Celeste Bradley - [The Liar's Club 0]

by The Spy

  “Will you vow to me at this moment that you have no motive here other than to stay hidden and safe?”

  She nodded quickly. Those really were her motives . . . mostly. “That’s all I ask for, I swear to you. And I can help Robbie learn, I know I can. It doesn’t make up for the lie, I know, but it’s all I can offer.”

  Button sighed. “I shouldn’t do this. Milady will be very angry if she finds out.”

  “Milady?”

  “My Lady Raines. My employer and Mr. Cunnington’s sister.”

  Phillipa nodded. “Ah, yes. Agatha. James told me.”

  Button shook his finger at her. “Don’t be so familiar, miss. It’s ‘Lady Raines’ from you until Milady says otherwise.” He looked frustrated. “Although she probably will,” he grumbled. “No respect for her own consequence, I tell you. Friend to the Prince Regent himself, but she’d get right down and shear the sheep herself if we let her.”

  Sheep? This day was becoming so strange. Phillipa rubbed at her eyes. “Do I want to know about the sheep?”

  “What’s to know? Silly beasts, no more wit than a bucket.” He stood, holding out a hand to bring her to her feet. A little thing, but it was rather charming to be treated like a lady for a brief moment. Then Button reached into his pocket and removed a numbered tape.

  “I fear I am about to take unspeakable liberties,” he said conversationally. “Hold out your arms and stand feet apart, if you please.” He then proceeded to measure parts of her that had never been measured before. They were both blushing by the time he was done, although Button’s flush lacked the sheer volcanic glow of Phillipa’s.

  “Goodness,” she said breathlessly when he stood. “That was embarrassing.”

  Button cleared his throat. “Quite. Still, better me than another.”

  He tucked his tape away and bowed over her hand. “I take my leave of you now, Miss Walters. Your dinner suit will be ready by tomorrow night for your evening out.” He turned to go, then spun about with a puckish grin. “One more thing, child.” He chuckled. “When you dance with young Miss Trapp—”

  “Yes?”

  “Pray, do not forget to lead.”

  Chapter Eleven

  James rapped on the ceiling of his carriage. When his driver flipped open the small speaking hatch, rain began to dribble in. “Take me home,” he ordered.

  There weren’t too many Liars of Atwater’s generation still living. Liars rarely did live long, by the nature of the business. Still, Atwater’s code-breaking crew of years gone by wouldn’t normally have faced too many personal dangers.

  The files gave a few names of code-breakers that might remember Atwater. Unfortunately, all the ones that James had been familiar with were dead. Some of them had been working right up until the recent attacks, but they were all gone now.

  Even Weatherby wasn’t likely to wake. The nurse that James had hired for his two ill friends had recently reported that Weatherby was declining.

  Most of the others had all died within weeks of each other by apparent accident, except for Upkirk. A fall, cleaning a pistol, sudden failure of the heart . . . Upkirk had been most obviously murdered, beaten and thrown into the Thames.

  Upkirk would have been the most useful as well. James recalled that Atwater and Upkirk had been close comrades of old. If anyone knew where Atwater’s daughter had ended up, it would have been Upkirk.

  Of course, Upkirk had died before Atwater had been separated from his daughter . . .

  But Atwater couldn’t have known that fact. Even the best communications took weeks under the current wartime conditions. As far as Atwater could have known, Upkirk was alive and well in his house on—

  James pounded his fist on the ceiling again. “I’ve changed my mind. We’re going to Cheapside High Street.”

  Upkirk’s house was shuttered and dark, but it wasn’t the one James was truly interested in anyway. He began with the house directly to the left of Upkirk’s. He ordered the driver to park several houses down, while he took a moment to change his persona. He slicked his hair back with a bit of water, changed his snowy linen cravat for a less distinguished striped one that he tied in a precise and unimaginative knot, and donned a pair of spectacles filled with plain glass that all the Liars were fond of using as an appearance distracter. That, along with a rather myopic blink, transformed him into a fussy, detail-mad clerk on an errand for his solicitor employer.

