Lady Be Good Page 22

  Lilah gathered that the compliment was not to her actual anatomy. She handed the bottle back. Miss Everleigh took another swallow without even wiping the rim. “Tannins,” she pronounced, blinking rapidly. “They would not be so pronounced, were this still 1867.” She laughed at her own joke, then gave the bottle back to Lilah.

  “Another?” Lilah asked, just to be certain.

  “I can’t drink all of it myself.”

  This was how, an hour later, with the room cast into twilight darkness, they still sat amid the dusty work of their day, the bottle between them, while Miss Everleigh recounted Young Pete’s boyish misadventures with a bottle of stolen port.

  “He couldn’t even make it to the water closet?” Lilah felt appalled and amused at once. The poor maids!

  “Not in time. But he certainly stayed there the rest of the night!” Miss Everleigh loosed a snorting laugh. “My father took to calling him Peter Porter after that. Oh, he loathed the name.” Her laughter faded. “He still does.” She gave a pull of her mouth. “No quicker way to needle him than to call him Porter.”

  Sensing the downward dive of her mood, Lilah held out the bottle. “Last sip.”

  “I couldn’t.” Miss Everleigh brushed down her rumpled skirts. “I’m already lightheaded. And look at me. Dinner will be laid in an hour.”

  The thought of going back to her own rooms, with only the silence and her thoughts for company, made Lilah push harder. “Here, do take it. We must dispose of the evidence.”

  Miss Everleigh lifted her brows. “That sounds like the advice of a criminal.”

  That gave Lilah a bad start—until she saw the faint smile on her employer’s mouth, quickly disguised as Miss Everleigh lifted the bottle and polished it off. “Do you know,” she said as she returned the bottle to the floor with a thump, “I rather like forgoing a glass. It makes one feel very . . . carefree. Where did you say that people favored that practice?”

  “The East End, miss.”

  “Oh.” In the shadowed dimness, Miss Everleigh looked at her closely. “Is that where you’re from? You don’t sound it.”

  Mindful of what she had claimed in her interview for the position of hostess, Lilah hedged. “I did rent lodgings there, when I was studying for my typing certificate.”

  “You can type!” Miss Everleigh retrieved the bottle, picking at the label. “I didn’t know that. I’ve always wanted to learn. My hand cramps so awfully when I write.” She shook it out, by way of illustration.

  Lilah hid a smile. Miss Everleigh’s love of wine clearly outstripped her tolerance for it. “I would be glad to teach you, miss.”

  “Would you? I’d like that.” Miss Everleigh set down the bottle again, gazing at the trunk. “It really isn’t fit to be sold,” she said. “But perhaps Lord Palmer would like to drink some.” She grimaced and waved. “No, no. He’s very discerning with his wines. He . . .” Her eyes narrowed. “I expect he’ll throw them all into the rubbish.”

  “I can’t imagine how marvelous it must taste,” Lilah said, “when it’s in its proper state. It’s quite delicious already.”

  “Yes. So it is.” Miss Everleigh nodded. “Go on, then.”

  “Go on, what?”

  “Open another.” She waved toward the trunk, saying with magnificent, slightly slurred arrogance, “I am in the mood to celebrate.”

  “Celebrate?”

  “Why, yes. Don’t you realize?” On a broad smile, she clambered to her feet and threw out her arms. “The treasures we’ve discovered! Jihong porcelain. Mappemondes! Our auction shall outstrip any of Peter Porter’s by far.”

  Lilah burst into giggles.

  “I am serious,” Miss Everleigh insisted. “My brother is . . . insufferable. Convinced that women have not a brain in their skulls. He would never have given me Buckley Hall had he imagined . . . oh.” She blinked. “Peter Porter? Is that it?”

  Lips pressed together, Lilah nodded.

  “Peter Puker is more apt. You should have smelled his bedroom! The maids scrubbed and scrubbed the carpet, but the reek lingered for days . . .” She fell into giggles as she flipped her hand toward the trunk. “Hurry up,” she said. “Open another!”

  In the middle of the night, Lilah woke from a dream about water—a great pool of it, clear and quenching as it rose past her waist. Her eyes opened into darkness. Her head pounded. Her mouth was dust dry.

