Page 6 of Lady Be Good

Tu n’es pas qualifié pour être mon assistante.”

Lilah had been staring out the window at rolling fields. Startled, she looked up. “I beg your pardon?”

Miss Everleigh sat across from her, swaddled to the chin in a most unattractive, but no doubt extremely expensive, coat of fine-twilled puce-colored cashmere. “I said, Tu n’es pas qualifié pour être mon assistante.”

Lilah recognized the language as French. There, her knowledge ended. “Yes,” she said. “Indeed.”

Miss Everleigh narrowed her eyes, which Lilah knew could shine a striking violet, but which today—thanks to the coat—more closely resembled the color of a mud-clogged puddle. For all Lilah knew, that was the very reason Miss Everleigh had chosen such an unflattering color. If the past two hours of stony silence had demonstrated anything, it was the lady’s ability to make everything—even Lilah’s first trip into the country—deeply unappealing.

“You have just admitted that you’re thoroughly unqualified to be my assistant,” Miss Everleigh told her. “Either you do not understand French, or you are unusually honest.”

Charming! They were bantering now, only a hop and a skip away from becoming bosom friends. “I would like to think myself honest,” Lilah said. It would be nice to be Lilah Marshall in truth, the daughter of a respectable clerk. “Alas, my French is very poor.”

Catherine sniffed. “Why am I not surprised?”

“Because you’re a woman of great insight,” Lilah said smoothly.

From Catherine’s sour look, it was clear that flattery would not work. “This is a mad arrangement. You will only get in my way.” She straightened her muff—was she really so cold that she required all that outerwear?—and returned to staring fixedly out the window.

How could someone so pretty, so fortunate in her circumstances, and so widely admired by handsome young gentlemen in need of a fortune, be so unpleasant? In her shoes, Lilah would never have stopped smiling. Every door in the world stood open to Catherine Everleigh. She only needed pick which one she felt like exploring, as the mood took her.

Instead, she buried herself in business. Nothing else seemed to bring her joy.

Her gloom was a subject of some speculation among the Everleigh Girls. “See if you can crack her,” Vinnie had advised Lilah, in an uncanny echo of Palmer’s instruction. “They say she had a lover once, but he was too proud to marry a woman whose family was in trade. I’m sure that’s what left her so shriveled inside.”

Vinnie, Lilah feared, was a secret romantic. The truth was probably much less interesting: Miss Everleigh had been cursed by a fairy at birth, to be as ugly in her disposition as she was beautiful in looks.

But all this was irrelevant. She could be an actual monster, for all it mattered. Lilah would still win her over—and get her betrothed to the viscount by the last week of June.

“I’m a very quick learner,” she offered. “And very motivated, miss, to learn as much as I can from your admirable example.” For instance, she’d not known that ladies never handled money. For a brief, happy moment, she’d imagined that the coin purse Miss Everleigh had thrust at her on the platform at Paddington was for her.

But, no. Apparently it was her job to tip everyone, sparing Miss Everleigh’s delicate hands from the touch of filthy lucre.

“I’m sure you’re very shrewd,” Miss Everleigh said, in a tone that suggested shrewdness was the province of lepers. “But my task at Buckley Hall is not to play tutor to the ignorant.”

“Naturally,” Lilah murmured. In the concealment of her skirts, she made a fist so tight that her knuckles throbbed. “I shan’t impede your duties, I promise you.”

“Of course not. I would not let you.” And with that pronouncement, Miss Everleigh pulled out a book and began to read.

Had Lilah wished earlier for a spot of conversation? She now sank most gratefully back into silence. The sights of a country road offered ample diversion. She had only been outside London three or four times in her life, always to Margate. That was where the common folk went on their holidays, to take the sea air and clear their lungs of soot.

But coastal Kent looked nothing like its verdant interior. Here, the soil must be rich and fertile, for oaks grew in abundance alongside the road, and in the openings through the trees, Lilah spied endless rolling fields of green and yellow, bushy crops she could not name, which waved in the unseen breeze.

The carriage took a fast turn, causing them both to gasp and reach for their straps. “This coachman!” Miss Everleigh snapped, and banged the ceiling. The vehicle instantly slowed, the driver already having been chastened thrice for his speeding.

Lilah had no sympathy for him. Once at their destination, he would get to leave.

The coach crested a gentle slope, and suddenly the vista opened up. In the distance, at the top of a green grassy knoll, perched a house of . . . terrible proportions.

