Lady Be Good (11 page)

“You’re far too young to make a proper chaperone,” he said. “But an assistant—why not?”

She suddenly remembered Palmer’s conversation with Peter Everleigh. He had proposed this very scheme to Peter. “Have you been planning this the whole time?”

He looked puzzled. “What do you mean?”

Yes, what did she mean? He could not have known that she was beneath that desk when he’d proposed his solution.

Still, something did not sit right. “To assist her would be a step up in the world.”

“Yes. I’m glad you see that.”

“Miss Everleigh would never offer that position to a hostess.”

“She will.”

He sounded very confident. Her puzzlement grew. “Then . . . why on earth should you wish
me
for it?”

“Do you mean, why should I wish to have a thief on my property?”

“Yes,” she said bluntly.

He gave her a wolfish smile. “Because I will require that Catherine’s assistant answer to
me
.”

They were coming to it now. “For what reason?”

“To facilitate my courtship of her. Imagine the hints you might offer me, as you come to know her better.”

She mulled this absurd proposition. “And in return, you won’t go to the police about me?”

He leaned forward. “In return, I’ll give you back those letters.”

Her heart tripped. The bargain sounded very simple. Advantageous, too. Assisting Miss Everleigh would make a very fine credential for her.

Why, it could mean everything. A true step upward! Other auction houses had female associates—society matrons, mostly, but there was a precedent. With this opportunity to learn and educate herself, Lilah might have a real chance at such endeavors.

For a moment, the happy fantasy unspooled in her brain. A cluttered attic. Miss Everleigh’s dismissal of the rubbish therein. An overlooked treasure, which Lilah discovered and presented, thereby winning Miss Everleigh’s respect and support. And then . . . why, a position
of a different kind. A raise in salary, to fatten her savings. An office of her own, with a cunning little card that announced her new title:
Lilah Marshall, Appraiser, Everleigh’s Auction Rooms
.

And yet . . . She gave a pull of her mouth. Miracles only happened in fairy tales. Miss Everleigh would never esteem a hostess to that degree.

And in the real world, gentlemen like Palmer did not need thieves to facilitate their romances.

“I don’t believe you,” she said quietly. It felt cruel of him to taunt her in this way. He could not guess how cruel it was to appeal to her ambitions, but that did not prevent her from thinking him rotten for it. “You need no help in wooing women.”

“What a fine compliment.” Setting down his glass, he came to sit beside her on the sofa. “I’ll put another name to it, then, shall I?”

His warmth reached her, the displaced air carrying a trace of the spice of his skin. His jacket brushed softly against her bare arm. She realized she was holding her breath. “Go ahead,” she whispered.

Gently he cupped her cheek. His fingers pressed as lightly as a breath. Rough fingertips. He placed his thumb on her lower lip. “You are to be my spy.” His gaze dipped, following his thumb as he traced the shape of her mouth. “You will befriend her. See whom she writes. If she meets anyone—goes anywhere—you follow.” As his thumb reached the corner of her mouth, he paused. The silence between them vibrated. His gaze lifted, and goose bumps broke over her skin. Hawk’s eyes, lambent gold. “And then you will report all of it to me.”

Her mouth was dry. A pulse seemed to thrum in it. “And where does your touching me enter this picture?”

He leaned down. Their lips brushed. His were warm and smooth. She was not going to open her mouth. This time, she would not lose her head.

His tongue traced the seam of her lips. Coaxed them apart. Her stomach seemed to fall. She could not catch her indrawn breath. His tongue followed into her mouth, taking a slow, leisurely taste before he pulled back.

“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.