Lady Be Good (9 page)

Then the opera dancer had caught sight of Christian.

It’s that bloody poem
, he’d told Geoff later that night, by way of apology, as they’d driven home.
It’s everywhere now
.

The dancer had been dispatched by then. Geoff’s interest in her had died a sudden, cold death when she’d thrown herself into Christian’s lap and begged for a kiss.

The poem?
Geoff had asked in a slur.
Are you certain it’s not the medals? Or your pictures in all the newspapers? Or that ball the Queen held for you last month?

Christian had never seen him drunk. Unnerved, he’d helped Geoff out of the coach, into the house. But in the lobby, Geoff had pushed him away.
Just once
, he’d said, swaying.
Just once, Kit, I’d like to know how it is to have it so deuced easy
.

Christian had been astonished.
You imagine it was easy?

Don’t start on that again
, Geoff had said.
The mad Slav in the cave. Nobody believes you! Boy who cried wolf. You’ve always been one for wild tales
.

Yes, all his wild tales. He’d always been the entertainer. Not the sharpest at studies, but very good for a laugh.
You think it was easy to grow up in your shadow? The firstborn, the genius, the one who could do no wrong?

The next morning, he’d woken with a savage hangover and a remorseful recollection of how angrily he’d stumbled to bed. He had gone downstairs prepared to apologize. Geoff was the head of the family, after all.
Respect him
.

But Geoff had already left for York.

A day later, when the note had arrived for Christian—a single line, in nearly illiterate scrawl, which the authorities had dismissed as a prank—he’d dispatched a telegram to Geoff’s hotel and boarded the next train in a frantic blur he still could not wholly piece together.

But it had been too late. Geoff had been dead, the hotel in flames.

Not a faulty gas line, after all. But it had taken months to persuade the government to mount an investigation, and even longer to determine that the evidence pointed to arson—although the scrawled note had been unequivocal:
Now it begins
.

He laid his hand atop the wet earth over Geoff’s grave. Once this soil had been freshly turned. Now the grass had healed over the scar, making a smooth bright cover. He sank his fingers into it, severing the grass at its roots.

“I will avenge you,” he whispered.
But not replace you
. The one who could do no wrong—that had never been Christian.

But he would do this right, or die trying. “I will keep them safe. On your life and Father’s, I swear it.”

A drop of rain hit his nose. Then came another, ice cold, cleansing. He closed his eyes and lifted his face into the light of the oncoming storm. He had killed men in battle, of course. But he had never murdered. God save him, but he dreamed of nothing else now.

The town house was huge. Lit top to bottom. A party was under way. Lilah stood on the curb, staring up in indecision. It had taken a full day to build her courage to come here. Now she wondered if the cabman had delivered her to the wrong address.

Movement caught her attention. Across the road, a slim figure huddled in the shadows of the trees, features concealed by a voluminous shawl.

Lilah called out. “Is this the Viscount Palmer’s residence, do you know?”

The figure made some abortive movement—a gesture at flight, arrested. After a moment’s hesitation, hands emerged, drawing away the shawl. A young girl, perhaps seventeen, nodded tentatively at Lilah.

“Yes, that’s right,” the girl said. “Do you . . . do you know him?”

That was a very fine strand of diamonds at her throat. Lilah looked beyond her and saw nobody else in the park.

The rules were different in Mayfair, of course. But
Lilah had the suspicion that this girl was not supposed to be prowling outside after dark without a chaperone. She looked the age of a debutante, and wore the jewelry to match.

“I do know him,” she said.

The girl gasped. Then she scuttled across the road to Lilah’s side. “Can you give him this?”

So close, Lilah could catch the subtle scent of the girl’s perfume—something exotic and expensive. The girl’s skin was flawless, as though the sun had never touched her.

Lilah felt her resolve faltering. She’d reconciled herself to a trade: her body for the letters. What choice did she have? Remaining chaste was well and good, as long as one’s circumstances remained decent enough to give chastity its proper meaning.

But once Nick told the Everleighs about her, she’d be hard-pressed to find any respectable position. The Everleighs would feel obliged to warn everyone of their deceitful former hostess. Her virtue would do her no good then. Her body would be all she had to sell.

Better to sell it when the price was still high. But would Palmer even be inclined to make the purchase? Not if his taste ran toward this girl’s bland, delicate beauty.

“I’ll give it to him,” she said, taking the note before the girl could change her mind. “Or maybe I won’t.”

“Oh!” The girl’s eyes widened in outrage. “Then give it back!”

Lilah shoved the note down her bodice. “Don’t be stupid. Men who force you to scurry about in the dark, writing love letters you daren’t post, mean nothing good for you.”

The girl covered her mouth, smothering an unsteady laugh. “No, you have it all wrong.” She lifted her face to the house, and the light spilling through the open windows caught on her eyes. They were a golden shade, like whisky held to the light.

