Celeste Bradley - [The Liar's Club 0]

by The Spy

  Then she’d opened it. Quickly she had scanned the pages. If she was not mistaken, she had seen the name from the paper written on the margin of a page—

  Yes, there it was, scrawled in Papa’s handwriting in that half-legible way he used when it was meant to be read only by himself.

  “Keep a close watch on James Cunnington.”

  Nothing else. No reason why James Cunnington should be watched. For his own safety? For reasons of Crown security? For that had been what her father had worked in, before his retirement. He’d never told her specifics, and indeed, she’d never seen this book of notes before the night of her escape from the marauding French soldiers who had broken into her home and stolen her father away . . .

  No time for memories or regrets now. She firmly put the recent past from her mind. Pulling the page of advertisements across the cot, she laid it next to her father’s open book.

  There was no mistake. The name was the same. Friend or foe, it remained to be seen. The best way to determine that would be to get to know this Mr. Cunnington firsthand.

  And James Cunnington was advertising for household help.

  A tutor to be exact. The very work Phillipa had been looking for, with one small difference.

  James Cunnington wanted to hire a man.

  Phillipa Atwater. Phillip A. Walters. The name had turned and twisted through her mind. Phillip.

  If changing her last name slightly had rendered her less visible to those pursuing her, imagine how she’d completely disappear if she—

  God, she’d been mad to think what she had been thinking!

  Then again, the requirements were slightly less stringent for tutors of boys. In addition, there were far more advertisements asking for tutors than for governesses.

  Finally, the fact that taking a male identity might finally throw any pursuers from her back permanently had decided the matter.

  Once upon a time she would have scoffed at living such a lie and would have stoutly declared she would die first. Now dying had a realistic ring to it that she’d never before experienced.

  There was nothing left. Her rent was overdue and she was down to bread and broth once a day. It wouldn’t be much longer before she was on the streets. Her landlady was not a sympathetic sort.

  Mrs. Farquart had ordered one of the other residents carted away to Bedlam last week when the poor woman had begun to carry on loud conversations with her dead soldier husband while alone in her room. The woman’s things stood in a trunk in the hall, still waiting to be claimed. Her clothes . . . and her husband’s clothes.

  Phillipa had only borrowed a few things. Just long enough to attend the interview, after which she planned to return them. Then she’d traded her hair to a wigmaker for a pair of boots and changed the color with a bottle of cheap dye that had cost her last pair of whole stockings.

  In the mirrored surface, one hand rose to her short mottled brown locks in unconscious mourning. Her waist-length copper hair had been her best feature. Without it, she was merely a thin freckled girl with no figure.

  Phillipa shook off that thought and followed the butler through the halls of her prospective employer’s house, looking about her with curiosity. Although she had watched the house carefully for hours last night, she’d seen nothing of those who lived within.

  She had remained in the park far later than was wise, still hoping for some glimpse of Mr. Cunnington, who she imagined a stout and dour fellow, secretive and unreliable. Perhaps even a bit gouty, for the entry in her father’s journal had been from years ago. The man might even be elderly and frail.

  Unlike her mysterious captor last night. Heavens, he’d been anything but frail. His broad chest had been like a wall of brick . . .

  Phillipa blinked herself back to the present. It was a very fine house, beautifully kept and furnished, yet it had the distinct air of a house not lived in, until she was shown into the study. There reigned the comforting chaos of manly doings, reminding her very much of her father’s study in Arieta. The sweet smell of pipe smoke was the only thing missing, besides her father’s rumbling chuckle.

  Then a rumbling chuckle emerged from the high-backed chair before the fire, so deep it seemed to resonate through her belly—

  Phillipa’s gasp was covered by the butler’s announcement. “Mr. Phillip Walters to interview for the tutor’s position, sir.”

  A tousled head of brown hair emerged around the high winged sides of the chair. “Oh, hell, I forgot.”

  Her gut shivered further as she recognized the deep voice from the previous evening. Phillipa caught a glimpse of brown eyes and a square jaw before the occupant unfolded himself to his full height.

