Celeste Bradley - [The Liar's Club 02]

by The Impostor

  As she carefully opened the door to step into the hall with him, Clara wouldn’t allow herself to think about the chance they were taking. The cause of damaging the cruel Mr. Wadsworth was reason enough. If Monty wanted to clean the man out completely, all the better.

  She wondered, however, why someone as honorable and kind as Monty would stoop to thievery. With his quaint gallantry and his mannerly behavior, he seemed rather more like some knight of old than a criminal.

  They entered the study and Clara again opened the street-side draperies.

  As she watched Monty swiftly return the contents of his pocket to the safe box, it occurred to her that an ordinary thief would no more take papers than he would firewood, for that was all the use the papers would be to an uneducated man.

  “Who are you, truly?” She kept her voice low, but it seemed to startle him all the same. Or perhaps it was the question itself.

  He hesitated for a moment, keeping his back to her as he finished returning the safe to rights. Then he turned, his smile rueful in the dim glow of the street lamps.

  “You’re thinkin’ that a thief’d be more like to take banknotes than papers?”

  She nodded, wishing she could see him—all the better for observing all the small signals of a lie in progress. Most people never noticed the little things that liars did, the flick of the gaze, the tiny frown that marked the forehead for the merest instant.

  However, she was an expert on faces. Bentley had never been able to keep the truth from her and she had caught the twins many times in their girlish fibs.

  Monty’s voice was clear, his gaze unshakable. “I’m only doin’ as I was told by the man what hired me,” he assured her. ‘This fellow don’t want alarm raised over somewhat missin’ from the safe box. He wants to read them papers, is all.”

  Clara narrowed her eyes. Helping Monty relieve Mr. Wadsworth of his ill-used wealth was one thing, but she had no intention of assisting a stranger in what might be dastardly doings.

  ‘This man, who is he?”

  Monty shrugged. “Just a fellow what works for them that’s suspicious of your master. You know. Bow Street sorts.”

  “You’re working for the law?”

  He seemed affronted. “O’ course I am!”

  Clara considered this. It fit well into her perception of Monty so far. Whoever had thought to assign him to this task was little short of brilliant, she had to admit. What could be better than to read Mr. Wadsworth’s nefarious plans from his own files? After all, that was what she was interested in as well.

  That and being alone with Monty.

  Still holding Dalton’s hand as they entered the attic a few moments later. Rose turned right instead of left to the window.

  “I want to show you somethin’,” she whispered. She released his hand. His fingers felt cold without her small warm ones within. In the dimness, he saw her kneel and remove something from behind a crate.

  “Come to the light so you can see,” she urged, as she carried her surprise to the open window. He followed, intrigued. What would Rose consider an important secret? Something she’d found in the house? He leaned closer to see, then drew back slightly in dismay.

  What she’d found was a cat carcass. It didn’t smell much yet but by the look of it, it wouldn’t be long. She’d bedded the thing carefully in a basket, tenderly placed on soft rags. The entire matter was somewhat awful.

  He didn’t want to hurt Rose’s feelings. “Was this your cat?”

  She laughed softly and stroked the animal’s side. He flinched. “Bah? Don’t touch it. It’ll still carry the sickness what killed it.”

  Turning her face up to him, she grinned. “‘Tisn’t dead at all, squeamish Monty. And if it were, I don’t think the master’s kick is catching.”

  He didn’t know how to break it to her. That was one singularly dead cat. “Wadsworth killed it?”

  “Monty. It. Isn’t. Dead.” She placed the basket on the ledge and reached for his hand.

  Dalton gritted his teeth and touched the cat. Its fur was matted and filthy, and he could see the creature’s ribs even in the forgiving moonlight, but he was still quite certain he was fondling a feline of a deceased nature.

  That is, until a low growl issued from beneath his hand and a lightning strike from a set of very lively claws drew blood. He snatched his hand away to bring the back of it to his lips. “Bloody rat-catching—”

  “Monty!” Rose batted him away. “To say such a thing about my marmalade darling.”