  “Pardon me, but I’m in need of information about a young lady who might have come seeking your neighbor, Mr. Upkirk.”

  There was no luck at the first house. The inhabitants were not disinclined to help, but truly had no recollection of a lady asking for Upkirk.

  The house on the other side bore more fruit.

  The lady of the house had spoken to her at length. “Oh, yes, I remember her perfectly.”

  James smiled a tight superior smirk. “Excellent.”

  The lady nodded emphatically. “Perhaps a fortnight ago . . . no, longer. A month. Perhaps two?”

  James’s smile became a bit fixed. Oh, no. Not one of those. Some people were simply not inclined to recall details. This was going to require some patience.

  An hour and two pots of tea later, James hadn’t managed to get much that was useful out of the lady although he had been treated to a long list of her ailments and contradictory political opinions.

  “Well, I believe her name was quite long. Yes, very long. Desdemona? Wilhelmina? No, it was Philomena, I’m positive. At least . . . I believe so . . .”

  Philomena could certainly be shortened to Fifi. In fact, anyone who didn’t shorten such an unpleasant name ought to be shot. Philomena Atwater.

  “Do you remember anything else about her? Do you know where she might have gone next or anything that might help me find her?”

  The lady drank another sip of bloody tea. James forced himself to breathe slowly and deeply. He lifted his cup to sip primly from the paper-thin china. He was beginning to get a stiff neck from his own starched posture.

  “Well, she did have very shabby clothing on. And so pale and thin. I don’t mean to speak ill, but the girl obviously didn’t have a farthing to her name.” The woman sniffed disapprovingly.

  And I’ll wager you spared her none of yours, thought James. He dipped his head in prudish agreement.

  “She seemed quite low after I told her about poor Mr. Upkirk. She seemed as though she had nowhere else to go. Really, she wasn’t good company at all.”

  The lady had yet to mention red hair. How could the mystery girl be Fifi Atwater if she didn’t have red hair?

  Finally, James came right out with it.

  “Did this young lady have bright coppery hair, or hair any shade of red?”

  The lady blinked at his abruptness. “Well, yes, of course she did. Didn’t I say that very thing?”

  James strangled his impatience. Then he shot it. Sadly, that did no good. It still writhed within him.

  “Ah, yes, my mistake. Thank you so much for all your help. No, not another drop, I really couldn’t. So pleasant to have our little chat, dear-me-look-at-the-time.”

  He made good his escape and stepped out into a misting rain. London weather. Neverending wet, making the cobbles slimy beneath one’s feet and the soot run down the exterior walls and fall in a rain of black droplets on one’s shoulders. Briefly James longed for the clean green hills of Lancashire.

  Until he remembered the harvest. Apples here, apples there, apples bloody everywhere . . .

  He hopped jauntily back into his carriage, suddenly well pleased with himself and life in general. He was young, alive, and in London, the greatest city upon the earth. So, apparently, was the pleasantly squirming armful that James was becoming more and more sure was Fifi Atwater.

  And he was right behind her.

  Phillipa combed back her cropped hair with the tortoiseshell comb with which Denny had grudgingly supplied her. Denny had been no help at all, having apparently decided that “Phillip’s” appearance
would not reflect directly on the household. The possessive butler had been impossible since the night she and Mr. Cunnington had worked on the primer. The suit that Button had sent over for her had been brushed and pressed to a fine point and her shoes, also on loan from Button, had been blackened and shined.

  Button had taken care to fit her waistcoat perfectly and had reinforced the front of it to lie flat upon her bound breasts. The shoulders of the coat had been subtly padded to give her some prominence, and the trousers were cut just a tad on the loose side to hide the curve of her bottom.

  She looked the very picture of a well-turned-out young fellow, if she did say so herself.

  Blast it.

  For a moment her shoulders slumped. How long would she be forced to keep up this façade? A month? A year? Forever? She had painted herself into quite the inescapable corner. If she revealed herself, her reputation would never recover. For that matter, if she revealed herself, there might be worse things in store than shame.

