Page 5 of Lady Be Good

The town house was huge. Lit top to bottom. A party was under way. Lilah stood on the curb, staring up in indecision. It had taken a full day to build her courage to come here. Now she wondered if the cabman had delivered her to the wrong address.

Movement caught her attention. Across the road, a slim figure huddled in the shadows of the trees, features concealed by a voluminous shawl.

Lilah called out. “Is this the Viscount Palmer’s residence, do you know?”

The figure made some abortive movement—a gesture at flight, arrested. After a moment’s hesitation, hands emerged, drawing away the shawl. A young girl, perhaps seventeen, nodded tentatively at Lilah.

“Yes, that’s right,” the girl said. “Do you . . . do you know him?”

That was a very fine strand of diamonds at her throat. Lilah looked beyond her and saw nobody else in the park.

The rules were different in Mayfair, of course. But Lilah had the suspicion that this girl was not supposed to be prowling outside after dark without a chaperone. She looked the age of a debutante, and wore the jewelry to match.

“I do know him,” she said.

The girl gasped. Then she scuttled across the road to Lilah’s side. “Can you give him this?”

So close, Lilah could catch the subtle scent of the girl’s perfume—something exotic and expensive. The girl’s skin was flawless, as though the sun had never touched her.

Lilah felt her resolve faltering. She’d reconciled herself to a trade: her body for the letters. What choice did she have? Remaining chaste was well and good, as long as one’s circumstances remained decent enough to give chastity its proper meaning.

But once Nick told the Everleighs about her, she’d be hard-pressed to find any respectable position. The Everleighs would feel obliged to warn everyone of their deceitful former hostess. Her virtue would do her no good then. Her body would be all she had to sell.

Better to sell it when the price was still high. But would Palmer even be inclined to make the purchase? Not if his taste ran toward this girl’s bland, delicate beauty.

“I’ll give it to him,” she said, taking the note before the girl could change her mind. “Or maybe I won’t.”

“Oh!” The girl’s eyes widened in outrage. “Then give it back!”

Lilah shoved the note down her bodice. “Don’t be stupid. Men who force you to scurry about in the dark, writing love letters you daren’t post, mean nothing good for you.”

The girl covered her mouth, smothering an unsteady laugh. “No, you have it all wrong.” She lifted her face to the house, and the light spilling through the open windows caught on her eyes. They were a golden shade, like whisky held to the light.

“He’s my brother,” the girl said. “And he won’t . . .” Tears shone, threatened to spill over her lashes. “He won’t even see me. He’s denied me a season and refused to explain himself, and I—I won’t have it!”

Lilah looked her over. The girl was wearing a traveling cloak, wrinkled from much use. “Did you run away?” she asked. “Does anybody know you’re here?”

“I came to visit a friend. Mother made me promise not to go to town. She said it would upset him. But look—he’s having a party,” the girl said bitterly. “While the two of us rot away, with nothing to do but sulk and sit about, as though our mourning will never end. As though for the rest of our lives, all we must do is think of . . . of Geoff . . . and Father!”

Suddenly she sobbed. Alarmed, Lilah glanced again to the shadowy park. Mayfair was the safest area of London, but criminals found opportunities here as well. A weeping girl in fine diamonds would make easy pickings. “Where is this friend? Is her house nearby? Shall I walk you there?”

The girl dashed away her tears. “No! I’m not alone. My maid is waiting in the park.”

A very worthless maid. “And she let you come over on her own, did she?” Something in her own voice gave her pause. That scolding note . . . Fiona had liked to berate her so when she was rash. “I’ll have a word with her,” she said more stiffly. She owed this girl nothing. “Or perhaps it’s your friend’s parents I should speak with.”

By this threat, she meant to compel compliance. The girl flew into a panic. “No! Please, I beg you—the walk isn’t far. And my maid—Mother would sack her if she found out we came out at night. Please, Loulou is the only true friend I have at Susseby—”

“Fine,” Lilah said quickly, for it occurred to her that if somebody came along and spotted this scene, neither of them would benefit. “Run along to Loulou now, and I’ll see that Palmer gets your note.”

“Oh, thank you!” Beaming, the girl made a flying retreat into the park. Sure enough, another figure emerged from the darkness to meet her. The two huddled together for a moment, then waved to Lilah before slipping from view.

Inside, someone hooted, and a great chorus of masculine laughter followed. Lilah stepped out of the lamplight, frowning.

A week ago, it would not have surprised her to learn that Viscount Palmer threw wild parties. The wealthy were a breed apart, easily bored, prone to strange amusements. She had long since learned not to try to understand them.

But now that she had spoken with Palmer . . . now that she had learned, to her detriment, of his agile wit, and his skill at picking a girl’s pocket—she could not square him with the usual aristocratic nonsense.

