Lady Be Good (5 page)

Lilah found a crack in a wooden join and squinted through it. All she could see were legs. The men had paused by the chiffonier, with no apparent intention of moving deeper into the room. A miracle that they didn’t hear her heart drumming.

“Your faith is gratifying,” said Young Pete. “However, my sister would be the first to tell you that she lacks experience in such appraisals.”

“Would she?”

The gentleman’s obvious skepticism made Lilah bite back a brief smile. Whoever he was, this client knew Miss Everleigh well enough to doubt claims about her modesty.

Pete gave a knowing laugh. “Well, I’m certain she’d be glad to try her hand at it. But I would not dream of asking you to indulge her. I will gladly handle the estate myself. Indeed, I look forward to—”

“I would not like to disappoint her.”

The smooth remark held a buried edge, not quite sharp enough to be aggression. But the message was clear all the same.

When Pete replied, the smile in his voice confused Lilah. “Naturally, we both wish to see my sister happy. But you must see . . .”

A pair of legs turned, strode out of view. She recognized them as Pete’s, and swallowed hard, panic all but throttling her.

Beneath the protective layer of carpet, the floorboards squeaked. Slate-gray trouser legs paused two feet away from her. As she shrank back, her corset squeezed her ribs harder yet.
Damn it all!
If she so much as twitched, she was done for.

“A drink?” asked Pete.

“Why not?”

Glass clinked. Liquid sloshed. “To be frank,” said Pete, “it wouldn’t
look
right. That is, a bachelor’s house . . . without chaperonage. She is, you know, a most eligible young lady.”

Now the other man’s shoes came into view. “Very eligible,” he said pleasantly.

Lilah panted silently against the pain.
Think of something else
. She focused on the client’s patent leather shoes, which were polished to such a high gloss that she could see her skirts in them.

Stars above—she could see worse. Peeking out from beneath the client’s heel was a pink bow identical to those sewn all over her gown.

“She did have a companion for a time,” Pete said.

Lilah stared at her doom, disbelieving. Pete insisted on approving the girls’ gowns before a party. He would recognize that ribbon in an instant.

“Quite the dragon,” Pete went on. “Catherine claimed that she got in the way of the work. I suspect what that means is that Mrs. Ogilvie insisted on the
observance of proprieties. At any rate, Catherine grew skilled in losing the poor woman.”

Holding her breath, Lilah shifted onto her knees and eased forward. She would snatch up that bow.

The client shifted, exposing the ribbon fully. Something in his bodily posture suggested a moment of surprise. He began to kneel.

Her thoughts scrambled. No choice but to run for it. She could explode out from under the desk, make a dash for the service stair—

The client’s hand closed on the ribbon. He ducked a little, bringing his face into view.

Great ghosts. It was Viscount Palmer!

He regarded her without any sign of surprise. His eyes were an impossible color, the shade of whisky held to the light.

He gave her a fleeting, ironical smile. Then he plucked up the ribbon and lifted himself out of sight.

“How embarrassing,” she heard him say. “To be caught carrying lovers’ tokens, like a schoolboy. I expect you recognize your sister’s hair ribbon.”

For a dumb moment, the lie made no sense. She was waiting only for the addendum:
By the way, you’ve a woman beneath your desk
.

But then Young Pete said, “Of course”—his overly jovial tone betraying that he was not quite comfortable with Palmer carrying tokens from his sister.

Palmer continued, “As for the question at hand—we can’t force your sister to tolerate a chaperone. But the solution seems simple: supply her with company that doesn’t interfere. An assistant, say, to help with her work.”

“I don’t think—”

“Yes, it’s a splendid solution. One of the Everleigh Girls, perhaps? And may I say, I’m so glad that we had the chance to speak privately. As you’ve certainly gathered, it is my hope that by coming to know her better, I might also persuade Miss Everleigh to look upon me more . . . tenderly.”

Pete exhaled. “Yes! Yes, indeed. That is my hope as well.” Their footsteps moved away. “An assistant will serve,” Pete decided.

