Wouldn't It Be Deadly (4 page)

Nepommuck gave a dramatic sigh. “She cannot help herself, my dear. Do not let her lovely vowels fool you. Miss Doolittle is only lately come from the gutter.”

“One more word, mate, and I'll kick your blooming arse!” Eliza clapped a hand over her mouth, dismayed at how easily her speech had reverted to the East End.

“Ah, just as I thought.” Nepommuck looked smug. “Come, Mrs. Finch. I will finish your lesson across the hall. It appears Miss Doolittle has forgotten how to speak the English language properly herself.”

The pair swept out of the room as if they were King George and Queen Mary.

Eliza grabbed a nearby inkwell and reached back to throw it at the door Nepommuck slammed behind him. After a moment, she lowered her arm. She would not lose control again. She was no longer an ignorant flower girl. And she'd see both Higgins and Nepommuck hang before she allowed herself to slip back into her old life. Except at this moment, she wanted nothing more than to sit in her cozy old “piggery” in Angel Court.

“I am a person of discernment and discretion, Maestro Nepommuck,” she said aloud. “And I am an independent woman, Professor Higgins. No matter what either of you think, I deserve your regard and courtesy.”

Then she felt her blood rise at the contempt with which both men often treated her. “I'm a bleeding lady, I am!”

Frustrated, she flung the inkwell to the floor. “Ah-ah-oh-ow-ow-oh-ow!”

 

THREE

“It's a blooming castle,” Eliza said in wonder as she stepped out of the taxi.

The brick facade of Hepburn House did indeed gleam in the noontime sun like a golden palace. Eliza squinted up at its many turrets, windows of leaded glass, and trellis vines of ivy curling about the elegant stonework. The mansion stretched on either side, disappearing into a green profusion of beech trees and rhododendrons that concealed where the walls ended. Nepommuck told her that the widowed marchioness was a wealthy woman, but she didn't expect anything like this. Cor, how the rich do live.

Even though the day was unseasonably warm, she shivered at the prospect of mingling with the toffs all afternoon. She'd barely slept last night, sick with worry about attending such a fancy occasion as the Annual Foundling Hospital Garden Party of the Dowager Marchioness of Gresham. The Embassy Ball had been daunting, too, but she'd had Higgins and the Colonel with her. Now she would be entering the gilded lion's den alone.

She did ask Nepommuck if she could allow her suitor, Freddy Eynsford Hill, to escort her, but he refused. This didn't surprise her. Nepommuck had barely said a civil word to her since Professor Higgins barged in on her lesson twelve days ago. Even if Freddy couldn't come, she had an official invitation as well as an obligation to her students to be here. Not that she expected to enjoy a minute of it.

With a last nervous tug on her dress, Eliza marched to the entrance. The oak-paneled door swung open before she even raised her hand to knock. A tall young butler stood before her, as intimidating and handsome as the house itself.

She stared in amazement. The fellow was the spitting image of her favorite film actor, Bransley Ames. Blessed with the same wavy black hair, long-lashed dark eyes, and wide mouth, the butler also had a cleft chin like the actor. He might even be better looking than the real Ames. She should know, having spent far too much of her wages at the Shaftesbury Picture Palace.

The butler raised a curious eyebrow at her, which made him look as dashing as a pirate. It didn't seem fair that the rich got to live in palaces and have lovely young fellows waiting on them besides.

“May I help you, miss?”

“I'm Maestro Nepommuck's assistant, Miss Eliza Doolittle.” Without waiting for a reply, she sailed past him, head held high. She may have been born in Lisson Grove, but she was going to act as if she belonged here. When she heard the door shut behind her, she let out a sigh of relief. She'd fooled the butler. That was a good start.

“Right, mate,” she said aloud, forgetting she wasn't alone.

“I beg your pardon, Miss Doolittle?”

She took on her airiest tone. “Oh, I didn't say anything.”

To hide her embarrassment, Eliza walked into the first room on her right. Had the temperature been colder, she would have thought she'd entered an ice palace. Everything was wintry white and silver. Her admiring gaze took in the silver brocade sofas, crystal vases of white spring flowers, and sweeping silk curtains of palest ivory. Silver candelabra gleamed on the mantel of a white marble fireplace, while each piece of porcelain bric-a-brac on the silver tables and shelves was snow white. The plush white carpeting sank beneath her French heels. Eliza gasped at the sight of a grand piano, also painted white, that sat in one corner. Who knew pianos could be any color but black?

