Lady Be Good (31 page)

Sensing the downward dive of her mood, Lilah held out the bottle. “Last sip.”

“I couldn’t.” Miss Everleigh brushed down her rumpled skirts. “I’m already lightheaded. And look at me. Dinner will be laid in an hour.”

The thought of going back to her own rooms, with only the silence and her thoughts for company, made Lilah push harder. “Here, do take it. We must dispose of the evidence.”

Miss Everleigh lifted her brows. “That sounds like the advice of a criminal.”

That gave Lilah a bad start—until she saw the faint smile on her employer’s mouth, quickly disguised as Miss Everleigh lifted the bottle and polished it off. “Do you know,” she said as she returned the bottle to the floor with a thump, “I rather like forgoing a glass. It makes one feel very . . . carefree. Where did you say that people favored that practice?”

“The East End, miss.”

“Oh.” In the shadowed dimness, Miss Everleigh looked at her closely. “Is that where you’re from? You don’t sound it.”

Mindful of what she had claimed in her interview for the position of hostess, Lilah hedged. “I did rent lodgings there, when I was studying for my typing certificate.”

“You can type!” Miss Everleigh retrieved the bottle, picking at the label. “I didn’t know that. I’ve always wanted to learn. My hand cramps so awfully when I write.” She shook it out, by way of illustration.

Lilah hid a smile. Miss Everleigh’s love of wine clearly outstripped her tolerance for it. “I would be glad to teach you, miss.”

“Would you? I’d like that.” Miss Everleigh set down the bottle again, gazing at the trunk. “It really isn’t fit to be sold,” she said. “But perhaps Lord Palmer would like to drink some.” She grimaced and waved. “No, no. He’s very discerning with his wines. He . . .” Her eyes narrowed. “I expect he’ll throw them all into the rubbish.”

“I can’t imagine how marvelous it must taste,” Lilah said, “when it’s in its proper state. It’s quite delicious already.”

“Yes. So it is.” Miss Everleigh nodded. “Go on, then.”

“Go on, what?”

“Open another.” She waved toward the trunk, saying with magnificent, slightly slurred arrogance, “I am in the mood to celebrate.”

“Celebrate?”

“Why, yes. Don’t you realize?” On a broad smile, she clambered to her feet and threw out her arms. “The treasures we’ve discovered! Jihong porcelain. Mappemondes! Our auction shall outstrip any of Peter Porter’s by far.”

Lilah burst into giggles.

“I am serious,” Miss Everleigh insisted. “My brother is . . .
insufferable
. Convinced that women have not a brain in their skulls. He would
never
have given me Buckley Hall had he imagined . . . oh.” She blinked. “Peter Porter? Is that it?”

Lips pressed together, Lilah nodded.

“Peter
Puker
is more apt. You should have smelled his bedroom! The maids scrubbed and scrubbed the carpet, but the reek lingered for days . . .” She fell into giggles as she flipped her hand toward the trunk. “Hurry up,” she said. “Open another!”

In the middle of the night, Lilah woke from a dream about water—a great pool of it, clear and quenching as it rose past her waist. Her eyes opened into darkness. Her head pounded. Her mouth was dust dry.

She stumbled to her feet. Oh, good Lord. She hadn’t drunk so deeply since the first time Fiona had stolen a bottle of brandy from Nick. She grimaced and fumbled her way toward the pitcher of water on her dresser.

The pieces of the evening reassembled. She had taken her dinner in Miss Everleigh’s rooms. No wonder gentlemen enjoyed their cups! It had been very pleasant to trade laughter and gossip. Miss Everleigh had wanted to know Lilah’s most awful tales about the rogues who patronized the auction house. How did the hostesses bear their flirtations?

At some point, Miss Everleigh had decided to educate her in proper wine tasting. She had rung for three more bottles—including a sweet, white Hungarian that Lilah had liked far too well. Having withdrawn to seats by the fire to nurse their last glasses (but they hadn’t
nursed
them, precisely), Lilah had asked Miss Everleigh about the old days at the auction house, when her father had governed. Miss Everleigh had been full of touching anecdotes. Why, she had teared up, once or twice. She had seemed particularly moved by the revelation that the hostesses—

Oh dear. With her hands around the pitcher, Lilah froze. She had admitted the girls’ nickname for Peter Everleigh. Why, his sister had been delighted by this disrespectful moniker. “ ‘Young Pete,’ indeed. He will never take my father’s place,” she had told Lilah in a fierce slur.

Forget it. She won’t remember in the morning, either
. Lilah lifted the water jug to her mouth.

It was empty.

She lowered it with a groan. If she didn’t find some water, she’d die.

She grabbed her knife, retied her robe, and made her way downstairs. In the cold, silent kitchen, she split the wax seal on a bottle of well water and drank it straight down. Opening another for the journey, she started back up the stairs—but a noise from above made her
hesitate. What had she been thinking, coming down in only her robe? Were those voices?

She crept up to the landing.

“—cannot endure this,” Miss Everleigh said vehemently.

Why on earth was she still awake?

“I understand your disappointment. I share it myself.” That was Palmer’s voice! Palmer was back! Lilah shifted to peek up around the corner. The door to the drawing room stood ajar, casting a wedge of light across the floorboards.

Had Miss Everleigh known he was planning to return tonight? Had she stayed up to wait for him?

Lilah tightened her grip around the bottle, disliking that thought immensely.

“Yes, I know,” Miss Everleigh said in reply to some murmured remark. “I must say, you have been very kind.” She paused then for what seemed like forever. “Yes,” she said at last, her voice much softer. “That’s quite true. Thank you, my lord.”

