Celeste Bradley - [The Liar's Club 05]

by The Rogue

  Jane shook off those thoughts as well. A sheltered young heiress ought not to bother herself with such things, much less brood over them. Instead, she ought to be playing silly girlish games. She took a deep breath and shut off darker memories, turning a tolerant smile upon her cousins’ antics.

  They were all intent upon their game. The pity of it was, this game of marriage was a deadly serious one for them.

  The girls were not likely to marry at all in this war-depleted Marriage Mart. The shortage of eligible young men had made the infighting fierce and the Maywell Mob were not highly ranked by the bachelors available.

  Lady Maywell, in her infinite wisdom, had decided to launch all five girls at once. “Best to bait all the traps straightaway,” she’d reasoned. “All the more likely that at least one of them will marry.”

  The fact that they all five sported the Maywell nose was only part of the problem. Jane herself was more likely to be called “handsome” or “elegant” than “beautiful,” although that was perhaps due more to her wardrobe than anything.

  The Maywell Mob, on the other hand, was near to breaking his lordship by requiring gowns, such as they were, and entertainment to entice eligible men. There wasn’t much left with which to bestow dowries.

  In contrast, Jane’s wardrobe alone could provide for several daughters. She wore only the finest gowns, fitted to perfection, with everything a woman needed to ride in high style into this do-or-die-unwed battlefield.

  All a sham, of course, but for Jane a reminder of a life long ago. All the years of stringent survival seemed to have leached all excitement from grosgrain ribbon and batiste pantalets.

  The giggles rose in volume and velocity. Jane winced. From Augusta right down to Serena, the cousins didn’t share an ounce of sense between them.

  Still, they were dear girls, who had welcomed their estranged cousin cheerfully. By all rights, they ought to have envied her trunks full of lovely things. The sisters were forced to trim and retrim the same gowns, passing them from sister to sister in hopes they’d not be so easily recognized.

  A veritable shell game of fashion misdirection.

  Yet despite their own lack, they had gasped and admired without reservation when Jane had unpacked, with not the slightest hint of resentment.

  Now, the game went on around her, reaching such levels of giggles and squeals that Jane decided to sleep elsewhere. Rolling over, she tried to crawl off the bed between Serena and Bedelia, who ranked fourth—or was it third?

  Bedelia gasped. “Oh, Jane, look what you’ve done, you silly creature!”

  Jane blinked. That was a bit of kettle-blacking, if one were to ask her. Then she looked down to see one of the sketches crumpled under her elbow. Rising, she put the paper over her knee and tried to smooth it out.

  The sketches were Serena’s and were really rather good. One didn’t disrespect a talent like that, especially when poor Serena had so little to recommend her otherwise. Not terribly clever, not notably pretty, and as Jane could attest, she kicked horribly in her sleep.

  The drawing smoothed out to portray a face that made Jane’s movements slow and her breath quicken. High of brow and wide of cheekbone, with his overlong hair worn loose and defiant, the man in the sketch made Jane think of a weary medieval hero who had just removed his helm after slaying the dragon and freeing the princess.

  It was the man from the garden. “Who is he?”

  Augusta sniffed. “Oh, him. He’s naught but a place card.”

  “A what?” That could not mean what it sounded like.

  “A place card is what Mama calls gentlemen that merely round out the seating at a party,” Bedelia explained. “Ethan Damont isn’t a gentleman or anything. He’s just a handsome face with which to fill the table.”

  “And Papa likes to play cards with him,” Serena added. “He says he’s going to keep playing him until he figures out how the Diamond is cheating.”

  Invited but unwelcome? It was actually worse than Jane had thought. She felt rather sorry for him. Then Serena’s words caught her attention. “The Diamond?” Jane turned to her cousins. “The gambler that the Voice of Society is always talking about?”

  Augusta rolled her eyes. “The gossip makes more of him than he is. No name and no fortune at all. Serena only put him in the pot to make an even dozen.”

  “A place card,” Serena said, giggling. “And he has pretty eyes.”

