by The Impostor
“It seems as if a year has gone by since I last saw you.” His voice came soft and deep from just behind her.
Ever the silent-footed thief. She closed her eyes on the silvery glow and leaned her head against the window frame.
“You have never seen me” she whispered. “And I have never seen you.”
“Are you sure of that?”
“Rose was a he. The merry Widow Simpson was a he. I am simply Clara, neither maid nor merry. In fact, I’ve been told that I verge on decidedly dull.”
That surprised a chuckle from him. “Oh, that I doubt.”
“My point exactly. You have no idea who I am.”
“You are Clara Tremont Simpson, the daughter of Albert Tremont. You were once married, quite briefly, to an undistinguished young soldier named Bentley Simpson. Your father lost the family’s fortune in a fraudulent investment scheme gone sour, losing much of the savings of his friends and neighbors in the course. He died poor and despised, with only you to look after him.”
To hear Papa so disparaged finally brought the nascent tears to her eyes. Angrily she wiped them away. “You didn’t know him, or you would never disrespect him so. He was as much victim as anyone in that investment.”
“He stole thousands of pounds from people who trusted him.”
Clara turned on him. “Then where did the money go? Was I draped in jewels and silks? Were marital offers pouring into my lap? That one undistinguished young man, despite your disdain, was the only man to ever look at me twice, the only one to ever want me! I married him because I doubted I would ever get another offer, and because after years of selling off our every possession one by one, my father couldn’t live with what he’d done to my future and took his own life.”
She felt the tears coming and looked away. “Does that sound as though we lived on ill-gotten gains? No, and I’ll tell you why not. My father had a silent partner, a man who said being associated with lowly commerce would stain his reputation. A man, Lord Etheridge, whom my father dared not expose when the money was lost, for fear that he would never be believed when his word was pitted against that of an earl!”
She spun away, too furious and heartsick to hold her tears back any longer. Swiftly, he moved before her, wrapping his large hands over her shoulders.
“Who was it? Tell me the earl’s name and I’ll see him brought to justice and your father’s honor cleared.”
For a moment all she could do was stare at him. Then she gave a bitter disbelieving laugh. “Why? What could it possibly matter now? Being known as the daughter of a thief is the least of my worries. Do not forget that I am also a nearly penniless widow of unremarkable aspect in danger of my life from a man who has just broken into my room in the middle of the night!”
She laughed again, the sound like the crack of glass. “Do you truly think that proving my long-dead father’s integrity is a priority at this moment?”
He did not release her. “You are in no danger from me.”
‘Then why are you here in the night? Why did you not call upon me downstairs in the morning, the way anyone else would have done?”
“I—” His hands slid from her shoulders, leaving them cold. He turned away with head down and his hands on his hips, breathing deeply. “I should have. Or I should have arrested you the moment I saw you.”
“Arrest me? I thought you were here to kill me.”
He spun back to face her. “Of course I’m not here to kill you. What do you think I am?”
She shook her head slowly, her eyes never leaving his. “I have absolutely no idea.”
“I am … well, I can’t tell what I am. But I was told to uncover Thorogood, and bring him—I mean, bring you before Lord Liverpool.”
“The Prime Minister?” Clara searched her memory furiously. “I never drew Lord Liverpool, I’m sure of it.”
“No, but you must have upset someone powerful, or I would not have been sent to find you. I am not an errand boy.”
He said that last as though it were a point of contention, but she had no interest in reassuring him. Her own concerns loomed somewhat larger.
She was wanted by Liverpool?
She knew a bit about the man, but only what everyone knew. He’d been appointed after the assassination of Spencer Perceval and was widely known to be conservative in his views, particularly on the subject of class distinction and protection of the divine right of aristocracy to squash anyone who stood in the way.
In short, he promoted everything that she was fighting against. And he ran the government of England.
“Oh, dear.” Blindly she reached for the spindly chair and sat. She’d most assuredly done it this time.
Dalton Montmorency stood before her. “You needn’t fear Liverpool. He is a very honorable man. Cold, but honorable.”
She shook her head. “And you think he will—what? Take me out for an ice and send me on my way? You’ve obviously gone to a great deal of trouble to find me. With that sort of manhunt, I should be surprised at anything less than a stay in the Tower.”
“It is not against the law to scorn the well-bred.”
“Oh, just listen to yourself! Well-bred! Which makes everyone else ill-bred, no matter their means or manners?”
“I didn’t mean—” His face was in the deep shadow now, but she could feel him glaring down at her. “I needn’t explain myself to you. I am here to escort you back to the city, where you will be turned over to the Prime Minister. Your safety is assured, so you have no reason—”
The attack came in an instant. A dark figure vaulted through the open window and flung itself at her. She had no time for anything but an intake of breath. However, Dalton reacted. She saw him fling himself bodily at the stranger, thrusting the two of them into the small writing desk. The spindly piece crashed to the floor, candles and all.
The room went black, all but for the patch of moonlight in which she sat. The straggle was brief and violent, from the sound of fists striking flesh and the final crunch of what she envisioned as something hard striking someone’s skull.