  She stumbled to her feet. Oh, good Lord. She hadn’t drunk so deeply since the first time Fiona had stolen a bottle of brandy from Nick. She grimaced and fumbled her way toward the pitcher of water on her dresser.

  The pieces of the evening reassembled. She had taken her dinner in Miss Everleigh’s rooms. No wonder gentlemen enjoyed their cups! It had been very pleasant to trade laughter and gossip. Miss Everleigh had wanted to know Lilah’s most awful tales about the rogues who patronized the auction house. How did the hostesses bear their flirtations?

  At some point, Miss Everleigh had decided to educate her in proper wine tasting. She had rung for three more bottles—including a sweet, white Hungarian that Lilah had liked far too well. Having withdrawn to seats by the fire to nurse their last glasses (but they hadn’t nursed them, precisely), Lilah had asked Miss Everleigh about the old days at the auction house, when her father had governed. Miss Everleigh had been full of touching anecdotes. Why, she had teared up, once or twice. She had seemed particularly moved by the revelation that the hostesses—

  Oh dear. With her hands around the pitcher, Lilah froze. She had admitted the girls’ nickname for Peter Everleigh. Why, his sister had been delighted by this disrespectful moniker. “ ‘Young Pete,’ indeed. He will never take my father’s place,” she had told Lilah in a fierce slur.

  Forget it. She won’t remember in the morning, either. Lilah lifted the water jug to her mouth.

  It was empty.

  She lowered it with a groan. If she didn’t find some water, she’d die.

  She grabbed her knife, retied her robe, and made her way downstairs. In the cold, silent kitchen, she split the wax seal on a bottle of well water and drank it straight down. Opening another for the journey, she started back up the stairs—but a noise from above made her hesitate. What had she been thinking, coming down in only her robe? Were those voices?

  She crept up to the landing.

  “—cannot endure this,” Miss Everleigh said vehemently.

  Why on earth was she still awake?

  “I understand your disappointment. I share it myself.” That was Palmer’s voice! Palmer was back! Lilah shifted to peek up around the corner. The door to the drawing room stood ajar, casting a wedge of light across the floorboards.

  Had Miss Everleigh known he was planning to return tonight? Had she stayed up to wait for him?

  Lilah tightened her grip around the bottle, disliking that thought immensely.

  “Yes, I know,” Miss Everleigh said in reply to some murmured remark. “I must say, you have been very kind.” She paused then for what seemed like forever. “Yes,” she said at last, her voice much softer. “That’s quite true. Thank you, my lord.”

  Now came another quiet remark. After nearly a week, the timber of his voice worked some kind of spell on Lilah. She found herself breathless, desperate to make out his conversation.

  But it was Miss Everleigh’s reply that came clearly. “Quite right. Thank you, Christian.” Her slow laugh announced the lingering effect of the liquor. “And I suppose you must call me Catherine, then. It’s only fitting.”

  Water sloshed into Lilah’s chest. It trickled like ice down her skin, but she barely felt it. Her jealousy burned too hot.

  The wedge of light widened. Above, soft footsteps—Miss Everleigh’s, Lilah guessed—mounted the stairs.

  Had she imagined that she might like the woman after all? No. Always trust the first instinct. Witch.

  Now came a heavier tread. She spared the rest of her loathing for him, this rotted, deceitful man who would seduce an employee while courting the mistres
s—

  But he hadn’t seduced her. Oh, God. She closed her eyes, wishing desperately that she could forget her own role in it. Her stupid babble about the butcher. Her breathy question, so transparently desperate: Won’t you demand anything else?

  Her loathing swelled. It felt fiercest for herself. What a pathetic fool she was!

  The footsteps faded. They had both gone upstairs. Perhaps they were together now in Palmer’s rooms.

  She grimaced violently. Even in a drunken stupor, Catherine Everleigh was a real lady. She would not join Palmer in bed until they married. Then she would murmur to him all night long. Christian, Christian . . . Bah—a ridiculous name for such a hypocrite. Kit. Even more absurd! That stupid poem. He said he was no hero, and he was right. Little did England’s pious patriots know they had memorized an ode to a smooth, handsome blackguard.