  The man on the paper gazed up at Jane. Serena was sometimes more talented than she knew, for in her blithe hurry to provide the game pieces, she had set down more of the man than she likely would have had she thought more about it.

  Ethan Damont did not have “pretty” eyes. He had lost and tragic eyes—eyes that spoke of loneliness and wry resignation. Jane felt something twist ever so sideways in her chest. Ethan Damont, the Diamond.

  He’d been shockingly forward and free with his touch. Oh, not in any truly obscene way, but she’d been quite aware how he’d taken his time setting her to the ground. A man of physicality, that one. Tall, glib, and outrageously behaved—just as one would expect from an opportunistic card player of common blood.

  She looked back down at the drawing. His eyes . . .

  Why did she have the feeling that there was much more to Mr. Ethan Damont than met the eyes?

  Chapter Three

  The next day, Ethan was back to his usual self. He strutted down the Strand in full rake regalia, walking stick and all. He hadn’t a worry in the world at the moment. He’d banked a pile of notes from Lord Maywell last night, which he’d added to the reward he’d recently received from that portly uncle of Collis Tremayne’s.

  Ethan had never been told why Collis and his uncle were beaten and chained in a dungeon-like chamber of an arms factory—but then, he’d never asked. He’d never even asked the uncle’s name, but had blithely dubbed the fellow “the Codger” and left it at that.

  There were times when a bloke needed to know the score and there were times when he was better off in the dark.

  So with his pockets full and his questions firmly squelched, Ethan resolved to enjoy the new day and his fresh state of solvency. What sort of delicious trouble could he find on this fair afternoon in the greatest city in the world? He took a deep, satisfied breath. The possibilities were endless.

  Ethan loved London, every sooty, grimy, shady bit of it. He despised having to leave it. He’d been dragged off to house parties on country estates a few times, where he had established a reputation as a hunter and rider, and had spent the rest of his time fighting off complete boredom by charming many a lady of the house directly out of her knickers.

  Then of course there had been those memorable occasions when his boredom had been alleviated by fleeing a jealous husband or six . . . ah, well, those were fine times.

  Nevertheless, breathtaking run-for-one’s-life excitement aside, he’d always been glad to come home to the city. When he was here, the invisible lines between people blurred a bit, doors opened a crack, and he was able to pass back and forth between who he was and who they all thought him to be without much effort.

  He caught a glimpse of himself in a shop window. Never averse to admiring a job well done, he paused to congratulate himself on presenting every evidence of being a gentleman. The hat, expensive sleek beaver with the latest narrower brim—tipped at precisely the right careless angle, of course—the frock coat and weskit, cut in the latest highly fitted manner, all in the finest fabrics. Gray kidskin gloves made just for him, grasping a walking stick he neither liked nor needed.

  He fancied boots over stockings and slippers, himself, although he could claim a decent pair of calves all on his own.

  Yes, from head to toe, he was quite the picture of the gentleman about town. Everything in place, not a single clue of his real origins apparent to remind those around him that he didn’t—not quite—belong.

  Of course, everyone knew. He’d decided long ago it was better to reveal the matter early on, and then work like the d
evil to make them forget it.

  Why?

  To be truthful, he didn’t even know anymore. He’d been trained from birth to pass in Society, immersed in lessons from the early years on, governesses chosen from the penniless gentry, tutors as well, no expense spared to teach him riding and shooting and all the varied amusements of the class that did little but amuse themselves.

  Looking at his own reflection now, Ethan had to admit that his father had done one hell of a job of it. Ethan Damont, born of a clothmaker father and a seamstress mother, looked every inch the aristocrat his father had wanted him to be.

  Of course, his father’s goal had been to raise the entire family to a higher level of society. Pity the old man hadn’t realized that by making sure his son was a true aristocrat, i.e., to-the-bone lazy and useless, he’d virtually guaranteed that Ethan would have little or no interest in the design and production of mattress ticking.

  Or in becoming the stepping-stone in his father’s social-climbing ambitions.