The door shut.

For a moment longer, Lilah remained frozen. For what possible reason would a stranger—much less
Viscount Palmer
—protect her?

She crawled out from under the desk. Her legs shook so violently that it required both hands on the desktop to pull herself to her feet. She stared at the door, which—miracle of miracles—remained shut. Palmer had not yet told Pete about her.

Her relief felt fragile, tainted by confusion. Or foreboding. She hobbled toward the door, wincing at the hundred small complaints of her knees and hips, and the giant, throbbing complaint from the vicinity of her rib cage. With one hand on the doorknob, she pressed her ear to the keyhole and listened.

No voices.

She opened the door and stepped into the hallway. It was empty.

Did she truly owe her escape to Christian Stratton? Kit of “Kit’s Charge,” the famous poem that commemorated British bravery overseas? How Fiona would have squealed!

A hysterical giggle bubbled up. One hand over her mouth, she started down the hall. With each step, the
unlikely seemed more credible. She’d gotten away with it. She’d been saved by a war hero. Better not to ask the reason. The music was growing louder; the letters were tucked safely in her pocket.
She was safe
.

Her relief made her giddy. She allowed herself a laugh, a short and exultant sound that broke into a gasp as a hand caught her elbow.

Lord Palmer stepped out from between two statues. “How awkward,” he said pleasantly. “I forgot to ask your name.”

The thief had marvelous composure. The first second, her panic showed plainly. It drained the blood from her face, exposing the artful blending of rouge that had lent her cheeks such fresh color. Her new pallor revealed freckles—a great many of them, long faded.

In the next moment, as though a switch had been flipped, roses bloomed again in her cheeks. She called up a lovely smile, which turned her blue eyes into cheerful half-moons. “Lord Palmer! Why, I hadn’t dreamed to be noticed by you. You are quite the most popular gentleman in the ballroom!”

“Lucky that we’re not in the ballroom, then.” He spoke the words absently, surprised anew by the husky pitch of her voice. She was of average height and size; her voice, however, promised the ability to boom. It was rich enough to belong to a giantess in metal breastplate, with Viking horns atop her head. “I confess, I did not notice you there, Miss . . .”

“But of course you didn’t,” she said warmly. “It’s my good luck to catch you alone. But how selfish it would be to hoard you!” As she started past him, she nodded
toward the direction of the ballroom, her fleeting touch along his arm—and her quick, flirtatious glance—suggesting her great desire that he follow.

She was clever. He captured her hand before it could slip away. Without hesitation, she twirled around to face him, her train hissing in a broad arc across the marble floor. Her wide smile had not budged a fraction. “Yes, Lord Palmer?”

He matched her light tone. “And once again, I feel my disadvantage. Must I beg your name from Mr. Everleigh?”

Mention of her employer, whose study she had so recently infiltrated, made her flinch. She had not expected him to segue so quickly to threats.

She glanced over her shoulder. The hallway was empty, of course, the strains of a waltz dim but distinct. Nobody would leave the ballroom until the next set.

Seeing her plight—alone, quite alone—she redoubled the brilliance of her smile, then surprised him by stepping closer. “It’s terribly awkward.” What a magnificent voice she had! And how well she used it. Her hushed tone conjured intimacy, inviting him into a sweet little conspiracy. “I do hope that I can rely on your discretion.”

He gave her a lopsided smile. “Well. You know what they say.”

She looked up at him through thick dark lashes. He could no longer imagine how he’d mistaken her, however briefly, as servile. Between her voice and her oceanic eyes and her unflappable charm, she was a siren.

Her measuring look also suggested a shrewd mind. She was not yet sure how much trouble she was in. He might simply be a blundering idiot. Or he might be a cad, who meant to press his advantage. She was still making up her mind.

So was he. Blackmail was a precarious art, as likely to go wrong as to aid him. But her composure seemed promising. Only a trustworthy tool would serve his purposes.

“No,” she said. “I don’t know what they say. Will you tell me?”

