Stroke of Midnight

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  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Back ad

  Series card

  Praise for IF THE SLIPPER FITS

  About the author

  Copyright

  The London Gazette, 5 April 1838

  On this day ten years ago, a terrible crime was perpetrated upon Her Grace, the Duchess of Knowles. In the dark of night, whilst Her Grace attended a soiree in Mayfair, a robber crept into her mansion in Grosvenor Square and purloined several valuables from her private chambers. The most spectacular of these was a necklace containing the Blue Moon diamond, a gemstone so large and perfect that it is priceless, for none other like it exists in the world.

  A fortnight later, after an intensive hunt for the criminal, a set of earrings belonging to Her Grace was discovered by Lord Copley in the possession of an unscrupulous gentleman named Martin Falkner. When his lordship attempted to apprehend the villain, Mr. Falkner brutally attacked him with a knife, thereby evading capture and disappearing along with his eighteen-year-old daughter. Despite the offer of a handsome reward, the Blue Moon diamond has never been found …

  Chapter 1

  She had no reason to fear the constable.

  Holding fast to that thought, Laura followed the burly officer through the graveyard. The cloudy afternoon cast a gloomy pall over the rows of headstones and wooden crosses. A few of the mounds had been carefully tended, though many others showed signs of neglect. Rough masculine laughter came from one of the gin houses in the surrounding slums. It was the only sound besides the squelching of the constable’s boots on the sodden ground and the patter of her own footsteps.

  Though any woman in her circumstances might feel a bit nervous, Laura had more reason than most to be wary. She reminded herself that the constable could have no notion of her true identity. A decade had passed since she and her father had fled London. She had been someone else then, leading another life under a different surname. A lady garbed in silk and jewels rather than the drab commoner she was now.

  No one in this vast city knew her anymore. Miss Laura Falkner, toast of society, was as dead as the poor souls in this paupers’ cemetery.

  The constable glanced over his shoulder, the dark sockets of his eyes boring into her. “Almost there, Miss Brown.”

  Laura kept her face expressionless. Had a stray curl escaped her bonnet? She hoped not, for the police surely had a description of her that included mention of her distinctive tawny-gold hair. “You’ve done more than your duty, sir. If you’ll point me in the right direction, you can be on your way.”

  “’Tis no trouble to take ye there. No trouble at all.”

  His insistence increased her disquiet. He continued onward, his large head moving back and forth to examine the gravestones. What was his name again? Officer Pangborn. She had not wanted an escort, but he’d insisted that no decent female should venture alone into these crime-ridden stews.

  Laura had acquiesced only because a refusal might arouse suspicion. She had taken a risk in going to the police in the first place. But she’d needed to learn more about her father’s recent death and also to discover the site of his final resting place.

  Papa!

  The wind tossed a spattering of icy raindrops at her face. Shivering, she drew the cloak more securely around herself. After so many years in the sunshine of Portugal, she had forgotten the damp chill of an English springtime. Or perhaps it was just that she’d suppressed the memory of her old life before she and Papa had escaped into exile.

  Now he lay dead. Murdered by an unknown assailant in an alley near Covent Garden. The shock of it still numbed her. News of the attack had arrived while she’d been tending the garden outside their little cottage in the mountains of Portugal. How contented she’d been that day, trimming the camellias, weeding the arum lilies, while having no inkling of the disaster that was about to shatter her tranquility. Then a boy from the village had delivered a letter from the London police stating that one Martin Brown lay severely injured, that her address had been found in his pocket. She’d departed in a rush, traveling for many days over land and sea, only to learn that her father had succumbed to his wounds shortly after the letter had been posted.

  Laura swallowed past the painful lump in her throat. At their last parting, Papa had told her he would be gone for a fortnight on business—she had presumed to Lisbon to buy and sell antiquities, their only source of income. Instead, he must have boarded a ship to England. Why?

  Why would he go back to a place where he would be tried and hanged if captured?

  “There ’tis, Miss.”

  Constable Pangborn stopped near the low stone wall that marked the perimeter of the cemetery. The middle-aged officer had muttonchop whiskers and the bulky build of a prizefighter. He had been out on patrol when he’d found Papa lying sorely injured in the alleyway. Now, as he pointed his wooden truncheon at a nearby grave site, his speculative gaze remained fixed on Laura.

  Her skin prickled. She couldn’t shake the sense that he knew more about her than he let on. Had Papa in a delirium on his deathbed revealed his real identity? Did this officer believe she’d been her father’s accomplice in the jewel theft that had rocked society ten years ago?

  She warned herself not to make wild assumptions. More likely, Pangborn’s interest in her was of a carnal nature. Over the years, she’d had ample experience in discouraging such lechers.

  Laura leveled a cool stare at him. “Your assistance has been very helpful,” she said in polite dismissal. “I shall bid you good day now.”

  His thick Wellington boots remained planted in place. “I have me orders, miss. I’m to guard ye from harm.”