  The old fellow hadn’t taken that one well at all. Nine years ago the elder Mr. Damont had cast his only son from the house, proclaiming him worthless and unbearable. Remembering what a devilish sot he’d been at twenty, Ethan had to admit his father had likely been correct.

  Well, one would never know it now. A fine house in Mayfair, servants who looked as though they might actually stick around for a while, and every appearance of gentle indolence—at the moment, the worthless and unbearable part was entirely invisible to the naked eye.

  A pair of ladies passed behind his reflections, accompanied by a heavily laden footman. Two bonnets turned his way, then back toward each other. Scandalized giggles emerged from both. Ethan became aware that he was gazing thoughtfully into the window of an establishment that sold ladies’ unmentionables.

  Chuckling at his own gaffe, Ethan was about to continue on his way when another motion behind him caught his eye in the reflection. A small, tattered man was scuttling down the street, his back to Ethan.

  Ethan blinked, then shook his head. The city was full of shabby people of the streets, many of them small, many of them tattered. There was no reason to think . . .

  He turned and went on his way, leaving with only a glance at the pretty items discreetly displayed. Only swatches of fabrics and lengths of lace were visible, as if the materials only became unmentionable—and unviewable—after they were cut and sewn.

  Lace spread over creamy satin jogged Ethan’s memory, bringing last night’s adventure to mind. As he walked on, he allowed himself a moment to warm himself on the memory of long lovely legs . . .

  He hadn’t seen her face. Ah, it was just as well. Not just any face could have lived up to the promise of those silken thighs. A woman would have to be entirely stunning to merit those limbs. Her hair would have to be golden—or raven black, like Rose Tremayne’s hair. Exceptional hair.

  Last night’s lady had a mass of hair all right, but Ethan couldn’t recall the color precisely. Not golden, not dark. Something in between, no doubt. In between and entirely ordinary.

  Except that it had reminded him of firelight on creamy silken sheets . . .

  Her figure in general had been adequate, if he recalled the dimensions correctly from his elusive moment of handling her down from the tree. Trim waist with acceptable amount of bosom, if not generous. She’d reacted to his fresh behavior with distaste and sarcasm, but with an added patina of innocence she was likely not even aware of. Unmarried? A virgin?

  Well, there was no point in wondering. He hadn’t seen her face and she’d made sure of it. Obviously, she wanted no one to know of her predicament.

  Curiosity nagged at him. In his urgent desire to flee the scene of his cheat, he’d not lingered to learn how she’d managed to get herself into such an unlikely position. Or her name, or her family.

  No point, old man. She was at Lord Maywell’s ball. She was aristocracy and therefore out of his reach. He’d always been most circumspect about that particular infringement. Dallying with a bored wife would merely get him beaten and evicted from the estate. Toying with a virtuous daughter of Society would get him shot at dawn—at least, it would if he were a gentleman. A man such as himself wouldn’t be afforded such a dignified end. More likely he’d simply be found dead in a ditch. Of course, if he were a gentleman, such actions would more likely get him married.

  Frankly, he’d rather be shot.

  Whistling away that particular disturbing image, and cautioning himself against any more memories of the previous night, Ethan continued on his way.

  The day was very fine, indeed, and he suffered no more interruptions of his peaceful frame of mind until he neared his own street. Pausing before crossing to allow a carriage to go by, Ethan happened to glance back the way he had come—just in time to see a small, tattered man duck into a doorway.

  Scowling, Ethan strode back down the walk and plucked Mr. Feebles from his hiding place with one hand.

  “Oy, guv’nor!” The pickpocket Ethan had met on his previous adventure with Collis Tremayne and that group of rabid do-gooders, the Liar’s Club, flapped both hands sheepishly. “Whot you doin’ here?” the little man said in hastily manufactured surprise.

  “Being followed, apparently,” Ethan said grimly. “Why?”

  Feebles shrugged as well as he was able, considering Ethan’s grip on his collar. “Don’t know what you mean, sor.”

  Ethan made a disgusted sound and released the little man, setting him back into his doorway with a slight shove. “Stay away from me,” he said. “All you lot, just stay away.”