They say I’m rotten.

Perhaps so will you.

Best to know as much as possible about the lion before she entered his den. She opened the note, reading quickly.

How can you do this to me, Kit? Do you think you’re the only one who has suffered? Or worse, the only one who should get to enjoy life, after such a long horrible period of grieving?

Well, I shan’t go to New York—and I shan’t be locked up, either! WHY should I submit to such treatment? Am I to be punished forever? You know I loved our brother with all my heart. I weep for him nightly! But what my sore heart requires to heal is diversion! I am twenty—other girls are married and widowed by that age! I should be making my debut at Lady Southerton’s ball as I write this! Why, the love of my life might even now be dancing with some other girl. What if I never meet him? What if I go to New York and marry some dreadful American and end up alone in some uncivilized wilderness only to be eaten by bears? That will be YOUR fault! ALL of it!

But what do you care? You are cold and unfeeling and I’m through with it. You can lock me up as many times as you like—I shall only break free and come back! I will stand outside your house and HOWL AT THE MOON if I must! But I promise you, if you do not give me permission to stay in town, you will regret it!

Your loving sister,

Melanie

Amused, Lilah refolded the note, then tucked it into her bodice. Had she ever been so young?

Above, the door opened. A man lurched down the steps, drunk as blazes. Something clattered onto the pavement ahead of him. He cursed and came to a standstill on the last step, gripping the iron rail as he wobbled indecisively.

His left leg ended in a wooden stump. It was a cane that he’d dropped. Surprise drew Lilah from her hiding place. As she picked up the cane, he cursed again. “Where in ’ell did you come from?” he demanded.

“Around the corner.” She handed the cane to him, but got no word of thanks for it. He hobbled past her and took a lurching turn toward the high road, his patched coat billowing out behind him.

How peculiar! On a deep breath, she marched up to the knocker.

The butler did not even ask Lilah’s name before admitting her. With a bow, he took her cloak and directed her upstairs. “You will find his lordship at the end of the hall, through the last door on the left.”

As she crested the stairs, she saw that this was no party after all—not the kind favored in Mayfair, at least. The male assembly wore rough-spun cotton and ragged jackets, and carried plates of plain chicken and potatoes. The group nearest her drank from tankards that smelled of ale, and they made conversation in a variety of unschooled accents. “This was afore that mess at Kabul, y’ken—”

“Aye, I kent it fine. Right sorry affair, that. Bloody Fred Roberts—”

She could spy the far hall, but the crush afforded no easy way to reach it. She sidled into the crowd, sidestepping elbows and carelessly handled tankards.

Evidence of injury was everywhere. Eye patches. Slings. These were military veterans, she suspected. As they took note of her presence, news traveled in a silent wave of nudges and nods. A path cleared, conversations pausing as she passed; with startled glances, men compassed her figure, then quickly and respectfully looked away.

The crowd thinned as she passed into the hall. To the left, a door stood open to a handsome salon, velvet-flocked walls and gilt molding, furniture upholstered in silk. Men in scarred boots and threadbare trousers sprawled across the sofas, playing chess and smoking pipes.

The third door stood ajar, only a sliver of light escaping. After a brief hesitation, Lilah nudged it open.

It was a very masculine kind of morning room, with the requisite writing desk, scattered stands of potted ferns, and a cluster of chairs drawn close to the fire. By tall windows that stood open to the night air, she located the host of the motley crew outside. He was sitting alone, his attention fixed on the street below.

Belatedly she rapped her knuckles against the door. He did not look over. “Go ahead,” he said quietly. “Shut the door behind you.”

She lingered at the edge of the carpet, strangely nervous. The first rule of any job was simple, and also, on rare occasions, impossibly complex: Know your mark.

She had spent the day reading old newspapers, reacquainting herself with Palmer’s celebrity. His charge at Bekhole was considered an act of inspired lunacy. From that, she gathered he was a man who liked risks. He had continued his military service after the war’s conclusion, rebuffing the prize of a diplomatic position for the mundane task of cleaning up the war-torn border. When an injury had brought him home, everyone had predicted a political career for him. But the glamor of power did not lure him. A year after his assumption of his late brother’s title, he had yet to take his seat in the House of Lords.

What did he want, then? I am eager to reacquaint myself with the pleasures of peacetime, he’d told a journalist. But that had hardly prepared her to find him brooding alone in the darkness, while an assembly of rough veterans caroused through his public rooms.

Her silence finally won his attention. He turned to look at her. “What did she want?”

This was decidedly not the best start to the conversation she hoped to have with him. “Whom do you mean?”

He rose. “The girl in the street.”

