Lady Be Good Page 18

  “Yes, sir.”

  He realized that Stowe was standing at stiff attention, waiting for orders or dismissal. Old habits died hard. “Drop a word of warning,” Christian said. “But keep the cause vague. If the magistrate gets wind of this, he’ll want to know who did it. I don’t want some local lad rotting in jail for someone else’s crime.”

  He caught the twitch of Stowe’s hand—an aborted impulse to salute. Stowe saw him remark it, and offered a sheepish grin, flashing the wad of tobacco stuffed into his cheek.

  Christian began to roll up his shirtsleeves. “Let’s dismantle this.”

  “Oh, no call for your help, sir.”

  Christian shook his head. He could not walk away before the foul thing was disarmed. “Go ask Mrs. Barnes where you might find a shovel. I’ll start with the stakes.”

  As Stowe started up the rise, he lowered himself carefully into the pit. He ripped the first spike out of the ground, then held it up to the light. The oaken spike had been carved into a point that would pierce straight through muscle and tendon.

  Bile churned up his throat. Lilah had never been to the country before. What a welcome this would have given her. How long would she have lain here, bleeding, calling out with no reply, until she died?

  A vision came to him, a nightmare as clear as the spike in his hands. Her cry for help. The sound of leaves crunching underfoot. Her face lifting toward the daylight. A shadow falling over her. Bolkhov’s face filling her vision.

  A thousand times since his brother’s death, he had seen such nightmares. But for the first time, it was not his mother or sister who suffered. Stay out of White-chapel, he’d told Lilah. But Buckley Hall was hardly safer—and he, no less dangerous than any East End thug. He’d brought her into the crosshairs of a madman.

  He tossed the stake over the edge of the pit. If the discovery of this trap proved anything, it was that he could not afford distractions. Bolkhov did not want to kill him. Otherwise it would only take a bullet. What the lunatic intended was to terrorize and torture him. Nobody in Christian’s proximity was safe.

  In light of that, what did his inward turmoil matter? He had imagined himself on a bed of nails last night—or a rack, stretched unbearably by incongruous compulsions: fury at her recklessness and lies; anger at his own brutal treatment of her; and worst of all, desire. Desire to touch her again. Desire, God forgive him, to know her beyond touching. Beyond fucking or fighting. Beyond anything so simple.

  There was his true sin. This gruesome trap showed him so clearly. For what could he achieve by drawing her closer but the temporary satisfaction of his lust, and far darker and more lasting possibilities besides? He had no tower for her. Instead, he could be her death.

  The hell of it was, if he respected her less—if she were less intelligent, less accomplished, and even, perhaps, less gloriously, infuriatingly deceitful—he would never have wanted to know her. And he would have endangered her now without a thought.

  For he was a bastard. He cared for nobody but his own. Catherine’s fate hardly troubled him. He didn’t lie awake worrying for her.

  And people called him a hero.

  In grim silence, he yanked out the rest of the spikes. When Stowe returned, he claimed the shovel and sent the other man off. But the labor of refilling the hole made a poor penance. Both women at Buckley Hall deserved far, far better.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  “Not entirely awful.”

  Not entirely awful! Had a more satisfying verdict ever been spoken? Hiding an amazed smile, Lilah began to replace the teacups into their crates. Her judge turned away to consider the rest of the dusty room. Tap-tap-tap went Miss Everleigh’s pencil against the notebook she carried.

  “This will be our staging space,” she said, her voice echoing off the bare walls. “We’ll begin with the most breakable items—porcelain, crystal, all the delicate wares. You have the list still?”

  “Right here, miss.” That she was entrusted with it seemed encouraging, too. Now that they had finished their canvass and begun the more detailed work of appraisal, Miss Everleigh’s temper had mellowed. Her mood, Lilah had observed, followed her work exactly; if it was proceeding at a satisfactory pace, she sometimes even managed a smile.

  “Your job is simple enough,” Miss Everleigh said. Her attention fell to the vase Lilah was wrapping. “Careful, there. Don’t swaddle too tightly.”

  “Yes, miss.” Lilah tucked the loose end of linen into the lip, then carefully placed it into a crate filled with wood shavings. That was the last of the hard-paste porcelain, for which she was thankful. Handling such valuable objects made her anxious of her grip.

