Fire at Midnight Read online

  Wadding turned to Kit. “Do you keep morphine in the house, milord?’’

  Kit seethed at Bruce’s implication. With effort, he kept his voice even. “No, but one of my servants may. Please feel free to ask them any questions you like.”

  The policeman ducked his head apologetically. “Yes, milord.”

  “Just remember,” Bruce murmured, “as the saying goes, blood will tell.”

  The insult festered like a long-buried thorn. Kit cared little for Bruce’s prejudiced opinions and taunting insults, yet he was conscious of the others in the library who avoided his eyes and took sudden interest in the book-lined walls.

  “It seems we established long ago that your blood is no bluer than mine.” Kit gazed pointedly at the scar that lifted one of Bruce’s eyebrows in perpetual question, the only imperfection in his aristocratic face.

  Bruce’s expression darkened as he fingered the indentation. His mouth settled into a sulk. “Crass as ever,” he muttered.

  Impatient with the bickering, Kit waved the group toward the hall. “Everyone out. Except you, Jane. Oh, and Carlyle, if you would be so kind as to shut the doors as you depart.”

  Following the others, Bruce stalked out, his posture so stiff and straight he might have had a poker stuffed up his bottom. The tall doors closed with an ungentle bang.

  Kit settled himself on the edge of his polished oak desk. “Jane, this is Detective Inspector Wadding of Scotland Yard. Inspector Wadding, may I present the Honorable Jane Bingham.”

  “A great pleasure, Miss Bingham.”

  Pad and pencil gripped in his rawboned hands, Wadding almost tiptoed toward Jane, as if she were a goddess on an altar and he the humble supplicant.

  Though faced with a gangly commoner in threadbare tweeds, Jane reacted as she did to anyone in trousers; her lips curved into a come-hither smile and her fingers stroked the blue feather boa draped over her cleavage. Wadding’s eyes glazed over.

  In spite of his black mood, Kit suppressed a grin. “You may proceed, Inspector.”

  Wadding blinked and refocused. “Er, yes. Did you know the unfortunate, Miss Bingham?”

  “Only through tidbits of gossip. Rumor says he kept a mistress.”

  The inspector’s brows perked. “Would you know the woman’s name?”

  “I’m afraid not.” Jane batted her lashes. “He’s a commoner. We hardly shared the same social circle.”

  “If you could tell me precisely what you saw, then.”

  “It was the most horrid experience,” she said, shuddering. “I was walking along the passage upstairs, after a visit to the necessary room. That’s when I saw her.” Jane leaned forward on the chair, her breasts pillowing above her bodice, and added in a stage whisper, “She must have just murdered Rutherford.”

  “A woman, you say?” Wadding asked in confusion.

  “Yes. She was stealing out of his lordship’s bedchamber. Naturally I wondered what mischief she’d been at. One never knows who might have slipped into the house, what with the riffraff roaming the streets of London. Thank God for the bravery of our police. Why, one time the neighbor’s nasty cat sneaked into my house and went after my doves, and I summoned a constable—”

  “The facts, please,” Kit broke in.

  She moistened her lips. “Of course, my lord. I called out to the woman. But she didn’t stop. She disappeared down the servants’ stairway at the end of the hall.” Gasping, she raised her hand to her mouth. “Oh, dear God. Do you suppose his mistress murdered him?”

  “We shall strive to find out.” Wadding jotted something in his notebook. “Can you describe the woman?”

  “It was quite shadowy and her face was veiled. But she wore a scarlet cloak with jet fringe.”

  Kit shifted against the hard surface of the desk. The vague description failed to pinpoint any woman at the party. “Was she short or tall?” he prodded. “Fat or thin? Did you note the color of her hair?”

  Jane lifted her dazzling white shoulders in a shrug. “She was a bit on the tall side, I suppose. Oh...and her hat had one of those high turban brims that are all the rage, and a splendid tuft of white ostrich feathers.” She glanced at Kit from beneath her lashes and wriggled in a way that suggested an image of her naked and restless. “I’ve been simply pining for one like it.”

  Her coquettish manner rang a discordant note into the dirge of tragedy. “And that’s all you recall?” he asked.