  No, she must maintain her identity until the danger from Napoleon was past. Despite the French retreat back over the Pyrenees, he was still a power on the Continent, and she was still a target. And how was she to reach Papa, when he had surely been taken along with the French Emperor to Paris? She refused to consider that Papa was not a living captive. He was alive, no doubt as worried about her as she was about him.

  That reminded her to check Papa’s bag. She’d pulled out the lowest drawer of her small bureau and had carefully hidden the small soft satchel within. The papers and book inside took up very little room and the drawer only required a little extra push to seat itself in place. Still, to be safe, she didn’t use it, keeping her few things in the upper drawers instead.

  It was safe and untouched. Denny didn’t seem inclined to interfere too much with her bedchamber, a small insult that she accepted gratefully. For luck, she traced the symbol on the cover. The Greek letter Phi.

  Papa had called her that in affectionate moments. Her vision went to mist. A tap came on her door, quick and hurried and rather low on the carved wood. She swiped at her eyes, then replaced the drawer smoothly and straightened. “Come in, Robbie.”

  The door opened slightly and Robbie’s blue eyes peered through the crack. “All dressed?”

  “Yes, sir.” Phillipa smiled and gave a girlish spin, as if her skirts were floating out and her hair was tossing. “How do I look?”

  Robbie’s eyes widened in alarm and he glanced worriedly over his shoulder. Then he stepped hurriedly into the room and closed the door behind him. “Don’t do that!”

  He was truly upset. Phillipa frowned at him. “Robbie, I know why I don’t want to get caught, but why don’t you want me to get caught?”

  Robbie looked away and fidgeted, digging one toe into the carpet. “Dunno.”

  Phillipa knelt in front of the boy and tipped his chin up with one finger. To her surprise, he didn’t flinch the way he usually did when touched.

  “Rob? Can it be that you’re a little fond of me?”

  He growled something and rolled his eyes, but the quick flicker of his blue gaze told her the truth. She settled back on her heels regardless of the crease in her trousers. “Well, I don’t have any manly pride to preserve, so I’ll tell you. I’m very fond of you too. More than fond. If I have any family in this world, then you would be in it, if you wanted to be.”

  “You could be, if you was to shackle up with James.”

  Phillipa blinked and withdrew slightly. “Shackle up? Do you mean marry him?”

  “You could do it. I bet you don’t look half-bad in a dress, even with your hair all ruined.”

  “Thank you,” she responded automatically, her voice faint. Marry James? What fantasies had Robbie manufactured in that sly little head of his?

  “I about gave up on havin’ a mum, till you came along. But I decided you’ll do.” He tilted his head to look at her speculatively. “You’re passing old, but I might even get a brother out o’ the deal.”

  Phillipa forced her mind from its shock. “Robbie, I can’t—I don’t know how to explain this to you. I am not going to marry Mr. Cunnington. He is most certainly not going to marry me! For pity’s sake, he thinks I’m a man!”

  “But he likes you. And you already live here. If you asked him, he’d likely let you marry him.”

  Phillipa closed her eyes. How to get this across to a child who clearly had no idea how the adult system worked? “Robbie, when a woman wants to marry a man, she does not ask him. She must wait for him to ask her. But I don’t want Mr. Cunnington to ask me.”

  Robbie blinked at her. “Are you one of those ladies what don’t like men? Is that why you wear the trousers, then?”

  Goodness, how could Robbie know about a concept that she herself was less than fully aware of? Of course, she’d heard of such ladies, and in some societies, they lived openly, albeit quietly . . .

  She shook her head. Robbie was spinning her about again. “I’m sure I’m not one of those ladies, Robbie. I might marry someday, for I am not in fact all that terribly old. But Mr. Cunnington is far too—” Mysterious. Delicious. Unattainable. “He is far too important to be interested in someone like me,” she said firmly. “Nor am I interested in him.”

  Liar.

  Robbie seemed less than convinced, but he shrugged. “If you say so.” He turned to leave. Then he turned back. “When you’re dancin’ with Miss Trapp—”

  “I know, I know. Don’t forget to lead.”

  He grinned as he left her room. For a moment she could see the handsome man he would someday be shining behind his pointed little features. Mr. Robert Cunnington, master of the vast Appleby estate . . .