  The man turned toward her, displaying wide shoulders and thick-hewn arms that tapered down to square hands, one of which held the small leather-bound book he had been reading. That same broad chest she remembered from last night tapered to a trim waist, emphasized by the fact that his frock coat lay abandoned over the back of his chair. His fitted waistcoat and fine shirt gave credence to her suspicion that no padding created that form.

  Oh, merde.

  Phillipa forced herself to swallow. So the mysterious James Cunnington was the man who had held her so easily in his arms last night. Would he recognize her now, though she was much changed and she’d been careful not to let him see her face?

  He made no sign of it. Perhaps she was in no danger. At least, not from that encounter.

  She forced her gaze from his magnificent structure to his face. To her relief, he was not distractingly handsome. Oh, it was a fine face, square and strong, and he did have those deep brown eyes that made him seem rather comfortable—but she was quite able to keep her bearings while looking at his face.

  She had always preferred a more poetic sort, pale and haunted by fine feelings. Mr. Cunnington seemed rather like a brown and burly farmer, the sort that named his cow Mabel and knew when to plant by sniffing the soil.

  Then again, poets didn’t usually come fitted out with a pair of shoulders that blocked the light . . .

  “. . . Mr. Walters?”

  Phillipa jerked to alertness. Her hunger must be making her simple. She must concentrate! Her very life and quite possibly her father’s life depended on obtaining this position. She strode forward to shake the wide hand that still hung in the air, waiting for her. At least the fellow seemed to have no trouble believing her to be male.

  She tried not to whimper when he nearly crushed her bones. Good heavens, did men always do this to each other? Being one of them was not going to be as easy as she had thought.

  After nodding to his manservant—“Thank you, Denny”—James Cunnington waved her to an overstuffed chair facing the one he’d occupied. “The advertisement wasn’t very informative, I’m afraid.” He seemed almost apologetic. “I’ve never done this before.”

  Following his gesture inviting her to sit, Phillipa was enchanted. Not only did he show no sign of associating her with last night, but here was a man who obviously had no idea how to interview a tutor. How perfectly lovely.

  “We’ve had several applicants walk away when they’ve learned that I’m a single gentleman with no visible means of support, hiring them to teach an ignorant guttersnipe child who lives with me in this house.”

  He sat back in the chair behind his massive desk, obviously waiting for her to respond.

  She nodded and cleared her throat. Speak deeply. “I appreciate your candor, Mr. Cunnington. In return, perhaps I should inform you that the last four positions for which I’ve interviewed have turned me down for reasons of youth, inexperience, and complete lack of references.”

  She leaned back in her own chair and crossed her legs in imitation of him, although she had to fight a wriggle as the trousers chafed her inner thighs. She must secure some drawers—and soon.

  Mr. Cunnington tilted his head. “Do you like children?”

  She hesitated. In all honesty, she didn’t know any. “It depends upon the child. Not all of them, I’m su
re.”

  “How about discipline?”

  “I’m for it, in general. Yet again, the punishment depends on the crime.”

  “Ah. Interesting, but evasive. What would you do if he, say . . . stole an apple from the neighbor’s tree? Would you take the switch to him?”

  Phillipa tried to recall how she would have responded to that as a child. “No, that likely wouldn’t do any good. He’d only go out and take another, just to prove he wasn’t scared of me. Perhaps a day peeling apples in the neighbor’s kitchen would be more appropriate?”

  Mr. Cunnington grinned. “That would be a sight. If there’s a kitchen in London that could hold him.” He looked at her for a long moment. She refused to shift and wiggle, despite her nervousness.

  “Hmm. What can you offer in lieu of experience and references?”

  This answer had been well practiced at least. “Latin, botany, geography, dancing, manners and mores, et cetera. In other words, everything a young la—gentleman should know.”

  His mouth twitched. “Latin and botany, eh?”

  He didn’t believe her. She wouldn’t get this position, her last chance. Her stomach protested and her head swam.

