Celeste Bradley - [The Liar's Club 02]

by The Impostor

  As this was a town house, the scale of the terraces was small. Each had its own entry into the ballroom, and a set of stone stairs leading to the gardens below.

  Dalton found Lord Liverpool leaning against the balustrade, gazing down to where a box-hedge maze cleverly gave the small area of gardens more scale for the wandering admirer.

  Although Dalton hadn’t made a sound, Liverpool began speaking immediately, though he remained turned away.

  “What in the seven reaches of hell do you think you’re doing?”

  If Liverpool was resorting to bad language, Dalton was in for even more trouble than he’d thought. “I’m investigating the latest case given to the Liar’s Club,” he replied stiffly.

  Liverpool snorted. “Personally. You left out personally. Which you are not supposed to be doing. Have you given any thought to the repercussions if your true identity is revealed? You’ve lived quietly these last few years, but not that quietly!”

  Despite the fact that he’d worried over that very point, Dalton felt obligated to defend his decision. It wouldn’t do for Liverpool to know precisely how tenuous his hold over the Liars truly was. “It isn’t likely that anyone will associate the somber, reclusive Lord Etheridge with the flamboyant Sir Thorogood. In the event that they do, I shall admit my identity and claim Thorogood was merely my nom de plume.”

  “And how do you intend to explain away the humiliation and degradation of several dozen peers of the realm at the hands of that reformist agitator? What about the connection that will inevitably be made to me?” Liverpool turned swiftly, his black eyes glittering in the half-light. “It is no secret among those who matter that I raised you when your father died!”

  Dalton looked down at his godfather. Raised was perhaps too strong a word for the man’s participation in Dalton’s childhood. Supervised, perhaps. Arranged, even.

  Liverpool had personally selected a highly distinguished school, where he ordered that his charge remain through every lonely holiday while the other boys had joyfully returned to their homes. Every six months Lord Liverpool had made an appearance there to check on the young Lord Etheridge’s progress. Dalton knew this because the faculty had never failed to inform him of his esteemed guardian’s visits.

  He himself had never had much conversation with the man until he’d finally left Oxford to take his place in the House of Lords.

  Once there, he’d been expected to back Liverpool at every turn, to vote with the man’s vote, and generally add to the power and influence that Liverpool had already accumulated.

  Liverpool would have had his support anyway. The man was the glue holding the government together, what with a mad king and a profligate prince who was more interested in art and women than in government.

  In the past several years, Dalton had run many a mission under Liverpool’s direction. His esteem for Liverpool’s political acuity had only grown.

  But England’s most powerful man was not Dalton’s intimidating guardian anymore. Nor was Dalton a lonely boy, desperate to please.

  “I fail to see how any of this could come to reflect on you, my lord. My identity will not be revealed. I had the best of costumers, and honestly, would anyone dream that the sober Lord Etheridge would use a quizzing glass?”

  The attempt at levity fell flat in the silence. Though the gathering was plainly audible in the background, the high terrace seemed very much like a chill mountaintop at that moment.

  “However you and that ragtag lot care to go about it, I want Thorogood run to ground. Do you hear me, lad?”

  Before Dalton could protest that he was no longer a lad and had not been for fifteen years, Liverpool had slipped back through the doors, leaving him in the darkness.

  Dalton pulled a cheroot from his pocket and leaned back into the shadow of the house. “Poor Thorogood. You don’t stand a chance, old man,” he murmured to the night.

  Drat Beatrice! Clara’s lack of oxygen had distracted her long enough for the impostor to get away. There was no way to know when she would gain another chance to corner him.

  “Are you quite well, madam?”

  Clara glanced up to see a man gazing at her with a concerned look upon his face. Thankfully, it wasn’t the impostor, though this man was handsome as well. Goodness, attractive men were just climbing from the woodwork this evening, weren’t they?

  She blinked at the fellow, her dizziness making her feel rather disconnected. The man was fair, as Bentley had been, but much better looking. Bentley had been boyishly appealing. This fellow was verging on beautiful. Only the masculine contour of his classic features kept her from resenting that such beauty had been wasted on a man.

  If she’d had breath enough to feel anything but a mounting panic.

  “We haven’t been introduced—”

  “No, we most certainly have not.” She wanted him to go away so she could find Beatrice and have her ease the dratted corset strings. She tried to step to one side to see around the fellow, but he only moved before her again, his brow etched with concern.

  “Where is your maid? May I help you to a retiring room?”

  She must look a sight to have a stranger so worried. Clara fought down her panic and tried to regain some measure of poise. “I apologize, sir. Perhaps if you could seek out my sister-in-law, Mrs. Trapp?” she gasped out. Her breath was shallow, too shallow to feed her brain.

  “Of course. Then, perhaps, later I might pursue a more usual introduction?”