  “The sergeant bade you only to escort me to the cemetery. You’ve already done more than enough.”

  “There be drunkards and thieves roaming these stews, ready to pounce on a wee creature such as yourself. I’ll see ye home—and that’s that.”

  Home was a cheap lodging house in an area nearly as wretched as this one. Yet Laura would sooner risk the walk alone than let this man learn her temporary place of residence. If the constable really did harbor a suspicion about her true identity, he might search her portmanteau and find the news article about the decade-old robbery that she’d clipped from an English paper. Then he would have proof that she was the notorious Miss Laura Falkner.

  She dipped her chin in a pretense of humble acceptance. “That’s very good of you, sir. If I may, I should like a few minutes alone now. Kindly await me at the entrance gate.”

  Constable Pangborn scowled as if gauging her sincerity. The
n he gave a curt nod and marched away, glancing back several times over his shoulder. The breeze carried the far-off sounds of conviviality along with a fishy stench from the nearby Thames.

  She watched until he reached the gate before lowering her gaze to the grave site. Weeds already had sprouted on the freshly turned mound. A small square of stone lay flat on the ground, and a name was chiseled into the surface: MARTIN BROWN.

  Heedless of the damp earth, Laura sank to her knees in a billow of gray skirts. Tears blurred her eyes as she reached out to trace the crude letters with a gloved fingertip. “Papa,” she whispered brokenly. “Papa.”

  The harsh reality of his death struck her anew. She hunched over the grave, weeping, no longer able to stem the tide of sorrow. He had been the very best of fathers, full of good cheer and wise words, concerned more for her happiness than his own. He had treated her as an equal and schooled her as the son he’d always wanted. He didn’t deserve to have suffered such a brutal end—or to lie forgotten in a pauper’s tomb. His memory should be honored with a fine marble headstone carved with haloed angels and a loving tribute.

  And it should bear his true name: MARTIN FALKNER.

  With trembling fingers, she plucked out the weeds and tossed them aside. Someone here in London had destroyed his good reputation. Someone had deliberately planted evidence to make him appear guilty of stealing the Blue Moon diamond. Had her father returned to England to track down the villain? Why had he done so without telling her?

  It must have been the quarrel they’d had over that news clipping.

  When Papa had brought home the broadsheet and she’d noticed the small article, it had resurrected her buried anger over their forced flight from England ten years earlier. She’d spoken bitterly about the injustice of their exile. They had exchanged sharp words over her wish to restore their standing in society. But when his expression had turned melancholy, she’d regretted her mistake in bringing up the topic and had hastily reassured him of her contentment. It had been only a day later that he’d set out on his fateful journey …

  Across the cemetery, a bulky form started down the path, arms swinging purposefully. Constable Pangborn!

  The prospect of leaving the grave site wrenched her heart. Yet Laura dared delay no longer. Leaning down, she whispered, “My dearest Papa … good-bye.”

  She sprang to her feet and made haste to the stone wall. Since it stood no higher than her bosom, the barrier should be easily climbable. Hitching up her skirts, she found a few toeholds and hoisted herself to the top. Hard work and mountain hiking had strengthened her limbs, one more reason to be thankful she was no longer the fragile debutante.

  “You there!” Pangborn shouted. “Stop!”

  Dear heaven, she’d been right to mistrust the officer.

  A bramble hooked her hem, causing a brief delay. Laura yanked herself free and scrambled over the wall. As she landed, her shoes slid on a mound of damp leaves. Her arms wheeled as she caught her balance, only just managing to stay upright.

  She risked a backward glance. The constable had left the path and sprinted on a straight course over the graves. The scowl that darkened his whiskered face sent a chill into Laura’s heart. There could be no doubt he meant to arrest her.

  As he neared the wall, she plunged into the maze of narrow streets.

  Chapter 2

  She ran until her lungs burned. The lanes twisted hither and yon between ramshackle tenements of soot-stained brick. People watched her with dull curiosity: a costermonger pushing his cart, a slouched old woman sitting on a wooden crate, ragged children playing tag among the piles of rubbish. Here and there, drunkards lolled in doorways, some sleeping and others staring bleary-eyed as she flew past.

  Running footsteps echoed in her wake. Several times there came a shout, “Stop her!”

  None of the locals complied. They were either too weary to put forth the effort or too reluctant to lend aid to the police.

  Laura thanked God for small favors. She clutched up her skirts to avoid tripping. Her bonnet blew back to dangle from its tied ribbons behind her neck. There was no time to make repairs, not with Constable Pangborn less than a block behind her.

  He moved with the speed of a bull charging a matador. But Laura had an agility and strength born of determination. She refused to be named an accomplice to a crime her father hadn’t committed. Even if she was acquitted eventually, she would languish in prison for months while awaiting a trial. She had no money to pay for a legal defense, no friends or relatives to whom she might turn.

  She simply must evade capture.