  Dalton restrained a sigh. Rose was a cat lover. Bloody hell. “Yes, it’s right lovely, rosebud. A fine animal.”

  She nodded, her attention still on the fur-covered hand assassin. “I know. She’s wonderful, isn’t she? But I can’t keep her, for B—the master would never allow it.” She turned a wistful gaze on him.

  He should have seen it coming. He should have seen that look in her eye and run for it. Instead, he found himself caught by the heavily lashed darkness of her eyes. What color were they? He’d yet to see her in anything but dim light. Would he even recognize her if he saw her in the day—

  “Would you take care of her for me? Just for a little bit?”

  He found himself nodding before he’d even realized precisely what she’d said. Then it hit him.

  Oh, hellfire. The Sergeant was going to kill him.

  The next day dawned quite chill and foul. Dalton hoped that Mrs. Simpson would send a note begging off their drive. Unfortunately, she seemed all the more eager when he arrived promptly at noon to take her out. Her footman accompanied them, clinging to the back of the low, open carriage.

  He’d chosen this carriage hoping that she would become uncomfortable enough to end their outing early. It went against his every inclination to purposely displease a lady, but the sooner he scraped off this particular clinging vine, the better.

  So he limited his conversation to monosyllables and shrugs and kept his horses to a slogging plod. If the weather wouldn’t discourage her, perhaps he could bore her to death.

  If he didn’t die from boredom himself first.

  She prattled. She giggled. She tossed her plumes this way and that until he sneezed repeatedly. She pointed out people that she didn’t know and begged him to introduce her. She waved vigorously to people she did know until even they looked askance at her behavior.

  Finally, the horse stopped of his own accord, his nose dragging sleepily near the ground. Dalton couldn’t blame him. If not for the Merry Widow’s screeching giggle, he’d be near sleep himself. Every time he began to nod off, she would peel the paint from their surroundings with her shrill laughter.

  The horse had stopped near the promenade that led through the trees and over the Serpentine. Perhaps a bit of exercise would enable him to keep his eyes open. “Shall we walk for a bit?”

  Mrs. Simpson bounced down with alacrity, brimming with energy. Her eyes were bright with enjoyment as they walked and her step was fight. Dalton examined her in the pearly daylight, realizing that he had never seen her in the sun.

  Of course, with all those cosmetics, he wasn’t truly seeing her still. She might even be an appealing female under all of that, but there was no way to know.

  She was certainly being a good sport about his lack of attention. Feeling guilty for his behavior, Dalton made a sincere attempt to be entertaining, only to find that it made no difference to her whatsoever.

  She was looking this way and that, at the sky and at the ground, making no pretense of listening to him at all. How discourteous. If he was forced by propriety to show false interest, then so should she be. “You seem distr—”

  “Where are the birds?”

  Damn, the silly twit was making him miss his noon meal for this nonsense? “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

  “They’re gone.” She finally met his gaze, her eyes wide. “The birds. Where did they go?”

  Dalton looked about them. By God, she was correct. Where just moments ago had clustered flocks o
f sparrows and pigeons there was nothing but crumbs and droppings on the grass.

  Oh, no. “Quickly, move off the path. There are too many carriages near.” He took her arm. “We must get to the footbridge.” He turned to call to her footman. “Get to the bridge, man! The fog is coming!”

  Mrs. Simpson gasped, then grabbed up her skirts and broke into a ran. Dalton had to grant that she knew how to move when it was required of her.

  The air was thickening even as they drew near the gateposts of the small bridge that crossed over the Serpentine. A stench of coal smoke and sewage fell upon them along with the damp cloak of thick brownish fog. Within seconds, Dalton could see nothing but the bridge planks beneath his feet and the pale face of Mrs. Simpson.

  “It’s like twilight at noon,” she marveled as she caught her breath. “I’ve never been outside in it before.”

  “Don’t be frightened. It’s only the ‘London particular’,” he explained. “That’s what the locals call it. It may pass quite soon.”