From an animal perspective, he’d been fashioned for power: tall and long legged, with powerful shoulders and thighs. She remembered the breadth of his upper arms, which she had gripped during their kiss. Soldiering had shaped his body, laid layers of hard muscle over his large, solid frame. He would have made a fine brute, were he in the market to work for her uncle.

She cleared her throat. “She wanted to know if this was your house.”

The darkness of the room veiled his expression from her. But she had made a study of him at Everleigh’s. She found the spot where that wicked scar carved a curving arc from the corner of his right eye to the middle of his cheek.

The war had made him a hero. Perhaps it had also done other things to him—difficult things that sharpened one’s instincts. She should not treat him as an ordinary mark.

“She knew very well whose house this was,” he said impassively. “What did she want? The truth, Miss Marshall.”

The note was her only advantage. She had not intended to surrender it until it promised to bring good value. But his fierce gaze made her feel transparent.

Unnerved, she reached into her bodice and drew out the letter. “She asked me to give you this. She intends to stay in town.”

He took it and put it aside unread. “Was that all?”

Lilah hesitated, puzzled. There was a starkness to his face, a stripped-down quality, quite at odds with his quicksilver charm that night at Everleigh’s. It was a strange mood, for a man throwing a party.

“Why are you in here all alone?” she asked.

One brow edged upward. “My guests do not require a host. Merely an excuse to gather, and eat a square meal.”

And he had given that to them. Why? “I am glad one cannot say the same of the crowds at Everleigh’s.” With humor she tried to lighten the atmosphere, for in this state, he would shoot down her proposition in an instant. “I would be out of a job.”

“I feel certain you would land on your feet,” he said.

That might have been a compliment. But feline imagery so rarely was used to compliment a woman. Why was that? Cats, in Lilah’s view, were tremendously admirable creatures—self-sufficient, but very skilled at being charming, when they wished to be.

Perhaps that was the reason, though. What man did not fear a self-sufficient woman?

“I expected to see you yesterday,” he said. As he turned up a lamp, the strengthening light painted his hair gold and laid shadows in the hollows of his cheeks. He had good, strong bones: a hawkish nose, a broad, square jaw. Solidly hewn, in every regard.

“I pay no calls on Sunday,” she said absently. His lips riveted her. She had seen handsomer mouths with fuller lips, but his were finely molded, his upper lip so sharply bowed that it lent his slight smile a wicked cast. She still didn’t understand how he had managed to scatter her wits. A kiss should not have done it, no matter the mouth.

“Ah. Sunday.” He settled his weight against the writing desk. “The Lord’s day. I suppose you spent it in church, praying for forgiveness.”

“I did go to church. But it wasn’t forgiveness I prayed for.”

He drummed his fingers on the desktop. “Do you think God takes much interest in the prayers of a thief?”

“You’ll have to hope he does,” she said. “For I believe you became one Saturday.”

That startled him. He laughed, flashing white teeth. One of his incisors was slightly crooked. A relief, to spot that imperfection. “You’re quick-witted,” he said. “But surprisingly easy to distract. How long would it have taken you to notice the papers were gone, had I not told you?”

“About two minutes,” she said. “Or maybe longer. I confess, you did distract me. I’m not usually so easily confounded.”

His head tipped. “And now you turn to flattery,” he said softly. His gaze ran down her, pausing with unnerving accuracy at each point of her toilette that she had chosen with him in mind: the glass pearls at her throat, to conjure demureness. The delicate gold chain at her waist, to suggest its opposite.

Her neckline, a shade lower than fashion demanded.

When he met her eyes again, the air between them seemed to snap.

“You want them back,” he said.

“Of course.”

“Do you make a habit of stealing from your employer?”

“No.” She said no more. Defending or explaining herself would be pointless. He had no cause to believe her.

And yet he asked, anyway. “What could you possibly want with those letters? Debates on a proposal before the Municipal Board of Works—a suit to condemn some buildings in Islington. I can’t imagine how it concerns you.”

She had asked herself the same question. Her brief scan of the letters had suggested nothing to do with the East End, and Nick did not care what happened outside that area. “I took them for someone else. I don’t know his purpose for them.”

“Who?”

She shrugged.

He rose to his full height, the movement as leisurely as the stretch of a cat. A lion: he had the coloring for it. “This conversation will go better if you’re honest.”

“Be that as it may, I will not worsen my situation by betraying his confidence.” She grimaced. “Believe me, it is from no desire to protect him—only myself.”

“So you were tasked to steal these letters by a gentleman.” He paused, his keen eyes catching something in her expression. “A man,” he amended. “Not a gentleman, in your view.”

She crossed her arms, then thought better of the posture. This was meant to be a seduction. Defiance was not the proper attitude.

