Lady Be Good

  “God’s sake!” Peter Everleigh was yelling from his position at the rostrum. “Shut the curtains! Block it out!”

  Embers were raining into the room, great burning chunks of paper carried over by the breeze. They floated through the shattered window, landing to smolder on the carpets.

  One ember caught in Catherine’s skirts. Christian slapped it free. The blow broke her daze; she dropped the drapes and lifted her hem high, stamping on scattered embers. “Help me! Peter! Put it out!”

  But her brother had ducked out of the room.

  “Come!” Christian grabbed her arm. “You can’t stay here.”

  “Not until I’ve put them out!”

  Patches of the carpet were smoking. He ground one beneath his heel as she hurried from spot to spot, stamping out the others. But more were falling by the moment. These efforts were useless.

  He seized her by the waist and bodily carried her into the hall. From below came great shouts and thumps, the crowd forcing its way out. “Listen!” he said, as she fought to free herself. “Do you hear the bells?”

  She froze. “The Fire Brigade.”

  “Yes. They’re coming. You can’t help now.” He dragged her into a quick walk down the corridor. Scattered along the floor were handkerchiefs, pens, small slips of paper, catalogs advertising the wares. Bolkhov must still be next door. That explosion had been dynamite, which required a man to light the fuse.

  “They must save it,” she muttered. “I will not let it burn!”

  “They will. Keep walking.”

  “Let go.” She hauled her skirts well clear of her ankles. “The building is stone. We’ve sand and axes stationed on every floor. A direct connection to the main water line. Do your men know—”

  “Yes,” he said. “They do. They have the plans.”

  This answer seemed to satisfy her. They hurried in silence to the stairs. At the landing, he caught sight through the window of movement in the next building. He paused to count the floors. When he turned again toward Catherine, she was gone.

  Lilah cursed. She was stuck halfway through the window, her torso resting atop a crate that stood against the wall. She had to pull herself up onto it. You can do this. The smell of smoke was growing stronger. You must. On a great groaning effort, she stretched out and caught the far edge of the crate. Yes. Slowly she dragged herself upward. Dratted bustle caught on the window frame, and then—

  Free. She hoisted herself onto hands and knees, pausing to find her balance. The ground was eight feet below now.

  The door flew open. Catherine dashed by, ash smeared across her cheek, her eyes wild. She went straight to the gate, fumbling a key into the padlock that held the bar shut.

  “Catherine! Help me down!”

  Catherine encompassed her predicament in one frantic glance over her shoulder. “It’s on fire,” she said. “The fire brigade is coming. I have to open the gate for them!” The padlock yielded. She threw down the keys, then put her shoulder beneath the bar, lifting it aside. As she pulled open the wide door, bright sunlight fell in squares across her, segmented by the iron grate that must be raised.

  Catherine seized the bars, straining to lift them. The bells sounded very loud now. The brigade was turning into the lane, Lilah thought. “Let me help!”

  With an enraged grunt, Catherine let go. “It’s too heavy.” She turned, sweeping a narrow glance across the room.

  “That smaller crate.” Lilah pointed. “Shove it over.” She could make the leap in stages.

  Catherine threw herself against it, moving it by inching degrees toward Lilah. “It—can’t—burn,” she panted.

  “Stop there.” A foot away. She could make that jump. She gathered her skirts in great handfuls as she shifted onto her feet. “Stand back.” Deep breath. Go.

  She landed heavily on the crate, splinters piercing her palms. Five feet to drop now.

  “Hurry,” Catherine said.

  Lilah lowered herself onto her belly and wriggled her legs clear of the crate. Then, on another breath, she dropped to the ground.

  Catherine steadied her, then pulled her over to the grate. “Together,” she said, as Lilah took hold of a bar. “One, two—”

  Three.

  The grate scraped upward. A foot of clearance. Another foot. “Stop,” Catherine said, and got down on her hands and knees, wriggling her way out into the lane. Lilah clambered after her.

  “You!” Catherine was running down the rutted lane toward a steam engine. Too late—the last of the battalion disappeared into the other building. “Wait! Come back!”

  A man stepped out from behind the steam engine. Another battalion—Lilah could just make out the second vehicle. She put her fingers in her mouth and whistled. “Oi! We need your help!”

