Celeste Bradley - [The Liar's Club 0]

by The Spy

  “The difference between adventure and danger is one’s willingness to partake.”

  Phillip was quite correct. And Ren Porter and James Cunnington had been more than willing to partake.

  At least Ren was not so far gone as Weatherby. James tried to hope, he truly did, but in the end he turned away from the occupant in the bed, unable to look upon him for a moment longer.

  “Lavinia will pay,” he whispered as he stood there with his back to his friend. “She shall be brought down, and I shall be the one to do it.”

  Phillipa had very diffidently asked Denny for a hot bath and had received a warm bath and a plethora of “humphs.” Still it was a mercy to lower her aching body into the warm water and relax her guard for a moment.

  Her bedchamber door was locked and a chair pressed beneath the latch for good measure. She was going to be a girl for an hour and heaven help the miserable oaf who interrupted her luxury!

  “Well, Papa,” she murmured to the ripples on the surface of her bath. “I’ve had an interesting day.”

  She leaned her head back and slid farther beneath the surface. Her knees rose above the water level, chilling quickly in the air.

  This tub was only a small wooden one that she had helped Denny carry from a storage room behind the kitchen. There was a fine tub in the master’s dressing room, she’d been coolly informed, that was not for the likes of tutors, no matter how favored they were.

  Phillipa chuckled at that memory. If being favored meant having the master pound one into next week, then she was favored indeed. As she scrubbed her skin, she marveled at the fact that although she still felt every one of James’s light blows, he had left no mark upon her easily bruised skin. He truly had been careful, though it had not seemed so at the time.

  She slid farther under, feeling the pressure and warmth of the water in her ears as she wet her hair. There was another advantage of the male existence. Short, simple-to-care-for hair. Still, she would trade all that ease to be endowed with her own hair—her own gender, for that matter!

  “Silk,” she muttered when she came up for air. “Silver brushes. Lavender bath scent.” She peered at her now shriveled fingers. Her hands had suffered the most from her new life. “Lotion!”

  Her wistful reverie was shattered by a hearty knock on her door. “The master wants ye, on the spot!” Denny’s voice was gleeful. He knew no tutor would refuse a direct summons from the master of the house.

  Phillipa cleared her throat and assumed her Phillip voice. “Tell the master I’ll be but a moment.”

  Denny made his customary noise. “Best make that a quick moment. He’s in a black mood this night.”

  “I’ll give you black mood,” Phillipa grumbled. Nonetheless, she stood and let the water stream from her body as she rubbed at her hair with a piece of toweling. She quickly dried the rest of herself and made for the clothes she hadn’t meant to don again until the morning. Hopping on one foot, she shoved one damp leg into her trousers, forsaking drawers for the sake of speed. What did it matter, when she’d be back upstairs shortly, preparing for bed?

  The shirt, quickly, then her old heavy waistcoat—so much coarser than the perfectly fitted ones that had been delivered from Button today. A short note had come as well.

  I’ve taken the liberty of billing Mr. Cunnington for certain items of clothing for you. If anyone wants to know, tell them it was by Milady’s order (which it would be if she knew of your situation!).

  Still, the old waistcoat from Bessie’s husband would do for an hour. She fumbled with the cravat, cursing all the while in several languages. Her boots she pulled over bare feet. Bother the frock coat, shirtsleeves was good enough.

  Finally, disheveled and with her hair withstanding any effort to tame it now that it had dried on end while she dressed, she dashed down the long hallway and trotted down the stairs.

  “On the spot,” she breathed as she stood panting before the study door. She knocked. A deep mumble answered her, a single word. “Enter.”

  She took a deep breath and stepped into the room. For the first time it occurred to her that something of importance might be afoot. Suddenly less resentful and more alarmed, she advanced into the darkened room.

  A fire blazed on the hearth—the only light in the room. Where was Mr. Cunnington? Then she saw the booted feet stretched before the high-backed chair pulled in front of the fireplace.

  “You wanted to see me, sir?”