  “I speak seven languages!” she blurted desperately. It was almost true. She could curse fluently in seven languages. She’d paid close attention to the intemperate porters of every country in which her family had traveled over the past ten years.

  Mr. Cunnington stood. “I think you should meet my charge before you promise any more wonders, Mr. Walters.”

  He crossed to a window looking onto what appeared to be the back garden and threw it wide. “Robbie!” he bellowed. “Come have a look at your new tutor!”

  Phillipa’s knees threatened to give out. She was hired? She didn’t care if her student was a spider monkey, she would teach it everything it needed to know if it would help her return her life to the way it used to be.

  She stood and turned to the door, waiting for the boy to enter. She mustn’t get off on the wrong foot. If the lad was spoiled, Mr. Cunnington might send her packing on the child’s request.

  A thrashing of boughs and a scrambling on the windowsill caused her to turn. Her eyes went wide as a small filthy creature clambered into the room from outside the window.

  After dusting himself off a bit, a process that did no good as far as Phillipa could see, the child glanced at her, then around the room.

  “What, is that him?”

  Robbie perused her slowly, from her boots to her carefully cut hair. Then he shot a glance at his guardian and snickered. “I guess he’ll do all right. What’s ‘is name then?”

  Mr. Cunnington rolled his eyes at the lack of manners and gave the boy a fond cuff on one ear. “Watch yourself, Rob. Mr. Walters gets you for five hours a day, so I wouldn’t plague him off if I were you.”

  The boy slid knowing eyes to Phillipa and gave her a tiny smirk. She stiffened. Could he know? It wasn’t possible! Was it?

  “Oh, I think me and the perfesser’ll get along all right, once we come to an understandin’.”

  Bloody rat-catching hell. Whether he knew or not, the little anarchist thought he had the upper hand already. If she didn’t nip that in the bud, her stay here could become unbearable.

  She stepped forward and held out her hand. “I am Phillip Walters, Master Robert. You may call me Mr. Walters. We will begin lessons first thing tomorrow morning after breakfast. I shall expect you on time—and bathed. If not, I shall have to oversee the bathing process myself.” She sent Robbie a warning look. “Won’t I, Master Robert?”

  The poor boy went absolutely ashen with horror. Phillipa had to stifle a laugh. She didn’t think he’d be giving her any trouble for a while.

  Mr. Cunnington rumpled Robbie’s hair and grinned. “Good. We’re settled then. I’ve been told to offer twenty pounds per annum, and you’ll likely earn every penny twice over.”

  He glanced over her, his sharp eyes taking in the details of her dress. Phillipa knew her clothing was an ill fit and her bartered boots were quite nearly disgraceful. She hoped that was all he could see.

  He looked away, pretending interest in the fire. “Perhaps a small advance? You must have some expenses . . .”

  Thank God. She’d not had the nerve to ask, but she wouldn’t turn it down. “Well, my landlady is due a bit, but I’m sure I could wait . . .” She couldn’t wait. Please don’t make me wait.

  He shoved a hand in his pocket. “I’ve only a five-pound note on me. Will that do?” He pulled it out and pressed it into her hand.

  She couldn’t believe it. An entire quarter’s advance? Even Robbie was surprised. She caught him staring openmouthed from her hand to his guardian’s face. She couldn’t blame the boy a bit. Did this man have no concept of the value of the pound?

  She delivered a creditable bow to Mr. Cunnington. “Thank you, sir. If I may return to my rooms and gather my things, I should like to move in this evening.”

  “Excellent. You’ll be up for an early start tomorrow then.” Mr. Cunnington showed her to the door. “Will you be joining us for dinner as well?”

  She was counting on it. If not, she was likely to be nothing but a shrunken bag of bones by morning. However, she hesitated. The less exposure she had to her new employer, the less likelihood of her slipping up and betraying herself.

  “If I might have a tray in my room this evening? I should like to—”

  “Certainly. Of course you’ll want to unpack and settle in.” He opened the door for her and Phillipa reminded herself to put her hat back on her head. “We’ll see you in the morning then.”

