Wouldn't It Be Deadly (5 page)

Although he was an attractive fellow, Eliza thought there was something a bit foxlike about him. Perhaps it was his long, thin nose that gave her that impression, or his shrewd and lively gaze. Whatever it was, Mr. Nottingham seemed like a man who could lead one on a merry chase if he wished.

“And of course you know Mrs. Finch, since you give her instruction,” Lady Gresham said in a much cooler tone as Mary joined them.

“What a lovely party, Your Ladyship,” Mary said, out of breath from rushing. “Even the weather has cooperated to make this an exquisite day. My dear husband and I are most grateful for the invitation.”

But she didn't spare a glance for either Lady Gresham or her unhappy husband, Cornelius. Mary's attention was fixed on Nepommuck.

Mary took a step forward. “May I have a private word with you, Maestro? In the rose garden, perhaps?”

“That's enough, Mary,” Cornelius Finch muttered.

Nepommuck looked uncomfortable. “Miss Doolittle is your instructor. If there is anything you must discuss, do so with her.”

“But it is you I must speak with, Maestro,” Mary said. “I have news that simply cannot wait.”

“News? I cannot imagine what news you have that warrants interrupting Her Ladyship's party.” A flustered Nepommuck turned to Lady Gresham. “Please excuse Mrs. Finch. It appears that she requires instruction not only in phonetics, but in etiquette as well.”

Lady Gresham shrugged, her face a mask of icy indifference.

Mary's eyes grew wide. “Emil, we need to go somewhere private and speak. I insist.”

Cornelius grabbed her arm. “Obviously my wife has been out in the sun too long. The heat is making her babble nonsense. If you will excuse us.” With that, he pulled her away and the couple disappeared behind a privet hedge.

“What a pity,” Miss Page said with an exaggerated sigh. “The second act will take place offstage, and it looks to be an interesting one.”

“Let us hope Mr. Finch can get his wife under control.” Nepommuck turned to the Marchioness. “Your Ladyship, both of us have more important things to attend to this afternoon. And we have spent enough time with these tiresome pupils of mine.”

Eliza snorted. Who asked him to spend any time with us? The blowhard.

“Of course.” Lady Gresham took his arm and they turned to go.

Nepommuck glanced back at her. “Miss Doolittle, why don't you tell the other students the amusing tale of the flower girl turned duchess. It will give them hope that anything is possible.” With that, the pair sauntered off.

“Blooming bastard,” Eliza muttered under her breath.

“Pig!” Dmitri Kollas's flushed face reddened further.

“Pay him no mind,” Miss Page said. “The Maestro is so busy climbing the social ladder, he forgets good manners are a requisite.”

“How much farther can he climb?” Eliza asked. “He's a Hungarian blueblood.”

“Is he?” Miss Page raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Or does he merely pretend to be? People can pretend to be whatever they like. Mrs. Finch pretends to be a devoted wife. You pretended to be a duchess. ‘All the world's a stage, and all its people merely players.' At least I get paid for it.” She gave a charming laugh. “Now I am positively ravenous and must have something to eat. No pretense there. Mr. Kollas, would you care to join me?”

Struck dumb by that lovely face, Kollas followed Rosalind Page to the nearest white tent.

James Nottingham laughed. “Beauty and the beast.”

“She is a beauty,” Eliza said with an admiring sigh. “I don't think there's a woman in England who can compare with her.”

He shook his head. “Not really my type. She's too tall and all that curly red hair puts me off. Plus I find those purple eyes a bit spooky.” Nottingham cast an appreciative glance at Eliza. “I much prefer young ladies with straight brown hair, sparkling brown eyes, and charming little upturned noses.” Nottingham gently touched the tip of Eliza's nose.

She took a step back.

“Please don't run away, Miss Doolittle. I've not heard the tale of the flower girl turned duchess. Would you enlighten me?”

“Miss Page is right. Everyone pretends. Right now you are pretending not to have heard a story that has been the centerpiece of Nepommuck's newspaper advertisement for weeks.”

He smiled. “Forgive me for the white lie, but I wanted to keep you engaged in conversation. And the story seems a pretty one.”

“Don't know what's so pretty about it. A year ago I was a poor Cockney flower girl, fit for little more than selling posies outside Covent Garden. Then I had the good fortune to study under the same man as the Maestro once did: Professor Henry Higgins of Wimpole Street. And while I'd never admit it to him, the Professor is quite the skilled phonetician and philologist.”