On a quick breath, she made herself relax and stroll toward him. The roll of her hips, she borrowed from Susie, whose charms were conspicuous. The quick flick of her glance through her lashes was Lavender’s. Vinnie was a mistress of subtlety. “Forget the more tedious questions,” she said. “Perhaps you should ask what I’ll do to get them back.”

He let her approach, the faint smile on his mouth suggesting a willingness to be amused. But once she came within reach, he did not pounce or straighten off the desk to close the distance. Instead, very slowly, he reached out and caught hold of a strand of her hair, a loose ringlet that he lifted from her shoulder.

He rubbed the lock, and that slight tension on her scalp sent a startling shiver through her. “You manage to be lovelier than your looks,” he murmured. “The total effect transcends the sum of your parts. Is that a trick they teach at Everleigh’s, or did you master it yourself?”

“That is not quite a compliment.” Another surprise: standing so close to the warmth of his body, she felt breathless. As though he touched her in places that were clothed.

“I don’t believe compliments are required in this case.” He laid his thumb against her collarbone, as he had that night in the hall. “This is not a courtship. It is a . . .” He dragged his thumb down to the hollow of her throat, rolling it over the coolness of the glass pearls. “What would you call it, Miss Marshall?”

She licked her lips. “A discussion,” she said. “Possibly a . . . trade.”

“Ah.” He nudged her chin to lift her face. They stared at each other. “Is this the kind of trade you make often?”

A proper lady would have taken offense to that question. But given the circumstances, she could not be indignant. What did he know of her, but that she was a thief who offered her body in exchange for stolen goods?

“No,” she said. “A pity, that. With some experience, I probably would have managed to seduce you already.”

His hand fell away, leaving her oddly cold. “Shall I give you a piece of advice? There is nothing more deadly to seduction than honesty.”

She exhaled, disliking the butterflies in her stomach. Her inexperience in these matters had never before seemed like an inconvenience. But had she accepted some other man’s proposition, perhaps the prospect of physical intimacy would not have left her so nervous now. “I am not innocent in mind. But I am in body.” A privilege of being Nick O’Shea’s niece: there was no man in Whitechapel fool enough to touch her. “That’s a piece of honesty that I understand a gentleman might appreciate. You would be the first. Is that worth three letters that would otherwise prove useless to you?”

“Let me think on it.” Once again he settled against the desk. “Stretch out your arms and turn around.”

Her nervousness died. A cad, she could handle. She had dealt with so many of them. “Certainly,” she said coolly. She lifted her arms, slowly twirling.

When she faced him again, he gave her a slight smile. “Very nice,” he said. “Your figure is very pretty. But there are greater beauties in London.”

Her stomach sank. It was very clear that he had no interest in her, after all. “Well.” She took a deep breath, hoping he saw nothing—nothing—of her despair.

There was always another way. She was inside his house! If he were . . . temporarily incapacitated . . . she could find those letters. From the corner of her eye, she saw a few potential weapons. A bronze bust. Fire irons.

But hurting someone had never been her way. And to do so would bring the police down on her, regardless—if the veterans outside didn’t get her first.

She would plot some new course once alone. The key now was to exit gracefully. “You’ll forgive me for intruding, I hope.” She curtseyed and turned to go.

“No call for despair.” His words halted her. “I have a different trade in mind, Miss Marshall. Less pleasant, I’ll admit. But of more benefit to you.”

Warily she turned. He waved her to a nearby sofa.

What in God’s name could he want of her? Mustering a stiff smile, she took a seat. “Do tell.”

“I find myself in possession of an estate that requires auction.” He crossed to a sideboard, filling two glasses with amber liquid. Her hands were steady as she took the proffered glass, but never had whisky tasted more necessary.

He settled in the oversized wing chair opposite, his smile blandly pleasant. She felt slightly disoriented. Two nights ago, as he’d played the villain, his eyes had looked cold as bullets. Now, with the wing chair disguising the strapping muscularity of his frame, he might have been the idealized model of an English gentleman, blond and blandly smiling. It was as though he’d never kissed her. Never thumbed her nipple and made her whimper.

“The estate belonged to a cousin,” he said amiably. “Recently passed away.”

“I’m sorry to hear it.” She was out of her depths.

He shrugged. “I scarcely knew him. He was a lifelong bachelor, bit of a curmudgeon. But he greatly admired the military. In return for my services, he bequeathed me Buckley Hall.” He took a sip of his drink. She allowed herself another, and felt a burning warmth start to brew in her chest—a warning not to indulge further.

“I suppose,” she said, carefully setting the glass away from her, “it must be delightful, being left such a gift.” She could not begin to imagine it. One inherited clothing, books, beds—not entire houses.