  A muffled grunt came from the chair. “Sir Flip? No, not especially. Why?”

  Denny. He’d known how badly she’d wanted that bath. Phillipa ground her teeth. Yet another petty deed, rebuke for threatening the fellow’s little fiefdom. “Denny, you and I are due for a bit of a chat,” she muttered.

  “What’s that, Flip?” Mr. Cunnington’s voice sounded the tiniest bit slurred.

  Phillipa stepped forward to see him lounging deep in his chair with his hand wrapped about a well-drained snifter. For the first time Phillipa noticed the nearly empty decanter at his elbow. Goodness, was Mr. Cunnington drunk?

  “I believe Denny may have made a mistake, sir.”

  “Very well, then. You can go.”

  Phillipa nodded and almost turned away. “Is there something amiss, sir?”

  He rolled his head on the back of the chair to turn back to the fire. “Only my honor bleeding on the carpet. Nothing amiss at all.”

  His voice was hollow, drained of the life and warmth that usually infused it. Phillipa felt dark sadness and pain emanating from him like cold from a chunk of ice.

  Since their first encounter, in the park, she had been very aware of her attraction to his body. For the first time she realized that she actually liked him. He was amusing and generous, and obviously intelligent.

  At the same time there seemed to hover in the background of his powerful personality a sort of wounded vulnerability. She only occasionally caught a glimpse of haunted shadow in those open brown eyes, a brief flash that was always quickly banished by his resolute good humor.

  There was pain in him. She knew his parents were gone, and that he had no current attachment to any lady in town, but his sister was obviously much beloved by him, and he seemed to have strong companions in the men that frequented his club.

  It wasn’t loneliness, then. Or at least, that wasn’t the primary cause of his darkness.

  No, there was something else lurking behind that warm and easygoing façade. Something that kept him in a state of restlessness, that stole his days and most of his nights, that kept him from letting his guard down with Robbie.

  If she didn’t know better, she’d wonder if he wasn’t running from something the way she had run from Napoleon’s men. She had the feeling that he didn’t dare hold still too long lest it not be safe.

  “Well, I—I’d best leave you to your—your evening, sir. Good night.”

  “Good night, Flip.” His voice was almost wistful.

  The splinter of loneliness in his voice held her quite still. She should do something. He needed something . . . but what?

  “If I might, sir—”

  “What is it, Flip?”

  “May I ask what you meant by the bleeding of your honor?”

  “Someone died.”

  “Ah.” She took another step toward him. “People do, I know.”

  He cracked an eyelid open. “Is that supposed to be profound?”

  She shrugged. “No. Simply true.”

  He let his head fall back against the chair back. “People die, you say. And do people die at your hands, Phillip?”

  She crossed into the circle of light from the fireplace. “Perhaps. One never knows how one’s choices affect the world at large.”

  He snorted. “You are a philosopher. The old pebble-causing-ripples axiom.” He set his glass down on the side table with exaggerated care. “If you are a pebble, then I am a bullet. A somewhat more direct route to death for old Weatherby.”

  Phillipa sat on the footstool opposite James and rega
rded him silently for a moment. “Did you pull the trigger?” she asked quietly.

  “The real one or the metaphorical one?”

  “The only one.”

  He sighed. “No, I did not personally pull the trigger.”

  “So you might grieve, by any rights. But have you earned the right to guilt? Or is this simply a self-indulgent moment?” These were the words she ought to have said to her father, long ago.

  He sat up. “Self-indulgent? How can you say that?”

  She nodded toward his drink. “Are you drinking for someone else? Or for yourself? In my experience, spirits are more apt to soothe the drinker’s pain than another’s. I see you sitting here, drinking in the dark, and I must wonder . . . who is this moment for? For the one who died? Or for yourself?”

  He stared at her for a moment, bemused fury gathering in his scowl. Unease began a tinny chime within her. She had taken a great chance being so frank. Yet she could not bear to see another man sink into the wallow of mistaken guilt. If someone had ever said those blunt words to her father, she might not be where she was today.