  Together they looked over the china still to be cataloged, a minefield of dishes littered across the floor. “You’ll take the English plate,” Miss Everleigh said. “Bone china only. I’ll start with the soft paste. Once you’ve labeled an item, you’ll write a brief description. Focus on distinctions that might increase a piece’s value—and imperfections that might lower it. For instance, that vase you just put away. What did you observe before wrapping it?”

  “A small scratch in the glaze along the rim,” Lilah said instantly. “Barely noticeable.”

  “Highly noticeable,” Miss Everleigh corrected, “to the clients who will be bidding on it. What else?”

  Reluctantly, Lilah started to peel back the linen wrapping.

  “No,” Miss Everleigh said. “From memory, if you please.”

  Was this a test? Lilah hoped so. A test meant that Miss Everleigh saw a chance for her to prove herself. “The stones are agate and jade. The underglaze is very vibrant.”

  “What color?”

  “Red.”

  “Red as a brick? Red as blood? Red as a rooster’s—”

  “As copper,” Lilah said.

  “Yes, precisely. It’s a classic example of Jihong porcelain.” Miss Everleigh eyed the crate. “One of two dozen in existence, if that.”

  Lilah goggled. “And you let me wrap it?”

  “Your hands seem steady.” She shrugged. “Keep your notes in plain language. The more florid descriptions are the job of the catalog editors. They know best how to stir the public’s interest.”

  Breathless, Lilah waited. This was all very interesting information, nothing she’d ever learned as an Everleigh Girl.

  But her instruction was over. “Proceed,” Miss Everleigh said, and gathered up a porcelain figure, carrying it to her seat at the table. With elegant economy, she turned the figurine with one hand, while with the other, she began to take notes.

  Lilah turned to her own business. For the first few minutes, as she worked through the cups and saucers, she remained acutely aware of her employer’s scrutiny. But when a half hour had passed without scolding, her nerves settled, and she began to make good time with her share of the china.

  She was unprepared, then, for Miss Everleigh’s sudden remark. “Lord Palmer takes an interest in you, I observe.”

  She nearly dropped a saucer. Inwardly cursing, she made a great frowning show of concentrating on her next notation: C-F-44. Minor imperfection of pattern: one branch of leaves is in different shade of paint. “Why should you say so, miss? I rarely see him about the house.” In fact, she’d not seen him since leaving town, yesterday.

  “You meet with him regularly, don’t you? In the afternoons.” Miss Everleigh wrinkled her nose. “These maids cannot keep from gossiping.”

  “He—” Drat the gossips! “I don’t—sometimes he does invite me to take tea with him, but I—”

  “Tea, is it?” Miss Everleigh’s voice was perfectly neutral, though her next words revealed her opinion. “I’m not surprised. All you girls are very good at making impressions on gentlemen.”

  There was no wise reply to that. On a steadying breath, Lilah turned over the saucer. It felt as smooth as a baby’s bottom. See, miss, how industriously I work.

  “Curious name, ‘Everleigh Girls.’ ” Miss Everleigh loosed a brittle laugh. “I wonder what my gra
ndfather would have said, had he guessed that his auction rooms would become the byword for women who advertise tooth powder on the sides of omnibuses.”

  “I can’t imagine,” Lilah said carefully. Their truce, she gathered, was approaching its conclusion. “I have never been called to advertise anything myself.”

  With an unpleasant smile, Miss Everleigh looked her over. “No, I suppose you haven’t.”

  Lilah laughed. She did not mean to do it, and Miss Everleigh looked startled.

  “You find that amusing? I am given to understand that you girls jostle and compete for such . . . opportunities.”

  “Some of us do.” The girls who wished to call themselves to the attention of wealthy patrons did indeed dream of such fame. “I had always hoped for different.”

  Miss Everleigh’s jaw ticked, as though she were chewing on what she would say next. “Such as?”

  Lilah spotted a way back into their accord. “It would be my fondest dream to be a professional woman, such as yourself. To do work that depended on my knowledge, rather than my . . . conversational politesse, as you once put it. I was very happy, miss, when I learned I was to assist you here.”