  She turned to look at him. “I know what the ‘London particular’ is, sir. I have lived here all my life.”

  “My apologies. So many people leave the city during the cooler months and never see this phenomenon. It’s unusual for it to strike at this time of year.”

  She put her hand on his arm. “Oh, do be quiet. I want to listen.”

  Surprised, Dalton eyed her through the growing murk. Gone was the fluttering admiration and the coy flirtation. Instead, she stood tall, clinging with one hand to the bridge railing with her eyes half-closed and a slight smile. A private smile of enjoyment—really only a tilt of the corners of her lips.

  In truth, her lips were rather fine when she wasn’t using them to speak nonsense. He wondered how they would look swollen and flushed after a long hard kiss …

  It was definitely time to find himself a lover.

  For Clara, the moment was rather thrilling. To be frozen in time in day-turned-to-night was very exciting. She only wished Sir Thoroughly Unbearable wasn’t with her. If only—

  If only Monty were here.

  Monty would see the adventure in this moment. He would feel the magic in the sudden muffling of the city’s frenzy, in the cloaking of the world—

  “Madam? Madam, where are you?” John’s cry came over the water from their right.

  Clara opened her eyes to find the impostor gazing at her soberly. Struck by his expression, it was a moment before she could tear her gaze away to search the dimness by the bank. “John? John, come no closer. You’ll fall into the water.”

  “Aye, madam. Are you well enough where you are?”

  “Yes, John. We’re fine.”

  “Get you to a tree, John,” called the fake. “It will shield you from a trampling.”

  Indeed, Clara could hear the sounds of panicked horses coming from various directions. “That was quick thinking, to head for the footbridge,” she admitted grudgingly.

  “Thank you.” His tone was dry. “You don’t seem quite as easily impressed as before.”

  Oh, drat. She’d forgotten she was supposed to be fawning over him. The very notion of laying one more flattering remark upon his lying head made her weak with exhaustion.

  “Don’t let’s speak just now,” she pleaded. “Let us simply listen to the fog.”

  He nodded, still gazing at her oddly. She turned toward the lake once more, but her thrill in the moment was gone. The way he studied her was alarming.

  Did he suspect? After all her work, had she ruined her pose of silly uselessness with one terse comment?

  Well, more than one, to tell the truth. Where was her self-control these days? The old Clara would never speak with such asperity. She was becoming as outspoken as her Rose persona.

  Abruptly, she wished she truly was Rose. Rose had the freedom to be a bit saucy. Rose had the nights in her attic. Rose had Monty.

  Monty Thief-in-the-night. The man would be horrified if he knew who she truly was. He would avoid her, fear her even, for she was part of the world that disdained men such as him. He would never believe that she didn’t give one whit about that world.

  She was in great danger, she knew it. Not from Sir Thoro-knave. Not from discovery. From herself.

  She wanted to take Monty as her lover. And why shouldn’t she take a lover? She was no maiden that she must save herself for marriage. She’d likely never have an opportunity to wed again, nor did she want to.

  Then again, if all she wanted was to take a lover, she could choose from any number of gentlemen. From what she could see, there was no shortage of men looking for bedmates.

  For a moment the thought of Monty in her bed made her breathless. His mouth … on her. His hands … on her. His lean body, his wide shoulders, his hot skin beneath her fingertips. …

  It was scandalous. It was shameful. It was, oh, so very tempting.

  “What are you thinking?” Monty’s voice was low and warm in her ear.

  “Mmm, you’d be surprised—”

  Monty? Clara’s eyes flew open to meet the searching silver gaze of Sir Thoro-snake close to hers. How odd, that she could mistake that, even in such an … unusual moment. Two more different men had never been born.

  She shook her head and took a step back, reducing him to a misty blur. “I’m s-sorry. What did you say?”

  “Don’t move away. The fog is growing thicker. I don’t want to lose you in it.”

  I do.

  He reached for her hand. Clara calmed herself firmly. She was being a goose. This was no time to be alone. Reluctantly she placed her fingers in his, only to be surprised by the strength of his grip. Somehow, she’d imagined him to have limp-fish fingers.