Lilah must have made a noise—a gasp of horror, she didn’t doubt. Miss Everleigh laid down her book and leaned forward to take the view. “Oh,” she said quietly. “Buckley Hall.”

The building was long and squat, no more than two stories, built patchwork in red brick and pink wash, with long, narrow windows that stretched from ground to roof. Above these windows, strange turrets were capped by copper-topped cupolas, which stretched like taffy into fantastical points.

Lilah had never seen anything like it before. Would they find skeletons in the cellar? And Egyptian mummies in the attic? A delicious shiver coursed through her. “How awful,” she said with relish.

“Awful!” Miss Everleigh cast her a blazing look of dislike. “Buckley Hall is a marvel. One of the premier examples of the Tudor Gothic style.” She frowned. “Remodeled through the course of several generations, naturally.” Sitting back, she opened her book again, saying sharply to the page: “It is a national treasure.”

“Oh, quite.” Lilah battled temptation and lost. “You must tell Lord Palmer so. He will be very glad to hear it, I think. He called it a ‘ramshackle pile.’ ”

“Did he?” Miss Everleigh peered up, scowling. “When did you speak with him?”

Lilah wanted to kick herself. “I overheard him, the night of the ball.”

Miss Everleigh remained staring, her suspicion plain. Not a dumb woman, more was the pity. “You make it a habit to eavesdrop on our guests?”

The charge was ridiculous. “No, miss. But Mr. Everleigh instructs us to attend closely to their conversations, so we might better know their tastes and preferences.”

Miss Everleigh wrinkled her nose. “Yes, of course he does. Some auction houses trust in the quality of their curation to entice clientele. But my brother insists on cheap flattery and pandering.” Here she paused, obviously waiting to see if Lilah would take the bait and make the mistake of agreeing—and thereby insult her own employer.

Lilah offered a shy, bashful smile.

With a snort, Miss Everleigh snapped shut the book. “Quality,” she said, “and beauty are not solely the functions of the physical object itself—be it a vase, a painting, or a house. Provenance, Miss Marshall, is a key constituent of value. Is that word too French for you to grasp? History, then, is what I mean. The richer an object’s history, the more value it possesses. And this house”—she tipped her head toward the window, and the view it offered of the monstrous squat palace drawing nearer—“is rich in history, indeed.”

It seemed Lilah would be tutored, after all. “Yes, miss. I’m certain you’re right.”

“You need not take my word for it,” Miss Everleigh said crisply. “The Barons Hughley were descended directly from a member of the Conqueror’s court. They survived the War of the Roses, and the depredations of Henry Tudor. They saw Queen Elizabeth crowned. This house was built by one of her favored courtiers. Eustace de Hughley was his name.”

Her lifted brows suggested this name should mean something. Lilah wracked her brain, but try as she might, she could not recall reading of Eustace de Hughley during her visits to the library at Everleigh’s.

Catherine Everleigh sighed. “The astronomer.”

“The telescope!” Lilah’s exclamation made her new mistress twitch.

“Many telescopes,” Miss Everleigh said coldly.

“But surely one of the finest examples of his scientific acumen was the telescope auctioned at Everleigh’s as part of the Houston estate,” Lilah rejoined instantly. “Why, many scholars believe that that very specimen provided a crucial inspiration to Galileo.”

Her reward for this recitation—which she had repeated almost verbatim from the catalog for the Houston auction—was a slow blink from the woman opposite.

“Yes,” Miss Everleigh finally allowed. Before this triumph could register, she quickly continued, “Of course, it’s the women of the family who are most notable.” Her pause felt challenging.

Lilah could think of no satisfactory reply. She nodded.

“The Hughley women were visionaries,” Miss Everleigh said. “In every recorded generation, one finds evidence of spirited, noble, freethinking lady scholars. This house and its many alterations are almost solely the work of the Hughley women.”

Was that how Miss Everleigh saw herself? As spirited, noble, and freethinking? Fine euphemisms, Lilah thought darkly, for rude and unfeeling.

She checked herself. If she meant to win the woman’s trust, she could not afford to think this way. She must cultivate a sympathetic, interested, and transparently grateful air. “How lovely,” she said. “It’s so rare to hear of a noble family distinguished by its womenfolk.”

“Ladies,” Miss Everleigh said through her teeth.

Evidently womenfolk was one of those words that unwittingly betrayed Lilah’s origins. She made a note to strike it from her vocabulary. “I would be most grateful to learn more of the family’s history.”

