by The Impostor
“A charming heroine and a dashing spy hero make The Pretender a riveting read … entertained me thoroughly from beginning to end.”
—Sabrina Jeffries, USA Today bestselling
author of After the Abduction on The Pretender
Dalton had a problem. And it was growing larger by the moment …
Her warm firm little body was driving him mad. He’d bent his head slightly to whisper to her, and he hadn’t been able to make himself move away afterward. She smelled like warm heaven, like woman and rose petals and, rather suddenly, like passion.
The skin of her neck was so close that he could feel the heat on his lips. A fraction of an inch more and he would be able to taste her. And dear God, how he wanted to taste her.
He succumbed. Just a brief stolen taste. Just a whisper of his tongue on her fragrant skin.
She jerked slightly and he pressed her still with his palm on her firm rounded hip. Held her still with strength and the fear of discovery for this tiny ravagement. God help him, if she had objected further, he was not sure he would have listened.
Instead, she let her head fall back on his shoulder, exposing more soft neck to his exploring mouth.
A near silent sigh escaped her, a sigh of submission and longing, or so he chose to hear it.
Clara had no sense available to her but touch and scent. The darkness was comforting in its anonymity. If even they couldn’t see what they were doing, then perhaps on some level, it wasn’t truly done.
Yet the heat of his mouth on her flesh was very real …
St. Martin’s Paperbacks Titles by
Celeste Bradley
The Liar’s Club Series
The Spy
The Impostor
The Pretender
The Charmer
The Royal Four Series
To Wed a Scandalous Spy
Surrender to a Wicked Spy
The Impostor
(Book Two in the Liar’s Club)
Celeste Bradley
St. Martin’s Paperbacks
NOTE: If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
THE IMPOSTOR
Copyright © 2003 by Celeste Bradley
Excerpt from The Spy copyright © 2003 by Celeste Bradley.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.
ISBN: 0-312-98486-3
EAN: 80312-98486-1
Printed in the United States of America
St. Martin’s Paperbacks edition / October 2003
St. Martin’s Paperbacks are published by St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth
Avenue, New York, NY 10010.
10 9 8 7 6 5 4
Dedication
This book is for Monique Patterson,
because she loves Dalton even more than I do.
Acknowledgments
As always, I must thank my husband and children for their patience and their gullibility in ever believing that “I’m almost done with the book.” I love you, B, H & G!
And my wonderful friends and family who never seem to tire of supporting me and telling me where the book has gone wrong: Darbi Gill, Robyn Holiday, Cheryl Lewallen, Joanne Markis, Michelle Place, Alexis Tharp, Cindy Tharp, and Cheryl Zach.
The Liar’s Creed
In the guise of knaves we operate on the fringes of the night, forsaking home, hearth, and love for the protection of all.
We are the invisible ones.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Epilogue
Prologue
England 1813
She stood upon a pedestal, a Hellenic goddess gone grievously bad. Her pouting lips and exaggerated pose were far too carnal for classical statuary. And although a gossamer drape properly covered her curves, the very way her rounded limbs narrowed to her tiny hands and feet only led one’s mind to imagine the voluptuous swells hidden beneath the fabric.
At her feet knelt three worshipful men, two easily identifiable as pillars of London Society, one partially hidden behind the luscious figure. All three men were captured in the act of showering the idol with gold and jewels, their hands attempting to grasp her even in the act of giving.
Below, drawn in tiny scale compared to the goddess and her admirers, crawled the plainly recognizable wives and children of the two foremost gentlemen. Their wretched, ragged state was in startling contrast to the wealth piled at the feet of the temptress above.
“Fleur and Her Followers” read the caption beneath the drawing.
Gerald Braithwaite shoved away the pile of paper and string that had come wrapped around the stack of political cartoons, in his enthusiasm knocking the engraved sign that read “Editor” to the floor. The simply clad servant girl who had delivered the package knelt quickly to return the plaque to its proper place, but Braithwaite ignored her as well.
With loving care he picked up the topmost drawing with one hand while he rubbed the other across his mouth as if to repress his response. A gleeful chuckle escaped anyway as he gazed down at the drawing that was going to sell more newspapers in one day than the London Sun had ever seen.
“Sir Thorogood, you do me proud, you do,” muttered the editor. What a drawing! It had lust, sin, and pathos. Three wealthy men squandering their wealth on a woman—likely some current favorite opera dancer—while they beggared their families in the process. It was superb mockery, razor-edged in its detail, all rendered in skillful lines that might more likely be found in the sketchbooks of the masters.
“The devil take them all, those pompous toffs. In fact, they’ll wish he had when this one hits the streets.” Braithwaite gave a happy sigh and tossed a thickly stuffed envelope to the servant without so much as a glance.
