Lady Be Good Read online

  “It’s not a requirement,” he said huskily. “But you seem to enjoy it. As do I.”

  She folded her lips together, bit down on them. He was right, of course. To deny the obvious would make her look like a fool. She took a hard breath through her nose.

  His eyes narrowed. She saw his intent to kiss her again. Heart tripping, she eased away from him. “But it’s not required.” Her voice was unsteady. “To be clear on the matter.”

  “Not required,” he said. “But an option, regardless.”

  She nodded. After another fraught second, he moved back to his wing chair. Only then did the air seem to cool around her so she could breathe properly again. “I help you woo her.” She cleared her throat. “Or spy, as it were. And in return, you’ll give me the papers.”

  “The moment she accepts my proposal, they are yours.” He paused. “But you really haven’t much choice in the matter, have you?”

  There was the rub. “I need those letters by the last week of June. No later.”

  He shrugged. “Then you must do a quick job of befriending her.”

  Lilah could not imagine working beside her, much less winning her trust. But he was right. What choice did she have?

  “What happens,” he asked, “in the last week of June?”

  She pressed her lips together. “Nothing.” And then, with a shrug: “The devil will have his due.”

  “Sweet girl.” He held out his hand to help her rise. “I have good news. From now on, the only devil you need fear is me.”

  From the front door of his town house, Christian watched his new conspirator make her way down the pavement toward the high street. She’d declined to be driven home by his coachman. Hostesses cannot be seen to consort with clients, she’d said coolly. There’s an omnibus that runs directly to my boardinghouse. I expect no trouble.

  Indeed. He pitied the man who thought to test her. Quick-witted, confident, and clearly experienced in unsavory pastimes, Lilah Marshall was more likely to make trouble, he’d wager, than suffer from it.

  She reminded him faintly of someone . . . He could not place it. Certainly he’d never met a woman precisely like her. What a fine asset she’d make. And how astonished she would be to learn that he felt grateful to her. God, but he could have spent an hour watching her turn in circles for him. The narrowness of her waist, the swell of her hips . . . Her shape, her voice, the intentions that had brought her here, were now burned into his brain. It made a rare and welcome distraction from his other preoccupations.

  He pulled shut the door. A cleared throat drew his attention. Howe, his butler, was lurking by a potted plant, making a conspicuous study of the floor.

  Christian had found the man—and most of his servants—through a charity for veteran relief. From a long line of butlers and valets, Howe had wished to follow the family tradition, but his limp had barred him from service until Christian made an offer.

  “Any sign?” Christian asked. His open-door policy on these nights was well publicized. Bolkhov must know that if he presented himself, he would be admitted without hesitation.

  “No, my lord.” Howe touched his waistcoat, where—like all the men in Christian’s unusual staff—he carried a small firearm. “But the staff is prepared. And Lord Ashmore has arrived. He waits in your study.”

  “Excellent.” Christian took the stairs two by two. At the first landing, one of his former troops cried out a greeting, and the hubbub paused briefly. He lifted his hand in acknowledgment and continued to climb.

  These gatherings had started shortly after his return to England. For so long he’d dreamed of homecoming. But he’d returned to a world transformed—his father dead, his family in seclusion. He’d come late to mourning; Geoff had already thrown himself into plans to improve Susseby, fervently pursuing his duty to the Stratton legacy. But that legacy was not Christian’s to uphold. At Susseby, he was loved, but not needed. Meanwhile, crowds threw flowers and applauded him—for what purpose? After a time, even adulation grew tedious.

  His men needed him. In the field, they had entrusted him with their lives. Now, cast adrift in a country that neglected its veterans, they came to his table half starving, rattled and uncertain. He fed them. He used his celebrity to find them lodging and employment. He made loans that he never expected to be repaid. He was of use.

  He was not, however, at home. Campfire camaraderie did not survive in a drawing room. His men welcomed him, but their conversations grew muted in his company. They watched their language around him now. Major Stratton had made a home for himself in the military, but Lord Palmer could not.

