Fire at Midnight Read online

  Fire at Midnight

  Olivia Drake

  Contents

  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

  Epilogue

  Also by Olivia Drake

  About the Author

  This ebook is licensed to you for your personal enjoyment only.

  This ebook may not be sold, shared, or given away.

  * * *

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the writer’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  * * *

  Fire at Midnight

  Copyright 1992 © by Barbara Dawson Smith

  Ebook ISBN: 9781641970938

  * * *

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

  No part of this work may be used, reproduced, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without prior permission in writing from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  * * *

  NYLA Publishing

  121 W 27th St., Suite 1201, New York, NY 10001

  http://www.nyliterary.com

  Dedicated to the greatest critique group in the world

  and my best writing buddies:

  Joyce Bell, Arnette Lamb, and Susan Wiggs

  Chapter 1

  London, December 31, 1886

  A muffled scream cut through the laughter and chatter of the party.

  Christopher Coleridge, the Marquess of Blackthorne, halted his glass of champagne halfway to his mouth. His keen dark eyes scanned the assemblage at his Mayfair mansion. None of his guests seemed to have noticed the cry. Yet his own skin prickled.

  New Year’s Eve revelers thronged the grand staircase hall, men in elegant black suits and women in vivid gowns of risqué cut. Gaslight glowed on bared shoulders and lavish displays of bosom, a feast of feminine flesh that would scandalize any proper lady. But the women here hardly commanded respect; their purpose lay in the art of gratifying men.

  Kit shook off his uneasiness and sipped his champagne. No doubt the cry had emanated from one of the pleasure seekers in the upstairs bedrooms.

  “...perhaps you might agree, Lord Blackthorne?”

  A striking brunette trifled with the jet beads adorning her aqua silk bodice, drawing his gaze to her magnificent breasts. In a purely reflexive response, his groin tightened. For the life of him, Kit couldn’t recall her name. “I’m sorry,” he said. “What did you say?”

  “Only that you appear quite...alone. And I should be happy to accommodate your desire for adventure.” She cocked her head and smiled. “A woman can learn much from a man of your blood.”

  The stirring of lust vanished. He fixed her with a chilly stare. “A man of my blood?”

  She stroked the dusky skin of his hand. “Forgive my boldness, but you are half Hindu, my lord. I’m told that Indians are by nature most skilled in the art of love.” Her hand moved lower until her fingertips skimmed across the front of his trousers. “And I hear you’re more well-endowed than any milksop Englishman.”

  Her prejudice raised his hackles and stirred unwelcome memories of another woman whose bigotry had caused a painful scar on his heart. He caught her wrist. “I am an Englishman.”

  Her eyebrows winged upward. “Please don’t be angry. Your allure is so dark, so sensual. All the women want you—”

  The shrill cry pealed again, louder this time. Kit let loose of the woman and turned. Guests tilted their heads back. Everyone gazed at the upper landing, where marble pillars supported a lofty ceiling painted in the palazzo style. From the shadows of the upstairs hall emerged his mistress, clad in only a cherry-pink corset and black-gartered silk stockings.

  Kit frowned at her dishabille. What mischief had Jane Bingham been up to this past half an hour?

  Jane stumbled as if inebriated. She clutched at the marble guardrail, dislodging a red bow that anchored a swag of Yuletide greenery. Patches of rouge shone stark against her chalk-white cheeks. Her breasts heaving, she leaned down toward the crowd.

  The flow of voices and the clink of glasses quieted. The lilt of piano music ceased. A moment of suspended breathing stretched out.

  Into the unnatural silence she sobbed, “He’s dead! God help me, he’s dead!”

  Feminine gasps broke the stillness. Masculine mutters rippled like waves across the sea of faces. The whispers and murmurs swelled to a storm tide.

  “Dead?” Shuddering, the courtesan looked at him in disgust. “Someone’s died here, in your house, my lord? How horrid, that you can’t even keep your own guests safe.”

  Kit paid her petty comment no heed. He dropped his glass onto the silver tray held by a footman, then shouldered his way through the crush. People stepped back to let him pass. Faces turned to him, some shocked, others curious, and a few amused, as if the disturbance were a carnival act staged for their entertainment.

  He ignored them all. If this was another one of her pranks, the Honorable Jane Bingham would have bloody hell to pay.

  The crowd thinned near the staircase. He took the marble steps two at a time. Several people hovered around Jane. Lord Adrian Marlow supported the weeping woman, his usual droll expression sobered.

  “What the devil’s going on?” Kit asked.

  Jane flew into his arms and bawled all the louder. Her sweet perfume of lilacs enveloped him. Her tears drenched his collar.

  Adrian shrugged, raking a hand through the sandy-brown Byronic curls that made him irresistible to women. “Sorry, old chum. Dash me if I can wring anything but an ocean of tears out of her.”

  Jane clung to Kit as tightly as an East End whore to a gold sovereign. Against his black lapel she moaned, “Oh darling, it was dreadful. Dreadful! I’ve never endured such a fright in all my life.”

