The waltz slowed to a conclusion. He stepped back from her, sketching a formal bow before offering his escort off the dance floor. “I suppose I will not see you again until we meet at Buckley Hall.”
She paused, a feline quality to her unblinking regard. “Then we will not see each other. My brother has decided to appraise your estate himself. Did you not know?”
“No, I did not.” Damn it. That must be what Peter Everleigh wished to speak to him about later. “How curious. I’d understood that he handles the sales, and you, the appraisals.”
“Indeed.” Her smile looked sour. “That is the typical arrangement. In this case, however, I believe your reputation has won his particular interest. You are, after all, the Hero of Bekhole.”
This would not do. Christian had contracted the auction house to handle the sale only because it would give him a chance to keep Catherine in sight. “Would he reconsider his decision?”
Her pause was guarded. “Certainly, if you spoke to him, he might do. I daresay he—” She grabbed his arm for balance as a passerby, a raven-haired woman in a pink gown, stumbled into her.
“Forgive me, Miss Everleigh!” The woman’s husky tone and quick curtsy struck Christian as oddly servile. As she straightened, her glance brushed his, giving him a start. Her eyes belonged to a medieval Madonna. They were round and heavy-lidded, a deep oceanic blue.
“I do hope you are not intoxicated,” Catherine Everleigh said coldly to her.
“No, ma’am.” This time, the woman’s abashed smile was shared with Christian as well. “Only clumsy,” she purred. After bobbing another curtsy, she moved away.
“One of our hostesses,” Catherine said.
“I see.” It occurred to him that an Everleigh Girl, by virtue of her duties, might have cause to know a good deal about Catherine.
“These girls are more trouble than they’re worth,” Catherine went on. “But my brother insists on them.” She paused. “Do you mean to speak with him tonight?”
Christian caught the urgency buried in her question. She wished very much to manage the valuation of his estate. How convenient. “I will find him at once.”
A faint smile escaped her. “Excellent.” She offered a handshake, the gesture businesslike. As she drew away, he noticed something.
“That’s a very fine bracelet you wear,” he said.
“It was my mother’s.”
“Do you always remove it while you dance?”
The small degree of warmth that had crept into her manner now vanished. “I never remove it.”
Then somebody had done so for her—only to put it back again. How peculiar. He looked across the crowd for the dark-haired hostess, eyes narrowing as he found her slipping out the door.
No, not slipping. Sneaking.
CHAPTER TWO
Once more, then never again. After tonight, Lilah would be good for the rest of her life. She’d be a perfect lady. She vowed it.
As she walked, the sounds of merriment receded. She passed the great stairway that led up to the auction rooms, marble steps marching into darkness. Anybody could be standing above, spying on her from the shadows. The silence felt like the hush before a scream—or a crash. If she was caught tonight, she would be ruined.
For four years she had worked to break free of her fate. After Fiona’s death, Nick had finally let her go. She’d put her sister’s plan into action with ruthless self-discipline. Endless hours poring over etiquette manuals. Then, volumes of art and history. For the first two years at Everleigh’s, all her savings had gone to a tutor of elocution. She’d not spoken without first rehearsing each word in her head, focusing on those wretched vowels and consonants that no Whitechapel girl knew to pronounce.
Only recently had the tutor declared there was no more to learn. Only now did she sleep soundly through the nights, confident that Fee would be proud of her. You didn’t die in vain. We made it out. She’d opened a savings account, and at last dared to revise her sister’s dreams, aiming now for something so extraordinary that even Fiona had never thought of it: a respectable retirement fund, perhaps a little house of her own. Imagine it: growing old in peace, free of the fear of the law—or her uncle!
Yet now, as she crept down the hall, she stood to lose everything. She could all but feel Fiona beside her, panicked and fearful. You never see it coming, Fee had said shakily one night, having returned from a job gone bad. One of Nick’s men had died. In a blink, you’re done for. It happens so fast.
She gritted her teeth. Focus.