  On the second floor, in a small room that overlooked the street, he found Phineas Granville, Earl of Ashmore, waiting with a book under one arm, his admiring attention on the collection of scimitars atop the mantel. “Where are your goddamned men?” Christian asked as he stepped inside. “My sister paid a midnight call.”

  Ashmore turned. He was a tall, dark-featured man in his early thirties, with piercing black eyes and a certain innate gravitas that made him a powerful speechmaker in Parliament. But it was a rare occasion that saw Ashmore airing his interests so publicly. Secrets collected to him like moths to a light. “Good evening to you as well,” he said calmly.

  If anything ever fractured that calm, Christian had yet to discover it. They had first met in Afghanistan, where Ashmore’s cool head had come in handy at the bloodiest and most dangerous hours. Whatever his involvement in that war—for he’d worked for the government in some secret capacity, appearing and disappearing at will—it had obviously required a man of unshakable composure.

  But Melanie had slipped past him today, regardless. “Were your friends sleeping?” Christian asked. Those “friends” were a deadly assembly, mercenaries trained to operate in the shadows. Certainly they should be equipped to handle a girl of twenty.

  “Check your post,” said Ashmore. “I sent word when she lit out from Susseby this afternoon.”

  “They should have stopped her before she boarded the bloody train!”

  “That would have required a very uncomfortable discussion with the policemen on the platform.” Ashmore turned, retrieving a glass from Christian’s desk. “Drink?” He took a leisurely sip, then lifted one dark brow in appreciation. “Very fine collection of port in that cabinet. Your brother’s, I take it? You always preferred rotgut.”

  That liquor cabinet had been locked, last time Christian had checked, and he’d not yet managed to locate the key. He spared a brief, wry smile. “A soldier drinks what he can get. Any other discoveries worth noting? How fare my finances? Find any skeletons in the walls?”

  “Come now. I never pry into friends’ affairs.”

  Christian snorted. “Certainly. Why bother, when you’d rather manage them entirely?” When Ashmore had insisted on helping with this manhunt, Christian had hesitated before assenting; he’d known it would turn into a circus of spies.

  But he’d never expected incompetence. “Melanie was wandering the park with only a maid at her heels.”

  “My men were ten paces behind.”

  “Not that I saw.”

  “Well.” Ashmore swirled the liquid in his glass, then bolted it. “That’s something to their credit, at least. I’ve replaced the crew who let her slip by,” he added. “Get her back to Susseby. She won’t get out again.”

  With a curt nod, Christian said, “Then come with me, please.” He turned on his heel, leading Ashmore down the hall and through a servant’s stair into the basement.

  “Dare I hope you’re taking me on a tour of the wine cellar?” Ashmore asked as they emerged into a low-ceilinged hall. “If the port was so fine . . .”

  Christian drew up outside a door outfitted with several locks. The keychain weighed as much as a small child.

  Ashmore lifted dark brows. “I stand corrected: it seems you have a dungeon.”

  “More useful than a cellar, to be sure.” He opened the last lock, then swung open the door. A single gas lamp lit
the small, stone-walled chamber. A chair sat on the bare floorboards. The man tied to it emitted a groan—or perhaps a garbled word. The gag did a fine job of muffling him.

  “Christ!” Ashmore put down the book and ran a hand through his hair. “What in God’s name, Kit?”

  So he could be startled. How gratifying. “Not a guest, you may gather.” The overfed ginger was dressed in black, head to toe. Christian walked up to him. “No biting this time,” he warned, then pulled out his dagger and sliced through the gag.

  “Bloody lunatic! Eejit maniac—” The round vowels of a Welshman echoed off the walls.

  “Bolkhov’s?” Ashmore asked.

  The redhead shook his head. “No, no—”

  “He persuaded me otherwise,” Christian said. “But he has yet to account for why he was skulking in the park across the road.”

  “A poor choice on his part,” Ashmore said dryly. “Did anyone see you take him?”

  “No!” the redhead burst out. “Not a soul, and I’ve been here for hours!”

  Ashmore squinted toward the door, as though mentally conjuring the park. “That’s a good distance,” he said, sounding grudgingly impressed.

