Lady Be Good (4 page)

She sighed, clearly impatient with the need for small talk. “One of the contributors to the upcoming auction.”

“Who,” he asked, “is this mysterious contributor?”

“He prefers to remain anonymous.”

Christian bared his teeth and hoped it passed for a smile. “How inconvenient.” Inconveniences abounded of late. The morning after he’d received the catalog, he had forced his mother and sister to cancel their plans
for the season. They waited now in Southampton; on Sunday they would embark on an extended tour abroad—New York, Boston, Philadelphia. They would not return until this was over, and Bolkhov was dead. “I don’t suppose I can ask you to pass along a note to him?”

“To what end?”

So I can follow you while you deliver it
. The vision was vivid.
So you can stand by as I slaughter the bastard
. “To convey my thanks,” he said.

A line appeared between her pale brows. Unlike every other woman in this country, she seemed to find him irritating. “I shall do so in person, then. I cannot be bothered to keep track of notes.”

He began to understand why men rarely spoke of Catherine Everleigh’s beauty. Astonishing though it was, her charmless nature quite overshadowed it. “Then do tell him how greatly I appreciate it. I hope he plans to attend the auction in June. If so, we’ll meet there.”

“I’m glad the invitation was welcome to you,” she said. “It occurred to me that you might still be in mourning.” Her glance flickered down his evening suit, pausing pointedly on the flower pinned to his lapel. One of the hostesses employed by the auction house had been handing them out at the door. “I can’t imagine,” she said, staring at the festively beribboned tulip, “how deeply you still grieve. Ten months, has it been?”

The implication being that he had not observed the proper mourning period for his brother. “Fourteen, in fact.” Long enough for the pain to dull from a lancing agony to a dull, bone-deep anguish.

But it had sharpened again as he’d stood before that candelabrum tonight. His fury had formed a litany of silent accusation.

You grew careless. You believed that his threats were empty. You thought you were safe
.

Geoff is dead because of you
.

He forced his thoughts away from that black endless plummet, back to the girl in his arms. She must have seen something that he did not intend to reveal; her frown had taken on a puzzled quality now. “You loved him,” she said.

“Of course I loved him.” Was she quite right in the head? “He was my brother.”

Her mouth twisted. “As if blood were enough to guarantee love.”

He took a hard breath, reminding himself of his task here. Catherine Everleigh had no friends. Reticent and withdrawn, she spent her days in dusty attics, poring over other people’s treasures. She showed no interest in gentlemen, much less potential confidants.

But she must know Bolkhov, for she was coordinating the sale of that candelabrum. Evidently she anticipated seeing him again. And so Christian’s strategy was clear. He must ensure she did not leave his sight. Ideally, he must win her trust and affection, God help him.

The waltz slowed to a conclusion. He stepped back from her, sketching a formal bow before offering his escort off the dance floor. “I suppose I will not see you again until we meet at Buckley Hall.”

She paused, a feline quality to her unblinking regard. “Then we will not see each other. My brother has decided to appraise your estate himself. Did you not know?”

“No, I did not.”
Damn it
. That must be what Peter Everleigh wished to speak to him about later. “How curious. I’d understood that he handles the sales, and you, the appraisals.”

“Indeed.” Her smile looked sour. “That is the typical arrangement. In this case, however, I believe your reputation has won his particular interest. You are, after all, the Hero of Bekhole.”

This would not do. Christian had contracted the auction house to handle the sale only because it would give him a chance to keep Catherine in sight. “Would he reconsider his decision?”

Her pause was guarded. “Certainly, if you spoke to him, he might do. I daresay he—” She grabbed his arm for balance as a passerby, a raven-haired woman in a pink gown, stumbled into her.

“Forgive me, Miss Everleigh!” The woman’s husky tone and quick curtsy struck Christian as oddly servile. As she straightened, her glance brushed his, giving him a start. Her eyes belonged to a medieval Madonna. They were round and heavy-lidded, a deep oceanic blue.

“I do hope you are not intoxicated,” Catherine Everleigh said coldly to her.

“No, ma’am.” This time, the woman’s abashed smile was shared with Christian as well. “Only clumsy,” she purred. After bobbing another curtsy, she moved away.

“One of our hostesses,” Catherine said.

“I see.” It occurred to him that an Everleigh Girl, by virtue of her duties, might have cause to know a good deal about Catherine.

“These girls are more trouble than they’re worth,” Catherine went on. “But my brother insists on them.” She paused. “Do you mean to speak with him tonight?”

Christian caught the urgency buried in her question. She wished very much to manage the valuation of his estate. How convenient. “I will find him at once.”

A faint smile escaped her. “Excellent.” She offered a
handshake, the gesture businesslike. As she drew away, he noticed something.

“That’s a very fine bracelet you wear,” he said.

“It was my mother’s.”

“Do you always remove it while you dance?”

The small degree of warmth that had crept into her manner now vanished. “I never remove it.”

Then somebody had done so for her—only to put it back again. How peculiar. He looked across the crowd for the dark-haired hostess, eyes narrowing as he found her slipping out the door.

No, not slipping.
Sneaking
.

Once more, then never again
. After tonight, Lilah would be good for the rest of her life. She’d be a perfect lady. She vowed it.

As she walked, the sounds of merriment receded. She passed the great stairway that led up to the auction rooms, marble steps marching into darkness. Anybody could be standing above, spying on her from the shadows. The silence felt like the hush before a scream—or a crash. If she was caught tonight, she would be ruined.

