Celeste Bradley - [The Liar's Club 03]

by The Charmer

  The carved designations to the tunnels made no sense to Collis, and he worried. “But they aren’t supposed to,” claimed George, “or just anyone could find their way into the palace! If you don’t know the code, you’ll just wander around down here until you die.”

  That was just what Collis was afraid of.

  Rose set an exhausting pace. “Louis knows we have the plans,” she insisted. “We need to get His Highness to safety and turn the Liars loose on Louis’s factory.” She’d taken Collis’s hand, his left one, for a moment and gazed into his eyes. “I don’t want those guns to reach our soldiers’ hands, do you?”

  So Collis followed. And he worried.

  Especially when he saw George’s “shortcut.” They were stopped at a gaping break in the tunnel, their toes hanging off a ledge that dropped to darkness. Collis heard water running—nay, rushing—below them. He gritted his teeth. “What. Is. This?”

  “The Tyburn,” George said airily.

  “There is no Tyburn any longer,” Rose pointed out.

  “Oh, it’s here. It’s merely been paved over, like the Fleet River turned to Fleet Street.” George leaned out to hold the lantern over the water. Rose made a protesting noise and Collis grabbed the royal coattails before the royal drowning took place.

  “See?” George held the lantern to one side. Collis and Rose could see large, heavy iron rings the size of dinner plates set horizontally into the stone, only a crescent remaining exposed like the rungs of a ladder. The whole thing reminded Collis of the bare ribs of some serpentine beast.

  “You hold on, and step on them,” George told them. “There’s a ledge that runs alongside the water. We can travel due south, right to the palace.” He sounded sublimely confident.

  Collis wasn’t so sure. “Why not stay in the tunnel?”

  George handed the lantern to him and swung out into the river tunnel, his chubby fists clinging to the rusting rings. “Can’t get there from here,” he chuckled, and began to grunt his way down the line of rings.

  They had no choice but to follow. “Can you manage?” Collis asked Rose.

  She nodded wearily. “Just don’t drop the bloomin’ light.”

  Collis obediently hooked the wire handle of the lantern to his waist. Then he moved it slightly to the right—away from the “Etheridge jewels” as Rose called it. Despite his worry, he grinned at the memory.

  At the bottom of the rings, there was indeed a ledge running alongside the water. It was raised not quite a foot above the waterline. George frowned. “I don’t remember the river being so high before.” He straightened his cuffs. “Oh, well, only a few more miles to go.” He took the lantern from Collis and took the lead.

  It may have been only a few miles, but to Rose it felt endless. She’d had only a few hours of sleep in the past few days, and her shoulder burned like fire. She wanted no more of tunnels and darkness. Especially dark, tunneling rivers. The ledge was no wider than a footpath, so she kept one hand trailing along the wall so she didn’t misstep. The water rushing past alongside her reminded her very forcefully that she’d never learned to swim.

  George, however, seemed to be having fun again. “I’m building a grand park just above us here,” he informed them, his voice raised over the constant rush of water. “It will be surrounded by the finest homes and have an ornamental lake fed by this very river.” He looked over his shoulder at Rose. “I haven’t named the lake yet. Any suggestions?”

  He wanted ideas from her? Now? “I—I’ll have to think on it,” she said faintly. That seemed to satisfy him and he trundled happily on. Princes were so odd!

  An hour later, the river was so loud that Rose began to wonder if she’d gone deaf, for she could hear nothing else—not their footfalls or her own breathing or heartbeat.

  Collis turned to say something to her, but she didn’t hear. At that moment, she realized that her feet were wet from more than spray. There was an inch of water coming over the ledge!

  Her horrified gaze shot up to meet Collis’s equally appalled one in the dimness. Rose lost his next words in the rumble that slowly grew, traveling right through them, vibrating teeth and inner ears.

  In front of Rose the Prince whirled to gaze back down the tunnel past them, his face slack with horror. “The rain!” His shout was a mere whisper. “The storm!”

  Flood. Rose picked up her skirts and ran without a word, Collis right behind her. The Prince ran ahead, kicking up his thick legs like a carriage horse. The lantern wobbled, creating confusion and shadows in their vision, but it didn’t matter. There was only one direction in which to run.