Oh-dear-lord-let-him-be-well. She could not be shocked at the strength of her prayer. For all the lies, it seemed there was something between them, something true. “D-Dalton?” Her whisper seemed a shout in the darkness. She heard a scrape and a weary sigh.
“I am truly tired of being jumped by shadows.”
Clara closed her eyes and sent a heartfelt thanks to the heavens. She heard the sound of something being dragged across the floor.
“Let’s see who this mystery man is, shall we?”
Dalton backed into the patch of moonlight, tugging at the arms of a limp figure. The man seemed very large to Clara, but perhaps it was merely the threatening state of his dark clothing and the rough hood with raggedly cut eyeholes.
“Is he dead?”
Dalton gave a last heave and dropped the fellow. He gazed down at the man. “I shouldn’t think so. I didn’t hit him nearly as hard as I wanted to.” He knelt and tugged at the hood. It came off, exposing a face with heavy features and a vicious scar that ran from brow to chin, passing like a trail over one undamaged eye.
Clara leaned closer, but she could quite comfortably vow she had never seen such a frightening visage in her life. However, Dalton passed one hand over his face and swore with a word she had only ever heard from Wadsworth’s cook.
“What’s wrong? Do you know him?”
“Yes. He works for me.”
“Oh! Then we were in no danger from him at all.”
“We were very much in danger. Kurt has only one skill other than cooking, and that is assassination. What’s more, I did not order him here. The assignment must have come from above me in the chain of command.”
He turned to retrieve one of the doused candles and lighted it with a coal from the grate. Then he moved swiftly about the room, gathering the few items that she had unpacked and shoving them into her bag. He took the belt from her dressing gown and used it to tie the hands of the large stran
ger.
Clara was a bit breathless at his efficiency. “Exactly how familiar are you with this sort of thing?”
He shot her a glance that told her nothing. “Come. We must leave this place. They’ll be after us within the hour when Kurt doesn’t return.”
“Us? I thought you said this man worked for you.”
“He did.” He turned to pin her with his silver gaze. “Tell me now that you are innocent of any plot against the Crown.”
Her eyes widened. “Plot? I draw pictures, my lord. I’m no spy.”
The corner of his mouth twitched. “I am.”
He hefted her bag and held out one hand. “Or I was. It seems I have just placed myself on the opposite side.”
Chapter Eighteen
During the long carriage ride back into the city, Dalton studied all the options open to them.
Someone had given Kurt the kill order. There were only six men who could give that command, and he himself was one of them. That left only the Royal Four and Liverpool.
He ruled out Liverpool purely on familiarity with the man’s methods. The Prime Minister would be ruthless enough to command an assassination if he felt the situation called for it. Dalton simply couldn’t conceive of what would motivate that command in this case.
Unfortunately, it was his duty to report the night’s activities to Liverpool. If only he could be sure…
No, it must be one of the Four. Unfortunately, Dalton only knew three of the men. One, Lord Barrowby, could be discounted completely, for the man was on his deathbed at his home in Derbyshire.
The other two he had known briefly while he had been one of their number earlier this year. Unfortunately when he’d stepped down to take over the Liar’s Club he’d been excluded from further confidences.
He imagined that the others had chosen someone to fill the seat of the Cobra that he had left behind, but he had no idea who it was. Liverpool had not yet seen fit to tell him, and he’d been too busy trying to bring the Liars to heel over the past few weeks to divine it on his own.
So, three possibilities. Three men with the knowledge and the power to order a Liar to kill.
He wished he could have been sure if Kurt had seen and identified him. If not, then he could still expect help from his men, such as they were. If only he’d had time to win them over completely before this came up …
“We are going back? Why?” Rose’s—Clara’s soft voice interrupted his thoughts. He turned his head to see her peering through the gap in the shades that covered the windows of the carriage. She released the shade and the interior of the vehicle returned to near darkness.
Only the occasional street lamp shone through the parchmentlike shades, along with the slight glow from the carriage’s own side lantern.
“Have you ever noticed that we are always in the dark together?” He kept his tone uninvolved. “In the attic, in the ‘London particular,’ in the Rochesters’ garden—”
“In the garden?”
He couldn’t see her face well, but her tone conveyed a wealth of consternation. “Ah… I forgot that you weren’t entirely yourself that night. My apologies. I was merely worried for your health, bound as you were in that corset.”
Something hit him and he clutched it in reflex. A glove, still warm from her hand. It appeared at least Rose’s fiery temperament was a fact.
“Do not try to charm me. Why would you want to? You’ve got everything you wanted.”
“Oh, yes,” he retorted dryly. “I’ve more than a dozen spies and assassins on my tail. I’m on the run with a woman who despises me and makes no show of hiding it. I’ve nowhere to turn but to Liverpool for help, and I’m not entirely sure that my godfather is not part of all this.”
“Your godfather?”
“Lord Liverpool.”
“The Prime Minister? You are that high in Society? And you toyed with a housemaid!” Her voice painted a picture in his mind of her face, dumbfounded and angry. Then he felt her boot connect firmly with his shin.