“Indeed.” Miss Everleigh leaned forward again to gaze at the house, which was very nearly upon them now. “It will be an honor to walk in their footsteps,” she said more softly. “They managed so well to blend their scholarly pursuits with familial duty.”

Lilah’s instincts pricked. Was that a pensive note in Miss Everleigh’s voice? Very cautiously, she said, “They were great ladies.”

“And even greater matriarchs. All the Hughleys of note had several children. Happy families, by most accounts.” Miss Everleigh seemed now to have forgotten to whom she spoke, for she no longer sounded stiff in the least, only . . .

Wistful.

Miss Everleigh wanted a family of her own. She wanted to be a scholar and a . . . matriarch!

Had the heavens opened and angels announced they were on Lilah’s side, she could not have felt more relieved. For if Miss Everleigh wished her noble scholarship to be accommodated within a fecund marriage, there was hope after all.

Lilah would have her wed to Palmer before the last week of June!

“Of course, it came to nothing in the end.” Having remembered herself, Miss Everleigh sat back, subsiding into her typical gloom. “The line has ended. The barony has been retired.”

“But not the house,” Lilah said, trying hard to conceal her happiness. “Nor their legacy, Miss Everleigh. You’ll make sure of that.”

Wonder of wonders, the look Miss Everleigh cut her was only half-suspicious. The other half, Lilah felt sure, was hopeful.

Rupert Hughley had been rich in land and dusty souvenirs, and sadly short of cash. What minimal staff he’d employed, Christian had kept on. Perhaps that had been a mistake. The house looked very ill-kept, a thick layer of dust mantling every exposed surface. Furthermore, the housekeeper—already a suspect figure, for obvious reasons—did not seem to know her way around.

“This wing’s never been used,” she grumbled as she led him down the hall.

“The furniture would suggest otherwise,” Christian said politely. Through the opened doors to left and right, he spied various objects swathed in white sheeting.

Mrs. Barnes shrugged. For a woman of advanced age, she had a great many iron-gray curls springing from her scalp. They formed the widest point of her body, for below them, she was as stringy and straight as a beanpole. “Baron Hughley—rest his soul!—did not like this wing. Two generations ago, p’raps, it was favored.”

“The layer of dust would suggest longer yet.” He rubbed a finger across his nose to forestall a sneeze.

Mrs. Barnes snorted. “Well, it’s not for lack of my trying to keep it clean. But the silly girls that Lord Hughley—rest his soul,” she muttered quickly, and crossed herself. “The girls what he insisted on employing, they won’t set foot in this wing for fear.”

“Fear of asthma?”

Mrs. Barnes impressed him by replying with a rusty laugh. “That, too,” she said. “And don’t think I hadn’t suggested we sack them and start afresh. But no, Lord Hughley”—she crossed herself, and Christian, catching on now, chimed in with her:

“God rest his soul.”

“Indeed.” She gave him an approving look. “Church-going man, are you? And a proper hero to boot! Happy day for us, Lord Palmer. But I needn’t tell you that. I expect the whole village turned out to greet you.”

“Yes, they were very kind.” A troop of schoolchildren had been marched into the road to shower his coach with flowers. The horses hadn’t liked it. But the schoolchildren had seemed to enjoy the impromptu lesson in how a coachman cursed. Their parents and the mayor had looked . . . less pleased.

“At any rate . . .” Mrs. Barnes clicked her tongue. “Lord Hughley was too sympathetic to the maids, I think. Maybe the ghost scared him, too.”

“The ghost!” He’d no idea that he’d inherited a spirit. “Very fearsome, is he? Rattle some chains now and then?”

“And occasionally knocks things off the shelves,” she said. “A pity, I’ve often thought, that ghosts so rarely make themselves known by tidying a place. As to this one, I’ve not seen him myself. He likes to keep to the spots where the cleaning goes hardest.”

He grinned. Questionable toilette aside, he rather liked his new housekeeper. “Well, Mrs. Barnes, I cannot claim any expertise in ghost hunting, but I will seize the authority to hire and fire staff. If you’d like to handle that business, I’ll give you a free hand.”

“Isn’t the hand I’m lacking.” She drew up outside a set of arched double doors, trussed in iron; they looked more appropriate for a medieval fortress than for a genteel country home. “It’s the coin,” she said. Not for the first time today, she ran an appraising look over Christian’s figure.

