Celeste Bradley - [The Liar's Club 02]

by The Impostor

  There was no telling what interesting bit of information might be dropped in her presence. Now you see me—now you don’t.

  When an odd hush becalmed one portion of the room, she noticed long before her companions. Yet even they broke off their chatter when the wave of silence swamped the room and made their own voices suddenly loud.

  On the heels of the silence, the whispers began. Like the child’s game of Tattle, where what is told in the beginning means something entirely other by the end. Clara smiled at the irreverent thought, but to be truthful she was as curious about the cause of the disturbance as the others.

  Then the wave of whispered information reached the rear of the room. Ladies bent heads and tittered appreciatively all around her, while gentlemen huffed and pretended not to be craning their necks at the newest arrival.

  “Who is it? Who has come in?” bellowed the lady on Clara’s left. Clara winced, but listened for an answer as intently as did her seatmate.

  “It’s him!” gushed a woman from the edge of the crowd. “He’s actually here! Sir Thorogood!”

  It can’t be.

  Outrage swept Clara in a heated rush. Her invisibility evaporated. When several of those nearby turned questioning gazes to her, she realized that she was standing and that the protest had come aloud from her lips.

  Flustered, she stammered something to remove the gaze of all those curious eyes. “I mean to say, how—how unusual! I’ve never heard of … Sir Thorogood attending social events before.”

  “Well, I think it’s marvelous,” prattled one of Clara’s seatmates. “We haven’t had a new face around here for simply ages! And with so clever a man as he, I daresay we’ll be mightily entertained now. Why, I have collected all of his cartoons! Original clippings, mind you, with not a tracing among them.”

  Clara wasn’t listening. She was already deep into the crowd, slipping in and around until she stood on the foremost fringe, not ten feet from “Sir Thorogood” himself.

  He was very tall. How loathsome. Clara despised men who loomed over her and treated her as though she were both twelve years old and not very bright.

  Not to mention the fact that he was very handsome, in an overdone, foppish way. Despicable. Thick dark hair—it was much too long. And those eyes—unnatural, to have eyes so silvery. Eyes like that would go a long way toward convincing others of his depth and sincerity.

  What a peacock! The fact that he didn’t look nearly as ridiculous as he should have only frustrated her more. There was no hiding those shoulders, or that flat stomach, or the intriguing cut of his silly pantaloons. …

  But of course, he was a scoundrel. The only thing worse than a tall, handsome man was a tall, handsome man who was not telling the truth. And he was most certainly not.

  Liar, thought Clara wildly, though she was careful to keep her face expressionless.

  Liar and thief and—

  She caught herself just before striding forward to denounce the rogue. Why was he here, using that name? What could possibly be his purpose?

  He must have desired to bask in the attention of novelty-starved society—to manipulate the mystery that had long shrouded Sir Thorogood, the source of the scathing cartoons that society loved so well.

  She must think. She could not publicly denounce him or she would lose her own anonymity. She would lose the work that had come to mean so much to her. She must expose him in another way. She needed to get closer to this stranger, close enough to trick him into revealing his lies.

  She edged up to the fringe of the crowd of women now surrounding him like pigeons to a handful of seed.

  A few escorts were being pressed into service to make any number of introductions.

  In a moment Clara was lost in the rustle of fabrics and the miasma of mingled perfumes. To either side of her, ladies pressed ardently forward, dying to get the attention of the tall stranger. When one of the ladies looked Clara’s way, there was a moment of surprise, followed by a feline assessment and subsequent dismissal of her charms.

  A silken elbow caught Clara in the ribs. She edged away, only to have her toe stomped by a high-heeled shoe. She could get no farther in the swarm of women. Her practiced unobtrusiveness worked against her now.

  She went unnoticed among ladies in costly gowns and elaborate hairstyles, all calculated to minimize brains and maximize bosoms. Clara stepped back, and the space she left was immediately filled by another spectacular lady. Over the plumed heads that surrounded the stranger, Clara could see the cunning knave smile winningly at the brightest plumage and the finest bosoms, while the rest hung desperately on the outer fringe.