  “I’m afraid so. But she must be the murderess. She was running from the scene of the crime.”

  “So after she’d gone,” Wadding said, “you went into the—ahem—bedroom.”

  “Of course. Someone had to check and see that none of his lordship’s valuables had been stolen.”

  The inspector scratched his protruding ear with his pencil. Kit knew he burned to ask how well-acquainted she was with the contents of the master’s chambers. “Er, yes,” said Wadding. “Did you notice anything amiss?”

  Lips curled, Jane looked him up and down. “Why, I found the dead man, what else?”

  “Beg pardon, Miss Bingham. Didn’t mean to offend. But any detail you can remember might aid in the investigation.”

  “I’ll contact you if I think of anything more.” With a royal wave of dismissal, she glided up from the chair. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m near to swooning from shock and fatigue. Would you mind escorting me upstairs, Kit?”

  “Yes, I would mind.”

  “You would?”

  “It seems there’s a piece missing from your story. An essential piece.”

  “I can’t imagine what you mean.”

  “Sit down and I’ll tell you.”

  Wariness chased across her sensual features. “I really am so very tired. Why don’t we go upstairs and talk alone?”

  “Sit.”

  As always, she obeyed his command, though she thrust out her lower lip.

  Hands on his hips, Kit walked toward her. He knew Jane—and himself—too well to go upstairs with her at the moment. She’d try to entice him into bed rather than answer his questions. He was in no mood to ward off her tenacious eroticism.

  The daughter of a baron, Jane had grown up motherless and half forgotten by her bookish father, an amateur archeologist who traveled abroad for months at a time, leaving her in the care of servants. At the tender age of fourteen, she had learned about sex by seducing the footman. At sixteen, she had abandoned any pretense at propriety and embraced a succession of noble lovers. At twenty, she had met Kit and acceded to his demand that she remain faithful to him.

  Now, only a few months into their torrid affair, he wondered how far he could trust her. God help her if she’d played him for a fool.

  Firelight sparkled off the sapphires in her hair, the gems a glittering echo of her eyes. “When you came running to the second-floor balcony,” he said, “you were wearing only your undergarments. I should like to know how your gown came to be draped over a chair in my bedroom.”

  “Aha,” muttered Wadding, scribbling madly in his notebook.

  A carmine flush deepened the rouge on her cheeks. Gritting her teeth, she glanced at the inspector. “Kit, for the love of God!” she said in a scandalized undertone. “I hardly think a lady’s lingerie should enter into a conversation with a stranger. And with a common public servant at that.”

  “The police are investigating a murder. I want the truth.”

  The tip of her tongue darted over her lips. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather go upstairs?” she purred.

  Wadding made a strangled sound and shifted his big feet.

  Kit cocked a black eyebrow. The mantelpiece clock ticked into the silence and the coal fire hissed in the grate. He kept his hard gaze aimed at Jane.

  She lowered her eyes and huffed out a sigh. “Oh, have it your way, then. When I first went into the bedroom, I didn’t realize Rutherford was dead. I thought he was only asleep.”

  “I see. You planned to give him a nice surprise when he awoke.”

  “It
isn’t what you think,” she said, straightening her rounded shoulders. “For pity’s sake, I only meant to play a harmless little joke on the man.”

  “Explain yourself.”

  She lifted her chin in mulish defiance. “I was going to tell him we’d been seen together and I would tell his wife.”

  His wife.

  Kit hadn’t considered a bereaved widow. “Rutherford was married? How did you know?”

  Jane shrugged. “He’s one of the contenders the Princess of Wales is considering to make her Jubilee tiara. His wife was mentioned in one of the gossip columns. Besides, a handsome fellow like him would have a proper little wife tucked away, a homely gray-haired matron who probably thought of Britannia while they engaged in intercourse.”

  A choked cough came from Wadding. “Ahem—there is indeed a widow, your lordship. One of my constables found the address. Mrs. Rutherford lives in” —the inspector consulted his notebook— “Pendleman Square.”

  “There, you see?” said Jane. “A woman knows these things.”