Only now did he understand the cause for it. She was trying to judge the relative fullness of his pockets. Difficult, of course, when he still wore traveling clothes.

“Market rate, Mrs. Barnes,” he said. “And not a penny more.”

Her broad smile made her eyes sink into a hundred fine-lined creases. “Very good, my lord. Very good, indeed. I do think—”

Raised voices from within the room interrupted her.

“Put that down!”

“I didn’t mean to—”

“Enough! Your incompetence beggars disbelief!”

“I’ll be leaving you to it,” Mrs. Barnes said hastily, and scurried off down the hall.

“How kind of you,” Christian said dryly.

He opened the door. The scene within would have been remarkable even without its players: the two women faced each other across jumbled piles of books, in a vast room topped by a rib-vaulted ceiling straight from some Gothic cathedral. The light pouring through the stained-glass windows painted their scowls in shades of crimson and teal.

“Ladies,” said Christian. “Good afternoon to you both.”

With the instincts of a performer, Lilah Marshall immediately dropped her scowl for a smile, giving him a neat curtsy for accompaniment.

He really must remind her that it was not he who required charming. But God help him if he didn’t have a soft spot for performers. She’d have made a fine hero; she knew how to beam on command.

Catherine Everleigh acknowledged him with a regal nod. “Lord Palmer,” she said. “I trust your journey was pleasant?”

“The train was on schedule, so I cannot complain.” He stepped through the maze of piled books, taking note of the bizarrely medieval flagstones and the bare shelves that lined the walls. This seemed an odd strategy on Catherine’s part, not to mention an exhausting one. “I see you’re hard at work,” he said. “It must have taken all morning to remove these books from the shelves.”

Lilah made some noise. It sounded like a warning.

Alas, it came too late. Catherine Everleigh huffed. “I certainly would not dream of removing books from their shelves for storage on a damp stone floor. This disorder you see was the work of some lunatical house-maid—though if any remain in the place, I’ve yet to see them. Why, last night I had to ring the housekeeper for fresh sheets on my bed!”

“It was very awful,” Lilah said blandly. “Miss Everleigh encountered a stain.”

He narrowed his eyes at her. “Yet you remain focused on your task here. How commendable.”

By the way she averted her gaze, she understood the rebuke. But her shrug did not look properly chastened.

He turned to Catherine. “My abject apologies. It distresses me to think that you received anything other than the warmest and most, er, hygienic welcome. Rest assured that I have spoken with Mrs. Barnes. She has been given full liberty to hire new help.”

After a moment, Catherine nodded. But her mouth pressed into a tight line.

He offered her a very sympathetic smile. “I do hope that you’re not regretting your trip here.”

“Oh. No.” She blinked, looking startled by the notion. “This house is a treasure trove, of course. These books—some of them are quite rare indeed.” She gestured toward a rickety table, upon which several volumes rested. “First printings. Newton, Donne. To say nothing of the French literature.” Here her tone grew cold again, her glance toward her assistant peculiarly vehement. “None of which belong stacked together—”

“You gasped at the cover,” Lilah said brightly. “The satyr, with no clothes on his bottom half. For your health, I thought it best disguised.”

Christian coughed to cover his laugh. Evidently old Rupert had cultivated racy tastes in his reading. “Shall I—”

“She cannot read French.” Catherine spoke in a high, tense voice. “Did you know that, Lord Palmer? Can you credit it? An assistant who knows no French!”

“I did believe us still in England,” Lilah said to him. “But Miss Everleigh informs me au contraire.”

“That is not how one uses the phrase!”

“A late lunch,” he said hastily. “Perhaps? Anyone hungry?”

“Famished,” said Lilah.

“Exhausted,” Catherine snapped. “I will retire for an hour. One does hope that the staff can manage to scare up some clean water, so I may wipe off this grime.”

Gathering her skirts, she stormed for the door. But at the threshold, she stopped quite abruptly and turned back. “Lord Palmer,” she said.

“Miss Everleigh,” he replied.

“Good afternoon to you.”

He bowed.

The door slammed behind her, leaving him to wait silently beside Lilah as the sound of Catherine’s footsteps faded. Seven, eight, nine, ten—

Both spoke at once.

“I instructed you to befriend her—”

“That woman is a witch; there’s a reason she has no friends!”

“Well,” he said, “and there’s a reason you’ve no choice in the matter. You’re a thief, and not a clever one. You got caught.”

“I’m a very good one,” she said bitterly. “Only I was out of practice.”