“He’s my brother,” the girl said. “And he won’t . . .” Tears shone, threatened to spill over her lashes. “He won’t even see me. He’s denied me a season and refused to explain himself, and I—I won’t have it!”

Lilah looked her over. The girl was wearing a traveling cloak, wrinkled from much use. “Did you run away?” she asked. “Does anybody know you’re here?”

“I came to visit a friend. Mother made me promise not to go to town. She said it would upset him. But look—he’s having a party,” the girl said bitterly. “While the two of us rot away, with nothing to do but sulk and sit about, as though our mourning will never end. As though for the rest of our lives, all we must do is think of . . . of Geoff . . . and Father!”

Suddenly she sobbed. Alarmed, Lilah glanced again to the shadowy park. Mayfair was the safest area of London, but criminals found opportunities here as well. A weeping girl in fine diamonds would make easy pickings. “Where is this friend? Is her house nearby? Shall I walk you there?”

The girl dashed away her tears. “No! I’m not alone. My maid is waiting in the park.”

A very worthless maid. “And she let you come over on her own, did she?” Something in her own voice gave her pause. That scolding note . . . Fiona had liked to berate her so when she was rash. “I’ll have a word with her,” she said more stiffly. She owed this girl nothing. “Or perhaps it’s your friend’s parents I should speak with.”

By this threat, she meant to compel compliance. The girl flew into a panic. “No! Please, I beg you—the walk isn’t far. And my maid—Mother would sack her if she found out we came out at night. Please, Loulou is the only true friend I have at Susseby—”

“Fine,” Lilah said quickly, for it occurred to her that if somebody came along and spotted this scene, neither of them would benefit. “Run along to Loulou now, and I’ll see that Palmer gets your note.”

“Oh, thank you!” Beaming, the girl made a flying retreat into the park. Sure enough, another figure emerged from the darkness to meet her. The two huddled together for a moment, then waved to Lilah before slipping from view.

Inside, someone hooted, and a great chorus of masculine laughter followed. Lilah stepped out of the lamplight, frowning.

A week ago, it would not have surprised her to learn that Viscount Palmer threw wild parties. The wealthy were a breed apart, easily bored, prone to strange amusements. She had long since learned not to try to understand them.

But now that she had spoken with Palmer . . . now that she had learned, to her detriment, of his agile wit, and his skill at picking a girl’s pocket—she could not square him with the usual aristocratic nonsense.

They say I’m rotten
.

Perhaps so will you
.

Best to know as much as possible about the lion before she entered his den. She opened the note, reading quickly.

Amused, Lilah refolded the note, then tucked it into her bodice. Had she ever been so young?

Above, the door opened. A man lurched down the steps, drunk as blazes. Something clattered onto the pavement ahead of him. He cursed and came to a standstill on the last step, gripping the iron rail as he wobbled indecisively.

His left leg ended in a wooden stump. It was a cane
that he’d dropped. Surprise drew Lilah from her hiding place. As she picked up the cane, he cursed again. “Where in ’ell did you come from?” he demanded.

“Around the corner.” She handed the cane to him, but got no word of thanks for it. He hobbled past her and took a lurching turn toward the high road, his patched coat billowing out behind him.

How peculiar! On a deep breath, she marched up to the knocker.

The butler did not even ask Lilah’s name before admitting her. With a bow, he took her cloak and directed her upstairs. “You will find his lordship at the end of the hall, through the last door on the left.”

As she crested the stairs, she saw that this was no party after all—not the kind favored in Mayfair, at least. The male assembly wore rough-spun cotton and ragged jackets, and carried plates of plain chicken and potatoes. The group nearest her drank from tankards that smelled of ale, and they made conversation in a variety of unschooled accents. “This was afore that mess at Kabul, y’ken—”

“Aye, I kent it fine. Right sorry affair, that. Bloody Fred Roberts—”

She could spy the far hall, but the crush afforded no easy way to reach it. She sidled into the crowd, sidestepping elbows and carelessly handled tankards.

Evidence of injury was everywhere. Eye patches. Slings. These were military veterans, she suspected. As they took note of her presence, news traveled in a silent wave of nudges and nods. A path cleared, conversations pausing as she passed; with startled glances, men compassed
her figure, then quickly and respectfully looked away.

The crowd thinned as she passed into the hall. To the left, a door stood open to a handsome salon, velvet-flocked walls and gilt molding, furniture upholstered in silk. Men in scarred boots and threadbare trousers sprawled across the sofas, playing chess and smoking pipes.

The third door stood ajar, only a sliver of light escaping. After a brief hesitation, Lilah nudged it open.

It was a very masculine kind of morning room, with the requisite writing desk, scattered stands of potted ferns, and a cluster of chairs drawn close to the fire. By tall windows that stood open to the night air, she located the host of the motley crew outside. He was sitting alone, his attention fixed on the street below.