“Oh, it’s a ramshackle pile, I assure you. The first thing to go will be the rubbish he collected. The house is chockablock with antiquities. Everleigh’s will handle the sale.”

She nodded. The hostesses had no hand in such matters. Their sole purpose was to advertise the collections that had been cataloged and appraised and were ready for auction.

“Catherine Everleigh intends to manage the sale.” He spoke more slowly now, rolling the glass in his long, tanned fingers. “But propriety forbids her to poke about the house on her own—and as you know, she does not tolerate the interference of chaperones.”

In truth, Lilah knew very little about Catherine Everleigh. She looked down on the hostesses. “She is very independent minded, they say.”

“But your assistance would be a great boon to her.”

She frowned. “Are you proposing that I . . . chaperone Miss Everleigh?” Was he mad?

“You’re far too young to make a proper chaperone,” he said. “But an assistant—why not?”

She suddenly remembered Palmer’s conversation with Peter Everleigh. He had proposed this very scheme to Peter. “Have you been planning this the whole time?”

He looked puzzled. “What do you mean?”

Yes, what did she mean? He could not have known that she was beneath that desk when he’d proposed his solution.

Still, something did not sit right. “To assist her would be a step up in the world.”

“Yes. I’m glad you see that.”

“Miss Everleigh would never offer that position to a hostess.”

“She will.”

He sounded very confident. Her puzzlement grew. “Then . . . why on earth should you wish me for it?”

“Do you mean, why should I wish to have a thief on my property?”

“Yes,” she said bluntly.

He gave her a wolfish smile. “Because I will require that Catherine’s assistant answer to me.”

They were coming to it now. “For what reason?”

“To facilitate my courtship of her. Imagine the hints you might offer me, as you come to know her better.”

She mulled this absurd proposition. “And in return, you won’t go to the police about me?”

He leaned forward. “In return, I’ll give you back those letters.”

Her heart tripped. The bargain sounded very simple. Advantageous, too. Assisting Miss Everleigh would make a very fine credential for her.

Why, it could mean everything. A true step upward! Other auction houses had female associates—society matrons, mostly, but there was a precedent. With this opportunity to learn and educate herself, Lilah might have a real chance at such endeavors.

For a moment, the happy fantasy unspooled in her brain. A cluttered attic. Miss Everleigh’s dismissal of the rubbish therein. An overlooked treasure, which Lilah discovered and presented, thereby winning Miss Everleigh’s respect and support. And then . . . why, a position of a different kind. A raise in salary, to fatten her savings. An office of her own, with a cunning little card that announced her new title: Lilah Marshall, Appraiser, Everleigh’s Auction Rooms.

And yet . . . She gave a pull of her mouth. Miracles only happened in fairy tales. Miss Everleigh would never esteem a hostess to that degree.

And in the real world, gentlemen like Palmer did not need thieves to facilitate their romances.

“I don’t believe you,” she said quietly. It felt cruel of him to taunt her in this way. He could not guess how cruel it was to appeal to her ambitions, but that did not prevent her from thinking him rotten for it. “You need no help in wooing women.”

“What a fine compliment.” Setting down his glass, he came to sit beside her on the sofa. “I’ll put another name to it, then, shall I?”

His warmth reached her, the displaced air carrying a trace of the spice of his skin. His jacket brushed softly against her bare arm. She realized she was holding her breath. “Go ahead,” she whispered.

Gently he cupped her cheek. His fingers pressed as lightly as a breath. Rough fingertips. He placed his thumb on her lower lip. “You are to be my spy.” His gaze dipped, following his thumb as he traced the shape of her mouth. “You will befriend her. See whom she writes. If she meets anyone—goes anywhere—you follow.” As his thumb reached the corner of her mouth, he paused. The silence between them vibrated. His gaze lifted, and goose bumps broke over her skin. Hawk’s eyes, lambent gold. “And then you will report all of it to me.”

Her mouth was dry. A pulse seemed to thrum in it. “And where does your touching me enter this picture?”

He leaned down. Their lips brushed. His were warm and smooth. She was not going to open her mouth. This time, she would not lose her head.

His tongue traced the seam of her lips. Coaxed them apart. Her stomach seemed to fall. She could not catch her indrawn breath. His tongue followed into her mouth, taking a slow, leisurely taste before he pulled back.

“It’s not a requirement,” he said huskily. “But you seem to enjoy it. As do I.”

She folded her lips together, bit down on them. He was right, of course. To deny the obvious would make her look like a fool. She took a hard breath through her nose.

His eyes narrowed. She saw his intent to kiss her again. Heart tripping, she eased away from him. “But it’s not required.” Her voice was unsteady. “To be clear on the matter.”

“Not required,” he said. “But an option, regardless.”