“So you’re a career thief, then! How fascinating. Tell me more.”

She crossed her arms. “Why would I?”

“Why, to keep digging your grave, of course.” He squatted down to pick up a handsome-looking volume. How fitting! With a laugh, he held it up to her. “Crime and Punishment. I don’t suppose you’ve read Dostoevsky?”

“That depends. Does he write in French?”

With a sigh, he dropped the book. It was mildly aggravating to observe that she looked fetching coated with a layer of dust. She was dressed like a governess whose employer inclined to lechery, her black hair scraped into a tight chignon, a shapeless gray gown encasing her from chin to feet. But the drab pleats could not disguise the generous curve of her hips when she shifted her weight. Nor could her hair be tamed by pins. A dark lock had escaped, and unfurled along her throat like a suggestion: touch me here. Meanwhile, her pique made her eyes brighten to the shade of sapphires.

Touch her, indeed. One of her cheeks bore a smudge. He very much wished to remove it for her. With his tongue.

He turned away from her to make a frowning study of the stained glass. A seasoning of lust would make this grim wait more bearable, but he could not allow it to distract him.

Ludicrous proposition. She was a criminal, the object of his blackmail. He’d never lost his head over a woman who wasn’t an equal. Wit and intelligence were what charmed him. A woman of spirit.

She fit that bill too closely.

Well, he would simply not allow her to become too charming. “More servility,” he instructed as he turned back. “And far less cheek.”

“There’s no need for me to be servile,” she retorted. “She already treats me as though I’m a street sweeper—or worse!”

“Enough,” he bit out. “You are not here to argue—only to obey. Do you understand? You have a great deal to lose—your freedom, above all. Do you imagine I could not have you jailed by nightfall? If Peter Everleigh has not noticed the absence of those letters, a telegram will suffice to alert him. Then, perhaps, you will envy the street sweepers.”

She did not so much as flinch. But all the life, the charm and fire, disappeared from her face. The smile she gave him was somehow disturbing. It was emptier than space.

“Of course, you’re right,” she said. “Forgive me, Lord Palmer. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

He gritted his teeth against the absurd urge to temper his harshness. Every commander knew the value of discipline in the ranks. “Good. Now start afresh with her. Go to her rooms; see if she has gotten clean water for her bath.”

“I will, if you wish it. But she’ll promptly rebuke me for confusing an assistant’s duties with those of a maid. Better to let her rest for an hour, don’t you think? She didn’t sleep well last night, and you know how exhaustion wears on the temper.”

He considered that. “Fine. After lunch, then, you will apologize. Once that’s done—”

“Lord Palmer.” Her smile now looked more genuine. “Forgive me if I venture that an Everleigh Girl knows how to placate and ingratiate herself better than you do.”

He supposed that was true. With a grunt, he looked over the room again. What a peculiar mind had created this monstrous chimera of a house! The same mind, no doubt, had been responsible at one time for hanging that tattered banner in the corner. The shaggy lion looked half the size of the unicorn it was rearing to fight.

“This is the newest part of the house,” she said, “if you can believe it.”

“I can’t, in fact.”

“The eighth Baroness Hughley had a great admiration for the Gothic. The style, she felt, was a perfect representation of man’s yearning for the heavens, and all the lofty aspirations thereby entailed.”

He snorted. Florid and a bit vague. “What aspirations are those, pray tell?”

She spread her hands. “You ask the wrong woman. I’m quoting a book of family history. The highest I’ve aimed is a good salary and a bed of my own.”

He smiled against his will. “I’m not sure I believe that.”

She linked her hands at her waist. “Ah, well. You know us criminal sorts.”

No, he thought. He was not sure that category began to capture the first thing about this woman.

Stop. He forcibly redirected his attention toward the books, resuming his prowl through the piles. Meanwhile, she sank to her knees, rooting through volumes. “One of these,” she began, then trailed off. When she spoke again, she sounded frustrated. “So many in French!”

“It’s an old library,” he said. “Latin and French tended to rule the day.”

“I didn’t guess it was so important.”

He glanced up and caught a strange look on her face, almost of despair. “Important for what?” he asked.

She sighed, then picked up a book and flipped through its pages. “For being a—” Something thudded onto the floor. “Proper lady,” she finished absently. “Look at this!” She picked up the object, revealing it to be a small dagger with a curved blade.

He whistled. “Hand me that.”