  Turning a corner in a burst of speed, Laura glanced about for a hiding place. She ducked into a darkened alley littered with refuse and reeking of foul odors. There she crouched behind an old barrel until the officer ran past.

  Her heart pounded wildly. She forced herself to tarry for a moment before cautiously peering out into the dirt lane. Overhead, strings of laundry flapped in the breeze. No one peered out of any windows on this quiet side street.

  Pangborn was gone—but he wouldn’t be for long.

  As she stepped out of the alley, something moved in the corner of her eye. She spun toward it, her fingers clenching into fists. But it was merely a cat prowling through the shadows. The creature bounded up onto a windowsill and vanished through a broken pane of glass.

  Walking swiftly, Laura doubled back and took a different route through the rabbit warren of streets. All the while she kept a sharp watch for the constable. Pangborn likely knew every nook and cranny of these slums. That made it all the more imperative to increase the distance between them.

  A slattern in an upper window called out, “Need a bed, Goldilocks? Pretty thing like ye’ll ’ave yer pick o’ customers.”

  Ignoring the woman’s crude invitation, Laura hurried onward as she replaced the bonnet, tucking every blond strand out of sight and tying the ribbons securely at her throat. For good measure, she raised the voluminous hood of her cloak over her head. It wasn’t much of a disguise, but it would have to do.

  Reaching a crossroads, she paused to get her bearings. Several lanes branched off into identical gloomy byways. Dear heavens, which way would lead her to safety? She was utterly lost in this labyrinth. No, not lost … it was late afternoon, and that faint brightness in the cloud cover must indicate the west.

  She veered in that direction, hoping it would lead to better neighborhoods. Would Pangborn have given chase if his sole purpose was seduction? She doubted so. That left her with only one logical conclusion. Somehow, he suspected her true identity. He must believe she knew what had happened to the stolen diamond.

  In the eyes of the police, she was as guilty as her father.

  Laura reached a main thoroughfare teeming with drays and hansom cabs. Finally she could feel safe among the many pedestrians that thronged the foot pavement. She fit in well with these commoners who were intent on their own destinations, women with market baskets, maids toting parcels, workmen gathered by a street seller of meat pies.

  Her stomach growled at the succulent aroma. She’d eaten nothing since breaking her fast with cheese and a crust of bread that morning, nothing while she’d waited for hours at the police station. Beneath the cloak, her precious few coins jingled in a hidden pocket of her gown. After the expense of the voyage, she must guard her savings. Heaven only knew how long the money needed to last her.

  But first things first. Her sense of place had been hopelessly muddled by the chase through twisting streets. Where exactly was she? This area looked vaguely familiar.

  In her youth, she’d spent a portion of each year in London. Her world back then had consisted of shopping trips to Regent Street, carriage rides in Hyde Park, and social events at the finest homes in Mayfair. There also had been occasional forays beyond those rarefied boundaries: visits to Astley’s Circus, St. Paul’s Cathedral, or the Tower.

  A scene blotted out the present.

  She sat in an open phaeton, her gloved fingers grasping t
he reins of a pair of matched bays … Alex had his arm around her as he taught her how to manage the frisky horses … she loved the feel of his strong body next to hers … even more, she loved it when he bent his head to brush his lips over hers …

  Someone in the crowd jostled Laura. Jolted back to reality, she spun around with a gasp, half expecting to see the constable.

  It was merely a fishwife who aimed a glare over a hefty shoulder. “Move along, miss—’tis n’ place to lollygag.”

  Laura realized she’d come to a halt. As she resumed walking, her thoughts dwelled on that long-ago carriage ride. The scent of male cologne lingered in her mind, as did the warm pressure of his kiss. The absolute clarity of the memory rattled her. Ten years ago, she had relegated that naive romance to the dustbin of history.

  Alexander Ross, the Earl of Copley, had betrayed her in the worst possible way. He had attempted to arrest her father for stealing the duchess’s jewels—without giving Papa the benefit of the doubt, without even considering that someone else might have planted the jewels in Papa’s desk. Laura’s desperate pleas on her father’s behalf hadn’t made a bit of difference.

  Bitterness filled her throat. She wouldn’t think about Alex. He meant nothing to her now. Nothing at all.

  Laura marched briskly past dingy shops selling everything from tobacco to medicines, groceries to old clothing. At least now she knew her location: she was heading west on The Strand, a wide thoroughfare that cut through the heart of London.

  Papa had been attacked not far from here in Covent Garden. Had he been the random victim of a robber? Or had her father known his assailant? The question nagged at Laura like a sore tooth. Had he traveled to England for the purpose of finding the villain who had wronged him—only to pay for that confrontation with his life?

  Deeply unsettled, she trod onward without any clear destination in mind. If she couldn’t rely on the police, then whom could she trust? Her former friends and acquaintances undoubtedly viewed her as a pariah. She had no living relatives—there had only been her and Papa. She was on her own now, a rudderless raft in a vast sea of humanity.