  Alone.

  Her isolation cut her deeply. How she would love to talk to him of her journey, of its desperation and then of her disappointment and despair once she had reached London.

  He had said he knew what it was to be hungry. She believed him. He would listen if she told of her past. He would listen, and sympathize and perhaps even help her.

  Or possibly . . . not. It was the “not” that would forever hold her tongue.

  James snorted a reluctant laugh. Then he shook his head quickly, as if to dislodge his unfortunate train of thought.

  “You are entirely correct, Phillip. I was indulging in a moment of dramatic self-flagellation. Silly of me, when there is so much to do.”

  She only nodded carefully, watching him. He seemed to have risen out of his personal quagmire, and now only stared thoughtfully into the fire. She stood to leave him in privacy.

  “Sit.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Young Mr. Walters froze as if James’s command had prompted a spark of rebellion within him. Still, he was the employer. And he was weary of battling an inner darkness in the arena of night. He only wished a bit of distraction.

  Phillip sat.

  “We might speak of something else, if you like,” he ventured.

  “Let us speak of you, then, my young friend.”

  “There is little enough to know of me,” Phillip assured him.

  James could barely see the young tutor through the dimness and his own blurred vision. “You’ve done something interesting with your hair. Is there a new fashion that I’m not aware of?”

  Phillip tried to pat down the upstanding bits of hair, then gave up, shrugging. “I was bathing.”

  “Again? Good Lord, Phillip, you bathe as much as a girl. Not that I mind, of course. Soap is a wonderful thing. I do hope you’ll introduce Robbie to it sometime.”

  “I prefer—I’ve found that ladies prefer a man who has close acquaintance with his tub.”

  “I see. In your vast experience and all.” James chuckled and rolled his head loosely on his neck. He didn’t know if the brandy was finally taking effect or if Phillip’s presence was lightening the darkness of his mood, but either way he was grateful. The black funks he’d been prone to since his capture both mystified and alarmed him. He’d heard of men grappling demons of mood and temper after serving in some particularly bloody battle, but he’d never learned of how they made those demons go away again.

  Of course, there was always the example of one’s friends. Simon had his Agatha. Dalton had his Clara. “Have you ever been in love, Phillip?”

  Phillip turned his gaze to the fire. “I don’t know, sir.”

  James nodded. “I know precisely what you mean by that. According to my sister, that tells us that we have most definitely not been in love. She’s in love with the man who was once my best friend.”

  “Sir Raines? And are you not friends now?”

  “We are . . . but he is hers now, in a way that I’m not sure I understand. And Lord Etheridge has married recently, and he is absolutely mad for his wife . . .”

  “And you are wondering when it shall be your turn.”

  James turned to look at Phillip. “No. Perhaps once I might have, but no longer. Now I have another purpose, one that does not involve acquiring a lady of my own.” He waved a hand in the general direction of the upstairs. “Hence Robbie. Heir by post express, as it were.”

  “You adopted him to be your heir? Not your son?”

  James shrugged. “I fail to see your distinction.”

  Phillip looked down at his hands. “And the lady you will never seek? Did you have someone in mind, before you decided to pursue your other purpose?”

  “Oh, yes. I had her all picked out. Beautiful, accomplished, entertaining, and witty. Elegant figure, pretty eyes, and of course, absolutely mad about me. All a man could want, really.”

  “Ah.” Phillip said nothing more for a moment. “What ever happened to her? Did she marry another?”

  “I’ve no idea. I never did actually meet her, you see.”

  A small bark of laughter escaped Phillip at that and James grinned. “Come on, Flip. Tell me about your fantasy match.”

  Phillip cleared his throat. “Ah . . . well. You know, someone nice.”

  “Surely you require more than mere respiration, Flip. What about her figure? Fat, thin, curvaceous? What sort do you dream about?”

  “Well . . . the dreamy sort, I suppose. What about you? What sort of woman do you dream about? Or don’t you dream of women anymore?”