  The only question was…how far until the next ladder?

  The water, fed from a thousand streaming drains set into a hundred streets, rose so rapidly that it soon reached her ankles. Her skirts, sodden and heavy, wrapped around her legs under the water like some sort of subterranean beast, ready to pull her off the ledge and down into the depths for its tea.

  Ahead, the glowing blob that represented the Prince stopped. Rose would have screamed at him to keep going, had she the breath to so much as whisper. Why had he paused? Was he ill? Heart seizure came to mind instantly. Oh, bugger, we’ve killed the Prince!

  The answer came when she saw him rise from the water, his lantern drifting upward in jerking motions. Had he found a way up and out?

  “The ring ladder!” Collis shouted back to her. “We can make it!”

  He sounded so sure to Rose’s air-starved mind. Who was he trying to fool? She was going to die sometime in the next five steps. Yet somehow she was suddenly there, clinging to a rusting iron ring that led somewhere blessedly up.

  Collis clambered past her to take the lantern before George fell from his one-handed grip. With his bad arm hooked through a ring, he hoisted the Prince higher. Below him, Rose kicked her skirts aside to feel for the rings with her feet. The freezing water was past her knees, pulling at her heavy skirts like a winch.

  So cold. Her mind felt slow, like a stream choked by swiftly forming ice. She could hear little over the rush of the water, but Collis and the Prince seemed to be having a bit of trouble with the climb.

  The roar of the water suddenly swelled to nearly drown out her very thoughts. The current yanked her feet from beneath her and jerked her arms to full extension.

  She watched with horror as her numb fingers began to loosen their hold on the gritty iron ring. “Collis!” She knew she was screaming, but she couldn’t hear her own voice.

  Oh, God. Which hand would let go first, the left or the right?

  Ah, the left, of course. Always weaker, the left hand. Just like Collis, except that Collis’s left hand was stronger than both of hers, for all the damage. Collis’s left hand.

  Her panicked ricocheting thoughts suddenly recalled the previous day, when she’d pressed Collis’s hand to her breast. The left or the right? She watched her right hand’s grip begin to slip. The dirty rotter, she thought with hysteria. That had been his right hand after all. She called for him, over and over. Collis, Collis, Collis. Rose, Rose—

  “Rose!” Collis’s bellow sounded over even the rush of the water. She blinked at him. The lantern must be fixed somewhere above them, for light was shining on his dripping hair like a halo.

  “Rose, help me!” Collis was halfway in the water, hanging from the ladder with one hand fisted around a ring, muscles bulging beneath his wet shirt. His other arm was stretched out, his big hand clamped around her wrist.

  “Rose, I can’t hold you! Wrap your hands around my wrist!”

  Poor Collis. Her thoughts moved like cold jelly. It was true. His left hand wasn’t much good for holding. He dropped things all the time. He hated dropping things. So embarrassing. She understood that. She’d broken many a dish and vase during her days as a clumsy, nearsighted housemaid.

  He didn’t want to drop her. She saw her wet wrist emerging from his grip, one fragment of an inch at a time. Oh, no. He was going to be so upset.

  Poor Collis.
/>   Chapter Sixteen

  Collis was close to panic. He was losing her. Oh-dear-God-in-heaven, he was losing her! He’d tried pulling her to him, but his bloody hand couldn’t seem to hold and pull at the same time. He’d almost let go.

  He willed himself to tighten his grip, no matter if he broke her wrist, but he couldn’t feel her, couldn’t even see their hands in the rising water. She went under, her dark hair disappearing beneath the darker water. For one eternal fraction of a second, he couldn’t even be sure he still held her. But then the agonizing pull on his other stretched arm assured him that he did. She emerged from the water, bobbing up with a gasp he saw more than heard. He watched in horror as her wrist emerged still farther from his grip.

  “Rose, you have to help me! Help me, Rose!”

  She turned dull eyes to his, blinking sluggishly against the drops hitting her face. Her lips moved. Collis.

  “Rose, snap out of it, damn it!” Collis cried, his voice hoarse with fear. “Are you a hothouse flower, to give up after a little chill?”

  A spark lit her eyes for a moment at his taunt. Good. “Common as a weed, isn’t that the way of it?” He watched her struggle to draw her other hand against the current to grip his. It slipped away, circling his wrist like a delicate manacle, then falling away. He was losing her.

