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  But if he was some kind of underhanded plotter . . . well, then she could loathe him properly. Hypocrisy, after all, was her least favorite quality. A traitor disguising himself as a war hero? That was dirtier business than her uncle’s.

  She studied him as he flirted with Miss Everleigh. She could not square her suspicions with her gut feeling. Something was rotten, but she didn’t sense he was dangerous—not in an underhanded way, at least. More in a . . . kissing kind of way.

  Heaven help me. She looked down at her plate to hide her blush. Knowing him better would help her make up her mind about him. But time in his presence only seemed to erode her wits further.

  The days settled into a predictable pattern. Lilah was not invited to dine downstairs again, which suited her perfectly. She took her suppers in her sitting room, then read until exhaustion overwhelmed her dislike of the dark. At dawn, she hurried—and failed—to beat Miss Everleigh to breakfast. Then, for the next twelve hours, she trailed her mistress like a sheepish dog, trying her best to learn more of the woman without appearing chatty or forward or inattentive to the tasks at hand.

  Some days, Miss Everleigh lost patience with her, and sent her off to comb through rooms on her own, with the instruction to set aside and make note of objects that promised good value. These days felt positively magical. As a child, Lilah and her sister had often pretended to be explorers, hunting their household for buried treasure. Now she did the same—but instead of discovering the pennies her father had used to hide, she uncovered items that belonged in museums. Beneath a pile of yellowing canvas, she found a pair of silver candlesticks, intricately engraved with a variety of exotic beasts, elephants and tigers. She forced open a broken chest of drawers, and out spilled chess pieces carved from ivory and inlaid with precious jewels. Cobwebbed corners concealed figurines, china plates, and handsomely painted tiles, abandoned and forgotten by long-dead generations.

  Meanwhile, out the window, she saw things that city life had never shown her. A sunset as red as blood, in a sky so wide that it was a wonder the clouds didn’t get lost. Storms showed themselves on the horizon an hour before they arrived, so one could see rain slanting at a distance while sun still shone across the lawn. One day, a band of tinkers trundled up in a yellow caravan to sell their wares. Miss Everleigh would not let her go meet them, but she watched from the window as the housekeeper purchased pots and pans.

  Fiona had nursed a dream of growing old in the countryside. Property in London was very dear, but careful savings might purchase a cottage in some village far from London, where nobody would ever discover a girl’s past. She’d made a habit of memorizing poems about country lanes and babbling brooks and the like.

  But you don’t even know if we’ll like the country, Lilah had told her once.

  Well, one day we’ll go and find out, won’t we?

  Now Lilah found herself in the middle of her sister’s dream. But Miss Everleigh’s punishing schedule left no opportunity for outdoor explorations . . . until one afternoon when she dispatched Lilah to the farthest corner of the house and forgot to summon her afterward. The sun still rode high in a clear sky as Lilah finished her work. At last she saw the chance to explore the charms of the pastoral.

  But three steps down the lawn toward the wood, she discovered what Fiona had never guessed, and poets never bothered to mention: country air was poisonous! First her eyes began to water. Next, her nose caught an itch. At her third sneeze, she turned back for the house in a state of high alarm.

  It was just her luck to run into Lord Palmer in the front hall. He was dressed for riding, in tall boots and a close-fitted hunting jacket. “Where is Miss Everleigh?” he said curtly. “Why are you not with her?”

  She held up one finger. The next sneeze was coming.

  “You have a single task here.” He underlined his point by slapping his quirt against his thigh. “To assist—”

  The sneeze exploded, knocking her back a pace. “It’s dreadful out there!” she said. “Don’t go!”

  He blinked. She sneezed again. When the fit subsided, she saw a smile tugging at his lips “Spot of hay fever?”

  “Is that what it is? Is it curable? Oh, I—” She sneezed again. “Drat it!”

  He handed over a handkerchief, which she gratefully pressed to her runny nose. It smelled of him—soap and leather and clean male skin, with perhaps a hint of horse. “Avoid the greenery,” he said, “and you’ll recover.”

