Lady Be Good (42 page)

Lilah sagged back against the wall. That window was too small. A dog wouldn’t squeeze out of it.

“It’s done then,” Catherine whispered. “We’re going to die here.”

You’d need men at your back, to go into that place
. So Lilah had warned him of the Whitechapel tavern. Christian
understood now what she’d meant. Someone had run to fetch O’Shea. As Christian waited, the tense silence took no language to translate. Each of these men around him, nursing their drinks and never removing their eyes from him, had the look of a brawler.

The door opened, O’Shea’s lanky form making a silhouette in the doorway. As he stepped inside, the dim light revealed his slow survey of the assembled gathering, then his smirk as he located Christian in the far corner.

“Slumming,” he said, in a clear, carrying voice, “has caught on like wildfire, I see.”

Never be too proud for friendship. Never turn up your nose
. It was the hardest advice he’d ever taken. But Christian rose now, and bowed.

The audience wasn’t accustomed to such courtesies. They misinterpreted it. A dozen chairs shifted. Metal scraped. Someone stepped up behind him.

“Go easy there,” O’Shea said pleasantly. He walked to the bar, pausing to confer with the mute giant who’d patted Christian down to check for weaponry. The man had found none; Christian was no fool.

Slowly Christian turned toward the man behind him.
I’d prefer a cutlass. A proper handle can be useful
. But Lilah would have had difficulty lifting the cutlass this man held. Nor would she mistake it as a friendly gesture. “Step away,” he said softly.

A bruised, bulbous face. An ugly smile. Over Christian’s shoulder, the man must have seen some signal, for he eased off, retaking his seat.

O’Shea came strolling over, a foaming pint in his hand. Very casual, all good humor. Each of his idle footsteps on the sloping floor struck like flint against Christian’s
banked rage. “Fine day to pay a call,” O’Shea said. “Come to beg my help?”

He took a hard breath. “Yes.”

Surprise briefly showed on the man’s face. Then he turned to the room at large. “Oh ho!” He extended his arms, turning right and left as though to gather his audience’s attention closer. “Did you catch that, boys? The grand Viscount Palmer wishes a spot of assistance!”

The snickers sounded forced. Uneasy. Even in this part of town, even with O’Shea’s protection assured them, these men understood the danger in threatening a peer of the realm.

Let him grandstand. Let him do whatever he liked. Pride, principle did not factor. “Lily said you had three leads. Was she right?”

“Ah, well.” O’Shea fell into a seat, rocking it back onto its hind legs. “I thought I’d made myself clear. My time isn’t for—”

“He may have Lily.”

The chair landed with a thump. “What?”

Suddenly Christian was looking at a different man. No humor now. Only cold, hard focus. “She was outside the auction rooms earlier. Now Catherine Everleigh is missing. And there’s no sign of Lily, either.”

“Goddamned—” O’Shea rose. “A fine job you’ve done! Let him sweep them right from under you!”

“All in Bethnal Green, the three leads. That’s what she said. Which quadrant?”

O’Shea hissed and wheeled away. “Fetch the boys,” he said to the brute at the bar. “Full arms.” Then he cast a sharp look over the room at large. “No harm to this one. He’ll see his sorry hide out.” He started for the door.

Jesus. Christian caught his breath. “You know where he is?”

O’Shea’s lip curled as he turned back. “It’s nowhere in Bethnal Green. Slink on home, Palmer, and let the real men—”

Time elapsed. A flipbook, pages skipped. Somehow he had O’Shea pinned against the table. A knife at his jugular. The goon at the door had not thought to check the folds of his neckcloth. Goons did not wear them.

Cold steel pressed into his own nape. Whoever was holding it barely registered. “We have no time for quarreling. Do you agree?”

O’Shea studied his face. Then gave a grim smile. “Aye. That I do.”

Christian lifted away the blade. O’Shea’s pale eyes flicked beyond him. “Step off, lad.”

The steel retreated. O’Shea sprang to his feet. Caught up with Christian halfway to the door.