It was a very fine specimen, indeed. The crystal hilt lent it surprising heft. He rubbed his thumb over the blade. An intricate geometric design had been engraved into the steel. “One of these Hughleys was a nabob,” he recalled. “Stole vast fortunes from Indian princes.”

“The seventh Baron Hughley, that was.”

He looked up, surprised. “Clearly your conversations with Catherine haven’t all been quarrelsome.”

She shifted her weight, looking discomfited. “She did tell me a bit. And as I mentioned, I found a book last night—the Hughley history. Rather interesting what a family can achieve with pots of money at its disposal.”

When she wrinkled her nose like that, she looked very young. Someone’s daughter, he thought, oddly startled. Someone’s sister? He flipped the dagger in his hands, causing her to gasp. “Where is your family?” he asked her, and then flipped the knife again, simply to enjoy her reaction.

“Slash your wrist,” she said, “and there will be no wedding.”

He flipped the knife into the air over his head, catching it again by the handle. “I was a soldier, Miss Marshall.” Surely she remembered that. She had quoted the damned poem at him, hadn’t she?

“Do soldiers play with knives?” she asked. “I thought only fools did. Fools who have yet to get cut.”

He gave her a dangerous smile. “But you see my face. I’ve certainly been cut, in my time.” He hurled the knife across the room.

Thunk. Impaled in the door, the blade quivered musically. Wide-eyed, she looked from his face to the blade, and back again.

“I’m on friendly terms with sharp objects,” he told her.

She lifted her brows. “How very good to know.”

Her dry tone caused an odd feeling to prickle over him. He recognized it, after a moment, as embarrassment.

Good God. Had he just been showing off for her? What in heaven’s name ailed him? If he wanted admiration, he need only take a walk in public. Half the country still wanted his autograph. An astonishing number of women claimed to carry his likeness in their pockets, some blasted sketch they’d clipped out of a newspaper.

But not Lilah Marshall, he suspected. Nor Catherine Everleigh. Here was irony! He found himself closeted with the only two women in England who did not fawn on him.

Catherine saw him as a nuisance—a gatekeeper to untold collectibles. What did Lilah see? A bully, no doubt.

His pride disliked that. His vanity disliked it. He had grown rather accustomed to playing the hero. It so conveniently spared him the need to create another role for himself. But he had a feeling that whatever Lilah saw was far truer . . . and no cause for pride.

He waved her toward the door. “Go on, then.” Seducing her was one thing. Caring for her opinion was far less acceptable. “If not to disturb Catherine, then to prepare your . . . placating.”

“Yes, my lord.” Picking up her skirts, she made for the exit—pausing by the door to look again at the knife. “It’s a very fine dagger,” she said. “Perhaps you shouldn’t leave it embedded like this. It might damage the blade.”

“The blade is steel,” he said curtly. “Stronger than you can imagine.” He would not be lectured by a woman on weaponry.

“Very well.” But instead of leaving, she faced him again. “I did find out one thing that may prove useful. Miss Everleigh is lonely.”

Clearly she thought him dull-witted. “Yes. You told me as much. Friendless, you say. Any other insights? If not, that will be all.”

She acknowledged his sarcasm with a pull of her pretty mouth. “What I mean is, she wants a champion. Her brother disapproves of her participation in the business. He was furious when their father left her a full share. Everybody heard of his objections.”

“You’re right,” he said. “Everybody heard of that.”

“Listen,” she said curtly, in a tone that said, you dolt. “She is enamored of the Hughley women—did you know that? They were scholars and artists, and wives and mothers to boot. But what she likes is how their husbands supported their interests. She longs for that kind of support.” She paused expectantly.

Indeed, it was a useful piece of information. He gave a curt, grudging nod. “All right.”

She smiled, looking far too satisfied with herself. And she still wore that damned smudge—a provocation in itself.

He heard himself say, “Of course she wishes for a husband who admires her. What woman doesn’t? But I thank you for the obvious tidings.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Forgive me. Of course you’re right. We women are very predictable.” Then, with a surprising show of strength, she yanked the dagger out of the door, hefted it once in her hand, and threw it.

The blade flashed by him. It came so close that he felt the flutter of air displaced by its passage.

Thunk.

Speechless, he turned. The knife now pinned the ancient tapestry to a mortared joint in the wall. It pinned the eye of the lion to the wall.

That was a happy accident. Surely.

“Oh, look,” she said from the doorway. “It seems a woman can surprise you, after all!”

For the second time in a quarter hour, the door slammed soundly shut.