The editor smiled, then chuckled once more. Finally, his laughter echoed through the halls of the building that housed the press of what was fast becoming the most widely read news-sheet in all of London.
As the mousy young delivery woman passed throughthe door onto the street, only the smallest twitch of her lips betrayed her satisfaction at the editor’s merriment.
The next afternoon, a certain gentleman opened the London Sun to peruse over his breakfast. He’d slept quite late in the day, but he’d managed to find time to grope one shivering chambermaid, batter one footman, and profoundly insult his butler. All in all, he’d worked up quite an appetite.
Perhaps that was why he nearly choked on the giant mouthful of ham he was c
hewing. Or perhaps it was the lethal quill of Sir Thorogood.
Reddened with rage, the gentleman summoned his butler with a howl. “Bring the carriage round! I’m going out.”
The butler nodded obediently, but as he turned to go his gaze fell upon the paper clenched in his master’s hand. Even the very real possibility of reprisal could not stop the grin that grew upon the butler’s face as he left the room.
Slap? The paper landed on one very consequential lord’s supper plate.
“Here, now! I was eating that!” The fair-haired lord glared up at the two men who had disturbed his evening.
“I daresay your appetite will be gone in a moment. Look at this!” The taller of his visitors unfolded the news-sheet to reveal the latest cartoon by Sir Thorogood.
The lord was halted in the act of wiping his mouth as he realized what was exposed in the sweeping lines of the caricature.
“Bloody hell,” he whispered.
“Precisely,” said his visitor.
“What are we going to do?” whined the second man, who up until now had hung in the background, wringing his hands.
The lord grunted. “What else? Find this Thorogood and discredit him. He must have some dry bones rattling in his closet. A family scandal, a gambling problem.”
The first man seemed doubtful. “Will that be enough, do you think? I move for a more permanent solution.”
“It’s a beginning,” the lord said grimly, tossing his napkin down over the cartoon. “But you may rest assured, gentlemen, that there will be an end.”
Chapter One
Dalton Montmorency, Lord Etheridge and Crown spy, strode into the ballroom in his first appearance as the reclusive cartoonist Sir Thorogood and became instantly aware that he had somehow seriously angered his valet.
As he passed through the large arching doors of the Rochesters’ ballroom and down the elegant spiraling stairs, the clamor of voices halted and a sea of faces turned upward toward him like flowers turning into the sun.
Perhaps it was due to the brilliance of his evening wear. Compared to the somber black worn by the other men in the room, Dalton was dressed with theatrical excess as a fop.
A dandy.
A flaming tea leaf with delusions of manhood.
“Dress me as a flamboyant artist,” he’d told Button, the valet and onetime theatre costumer he’d borrowed from his good friend and ex-spymaster Simon Raines. “Make me look like one of those idiots who cares for nothing in the world but clothes.”
Upon reflection, Dalton realized that those were perhaps not the wisest words to use to a valet.
Button was a costuming genius and was fast becoming the outfitter of choice of the members of the Liar’s Club operating covertly. He was also a bit on the sensitive side, to understate the matter. Quite frankly, Dalton wished Button had gone for a simpler revenge.
Poison, perhaps. Hired killers, even. Dalton would much rather be facing armed thugs in an alleyway than be standing in front of this crowd, clad in all his “artistic” glory. In the abruptly silent ballroom, close to one hundred people stood with their eyes fixed on him as he paused at the top of the spiraling entry staircase.
His coat alone should have blinded them. It hadn’t seemed so garish in the dimness of his rooms, or the darkness of his carriage. However, in the blazing glow of the fully lighted chandeliers that hung above the crowd, there was no denying that Dalton was wearing a particularly malevolent shade of chartreuse.
That coat, combined with his shimmering violet silk waistcoat and his peacock-blue pegged breeches, convinced Dalton that he resembled nothing so much as a nightmarishly enormous tropical parrot.
Button was a dead man.
For now that “Sir Thorogood” had made his long-awaited public appearance in this guise, there would be no choice but to continue the entire charade costumed like a pirate’s pet bird.
To make matters worse, he had serious doubts about the necessity of his mission. True, for nearly a year those reformist cartoons had incited much ridicule of certain powerful men. And true, the British government did not need such a drain on its credibility during wartime. Not to mention the secrecy shrouding the man, which gave Dalton’s instincts a decided twinge.
But restraining a fey artist with a penchant for exposing the underbelly of the aristocracy was not on Dalton’s list of priority objectives. He felt very much as if he was being used as a villain to keep some lord’s personal agenda.
