Lady Be Good

by Meredith Duran

  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.

  Belatedly she rapped her knuckles against the door. He did not look over. “Go ahead,” he said quietly. “Shut the door behind you.”

  She lingered at the edge of the carpet, strangely nervous. The first rule of any job was simple, and also, on rare occasions, impossibly complex: Know your mark.

  She had spent the day reading old newspapers, reacquainting herself with Palmer’s celebrity. His charge at Bekhole was considered an act of inspired lunacy. From that, she gathered he was a man who liked risks. He had continued his military service after the war’s conclusion, rebuffing the prize of a diplomatic position for the mundane task of cleaning up the war-torn border. When an injury had brought him home, everyone had predicted a political career for him. But the glamor of power did not lure him. A year after his assumption of his late brother’s title, he had yet to take his seat in the House of Lords.

  What did he want, then? I am eager to reacquaint myself with the pleasures of peacetime, he’d told a journalist. But that had hardly prepared her to find him brooding alone in the darkness, while an assembly of rough veterans caroused through his public rooms.

  Her silence finally won his attention. He turned to look at her. “What did she want?”

  This was decidedly not the best start to the conversation she hoped to have with him. “Whom do you mean?”

  He rose. “The girl in the street.”

  From an animal perspective, he’d been fashioned for power: tall and long legged, with powerful shoulders and thighs. She remembered the breadth of his upper arms, which she had gripped during their kiss. Soldiering had shaped his body, laid layers of hard muscle over his large, solid frame. He would have made a fine brute, were he in the market to work for her uncle.

  She cleared her throat. “She wanted to know if this was your house.”

  The darkness of the room veiled his expression from her. But she had made a study of him at Everleigh’s. She found the spot where that wicked scar carved a curving arc from the corner of his right eye to the middle of his cheek.

  The war had made him a hero. Perhaps it had also done other things to him—difficult things that sharpened one’s instincts. She should not treat him as an ordinary mark.

  “She knew very well whose house this was,” he said impassively. “What did she want? The truth, Miss Marshall.”

  The note was her only advantage. She had not intended to surrender it until it promised to bring good value. But his fierce gaze made her feel transparent.

  Unnerved, she reached into her bodice and drew out the letter. “She asked me to give you this. She intends to stay in town.”

  He took it and put it aside unread. “Was that all?”

  Lilah hesitated, puzzled. There was a starkness to his face, a stripped-down quality, quite at odds with his quicksilver charm that night at Everleigh’s. It was a strange mood, for a man throwing a party.

  “Why are you in here all alone?” she asked.

  One brow edged upward. “My guests do not require a host. Merely an excuse to gather, and eat a square meal.”

  And he had given that to them. Why? “I am glad one cannot say the same of the crowds at Everleigh’s.” With humor she tried to lighten the atmosphere, for in this state, he would shoot down her proposition in an instant. “I would be out of a job.”

  “I feel certain you would land on your feet,” he said.

  That might have been a compliment. But feline imagery so rarely was used to compliment a woman. Why was that? Cats, in Lilah’s view, were tremendously admirable creatures—self-sufficient, but very skilled at being charming, when they wished to be.

  Perhaps that was the reason, though. What man did not fear a self-sufficient woman?

  “I expected to see you yesterday,” he said. As he turned up a lamp, the strengthening light painted his hair gold and laid shadows in the hollows of his cheeks. He had good, strong bones: a hawkish nose, a broad, square jaw. Solidly hewn, in every regard.

  “I pay no calls on Sunday,” she said absently. His lips riveted her. She had seen handsomer mouths with fuller lips, but his were finely molded, his upper lip so sharply bowed that it lent his slight smile a wicked cast. She still didn’t understand how he had managed to scatter her wits. A kiss should not have done it, no matter the mouth.

  “Ah. Sunday.” He settled his weight against the writing desk. “The Lord’s day. I suppose you spent it in church, praying for forgiveness.”