He extended his elbow in an offer of escort. Her hand fluttered down, landing on his sleeve as lightly as a butterfly. “They say a man is only as good as his word,” he told her as they fell into step. “And I’ve been told by several sources that mine is irredeemably rotten.”

Her laughter held a carefree lilt, very convincing. “But that’s nonsense,” she said. “You’re a great hero, Lord Palmer. Everyone has heard of your feats abroad.”

Ah yes. His bloody, much-celebrated bravery.

To prove her point, she began to recite the damned poem. “ ‘Who o’er yonder battlement, when enemy drums did pound—’ ”

“Yes,” he interrupted. “I believe I’ve heard that one before.” Five thousand times or so. It did not improve with repetition.

She was gazing at him brightly. “So then my point is proved: who would dare call you rotten?”

Nobody called him rotten, of course. They begged for autographs instead. “Perhaps you will.”

He felt the slight, nervous dance of her fingertips on his forearm. “I can’t imagine why.”

They had been making very slow progress toward the ballroom. But now Christian drew her to a stop by the darkened stairwell. “Tell me,” he said. “I knew Everleigh was a man of particular tastes. Does he often require you to wait beneath the desk for him?”

The skin tightened at the corners of her eyes. “I wish you wouldn’t mention it,” she said.

He almost laughed. How odd that he should find this pickpocket diverting. But for a woman who’d gotten herself into a great deal of trouble tonight—removing and replacing her mistress’s bracelet, breaking into her master’s locked study, hiding beneath his desk to eavesdrop, and perhaps worse (for a pickpocket, surely, did not break into studies
only
to eavesdrop?)—for all these redoubtable sins, she nevertheless did a brilliant job of playing the breathy naïf.

He admired a good performance. After all, he played the hero on regular occasion.

“A gentleman wouldn’t mention it,” he said. “Alas, I already warned you. I’m a rogue.”

This time, she believed him. He sensed her reassessment, her subtle change of posture and tone. “Lord Palmer,” she purred. “I don’t expect your approval, of course. But Mr. Everleigh and I . . . That is, you must know that I’m one of the hostesses here, what they call an ‘Everleigh Girl’—”

She was still trying to cozen him. Make him believe he’d interrupted her plan to surprise her lover. To disconcert her—for clearly he hadn’t managed it yet—he lifted his hand to cup her cheek. “Indeed. I believe I’ve seen your face before.” He stroked her jaw. “An advertisement for Pearson’s soap, was it?”

She went still. Her skin was satin-smooth, warm, almost feverish to the touch. She smelled, he realized, like a garden in hot weather, climbing roses and jasmine and honeysuckle warmed by a noonday sun.

Their eyes locked. She blushed, then looked away. “That was Miss Ames in the advertisements,” she said. “I am not one of the girls who wins such honors.”

He studied her—the casual grace of one spiraling
black ringlet; the faint trace of freckles on the crest of her round cheek. “I can’t imagine why.”

That was empty flattery, of course. He knew why the advertisers favored other girls. This woman before him had no special beauty, apart from the angelic magic of her eyes—and a certain sensual grace in the way she held herself, slim and erect—and the softness and warmth and scent of her skin.

None of which would translate in photographs.

He retreated a step. “I still don’t know your name.” Not a creative remark. But his brain felt oddly unfocused, as though he had just taken a few fingers of whisky.

“Ah.” She turned back to him, and he was oddly relieved when their eyes met and she looked, once again, quite ordinary to him. “You see that it’s hardly worth knowing, though. Miss Ames models for Pearson’s. You will find Miss Snow on the boxes of Ruben’s Tooth-powder, and Miss Lowell and Miss Rousseau smiling on bottles of Mr. Munson’s Tonic. I am the lowest in our ranks—I know it very well. But if you imagine this would protect me from jealousy, you’re mistaken. Should the girls come to know of my . . . special friendship with Mr. Everleigh, I assure you they would make my life a misery.” She paused here, slightly breathless—a state that drew his attention, no doubt deliberately, to the snowy rise of her modest but excellently formed décolletage.