Lady Be Good
Meredith Duran
Copyright © 2015 Meredith Duran
Cover image © Alan Ayers
Author photograph © Shelley McGuire
The right of Meredith Duran to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the
Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
First published in this Ebook edition in 2015
by HEADLINE ETERNAL
An imprint of HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by arrangement with Pocket Books,
a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library
eISBN 978 1 4722 2233 6
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Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
About the Author
Praise for Meredith Duran
By Meredith Duran
About the Book
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
A sneak peek of Luck Be A Lady
Visit Everleigh’s Auction House
Are you ready to be reckless?
Find out more about Headline Eternal
About the Author
Meredith Duran blames Anne Boleyn for sparking her lifelong obsession with British history. A graduate student in the social sciences, she spends her free time collecting old etiquette manuals, guidebooks to nineteenth-century London, and travelogues by intrepid Victorian women. The Duke Of Shadows and Bound By Your Touch ranked among the top 100 romances of all time in the 2010 All About Romance poll, and the USA Today bestselling Fool Me Twice is a RITA nominee in Historical Fiction.
For more on Meredith visit her website www.meredithduran.com, and connect with her on Twitter @meredithduran, and on Facebook at www.facebook.com/AuthorMeredithDuran.
Praise for Meredith Duran’s powerfully passionate romances:
‘A sophisticated, witty, smart novel that, like a Mary Balogh romance, compels the reader to look deeper and uncover great depth as well as grand passion’ Romantic Times
‘In modern romance, there is still room for the hero that Byron described as “that man of loneliness and mystery” . . . It’s possible that no one writes him better than Meredith Duran, whose books are as dark and dangerous as the heroes they feature’ The Washington Post
‘Meredith Duran unceasingly delights . . . as a wordsmith and a master at understanding the elements that connect complex, genuine, and lovable characters’ Buried Under Romance
‘A powerful story with emotional punch . . . A joy to read’ The Romance Dish
‘Top-notch romance’ Publishers Weekly
‘Wildly romantic’ Dear Author
‘Witty, often hilarious, sensuous, and breathlessly paced . . . An engaging mystery-enhanced escapade’ Library Journal
‘Sexy, inventive, and riveting, it’s hard to put down and a joy to read’ All About Romance
By Meredith Duran
Rules For The Reckless Series
Your Wicked Heart (e-novella)
That Scandalous Summer
Fool Me Twice
Lady Be Good
Luck Be A Lady
The Duke Of Shadows
Bound By Your Touch
Written On Your Skin
Wicked Becomes You
A Lady’s Lesson In Scandal
At Your Pleasure
About the Book
Catching the lady red-handed. . .
Born to a family of notorious criminals, Lilah Marshall abandoned her past to transform into the perfect lady. A hostess at Everleigh’s, London’s premier auction house, she leads a virtuous life full of art and culture. All her dreams are within reach – until a gorgeous and enigmatic viscount catches her in the act of one last, reluctant theft.
Chasing one red-hot passion. . .
Viscount Palmer is society’s most dashing war hero. But his charming façade masks a dark secret: he’s haunted by a murdering madman’s vow to destroy anyone he loves. When the hunt for his enemy leads him to Lilah, he realises they can help one another. Their attraction is instant and electrifying, but one tempting touch could be their undoing. And as passion flares, their very lives hang in the balance. . .
Want more Rules for the Reckless? Don’t miss That Scandalous Summer or Fool Me Twice and the Your Wicked Heart e-novella.
For Estelle, Madeleine, Grace, and Sophia—
may all your stories end happily
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
When one’s acknowledgments continually generate a sense of déjà vu, it’s an excellent sign that one’s life is blessed with friends and family who deserve far more gratitude than a single page could contain. My thanks, as always, to the usuals: S. J. Kincaid, whose gift for encouragement is rivaled only by the inspiration her talent provides me; The Family Duran, of Oakland and Denver; Lady Rohlfs, Doctor of Law, Philosophy, and Unrivaled Weekends in St. Louis; Janine Ballard, Critique Partner for the Ages; Lauren McKenna and Elana Cohen, who make Pocket Books feel like home; and my husband, who keeps me fed, rested, encouraged, amused, optimistic, amazed, and impossibly happy. (Happy ever after, indeed.)
Kit’s Charge
Who o’er yonder battlement, when enemy drums did pound,
Did shout the name of Britain, and vow to stand his ground;
Who for sake of Queen and Country, pressed forward unafraid,
As through the hills of Bekhole, he led the fateful raid—
What courage lifted him through that dark and bloody vale!
What brave emboldened heart, where ordinary man must pale!
Nary a flinch or falter, nor thought of turning back—
“Onward,” he commanded, “to the ridge; attack!”