“A philo-what?”

“A student of languages.”

Nottingham waved away a lazy bumblebee. “And now you're Nepommuck's most famous assistant.”

“Hardly famous, Mr. Nottingham. I have fewer than a dozen pupils.”

“Why am I not one of them? If I had known I could improve my vowels with a temptress such as you, I would have banged down the door to your classroom.”

Eliza was amused by his frank admiration. “Given your boldness, I wonder you simply didn't demand me as your teacher.”

“I'll tell you this, I'd much rather you teach me than Nepommuck. He boasts so much, there's hardly any time for a real lesson.”

“Surely he must be helping you.”

“To a point, not that I need much instruction. A little polishing to hide my Liverpool accent so I can get a position as a London clerk. But he's insufferable. You'd think I was a gorilla who didn't know how to talk at all. I've learned more about how to speak properly by spending my Sunday mornings strolling about Kensington Gardens. Listening to the swells talk to each other—and talk down to everyone else—is far more instructive than being humiliated by our Maestro.”

“He humiliates you?” she asked, curious.

“Absolutely. And I'm hardly the only one. One day the Maestro will get stuffed, mark my words. From what I've heard, he treats all his male students like servants, while he's far too friendly with his lady pupils. Case in point, the lovesick Mrs. Finch.”

“Spreading rumors can be dangerous, Mr. Nottingham.”

“Rumors? Before you became his assistant, my lessons preceded Mrs. Finch's. If you think I'm bold with the ladies, you've not watched Nepommuck. He couldn't get rid of me fast enough at the end of the hour, not with the lovely Mary Finch fluttering on the other side of the door. That is, until her husband caught on, so Nepommuck handed her over to you.”

Eliza was about to question him about the Finches when she saw a familiar face. “Excuse me, Mr. Nottingham. But I've just caught sight of an old friend.”

She hurried off, surprised to see Colonel Pickering at the party. The Colonel seemed as surprised to see her, and as pleased. After giving her a warm embrace, he presented his companion, a tall, distinguished gentleman with a high forehead and reddish brown hair slicked back.

“May I introduce Major Aubrey Redstone,” Pickering said. “The Major is a friend from my days in India. He only recently arrived from Bombay. Major Redstone, this is the incomparable Miss Eliza Doolittle.”

“A pleasure to meet you,” she said, admiring his smart military bearing and neat appearance. “Welcome back to England.”

“The pleasure is all mine, Miss Doolittle.” He bowed over her hand and straightened with a warm smile. Eliza noticed that Redstone had remarkably pale blue eyes, made even paler by his tanned face. It seemed a friendly face, she decided, and took an instant liking to him.

Redstone glanced around the garden. “I don't know if I'm pleased to be back. I've spent too much time on the subcontinent. This all seems quite foreign.”

Eliza looked at the rich people supping on cakes and champagne under white tents. “To me, too.”

They laughed. She tucked her hand around Pickering's arm and the three of them strolled about the rolling lawn. “Tell me how you snagged an invitation to Lady Gresham's charity garden party,” she said to Pickering.

“Her late husband, the Marquess, was my father's closest friend. I knew the family quite well. Such a pity when he died six years ago. He gave the best shooting parties in west England.” Pickering nodded toward Hepburn House. “If these walls could talk, my dear, the
Tatler
could run stories for weeks.”

“I insist on hearing a tale or two myself one evening, Colonel.”

“I'd much rather tell you about Major Redstone. He's a renowned scholar of Sanskrit poetry and was kind enough to leave Bombay and journey all the way here to assist me with a transcription project. At least he will once he delivers a paper to the Asiatic Society tomorrow.”

“I promise to devote the rest of my visit to helping you with that palm-leaf manuscript,” Redstone said. “Luckily we have two years before presenting the paper at the Sanskrit Revival Society.” He turned to Eliza. “The Colonel said you're working for Hungarian royalty.”

“So he claims, but who knows for certain?”

“The Major has been in the army and in India too long,” Pickering said. “Doesn't much care for the company of the upper classes, do you, Reddy?”

“Only if they are true aristocrats: civilized, charitable, well mannered.” He paused. “And scholarly.”