  Miss Everleigh visibly flinched. Then she reached for a new miniature, turning it over and over in her hands—searching for what was wrong with it.

  But it seemed the little figure, of a shepherdess playing a pipe, bore no imperfections. Frowning, Miss Everleigh laid it down. “It isn’t done,” she said, staring at the shepherdess, “for a woman to be called professional. The very idea sounds . . .”

  Had Lilah offended her? “Perhaps that’s the wrong word. Forgive me, I didn’t—”

  “No.” Miss Everleigh looked up, her expression adamant. “That is precisely the right word, Miss Marshall.”

  “Well.” Fighting a foolish smile, Lilah swaddled her cup and took up another.

  “But it would take far more than the work of a single estate to provide you the requisite training,” Miss Everleigh continued stiffly. “I learned this trade from birth, you know. As a little girl on my father’s knee, I began my education.”

  “Yes, miss. Of course. I would not dream—”

  “And the price is steep, to nurse such ambitions. You are pretty enough, Miss Marshall, in your own way; perhaps the advertisers won’t have you, but some decent man might. Certainly that would be the safer path—provided his offer was satisfactory.”

  Bold words, from a sheltered heiress! In amazement, Lilah looked up.

  Miss Everleigh lifted one slim shoulder in a shrug. “I am not naïve,” she said. “Nor do I endorse immoral practices. I am certain you could find an honest man, a butcher or a . . .” It seemed her knowledge of the middling professions was not great; for a moment, she faltered. “A bank clerk,” she said finally. “To marry, I mean.”

  Between a butcher and a clerk was a great ground to cover. But Lilah doubted that Miss Everleigh was looking to be tutored on the difference. Mutely she nodded.

  “It is not exciting,” Miss Everleigh said, “to think of security. But you strike me as a practical woman—surely too wise to fall prey to the perils of romantical nonsense. Should your position feel tenuous, you will think wisely and at leisure on how to provide for yourself. The appeal of a man like Lord Palmer is far outstripped by the peril.”

  With amazement, Lilah finally understood what was happening. Miss Everleigh was warning her not to be seduced.

  Why, it was a kindness. The girl was not quite as icy as she appeared. “I understand,” Lilah said. “And I thank you for the advice, miss.” She mustered up the will to seize this opportunity. Her own feelings for Palmer could not be allowed to interfere, foolish and useless as they were. “If I dare say so, I believe you have it wrong. The times I’ve spoken with his lordship, it has always been in reference to you. I do believe he has an . . . affection for you, miss.”

  That sound that came from Miss Everleigh could not possibly have been a snort. Her expression, alas, was hidden now in study of the shepherdess. “Any number of gentlemen express any number of sentiments,” she said in a muffled voice. “Whether one credits those sentiments is a different matter.”

  An intuition stalled Lilah’s reply. Was it possible that this beautiful girl did not believe her admirers’ compliments to be genuine? Surely she must know that she was a most eligible young woman. Not blue-blooded, of course, but between her beauty and the great whacking dowry she’d bring, any number of aristocrats would gladly take her in marriage. “It’s true, gentlemen are prone to say what sounds best. But I vow to you, miss, his lordship’s interest strikes me as genuine. Moreover, his ardent admiration for your work—”

  “That’s enough.” The cold words sliced like a blade across her speech. “I need no lectures on that matter from you.”

  Lilah silently accepted the rebuff. After bundling up the last cup, she stood and said, “I can help with the Sèvres, if you—”

  “The ability to see what is there”—Miss Everleigh’s fierce tone stopped her in her tracks—“to see what is plainly before you, instead of what you wish to see—that is the key to a proper appraisal.”

  Lilah sat down slowly. “Yes, miss.”

  “Palmer does not require money.” A flush stained Miss Everleigh’s smooth cheeks. “It is indelicate to speak of, but the truth is oft indelicate. Palmer does not require my fortune, and if beauty were his aim, there are a dozen eligible beauties on the market who would flirt and smile far more readily than I.”

  How bizarre this conversation was! She must defend a woman she disliked to the very woman herself. “None of them can boast of your accomplishments, miss. None of them would know the first thing about Jihong porcelain or Persian brocades, or how to take an estate to auction.”

