Page 14 of Lady Be Good

One of the maids dragged Lilah out of bed just before noon. “Begging your apologies,” Holly said, “but Miss Everleigh wishes to speak with you.”

Groggy, Lilah stumbled to her feet. Her corset lay discarded on the floor, the laces loosened to their ends. If Holly wondered at the cause, she did not ask as she set to tightening them again.

But the sight brought Lilah to full alertness. She blushed as the maid helped her dress. Her body felt . . . different. More sensitive. The corset seemed to crush her breasts. And when she stepped into her gown, she felt a soreness between her legs, a twinge that triggered a deeper quickening.

She’d not slept much. Before she had left Palmer, she’d made him try to coax her name from her again. And then again . . .

Holly was speaking. “. . . much recovered. The doctor is with her now. She’ll be on her feet by tomorrow.”

But Lilah would not be here to see it. She’d been sacked. Among other things. Smiling to herself, she followed Holly out into the sitting room.

“Oh.” Holly picked up an envelope from the tea table. “His lordship sent this before he left.”

“Left?” Lilah opened the envelope. Enclosed was a train ticket, and a brief note.

“To Sussex,” Holly said. “A telegram came this morning. Some trouble with his family.”

You’ll be in London by nightfall. But you will not deliver those notes by hand. The penny post works. —P.

She smiled at the edict—then faltered beneath a premonition of oncoming foolishness. She was not going to weep on the train, was she? She’d gotten exactly what she wanted. Regrets would be idiotic. What did she imagine—that he would offer marriage? Of course not.

But to be given only a single night with him . . .

From the doorway, Holly cleared her throat. “Miss Everleigh was most anxious to see you, miss.”

Yes, most eager to remind her she’d been sacked, no doubt. Lifting her skirts, Lilah hurried after the maid.

In Miss Everleigh’s bedroom, the doctor was packing up his bag as his patient lounged among a dozen pillows. She looked pale and fatigued, but her hair was neatly plaited. The open windows had aired the room of any lingering reek. “Miss Marshall,” she said, her voice slightly hoarse. “The maids said you were shut up in your rooms. Why is that?”

No thanks for having nursed her, but Lilah expected none. “I could not leave before I saw you well.” She hesitated, realizing that if she wished to keep her position as a hostess, she had no choice but to grovel. “I do hope you will forgive me for the other day. My behavior was—”

“No.” Catherine struggled to sit upright. “I mean, why aren’t you at work?” She knocked her plait behind her shoulder. “This ridiculous man tells me I must remain bedridden until tomorrow, but that’s no reason for you to dawdle.”

Dr. Hardwick inched toward the door. Lilah stepped aside to let him pass, taking the opportunity to ponder her best reply. Had the sickness given Miss Everleigh amnesia? “I . . . before, you said—”

“Enough of what I said!” Miss Everleigh shot an odd, panicked glance toward the doctor. “Sir. Will you shut the door behind you?”

Dr. Hardwick bowed, then pulled the door shut with a thump that smacked of relief.

“Now.” Miss Everleigh cleared her throat. “I believe you were making an apology. And I certainly deserve one.”

Lilah folded her hands at her waist and did her best to look meek. “I am cursed with a rash temper, miss. There is no cause or excuse for it.”

“Is that your claim?” Miss Everleigh blew out a breath. “Well. I suppose . . . there are two shrews in this household, then.”

Had she just made a . . . joke? At her own expense? “Termagant,” Lilah said tentatively, “is the term I prefer.”

The barest smile touched Miss Everleigh’s mouth. “Why not harpy? Or vixen? There’s a very long list to choose from, when one speaks of sharp-tongued women. All of them invented by men, I expect.” She paused. “I thank you,” she said stiffly. “For last night.”

How long ago that seemed! So much had followed. “It was my duty, miss.”

“Yes, of course.” But Miss Everleigh sounded oddly uncertain. “At any rate . . . I propose a bargain. In my illness, I may have made an . . . odd remark.”

So she remembered her fears of her brother. That did not bode well. Feverish delusions would not have lingered with her. “No, miss. I recall no such thing.”

“I see.” With one finger, Miss Everleigh outlined the embroidery in her quilt. “Well, I can admire discretion. In exchange for it, I will reserve my own speculations. And I will allow you to learn what you can from me.” She looked up, frowning slightly. “If that is still your wish.”

Amazed again, Lilah curtseyed. How easily she’d slipped out of her troubles! “Does this mean I’m to stay?”

“Have you not heard a word I’ve said? I can’t manage this estate on my own. Of course I could have done, had it not been for that trip to town—and this pathetic bout of illness. Chocolates! Who would have imagined? I cannot blame Miss Stratton, but I will certainly have a word with the confectioners at Armand’s—”

What would Palmer say to this news? More to the point, how long would he be gone? For Lilah had until the last week of June to do as she liked. Until then, her uncle would not look for the notes. And she could think of many uses for her time here. Last night could mark the start of her education, rather than the entirety—as long as Palmer proved willing.