  “But … of course. I could never … deny so persistent a knight errant.” Oh, dear. That hadn’t come out right. Her brain was fogging over. She glanced at the man worriedly. He maintained his air of concern, yet for a brief instant she imagined she saw a flash of a somewhat different emotion. Scorn, or perhaps simply recognition of her irony.

  Then he was gone, and Clara was finding it more and more difficult to take a breath. The ballroom seemed to waver about her, and the once oppressive air now seemed to have been entirely used up by the people swirling about her. It gave her lungs no nourishment.

  And she’d lost the dratted impostor to boot.

  She would find him later. Now she needed her sister-in-law. As she cast her gaze desperately around for Beatrice, she saw a wiry older gentleman entering the ballroom through a set of doors. He seemed so familiar … the Prime Minister? But what could he be—

  The cool night visible through the doors distracted her for a moment before he closed them behind him.

  Clear night air.

  Air.

  Clara stumbled the short distance to the terrace exit. Leaning against the gilded doors, she dimly tried to manage the latch. After fumbling for a moment, the door fell open before her. She staggered through to the terrace, trying to drag breath into her lungs.

  It wasn’t working. The corset was too tight. Tiny particles of gray began to come between her and her view of the evening gardens. Blindly, she reached for the stone balustrade, only dimly aware that she was in danger of falling to the ground far below.

  Dalton couldn’t believe it. This was no dainty feminine show. The silly twit was fainting her way off the terrace! Tossing his cheroot to one side, he made a grab for her.

  His right hand caught only a wisp of silk, but his left managed to wrap itself around one pale arm. With a yank, he pulled her away from danger, back against his own body. She sagged, forcing him to shift his grip hurriedly.

  Unfortunately, that left him with one arm wrapped around her ribs and a handful of soft breast.

  “Damn.” All he could think of was facing her likely equally brainless—though undoubtedly well-armed—husband at dawn. Quickly, he spun her and tossed her over one shoulder.

  Back into the house? The draped doorway led directly to the ballroom, her husband … and Liverpool. Not an excellent option.

  Instead, Dalton headed for the stone stairs at the end of the terrace that led to the gardens below.

  Bloody ladies and their bloody fashion. Whatever possessed them to sacrifice sensible
comfort for some illogical physical ideal? Then he winced as he nearly turned his ankle when his high-heeled shoes failed to take purchase on the graveled pathway.

  Of course, he’d never be dressed so by choice.

  The white gravel path shone in the lamplight coming from the windows of the house, making it fairly easy to see. The brightness also made it easy to be seen.

  Damn. What the hell was he to do with the woman?

  She stirred on his shoulder. Having her head down was apparently bringing her back to life. With a muttered curse Dalton ducked down a darkened path, hauling his irritating burden away from the betraying light.

  The maze of hedges led him to a turn, then opened to display a gazebo of some sort ahead, barely outlined in the dimness.

  Perfect. He’d dump the woman, fix her blasted corset prison for her, then slip away before she came to. She hadn’t seen him, so she’d likely think she’d wandered off in her daze. If she bothered to think at all, which he doubted.

  Stepping up onto the marble floor of the garden structure, Dalton heaved Mrs. Simpson off his shoulder to half-sit her on a crescent-shaped bench.

  He supported her upper body with one arm wrapped beneath her breasts, this time avoiding taking a handful of soft flesh into his hands. She lay limp against him, her breath shallow on his neck.

  She smelled good. Stupid she may be, slovenly she was not. Dalton had never understood the habit of some people layering costly clothing over unwashed bodies. Mrs. Simpson smelled sweetly clean. Even her hair smelled pleasant as it tickled his ear.

  Oh, that was those damn plumes. Restraining a growl, Dalton plucked them from her hair and tossed them to the ground. Then he turned his free hand to unfastening the tiny buttons that ran the length of her back.

  With skillful fingers he soon had them free, even in the dark. Then he tugged at the knot in her corset strings to no avail. Some idiot maid had tied them into a great snarl that he had no hope of undoing without plenty of light and time.

  He could leave her here and let someone know …

  With the shrug of one shoulder, he flipped her head from its roost and changed the angle of her body to look into her face. It was too dark to see well, but he was very much afraid that she was paler than ever, right down to the color of her lips. There was no time.

  There seemed no end to the stupidity of slaves to fashion. Dalton held her tightly with one arm while he tore the corset strings with one mighty yank. With a series of pops, the garment gave way.

  Even though she was unconscious, her body sensed its freedom and drew in a deep breath. When he was sure she was breathing normally, Dalton eased her flat on the bench.

  Standing, he arranged her as comfortably as possible, aware that she was likely to awaken at any moment and take umbrage at his liberties.

  She was somewhat pretty in the faint starlight, he had to admit. Without the overuse of cosmetics—not to mention the fervent glint in her eye and that annoying titter—she might even be attractive.