A sudden shriek made her jump, and she whirled around. Several feet away stood an enormous white birdcage designed to look like Buckingham Palace. From behind its polished bars, a large white bird with a yellow crest stared at Eliza. Cocking his head, he let out another piercing shriek.

“Am I the first guest here?” she asked the butler, who stood watching her from the doorway.

“No, miss. The other guests are in the gardens.” He cleared his throat. “This is the drawing room.”

Eliza felt herself blush. “Of course,” she murmured.

The butler led her down a long hallway resplendent with gilt-framed portraits, carved wooden settees, and vases taller than she was. The tiled side corridor seemed to go on forever, but eventually she heard voices and saw glass doors that looked out on an expanse of green rolling lawn. She and the butler stepped out onto the terrace.

“Miss Eliza Doolittle,” he announced.

Not a single soul bothered to look her way. “Thank you,” she said.

“If you require anything at all, Miss Doolittle, you may ask for me.” He gave a slight bow. “I am Harrison, Her Ladyship's butler.”

His courtesy and good looks prompted an unexpected confession from her. “To be honest, Harrison, I'm a bit nervous about mingling with all these gents and ladies. I do thank you for being so kind.”

“Don't let the toffs worry you, miss.” He leaned toward her, his voice low. “The only thing separating us and them is a lucky ancestor or two.”

Eliza had to restrain herself from planting a kiss on his handsome cheek. But after he was gone, her uneasiness returned. What would the Marchioness's fancy friends think of her? It was a marvel she had passed herself off as a duchess at the Embassy Ball. Perhaps she'd done it only to prove Higgins wrong—or to make him proud. Blast the infuriating man. But she would dearly love to see his irritating face just now.

Remember the ball, she told herself. You were a duchess that night, better mannered and twice as regal as any aristocrat waltzing about the ballroom. She had no reason to take fright at a little garden party packed with swells. Especially since out of the three hundred or so guests, twenty were pupils ready for their big test in the only classroom that mattered. If they could pass as one of those born to privilege, then Nepommuck could collect his final—and most lavish—fee.

She wasn't even a student to be tested, merely an assistant teacher here to shepherd her own pupils. Eliza looked out over the white tents, tables draped in linen, and beautifully attired guests enjoying pastry and tea on the lawn. A few guests played croquet, the ladies' elegant spring hats bobbing with every swing of the mallet. She was pleased to see that her own outfit would stand muster. Eliza had chosen the sage green gown with infinite care, along with a straw skimmer hat banded with grosgrain ribbon and topped by a darling tiered bow.

As she walked down the terrace steps, she nodded to one of her students. Mr. Corbett was a jolly older gentleman from Belfast eager to trade his Irish brogue for an Oxford cadence. He seemed deep in conversation with several people gathered around him, one of whom she recognized as a famous opera singer she'd seen during her Covent Garden days. Well done, she thought, and passed Mr. Corbett with a proud smile.

During the next hour, Eliza circled the elegant manicured gardens and observed most of her pupils. As the day grew warmer, she darted into a tent for some quick refreshment. The sight of tiered silver trays filled with pastries and cold sandwiches cheered her. Maids and footmen dressed in starched uniforms moved soundlessly among the tents and the tables. She noticed that they refilled every flute of champagne without being asked.

So far, the afternoon had gone better than expected. Each of her students had performed brilliantly. Mrs. Hazel Tinsdale might require one more lesson. Not that anything was wrong with her speech, but the matron from Newcastle had to learn to drink more tea and less champagne at a garden party. One more glass of the bubbly, and she'd be carried off the grounds in a drunken stupor.

Eliza spent the next twenty minutes enjoying the Charlotte Russe. She hoped no one noticed that she'd eaten three slices. Dabbing at her mouth with a linen napkin, she was grateful for the white canopy overhead. It felt as warm as midsummer even though it was only the eleventh of May. She fought the impulse to take off her hat and fan herself with it.

Only one student remained for her to observe: Mary Finch. Unfortunately Mary had yet to interact with any of the guests. Instead the young woman wandered aimlessly about the grounds, smiling only when Nepommuck came into view. But the Maestro kept company with the other bluebloods and took no notice of her.