  Irked by her smugness and suspecting she was still hiding something, Kit snapped, “So you intended to blackmail Rutherford.”

  “It was an innocent prank. I would have led him on, then told him the truth.”

  “And how do you know he was the sort of man to appreciate your pranks?”

  “A bit of fun never hurt anyone. It isn’t as if I’d nicked the crown jewels.”

  “But a man was murdered. Your little ‘prank’ could land you behind bars.”

  Her cheeks blanched. “I didn’t commit a crime. You see that, don’t you, Inspector?” Leaping up, she seized Wadding s hand and clasped it to her bosom.

  Redness shot up his long neck and colored his equine face. “M-Miss Bingham...”

  “You shan’t arrest me, shall you? Oh, please say you shan’t.”

  “N-no. Of course not...a lovely lady like you...”

  “Thank you.” She released him and went to Kit, rubbing against his sleeve like a kitten soliciting affection. “There, you see, darling? I’ve done nothing wrong. Please don’t be angry.” She murmured for his ear alone, “It’s certainly no worse an escapade than the time I had myself served naked to you on a covered platter.”

  The memory tickled his ill humor. Jane may well have lied about the blackmail scheme, and he suspected her true intent had been to seduce Rutherford. At least Kit felt confident that her vices leaned toward hot-blooded sex rather than cold-blooded murder.

  And she preferred sapphires. She didn’t own an emerald hatpin.

  “We’ll talk more later,” he said. “Run along now.”

  “But Kit, darling—”

  “Tell Herriot I’d like him to escort you home.”

  “Oh, but can’t I stay—?”

  “Not tonight.” He honed his voice to sharp command.

  She clamped her mouth shut and tossed the blue boa around her shoulders. Apparently seeing the value of retreat, she minced out of the library, her shapely hips swaying. Wadding stared after her, his neck craned and his eyes bugged.

  “Inspector,” Kit said.

  The lanky man swerved back, almost dropping pencil and pad. “Er, yes, milord?”

  “You’ll want to interview all the women present, account for their whereabouts during the evening, see if any of them knew Rutherford.”

  “That is the procedure in such a tragedy, milord.” Wadding pulled a glum face. “But I rather doubt we’ll be so lucky as to find a lady wearing a scarlet cloak trimmed in jet.”

  “One of my servants may have seen her on the back stair. And Rutherford wasn’t on the guest list. He very likely came in the back way as well.”

  “With your permission, I’ll send a constable to the kitchen. Then I fear I must be on my way to convey the sad news to the widow.” Wadding bowed and went out.

  The widow again.

  Stark reality struck Kit in the face. Doubtless she slumbered in peaceful unawareness of her husband’s grisly fate. Kit pictured her abrupt awakening by a maid, her plump fingers trembling as she dressed in the predawn chill, her anxiety as she hastened downstairs to face the police, the sagging of her matronly face as she heard the news...

  The image melted into the lovely features of his own stepmother. He could well imagine her grief should she ever receive a tragic announcement; he could feel the sorrow of his brother and sisters. He breathed a prayer of thanksgiving that his parents were alive and hale, safe at their estate in Kent.

  Did Rutherford leave children, too? God forbid they should suffer because Kit Coleridge had provided the perfect setting for a murder.

  Come morning, Kit resolved, he would pay Mrs. Rutherford a visit and offer his condolences. It was the least he could do.

  He returned to the grand staircase hall. A burly constable moved among the crowd, laboriously recording each guest’s name on a dog-eared notepad. One by one, the noblemen and their demi-mondaines were allowed to gather top hats and mantles and overcoats, and to slip out into the dead of the winter night. At last even the policemen departed. Kit dismissed the squad of bleary-eyed maids and footmen. The tidying-up could wait until the morning.

  He stood in the dark, the cavernous hall illuminated by a meager bar of light from the library. Usually he welcomed the solitary sensation in the aftermath of a ball. Tonight he felt too drained and uneasy, too disenchanted with the unprincipled side he saw in himself. Was this what his decadent lifestyle had turned him into, a man who would host the sort of gathering where a murder would occur?

  The incident struck Kit as a graphic illustration of how low he had sunk.