“A gentleman soldier perhaps?” Eliza asked with a smile.

“The best of all possible choices,” he said, eyes twinkling.

“I'm afraid that if Maestro Nepommuck is as royal as he claims, he will only reinforce your low opinion of the upper crust.” She nodded toward the couple by the topiaries. “There he is with our hostess.”

“I say, Verena is looking exceedingly well,” Pickering said. “She always was a handsome woman, but she looks even better now than when she was sixty.”

Eliza stopped in surprise. “How old is the Marchioness?”

“Oh, I should not have mentioned her age. A gentleman should never discuss a lady's age. Quite unforgivable of me.”

Perhaps that explained why Lady Gresham had been so kind and solicitous to the Maestro. Even a marchioness could be flattered by a younger man's attentions. And in return, she had introduced Nepommuck to the most important people in London. Every week he was invited to yet another dinner party or reception to hobnob with the country house set or those who had the ear of 10 Downing Street. No wonder he was such an obnoxious snob.

When she led Pickering and Redstone over to the couple, Eliza took a closer look at her hostess. A large white hat shaded the top half of Lady Gresham's face, but Eliza noticed fine lines around the woman's eyes. At most she looked sixty, and an impressive sixty at that. And her high cheekbones, so sharply defined, seemed as if they could cut glass. So could her penetrating gray eyes. Eliza suspected she was not a woman you wanted to cross … or disappoint.

Pickering and Lady Gresham greeted each other with a warmth that surprised Eliza. Nepommuck looked at the Colonel with new respect. No doubt he would add Pickering to his list of people to exploit. Since Redstone was temporarily forgotten, Eliza spoke up.

“Major Aubrey Redstone is the Colonel's friend and a noted scholar of Sanskrit poetry.”

“I am honored to meet a colleague of Colonel Pickering.” Lady Gresham extended her hand. “And a scholar, too. My late husband would have been most impressed, as am I.”

Nepommuck sniffed. “What is Sanskrit but another language? I speak thirty-two languages. As for poetry, nonsense fit only for spinsters. It doesn't interest me.”

“You've never read Sanskrit poetry then, Mr. Nepommuck,” Redstone said. “It is infused with both intellectual complexity and lyrical beauty.”

“I have not read it, and have no intention of doing so.”

“Now, Emil,” Lady Gresham warned, “Sanskrit is an ancient and difficult language to translate, as the Colonel can tell you. I cannot believe you do not appreciate poetry. Would you have me think you do not care for Shakespeare or Tennyson?”

Nepommuck seemed to shrink under her steely gaze. “Shakespeare is different. Who does not love Shakespeare?”

“Indeed, who does not? You are instructing Miss Page, or should I say Ophelia.”

“Excuse me, but I thought her name was Rosalind,” Eliza said.

Nepommuck gazed at her with greater contempt than usual. “You are such a stupid girl.”

“That is most uncalled for,” Pickering said, his voice uncharacteristically angry.

“You owe Miss Doolittle an apology.” Redstone glared at Nepommuck.

“Emil?” Lady Gresham had that steely look once more.

The Hungarian cleared his throat. “Please accept my apology, Miss Doolittle,” he said with obvious reluctance.

Eliza nodded, hurt both by his insult and by the fact that she didn't understand why he had called her stupid.

Nepommuck cleared his throat. “It is two o'clock.”

“Oh my. It is almost time.” Lady Gresham picked up her skirt with one hand. “Please excuse us, Colonel, Miss Doolittle. And I hope to see you again, Major.”

Nepommuck shot all of them a surly glance before hurrying after her. “You can see now why I doubt whether the Maestro is of royal blood,” Eliza said.

Pickering shook his head. “My dear, there are boors in every social class.”

“That man seems especially boorish,” Redstone said. “The Colonel and I may have to find you another employer.”

“I can't complain about my salary, but I don't fancy being insulted.”

“Of course not. Verena ought to show that cad the door.” Pickering remained upset, which touched Eliza. Neither of them mentioned the fact that Higgins regularly hurled sly insults at her. Then again, he treated everyone with the same arrogant impatience. “Let me ask a servant to bring us a nice pot of Earl Grey, and perhaps a bit of pastry, too. I believe someone mentioned Charlotte Russe. I know you love sweets, Eliza.”