Near the end stood the door to Peter Everleigh’s study. Lilah reached into her chignon, feeling past the crystal-tipped pins for the prick of the pick she’d tucked into a curl.
She expected her fingers to tremble, for she’d had no practice in years. But as she fitted the pick into the lock, her hands were steady. It took only one touch, one twist, before the door swung open.
She bit her lip, strangely dismayed. Did it come back so easily? Four years felt like a century to her, an age in which she had transformed. But if she remembered the way of it so well, then perhaps she was no different, after all.
Frowning, she forced aside that thought. No distractions. Think later. As she stepped into the room, the thick carpet absorbed her footfall. She groped her way around the furnishings toward the oak desk, then felt down the drawers.
One would do better not to keep one’s private documents in a desk. For that matter, if one did use a desk, better to lock every drawer in it. By locking only the topmost, Peter Everleigh announced where he kept his loot.
This lock was trickier than the other one. As she fumbled—once, and then a second time—anxiety breathed a cold, creepy whisper down her nape. The pick slipped out of her hand; she heard herself whisper a curse that she’d banished from her vocabulary long ago. Biting her lip, she felt across the carpet for the tool.
It hadn’t fallen far. Now her fingers did shake as she fitted the pick into the lock. But the lock changed its mind about her; it suddenly yielded.
She still had the talent, even now, years out of practice!
After a moment, her pride struck her as shameful. Frowning, she reached into her sleeve and plucked out a stub of candle. From her bodice, she pulled a match. The wick lit, shedding a small, unsteady light. She riffled through the contents of the drawer.
Opera glasses. Theatrical programs. Crumpled telegrams. Gambling markers. A mess of letters.
She riffled quickly through the pages, finding no order to them. The brisk, slashing penmanship of a business correspondent pressed side by side with the curlicues of some wealthy widow with poor taste in men. Amorous phrases leapt out: your bed last night . . . the feel of your mouth . . . Grimacing, Lilah flipped faster. Her uncle had mentioned three names, none of which she’d recognized, though the society columns were required reading for Everleigh Girls.
But it seemed these men weren’t part of high society. She plucked out three letters, all of them concerning matters of construction and sanitation. The men must be members of the Municipal Board of Works; Peter Everleigh served on it, too. Puzzled, she folded up the letters and slipped them into a hidden pocket in her skirts, then shut the drawer on a long breath.
As she stood, a wave of dizziness rocked her. Mr. Everleigh had recently decreed that the Everleigh Girls’ waists must be seventeen inches at most. Lilah hadn’t eaten since breakfast; otherwise, her laces would never tighten so far.
Yet even with her lungs crushed by whalebone, she could outwit Pete’s defenses. All it took was a single pick.
Smiling now, she hurried toward the door. Her hand had just found the latch when she heard her doom: masculine voices approaching in the hall.
She recoiled, but there was nowhere to flee.
Frantic, Lilah groped her way back toward the desk. No, no, no; this can’t be happening. In her mind’s eye she saw the room’s sparse furnishings. There was nowhere to hide but beneath the desk—a terrible concealment, too easily discovered.
&
nbsp; She yanked up her skirts, dropped to her knees, and clambered into the space.
It made for a tight fit, curled up like this. The boning in her corset jabbed into her ribs. She gritted her teeth and resisted the steel grip of the stays, which wanted to force her spine to straighten.
The room brightened as the door opened.
“—discuss this privately,” came Peter Everleigh’s voice, “it being a matter of some delicacy.”
Young Pete, the older girls called him, for they had known his father before him, and could not think of him, they said, as a worthy heir to the title of “Mr. Everleigh.” But he had always struck Lilah as perfectly suited to his position, smooth-spoken and assured around rich men.
Now, though, he sounded hesitant. Apologetic, even. “I do hope you understand,” he said.
“I confess I don’t.” The reply came in a low drawl that could cut glass. Lilah had learned to recognize such an accent. Her tutor said it couldn’t be taught, only bred—but Lilah suspected money and a fancy education had something to do with it, too. “I believe your sister would do a splendid job at Buckley Hall,” said the blue blood.
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.
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