  “Come on, Thorny Rose!” he shouted. “What, can’t you handle a bit of water without a mop in your hands? Poor little Rose, has to struggle so hard,” he mocked viciously. Her hand rose again, creeping toward his. She faltered. He’d thought he couldn’t be more afraid, yet every moment drove him deeper into panic. “I’ll let the Liars know you gave up, Rose! I’ll tell Clara you quit on her!”

  Light flared in her eyes and he saw her hand wrap firmly around his wrist. He pulled again, and this time she came with him, closer, closer, until he could drag them both one rung higher on the ladder. Then another. Their feet free of the water at last, he crushed her to him with his aching right arm.

  She hung limply, so cold—and nearly unconscious by the look of her. He pressed his face into her icy neck for the duration of one broken breath. Safe.

  His precious, beloved Rose, by God, safe in his arms.

  Rose awoke in a nest of warmth and softness. Soft bed, soft, warm covers, coals glowing on the hearth before her. She blinked and rolled her head on the pillow. She was lying in a large chamber draped in absolutely miles of sapphire-colored satin and furnished in gleaming black wood. The sensuous combination made her think of both fornication and sloth. Given time, she could probably come up with a few more sins.

  What a singularly wicked room. Luxurious to the extreme, but wicked. Were those golden wrist cuffs hanging from the bedpost?

  “It looks like a whore’s boudoir,” she muttered to herself as she propped herself up on her elbows. Her head pounded.

  “It is. Mrs. Blythe’s Palace of Pleasure, to be exact.”

  Collis unfolded his long self from a purple upholstered chair by the fire. He was dressed in black trousers that made him look lean and dangerous, topped by a flowing shirt made of silk that draped over his broad shoulders and clung to his flat stomach. She didn’t know where he came by such clothing, but as her throat went dry, she abruptly decided that he shouldn’t be let out in public wearing it. He came to sit on the mattress beside her, as familiar as a lover. Rose shifted uneasily away.

  What could he mean by such an easy distance? She looked down to see that she herself was wearing a filmy nightdress that looked perfectly at home in this den of sin. Were those her nipples showing through? Hastily she sat up to grab the linens and hide what the gown failed to cover.

  A large warm hand came up to cradle her jaw gently for a moment, then her forehead.

  “No fever,” Collis said softly.

  His touch was so soothing. She wanted to lean into him, give herself up to his care…but this was Collis. She didn’t dare. She pulled her spine straight with effort, belatedly remembering to cover her front with the bed linens.

  One thing at a time. “Mrs. Blythe?”

  He allowed his hand to drop away slowly. Then he grinned. “Do you mean to say there is something about the Liars you don’t know? Our patroness, of sorts. Mrs. Blythe is the proud owner of this fine establishment, and has previously been of aid to the Liars. James and I came here once in pursuit of a missing prostitute.”

  Click. “Oh, yes. Fleur.”

  “Mrs. Blythe has since been useful to Dalton’s search for French recruiting agents.” He frowned at her worriedly.

  “You aren’t going to lose consciousness again, are you?”

  “Lose consciousness? Did I do that before?” She blinked at him. His gray eyes looked so…concerned? And close. Very, very close. “The only time you’ve ever been this close to me was when…”

  “When you were tossing my arse to the mat,” he reminded her softly.

  “Well, yes.” She drew in a breath, unable to look away from his eyes. “This is very odd.”

  He nodded slowly once. “And then earlier this evening.”

  She wet her dry lips with the tip of her tongue. “This evening?”

  “Yes. You needed bathing, you know. We both did.”

  The tub by the fire. White-hot horror seized her. “You bathed me?” Various humiliating and titillating images flashed across her mind. Oh, no.

  But she had undoubtedly been bathed. Oh, yes. Sorry you missed it?

  His eyes narrowed and his smile became very wicked. “What, you don’t think I could handle a flannel and soap and you, all at the same time?” He breathed a deeply satisfied sigh. “Good times, Briar Rose. Very good times.”