  Christian. He had never asked Lilah to call him by his name—not even when he’d demanded to know hers.

  She was glad she had not told him. Fiercely proud of her restraint.

  The footsteps were returning. God in heaven, she couldn’t face him now, not when humiliation blazed as brightly as a flag on her face. She gathered herself, ready to dash all the way back to the kitchens and hide in the pantry—

  But these footsteps were mounting the stairs. They were following the path the others had taken.

  Foreboding prickled over her. She frowned up into the darkness. That could not be Palmer. Someone else—a third person—was stealing quietly up the stairs. It was not a woman. That scuffing sound was made by the tread of a hard-soled shoe.

  The new footmen weren’t due till next week. There were no indoor servants who were male.

  Lilah slowly set down the bottle. She reached into her pocket and took hold of her knife.

  This isn’t your business. Hide in the pantry. He doesn’t deserve your care.

  Too true. What a dolt she was! Gathering her skirts, she stole up the stairs after the intruder.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Lilah paused in the shadows of the upper landing, listening intently. The intruder had moved off the stone stairway into the upper hall, his weight raising a creak from the floorboards. Now silence. Now several creaks, then silence again.

  He was varying the pace of his steps, the better to avoid the telltale rhythm of footfall. That was a common trick among burglars. He knew what he was about.

  Lilah crept to the top of the stairs. To the left lay her rooms and Miss Everleigh’s. The man hesitated, then turned right, toward Lord Palmer’s apartment and the passage to the west wing.

  Lilah inched around the corner into the shelter of a tall suit of armor. She was lighter than the burglar, and by dint of old habit, had taken note of which sections of the floor were noisiest. These advantages allowed her to dart across the hall soundlessly. She ducked into the servant’s passage and groped forward.

  The lamps were out. If the design mirrored the passage adjoining her apartments, there would be a door soon enough to the right. It would open into Palmer’s washroom, allowing staff to fetch up warm water for his baths.

  A doorknob came into her grip. She opened it, surprising Palmer at the washbasin. He lunged immediately out of sight—then pivoted, a pistol in his hand. Good. She lifted her knife to point beyond him to the door to his bedroom.

  He did not follow her gesture. His face showed plain astonishment. “What in God’s name—”

  “Someone’s coming,” she said softly.

  He pivoted just as the door swung open. The stranger swore—genuine surprise, distress—and yanked the door closed. “Stay where you are,” Palmer bit out, and shouldered through the door, disappearing from sight.

  She leaned out of the servants’ passage, listening hard. She heard a scuffle in the hallway. Perhaps a muffled groan. But no gunshot.

  Silence settled. Heart pounding, she stepped fully into the washroom—then jumped as Palmer reappeared in the doorway, breathing hard. “Go to Miss Everleigh,” he said. “Lock her doors and barricade them.” He did not wait for agreement before turning on his heel.

  A fine idea. She slipped back into the servants’ passage and groped her way through the darkness. The next door to the left opened into the hall; she did not want that.

  The door after it belonged to Miss Everleigh. But it was locked.

  Cursing, she retraced her steps and cracked open the door to the hall. Dead silence. Squinting left and right, she edged out along the wall. The knife felt like a friend in her sweaty grip. If somebody grabbed her, she’d stick him.

  Bloody hell. Miss Everleigh had locked the outer door as well. Holding her breath, Lilah dared a light knock.

  No reply.

  She knocked harder, then rattled the doorknob.

  Nothing.

  She remembered the sound of Miss Everleigh’s slurred laugh. What a night to fall into a liquor-logged sleep!

  She reached into her coiffure for a pin with which to pick the lock, and only then realized that in her own drunken stupor, she had managed one thing—she had taken down her hair and plaited it for bed.

  Swallowing a curse, she started for her own room. But suddenly a commotion rose from below—a hoarse shout, a thud, and the sound of something shattering. Why did Palmer not use his pistol? She thought with wild black humor of what her uncle would say. A gun was only useful when one was willing to fire it.

  The disturbance ceased. She caught the faint rhythm of Palmer’s voice. Relieved, she flew down the stairs.