  “There seems to be a great deal of it here.” Yet he looked aggravatingly hale, his bronzed skin suddenly suspect. He had been out in the sun very recently. “How do you not suffer?”

  “Country raised,” he said.

  That sounded like a curse. “I must go lie down.” But when she started past him, he caught her arm.

  “You must go assist Miss Everleigh. You are not here on a holiday.”

  “She put me to my own work, and—” She pulled free in time to spare him her next sneeze. “She’s not likely to welcome me in this state, is she?”

  Looking at her, he sighed. “All right. Come with me.” Turning on his heel, he started off down the hall.

  She hurried after him. A brief, twisting, confounding route led them to a door that opened into the hallway she had discovered once before. She slowed, a nervous flutter distracting her from misery. He was leading her into his study! What would she say about the map? Would it be wiser to pretend not to notice it?

  But it transpired that he had cleared away any incriminating documents. With the drapes pulled back and daylight spilling across the bright Turkish carpet, the room looked very different—a far less likely site for the conduction of treason. She felt foolish, suddenly. Country air rotted her brain as well as her health. He was no traitor. There must be a very good reason for him to correspond with all those Russians.

  But then why had he hidden their letters? One only hid things one needed to conceal.

  He crossed to a handsome cabinet, pulling out a decanter. “Odd as it sounds, whisky is the quickest cure.” He splashed a finger into the glass and carried it back to her. “I’ll leave a portion in the kitchens for your use. Ring for another glass in the evening, along with a spoonful of honey. That always suffices for my mother.”

  “Oh, she also has hay fever? Was she raised in the city, too?” Perhaps his mother was a well-born Russian, which would explain his connection to luminaries from that nation.

  “In Sussex.” His eyes narrowed. A journalist had described their color as “the lambent shade of a summer sun.” At the time, reading the description, Lilah had snorted. But she now grudgingly admitted that it was a very fine turn of phrase. She reserved judgment, however, on whether his golden hair really constituted a “magnificent mane of leonine splendor.” “I can’t imagine why it concerns you,” he said.

  She remembered his mood the night he had seen his sister in the street. His family, for some reason, troubled him. She offered an apologetic smile. “I merely wish to assemble a map—a list of places that are safe to visit, and won’t kill me when I set foot outdoors.”

  A slight smile erased his severity. “The condition isn’t so perilous. Inconvenient, I’ll grant you. But not life threatening.”

  “Says one who doesn’t suffer from it!” She took a sip of the whisky. “I can’t believe one isn’t warned before departing town. I tell you, it took one breeze, and suddenly I was suffocating.” She spared an envious thought for all the people breathing freely right now of London’s soot-stained air.

  “I don’t mean to be dismissive,” he said. “I do know my mother suffers greatly at this time of year.” He glanced out the window, which offered a fine view of oaks and shrubbery in blossom. Poisonous blossom. “But the whisky should help. How are you feeling now?”

  She took a testing breath, and felt no urge to sneeze. “Yes,” she said, “I think it’s working.” With enthusiasm, she finished the rest of the glass. “You could pour me a spot more, if you like.”

  He laughed. “I thi
nk a finger will suffice for you.”

  “I’ll wager your mother would take my side.” She hesitated. “Is she originally from Sussex?”

  “Her family hails from Ireland.” He sat down across from her. “And if I recall, she has never complained of hay fever when visiting her cousins. So, there you have it, Miss Marshall: Tipperary is your safest destination.”

  “Tipperary! But my own—” She stopped, horrified by her near slip.

  “Your family is from Tipperary as well?” he asked pleasantly.

  “No. Of course not. Surrey, in fact.” You dolt! For four years, she’d been Lilah Marshall, daughter of a clerk who hailed from the bland, irreproachable Home Counties. And now, dazed by evil hay and a finger of whisky, she had almost undone the whole effort.

  Head tipped, he was studying her. “Yet you do have the look of the Irish about you.”

  She bristled. “I certainly do not.” Fiona had looked Irish—Fiona of the auburn hair, eyes greener than grass. She’d taken after Da that way.

  Lilah, on the other hand, took after their mother’s side. Dark hair and blue eyes. My little English bluebird, Da had called her. You’d not draw an eye in a crowd of High Churchers.