She remembered his hoarse words, in the hour before dawn. You have talents, he’d said, you do not even understand.

No, she did not foresee any objections to continuing her tutelage.

“Don’t look so cheerful,” Miss Everleigh snapped. “I stand by my previous opinion. Your ambitions outstrip your abilities—and your potential as well. I encourage you to aim lower. Far lower, in fact.”

Lilah swallowed a snort. “You do indeed seem much recovered.”

Miss Everleigh flipped her hand toward the door. “Go on, then,” she said. “To your work. And come back before dinner, to make a report of what you’ve done.”

Where had Palmer gone? Days passed without sign of him. Miss Everleigh, entirely recovered now, paid no notice to his absence. With no call to break for a formal dinner, she kept Lilah working till ten thirty in the evenings. At last, Lilah’s fatigue outweighed her fear of the dark; once in bed, she fell asleep immediately.

Thankfully, Miss Everleigh’s illness seemed to have burned away the sharpest edges of her tongue. She showed flashes of patience, and a grudging gift for instruction. With painstaking care she taught Lilah the small differences between mundane objects and priceless ones. For instance, a lovely, patterned vase might be worth nothing—or, thanks to a single small mark, hidden amid its flowery print, it might be the rarest and most valuable of enamelware.

“Always keep your eyes open,” Miss Everleigh told her. “It never fails that your last look turns up the greatest finds.”

Lilah took the advice to heart. She kept her eyes open at all hours, looking out the window for Palmer’s return. But her watch only ever rewarded her with a different and more disturbing sight. The strapping assayers prowled through the trees at all hours, singly and in pairs. Sometimes they conferred on horseback. Their jackets fit very loosely over their military-straight backs.

She made herself look away whenever she saw them. The force of her curiosity unsettled her—as did her dreams. Palmer had awakened a hunger in her that she’d never suspected. Her dreams each night left her sweaty and breathless. But that premonition of future grief lingered, giving her a constant warning. If she awaited his return, it was only for the satisfaction of his body. Now that she had the letters, his problems did not concern her.

Five days passed like this. Miss Everleigh commented only once on her distraction. “If you drop any of the crystal, you will pay for what you break.”

After asking how much the dish in question was worth, Lilah took pains to ring for coffee at the top of every hour.

On the sixth day, Miss Everleigh declared their work with the breakables was done. They moved now to the more exhausting task of appraising the furniture. This was physical work, which normally—so Miss Everleigh said sourly—was performed with the aid of footmen. But Mrs. Barnes had yet to find men worthy of that position at Buckley Hall.

The stable hands were fetched inside to assist, but their smell quickly outstripped their utility. Miss Everleigh dismissed them. “We can manage it ourselves,” she told Lilah. “You seem made of strong fiber, and I am no fragile flower.”

Wasn’t she, then? Lilah found herself increasingly surprised by her employer—and more skeptical of Miss Everleigh’s claim that men would not admire her for her skills. For the icy heiress never seemed more charming than when, with gritted teeth, she insisted she could turn over a table on her own, thank you very much—and then laughed in delight at having managed it.

By the evening, having upended countless chairs and settees to look for flaws and carpenters’ marks, both women were sweaty and covered with grime. But they had made better time than anticipated, having nearly completed their catalog of the furniture in the west wing. Only one chest remained, which they had not managed to unlock. Miss Everleigh could find no match for it on the rusted ring of keys the housekeeper had provided.

The dust was making Lilah sneeze. “Let me have a try.” And then she could go bathe this grime away.

“I tell you, I tried every key twice.”

“Sometimes it takes a bit of coaxing, is all. But I’m sure you’re right.” On the sly, Lilah slipped a hairpin from her coiffure. “Why don’t you ring down, see if Mrs. Barnes has any other strays lying about?”

On a huff, Miss Everleigh thrust the key ring at her and stomped over to the bellpull. “One would think a proper housekeeper might take an interest—”

“Done!” Lilah flipped open the latch and lifted the lid of the trunk.

“How on earth?” Miss Everleigh hurried back over, then clapped a hand to her mouth. “No! Oh, no!” Nearly keening, she reached into the trunk to retrieve a dusty bottle, which she wiped on her skirt with no regard for the dirty streak it made. “This is awful!”

Lilah picked up a bottle. Naturally, it was in French. “Chateau.” She knew that word, at least.

“Chateau Lafite Gilet.” Miss Everleigh stamped a foot. “Oh, but it hasn’t been stored properly!” She let the bottle sag in her grip. “I feel ill.”

“It’s very rare, then?” All wine seemed much the same in Lilah’s eyes—mutton dressed as lamb. Watching the drunken antics at Everleigh’s, she’d supposed it the preference of those who liked their poison to come packaged more respectably than gin.

“This vintage, yes. It might have fetched a prince’s ransom, if only it had been kept properly. And drunk in time!”

Lilah shifted the bottles aside, counting silently. “Twelve bottles.”

