Lady Be Good

  The band broke into a mad, shoving scramble, cursing at each other in language that caused Palmer’s eyes to widen. What a ludicrous situation! Lilah swallowed her laugh. Overhead, shutters were banging open left and right, men and women hanging out into the street to watch, calling out encouragements. One man added his own hooting cheer for Palmer’s bravery. “Britannia! Britannia!”

  The little girl stamped her foot. “Quiet, now,” she told the crew. Then, with a sweet smile at Palmer: “Will that suit, sir?”

  The band had managed to arrange themselves in a crooked row. “Excellent,” Palmer said. “Hands out, now. Ready, soldiers?”

  Lilah recognized some of the onlookers’ faces above. She found herself holding her breath, praying for their discretion as she was dragged down the line by virtue of Palmer’s grip on her elbow. With his free hand, he dispensed handshakes. “Excellent posture,” he told one freckle-faced admirer. “Chin up, that’s it, that’s very fine,” he said to another.

  The last and smallest boy offered him a trembling salute. He returned it crisply. “Satisfactory?”

  The little boy nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  Palmer loosed an odd snort. She realized he was fighting a laugh. “Excellent. All of you march bravely on to school, then.”

  A dozen jaws dropped. Then, in a flurry of giggles, the children dispersed in every direction, grabbing balls and discarded toys as they went.

  “Pleased that someone finds this amusing,” he muttered as he hauled Lilah toward the high road.

  “Yes, school’s the best joke going in these parts. Let go,” she added through her teeth. “You’re about to break my arm.”

  His grip eased. “It’s your throat you should be worried for. Do you know where you are? This is no place for an afternoon stroll.”

  She peered up at him in amazement. “Afraid of the children, are you?”

  He turned his attention to the road ahead, his mouth pressing into a tight line. “What were you doing here, Lilah? Who was that man?”

  The lie came to her in a burst of divine inspiration. “He’s my fence.”

  “Your fence.”

  “Yes. I come here to fence the goods I’ve stolen.”

  He released her elbow as though it burned. She had only the briefest moment to register the stupid hurt she felt. He looked at her as though she were a leper.

  Then his hand found the small of her back, pressing firmly to encourage her to keep pace. “And what,” he said tightly, “did you come to sell today? Something from Buckley Hall, I expect?”

  Heaven help her. She did not want him to think she had stolen from him. But as excuses went, it was the best she could manage. “Just a candlestick,” she said weakly. “Miss Everleigh didn’t think it so valuable.”

  His coach was waiting on the high street. The footman on the step looked pale and as jumpy as a rabbit. When he spotted Palmer, he heaved a visible sigh and pulled open the door so eagerly that Lilah expected it to pop off its springs.

  Palmer all but threw her inside. He pulled shut the door behind him, and the coach launched into motion. By the suddenness of it, no doubt even the coachman imagined he’d escaped some dreadful fate.

  “It’s just a neighborhood,” she said in amazement. “People live here. Most of them aren’t even criminals.”

  “Present company excepted,” he bit out.

  “Why are you so angry?” She smoothed down her skirts. “You knew what I was from the first night you met me.”

  “And to spare yourself the consequences, you agreed to a bargain. You were not to let Catherine out of your sight.”

  There was the rub. Now she must paint herself not only an unrepentant criminal, but a welsher to boot. “She was going to a bookshop.” Lilah tried for a careless shrug. “She wasn’t in the mood to confide secrets to me.”

  His jaw flexed. He was grinding his teeth as he looked away. Slowly and methodically, he drew the shades—blocking out the left window, then the right. In the dimness, he faced her. “What am I to do with you?”

  Nerves fluttered through her stomach. “You want me to follow her everywhere? I’ll only annoy her. Then she’ll tell me nothing at all.”

  His gaze pinned her against the bench. “I should burn those notes. Teach you the cost of disobedience.”

  A pity he hadn’t met Nick after all. They would rub along very well, being cut from the same tyrannical cloth. “Is it your job to school me?”

