Lady Be Good (40 page)

This conversation suddenly struck her as blackly humorous. “You needn’t spare my feelings. It’s all right. I won’t be offended.”

“But perhaps it’s time someone did spare you.” Miss Everleigh scowled. “Bullied by your uncle, extorted by Palmer . . . I am very sorry for it, Lilah.”

Lilah sat back, astonished. “I . . . thank you.”

But Miss Everleigh was not finished. “You have a fine mind. It seems a waste to cast you back into the criminal world. I fear you would excel too well there. You would become as hardened as your uncle.” She offered a crooked smile. “Who knows? Perhaps you would even come to take over his business. What a sad end that would be! I think we must spare you that.” On a brisk nod, she rose. “I see no reason for your uncle’s revelations to travel further than they have already spread—provided, of course, that you are ready to swear off any lingering obligations to him.”

Lilah’s chest suddenly felt very full. Her throat as well. She barely managed to get the words out. “I feel none. I assure you. And I . . . I cannot tell you, Miss Everleigh, how much I—”

“Catherine. In private, we can be informal, can we not?” She took Lilah’s hands, pulling her to her feet. “Will you do me one favor, though? I would like to speak with your uncle privately.”

Lilah recoiled. “I don’t think that’s wise. He’s—”

“I only wish to entreat his help,” Catherine said blandly, “in this matter of defeating the Russian. Palmer need never know of it.”

Was she mad? “You saw the words they exchanged. He won’t lift a finger to help the viscount.”

“Then perhaps he will help me.” Catherine smoothed down her skirts. “If Lord Palmer is to be believed, I’m in as much danger as anyone.”

“You don’t know my uncle. He’s not sentimental. That you’re a woman won’t matter in the slightest.”

Catherine gave her a small, hard smile. “Good. I’m not sentimental, either. But I am wealthy. I think your uncle and I can reach an understanding. I can afford it.”

Nick certainly appreciated a rich payday. But he’d turned down money before, when disrespect had attached to it. And Christian had certainly insulted him tonight. “I don’t know if he’ll listen,” she said. “But . . . I suppose I can speak to him.”

“No. I will deal with him directly.”

Lilah recognized that stubborn look. “He can’t come here. I would take you to him, but—”

“No. Give me his direction, and I will arrange a tête-à-tête. There, another lesson for you: that is French, for a private meeting involving two people.” She cast Lilah a speaking glance. “And only two.”

“I don’t think . . .”

“Having you there would only muddle matters.” Catherine snapped her shawl open; a delicate scent filled the air as the cashmere settled around her shoulders. “Or do you fear for my safety? Would he molest me, do you think?”

“No,” Lilah said slowly. Then, recalling the scene in the storeroom, she revised her opinion. “Not unless you . . . requested it.”

It was a night of spectacles. Catherine Everleigh blushed and ducked her head, but could not quite hide her smile.

There was a small wedge of grass, barely a proper park, that sat diagonal from Everleigh’s, bounded off from the pavement by a black iron fence. The property had, for several decades, been the subject of an ongoing lawsuit, its rightful possession disputed by the owners of lots to left and right. At one time, in a spiteful gesture, one of these disputants had installed a bench on the grass, and a plaque inviting passersby to sit and dwell at leisure on the fruits of injustice.

It was from this bench that Lilah watched the carriages queue at the curb, disgorging well-heeled men and women in receipt of invitations to the auction of “A Collection of Russian Antiquities and Treasures, Including Rare Coins, Enamels, Prints, Metalwork, and Diverse Other Curiosities.”

She had not been invited. All of the Everleigh Girls had been given a holiday, much to their amazement. Vinnie and Maisy had asked Lilah to join them on a tour of the zoo, to be followed by a late luncheon at Mott’s, with champagne and oysters. By now, they were
probably half-sozzled, and surrounded by gentlemen willing to fund their way to drunk.

A small part of her regretted having declined their company. She might be sitting with them now, laughing as she drowned her cares in wine.

But the laughter would have been false. And it would take more wine than the world possessed to douse these cares that churned through her as she watched the footmen—strangers, replacements for Everleigh’s ordinary staff—pull closed the heavy double doors after the last of the guests.

She could not imagine what Catherine had told her brother, to account for the upheaval in the usual routine. The presence of the czar’s man, perhaps, had persuaded him that extra measures of security were fitting. It was all speculation: she knew nothing. Catherine and Christian had come up with some plan together, for all she knew. She prayed the precautions would suffice, sealing the auction rooms into an impenetrable fortress that Bolkhov could not penetrate without being discovered. When the doors opened again in two hours, she would rise to her feet in relief, and walk away grateful.

And then, only then, would she allow herself to burn as she dwelled on this image of Catherine and Christian conferring, making plans to which she would never again be privy, speaking in the hushed, intimate tones of a man and his future wife.

A passerby tipped his hat, then looked startled. She realized she was scowling, her fingers shredding the stray leaf she’d plucked up from the bench. She glared at him, causing him to step a little more quickly down the pavement. It was not her job today to please gentlemen. She was on holiday.

All of London was on holiday, it seemed. The sun shone with great, balmy force on the families traipsing by, laden with baskets from market. Young ladies of that enviably middling rank—with enough coin to spare for shopping, but no great station that required a chaperone’s guard—strolled arm in arm. Their laughter sounded happy, and the sound drove her to her feet, restless and miserable.