For four years she had worked to break free of her fate. After Fiona’s death, Nick had finally let her go. She’d put her sister’s plan into action with ruthless self-discipline. Endless hours poring over etiquette manuals. Then, volumes of art and history. For the first two years at Everleigh’s, all her savings had gone to a tutor of elocution. She’d not spoken without first rehearsing each word in her head, focusing on those wretched vowels and consonants that no Whitechapel girl knew to pronounce.

Only recently had the tutor declared there was no more to learn. Only now did she sleep soundly through
the nights, confident that Fee would be proud of her.
You didn’t die in vain. We made it out
. She’d opened a savings account, and at last dared to revise her sister’s dreams, aiming now for something so extraordinary that even Fiona had never thought of it: a respectable retirement fund, perhaps a little house of her own. Imagine it: growing old in peace, free of the fear of the law—or her uncle!

Yet now, as she crept down the hall, she stood to lose everything. She could all but feel Fiona beside her, panicked and fearful.
You never see it coming
, Fee had said shakily one night, having returned from a job gone bad. One of Nick’s men had died.
In a blink, you’re done for. It happens so fast
.

She gritted her teeth.
Focus
.

Near the end stood the door to Peter Everleigh’s study. Lilah reached into her chignon, feeling past the crystal-tipped pins for the prick of the pick she’d tucked into a curl.

She expected her fingers to tremble, for she’d had no practice in years. But as she fitted the pick into the lock, her hands were steady. It took only one touch, one twist, before the door swung open.

She bit her lip, strangely dismayed. Did it come back so easily? Four years felt like a century to her, an age in which she had transformed. But if she remembered the way of it so well, then perhaps she was no different, after all.

Frowning, she forced aside that thought.
No distractions. Think later
. As she stepped into the room, the thick carpet absorbed her footfall. She groped her way around the furnishings toward the oak desk, then felt down the drawers.

One would do better not to keep one’s private documents in a desk. For that matter, if one did use a desk, better to lock every drawer in it. By locking only the topmost, Peter Everleigh announced where he kept his loot.

This lock was trickier than the other one. As she fumbled—once, and then a second time—anxiety breathed a cold, creepy whisper down her nape. The pick slipped out of her hand; she heard herself whisper a curse that she’d banished from her vocabulary long ago. Biting her lip, she felt across the carpet for the tool.

It hadn’t fallen far. Now her fingers
did
shake as she fitted the pick into the lock. But the lock changed its mind about her; it suddenly yielded.

She still had the talent, even now, years out of practice!

After a moment, her pride struck her as shameful. Frowning, she reached into her sleeve and plucked out a stub of candle. From her bodice, she pulled a match. The wick lit, shedding a small, unsteady light. She riffled through the contents of the drawer.

Opera glasses. Theatrical programs. Crumpled telegrams. Gambling markers. A mess of letters.

She riffled quickly through the pages, finding no order to them. The brisk, slashing penmanship of a business correspondent pressed side by side with the curlicues of some wealthy widow with poor taste in men. Amorous phrases leapt out:
your bed last night . . . the feel of your mouth
. . . Grimacing, Lilah flipped faster. Her uncle had mentioned three names, none of which she’d recognized, though the society columns were required reading for Everleigh Girls.

But it seemed these men weren’t part of high society.
She plucked out three letters, all of them concerning matters of construction and sanitation. The men must be members of the Municipal Board of Works; Peter Everleigh served on it, too. Puzzled, she folded up the letters and slipped them into a hidden pocket in her skirts, then shut the drawer on a long breath.

As she stood, a wave of dizziness rocked her. Mr. Everleigh had recently decreed that the Everleigh Girls’ waists must be seventeen inches at most. Lilah hadn’t eaten since breakfast; otherwise, her laces would never tighten so far.

Yet even with her lungs crushed by whalebone, she could outwit Pete’s defenses. All it took was a single pick.

Smiling now, she hurried toward the door. Her hand had just found the latch when she heard her doom: masculine voices approaching in the hall.

She recoiled, but there was nowhere to flee.

Frantic, Lilah groped her way back toward the desk.
No, no, no; this can’t be happening
. In her mind’s eye she saw the room’s sparse furnishings. There was nowhere to hide but beneath the desk—a terrible concealment, too easily discovered.

She yanked up her skirts, dropped to her knees, and clambered into the space.

It made for a tight fit, curled up like this. The boning in her corset jabbed into her ribs. She gritted her teeth and resisted the steel grip of the stays, which wanted to force her spine to straighten.

The room brightened as the door opened.

“—discuss this privately,” came Peter Everleigh’s voice, “it being a matter of some delicacy.”

Young Pete, the older girls called him, for they had known his father before him, and could not think of
him, they said, as a worthy heir to the title of “Mr. Everleigh.” But he had always struck Lilah as perfectly suited to his position, smooth-spoken and assured around rich men.

Now, though, he sounded hesitant. Apologetic, even. “I do hope you understand,” he said.

“I confess I don’t.” The reply came in a low drawl that could cut glass. Lilah had learned to recognize such an accent. Her tutor said it couldn’t be taught, only bred—but Lilah suspected money and a fancy education had something to do with it, too. “I believe your sister would do a splendid job at Buckley Hall,” said the blue blood.