  “God knows you need an education,” he growled. “If you are so reckless with your life as to traipse into East End taverns to consort with scum—”

  Scum! She was suddenly angry. Neddie was decent people, and many of his patrons were old friends. “Scum? Like those little children, you mean? I admit they have poor taste in heroes, but you can’t blame them for it. They believe what’s printed in the newspapers. Why, they probably think me semidivine, simply for having stood in your shadow.”

  She heard his sharp breath. “Will they speak of it?”

  “Of having met you?” She laughed blackly. “They’ll tell the story to their grandchildren, no doubt.”

  She didn’t understand the look on his face. “And you at my side,” he said in a strange, bitter tone.

  “Forgive me,” she said stiffly. “How awful that your name should be sullied by connection to mine.”

  “Oh, it’s not me who stands to suffer.”

  The remark baffled her, as did his black expression as he sat back and rapped his knuckles against the bench. Thump. Thump. Thump.

  “If I were decent,” he said, “I would leave you on the next corner.”

  Frowning, she watched him. But his dark face yielded no clues. She edged aside the shade. The traffic circus was jammed. “If you leave me, I’ll never make the train in time.”

  He blinked, as though summoning his thoughts from distant places. “I’ll give you a ride to Paddington.”

  Then he meant to keep her on? Relief flooded her, light as a laugh. She locked her hands together to trap the urge to thank him. “I won’t steal again. I promise you that.”

  “Why bother?” But he spoke without heat. “Tell me this. You said you were out of practice. Why have you returned to thieving?”

  She bit her lip. His intent, sober look seemed to undo something inside her—an inward scaffolding that she needed, to hold herself away from him. “I don’t know.”

  “You do,” he said. “And I want the answer. You have talents, true intelligence . . . This position with Catherine could be a real opportunity for you. Why would you risk it?”

  She shook her head, hesitant. It felt wrong to embroider her lie, to deepen the deception, when he looked at her with such . . .

  “Whatever drives you,” he said, “it puts you into danger. Of course there are decent men in Whitechapel. But your fence isn’t one of them.”

  Concern. He looked at her with concern. In his face, in his voice . . . concern for her.

  How long had it been since she’d felt cared for? And how foul, what a black joke, that he should be the one to do it! “Don’t worry for me.” She spoke roughly, defiantly, as she looked into her lap. “I can’t . . .” Defend myself against it. “It’s boring.”

  “Yes.” She could feel his gaze on her. He had not looked away for a moment. “I see how much it bores you. It brings tears to your eyes.”

  She flinched, mortified by his acuity. She would have covered her face if it wouldn’t have exposed her further, in a way. “Stop it.”

  “Gladly. I don’t need these distractions. But apparently someone must worry for you, since you’re too much a fool to do it yourself. Where are your people, Lilah? They should look after you better than this.”

  Her people? The only people who had ever worried for her were dead. Her uncle would not fit the role Palmer required. Nick was the reason she was trapped in this mess, pinned under the magnifying glass of a rich man who should have better ways to entertain himself than the dissection of her soul. “I can look afte
r myself.”

  “I’m certain you can. I’ve seen you with a knife.” He was silent a moment. “Something I learned in the war, though: survival comes down to luck. And when you push your luck far enough, it always turns rotten. Yours, I think, is running out.”

  She lifted her face. “Yes. That started the night I met you.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Is that what you tell yourself? Whereas I’ve begun to think I’m the best friend you have.”

  “Why? Because you didn’t hand me over to the police? If you truly cared for my safety, you’d give me back those letters.” She felt her mouth twist. “You want me out of danger? Then give them to me right now, and let me go.”

  “Perhaps I would, if I believed for a single moment that you wouldn’t take them straight to Whitechapel.” His smile was sudden and sharp. “Or maybe I wouldn’t. Maybe the real problem is your confusion on whom to fear.”

  She caught her breath as he moved onto her bench.