“Your Russian just dropped by my club. I sent him scurrying away.” O’Shea shouldered open the door, then hooked two fingers into his mouth to sound a piercing whistle that carried down the street, turning heads. “That’ll bring us mounts.”

“No need. Twenty men wait on the high street. Already saddled.”

“Reinforcements?” O’Shea
tsked
. “A disappointment. Next time you visit, be sure to come alone.”

“Where is his base?”

“Spitalfields. Mind you, I’d no cause to care before. Hadn’t given
me
any trouble. Paid his rent on time, too.” As they walked, O’Shea was feeling down his jacket, opening and closing hidden pockets to catalog the weapons he carried, some of which Christian only
recognized from foreign armies: throwing stars. A small stiletto. A garrote, Christ God.

“But he’s crossed a line, now,” O’Shea said coolly. He glanced over his shoulder, nodding in acknowledgment to the handful of men who joined their number, keeping pace a length behind.

“Your men are not to interfere,” Christian said.

“Oh, I—” O’Shea paused as they turned the corner and the high road came into view. He whistled again, this time in undisguised admiration of the phalanx of men waiting, saddled and ready, their weapons openly displayed. An astonished goggle of pedestrians had retreated to the other side of the road to gawk. “Aye,” he said slowly. “Won’t interfere unless it’s called for. No use wasting my own.”

Christian lifted his hand, extending two fingers.

A brief conference. Ashmore gestured. Two riders broke from the pack, galloping up and dismounting to hand over the reins.

O’Shea put one foot in the stirrup, then paused. “
I’ll
be interfering, though. Nobody messes with mine.”

“
Mine
.” The word ripped from Christian. “Do you understand? Yours no longer.”

O’Shea lifted a black brow. “Remains to be seen. But I like the show of spirit.”

That the ass could joke, even in this moment, enraged him. “Where do we go?” he bit out.

O’Shea settled into the saddle. “No name to the street.” He nudged his horse out onto the road. “Follow close now.”

Lilah had savaged her palm. Could barely bend her fingers. Probably wouldn’t have healed properly. She’d have
lived out her life with only five working fingers. Throwing hand, ruined. Oh well.

A ripping sound. Catherine had torn off a piece of her petticoats. “Let me bandage it.”

Lilah held out her palm. Catherine bound it and tied a knot too tight for comfort. But comfort didn’t matter much now, did it?

Catherine joined her in leaning against the wall, her mournful gaze fixed on the window. She looked slack faced, like Bolkhov had smacked the spirit out of her. Her cheek was purpling.

There was still a faint hope, though. “The House of Diamonds belongs to my uncle,” Lilah said. “Maybe he’ll be there. If Bolkhov draws his attention, Nick might follow him back.”

“Do you think?” Catherine turned, her eyes huge in her bloodied face.

“It’s possible.”

Not convincing. Catherine’s glance strayed toward the window again. At length, she said, “Do you suppose Everleigh’s burned?”

Wasn’t that just like her, to be worrying about the auction house when the prospect of her own death might have afforded sufficient concern.

But Lilah liked her for it. That stubborn focus—it wasn’t ladylike. She and Catherine had more in common than she’d once imagined. “Didn’t burn,” she said as a kindness. What did she know? “The fire brigade was there. Everleigh’s will be fine.”

“Of course.” Catherine frowned. Then she turned and kicked again at the door. “This place! What
is
it? That window. This strange door. What stupid architecture!”

Strange feeling, to smile in the midst of this disaster. “Even now, you’re finding flaws.”

Catherine blinked, then offered a faltering smile. “Architecture
is
an art, you know.”

“Architecture implies a plan,” Lilah said. “Buildings in these parts just get slapped up.” But they always did serve a purpose.

A prickling feeling touched her. She frowned around the little shed. Focused on the bags mounded along the far wall. “Hay.” She’d seen bags like that a thousand times, hauled home on the back of a costermonger’s donkey.

Catherine snorted. “For what? A pig? This awful reek—”

“A goat.” She looked up at the small window. Nothing to see but a brick wall bound by crumbling mortar. This structure had been shoved straight up against the tenement building.