  He’d meant that as a compliment, of course. Being able to move unnoticed was a great asset in his line of work.

  “No, I’m afraid I’m quite right.” The dimple had popped out in Palmer’s cheek, so she knew to prepare for teasing, “I definitely see a touch of the old country about you.”

  “Hardly, my lord. I’m a regular English wren.”

  He lifted his brows. “But that sounds quite plain. Whereas I was thinking instead of your . . .” He paused, looking arrested. “Why, you make yourself sound as plain as your name. ‘Marshall.’ As English, one might say, as a Sunday roast.” A devilish sparkle entered his amber eyes. “So perfectly, unexceptionably unmemorable. Very convenient, for a thief.”

  Certainly he had Irish blood. No other race possessed the gift for second sight. “I’m an Everleigh Girl,” she said. “That night in Mr. Everleigh’s office was a singular occurence.”

  “But by your own admission,” he said, “you are out of practice. Ergo, once upon a time, you thieved a great deal more often.”

  “Marshall is a fine name,” she said stridently. “No plainer than Stratton, in my view.”

  “Indeed. One can’t argue that. And your mother’s name, may I ask?” He sat back, stretching his long legs before him, inadvertently—or perhaps deliberately—flaunting the pronounced musculature of his thighs. Those breeches fit him like a glove. The effect was . . . distracting.

  “My mother’s name?” she repeated absently. Nobody had ever asked her about that. He had very powerful calves, didn’t he? She hadn’t realized calves could be handsome, but the close fit of his buckskin proved it. Strapped with muscle! Put those calves to auction, and all the ladies would bid. “Smith,” she said. “Her name was Smith.”

  “Of course!” He gave a rich, resonant laugh. “Smith and Marshall. John Marshall, dare I guess? And Mary Smith.”

  She returned his look defiantly. “Sarah Smith.” Now she must remember that, in case he tested her again later. “But how kind of you to take an interest in my genealogy, Lord Palmer.”

  “Oh, I’m finding you more interesting by the minute.” He paused, frowning.

  She wrestled against the urge to feel flattered. Interesting was not a compliment. The wealthy used that word for any number of trifling diversions. God’s sake, far too frequently they used it to describe the weather.

  More to the point, his curiosity might undo her. “I wish I deserved your interest,” she said. “Alas, there’s nothing so remarkable about a clerk falling in love with the daughter of his colleague. Your parents, on the other hand—what a grand romance it must have been, for an English viscount to fall in love with an Irishwoman.”

  “Half Irish,” he said. “And not as rare as you’d think. So your father was a clerk, was he? At which place of employment, Miss Marshall?”

  “How did your parents meet? I do adore a good love story.”

  “Yes, I’m gathering you’re quite fond of any number of stories. Whereas I particularly like tales of misadventure.” He leaned forward, bracing his weight against his thigh by one elbow. He’d rolled up his cuffs; his bronzed forearms looked hard as iron, dusted in gold. The veins stood out prominently. “Tell me, how did the daughter of a respectable, law-abiding clerk find herself equipped with the skills of a lockpick and thief?”

  Heart skipping, she rose. “Well, I do feel much better now.”

  With a cat-in-the-cream smile, he came to his feet as well. “So glad to hear it. Will you tell me your true name sometime, Miss Marshall?”

  She manufactured a laugh. He knew nothing other than what she led him to suspect. How she’d betrayed herself, she had no idea—and that in itself concerned her as nothing else did. First she’d let him catch her stealing. Now she was letting him see through her.

  Or did he truly have the second sight? Now that she knew he was partly Irish, she could see signs of it everywhere—his brawny build; the squareness of his jaw; his noble height and the breadth of his shoulders. No lad like a Tipperary lad, as Cousin Sally used to sing. “How amusing you are, Lord Palmer. And how imaginative.”

  “And how intrigued,” he said agreeably. “For it comes to me that a wise host should know his guests better than I do.”

  That sounded like a very pleasantly spoken threat. The last thing she required was for him to dispatch some investigator to learn more about her. What if somebody from Everleigh’s caught wind of his interest? “But I’m not your guest,” she said.