Now came another quiet remark. After nearly a week, the timber of his voice worked some kind of spell on Lilah. She found herself breathless, desperate to make out his conversation.

But it was Miss Everleigh’s reply that came clearly. “Quite right. Thank you,
Christian
.” Her slow laugh announced the lingering effect of the liquor. “And I suppose you must call me Catherine, then. It’s only fitting.”

Water sloshed into Lilah’s chest. It trickled like ice down her skin, but she barely felt it. Her jealousy burned too hot.

The wedge of light widened. Above, soft footsteps—Miss Everleigh’s, Lilah guessed—mounted the stairs.

Had she imagined that she might like the woman after all? No. Always trust the first instinct.
Witch
.

Now came a heavier tread. She spared the rest of her loathing for him, this rotted, deceitful man who would seduce an employee while courting the mistress—

But he hadn’t seduced her.
Oh, God
. She closed her eyes, wishing desperately that she could forget her own role in it. Her stupid babble about the butcher. Her breathy question, so transparently desperate:
Won’t you demand anything else?

Her loathing swelled. It felt fiercest for herself. What a pathetic fool she was!

The footsteps faded. They had both gone upstairs. Perhaps they were together now in Palmer’s rooms.

She grimaced violently. Even in a drunken stupor, Catherine Everleigh was a
real
lady. She would not join Palmer in bed until they married. Then she would murmur to him all night long.
Christian, Christian
. . . Bah—a ridiculous name for such a hypocrite.
Kit
. Even more absurd! That stupid poem. He said he was no hero, and he was right. Little did England’s pious patriots know they had memorized an ode to a smooth, handsome
blackguard
.

Christian
. He had never asked Lilah to call him by his name—not even when he’d demanded to know hers.

She was glad she had not told him. Fiercely proud of her restraint.

The footsteps were returning. God in heaven, she couldn’t face him now, not when humiliation blazed as brightly as a flag on her face. She gathered herself, ready to dash all the way back to the kitchens and hide in the pantry—

But these footsteps were
mounting
the stairs. They were following the path the others had taken.

Foreboding prickled over her. She frowned up into the darkness. That could not be Palmer. Someone else—a third person—was stealing quietly up the stairs. It was not a woman. That scuffing sound was made by the tread of a hard-soled shoe.

The new footmen weren’t due till next week. There were no indoor servants who were male.

Lilah slowly set down the bottle. She reached into her pocket and took hold of her knife.

This isn’t your business. Hide in the pantry. He doesn’t deserve your care
.

Too true. What a dolt she was! Gathering her skirts, she stole up the stairs after the intruder.

Lilah paused in the shadows of the upper landing, listening intently. The intruder had moved off the stone stairway into the upper hall, his weight raising a creak from the floorboards. Now silence. Now several creaks, then silence again.

He was varying the pace of his steps, the better to avoid the telltale rhythm of footfall. That was a common trick among burglars. He knew what he was about.

Lilah crept to the top of the stairs. To the left lay her rooms and Miss Everleigh’s. The man hesitated, then turned right, toward Lord Palmer’s apartment and the passage to the west wing.

Lilah inched around the corner into the shelter of a tall suit of armor. She was lighter than the burglar, and by dint of old habit, had taken note of which sections of the floor were noisiest. These advantages allowed her to dart across the hall soundlessly. She ducked into the servant’s passage and groped forward.

The lamps were out. If the design mirrored the passage adjoining her apartments, there would be a door
soon enough to the right. It would open into Palmer’s washroom, allowing staff to fetch up warm water for his baths.

A doorknob came into her grip. She opened it, surprising Palmer at the washbasin. He lunged immediately out of sight—then pivoted, a pistol in his hand.
Good
. She lifted her knife to point beyond him to the door to his bedroom.

He did not follow her gesture. His face showed plain astonishment. “What in God’s name—”

“Someone’s coming,” she said softly.

He pivoted just as the door swung open. The stranger swore—genuine surprise, distress—and yanked the door closed. “Stay where you are,” Palmer bit out, and shouldered through the door, disappearing from sight.

She leaned out of the servants’ passage, listening hard. She heard a scuffle in the hallway. Perhaps a muffled groan. But no gunshot.

Silence settled. Heart pounding, she stepped fully into the washroom—then jumped as Palmer reappeared in the doorway, breathing hard. “Go to Miss Everleigh,” he said. “Lock her doors and barricade them.” He did not wait for agreement before turning on his heel.

A fine idea. She slipped back into the servants’ passage and groped her way through the darkness. The next door to the left opened into the hall; she did not want that.

The door after it belonged to Miss Everleigh. But it was locked.

Cursing, she retraced her steps and cracked open the door to the hall. Dead silence. Squinting left and right, she edged out along the wall. The knife felt like a friend in her sweaty grip. If somebody grabbed her, she’d stick him.

Bloody hell
. Miss Everleigh had locked the outer door as well. Holding her breath, Lilah dared a light knock.

No reply.

She knocked harder, then rattled the doorknob.

Nothing.

She remembered the sound of Miss Everleigh’s slurred laugh. What a night to fall into a liquor-logged sleep!

She reached into her coiffure for a pin with which to pick the lock, and only then realized that in her own drunken stupor, she
had
managed one thing—she had taken down her hair and plaited it for bed.

Swallowing a curse, she started for her own room. But suddenly a commotion rose from below—a hoarse shout, a thud, and the sound of something shattering.
Why
did Palmer not use his pistol? She thought with wild black humor of what her uncle would say. A gun was only useful when one was willing to
fire
it.