  He shoved his helmet back, then broke into a run toward them. Catherine’s steps slowed. “There’s fire,” she yelled. “Fire in the—”

  He reached into his heavy jacket and pulled out a truncheon.

  No. A pistol.

  Catherine jumped backward—too late. He caught her around the throat, spinning her so the pistol pressed to her temple. “You,” he said to Lilah. “Come here. Or she dies.”

  “Are you awake? Lilah!”

  Catherine’s voice drew her out of darkness. She opened her eyes, disoriented. Her jaw throbbed. Dizzy. A single shaft of light spilled from a small window somewhere behind her. Wooden wall, five inches from her face. Bags to her right, mounded along the wall—hay, by the itch in her nose. Rough floorboards, splinters digging through her skirts.

  She took a sharp breath, then nearly gagged at the stench. Wet animal.

  “Please,” Catherine whispered. “Say something, if you’re awake.”

  She couldn’t move. They were roped waist to waist, Catherine’s back pressed against hers. “I’m awake.”

  “Oh, thank God!”

  “Premature,” Lilah muttered. Premature to be feeling grateful. “Where are we?”

  “Spitalfields, I think. I spotted the church as we passed.”

  She’d seen more than Lilah had. Bolkhov had bound their wrists, then roped them to each other. Put them on the floor of some kind of vehicle, covered them with a blanket, and driven them . . . here. “What is this place?” The walls pressed so close. She didn’t like tight spaces, but at least there was light.

  “I don’t know. A shed?”

  “Right.” A shed might be anywhere. She wished she’d gotten a glimpse of their surroundings. But when the carriage had stopped, Bolkhov had come inside with a cloth reeking of some drug.

  “I’m so . . . very glad you’re awake. You were . . . it’s been an hour at least.”

  An hour? That couldn’t be right. Seemed like only moments had passed since Bolkhov had opened the door of the coach. Lilah had thrown herself at him, hoping to fall out of the vehicle. To spill into the road where some passerby might spot them.

  But tied up with Catherine, she’d not managed to move fast enough. He’d grabbed her by the hair and smashed her face against the bench. And then . . .

  A sweet sickly smell. Blankness.

  An hour. The absence of it touched off a deep, primal fear. Death would be like that. Just . . . nothing.

  Her shiver was contagious. She felt it pass into Catherine, at her back. They both were going to die here.

  No. She yanked against the ropes, and Catherine squeaked in protest. “Sorry,” she muttered. “But we’ve got to get free. Have you got any give?”

  “None. I—stop that!”

  She scowled and ignored the order. “He’ll hurt us worse.”

  Catherine’s head knocked into the crown of Lilah’s skull, making her wince. “I know, but . . .”

  “Careful with your head.” She swallowed bile. “Please.” Her head seemed to be pounding worse and worse. “That drug,” she said. She felt strange. So woozy. Couldn’t just be the blow. “What was it?”

  “Ether. Or chloroform? I don’t know. He didn’t use it on me. He . . .?
?? Catherine cleared her throat. “He said he would keep me lively for the night ahead.”

  How steadily she spoke that awful promise. Not a single note of fear. Lilah wouldn’t let herself be outclassed. “We won’t be here tonight.” One way or another. “Did he say where he was going?” It would be good to know how long they had till his return.

  “To find Palmer.” She heard Catherine swallow. “Perhaps it would be best if he caught him. Three of us could overpower him. Maybe.”

  “He won’t bring Christian back here.” She knew it in her bones. “He doesn’t mean to hurt him.” Not physically. Not until everyone else was dead.

  She yanked against the bonds, ignoring Catherine’s hiss. This was no way to die. Bound like an animal, trapped like a rat . . .

  The thought triggered a strange wave of déjà vu. Her chest tightened. It wasn’t dark. But the walls, pressing as close as a coffin . . . She’d been trapped like this before.

  If only she’d managed to break out of the carriage! But without the use of her hands, there’d never been a hope—

  Her hands. “Catherine.” She spoke with her heart in her throat. “Did he take my knife?”

  A brief silence. Then: “You carry a knife?”