“Such a waste.”

“Are you certain it’s gone bad?” They had visited the wine cellars earlier in the week. Remembering Miss Everleigh’s discourse, Lilah felt the inside of the trunk. “It’s been kept out of the sunlight. The wood is not warped, so it hasn’t been damp.”

“It will have turned by now, regardless. The yokel who put them here—” Miss Everleigh made an ill-tempered grunt. “Wine is meant to be aged, not buried!”

“But if it hadn’t turned? You could still set the lot.”

“There’s no way to tell,” Miss Everleigh said dismissively.

Lilah almost laughed. Amid all these high-flying rules about valuation, it seemed typical of Miss Everleigh to overlook the simplest technique. “Needn’t one only taste it to judge the quality?” She reached into her pocket and pulled out her knife. “We could uncork a bottle.”

Miss Everleigh’s eyes narrowed in a familiar look of disapproval. “That would hardly be proper, Miss Marshall. These bottles belong to the estate.”

It was too late in the day to perform her chastened routine. “So we’re to throw out the whole lot on a guess? If it’s still good, you could fetch a profit from it. How could Lord Palmer object?” Besides, in order to object, he would first have to return to Buckley Hall. How long could one remain in Sussex, anyway?

Miss Everleigh had lifted the bottle to inspect it more closely. “This year was rumored to be sublime.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever tasted a wine that was sublime.”

Miss Everleigh glanced up. “You’ve no idea what you’re missing.”

Lilah repressed a snort. She had a very good idea that she was missing a great lot of things in life. Fewer, though, of late.

She checked herself before she looked again out the window, toward the ever-empty drive. “If you’ve had it before, you’ll know how it’s meant to taste. Isn’t that right?”

Miss Everleigh gave a single, small nod. Then she pressed her lips together. “It’s not done.” But a smile escaped. She quickly trammeled it. “This is terrible,” she said severely. “Not in the least professional.”

“Forgive me,” Lilah said, “but it seems very professional, to make sure the wine isn’t swill before you toss it.”

Miss Everleigh glanced toward the bellpull. “If we rang for glasses, they’d want to know why.”

“In some parts, people drink straight from a bottle, did you know?”

Miss Everleigh wrinkled her nose. “A very peculiar practice.”

“Or convenient.” Lilah took the bottle and set her blade to the seal. “Well?”

Miss Everleigh huffed out a breath. “I can’t . . .”

Not one to incline to tippling, Lilah nevertheless felt egged on by a devil. “For the sake of professionalism, miss.”

Miss Everleigh picked up her skirts and hurried to close the door. “Just one sip,” she said as she turned back. “To confirm it has turned.”

Lilah sliced the seal, then speared the cork and yanked it out. “That smells delicious,” she said, surprised.

“I cannot believe I’m doing this,” came Miss Everleigh’s faint reply.

Lilah held out the bottle. “You’re conducting a very thorough appraisal of the estate, miss. Sacrifices must be made.”

Taking the bottle, Miss Everleigh hesitated once more. “I am setting a very poor example for you.” But she required no further encouragement before tipping back the bottle. Swishing the wine about her mouth, she grimaced. “It’s not what it once was,” she said after swallowing. Then she sighed, looking glumly over the trunk’s contents. “We could not, in good conscience, auction this lot.”

“Sad,” Lilah said. “That something could go from wondrous to wretched, for want of proper storage.”

“Oh, it’s not wretched.” Miss Everleigh bit her lip. Then she thrust out the bottle. “Here. Try it.” At Lilah’s transparent surprise, she shrugged. “It’s the ghost of greatness. But if you’ve never tasted greatness, why, then you may well admire it.”

Lilah took the bottle. The smell truly was divine—sharp and robust, with the faint hint of blackberries. She tilted back the bottle for a taste.

Cherries and cream, thinning out into anise. The bitter finish made her wrinkle her nose. “Coffee.”

“Very good, Miss Marshall!” Miss Everleigh brought her hands together. “You have a nose. Who would have thought?”

Lilah gathered that the compliment was not to her actual anatomy. She handed the bottle back. Miss Everleigh took another swallow without even wiping the rim. “Tannins,” she pronounced, blinking rapidly. “They would not be so pronounced, were this still 1867.” She laughed at her own joke, then gave the bottle back to Lilah.

“Another?” Lilah asked, just to be certain.

“I can’t drink all of it myself.”

This was how, an hour later, with the room cast into twilight darkness, they still sat amid the dusty work of their day, the bottle between them, while Miss Everleigh recounted Young Pete’s boyish misadventures with a bottle of stolen port.

“He couldn’t even make it to the water closet?” Lilah felt appalled and amused at once. The poor maids!

“Not in time. But he certainly stayed there the rest of the night!” Miss Everleigh loosed a snorting laugh. “My father took to calling him Peter Porter after that. Oh, he loathed the name.” Her laughter faded. “He still does.” She gave a pull of her mouth. “No quicker way to needle him than to call him Porter.”

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.