  “I did go to church. But it wasn’t forgiveness I prayed for.”

  He drummed his fingers on the desktop. “Do you think God takes much interest in the prayers of a thief?”

  “You’ll have to hope he does,” she said. “For I believe you became one Saturday.”

  That startled him. He laughed, flashing white teeth. One of his incisors was slightly crooked. A relief, to spot that imperfection. “You’re quick-witted,” he said. “But surprisingly easy to distract. How long would it have taken you to notice the papers were gone, had I not told you?”

  “About two minutes,” she said. “Or maybe longer. I confess, you did distract me. I’m not usually so easily confounded.”

  His head tipped. “And now you turn to flattery,” he said softly. His gaze ran down her, pausing with unnerving accuracy at each point of her toilette that she had chosen with him in mind: the glass pearls at her throat, to conjure demureness. The delicate gold chain at her waist, to suggest its opposite.

  Her neckline, a shade lower than fashion demanded.

  When he met her eyes again, the air between them seemed to snap.

  “You want them back,” he said.

  “Of course.”

  “Do you make a habit of stealing from your employer?”

  “No.” She said no more. Defending or explaining herself would be pointless. He had no cause to believe her.

  And yet he asked, anyway. “What could you possibly want with those letters? Debates on a proposal before the Municipal Board of Works—a suit to condemn some buildings in Islington. I can’t imagine how it concerns you.”

  She had asked herself the same question. Her brief scan of the letters had suggested nothing to do with the East End, and Nick did not care what happened outside that area. “I took them for someone else. I don’t know his purpose for them.”

  “Who?”

  She shrugged.

  He rose to his full height, the movement as leisurely as the stretch of a cat. A lion: he had the coloring for it. “This conversation will go better if you’re honest.”

  “Be that as it may, I will not worsen my situation by betraying his confidence.” She grimaced. “Believe me, it is from no desire to protect him—only myself.”

  “So you were tasked to steal these letters by a gentleman.” He paused, his keen eyes catching something in her expression. “A man,” he amended. “Not a gentleman, in your view.”

  She crossed her arms, then thought better of the posture. This was meant to be a seduction. Defiance was not the proper attitude.

  On a quick breath, she made herself relax and stroll toward him. The roll of her hips, she borrowed from Susie, whose charms were conspicuous. The quick flick of her glance through her lashes was Lavender’s. Vinnie was a mistress of subtlety. “Forget the more tedious questions,” she said. “Perhaps you should ask what I’ll do to get them
back.”

  He let her approach, the faint smile on his mouth suggesting a willingness to be amused. But once she came within reach, he did not pounce or straighten off the desk to close the distance. Instead, very slowly, he reached out and caught hold of a strand of her hair, a loose ringlet that he lifted from her shoulder.

  He rubbed the lock, and that slight tension on her scalp sent a startling shiver through her. “You manage to be lovelier than your looks,” he murmured. “The total effect transcends the sum of your parts. Is that a trick they teach at Everleigh’s, or did you master it yourself?”

  “That is not quite a compliment.” Another surprise: standing so close to the warmth of his body, she felt breathless. As though he touched her in places that were clothed.

  “I don’t believe compliments are required in this case.” He laid his thumb against her collarbone, as he had that night in the hall. “This is not a courtship. It is a . . .” He dragged his thumb down to the hollow of her throat, rolling it over the coolness of the glass pearls. “What would you call it, Miss Marshall?”

  She licked her lips. “A discussion,” she said. “Possibly a . . . trade.”

  “Ah.” He nudged her chin to lift her face. They stared at each other. “Is this the kind of trade you make often?”

  A proper lady would have taken offense to that question. But given the circumstances, she could not be indignant. What did he know of her, but that she was a thief who offered her body in exchange for stolen goods?

  “No,” she said. “A pity, that. With some experience, I probably would have managed to seduce you already.”