  “No.” His smile tipped into a menacing angle. “Not a guest at all, are you? But lovely, all the same.”

  She had been prepared for another jab—not a compliment. “Thank you.”

  “Don’t.” He reached out and laid a finger against her cheek. “At this rate,” he said softly, “you will wish you were plainer, before long.”

  Only his fingertip touched her. But that small point of contact rooted her in place.

  “Do you know,” he said, “you wore a smudge at just this spot the day I arrived here.”

  Bewilderment delayed her reply. What an odd thing to remember! “Yes, I . . . didn’t notice it till I was dressing for dinner.” She’d had dust and dirt everywhere.

  “I mourned its disappearance when you came to the table.”

  She blinked. “But . . . why?”

  “I wanted to lick it off you.”

  The notion made her stomach feel curiously liquid. “How odd,” she whispered.

  “Oh, I can get odder.” He leaned in and touched the tip of his tongue to her earlobe. He whispered into her ear: “I like how you taste.”

  “You . . .” She swallowed. “You sound as if you want to eat me.”

  “In small bites. Ask yourself if you would like it.” He stepped back, his look hot and unwavering. “Will you go find Miss Everleigh? Or will you stay here with me?”

  She snatched up her skirts and rushed out. It took the length of the hallway for her pace to slow. What bizarre agitation! A single brush of his fingertip, the tip of his tongue, and some husky words should not have caused such upheaval.

  Halfway to the attic, she figured it out. Palmer had devised the perfect way to torture her. Each brushing, tasting touch of his—and worse, each show of restraint—lured her body into a collusion with him. He made her long to be reckless.

  Why, he was a rake! A proper one, not the clumsy approximations that galumphed through Everleigh’s ballroom. He aroused her curiosity as much as her appetite, all the while reiterating that the choice belonged to her.

  And the routine worked! Her vulnerability to it amazed her. She had always considered herself wiser than the girls who traded kisses for perfume and jewelry. What possible appeal could material objects exert when their price might cost a girl’s independence?

  But Palmer didn’t try to
bribe her. All he offered was an awareness of her own hungers—and the invitation to explore them, if she liked. Ask yourself. Small bites.

  He made erotic poetry of her right to choose. Oh, dangerous indeed!

  In the attic, another surprise awaited her. Miss Everleigh knelt on the floor, surrounded by piles of cloth, her face bright and exultant. She looked up, her transparent joy making her breathtakingly beautiful. “Persian brocade.” She held up a length of glimmering silk and, miracle of miracles, laughed. “Safavid dynasty! Can you believe it?”

  Lilah tried to smile. If Palmer wanted her to focus on her task, he’d best stop touching her. Certain things she didn’t need to know about herself—weaknesses better left unexplored.

  “It’s priceless,” Miss Everleigh said. “Truly—did you ever imagine this house should contain anything so astounding?”

  “No,” Lilah said wistfully. “I did not.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Waiting did not suit Christian’s temperament. Nor, for that matter, did Catherine Everleigh. She showed an admirable devotion to her work, and little interest in anything else. Their conversations at dinner flowed only when speaking of her discoveries. He would not persuade her to look on him as a friend, much less divulge confidential information about Russian clients.

  Instead, he placed his hopes in his thief. In the mornings, he patrolled the edges of the property and debriefed the men he’d hired to stand guard there. Midday, he took his supper over parliamentary reports, catching up on years of debates that he would be expected to know, once he finally took his seat in the House of Lords. And in the afternoons . . .

  In the afternoons, he met with his thief.

  On his instruction, Lilah Marshall had taken to stealing into Catherine’s rooms during dinner, to make copies of the lady’s correspondence. Each afternoon at half four, when Catherine withdrew for her nap, Lilah delivered these copies to his study.

  But if Catherine was Bolkhov’s conspirator, she never wrote to him. Her letters largely concerned her brother’s financial affairs. He was misappropriating company profits, and she seemed helpless to stop him. Solicitors, accountants, even the Everleighs’ stockbrokers—none were spared Catherine’s accusations.