  “Perhaps,” he said, “I’ve been too easy on you.” He laid his hand on her throat, stroking his thumb over her jugular as he watched her with lambent gold eyes. A predator’s eyes. His hair was slicked back today; he saved dishevelment for the country. The strong bones of his face, the flawless elegance of his wardrobe, the heavy wool coat tailored precisely to the brutal muscle of his body—he radiated wealth, confidence. He looked like someone only a fool would cross.

  She tried to avert her face. He gripped her chin, holding her in place. “I should be less kind to you,” he murmured. “That’s where I’ve gone wrong. A devil wants those notes? He’s a gutter rat with a gun, Lilah. A squadron of police could take him down. Whereas I . . .” He slid his hand into her hair, hooking it hard. “I have better cause to be a villain than that gutter rat could dream. And the police cannot touch me. I am a bloody goddamned hero. I could put you in prison without lifting a finger. I could drag you through the streets, and people would applaud.”

  She drew a strangled breath. “Are you trying to frighten me?”

  He pulled her forehead to his. “Yes.” The word brushed against her lips like a kiss. “Be afraid. Fear me. It would be wiser. And far more pleasant for you. Think of it: no more running into the slums. No more answering to thugs.” His fingers loosened from her hair; he brushed his knuckles down her cheek. “No more lies,” he said. “No more thieving. Simply . . . submission.”

  God help her. She stared at him, riveted despite herself. He did not frighten her. But his talk of power—it was the most erotic speech she’d ever heard.

  She touched him very lightly. Laid the flat of her palm against his chest. He was powerful, yes. But here was her power over him.

  A muscle flexed in his jaw. And then he lunged at her.

  His kiss was deep and carnal, and she fell into it wholly—his tongue in her mouth, hers in his; demanding, seizing, taking. He came over her as she sagged, gripping her face, opening her mouth wider. Yes. This was what she wanted. Take me.

  He pushed her flat onto the bench and came down atop her, so his torso crushed into hers. She wrapped her arms around him and he knocked up her skirts, hooked her leg behind the knee. Had they been quarreling? Now they understood each other perfectly. He squeezed and stroked her thigh as she bared her neck to him; instantly he accepted the invitation, licking his way down her throat. As she squirmed, he repositioned himself so the bulge of his erection pressed against the juncture of her thighs. He rolled his hips, a silent promise: he was well able to satisfy her.

  Her eyes rolled back in her head, perhaps. Later she would wonder why her memory of this moment, this feverish eternity, consisted only of sensations and sounds. The ripping of fabric—his palm, so hot through the flimsy cambric of her drawers, searing her inner thigh—the bite of his teeth at the top of her shoulder. She saw nothing.

  And then she felt the bold, skillful prying of his fingers through the slit in her drawers. She gasped and arched. All the stories the girls told made sense to her suddenly. He opened her like a flower. He found the spot that made her pulse. What she had always dismissed in other women as recklessness, as a risk not worth taking, proved to be the finest decision she’d made—to open her legs and let him touch her. Her body reassembled itself. It became an instrument of pleasure, strummed expertly by the insistent firm stroke of his hand.

  She wanted more. She gripped his waist, feeling through layers of cloth the hard flex of his back. She wanted the bluntness of his erection to replace the teasing promises of his hand. She groaned a demand, and his teeth closed on her lower lip in warning. Below, his fingers breached her, a slight burning, delicious pressure as he parted and opened and widened her.

  “Quiet,” he rasped, and she froze, and he pressed very hard, and she convulsed—once, then again, around his fingers.

  She opened her eyes, dazed. He stared down at her, his face dark and wild, his hair mussed, his lips wet from hers.

  “In this matter, you’re obedient,” he said. “Perhaps I should fuck you properly.”

  The words sent a thrill through her—hot and liquid, and then, as the pleasure faded, horrible. Cold.

  She pushed his shoulders, wanting him off her, away. For all the effect it had, she might as well have pushed a mountain. He slowly eased apart from her. With conspicuously unhurried movements, he ran his palms down her legs and grasped her ankles. He swung her feet off the bench, settling them on the floor, and then brushed her skirts down over her thighs. He sat back, then, studying her with merciless intensity.