  His hand fell away, leaving her oddly cold. “Shall I give you a piece of advice? There is nothing more deadly to seduction than honesty.”

  She exhaled, disliking the butterflies in her stomach. Her inexperience in these matters had never before seemed like an inconvenience. But had she accepted some other man’s proposition, perhaps the prospect of physical intimacy would not have left her so nervous now. “I am not innocent in mind. But I am in body.” A privilege of being Nick O’Shea’s niece: there was no man in Whitechapel fool enough to touch her. “That’s a piece of honesty that I understand a gentleman might appreciate. You would be the first. Is that worth three letters that would otherwise prove useless to you?”

  “Let me think on it.” Once again he settled against the desk. “Stretch out your arms and turn around.”

  Her nervousness died. A cad, she could handle. She had dealt with so many of them. “Certainly,” she said coolly. She lifted her arms, slowly twirling.

  When she faced him again, he gave her a slight smile. “Very nice,” he said. “Your figure is very pretty. But there are greater beauties in London.”

  Her stomach sank. It was very clear that he had no interest in her, after all. “Well.” She took a deep breath, hoping he saw nothing—nothing—of her despair.

  There was always another way. She was inside his house! If he were . . . temporarily incapacitated . . . she could find those letters. From the corner of her eye, she saw a few potential weapons. A bronze bust. Fire irons.

  But hurting someone had never been her way. And to do so would bring the police down on her, regardless—if the veterans outside didn’t get her first.

  She would plot some new course once alone. The key now was to exit gracefully. “You’ll forgive me for intruding, I hope.” She curtseyed and turned to go.

  “No call for despair.” His words halted her. “I have a different trade in mind, Miss Marshall. Less pleasant, I’ll admit. But of more benefit to you.”

  Warily she turned. He waved her to a nearby sofa.

  What in God’s name could he want of her? Mustering a stiff smile, she took a seat. “Do tell.”

  “I find myself in possession of an estate that requires auction.” He crossed to a sideboard, filling two glasses with amber liquid. Her hands were steady as she took the proffered glass, but never had whisky tasted more necessary.

  He settled in the oversized wing chair opposite, his smile blandly pleasant. She felt slightly disoriented. Two nights ago, as he’d played the villain, his eyes had looked cold as bullets. Now, with the wing chair disguising the strapping muscularity of his frame, he might have been the idealized model of an English gentleman, blond and blandly smiling. It was as though he’d never kissed her. Never thumbed her nipple and made her whimper.

  “The estate belonged to a cousin,” he said amiably. “Recently passed away.”

  “I’m sorry to hear it.” She was out of her depths.

  He shrugged. “I scarcely knew him. He was a lifelong bachelor, bit of a curmudgeon. But he greatly admired the military. In return for my services, he bequeathed me Buckley Hall.” He took a sip of his drink. She allowed herself another, and felt a burning warmth start to brew in her chest—a warning not to indulge further.

  “I suppose,” she said, carefully setting the glass away from her, “it must be delightful, being left such a gift.” She could not begin to imagine it. One inherited clothing, books, beds—not entire houses.

  “Oh, it’s a ramshackle pile, I assure you. The first thing to go will be the rubbish he collected. The house is chockablock with antiquities. Everleigh’s will handle the sale.”

  She nodded. The hostesses had no hand in such matters. Their sole purpose was to advertise the collections that had been cataloged and appraised and were ready for auction.

  “Catherine Everleigh intends to manage the sale.” He spoke more slowly now, rolling the glass in his long, tanned fingers. “But propriety forbids her to poke about the house on her own—and as you know, she does not tolerate the interference of chaperones.”

  In truth, Lilah knew very little about Catherine Everleigh. She looked down on the hostesses. “She is very independent minded, they say.”

  “But your assistance would be a great boon to her.”

  She frowned. “Are you proposing that I . . . chaperone Miss Everleigh?” Was he mad?

  “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 . . . w
hy, 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.