  “True. Do you believe the clients of Everleigh’s who call you beautiful?”

  Lilah’s instincts prickled. “Miss? I don’t—”

  “The ones who flatter you, Miss Marshall. Who beg your hand for the waltz, only to whisper in your ear of a house in St. John’s Wood . . .” Miss Everleigh made a curious little grimace, as though choking back the urge to be sick. “Promising a pile of priceless jewels, along with their undying love and affection. Do you believe those men?”

  She wet her lips. “No, miss. I do not.”

  “Yet you would counsel me to believe a man who claims to love me for my skills. Who could have his pick of pretty debutantes, but prefers the woman who would rather be alone with cold ceramics?”

  This cynicism would have been shocking, had it not been so familiar. Lilah saw now the main impediment to Palmer’s suit: Miss Everleigh was as much a pragmatist as Lilah.

  Yet there was no choice but to persevere. She needed those letters. Moreover, she needed to get away from Palmer. He was ruining her already. Destroying her peace. It wouldn’t take her uncle to leave her in pieces, ere long.

  Thus, she needed Miss Everleigh to accept Palmer’s suit. “Miss, I do believe his claim to admire you.” Lies, bold lies. She didn’t sound convincing even to herself. “Not all men are so shallow as you suggest.” That was true. “Viscount Palmer is a man of rare tastes.” She believed that. What other lord would have spoken to her like a friend—and then kissed her like a ravening beast? “Perhaps it’s his time in the military that has set him apart.” Chasing her down to Whitechapel. Then, despite his foul mood, taking the time to humor a ragtag band of children. The memory of his kindness warmed her. “Why, he’s probably the most extraordinary—”

  “Does he pay you?”

  Lilah gaped. “Miss? I don’t underst—”

  “He has enlisted his sister to aid his courtship, so why not you as well? Indeed, I can think of no other reason for your impassioned championship of the viscount.” Miss Everleigh spoke very rapidly now. “Or—if not he, then I could see my brother being desperate enough to put you to it; heaven knows he has tried any number of other ways to get rid of me. Why not marriage to Palmer?” She issued a cutting laugh. “Of course,
there is a third possibility, nearly too sad to contemplate. For how pathetic would it be for you to imagine, even for a second, that you stood to gain from flattering me? How deluded, how woefully ignorant of your own station and possibilities, to think I might actually come to like you, to feel fond enough of you, to support your ambitions! For you overreach yourself sorely if you imagine that you would ever win a position like mine. Why, it is so far above your station it might as well be a princedom. For to be a curator, Miss Marshall, one must first be a person in possession of breeding and taste.”

  Well, that did it. Lilah put her hands on the table and shoved herself to her feet. “It would indeed be pathetic,” she said, “to attempt to rouse any emotion in your heart warmer than indifference! I should count myself lucky only to be spared your contempt. But I do agree, most pathetic of all would be to hope for any outcome similar to yours—for you are unkind, Miss Everleigh, and cold, and above all the unhappiest woman I’ve ever known, despite having every advantage in the world!”

  Miss Everleigh rose, her posture magnificently stiff. “You are through here,” she said. “Through at Buckley Hall, and through”—she swayed, catching herself on the table—“at the auction rooms. Go pack your things.” She panted. “I want you on the train by nightfall.”

  “No.” Lilah put a hand over her mouth, horrified. What have I done? “No, please, I’m so sorry, so very—”

  Miss Everleigh collapsed to the floor, china shattering around her.

  “My best guess is adulterated foodstuff.”

  The doctor’s pronouncement came clearly from around the corner. Mrs. Barnes, who had come out of Miss Everleigh’s room to eavesdrop, clapped her hands to her mouth. “Can’t be,” she whispered to Lilah.

  Something had made Miss Everleigh very sick. She had vomited several times, yet her fever kept building. Dr. Hardwick had sat with her all day, but his medicines showed little sign of assuaging her misery.

  “Is the rest of the household at risk?” came Lord Palmer’s quiet voice.

  Lilah exchanged an alarmed look with Mrs. Barnes. The older woman laid a hand on her own forehead as though to test herself.