For him alone does England, which tenderly forged his mettle,
Await the end of battle, and the dreadful smoke to settle.
We pray God his soul to keep, his awful duty to acquit,
For our nation’s pride rests soundly on our brave and noble Kit.
His mother’s face so tearful, his father’s lit with pride—
These visions linger with him at every desperate stride.
Our grateful praise and adulation, our applause so proudly won—
He hears nothing but the cannon, until the bloody war is done.
Together will we gather, on that destined glorious day,
To welcome home our hero, with garlands bright and gay
And cry out the name that rings in eve
ry patriot’s soul:
Major John Christian Stratton, Hero of Bekhole!
PROLOGUE
London, March 1882
She was stuck between two buildings and she was going to die.
It took Lily a minute to reach this conclusion. How quickly a night went downhill! She’d not been prepared to do a job tonight. Uncle had assigned it to Fiona days ago. But then Fee had taken sick. Don’t worry, Lily had told her. I’ll do the job. Sisters looked out for each other, didn’t they? You just rest now.
But overnight, Fee had grown feverish and weak. Barely able to explain the job. Look in the drawer under the till, she’d said. He never keeps it locked.
Lily had found the deed just where Fiona had told her, beneath the till in the unlocked drawer. But Fee hadn’t warned her of the guards. They’d come barreling out of the back room and fired without a warning. Pigs! Decent men offered a girl the chance to surrender before they shot her.
You’re all right. Just a flesh wound. So Uncle Nick would say. But the gunshot had deafened her, and it burned like the dickens. Disoriented, in pain, Lily had taken off running. No chance of sticking to the plan. She’d ducked down an alley she’d never used before.
Turned out this alley wasn’t an alley, after all—only the space between two buildings that had pulled apart over time. The passage had kept narrowing, damp walls hugging tighter and tighter . . . until they pinned her.
She took a deep breath and tried to jam herself forward.
No luck.
This couldn’t be happening. Tonight of all nights, she had to get free. Fee was bad off. Surgeon said it was an organ gone rotten. He meant to operate. Lily needed to be there, holding her sister’s hand, not stuck in this bloody alley!
God, why was it so dark? The eaves above blocked out the stars. The cold damp air reeked of rot.
Fee didn’t like doctors. She needed Lily there when the surgeon made his cut.
On a great agonizing effort, Lily pressed forward. The ringing in her ears was fading now. She heard her own wheeze, and voices from the street she’d fled. One of the guards. “I tell you, I saw her go in there,” he said.
“Between the bleeding buildings? Ain’t space enough for a rat.”
“She squeezed in.”
“Then she’ll rot in there.”
No, no, no. If only there were a bit of light! These buildings pressed tighter than a coffin—
Stay calm. She focused on the pain, her arm burning like live coal.
Fee felt worse, though. She’d looked so bad, earlier. Yellow-faced, muttering nonsense. Lily had tried to calm her. She’d recited that poem Fee loved, about the war hero. It chanted through her mind now, singsong:
What courage lifted him through that dark and bloody vale!
What brave emboldened heart, where ordinary man must pale!
She could do this. Clenching her jaw, she fought for another step. Like stone jaws, the walls clamped around her.
Oh, God. She swallowed the taste of blood. Fee, forgive me. She couldn’t go farther.
“Lily.”
She was so tired. If only she could lie down. But the press of the buildings wouldn’t let her sit.
“Damn it, you stupid girl! Make a noise!”
“Uncle . . .?”
“Yes. That’s it. Follow my voice, now.”
She squinted into the blackness. Uncle Nick’s voice came from ahead, the far side. But the passage narrowed to a pin’s width, first. She would never fit through. “I’m stuck.”
“Then unstick yourself.”
“Can’t!”
“I say you can.”
He was always bossing her. It was his fault she was stuck, didn’t he see that? Fiona had told him they were done with thieving. Fee had grand plans; had found them both places at a typing school, with ambitions to go higher. They could be decent ladies, she’d told Lily. Earn a living as honest girls did.
But Nick wouldn’t permit that. You’ve got a duty to your family, he’d said. Do what you like, but as long as you’re under my roof, you’ll earn your keep here.
“Come on, then, Lily.” Nick crooned the words, like she was a stubborn baby. “Only another few steps.”
This was his fault. “You happy now?” She panted the words. “Got your . . . deed. You’ll have to . . . pull it out . . . with a hook.” Along with her. “I’m done for.”
“Move.” His voice got hard. “Make yourself. Push.”
The crush of the walls—she couldn’t bear it. In the dark, seeing nothing, not even stars . . . only rats died this way.
We deserve better, Fee had said. An honest life, free of fear.