  “God save you,” the redhead panted. “Please, sir, I beg you! This madman—”

  Christian spoke over him. “He carried an interesting item on his person.” He reached into his pocket, pulling out the slim steel bar. The man’s blubbering got louder. He laid the edge of the bar to the man’s cheek, which shut him up.

  Ashmore cleared his throat. “May I?”

  Christian handed over the bar. Ashmore was a man of multifarious talents. Very good at secrecy. Even better at killing. There was no weapon that he did not recognize.

  “A thief’s tool,” Ashmore decided. He squatted to look in the man’s eyes. “A common burglar?” he asked gently. “Is that it?”

  The man hesitated.

  “Come, now. If you don’t answer honestly, I’ll leave you here with him.”

  “Fine! Yes! I was casing the houses in the square—”

  Ashmore rose so quickly that the redhead cringed. He had always been remarkably light on his feet. In Afghanistan, troops had taken to calling him the Black Cat, for his knack at slipping past the men on watch. Too, his mysterious visits had always signaled bad luck ahead: a hazardous raid; a battle with losing odds. Certainly he’d never appeared to celebrate a victory. “You want me to deliver him to the police?” he asked Christian.

  “Fine. But first—” Christian nodded toward the door. “A word.”

  “Of course.” Ashmore bent to pick up his book.

  “Don’t go!” the man cried. “Sir, please, take me to the police. Don’t leave me with—”

  Christian shut the door on his cries.

  “I recall an argument outside Kabul, long ago.” Ashmore leaned against the wall, an odd look on his face. “A young lieutenant, castigating me for claiming that torture had its uses.”

  Christian allowed himself a faint smile. “You dismissed him as a useless idealist.”

  Ashmore gave a quick, wry tug of his mouth. “I’d only just met him. I quickly revised my opinion.” He paused. “But I admired his idealism from the start.”

  “Have no fear. Barring the burglar’s removal from the park, I never laid a hand on him.”

  “Indeed? Only words?” When he nodded, Ashmore looked struck. “A good thing you didn’t discover that talent in Afghanistan. They might have reassigned you, put you to work with me.”

  “A pity they didn’t. I could have used the experience.” It would have prepared him better to face an enemy like Bolkhov, who aimed at innocents and struck from the shadows.

  “No,” Ashmore said. “You’re not a man who would thrive in that line. And I mean that as a compliment to you.”

  “One does as one must.” Christian recited the words flatly. “Your words to me once.”

  “Spoken in wartime. But Bolkhov is a common criminal, and this territory is yours. Never forget that you have the advantage here. You’re home now.”

  Home, was he? Christian bit his cheek to stop a bitter smile. He felt no sense of homecoming, not even at Susseby. All he sensed was his brother’s ghost at his heels, demanding justice . . . and accusing him.

  This is not your life. None of this was meant to be yours.

  These ruminations were pointless. As long as Bolkhov lived, regret and doubt would hold no interest for him. He turned toward business instead. “I’m leaving London at week’s end. Catherine Everleigh will be traveling to Buckley Hall, and I mean to join her for the duration of her visit.”

  Ashmore’s narrow, unblinking gaze probably proved very useful in his own interrogations. “The Russian collection goes to auction in June, yes? That’s eight, ten weeks.”

  Christian nodded. “In the meantime, I’ll make a show of courting Catherine. If that doesn’t lure Bolkhov out, the auction will do it.”

  “And if it doesn’t?”

  The prospect of this nightmare extending indefinitely . . . “He’s putting that candelabrum to auction for a reason. It was a message to me; he’s done with waiting.”

  “I do hope so.” Ashmore turned his book in his hands, his signet ring gleaming as he rubbed his thumb across the gilt-stamped spine. “Bolkhov deserves a bullet, of course—for his crimes in the war, as much as for your brother. But . . . once it’s over, Kit. Have you thought on what awaits you?”

  “My conscience won’t trouble me, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Indeed. I’m not one to lecture on that, am I?” A grim cast came over Ashmore’s face; his brief silence felt fraught, clouded by what he’d never plainly admitted. But Christian had pieced the truth together, over the years. Before Ashmore had inherited his title, he’d traveled the globe for the government, but he’d never done so as a proper soldier.