  He tugged slightly on her hand and she stepped closer. It truly was growing more difficult to see. For the first time she began to wonder how they were going to get home. “If the fog doesn’t lift …”

  “I should think as the afternoon warms it will pass. It is a cold-weather phenomenon. Today dawned colder than usual, that is all.”

  “Oh. You seem well informed on the subject.”

  “Yes, I can speak intelligently on many topics. Quite boggles the mind, does it not?”

  Was he joking? How odd. She’d never witnessed the slightest sign of a sense of humor in the man before. Well, she certainly couldn’t respond in kind. Hen-brained Clara had no humor in her at all.

  She decided to take him literally. “Oh, yes? I’ve never understood the weather, not one little bit. I mean to say, why does it rain? Wouldn’t it be so much more pleasant if the sun shone all the time? Except when I’m out without a bonnet, of course. Then a cloudy day would be much more appropriate, don’t you think?” There, that ought to dispel any suspicion of a brain in her possession.

  Dalton sighed. The Widow Simpleton was off again, traipsing down paths of illogic that only she could follow. Every time he thought he just might be attracted to her, she lit off on some inane burst of silliness.

  Well, at least she wasn’t laughing. Then he might very well be driven to push her directly off the bridge.

  The muffling effect of the fog had isolated them for many minutes now, masking the sounds of the city and the other park occupants until it seemed to Dalton that they stood alone in the world.

  Therefore, when the thud of a footstep sounded on the planks of the bridge, it seemed to vibrate right through him. Another thud followed the first. Mrs. Simpson started, as well, her fingers tightening on his.

  “J-John?” she called toward the sounds.

  “Aye,” came the grunted reply.

  Dalton relaxed. But Mrs. Simpson released his hand to grab his arm. She leaned close.

  “That is not John!” she whispered urgently.

  Dalton didn’t have time to do more than thrust her behind him before the men were upon them.

  Chapter Eleven

  “No!” Clara’s protest came too late. The idiot had thrust her behind him with such force that he’d pushed her past the visibility point. Or had that
been his intent? If she could not see him, then the strangers couldn’t see her.

  She heard the grunt and scuffle of a fight just beyond her vision. The bridge shook from an impact on the railing, then another. Curses and the thick sound of blows on flesh issued from the dimness, but she couldn’t hear Sir Thorogood’s voice among them at all.

  Then came a great splash, followed by the sound of running footsteps on the bridge. Someone very large ran past Clara, brushing against her in the swirling mist and spinning her quite around with the impact. Then the figure was gone and only silence remained.

  “Sir Thorogood?” Her voice sounded thin in the dimness, even to her. “Sir, please answer me.” Was he all right? Had he sacrificed himself to protect her?

  Well, wasn’t that just perfect. If the dratted man turned honorable at this late date, she was throwing up her hands at the whole confusing mess.

  She stood still for a moment, trying to get her bearings. Then she thought to kneel and feel at the planks beneath her feet. They ran perpendicular to the length of the footbridge. Therefore she should be able to follow them to—there!

  The post of the railing appeared just inches before her eyes. But was it the right-hand railing or the left? She tried to feel the faint arch of the bridge beneath her feet, but she was simply too disoriented to tell.

  Suddenly, a low groan came from behind her. She turned, then stopped. “Sir? Is that you?”

  Following the railing with one hand, she kept the other out before her and moved closer. She kept onward, feeling nothing there at all. Had she imagined the sound? Was she now quite alone on the bridge?

  “Mrs. Simpson, I’m sure those are very lovely shoes,” came a voice from the vicinity of her feet. “But would you mind removing them from my hand?”

  Clara stepped back quickly. “Oh, dear! Sorry!” She knelt where she had been standing and reached toward the voice. She found suit cloth beneath her hands and clutched it. The suit howled.

  “Unhand me, you tw—dear lady!”

  She jerked her hands back. “I’m sorry! Are you wounded there?”

  “I wasn’t,” he gasped.