But the Liars were on shaky ground these days, and the eclectic band of spies dared not upset the hierarchy if they wished to remain banded. Dalton was still new as the head of operations, and the Royal Four who ruled above him were not at all sure about his innovations.
Nor were his own men entirely sure about him.
Dalton had taken on this mission for a reason beyond the usual obedience to orders.
The spymaster of the Liar’s Club normally worked his way up through the ranks, earning the admiration and loyalty of his fellow intelligencers by years of work and camaraderie.
He, on the other hand, had taken over upon the retirement of Simon Raines. Although Dalton had been a member of the Royal Four for over a year, none of the Liars were aware that he had been the Cobra—one fourth of a powerful coalition of lords that decided in what direction to aim the weapon that was the band of thieves and assassins called the Liar’s Club.
When he’d stepped down from the Cobra’s seat a few weeks ago, eager to get back into the game of intrigue, the men he now commanded had looked upon him with rank suspicion.
In the past weeks he’d managed to win some degree of compliance from them, but not yet the respect that would turn one commander and fifteen men into a close-knit crew.
So he’d vowed to take on the very next mission himself, to prove to his men that he not only was one of them, but that he was damn good at it.
Of course, when he’d made that vow, he’d had no idea how excruciating a mission it would be.
I am the weapon of the Crown, he told himself as he stood dreading the next few hours. A terribly colorful weapon wearing high heels.
Everyone was waiting, staring at him in anticipation. He could almost hear their thoughts: What would someone so outrageous do first? Would they all decide to slavishly adore him, or just as capriciously declare him an undiluted fool and cut him dead?
Since the success of Dalton’s mission depended on the first option, he knew he’d better make an impression. Well, in for a penny, in for a pound.
Pasting a superior leer onto his face, he flipped back the lace cuffs cascading from his sleeves, and made a theatrical bow to his hostess, managing not to totter in his high-heeled shoes. Then he stood and flung his arms wide to the crowd on the floor below.
“I … have arrived,” he intoned haughtily.
The men present merely raised brows and cast one another amused glances, but the ladies sighed in unison and immediately began to pester their escorts for an introduction. Excellent.
Let the game begin.
Clara Simpson sat between two rather overblown ladies and practiced her invisibility. It certainly seemed to be working on her seatmates, who talked over her head with enthusiasm.
Pity the skill no longer worked on Beatrice, her sister-in-law, or she might not have been subjected to this evening’s entertainment at all. To think she could have been free for hours on end this evening, secure in the knowledge that there would be no interruptions while the family attended the ball.
Bea had burst into her room this afternoon, bent on prying Clara away from her pen and paper. Her sister-in-law’s broad face had already been arranged in an implacable expression and Clara had known there would be no getting out of whatever Beatrice had in mind for her.
“Bitty and Kitty will be accompanying me to the Rochesters’ ball tonight, Clara. I’ll need you to come along as chaperone.”
Clara had given refusal a try, even knowing it would do little good. “I don’t wish to go to the Rochesters’ ball. I
’m still in mourning.”
“Must you continue this, Clara? My brother has been gone for well over a year. One would think you were still pining for my poor Bentley.”
“Perhaps I am.” Or perhaps she had no desire to purchase a new wardrobe, as she was hoarding every penny for the day she moved out of this house.
Beatrice had sniffed. “Well, it doesn’t show much consideration for my sensibilities, now does it? Reminding me of his loss every day? And what do you think people say when they see that I’m already out of mourning?”
Ah, therein lay the truth. “Perhaps if you wore—”
“Oh, pish. I look horrid in anything near black and you know it. Bentley would never have expected me to wear something so unbecoming for long.”
“I’ll consider it, Beatrice,” Clara had said, as she always did when this topic came up.
Personally, she didn’t much care what she wore. Itwasn’t as though she was interested in attracting a man. Clara barely repressed a shudder at the thought.
No, all she wanted was the freedom of being self-supporting and perhaps, just perhaps, to make some small bit of difference.
But Beatrice was a force to be reckoned with, rather like a hurricane wind. Clara simply wearied of resisting sometimes. Furthermore, tonight was an opportunity to observe and that was not to be wasted.
So here she sat with the spinster aunties, keeping her eye on two girls who were hardly going to drive young men to take liberties, despite their sweet, uncomplicated natures.
She was quite accustomed to the wall, in fact she preferred it. There was always something interesting to see from here.
All around the room there was a flow of people, moving in clumps for a time, only to break apart and join other groups. Clara watched the dance of pretty gowns and dashing frock coats, secure in the complete lack of anyone’s attention. As she’d planned, her own rather dull half-mourning gown blended nicely with the upholstery, her hair was tucked neatly away beneath her cap, and her face was as bare as a chambermaid’s.