  Morning. As the door closed behind her and Phillipa finally allowed herself to breathe, she felt her courage begin to slip away. What had she got herself into?

  And what if she couldn’t get herself out?

  Chapter Two

  James shut the front door behind his newest employee and listened as the sound echoed hollowly in the halls. For a brief moment, he’d forgotten how oppressive this place was. The interview with the skinny tutor had quite distracted him.

  Phillip Walters. An odd duck, to be certain. He looked as though he dressed from a rubbish bin and cut his hair with a hacksaw. And if James was not mistaken, Mr. Walters was hiding something. Not for a second had James believed his claim to be a man of twenty years. No fellow of that age was entirely beardless, no matter how fine his razor.

  No, Mr. Walters was more likely sixteen, or even fifteen. He’d not yet filled out his scrawny frame. Of course, the fellow was starving—James had seen that immediately. The poor bloke had nearly passed out at his feet.

  So hungry and desperate that he had lied about his age. James probably would have hired him on that alone, even if the young man hadn’t come laden with such remarkable skills. James himself had bounced back quickly enough from his turn a few months ago as a starving prisoner on a French ship, but he remembered hunger well.

  “Latin,” murmured James. He chuckled. “Dancing.”

  Still laughing to himself, he returned to the study. Robbie stood in the center of the carpet waiting for him.

  Immediately, James felt the usual discomfort that Robbie’s presence brought with it. Robbie seemed to want something from him but James never truly knew what it was.

  When he’d resolved never to marry, he’d realized his need for some sort of heir. His sister Agatha wanted no part of the estate so she had approved his plan whole-heartedly. A starveling climbing boy for an abusive chimneysweep gang, Robbie had been taken in by the members of James’s club after he’d saved Agatha’s life, and it had seemed fated that James adopt the young orphan.

  He’d taken the lad in to be his heir, and to improve Robbie’s life. In the past weeks, good food had begun to fill those sunken cheeks and a safe home had swept away that heartbreaking caution that had once marked his expression.

  Yet a hunger still lurked in the boy’s eyes, as it did at this moment, and James had no idea how to feed it. He turned away from
those demanding eyes and stepped behind the barrier of his desk.

  The way his father always had. For a split second, James almost grasped the darkness still lurking in Robbie. Then he dismissed the notion. His own father—a prominent scholar and mathematician—had always been distracted and busy, but James had not suffered from it.

  Then again, he’d had his sister Aggie.

  Well, now Robbie would have Phillip. Not a sibling but a comrade of sorts. That should take care of things nicely for Robbie, and he would stop looking at James the way he was looking at him right now.

  Suddenly James felt an overwhelming desire to be at the club. Away from those hungry eyes. Away from the feeling that he was failing Robbie in some vital but incomprehensible way.

  Odd. James had faced imprisonment by Napoleon’s henchmen, torture and daily danger, but he couldn’t face those relentless blue eyes.

  He picked up the journal and the file he’d been copying from when Mr. Walters had arrived and grabbed his frock coat from its roost on the back of his chair. Shrugging it on, he made for the hat residing on the side table in the entry hall. “I’m off, lad. Tell Denny I’ll not be home for dinner, will you?”

  Robbie followed him slowly. His stony little face did not change expression. “Take me with you.”

  “Can’t do it, Rob.” James flashed a desperate smile at him. Robbie didn’t alter the intensity of his gaze one iota. James looked away. “I’ve got business to attend to. Besides, Phillip will be returning soon. You’ll want to show him around, won’t you?”

  Robbie didn’t answer and didn’t move as James turned to go. When he glanced back, the sight of that small grimy figure standing alone in the hallway made James feel like the lowest growth of scum.

  He left all the faster for it.

  The colors of the streets of Cheapside faded behind the chill mist like a much-washed print. The few hunched figures scurrying to their destinations faded in and out of Phillipa’s vision like memories. The air was cold and damp and she huddled deeper into the worn velvet seat of the cab.