From that vantage, she finally saw the smoke. It curled in a thin dark ribbon from the building that neighbored Everleigh’s.

The weather was too fine to build a fire. And she had never seen chimney smoke so concentrated and dark—not even on the coldest days of winter.

Her feet carried her across the road. Fear was usually a cold hand on her spine, nudging her away from danger. But now it prodded her forward. Friends did not abandon each other. She must find some way to help.

There was no hope achieving entry through the guards at the front. But there was a high window that looked out onto the back alley, to provide light to the receiving room. Six feet off the ground—but there was always a carriage block nearby. The window was kept locked, but what lock had ever kept her out?

The auction room was crushed. No chairs, no room for reckless elbows or a misplaced cough. Men jostled into the paintings hanging from the walls, calling out their bids with reckless abandon. As the price mounted, so did the clamor, though it was assuming a quarrelsome edge near the doorway, where a servant in livery was shouldering his way into the crowd.

Christian met him halfway, angling his head to allow for a private word.

“Smoke outside,” the man said into his ear. “Next building. No other sign of trouble.”

Catherine was suddenly at his elbow. “What is it?”

He took a deep breath. The air was clean. The view out the window showed blue sky. “Ashmore’s on it?”

“Yes, sir.”

Catherine pulled his elbow. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing yet.” Christian watched the window. The first drift of smoke now edged into view. Not so thick; a clogged flue might disgorge that dark cloud.

But whatever had started to burn suddenly found new impetus. A sizable cloud of smoke spread upward. And then—

An explosion rocked the room.

Screams. A sparkling shower of glass. The great window had shattered inward. Bidders shoved and pushed out of their seats, shedding shards. He pulled Catherine against the wall, turning his body to make a shield for hers as bidders shoved past. She fought his grip. “Let them pass!” he yelled into her ear. Shoulders and fists pummeled him as men scrambled for the exit.

She subsided, permitting him to twist and look toward the door. Men were trampling each other, stepping on their fellows to escape. Somebody wrestled the other door open—he glimpsed Ashmore’s face before the crush forced him out of view. The crowd, given new egress, began to thin.

Catherine ripped out of his grip, running to stand beneath the great drapes. Firelight washed over her pale hair, glittered over the shards littering the carpet. The neighboring building belched flames.

“God’s sake!” Peter Everleigh was yelling from his position at the rostrum. “Shut the curtains! Block it out!”

Embers were raining into the room, great burning chunks of paper carried over by the breeze. They floated through the shattered window, landing to smolder on the carpets.

One ember caught in Catherine’s skirts. Christian slapped it free. The blow broke her daze; she dropped the drapes and lifted her hem high, stamping on scattered embers. “Help me! Peter! Put it out!”

But her brother had ducked out of the room.

“Come!” Christian grabbed her arm. “You can’t stay here.”

“Not until I’ve put them out!”

Patches of the carpet were smoking. He ground one beneath his heel as she hurried from spot to spot, stamping out the others. But more were falling by the moment. These efforts were useless.

He seized her by the waist and bodily carried her into the hall. From below came great shouts and thumps, the crowd forcing its way out. “Listen!” he said, as she fought to free herself. “Do you hear the bells?”

She froze. “The Fire Brigade.”

“Yes. They’re coming. You can’t help now.” He dragged her into a quick walk down the corridor. Scattered along the floor were handkerchiefs, pens, small slips of paper, catalogs advertising the wares. Bolkhov must still be next door. That explosion had been dynamite, which required a man to light the fuse.

“They must save it,” she muttered. “I will not let it burn!”

“They will. Keep walking.”

“Let go.” She hauled her skirts well clear of her ankles.
“The building is stone. We’ve sand and axes stationed on every floor. A direct connection to the main water line. Do your men know—”

“Yes,” he said. “They do. They have the plans.”

This answer seemed to satisfy her. They hurried in silence to the stairs. At the landing, he caught sight through the window of movement in the next building. He paused to count the floors. When he turned again toward Catherine, she was gone.

Lilah cursed. She was stuck halfway through the window, her torso resting atop a crate that stood against the wall. She had to pull herself up onto it.
You can do this
. The smell of smoke was growing stronger.
You must
. On a great groaning effort, she stretched out and caught the far edge of the crate.
Yes
. Slowly she dragged herself upward. Dratted bustle caught on the window frame, and then—

Free
. She hoisted herself onto hands and knees, pausing to find her balance. The ground was eight feet below now.

The door flew open. Catherine dashed by, ash smeared across her cheek, her eyes wild. She went straight to the gate, fumbling a key into the padlock that held the bar shut.

“Catherine! Help me down!”

Catherine encompassed her predicament in one frantic glance over her shoulder. “It’s on fire,” she said. “The fire brigade is coming. I have to open the gate for them!” The padlock yielded. She threw down the keys, then put her shoulder beneath the bar, lifting it aside. As she pulled open the wide door, bright sunlight fell
in squares across her, segmented by the iron grate that must be raised.

Catherine seized the bars, straining to lift them. The bells sounded very loud now. The brigade was turning into the lane, Lilah thought. “Let me help!”

With an enraged grunt, Catherine let go. “It’s too heavy.” She turned, sweeping a narrow glance across the room.

“That smaller crate.” Lilah pointed. “Shove it over.” She could make the leap in stages.