“The surgery’s done, Lily. But Fee’s bad off still. She needs you now.”
God above! Tears salted her mouth. “I can’t!” Her voice sounded strange. Shrill and wheezy. “Help me!”
She heard a grunt. Nick was coming for her. Hope revived. Her uncle was bossy, sometimes cruel—but he’d never leave her to die here. She was family, after all. He’d get her out. She reached out a hand, praying fervently—only let his hand reach her; only let her feel his grip—
Her fist closed on empty air.
He spoke calmly. “All right, it’s tight.” She heard her death in those words. “But you’re small. What’s stopping you?”
What wasn’t? “My shoulders—”
“Shoulders come out of their sockets,” he said flatly. “Push forward. We’ll set it after.”
For a moment she didn’t understand.
“Break your fucking shoulder,” he bit out. “Do it, Lily! Or I will haul you out with a hook. Is that what you’d prefer?”
“I hate you,” she whispered. If it weren’t for him, for the job he’d wanted done tonight, she never would have run into those guards.
“Fiona’s going to die.” His voice seemed to come from far away. “Unless she sees you tonight. She needs her little sister.”
A gasp slipped from her. To fail Fee now, the only time she’d ever needed Lily’s help—
Her lungs wouldn’t fill. No room for it. But Lily shoved herself forward. Ah, God, the passage was so tight. She made an inch of headway. Then another.
A horrible pressure bore down on her shoulder. A fist of stone and steel, it would snap her spine.
She drove into it.
A cracking, God in heaven, the worst agony, she could not hold back her cry. The walls fell away and she was on her knees in the dirt, her arm . . . Ah, it hurt.
An icy wind raked over her. Hands closed over her waist, pulling her up. She gaped helplessly into the dark shadow looming over her. Never again. The words rang through her brain. “We’re done,” she gasped. She and Fiona were done.
The hands held her roughly in place. Searched her body, pausing only briefly at the evidence of blood. She felt her uncle locate the deed. He tucked it away with one hand, holding her up with the other.
“Come on,” he said roughly, turning her toward the road. “We’ll take you to Malloy, get you stitched up.”
Malloy? No. There was a real doctor waiting. The surgeon with her sister. “Fee,” she managed.
A hesitation. “I’m sorry, Lily.”
She blinked and tried to bring him into focus. But with the streetlamps guttering and the clouds blocking the moon, his face was lost in shadow. “What?”
His grip tightened around her waist. “He gave his best. I made sure of it. But Fiona passed. She’s gone.”
Northwest Frontier Province, India
“The Hero of Bekhole. How many more will die at your hands?”
The sneering words came to Christian through a haze of agony. Every inch of his body burned. He remembered the explosion, fire billowing toward him like a sheet. I am going to die, he had thought. And then . . . what?
He forced his eyes open. It felt as though a hot poker had been jammed into his leg in place of the bone. The darkness resolved into a low stone ceiling above him, rough rock. A cave?
Somehow he was alive
.
Groaning, he pushed himself upright. He lay on a rudimentary cot. His vision focused on the flames of a candelabrum sitting on the earthen floor.
He was hallucinating. The candelabrum was ornately molded from gem-encrusted gold, marred by a single dent. Rubies, sapphires, emeralds reflected the shimmering light.
“I asked you a question, Major Stratton.”
The voice was male. Heavily accented. Russian. Christian would have flinched had he had the strength. Instead he squinted into the depths of the cave. “I am an officer of Her Majesty’s Army. By the rights accorded . . .”
Something was wrong with his throat. His voice sounded threadbare, ragged. It felt like a razor in his throat.
The silence extended so long that he began to wonder if he’d dreamed the voice. Turn, look around you, get up. Get moving. His men would be searching for him—if any had survived.
He waited for the strength to do it. So dizzy. He wanted only to lie back again. To lie still and surrender to the mercy of unconsciousness.
“What rights,” said the voice, “did you accord to the woman and children you murdered?”
“What?” He paused to catch his breath. His lungs were shot. “I don’t . . .”
Memory flickered, like lightning in a far-off field. It drew closer. It broke over him, showing what he’d forgotten. The moments after the explosion.
A man leaning over him, white-bearded, wild eyes reflecting the flames around him. He had raved in a language that Christian did not speak. And then he had spoken in English: My seed. My seed! You have murdered my seed!
“Bolkhov,” he whispered. The mad Russian general. That was who had him.
Bolkhov was infamous. A lunatic who had refused to accept the end of the war. Repudiated by their own army, his rogue troops had wreaked havoc across the southern territories of Afghanistan, moving at last into the Northwest Frontier of India. They obeyed no codes of decency. They slaughtered entire villages, framing the British for their atrocities. They slit throats like butchers on market day.