“It’s a backhouse,” she realized. Had to be. That reek of goat—“Kept a donkey here.” Donkeys got lonely without company. Goats were the usual choice.

“A donkey couldn’t fit through that door,” said Catherine.

She was right. Maybe a goat could wiggle through it. But not a donkey. Which meant . . .

Lilah slammed her palms against the wall. Slowly walked the perimeter, feeling for cracks. “A horse walk.”

“What?”

“A tunnel from the tenement, to bring in the donkey.” Common in crowded slums. No spare space aboveground. She swept her hands wide. “Look for a door, Catherine.” But she saw none. “There has to be a passage for the donkey. It couldn’t . . .”

“
The hay
,” they said in unison, and sprang forward to haul the bags away from the wall.

There it was. A door. An unlocked door! Catherine hauled it open on a happy cry.

The passage was a maw of darkness. Cold breathed out. A musty sigh of death. No donkey had been down that tunnel in ages. It was narrow as a coffin. And Catherine was stepping into it. “Come on,” she said.

Oh, God
.

“What is it?” Catherine turned back, scowling. “Are you mad? What are you waiting for?”

“I can’t.” She heard her own words, registered their absurdity. But this understanding felt very distant. Her limbs locked tight.
Move
, she told them. But her brain had broken from her body.

“What do you mean?” Catherine caught her good hand and pulled. “Lilah, he’s coming back!”

Of course. She would go. She took a step—and the cold flowed over her, and the door swung shut.

Blackness.

Her breath fluttered like a panicked creature in her throat. Impossible to catch. She had to walk. It was this tunnel, or death.

But death lay ahead as well. Better to die in light than in darkness. She’d already escaped death once in a place like this. She wouldn’t be so lucky again. “I can’t.”

“Lilah. You
must
.”

A searing pain—Catherine had grabbed her bad hand, and was squeezing.

With a guttural moan, she ripped free. The tunnel closed around her, tighter and tighter.

A fist dug into her back. Catherine shoved her forward. “Walk. Now!”

The walls scraped Lilah’s shoulders. She choked on a sob.

The fist dug harder into her spine. “Keep going,” Catherine muttered.

Blind. “I can’t . . . see.”

“You don’t need to see.
I
can see. Just go.”

She took another halting step, then reached back, fumbling, and found Catherine’s wrist. Warm and alive.

Catherine’s hand slipped into hers. “I’m here.” Firm grip. Strong, for a lady. “We’re getting out. We’re saved. Just walk.”

If they died down here, nobody would find them for weeks. Her knees quaked like aspic, each step shakier. She couldn’t breathe.

“Where will we go?” Catherine’s calm sounded impossible. Eerie. So normal, her voice. “Once we’re out, we’ll have to hide.”

“Yes.” Her lips felt numb. The air was poison. So cold and still. A tomb.

“Everleigh’s isn’t safe. And we don’t know where Palmer is. Do you know a safe place?”

She had to try twice to find her voice. “I do.”

“Is it nearby?”

Very near. The warm glow of the lamps, the smell of fried oysters. Every last patron loyal to Nick, and willing to fight—for Nick’s niece, yes, they would. They had watched her grow up. They would defend Lily Monroe. “The safest place in the world,” she whispered.

“Then keep walking,” Catherine said. “Let’s get there.”

Ashmore came strolling down the street, his steps unhurried. He tipped his hat to Christian as he passed.

That was the signal. Christian took a long breath, his eyes fixed on the turn in the road. They had cleared the street. O’Shea had that kind of power here. Curtains drawn across all the windows. No onlookers. Inside, Bolkhov’s flat stood empty, no sign of the women. They had to take him alive, get the truth out of him.
No one shoots. No one
. He prayed that Ashmore’s men had heeded him, and kept their fingers off their triggers.

Beside him, O’Shea tensed. “Here he comes.”

A white-haired devil in pinstripes came strolling around the corner. Hands in pockets, scowling slightly, as though cataloging the items he’d forgotten to buy at market.