  His friends had been anxious to flee, to divorce themselves from him. No, not friends. Acquaintances without a shred of faithfulness. Kit faced the hard truth: they had been using him, taking advantage of his frequent parties and the whores he hired as entertainment.

  He pressed his hands to his burning eyes. Damn, he was tired. Tired of living on the edge of society. Tired of having hypocrites as companions. He felt the sudden need to make himself into a better man, but he scarcely knew where to begin. How could he erase the reputation blackened by years of dissipation?

  Though the linens had been changed, the notion of sleeping in the bed so recently occupied by a corpse repulsed Kit. He walked into the library, closed the doors, and removed his coat and shoes. With a sigh, he loosened his stiff collar. Then he eased into the wing chair by the hearth and stretched his stockinged feet toward the low blaze.

  Unable to find a solution to his own flaws, he turned his mind to wrestling with the mystery. Why would a jeweler steal into a private party, only to end up dead in the master’s suite? Who was the woman in the scarlet cloak? His mistress? Why would she want to kill him...and why here, of all places? To confuse the police?

  Or to implicate Kit?

  Troubled, he shifted position. Could someone hate him enough to commit murder? Carlyle? He was too much the coward. Or perhaps someone else who thought a half-caste had no place in high society? Kit grimaced. Were he to list the bigots who had turned a cold shoulder to him over the years, he would fill a yard of paper.

  He tried to imagine himself in Rutherford’s shoes. Had he comprehended that he had been poisoned? Had he panicked and fought his assailant? No, he’d shown no sign of a struggle. Perhaps he had realized nothing at all, just gone to sleep, never to awaken…

  Questions danced inside Kit’s head like the flames sputtering in the grate. Fatigue gritted his eyes. He closed them for a moment and rolled his head against the back of the chair. Lassitude sucked him into a vat of warm treacle.

  He succumbed to the irresistible darkness.

  He was cold, bitterly cold.

  A speck in the vast landscape of the Himalayas, he stood alone on a snowy slope. The wind lashed his naked body. Ice crystals sheathed his brown flesh and transformed him into the likeness of a white man. But he was still a savage underneath the outer trappings. He wanted to cry out for help, but his throat was frozen, hi
s limbs frigid. The frosty shield locked him forever in isolation from a world that judged a man by the color of his skin.

  A sound pierced the ice. A distant knocking. Then voices, coming closer. Footsteps.

  Relax, Kit thought. Help is on the way.

  He opened his bleary eyes. Reality struck. He was slouched in the wing chair, his legs extended toward the dead ashes in the grate. Watery sunlight poured through the slit in the draperies.

  Damn, but he was chilled to the bone. He lifted his head and felt a beastly crick in his neck. The mantelpiece clock drew his gaze. Jesus God. Who would call at six-forty in the morning?

  Before he could rise, the library doors opened. A footman marched in, a black cloak over his arm. Half hidden behind him glided a woman.

  “Milord!” exclaimed Herriot, his cheeks reddening, his brown eyes as round as the gold crested buttons on his livery. “I’m sorry, most awfully sorry. Didn’t know you was in here. The lady, she was insistent on seein’ you. I...I’ll show her elsewhere until your lordship be ready.” He started to back out, almost colliding with the caller.

  As if she hadn’t heard, the veiled woman came into the library, her slender figure clad in unrelieved black.

  Standing up, Kit plowed his hand through his hair and stepped into his shoes. He felt cold and rumpled and churlish. “If you’ll excuse me,” he said to her as he started toward the door. “I’ll join you in a few moments.”

  “No. I will speak to you immediately.”

  The ragged edge to her voice caught his attention. He stopped. To Herriot, he said, “Send Betsy to light the fire. It’s freezing in here.”

  “Aye, milord.” The servant bowed and dashed out.

  The woman hovered in the middle of the room. She wore black suede gloves and fingered her only adornment, the brooch pinned at her throat, an exquisite knot of seed pearls set in onyx. The high-collared gown fell to a straight skirt with a modest bustle, and seemed designed to disguise the womanly curves of her hips and waist.

  She lifted the veil and drew it back. His chest clenched and his weariness slid away.