  She punched him hard, right in the pectoral. “I’ll kill you if you ever breathe a word—”

  He backed off and rubbed his chest with his good hand, his smile gone wry. “I didn’t bathe you, if it makes you feel any better. A couple of the ladies here did that. I was only called on to help put you in bed when they were done.” He smiled. “Still, a very nice time.” He leaned closer and sniffed. “Fresh Rose. A favorite perfume the world over.”

  She snorted and made another fist. He grinned at her, but there was something in his eyes…

  “The mission!”

  Collis shook his head. “I sent word to Denny. He’ll bring Lord Liverpool and some of the guard here. We can’t take the chance of George being seen out on the streets.” He smiled down at her. “And I, for one, do not want to see another tunnel for, oh, perhaps the rest of my life.”

  Rose relaxed slightly. But Collis still looked worried. About what? They’d made it free of Louis’s men, free of the tunnels—she and Collis and George.

  George. She sat up again in horror. “Oh, God. His Highness! There’s something wrong, isn’t there?”

  Collis put a gentle hand on her shoulders and pushed her back down. “He’s fine. He had his bath and his dinner and now he’s being entertained by Mrs. Blythe herself.”

  “Entertained?” The mental image of George in the throes of entertainment—no, best not to dwell there. “Ew.”

  Collis raised a brow. “They’ve been at it for hours. Still going strong at his age. One must admire his stamina.” He shrugged and leaned back to wrap his good arm around his raised knee. “Probably something in the air. This place is alive with Eros. I’ve heard no less than four orgasms in the last hour.” He waved his hand around the room. “One from each wall. Mrs. Blythe does excellent business here.”

  A knock came at the door. Collis rose to answer it. “Food!”

  He turned back to her with a tray. “I have tea and toast and ginger jam,” he said brightly.

  Rose wrapped herself in a blanket from the bed, feeling much recovered at the thought of food. She glanced askance at the tray and shook her head. “Spare me the aristocracy. All that money and no idea how to eat. Where’s the meat? The mash? Crikey, no beer?”

  He looked down at the ladylike fare arranged on the tray. It was the sort of thing his mother had always asked f
or when she was sick. “Damn, I wish I’d thought of beer.”

  She sighed. “Never mind.” She snapped up the toast and bit down on it with predatory accuracy.

  “Uh, Rose?”

  “Mmm?”

  The first piece of toast was gone. He handed her the second, mindful of his fingers. “Are you hungry?”

  She swallowed, then snorted. “I am not hungry. I am famished. What’s today?”

  “Thursday.”

  “Ah. Well, let me ask you—if you had hardly eaten since Monday, would you be happy with tea and toast and bloody rotten ginger jam?”

  He had eaten. He’d had a very fine meal in the bordello’s kitchen while Rose was recovering. “Meat it is.” He was nearly out the door when he turned back. “Do you fancy it cooked, or should I just drive the beast directly up the stairs?”

  He shut the door on the flying toast and her reluctant laughter.

  Rose stood in the center of the room after Collis left her, feeling strangely on edge. Her chill was gone, her strength was nearly returned—or it would be when she got a meal in her—and George was safe.

  What was wrong?

  Oh, dear. Collis. She sat down on the edge of the velvet chair by the fire, dropping her forehead onto her hands. Was Collis being kind to her now? The very concept turned her world a bit sideways. Her rivalry with Collis had become rather like a stone wall she had leaned on for months. Now that it was gone, what was she to think?

  Was she expected to become his friend?

  Impossible. You could never bear to be his friend.

  But why not? Because he was male? She was friends with the other male trainees, wasn’t she?

  Then was it because he was highborn? Yet she was friends with Lady Etheridge and Lady Raines, wasn’t she?

  Because you are in love with him?

  “Oh.” She pressed her palms to her suddenly burning cheeks. “Oh, that.”

  Oh, yes. Her great, consuming unrequited obsession with Collis Tremayne. Quite. Of course, she’d tried to hide it, even from herself. Had almost succeeded, too, until this mad adventure of theirs. She ought to be surprised, even stunned, by the realization, but she honestly couldn’t stoop to be so blind about herself. From the first flush of attraction, she’d eaten, slept, and breathed Collis and only Collis. His strength, his weaknesses, his every victory, his smallest defeat, all neatly cataloged in her memory, hoarded like a miser’s pennies.