  How could she get closer? She had reason enough to seek some answers, for this man could ruin everything she had accomplished so far. How could she wrest his attention from the cream of London’s beauties?

  How, unless she was one of them—

  Well, if that was what caught his eye, then that’s precisely what she would use. She had a bosom and a pair of lashes after all. What she needed was some help in using them well.

  Abruptly, Clara felt better. It was truly quite ingenious of her. If they were dazzling, she would be more so. If they were silly, she would be the silliest of them all.

  After all, who could possibly suspect a dazzling, silly woman of being anything but useless and ornamental? Truly, it was a much superior disguise than that of invisible bluestocking. Why had she never thought of this before? She mustn’t let the world think her at all serious-minded. Indeed, she must seem the very opposite.

  With determined strides, Clara set off to find Beatrice. She had an impostor to unveil.

  Dalton moved through the sea of ladies who crowded about him, his eyes on the gentlemen. Somewhere, in some drawing room or ballroom this night, there stood the man who was Sir Thorogood. Dalton was determined to rub his own obnoxious presence into the faces of every man in Society until he found the fellow.

  He approached a knot of gentlemen who parted for him with curiosity. Well, most of them anyway. One of them sent him a venomous look and stormed away without a word.

  “I say, I hope that fellow isn’t ill,” Dalton said smoothly in Thorogood’s fruity tones. “One does so dislike catching something from attending a simple ball.”

  The men looked at each other. The youngest, a tall bloke barely out of school, cleared his throat. “I should think you would recognize Lord Mosely, Sir Thorogood. It was your drawing that cost him his position on the board of the orphanage.”

  Bloody hell. Dalton had looked over the drawings but not well enough, apparently. He covered his slip with a lofty wave of his hand. “I portray my cartoons as the muse directs me. I can scarcely remember every blackguard my art uncovers.”

  One of the others nodded. “You’ve done the lot, that’strue. From Mosely to Wadsworth, and everyone in between.”

  The youngest man was obviously burning with curiosity. “Wadsworth?”

  The others looked at him. “Wife left him over the cartoon,” one of them explained.

  The young man only seemed more interested. He looked at his companions, who were decidedly more restrained, then back to Dalton. “Can you tell me how … I mean to say, where … where do you get your information? It must be rather difficult to learn everyone’s secrets. After all, they are secrets.”

  Dalton allowed a slow, slightly evil smile to cross his face. He leaned forward, and despite their aloofness, the others leaned toward him. “Nothing,” he said with dark intention. “Nothing is secret from Sir Thorogood.”

  A number of the group swallowed in unison. Dalton only smiled and took note of their faces in order to check them out at his leisure. He had no interest in their whoring and gaming, but one never knew where one would uncover treason.

  Then the ladies descended once more. “Oh, Sir Thorogood!” they caroled and fluttered about him like butterflies without the sense to get out of the rain. The gentlemen scattered under such a feminine barrage and Dalton cursed to himself. He’d not accounte
d for Sir Thorogood’s magnetism with the ladies.

  How could he have, when women had treated him like a rather frightening menagerie lion for most of his life? He’d sometimes wondered how to bridge that distance, but now he was beginning to miss that intimidated awe with all his heart.

  Put a pair of high heels on a fellow and just look what he was reduced to.

  With one hand, Clara dragged Beatrice into the ladies’ retiring room. The rose-and-cream-furnished room was supplied with several wall mirrors that only served to multiply the many ladies within to dizzying numbers.

  Bea put a hand to her hair to protect her array of ostrich plumes as she ducked through the doorway. “What are you on about, Clara?”

  Clara didn’t bother to answer. Instead she towed Bea through the crowded room to a free corner.

  “I need to look different,” she whispered urgently to Bea. “I need to look like them.” She gestured toward the other ladies. “Only better.”

  A smug gleam lit Beatrice’s eyes. “I knew it. I knew you’d regret not coming out of mourning sooner. It’s that Thorogood fellow, isn’t it? He’s a handsome one, I’ll grant you that.”