  She grinned, to hell with how it hurt. “I’m not as much the lady as I look. Can you reach my pocket? See if you feel it?”

  The ropes tightened. Burned, then began to cut. She gritted her teeth against the pain, understanding a little better why Catherine had objected.

  “Yes! Oh God above, Lilah, I can feel it—”

  “Can you reach it?”

  “I . . .” Catherine twisted hard, and the rope tightened like a vise around Lilah’s ribs. Squeezed the breath from her. She fought the urge to protest—inhaling would only hamper Catherine’s reach.

  “I have it.” Catherine spoke very flatly. “Stay still. I’m . . . pulling it . . .”

  Sparks at her vision. She dared not breathe. The sparks turned red, then black. Great blots swarmed over her vision—

  She dragged in a breath, and Catherine gasped. Tears came to Lilah’s eyes. She’d cost them their chance. “I’m so sorry—”

  “It’s in my hand.” Catherine was breathless, too. “I can’t—can you take it? I can’t unsheathe it from this angle.”

  Lilah sent up a silent prayer. How long had it been since she’d sat by this girl’s sickbed and despaired of God? She regretted it now; she willed him to forgive her as she stretched out her fingers, grasping blindly, flexing and twisting as Catherine grunted against the crush of the ropes—

  “There.” She felt the engraved sheath. She knew this knife better than the back of her own hand. Better than her face in the mirror. “Don’t move. Hold steady.”

  “Hurry,” Catherine said softly. “The ropes . . .”

  “I know.” Her grip was sweaty. She pushed her thumb along the sheath. Come free. This knife was an old friend. Show some love. A gift from her father, the week before he’d died. You’re old enough now, he’d said. Respect this blade, and it will never do you wrong.

  The sheath yielded. “All right,” she whispered. “All right. It’s unsheathed. But I can’t get a grip on the hilt. Can you . . . do you feel all right, trying to cut the rope?”

  “No.” Now Catherine’s voice shook. “I’ll cut you.”

  “Do it! Just—” She froze. “Do you hear that?”

  Footsteps. A cheerful whistle, drawing nearer.

  “It’s him,” Catherine said in a low voice of dread. “We’re done.”

  “Do it,” Lilah gasped. “Catherine, cut the—”

  The door shuddered. No time left. Bolkhov was opening the lock.

  “Don’t let him see the knife,” she hissed. “And whatever you do—don’t drop it.”

  The door swung open. It was barely a door—the height of a child. Bolkhov shoved himself through in slow increments, head then shoulders, wriggling. The sight was agonizing. Were Lilah on her feet—were her hands free—it would not have taken a knife to disable him. A solid kick to his head would have done it.

  He clambered to his feet. He looked like somebody’s doting grandfather. Short and solid, a mane of white hair and a rosy, full face, dressed in pinstripes, with a gold watch chain snaking across his waistcoat. He ignored Lilah, pacing around her to speak to Catherine.

  “Where is he?”

  Heavy Russian accent. Lilah could feel Catherine shaking. The knife, Catherine. Don’t let go. “I don’t know.”

  A thud. A sharp crack. Catherine cried out, toppling sideways. Lilah was dragged down with her, her shoulder striking the floor. The knife—Catherine had fumbled it. It was sliding away. Lilah scrabbled—

  Her fingers closed on the blade. She choked on the stabbing pain, wrestling against instinct, fighting not to let go.

  “I don’t know, I don’t know,” Catherine shrieked. “If he’s not at Everleigh’s—”

  They had no time for this. She was going to drop the blade. “I know,” Lilah spat. “You bastard. I know where he is.”

  Boots thudded into her line of vision. A hand hooked in her hair, ripping at her scalp as he hauled her back to a sitting position—and Catherine along with her. But she didn’t let go, damn him.

  His dark eyes burned into hers, black and burning like coal. “Where?” he said.

  “The House of Diamonds. Whitechapel.”

  He grabbed her chin. Yanked it high as he looked into her face. “You are lying.”

  “A stupid lie,” she managed, her voice strained by the awkward angle of her throat. Her hand would be mangled. Cut clean through. “If I was going to lie, I’d make it . . . a better one. He’s got a secret office. Second floor. That’s where he goes.”

