddeus and Winnifred and Ivy stood conversing with a matronly countess. Upon seeing Norah and Kit approach, Winnifred smiled, her sturdy features softer since she and Thaddeus had made plans to marry at the end of the summer. Kit had bestowed a generous dowry on her. “A splendid party, my lord and lady,” Winnifred said. “A true celebration of the Queen’s Jubilee Day.”
Kit gallantly kissed her hand. “The true celebration is in honor of my wife’s accomplishments as a jeweler.”
Ivy nodded vigorously, the lace fringe of her cap bobbing, her blue eyes merry above her black gown. “Oh Norah, how thrilling that Princess Alexandra wore your tiara today, when Victoria was honored at Westminster Abbey.”
“Perhaps so.” The Countess of Romney sniffed loudly, looking like an overstuffed pillow swathed in layers of ruffled tangerine silk. With her sausage fingers, she adjusted the heavy gold tiara circling her iron-gray hair. “But I was just telling Mr. Teodecki that a crown worn by a royal personage should be grand and regal, like this one he designed for the competition.”
Thaddeus clicked his heels and bowed. “I thank you, my lady. Yet perhaps the unique simplicity of Lady Blackthorne’s design better suited the princess’s rank. I predict that her novel use of platinum as a setting for diamonds will launch a new fashion.”
His loyalty and praise warmed Norah’s heart. She lightly touched his arm in appreciation. “I’m hardly one to launch a craze, but you’re kind to say so.”
“Alas,” he added, “no one had a close look at the tiara because the princess was sitting with the royal family.”
“Isn’t she coming here tonight?” asked Winnifred.
“I hear they’re engaged at a dinner at Buckingham Palace.” Her cheeks puffed like a fat squirrel’s, the countess peered through her lorgnette at Norah. “Even so, I rather doubt the princess would deign to visit a household so...beset by tragic happenings.”
Norah felt Kit’s fingers tighten on her arm. With one glance at his thunderous expression, she said swiftly, “Then may I say his lordship and I are pleased you were open-minded enough to attend our humble gathering.”
The countess preened. “I am not one to be put off by idle gossip, of course.”
Oh no, Norah thought in wry amusement. You’re only a prig who’s afraid of missing the latest scandal.
From beside her, a boyish voice piped, “Champagne?”
Lark held up a silver tray in his white-gloved hands. Resplendent in blue livery with shiny gold buttons, he had slicked down his hair, with only a single errant spike springing free at the crown of his head. He and Screeve and Billy were serving tonight to hone their skills at gainful employment.
She accepted a thin-stemmed glass. “Thank you, Lark.”
“Ye’re welcome, milady.” He gave Norah a secret, impish wink that belied his servile appearance. Affection overflowed her heart and emerged in a smile. Yes, she pitied the nobles who set themselves above the poor masses, for they lost the treasure of many friendships.
Lady Romney tilted her glass and drank, and Norah took the chance to guide Kit away into the throng of guests. He growled in her ear, “I’d like to stick that glass down her ladyship’s stuffy throat. How dare she imply the princess is avoiding our house.”
Norah tamped out a spark of yearning. “Shush. We don’t require Lady Romney’s approval to make us happy.”
Displeasure lowered his brow for only an instant longer. Then he grinned, his teeth a white flash against his teak-hued features. “You’re right, as always,” he murmured. “And later I intend to show you just how happy you make me.”
His fingers made a small, erotic circle against her back, his warmth penetrating the silk of her gown and corset. A delicious heat showered through her and roused memories of their joy in each other. To distract herself, Norah sipped her champagne and looked toward the crush of people, where she spied a blond woman talking animatedly with a sedate, balding gentleman wearing a monocle. The jeweled doves in her hair bounced as she gestured at a Roman statue perched on a pedestal in an alcove.
“There’s Jane and her fiancé,” Norah said. “Fancy her taking up with Lord Melbrooke—a collector of classical antiquities.”
Kit chuckled. “He’s also the richest lord in Northumberland. At last Jane will have the security she always wanted.”
“And perhaps,” Norah added dryly, “marriage will keep her from playing any more pranks.”
“Speaking of pranks,” Kit said, frowning, “I see Annabelle and Adrian coming through the garden doors. She looks suspiciously smug. I wonder what mischief my baby sister is up to now.”
Norah strained to follow his gaze, but unlike him, she couldn’t see over the heads and shoulders of the guests. Clinging to his arm, she let him lead her through the assemblage. In the drawing room she caught sight of a delegation of Indian princes, including the Maharaja of Rampur, who wore a dazzling array of rubies and emeralds that winked against his white turban. Sarah and Damien Coleridge stood talking to the monarch.
Their familiar smiling faces were now as dear to Norah as those of her own parents. At last she had a family, a close-knit clan who had welcomed her as one of their own. She slipped her hand over her stomach, slightly rounded and firm with her pregnancy. Soon she would add a grandchild to their dynasty.
She and Kit came upon the garden doors, open to the lantern-lit night. Oblivious to the guests going in and out, Annabelle stood whispering into Adrian’s ear. His cheeks were flushed, his expression enraptured.
Kit took hold of his sister’s arm and marched her just outside, into the dimness of the veranda. ‘‘What the devil’s going on here?’’ he asked in a harsh whisper.
Trotting after them, Lord Adrian jumped guiltily. Annabelle primped her golden curls and fluttered her lashes at him. “Shall we tell them our news?”