  It quite boggled the mind. Although she doubted he would ever be able to completely quell his climbing ambitions.

  “Little snot will likely be one of those moneyed dilettantes who climbs mountains with a packtrain and porters,” she muttered. She smiled at the thought, but her smile faded as she recalled Robbie’s assumptions. Actually, it was not Robbie’s idea that disturbed her as much as it had been the way her heart had leapt at the concept.

  Of course, she had no intention of marrying Mr. Cunnington. She wasn’t at all in love, and she’d sworn she’d never marry without love. Her parents’ passion for each other had shown her how a true marriage of the spirit could be, and she’d settle for nothing less for herself. She had no such tender feelings for James Cunnington.

  Yet he was entirely male. The broad size of him triggered a female animal response in her that no pale ascetic young man ever had. It was as though when she was in the circle of the heat radiating from his wide, hard body, she could only feel, hear, and see him, no other.

  A spell. That’s what it was. When he was in the room, she fell under his spell. That was a very satisfying answer to her confusion except for one thing.

  She didn’t believe in magic.

  • • •

  In his room, James tugged at his cravat. Denny slapped his hand away and straightened it.

  “You’d look a proper sight, goin’ out with your cravat all sideways,” Denny muttered. “Won’t let me press it again neither. You’d go out in your drawers, you would. I’ve a standin’ to maintain, sir!”

  James laughed. “You’ve spent too much time with Button, Denny. If you want to be a top-drawer valet, I’m afraid you’re in the wrong household.”

  A tap came at the bedchamber door. It was Phillip, looking dapper in his new clothes. “Flip! Quickly, get Denny off me. I’m nigh unto suffocating from his attentions!”

  Phillip didn’t smile at James’s teasing, although the sally did turn Denny’s attention away at last.

  “Mr. Walters!” Denny walked once around the young tutor, nodding grudgingly. “I see you’ve not that sorry ’abit o’ runnin’ your hand through your ’air. And you’ve pressed that shirt to a fine edge, you ’ave.”

  Denny took Phillip by the shoulders and marched him to stand before James. “There, sir. That’s wha
t a true gentleman looks like.”

  Phillip choked at that and turned an appalling shade of red. James shook his head. “He may look fine, Denny, but the poor fellow can’t breathe with his cravat up to his ears like that.”

  Phillip stepped slightly away from Denny’s improving hands. “It’s the clothes, I fear. Anyone would look—er, manly after being in Button’s hands.”

  “Humph.” Denny fussed with James’s cravat once more. “Button, Button, Button. You’d think he was the only valet in the entire cl—”

  “Denny!” James cut in. “Ah, would you mind keeping an eye on Robbie tonight? Agatha was going to take him but she’s been feeling a bit low lately.”

  “Milady? Oh, dear.” Denny looked sincerely worried. “Oh, not Milady!” Denny breathed in his usual pessimistic fashion. “It’ll be the influenza for sure. Has she called for the physician yet? Not that it’ll do any good—”

  Denny made for the hall, spinning woe as he went.

  Phillip turned to watch him go, then turned back. “Perhaps we ought not to go tonight, if your sister is so very ill.”

  James grinned. “Nice try. Fortunately for your social calendar, my sister is quite well. Or at least I expect she will be, in about eight months’ time.”

  Phillip’s eyes widened. “Is she—?”

  James nodded as he turned to look at himself critically in the glass. “So says Sarah Cook, according to the butler Pearson, and confirmed by Button.”

  “Oh, dear. How . . . forthcoming of Milady.”

  There was an odd expression in Phillip’s eyes, almost . . . envy? “What’s to do, Flip? Hankering after a little wedded bliss of your own?”

  Phillip actually jumped. “What?”

  “Well, if you’re serious about settling down, it’s fortunate we’re escorting the Trapp girls. Never have I seen two young ladies more determined to step into the traces in my life.”

  Phillip flinched and James grinned at the horrified expression on his face.

  “I d-don’t want to step into anything.”

  James laughed out loud. “Then don’t walk behind the horses, man.”