  Assassin. An ugly word. No honor in it.

  Ashmore continued, a rare hesitance slowing his speech. “I will help you in whatever manner you allow. And you’re probably right to say you must take a direct hand in it; that he won’t emerge from his hidey-hole unless you offer the bait. But I can’t like it, Kit. This isn’t the role you’re meant for.”

  Wasn’t it? Christian glanced toward the bolted door, the medieval-looking padlocks. He’d made a prison in his own home, and another one for his family at Susseby. Each night, he prayed to shed a man’s blood.

  No wonder that he no longer slept well.

  “What role do you recommend, then?” he asked. “Am I more suited to signing autographs and donning medals, while a lunatic plots to murder my family?”

  “Of course not,” Ashmore said sharply. “But don’t mock the man who won those medals. God knows he earned them—not just at Bekhole, but every day of that bloody war. I saw that with my own eyes. And I hope to see him again, soon enough. For his scope and promise are far larger than this passing lunacy with Bolkhov. And I won’t allow you to forget that.”

  Christian recognized kindness when he heard it. But it felt wasted. “Once I kill him,” he said. “We’ll revisit this discussion.”

  “Fine.” Ashmore loosed a long breath, then pulled the book from under his arm. “I’ve been carrying this all day. A gift for you, fresh from New York.”

  Christian glanced at the spine, then startled himself with a genuine laugh. Sun Tzu: The Art of War. “From you? No—from Mina, am I right?” Ashmore’s wife was an American bon vivant, petite and pretty as a doll, and dangerously sharp. She had once told Christian that etiquette manuals were a sham; all a woman needed to succeed, she claimed, was a copy of Machiavelli’s advice for tyrants.

  “Her newest inspiration, yes. I advise you to read it thoroughly.” Ashmore added dryly, “She’ll probably quiz you on it when next we meet.”

  An intuition brushed through Christian. Here was why Lilah Marshall sometimes seemed so familiar to him. She and Mina shared the same brand of brazen self-possession, a winking awareness of their own charm and wit. “Cover to cov
er, then,” he said, and tucked it under his arm before taking his leave of Ashmore.

  Once upstairs, however, he left the book unopened in his sitting room. Ashmore was right in one regard: Bolkhov had claimed too many pieces of his inward reserve. For months he had fantasized about nothing but blood. But tonight, he would push aside all thoughts of warfare, and dream of more pleasant villainies.

  With God’s grace, he would dream only of what he wished to do to Lilah.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Tu n’es pas qualifié pour être mon assistante.”

  Lilah had been staring out the window at rolling fields. Startled, she looked up. “I beg your pardon?”

  Miss Everleigh sat across from her, swaddled to the chin in a most unattractive, but no doubt extremely expensive, coat of fine-twilled puce-colored cashmere. “I said, Tu n’es pas qualifié pour être mon assistante.”

  Lilah recognized the language as French. There, her knowledge ended. “Yes,” she said. “Indeed.”

  Miss Everleigh narrowed her eyes, which Lilah knew could shine a striking violet, but which today—thanks to the coat—more closely resembled the color of a mud-clogged puddle. For all Lilah knew, that was the very reason Miss Everleigh had chosen such an unflattering color. If the past two hours of stony silence had demonstrated anything, it was the lady’s ability to make everything—even Lilah’s first trip into the country—deeply unappealing.

  “You have just admitted that you’re thoroughly unqualified to be my assistant,” Miss Everleigh told her. “Either you do not understand French, or you are unusually honest.”

  Charming! They were bantering now, only a hop and a skip away from becoming bosom friends. “I would like to think myself honest,” Lilah said. It would be nice to be Lilah Marshall in truth, the daughter of a respectable clerk. “Alas, my French is very poor.”

  Catherine sniffed. “Why am I not surprised?”

  “Because you’re a woman of great insight,” Lilah said smoothly.

  From Catherine’s sour look, it was clear that flattery would not work. “This is a mad arrangement. You will only get in my way.” She straightened her muff—was she really so cold that she required all that outerwear?—and returned to staring fixedly out the window.