  Palmer was standing in the entry hall. A body lay across the threshold, booted feet just visible. As she stepped off the staircase, Palmer crouched down by the body.

  A figure emerged from the cloakroom. A man with a knife.

  “Palmer!” she cried. The figure turned and sprinted toward her. She wheeled for the stairs and a hand closed around her throat. She stabbed her knife into it. Her blade rebounded off bone.

  She pulled free but he caught her and dragged her against him; snatched her wrist and twisted it behind her back. Writhing, intending to bite, she saw a stranger’s face, snarling, murderous. He squeezed her wrist, forcing the knife from her nerveless grip.

  A great weight knocked into them. She dragged herself free, then scrambled to hands and knees. Palmer was on top of the man. Grappling with him. They rolled, a brawling vicious tangle; the man rose over Palmer, his knife glinting—

  Palmer seized his wrist. They struggled now in silence for control of the blade, their breathing harsh, the silence otherwise profound, terrible—

  Palmer broke the man’s grip, the knife clattering to the floor. The man howled and grabbed at Palmer’s throat—but Palmer moved faster, hooking his arm around the other man’s neck, dragging him to his feet as he thrashed, seizing his head and jerking sharply—

  The crack was sickening. Palmer opened his arms, and the man’s body dropped lifeless to the floor.

  She had never seen a man killed like that.

  Palmer turned on her, his face a mask of rage. “You were meant to go to London!”

  She crawled backward, finding her feet and lurching up. “Who—what—”

  He shoved his hand through his hair. “Jesus God.” He looked down at the body, then knelt, hunting roughly for a pulse.

  “He’s dead,” she said. No doubt.

  He looked up, his eyes blazing. “What were you thinking?”

  “I—I wasn’t.” She’d seen the knife. Instinct had taken over.

  Men appeared in the doorway. She jumped back—then recognized them. The assayers. Two men half carried, half dragged a third inside. The one who had collapsed in the doorway. He looked dazed, but she saw no blood.

  Something flashed by her, causing her to flinch. It clattered onto the ground in a distant corner: the stranger’s knife. Palmer had tossed it away. He had also taken note of her jumpiness. He was staring at her, a black, flat stare. “Take this one,” he said.

  For a moment, she thought he was speaking to her. Then the assayers
leaned their wounded friend against the wall and came over to pick up the corpse, slinging it between them.

  “All men to the house.” Palmer spoke in sharp syllables, chips of ice. “Forget the property lines. Every side, defended.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Defended against what? “Is there more than one of them?” Lilah looked wildly around. This house made an awful defense. Too many doorways. Too many windows. She spotted her knife, and bent to pick it up.

  Quick as a striking snake, Palmer caught her arm. “You’re hit.”

  “What?” A bolt of fear coursed through her. She looked down. One of her sleeves was ripped. Flimsy fabric. Blood on her forearm.

  She scrubbed it off with the intact sleeve. “A nick.” A strange laugh escaped her. “I’m all right.”

  “Lilah.” His expression was unrecognizable. Chillingly cold. “Did you alert Miss Everleigh?”

  “No, she didn’t answer me—”

  “Good.” Without warning, he swept her into his arms and started up the stairs.

  Sometimes the better part of wisdom lay in silence. Lilah held her tongue as Palmer shouldered through the door into his apartments. He walked straight into his bedchamber and dumped her on the bed. “Stay there.” He turned on his heel, leaving her in silence.

  The night’s chill gradually registered. Why, that was right; she was wearing her robe. Barely dressed. She yanked the hem over her ankles and drew a shaking breath. The room was handsome, full of dark, heavy furniture. None of it for sale. She’d never been into his suite before.

  She ran a hand over the coverlet. Soft, expensive fabric. Silk, dyed the shade of dried blood.

  She recoiled. Pulled her hand back into her lap. Looked at her wrist, which had stopped bleeding.

  Somebody had sneaked into the house. Palmer had broken his neck. Strong enough to lift a ram; strong enough to snap a spine. Why be surprised?

  Her thoughts felt disjointed. Unnerving. She locked her hands tightly together, and counted the roses in the border of the carpet.