  He strode off, his grip on his walking stick tight with fury. Those damned Liars . . . getting mixed up with them had nearly got him killed once before. Ethan wasn’t fond of getting killed.

  Bloody bastards, bloody sneaking, invisible bastards—

  Ethan halted, then turned back. He strode to Feebles’s doorway to find the man leaning comfortably against the wall, idly picking his teeth. “You weren’t following me, were you?”

  Feebles flicked his toothpick past Ethan into the street. “No, sor. If I’d been followin’ you, you’d never have seen me.”

  “You wanted me to see you. Why?”

  “Don’t know, sor. I was told to be seen around every corner, I was.” Feebles grinned. The elfin smile didn’t do much to ease the impression that he was eerily odd. “If I was you, I’d be thinkin’ someone wanted to keep an eye on me and wanted me to know it.”

  “Lord Etheridge?” The leader of the Liars wasn’t someone Ethan would have ever met under other circumstances, being far too high above him and far too upright a fellow to invite a gamester to his home for amusement. If Lord Etheridge wanted to see him socially—well, he wouldn’t. Which meant it had something to do with those bloody pikers, the Liars.

  Ethan turned back to Feebles. “What—”

  Feebles was gone. Ethan was quite sure he wouldn’t spot the little man again. He was also quite sure Feebles would still be there.

  Over breakfast in Lord Maywell’s chilly breakfast room, Jane toyed with her fork as her cousins chattered endlessly about the previous night’s ball.

  Even now, Uncle Harold ignored the chatter and chaos about his breakfast plate, instead absorbing himself with the day’s news sheets. Poor Aunt Lottie, always left to handle things on her own. Jane shot her uncle a disapproving glance.

  He didn’t see it.

  She cleared her throat.

  He turned a page.

  “Uncle Harold!” Her voice echoed through the breakfast room. She wouldn’t have believed there could be a break in the madness, but of course, there was, right at the moment she’d chosen to speak. All eyes turned to her, even her uncle’s.

  “I say, Jane,” he muttered. “You do have a set of lungs on you.”

  “Tsk-tsk, Jane.” Aunt Lottie shook her head. “I know you’ve been brought up in the country, dear, but there’s no need to yodel here.”

  Jane narrowed her eyes at them all. “I
only meant to speak above the noise, Aunt Lottie.”

  Six pairs of female eyes regarded her with complete innocence. “What noise, dear?” Aunt Lottie seemed seriously concerned with her sanity.

  Uncle Harold was already diving headfirst back into his news sheets.

  “I intended to ask Uncle Harold what he thought of the young gentlemen who attended last evening,” Jane said. “I did not meet them all to speak to, and I value his opinion.”

  Uncle Harold blinked. “What? Oh, that useless lot. Bunch of simpering second sons without a hope in hell of inheriting anything useful. Boring too. You girls ought to be glad to see the last of those fellows.”

  “The last?” Augusta seemed horrified by the very thought. “What do you mean, Papa?”

  “No more balls, hosting or attending,” Uncle Harold said bluntly. “Can’t afford more dresses and you and your sisters won’t wear anything twice.”

  Such an unjust accusation silenced all the women at the table for a long indignant moment. Still, Jane had to admit that her uncle had a point. Even though the girls had been the unofficial hostesses of the evening, and therefore entitled to first pick of the gentlemen, they’d scarcely been able to fill their dance cards.

  The man from the garden had not danced, she was sure of it. She would have noticed someone so fine.

  “That is too bad, Uncle,” she said, answering his declaration above the wails and protests of her cousins. “You did seem to enjoy your cards so much last night.”

  “Hmph!” Her uncle grimaced over his eggs. “Only two players were any good—and one was married and the other is ineligible.”

  Aunt Lottie blinked. “Who was married? I only invited single men.”

  “Tremayne,” Uncle Harold said. “Went and got himself married on the quiet.”

  Aunt Lottie gasped. “Not nice Mr. Tremayne!” The wails erupted once more. Jane thought that was a bit much, since everyone knew Mr. Collis Tremayne had been moon-high out of her cousins’ reach even when unmarried.