She nodded. After another fraught second, he moved back to his wing chair. Only then did the air seem to cool around her so she could breathe properly again. “I help you woo her.” She cleared her throat. “Or spy, as it were. And in return, you’ll give me the papers.”

“The moment she accepts my proposal, they are yours.” He paused. “But you really haven’t much choice in the matter, have you?”

There was the rub. “I need those letters by the last week of June. No later.”

He shrugged. “Then you must do a quick job of befriending her.”

Lilah could not imagine working beside her, much less winning her trust. But he was right. What choice did she have?

“What happens,” he asked, “in the last week of June?”

She pressed her lips together. “Nothing.” And then, with a shrug: “The devil will have his due.”

“Sweet girl.” He held out his hand to help her rise. “I have good news. From now on, the only devil you need fear is me.”

From the front door of his town house, Christian watched his new conspirator make her way down the pavement toward the high street. She’d declined to be driven home by his coachman. Hostesses cannot be seen to consort with clients, she’d said coolly. There’s an omnibus that runs directly to my boardinghouse. I expect no trouble.

Indeed. He pitied the man who thought to test her. Quick-witted, confident, and clearly experienced in unsavory pastimes, Lilah Marshall was more likely to make trouble, he’d wager, than suffer from it.

She reminded him faintly of someone . . . He could not place it. Certainly he’d never met a woman precisely like her. What a fine asset she’d make. And how astonished she would be to learn that he felt grateful to her. God, but he could have spent an hour watching her turn in circles for him. The narrowness of her waist, the swell of her hips . . . Her shape, her voice, the intentions that had brought her here, were now burned into his brain. It made a rare and welcome distraction from his other preoccupations.

He pulled shut the door. A cleared throat drew his attention. Howe, his butler, was lurking by a potted plant, making a conspicuous study of the floor.

Christian had found the man—and most of his servants—through a charity for veteran relief. From a long line of butlers and valets, Howe had wished to follow the family tradition, but his limp had barred him from service until Christian made an offer.

“Any sign?” Christian asked. His open-door policy on these nights was well publicized. Bolkhov must know that if he presented himself, he would be admitted without hesitation.

“No, my lord.” Howe touched his waistcoat, where—like all the men in Christian’s unusual staff—he carried a small firearm. “But the staff is prepared. And Lord Ashmore has arrived. He waits in your study.”

“Excellent.” Christian took the stairs two by two. At the first landing, one of his former troops cried out a greeting, and the hubbub paused briefly. He lifted his hand in acknowledgment and continued to climb.

These gatherings had started shortly after his return to England. For so long he’d dreamed of homecoming. But he’d returned to a world transformed—his father dead, his family in seclusion. He’d come late to mourning; Geoff had already thrown himself into plans to improve Susseby, fervently pursuing his duty to the Stratton legacy. But that legacy was not Christian’s to uphold. At Susseby, he was loved, but not needed. Meanwhile, crowds threw flowers and applauded him—for what purpose? After a time, even adulation grew tedious.

His men needed him. In the field, they had entrusted him with their lives. Now, cast adrift in a country that neglected its veterans, they came to his table half starving, rattled and uncertain. He fed them. He used his celebrity to find them lodging and employment. He made loans that he never expected to be repaid. He was of use.

He was not, however, at home. Campfire camaraderie did not survive in a drawing room. His men welcomed him, but their conversations grew muted in his company. They watched their language around him now. Major Stratton had made a home for himself in the military, but Lord Palmer could not.

On the second floor, in a small room that overlooked the street, he found Phineas Granville, Earl of Ashmore, waiting with a book under one arm, his admiring attention on the collection of scimitars atop the mantel. “Where are your goddamned men?” Christian asked as he stepped inside. “My sister paid a midnight call.”

Ashmore turned. He was a tall, dark-featured man in his early thirties, with piercing black eyes and a certain innate gravitas that made him a powerful speechmaker in Parliament. But it was a rare occasion that saw Ashmore airing his interests so publicly. Secrets collected to him like moths to a light. “Good evening to you as well,” he said calmly.

If anything ever fractured that calm, Christian had yet to discover it. They had first met in Afghanistan, where Ashmore’s cool head had come in handy at the bloodiest and most dangerous hours. Whatever his involvement in that war—for he’d worked for the government in some secret capacity, appearing and disappearing at will—it had obviously required a man of unshakable composure.

But Melanie had slipped past him today, regardless. “Were your friends sleeping?” Christian asked. Those “friends” were a deadly assembly, mercenaries trained to operate in the shadows. Certainly they should be equipped to handle a girl of twenty.

“Check your post,” said Ashmore. “I sent word when she lit out from Susseby this afternoon.”