  A strong premonition of distress overwhelmed her. The world was sinking back into clarity, cold reason in its black-and-white palette. She had erred here. She had revealed something better kept secret.

  “Shall I, then?” he asked.

  The raggedness in his voice struck her. He was far from unmoved, himself.

  That realization made a balm for her abraded dignity—and fueled her sudden anger. “No.” She cleared her throat. “You won’t. You aren’t quite the villain you aspire to be.”

  His eyes glittered. “Take heart. One of these days, I will surprise you.”

  “You already have.” She took a deep breath for bravery. “I only wish I didn’t like it so much.”

  A muscle flexed in his jaw as he moved back to his bench. But he did not reply. After all, what answer could he possibly make to that admission? She knew better than he what a fool it made her.

  The coach slowed. They were pulling into the queue alongside the curb at Paddington. She wanted to cry out, or pound her fist. Instead she put it against her lips, which trembled. How had he gained this much power over her? It had nothing to do with his blackmail.

  “On the other matter,” he said with frightening calm. “The gutter rat. I will destroy him for you. That can be my payment. We can dispense with the letters altogether.”

  She had never heard that savage note in his voice. It succeeded where his threats had not; at last, she felt fear.

  She did not want him to go to war with Nick. She could not say who would win. She could not say . . . whom she would want to win.

  “No,” she said. “I want our original agreement. That’s all.”

  “A pity,” he said after a moment. “I would have enjoyed it.”

  “It could be the work of poachers.” Howard Stowe had served under Christian in Afghanistan; more recently, he had put his scouting skills to keeping watch of comings and goings on the perimeter of Buckley Hall. He led Christian now into a stand of oak trees, where bright-winged butterflies and songbirds flitted to and fro beneath the boughs.

  “Very stupid poachers,” Christian said. The temper in his own voice gave him pause. He’d returned to London very late last night, and had chosen to closet himself with a bottle of whisky rather than risk his restraint by summoning Lilah for a more thorough debriefing. He no longer trusted himself around her. His judgment was corrupted. And he needed, God’s sake, to be able to trust himself. For his family, he needed to be steady.

  “Aye,”
said Stowe, “it’s a poor place to set a trap, right on the path. And I’ve never seen rabbits caught by such an effort.”

  Christian knelt at the edge of the pit, knocking aside the woven mat of branches that had disguised it. He bit back an oath. The bottom of the pit was lined with six sharpened spikes. A bit much for a rabbit, indeed. “How deep is that? Six feet?”

  “Deep enough to catch a man.” Stowe squatted beside him. “Would have taken some muscle to dig it.”

  “Or sheer lunacy.” Christian scanned the vicinity. “There.” He rose and walked into the brush. Seven paces from the pit, concealed amid the trees, stood the pile of earth that had been excavated.

  Howe whistled. “Took some effort to move it all.”

  And time. And murderous determination. Christian looked back the way they had come. The turrets of Buckley Hall were visible over the crest of the hill. The house stood very close, not five minutes’ walk away.

  He turned back, scanning the glen, breathing hard to channel his rage. A very lucky thing that Catherine Everleigh showed such dedication to her work. She had not once stirred outdoors. And her assistant . . .

  His jaw clenched. Lilah had been setting out for a stroll alone that day he’d found her sneezing in the hall. Had an allergy not beset her, she might well have come this way. It was the clearest path into the woodland.

  “We must assume there will be others,” he said. “Put Potter on the search.” Another member of the old regiment, Potter had an uncanny sense for where the enemy might lay an ambush.

  “Will do. And if you’ll allow it, I’ll go down to the village pub tonight, pass word around that the poaching won’t fly no more.” Stowe spat a long stream of tobacco juice. “This ain’t the only trap I’ve found. Handful of snares elsewhere on the property. Don’t want nobody stealing up at night to collect rabbits, and find themselves at the bottom of one of these.”

  “Or at the wrong end of a rifle,” Christian said. “You go anywhere, you go armed.”