  James sat up slightly from his slouch, affronted. “Of course I dream of women! What do you think I am, a tea leaf?”

  “N-no, of course not. Definitely not.” Phillip seemed quite emphatic about it. James relaxed once more.

  “Bloody right I dream about women! I’ve the best damn fantasy woman you could possibly imagine!” That came out a bit on the emphatic side as well. James wondered if he might just be a bit too drunk.

  “Who do you dream of, then?”

  Poor Phillip. So young, so curious. James remembered those confusing years well. Manhood was a trial when one could think of nothing but making love, yet could do nothing about it. He probably ought not to stir him up on the subject—not that a fellow of that age likely needed any help. If he was anywhere near as randy as James had been at sixteen, there was no hope for his mental state anyway.

  Thank heavens he’d gotten his own urges under control. Why, he hadn’t thought of his flame-haired quarry in days. Well, one day, at any rate. Too bad that his new self-control had come far, far too late.

  “So what is your fancy?”

  James rolled his glass upon his forehead, but the crystal was warm from being too close to the fire and did nothing to cool him. “Fancy?”

  “This dream woman of yours?”

  James poured another brandy and handed it over to Phillip. “Here. You’ve some catching up to do.”

  Phillip took it from him gingerly. He sniffed it and wrinkled his nose. “It smells like varnish and roses.”

  James laughed. “That it does. But it tastes like nectar.”

  Phillip looked encouraged and took a deep draught—and came out sputtering it all over his waistcoat. “Bah!” He glared at James, who was snorting softly into his own refilled glass. “Why didn’t you warn me?”

  “Oh, come on, Flip. It’s traditional to laugh at a bloke’s first go. Besides, now you’ve numbed your tongue enough to enjoy it.”

  “Not to mention blinded my vision enough to render you safe from retaliation,” Phillip muttered, but he took another tiny sip. His brows rose comically. “Oh! It is better now!” He tipped the glass back again. “Much better!”

  “Whoa! Slow down, soldier. You’ll gain yourself nothing but a crashing head in the morning.” James leaned back once more and raised his glass in a toast. “Welcome to the drinking classes,
Sir Flip.”

  Phillip smiled and raised his glass in return. “I’m glad to be here, my liege.”

  James was startled by the relaxed and mischievous quality of that smile. He’d certainly never seen that particular expression on Flip before. The poor tutor always seemed so tightly wound, as if constantly afraid to betray himself in some way.

  “What were you saying?” Phillip slid from his perch to the floor, stretching his feet toward the fire and leaning back upon the footstool.

  James watched this liquid movement with amusement. Flip was obviously in the bantamweight class. “Did you have any dinner, Flip?”

  “No,” came the slurred reply. “Why do you ask?”

  “Oh, no reason.” Much too late now.

  “Remind me to supply you with plenty of headache powders on your night table.”

  Phillip turned and leaned one elbow on the footstool to prop his head on one fist. From the look of him, it was less pose and more architectural support. He looked ready to slither to the carpet entirely.

  The younger man shook his head pityingly at James. “You are so obvious.”

  “What?”

  “You always change the subject when you want to hide.”

  “Nonsense. I do no such thing.” Well, perhaps he did. He should warn young Phillip of the pitfalls of manhood, but there were some things he truly didn’t want Phillip to know. To be frank, it was good to feel there was someone who wasn’t thinking ill of him every time they looked at him. Someone who saw him just as he was.

  “You must be on your guard, Flip. Women can be delightful creatures, but you must be careful. Do not trust them. A woman’s power is in her flesh. She can twist a man’s mind around until he is her willing plaything. When a woman smiles at you, touches you, you see, you’ll do anything for her. You’ll tell her anything she wants to know.”

  He leaned forward to emphasize his point with a gesture toward Phillip’s breeches. “When what lives in a bloke’s trousers swells, it takes all the blood from his brain. Doesn’t leave him much to think better of it with.” He sat back, satisfied.