  He tipped her chin up. Perhaps she wasn’t jesting after all. Genuine alarm rounded her watery blue eyes, and her pouty lips quivered. Her sunshine hair cascaded in loose waves around her corset. Even with tears wetting her lashes and cheeks, she exuded sensuality.

  “Calm yourself,” he ordered. “Take a deep breath, then start at the beginning.”

  Her breasts lifted as Jane obeyed. “I...I saw a dead man. I touched him and…and he didn’t move. His skin felt cold and rubbery, like a three penny doll.” A quiver convulsed her voluptuous body. “Oh, Kit. It was so horrid...”

  “Shh.” Conscious of the rapt audience thronging the staircase and the hall below, he took off his dinner jacket and draped the finely tailored garment around her shoulders. “Show me where he is.”

  “He’s in your bedchamber.” Jane pointed unnecessarily down the hall, her voice lifting toward the high pitch of hysteria. “In your very own bed!” A gasp came from the onlookers as he went on, “Oh, I can’t bear it. Truly I can’t!” Crumpling against his chest, she again lapsed into weeping.

  Kit quelled the urge to shake her. He knew Jane. Now that she’d weathered the initial fright, she was playing center stage for all its drama. He pressed his handkerchief into her palm. “Here, dry your eyes.”

  As she sniffled daintily into the square of linen, he propelled her down the dim c
orridor, their footsteps muffled on the long Turkish runner. A few people peeked curiously out of the bedrooms, amorous couples in various stages of undress.

  His own bedroom door stood wide open. The masculine domain held mahogany furniture and draperies of pleated green silk fastened by gold cords. A coal fire snapped on the hearth, and a large framed photograph of the Great Palace in Beijing decorated the mantelpiece. A single gas jet hissed in its cut-glass sconce.

  On the four-poster bed lay the corpse.

  Kit hastened forward. The man rested supine, his hands folded at his trim waist and his eyes closed, as if he were sleeping. A diamond ring winked on one of his fingers and matching sleeve links glinted at his wrists. A pearl-studded watch chain formed a perfect half loop against his black waistcoat. Silver threaded his brown hair, and his face held a distinguished elegance enhanced by middle age. Kit couldn’t put a name to the suave features.

  The broad chest lay unmoving. He parted the starched cravat and pressed his thumb to the man’s throat. Cool flesh. No pulse beat.

  Jesus God. How had a stranger ended up dead here?

  Mutters and exclamations buzzed through the room.

  “Eek! Gives a lady the shivers.’’

  “Quite the handsome gent, don’t you say?”

  “Imagine, a man in Lord Kit’s bed—now that’s a first.”

  “I should have known. Parties like these attract the worst elements.”

  “Shush. Have a little respect for the dead.”

  Kit turned. Jane sagged against Adrian and dabbed at the corners of her eyes. Behind her, onlookers crammed the room, vultures scenting the carrion of scandal. Most were mere acquaintances, men he knew from his schooldays at Harrow or from polo matches at the Hurlingham Club, and women whose shapely bodies he remembered better than their names.

  “Does anyone know this man?” Kit asked.

  The gawkers exchanged glances and shook their heads. Despite their inquisitive expressions, no one ventured any closer.

  Adrian thrust Jane into the arms of the nearest man. Then he walked to the foot of the bed. “Rutherford, if memory serves me.”

  The name rang a familiar note. “The jeweler?” Kit asked.

  Adrian nodded. “I purchased a brooch from his shop to give to my grandmama for Christmas. Lovely design, it was.” With a thoughtful frown, he gazed at the body. “Heard Rutherford was angling for a royal commission. But he hardly moved in your circle. I didn’t know he was your guest.”

  “He wasn’t.”

  Adrian cocked a sandy eyebrow. “Picked a peculiar place to pass on, then. Heart seizure, would you guess?”

  “Perhaps.”

  Or perhaps not.

  It was damned peculiar how tidy Rutherford looked, his watch fob neat, his hands clasped, his cuffs and collar pristine. Even the creases of his trouser legs were knife-straight, right down to the polished black shoes.

  As if a loved one had laid him out for view.

  Seeking an identification paper, Kit gingerly reached inside the corpse’s breast pocket. Even as he touched the cold edge of a calling card case, his hand met dampness. He lifted the lapel slightly. And saw blood.

  His stomach lurched. Half hidden inside the man’s coat, the red stain darkened the black waistcoat. On the left breast lay an emerald. It looked like the top of a woman’s hatpin. Plunged to the hilt into the heart.

  Horror jolted Kit. He settled the coat back into place. The onlookers stood too far back to have noticed the dark blemish. Hands icy, he plucked a pasteboard card from the thin gold case. The black print confirmed the victim’s name. Maurice Rutherford, Rutherford Jewelers, Bond Street.

  Rutherford hadn’t settled himself on the bed and then expired in perfect taste. Someone had killed him, then arranged his body here. Deliberately.

  Who? And why?

  On the bedside table sat a glass identical to the ones downstairs. Kit picked it up and sniffed the dregs. A faint, familiar scent mingled with a sweetish odor. Sherry...and opium?

  “I’m ringing the police,” he said.

  Silence spread, as thick as plum pudding. Then the florid-faced Sir Edmond Maybrick harrumphed. “Puts a bit of a damper on things, eh?” He edged toward the door. “Think I’ll just toddle along home now.”