Not that she was easy to miss. Mary had chosen not to wear her usual yellows or golds. Today she was dressed in pink tulle, positively girlish, with a pink feather aigrette bobbing above her blond head for good measure. Small wonder that Mr. Finch followed close behind his wife, a look of alarm on his face. Eliza was ready to take her leave, and Mary Finch stood in the way of her departure. She must insist that Mary converse with a baronet or two.

Before she could speak with Mary, however, Eliza caught sight of the Dowager Marchioness of Gresham. Dressed completely in white, the Marchioness—also known as Lady Gresham—commanded attention not only for her sleek-fitting lace gown, but for her air of majesty. She was as intimidating as a queen—and probably just as wealthy. The first time they met at Nepommuck's apartment, Eliza had to restrain herself from dropping a curtsey. She thought the Marchioness a most striking woman, even though Eliza guessed her age to be close to sixty. Her piercing gray eyes, which made Eliza nervous, were enhanced by perfectly coiffed snow-white hair. And it was doubtful there was an aristocrat anywhere in Europe with a profile half as regal.

Standing near a marble fountain, Lady Gresham raised a gloved hand. With the smallest of gestures, she summoned Eliza to join the guests gathered about her. By the time Eliza reached them, Nepommuck had joined the group. He looked his usual smug self, dapper in a well-brushed suit, polished shoes, and white gloves. His whiskers and mustache were groomed to perfection. Although he ignored Eliza's presence, Lady Gresham welcomed her with a gracious smile.

“Ah, Miss Doolittle, I told Emil that you both should be so proud of your pupils,” she said. “Not one of my friends has guessed at their base origins.”

So much for graciousness, Eliza thought.

Lady Gresham gestured to the woman beside her. “I do not believe you have made the acquaintance of Miss Rosalind Page, soon to make her debut in the West End.”

The statuesque actress gave a little nod, which made her amethyst earrings glitter with the movement. With her vivid coloring and slender figure swathed in lilac silk and chiffon, Miss Page looked ready to make a grand entrance onstage.

Eliza bit back an excited grin. The celebrated Canadian actress had been Nepommuck's pupil for the past month, but Eliza always seemed to be elsewhere when she came for her lessons. Miss Page was reputed to be a theatrical sensation in North America, and the London papers were filled with stories of the young woman's talent and beauty. Now that Eliza finally set eyes on her, it appeared that the rumors of her beauty had not been exaggerated.

“Miss Doolittle,” Miss Page said in a melodic voice. “How lovely to meet you.”

What a pity that Miss Page and the handsome butler weren't a couple. Oh, the pretty babies those two could make. Miss Page's complexion was as perfect as porcelain, while her almond-shaped violet eyes boasted lashes longer than Eliza thought possible. If Lady Gresham reminded one of a haughty queen, Miss Page was the epitome of a Celtic fairy princess. Eliza admired the actress's mass of curly auburn hair piled fashionably beneath a broad hat festooned with lavender silk roses.

Up close, she also noted a touch of rouge on the actress's lips and cheeks that only heightened the dazzling effect. Eliza wondered if she dared dip into the rouge pots herself, although she could never hope for results anywhere near as gratifying.

“I apologize for staring, Miss Page,” she said. “You're just so beautiful.”

Rosalind Page laughed. “And you are much too kind.”

Lady Gresham cleared her throat. Those gray eyes had grown hard. Flattering another woman was obviously not appreciated. “You already know Mr. Cornelius Finch.”

Eliza murmured a greeting to the businessman, who was busy watching his wife make her way toward them.

“And this is Mr. Dmitri Kollas, one of Emil's oldest pupils.” Lady Gresham pointed her white lace fan at a stocky man in a well-tailored suit.

“I believe we met at the Embassy Ball,” Eliza said.

The burly fellow only grunted a response. She had a dim memory of him being a Greek diplomat, or at least posing as one, according to Higgins.

Lady Gresham next gestured to a young man with wavy chestnut hair and a mischievous expression. “This dear boy is James Nottingham.”

“Very pleased to meet you, Miss Doolittle.” Nottingham bowed over her hand, and gave her a quick wink when he straightened.