“They should have stopped her before she boarded the bloody train!”

“That would have required a very uncomfortable discussion with the policemen on the platform.” Ashmore turned, retrieving a glass from Christian’s desk. “Drink?” He took a leisurely sip, then lifted one dark brow in appreciation. “Very fine collection of port in that cabinet. Your brother’s, I take it? You always preferred rotgut.”

That liquor cabinet had been locked, last time Christian had checked, and he’d not yet managed to locate the key. He spared a brief, wry smile. “A soldier drinks what he can get. Any other discoveries worth noting? How fare my finances? Find any skeletons in the walls?”

“Come now. I never pry into friends’ affairs.”

Christian snorted. “Certainly. Why bother, when you’d rather manage them entirely?” When Ashmore had insisted on helping with this manhunt, Christian had hesitated before assenting; he’d known it would turn into a circus of spies.

But he’d never expected incompetence. “Melanie was wandering the park with only a maid at her heels.”

“My men were ten paces behind.”

“Not that I saw.”

“Well.” Ashmore swirled the liquid in his glass, then bolted it. “That’s something to their credit, at least. I’ve replaced the crew who let her slip by,” he added. “Get her back to Susseby. She won’t get out again.”

With a curt nod, Christian said, “Then come with me, please.” He turned on his heel, leading Ashmore down the hall and through a servant’s stair into the basement.

“Dare I hope you’re taking me on a tour of the wine cellar?” Ashmore asked as they emerged into a low-ceilinged hall. “If the port was so fine . . .”

Christian drew up outside a door outfitted with several locks. The keychain weighed as much as a small child.

Ashmore lifted dark brows. “I stand corrected: it seems you have a dungeon.”

“More useful than a cellar, to be sure.” He opened the last lock, then swung open the door. A single gas lamp lit the small, stone-walled chamber. A chair sat on the bare floorboards. The man tied to it emitted a groan—or perhaps a garbled word. The gag did a fine job of muffling him.

“Christ!” Ashmore put down the book and ran a hand through his hair. “What in God’s name, Kit?”

So he could be startled. How gratifying. “Not a guest, you may gather.” The overfed ginger was dressed in black, head to toe. Christian walked up to him. “No biting this time,” he warned, then pulled out his dagger and sliced through the gag.

“Bloody lunatic! Eejit maniac—” The round vowels of a Welshman echoed off the walls.

“Bolkhov’s?” Ashmore asked.

The redhead shook his head. “No, no—”

“He persuaded me otherwise,” Christian said. “But he has yet to account for why he was skulking in the park across the road.”

“A poor choice on his part,” Ashmore said dryly. “Did anyone see you take him?”

“No!” the redhead burst out. “Not a soul, and I’ve been here for hours!”

Ashmore squinted toward the door, as though mentally conjuring the park. “That’s a good distance,” he said, sounding grudgingly impressed.

“God save you,” the redhead panted. “Please, sir, I beg you! This madman—”

Christian spoke over him. “He carried an interesting item on his person.” He reached into his pocket, pulling out the slim steel bar. The man’s blubbering got louder. He laid the edge of the bar to the man’s cheek, which shut him up.

Ashmore cleared his throat. “May I?”

Christian handed over the bar. Ashmore was a man of multifarious talents. Very good at secrecy. Even better at killing. There was no weapon that he did not recognize.

“A thief’s tool,” Ashmore decided. He squatted to look in the man’s eyes. “A common burglar?” he asked gently. “Is that it?”

The man hesitated.

“Come, now. If you don’t answer honestly, I’ll leave you here with him.”

“Fine! Yes! I was casing the houses in the square—”

Ashmore rose so quickly that the redhead cringed. He had always been remarkably light on his feet. In Afghanistan, troops had taken to calling him the Black Cat, for his knack at slipping past the men on watch. Too, his mysterious visits had always signaled bad luck ahead: a hazardous raid; a battle with losing odds. Certainly he’d never appeared to celebrate a victory. “You want me to deliver him to the police?” he asked Christian.

“Fine. But first—” Christian nodded toward the door. “A word.”

“Of course.” Ashmore bent to pick up his book.

“Don’t go!” the man cried. “Sir, please, take me to the police. Don’t leave me with—”

Christian shut the door on his cries.

“I recall an argument outside Kabul, long ago.” Ashmore leaned against the wall, an odd look on his face. “A young lieutenant, castigating me for claiming that torture had its uses.”

Christian allowed himself a faint smile. “You dismissed him as a useless idealist.”

Ashmore gave a quick, wry tug of his mouth. “I’d only just met him. I quickly revised my opinion.” He paused. “But I admired his idealism from the start.”

“Have no fear. Barring the burglar’s removal from the park, I never laid a hand on him.”