“No. Apparently I toyed with an underhanded widow.” Another kick to his shin and he’d had enough. He reached for her, gaining a few handfuls of something pleasantly soft in the process, until finally he had her wrapped tightly in his arms, facing away from him and nearly draped across his lap.
She struggled vainly for a while, cursing him until she ran out of breath.
He snorted dismissively, knowing it would drive her mad. “Very impressive. May I commend your grasp of foul words? Wherever did you learn them all?”
She twisted in his grasp one last time, then lay still against him. “Some from Gerald Braithwaite,” she admitted finally. “The rest from Wadsworth’s cook.”
“It’s really too bad that Kurt had to be left behind. He would have enjoyed that.”
She turned her face to the side, brushing his cheek with her silken hair. “Who are you, that an assassin works for you?” she asked softly. “That the Prime Minister is a relation? That you steal into people’s safe boxes, and take on false identities? You said you are a spy. Whom do you spy for and why?”
“I spy for England, of course.”
“Then why are you hunting me?” Real confusion filled her voice.
He shifted uncomfortably. She was warm and soft against him and he was having trouble concentrating with the scent of her coming warm from within his arms. The rose scent was gone, but the underlying note of woman remained. She smelled like home to him, like flowers and firelight and long lazy mornings in bed.
“Clara,” he whispered experimentally. It suited her.
“I didn’t he about my name, you know.” Her voice shook just the tiniest bit and he knew that being in his arms was affecting her, as well. “My name is Rose. Clara Rose.”
He closed his eyes and fought the desire to flip her onto the seat cushions opposite and go searching inside her for his Rose.
But Rose had never been his. None of it had been real except for the revelation of his own loneliness and need.
He returned her to her seat before she could break down any more of his defenses. He was far too deeply involved in this case. His first case with the Liars, and he was breaking every rule in the manual. Some spymaster he was.
Rubbing the back of his neck, he forced his mind to focus. “You must tell me everything from the beginning if we are to discover who it is that is after you. When did you begin drawing the cartoons?”
Clara hesitated. Dalton shook his head at her silence. “I already know about the other Rose. I have given her what help I could to remove her from Wadsworth’s. I know also that the Trapps had nothing to do with Sir Thorogood. I assure you that no reprisal shall fall upon them.”
She shifted in her seat for a moment, then sighed. “Very well, then. You know most of it. After Bentley’s death I went into the attic …”
Clara told him everything. When she was done, the relief she felt was immeasurable. She sat back into the deep cushions, spent and liberated. She had never before realized how heavy her secret life had become. “So what now?”
Dalton didn’t answer for a moment. He was glad of the dark, for he knew the relief he felt must show on his face. Her story had been simple, consistent, and ringing with truth. She was a mad, crusading tempest of a woman on a sure path to self-destruction, but she was no spy. Unfortunately, the Liars would not be convinced as easily as he had been.
“We need someplace to stay the night, and we need cash. The Liars are the best in the business, but I may know a few tricks they haven’t seen yet.” He’d never thought that his distance from the men would come to his advantage. Then again, if he’d ever truly gamed their loyalty, he might not be in this position in the first place.
“If Kurt recognized me, then the last place they’ll expect me to go is to a certain house in London. If he didn’t, then we may as well spend the night in comfort while I contact a few people that I know I can trust. We must find out who has ordered the kill and why. Someone wants Sir Thorogood dead. The latest at
tack was definitely aimed at you, so they know the real identity of Sir Thorogood now.”
She moved restlessly in the darkness, her action a rustle of fabric and a wafting of sweetened air from her person. The atmosphere in the carriage was becoming close. Or perhaps not close enough.
“I’m not sure I understand. How did they find me? How did you find me?”
“We’ve had someone stationed at the Sun for more than a week, waiting for the servant girl to drop off the cartoons.” He shook his head. “You were very clever. We followed you once, but in that plain garb we lost you in the city immediately.” Then he scowled. “You should never have taken such a chance. Do you have any idea what could happen to an unescorted lady in the city?”
“Lord Etheridge, do you send your servants on errands?”
“Of course.”
“Are they always escorted? Can you honestly say that you have never sent a young housemaid alone into the streets, even inadvertently?”
Dalton opened his mouth to protest but found he could not. Although he certainly would never knowingly do so, neither had he ever given direct orders that it not be done.
After waiting a moment for him to reply, she continued. “If a lady is not safe on the streets, then no one is, be she peddler or princess. How can you be so hypocritical?”
His grip on his temper faltered. “You are the most annoying woman I have ever met.”
She remained quiet for a moment as if stung. Then she said quietly, “I don’t know why I say such things to you. I never have before.”
What was the matter with him? He felt on the edge of combustion. He fought down his emotions. “Well, to your credit, you don’t appear to be spiteful. Simply impassioned for your cause.”
“Me?” The wondering tone in her voice almost made him smile, despite their predicament. “Impassioned? I’m not at all. I’m simply invisible Clara Simpson.”
That brought a bark of harsh laughter from Dalton. “Oh, my dear Mrs. Clara Rose Thorogood Simpson, you are anything but invisible. You are mad, reckless, and outrageous but never, never invisible.”