  He glared at her. “You are nothing,” he said. “Nobody. You might yet live. But not if you are lying. If you are lying, I will loop your entrails from the rooftops.”

  “It’s the truth.” God help her, if her uncle was not there . . . He took note of every man who entered his gambling club, but if he did not understand what a visit from a strange Russian meant . . . “The House of Diamonds. But you’ll never get inside. He has guards.”

  He sneered. “We will see.” He raised his hand. She had just enough time to brace herself before he struck her. Bright light. Pain. But the bastard didn’t topple her. She still had hold of the blade, a searing coal embedded in her palm, agony spearing into her bones.

  He turned for the door. She spat blood in his direction as he wiggled out.

  Catherine was breathing heavily. “Do you—”

  “Hush,” she hissed. She was waiting—straining to listen—

  There came the thunk of the padlock. “We’ve got about thirty minutes,” she said. If they were in Spitalfields, the House of Diamonds couldn’t be far. “I need you to hold still.”

  “You still have the knife?” Catherine’s voice sounded very small.

  “Yes.” She squeezed her eyes shut, concentrating on the delicate maneuver of inching the blade through her fingers. Pinching it between her knuckles. Sliding it as far as it would go. Starting over again. Pain didn’t matter. Only the blade.

  The hilt came into her palm. But dexterity was a distant dream at this awkward angle. And her blood made the grip so slippery. “I might cut you.”

  “Do it,” Catherine said fiercely.

  She groped for the space between their torsos, flicking out the blade once—twice—hit something solid, and heard Catherine’s sharp breath. “Sorry,” she whispered, and tried again. If not that angle, then this one. If not this one, then—

  “Got it.” She could only make twitching motions. But it was enough. The scrape of steel against rope was the sweetest music she’d ever heard. But hard going. Her wrist cramped. Blood was slipping down her fingers, befouling her grip. But the rope was giving. She felt one thread yield, then another. Then—

  The rope snapped. She turned on her knees, holding out the knife with her bound hands. Catherine’s face looked bad. Bl
ood all over her mouth. This room wasn’t bigger than a wardrobe. Raw wood, the floor scattered with hay. “Cut me free.”

  Catherine seized the knife and sawed at the ropes at Lilah’s wrist—laughing exultantly as they split and fell away.

  Lilah returned the favor in three short, sharp slices. Then she turned immediately for the little door through which Bolkhov had crawled.

  No hinges. Padlock on the outside. She threw herself against the door. Then kicked it, as she clutched her bleeding hand.

  “Together,” said Catherine, hauling up her skirts. They slammed their feet in unison.

  No luck.

  “God above!” Catherine turned full circle. “There must be some way out of here! That window . . .”

  Lilah sagged back against the wall. That window was too small. A dog wouldn’t squeeze out of it.

  “It’s done then,” Catherine whispered. “We’re going to die here.”

  You’d need men at your back, to go into that place. So Lilah had warned him of the Whitechapel tavern. Christian understood now what she’d meant. Someone had run to fetch O’Shea. As Christian waited, the tense silence took no language to translate. Each of these men around him, nursing their drinks and never removing their eyes from him, had the look of a brawler.

  The door opened, O’Shea’s lanky form making a silhouette in the doorway. As he stepped inside, the dim light revealed his slow survey of the assembled gathering, then his smirk as he located Christian in the far corner.

  “Slumming,” he said, in a clear, carrying voice, “has caught on like wildfire, I see.”

  Never be too proud for friendship. Never turn up your nose. It was the hardest advice he’d ever taken. But Christian rose now, and bowed.

  The audience wasn’t accustomed to such courtesies. They misinterpreted it. A dozen chairs shifted. Metal scraped. Someone stepped up behind him.

  “Go easy there,” O’Shea said pleasantly. He walked to the bar, pausing to confer with the mute giant who’d patted Christian down to check for weaponry. The man had found none; Christian was no fool.

  Slowly Christian turned toward the man behind him. I’d prefer a cutlass. A proper handle can be useful. But Lilah would have had difficulty lifting the cutlass this man held. Nor would she mistake it as a friendly gesture. “Step away,” he said softly.