  Clara waved off the question. “Help me, Bea.” Bea looked her up and down. “Well, we can visit Madame Hortensia tomorrow morning and order some things, though I’m sure it will take weeks at this time of year—”

  “No, Bea. Now.”

  Beatrice blinked. “Now? You want to impress a man in that dress, with that hair, and your face unpowdered—”

  It was time to bring out the big cannon. Clara half turned away, letting her shoulders sag. “If you don’t think you can, I suppose I could ask Cora Teagarden—”

  “That goose? Are you mad? She doesn’t have the fashion sense of a flea! You’d look a sight worse—” Sputtering in indignation, Beatrice grabbed Clara’s arm and dragged her to a mirror.

  Standing behind her, Bea examined Clara in the glass with alarming intensity. “The gown’s well enough, if we lose the lace. Heavens, girl, why bother with a corset at all if you’re not going to lace it nice and tight? Pull the shoulders down—no, lower … hmm …”

  She turned to gesture at a waiting chambermaid, assigned to help ladies who wished to unlace and freshen up a bit. “You there! Fetch some rice powder and kohl. And some pins!” she called after the retreating maid.

  Turning back to Clara, Beatrice smiled with fierce glee. “I’ve been dying to get my hands on you for years.”

  Clara swallowed. Oh, dear holy drat. What had she gotten herself into now?

  Chapter Two

  Dalton’s feet hurt and his jaw ached from smiling, and he wanted nothing more than to burn his shoes and relax with a snifter of brandy and a fire, yet he forced himself to smile insincerely at yet another fawning female. “I’m entirely shocked, my lady. How could one so lovely as yourself ever doubt …” Blah, blah, blah. He could hardly keep track of all the moronic things he’d said this evening.

  He felt an abrupt desire to go shooting. Or perhaps go a round in the boxing ring—anything reassuringly masculine. Preferably something exhausting and dirty that involved not an inch of lace.

  Time to leave this conversation and move on to another, anyway. Preferably in a card room or smoking room. Sir Thorogood must be somewhere among the elite, for no one on the outside could ever know so much about the scandals and goings-on among the members of the ton.

  Enough. He made a pretty excuse to the lady currently monopolizing his attention and moved away before she could capture it once again.

  He turned, only to nearly trip on another. Catching himself quickly from trodding upon the gown of yet one more overdressed female, he quickly reached for a gloved elbow to support her.

  The faint scent of flowers came to him, reminding him more of soap than of perfume and sending tiny jolts of alertness to his male instincts. Startled, he removed his supporting hand and stepped back, making an apologetic bow as he did so. “Please pardon my clumsiness, dear creature. Might I beg an introduction?”

  “On your knees would be perfectly acceptable.”

  Dalton looked up quickly. He couldn’t have heard those crisp acid words in truth, could he?

  But the lady before him was as overdone and silly as any in the room. Sillier, in fact, for her hair was piled high upon her head in a tumbled style and sported three ostrich plumes that topped even his own height.

  She was probably attractive enough, if one could see past the heavily applied powder and rouge. At least there didn’t seem to be any obvious deformities. But her gown, dear God, the silly things ladies got up to!

  She’d pulled the small cap sleeves down to her elbows, trapping her own arms to her sides, and her breasts were thrust up nearly beneath her chin by a corset surely too tight to allow natural breathing. Since he was obviously meant to notice those breasts, he took a moment from his busy evening to appreciate them.

  After all, he was only working. He was not dead.

  Very pretty, considering the rest of her. Smooth and creamy, with just the right amount of plumpness. Not so much as to ruin the cut of an elegant gown, not so little as to disappoint a fellow. Dalton suppressed another round of glimpses. He was only looking, not buying.

  Finished with his appraisal, he looked up into the woman’s eyes. She stood with her head tilted, batting her overly kohled eyes at him slowly. No, not a sharp tack, this one. More like a dull pin.

  “I am Mrs. Bentley Simpson, sir. I don’t think we really need an introduction now, do you? After all, you’re the famous Sir Thorogood, so there, you see?”