He gulped. “Er, you may do the honors.”
“Adrian and I are to be married,” she announced. “After I have my London season, of course. I wouldn’t miss the chance to turn aside all the other offers.”
Pleasure broke forth in Norah, and she gathered the girl into a hug. “How wonderful!”
Kit stood still, his shocked expression focused first on Annabelle, then on Adrian. “Married?” His dark eyes bored into his friend. “I trust you haven’t been to Buckingham Palace to visit Queen Victoria’s suite.”
Mystified, Norah asked, “Aren’t you happy for them?”
“Of course I’m pleased.” But he continued to glower at Lord Adrian, who ran his finger under his starched collar. “Well?”
“Well, nothing!” Annabelle said with a disdainful sniff. “Big brother or not, we have a right to our privacy.”
“Ahem—yes. A gentleman does not kiss and tell.” Turning, Adrian marched Annabelle into the drawing room.
“Jesus God,” Kit said softly, staring after them. “If it hadn’t happened to me, I’d never believe love could reform a rake.”
Glad for his change from rogue to devoted husband, Norah pressed her cheek to his smooth sleeve. “What did you mean about visiting Queen Victoria’s suite?”
Kit grimaced. “It was a wager Adrian once made. He said he wouldn’t marry until he found a lady bold enough to make love to him in the Queen’s own bed.”
The report took her aback. Then she giggled. “It would seem Lord Adrian has at last met his match.”
“As have I.”
Kit plucked the champagne glass from her fingers and set it on a stone bench. Taking advantage of the darkness, he bent to capture her lips in a stirring kiss. The taste and feel of her brought him to instant fire. Only Norah could scatter his concentration and fill him with this impassioned wonder, this agonizing tenderness. His hand found the shape of her breast, voluptuous with maternal fullness. He thought of his child inside her, the culmination of their love, and he wanted Norah with a sweet, throbbing intensity that would burn into eternity.
She broke the kiss, her soft hand caressing his cheek. Her face was tilted up, her eyes like shadowy green jewels. His parure of moonstones, the diadem and earrings and necklace, glinted through the night. Yet the richness she had given him was infinitely more precious than any gems.
“We should return to our guests,” she whispered.
“Mm.” He kissed the fragrant skin of her throat. “I’d rather love you.”
“Later, remember?”
A teasing note in her voice, she slipped out of his arms and darted toward the drawing room. He caught up to her at the opened doors. Awash with love and laughter, he took her slender arm and escorted his wife into the densely packed throng. They fielded greetings from peers and peeresses, and slowly wended their way back toward the grand staircase hall.
“Look, darling.” Kit bent closer to her. “Jerome and Lady Carlyle have arrived.” He indicated the front door, where a footman took their wraps.
Norah’s heart leaped in her breast. The moment held a shining newness, the marvelous-thrill of having a mother and father at last. Her future lay with Kit, and now she had her past as well.
The perfect mate for Jerome’s dapper refinement, Lady Carlyle wore an elegant black silk gown and seed pearl mourning jewelry. In the two months since her son’s tragic suicide, she had made no public appearances until today.
Yet she and Norah had met often in private, each hungering to fill the long-lost years when Lady Carlyle’s marriage had been an insurmountable barrier separating mother and daughter. Lady Carlyle had learned about Norah’s girlhood at the convent, the peaceful hours in the rose garden, the strict nuns who had curbed her wayward impulses and taught her to behave like a lady. In turn, Norah had learned th
at Lady Carlyle had kept up a faithful correspondence with the Mother Superior, had followed her daughter’s progress in schoolwork, and had rejoiced in her budding artistic talent. She had diverted funds from her dressmaking allowance in order to provide Norah with sketch pads and art lessons.
And now, with a lump in her throat, Norah could see beyond her own youthful loneliness. She could comprehend the agony her mother had endured, to entrust her only daughter to the care of strangers. She knew, because she felt the same fierce protectiveness toward the baby inside her.
She threaded her fingers through Kit’s, thankful for the strength there. Praise God their children would grow up in the closeness of a family.
His lips crooked into an understanding smile that saw into her very soul, into the hopes and dreams and joys that shaped their future. “Let’s go welcome them,” he said.
He drew her through the bejeweled multitude until they stood before her parents. With a huge potted aspidistra providing a modicum of privacy, she took Lady Carlyle’s hands and kissed her smooth cheek. “I’m so pleased you’re here,” she murmured. “Your presence means the world to me.”
Her ladyship’s face bloomed with a gentle smile. “I wouldn’t have missed this chance to witness your triumph, Norah, dear.”
“This is a day we’ll tell our grandchildren about,” Jerome declared. “Queen Victoria celebrating half a century as sovereign of the British Empire.”
Kit smiled down at Norah. “And the beginning of a half century of happiness for all of us.”
“Is Princess Alexandra here?” asked Lady Carlyle, peering around. “One of her ladies-in-waiting told me she might attend.”
Norah felt a surge of excitement, which she promptly denied. Today she had gained professional success. She should be content without the ultimate honor of entertaining royalty. “I doubt she’ll leave the family celebrations at the palace.”
“Perhaps our request will hearten you,” Jerome said. A whimsical sparkle lit his eyes, and he kept her ladyship’s hand firmly tucked in the crook of his arm. “Eleanor and I would like to give you an important commission, Norah.”