“Indeed? Only words?” When he nodded, Ashmore looked struck. “A good thing you didn’t discover that talent in Afghanistan. They might have reassigned you, put you to work with me.”

“A pity they didn’t. I could have used the experience.” It would have prepared him better to face an enemy like Bolkhov, who aimed at innocents and struck from the shadows.

“No,” Ashmore said. “You’re not a man who would thrive in that line. And I mean that as a compliment to you.”

“One does as one must.” Christian recited the words flatly. “Your words to me once.”

“Spoken in wartime. But Bolkhov is a common criminal, and this territory is yours. Never forget that you have the advantage here. You’re home now.”

Home, was he? Christian bit his cheek to stop a bitter smile. He felt no sense of homecoming, not even at Susseby. All he sensed was his brother’s ghost at his heels, demanding justice . . . and accusing him.

This is not your life. None of this was meant to be yours.

These ruminations were pointless. As long as Bolkhov lived, regret and doubt would hold no interest for him. He turned toward business instead. “I’m leaving London at week’s end. Catherine Everleigh will be traveling to Buckley Hall, and I mean to join her for the duration of her visit.”

Ashmore’s narrow, unblinking gaze probably proved very useful in his own interrogations. “The Russian collection goes to auction in June, yes? That’s eight, ten weeks.”

Christian nodded. “In the meantime, I’ll make a show of courting Catherine. If that doesn’t lure Bolkhov out, the auction will do it.”

“And if it doesn’t?”

The prospect of this nightmare extending indefinitely . . . “He’s putting that candelabrum to auction for a reason. It was a message to me; he’s done with waiting.”

“I do hope so.” Ashmore turned his book in his hands, his signet ring gleaming as he rubbed his thumb across the gilt-stamped spine. “Bolkhov deserves a bullet, of course—for his crimes in the war, as much as for your brother. But . . . once it’s over, Kit. Have you thought on what awaits you?”

“My conscience won’t trouble me, if that’s what you mean.”

“Indeed. I’m not one to lecture on that, am I?” A grim cast came over Ashmore’s face; his brief silence felt fraught, clouded by what he’d never plainly admitted. But Christian had pieced the truth together, over the years. Before Ashmore had inherited his title, he’d traveled the globe for the government, but he’d never done so as a proper soldier.

Assassin. An ugly word. No honor in it.

Ashmore continued, a rare hesitance slowing his speech. “I will help you in whatever manner you allow. And you’re probably right to say you must take a direct hand in it; that he won’t emerge from his hidey-hole unless you offer the bait. But I can’t like it, Kit. This isn’t the role you’re meant for.”

Wasn’t it? Christian glanced toward the bolted door, the medieval-looking padlocks. He’d made a prison in his own home, and another one for his family at Susseby. Each night, he prayed to shed a man’s blood.

No wonder that he no longer slept well.

“What role do you recommend, then?” he asked. “Am I more suited to signing autographs and donning medals, while a lunatic plots to murder my family?”

“Of course not,” Ashmore said sharply. “But don’t mock the man who won those medals. God knows he earned them—not just at Bekhole, but every day of that bloody war. I saw that with my own eyes. And I hope to see him again, soon enough. For his scope and promise are far larger than this passing lunacy with Bolkhov. And I won’t allow you to forget that.”

Christian recognized kindness when he heard it. But it felt wasted. “Once I kill him,” he said. “We’ll revisit this discussion.”

“Fine.” Ashmore loosed a long breath, then pulled the book from under his arm. “I’ve been carrying this all day. A gift for you, fresh from New York.”

Christian glanced at the spine, then startled himself with a genuine laugh. Sun Tzu: The Art of War. “From you? No—from Mina, am I right?” Ashmore’s wife was an American bon vivant, petite and pretty as a doll, and dangerously sharp. She had once told Christian that etiquette manuals were a sham; all a woman needed to succeed, she claimed, was a copy of Machiavelli’s advice for tyrants.

“Her newest inspiration, yes. I advise you to read it thoroughly.” Ashmore added dryly, “She’ll probably quiz you on it when next we meet.”

An intuition brushed through Christian. Here was why Lilah Marshall sometimes seemed so familiar to him. She and Mina shared the same brand of brazen self-possession, a winking awareness of their own charm and wit. “Cover to cover, then,” he said, and tucked it under his arm before taking his leave of Ashmore.

Once upstairs, however, he left the book unopened in his sitting room. Ashmore was right in one regard: Bolkhov had claimed too many pieces of his inward reserve. For months he had fantasized about nothing but blood. But tonight, he would push aside all thoughts of warfare, and dream of more pleasant villainies.

With God’s grace, he would dream only of what he wished to do to Lilah.