  He didn’t see at all, but rallying to his cause, he bent deeply over the silly twit’s hand. “It is my pleasure, Mrs. Simpson. Might I add that Mr. Simpson is undoubtedly the luckiest man in this room tonight?”

  He was answered by a decidedly unladylike snort. Was that sarcasm? Still bent, he looked up in doubt, only to see the brainless creature tilting her head so far to the right to meet his eyes that she appeared about to fall right over.

  Dalton straightened quickly, and Mrs. Simpson bobbed right up with him. One of her plumes had come unfixed, and now bent gracefully forward to dangle before his nose.

  Backing away while retaining his smile, Dalton gave the thing a surreptitious bat. The lady only smiled and stepped closer, bringing the damned feather to tickle his cheek and ear.

  “I know how you can make it up to me,” Mrs. Simpson said with a gleeful clapping of hands. “You can draw me a picture!”

  Good lord, was she twelve? Glancing down at those admittedly mature breasts again, Dalton had to say no to that. But her girlish squeal had brought the attention of several other ladies nearby, and soon he was once again surrounded by trilling ninnies galore.

  All clamoring for him to demonstrate a talent which he did not possess.

  And at the center of it all, eyes alight, stood the silliest female of them all, Mrs. Bentley Simpson.

  Oh, he was a smooth one. Even as Clara urged the other ladies to plead for drawings, she had to admit that the impostor was a very good liar.

  With charming smiles and pretty words, he begged off from displaying his talents here at the ball, when they had all come to hear the music and dance with fine young men. Not for him was it to steal their attention, he said.

  That was rich. Clara almost kicked him in the shin on the spot. Stealing attention was precisely what he was up to.

  For the first time, she was forced to admit to herself that she had enjoyed the public’s response to her work. Although her original purpose had truly been to stop injustice, over the last months she had begun to cherish Sir Thorogood’s popularity like a secret jewel.

  She didn’t like knowing that she was less than entirely altruistic in her purpose. She didn’t like it one little bit. One more reason to hate the outrageous poseur for pointing it out. Scarcely able to hide her sneer, Clara stood among the teeming ladies and added her pleas to the clamor.

  One drawing was all it would take to exp
ose him. Her talent might not be much more than a parlor trick, but it was a parlor trick that she was very good at.

  And it was something that not everyone could do. Caricature was not a straightforward representation of a person. It was an exaggeration of a few key features, and a minimization of all others. To know what to draw was the difficult skill.

  The press of ladies behind her thrust Clara even closer to the fiend in question, and a whiff of his scent came to her. She wanted to hate it, to claim to herself that he smelled of pungent cologne and lies, but he smelled rather nicely of sandalwood soap and clean, healthy male. She liked it very much. Very annoying.

  Was there no end to his perfidy? Even his scent was a lie!

  Her anger seemed to be choking her. Clara tried to shake off a sudden spell of dizziness, but it only worsened. Perhaps it was her corset that wasn’t allowing her to breathe. Bea had pulled the dratted laces much too tight.

  Clara tried to take deep even breaths to stem the dizziness and it seemed to help for a moment. She turned her attention back to the crowd around the impostor but found that something else had captured the man’s attention.

  Over the shoulders of the ladies, Dalton saw a man enter the ballroom. He was a lean older fellow, not very tall, but the guests seem to part before him like a well-trained sea.

  The Prime Minister of England.

  Dalton knew his godfather rarely made appearances at anything but royal events. Apparently, he was about to find himself in some trouble.

  After greeting a few of the more important men in the room. Lord Liverpool raised his gaze directly to Dalton’s. Liverpool seemed anything but surprised to see him there.

  Oh, yes, trouble indeed. When Liverpool’s gaze flicked to a nearby set of terrace doors and back, Dalton gave a tiny nod.

  With sugary platitudes he excused himself from the company of his fawning admirers. He’d thought the clinging Mrs. Simpson would put up more of a struggle, but she seemed a bit distracted and pale. Dalton made his escape and strolled leisurely to the terrace doors.