  “Jolly fine notion,” echoed Lord Augustus Quimper, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he trailed after Maybrick. “No sense in risking a scandal. Don’t want the wife to know I’ve been attending one of your parties.”

  A mass exodus began, men and women alike slinking out of the bedroom. Only Adrian made no move to depart. He leaned against the green silk-draped bedpost, his grin satirical. “Rats from a sinking ship.”

  “Not from my ship.” To the others, Kit snapped, “Halt where you stand. No one is going anywhere.”

  Movement stopped. As one, the congregation peered guiltily back. “Here now,” blustered Sir Edmond. “There’s no need to involve the lot of us in your unpleasantness.”

  Distaste flavored Kit’s mouth. His most intimate allies were suddenly behaving like hypocrites who would take their pleasure with one of the whores at his party, then deny their presence here, to protect their precious reputations. How could he have ever seen them as his friends? “A pity,” he said, “because you’re already involved. Wait downstairs, all of you. And reflect on this: the law will consider anyone who leaves the premises a prime suspect.”

  “Suspect?” said Sir Edmond. “Why, bosh. The fellow obviously suffered some sort of attack.”

  “He was murdered,” Kit said.

  Gasps and exclamations burst from the spectators.

  A choked cry yanked his gaze to Jane. She stood by the door, her white hands frozen on a blue gown that lay on a Chippendale chair. Now here was another pretty puzzle, Kit thought. Why the devil was her dress in the same room with the dead man?

  His overlarge coat slipped from one of Jane’s shoulders. Her gaze flitted to the corpse and back to Kit. “Jesus save me,” she breathed, and pressed her palms together as if in realization. “If he was murdered, I know who did it!”

  “Poison, your lordsh—”

  The police surgeon sneezed into a huge handkerchief. The resulting blast echoed through the grand staircase hall.

  The guests shrank back. For over an hour, they had milled about, talking in hushed tones and awaiting the outcome of the investigation. The merry atmosphere had given way to the somberness of mourners at a wake. Midnight had come and gone, the start of the Queen’s Jubilee Year all but forgotten.

  “Poison?” Kit repeated. “You’re sure?”

  The surgeon adjusted the rimless spectacles perched on his reddened nose. “Quite, your lordship,” he said in a nasal tone. “The pupils were contracted, a sign of morphine poisoning. Likely the dose caused respiratory failure even before the hatpin pierced the heart.”

  The news gripped Kit in a fist as frigid as the draft seeping through the tall window behind him. Jabbing in the hatpin when the victim was already dead seemed an act of unnecessary savagery, of merciless hatred. Who could be so inhuman?

  Detective-Inspector Harvey Wadding stepped forward. His long, horsey face reflected no annoyance that he’d been rousted out of bed on a cold winter night, only awe at his elegant surroundings. “If I might speak, your lordship.”

  “Yes.”

  “The glass you gave me contains an opium derivative in the form of morphine. A lethal dose can work in under an hour.”

  “I was dressing in my bedroom only three hours before the body was discovered,” Kit said.

  Wadding made a note. “Excellent. That should help establish the time of death.”

  “I trust you’ll verify your conjecture with a post-mortem.”

  “Straightaway, your lordship.” Wadding turned to the surgeon. “Get on it immediately, Partridge.”

  “My men are loading the body on the mortuary cart right now.” Partridge sketched a bow, sneezed again, and scurried off, honking into his handkerchief.

&nb
sp; Wadding focused reverent brown eyes on Kit. “You mentioned an eyewitness, milord?”

  “Follow me.”

  Kit led the way into the library. Cigar smoke and spirits almost masked the leather scent of book bindings. He wished he could be alone in his sanctum, kick off his shoes, and study the racing forms. Anything to escape this godawful mess.

  But Jane Bingham occupied his favorite wing chair. Like a queen on a throne, she perched on the cushion before a half circle of admirers. She had donned her gown of cerulean satin. A tiara with a centerpiece of doves in diamonds and sapphires glittered in her upswept blond hair.

  “I hear you’ve been poisoning your guests, Blackie.” The familiar voice spoke from behind Kit, and a familiar resentment pricked him into turning.

  A slim man lounged just inside the double doors, his arm propped on a glass-fronted bookcase. Wearing a dandified gray suit with a red rosebud in his lapel, his fair whiskers and mustache perfectly barbered, he might have been a tailor’s dummy.

  “I don’t recall inviting you, Carlyle,” Kit said.

  Bruce Abernathy, Viscount Carlyle, picked up a framed photograph of a racehorse and grimaced at it. “I saw the mortuary wagon from my town house across the square. I was most concerned about how you’re ruining the neighborhood with your wild parties.”

  “I am most concerned that you would dare invade my home,” Kit said. “I should toss you out with the rubbish.”

  “Tut, tut. Still the same savage beast you were at Harrow.” Setting down the picture, Bruce curled his lips into an aristocratic cross between a sneer and a smile. “I understand, Inspector, that the victim was given an overdose. It’s common knowledge that Indians have a fondness for opium.’’