  Then again, almost any woman would look good lying sprawled wantonly on a bench with her bodice gaping, revealing that pair of perfectly intriguing—

  Her head rolled to one side, then back, and her eyelids quivered.

  Time to go. Dalton stepped back into the shadow of the hedge, then quickly made his way back around the turn, walking close to the maze wall to avoid the crunch of gravel under his feet. Then he paused in the darkness, unwilling to leave her untended until she was fully conscious.

  Clara drew one breath after another of cool blessed air deeply into her lungs. At first she was content simply to breathe with ease, so it was a moment before she realized that the only sound she heard was her own breathing against a backdrop of rustling greenery and the chirping of crickets.

  She was outside? She opened her eyes, looking about her in bewilderment. The gardens? She’d come so far in her search for air?

  Sitting up swiftly, she felt the bodice of her gown slide away and the cool an of night caress her breasts. Swiftly, she grabbed it back and covered herself. Her face was hot against the cool breeze as she realized that she must not have come to the gardens on her own.

  Fumbling behind her with one hand, she discovered the snarl of corset strings and the torn lacing holes. Had she been attacked? Deep inside her, something cried out with age-old feminine fear.

  Yet she was unhurt, and her gown had been carefully unbuttoned, not a single tiny pearl gone astray.

  The back of her neck tingled. She looked about frantically, but there was no sign of anyone. Only her crumpled plumes, trod negligently onto the inlaid marble floor of the gazebo. The sight almost reminded her of something, or someone …

  Well, whoever had brought her here had disappeared for the moment. She’d best do likewise in case they decided to come back. With quick movements she retied the corset loosely halfway down, then did up her buttons as well as she could.

  She looked a scandal, she was sure. She’d go round the house and wait in the carriage, she decided, unwilling to search for Beatrice in the crowd. Picking up her skirts, she ran from the gazebo, back down the path toward the noise and light of the assembly, that same prickle down her neck speeding her on her way.

  Chapter Three

  Dawn was attempting to break through the sooty skies of London when Dalton Montmorency let himself into Etheridge House after his painful night of posturing. Although no one met him at the door, he could tell by the smells of cooking and the faint noises from belowstairs that his household was up and about.

  He could have called for his majordomo to take his hat and light cloak—his own somber black ones, thank goodness, for he’d changed back into himself at the Liar’s Club—but Dalton didn’t bother. The Sergeant would only castigate himself for allowing “his lordship” to sully his own hand with a lowly door latch.

  He’d not been allowed to open many of his own doors in his lifetime, for Dalton had been a lord since the tender age of twelve, an unusual state of affairs within the aristocracy. Apparently the Montmorencys had a tendency to run through their male heirs rather quickly.

  He himself had only one possible heir, so he hoped that his nephew Collis Tremayne intended to take good care of himself. Dalton didn’t relish the idea of bringing the chaos of a wife and children into his carefully ordered world.

  And it was so very ordered. He looked about him with satisfaction. Etheridge House was very fine and filled with items of beauty and value, just as it should be. Dalton could see living out his years in this house, a peaceful haven from the unpredictable element of the Liar’s Club.

  Yes, his life was in perfect balance. At least now that he was out of those intolerable high heels.

  The Sergeant came bustling into the hall, his face penitent at missing his master’s arrival. “Oh, milord! I thought you’d be staying at your club tonight or I’d have been watching for your carriage.”

  Dalton handed the man his hat and cloak. “Sergeant, I know how to open a door.”

  A clatter on the stairs drew the attention of both men. Collis Tremayne trotted down the wide curved stairway in a manner guaranteed to create maximum noise. Dalton’s head throbbed in response and he flinched.

  “Honestly, Col, one would think you were nearly thirteen, not nearly thirty.”

  Collis grimed and finished up his descent with a one-armed flourish onto the marble entry hall. “You’re a sour sod this morning. Is it because you are coming in so late or going out so early?”

  “Collis, you live here on my generous forbearance. I suggest you refrain from inquiring what is not your business to know.” Dalton caught himself in a yawn.

  “Well, let’s see … if you’re yawning, then my wager is on coming in late.” Collis threw his good arm over the militarily rigid shoulders of the Sergeant. “What’s the hob. Sergeant? Am I right?”

  The Sergeant rolled a pained glance toward Dalton but apparently couldn’t bring himself to shrug off the Heir Apparent, despite the crimp in his own di
gnity.

  Dalton wanted his bed with sudden ferocity. Collis’s insouciant energy was more than he could stand at this hour. “Stand down, Collis,” he snapped. “The Sergeant has work to do and so do you.”

  Collis blinked and his grin faded. He slid his arm from around the Sergeant. “I have work to do? How so?” His expression suddenly bitter, he rubbed his other, deadened, near useless arm with his good hand. “Unless you’ve a job for a crippled man?”

  At his nephew’s change of manner, Dalton damned himself for being so curt. Collis covered his anguish so well that even Dalton sometimes forgot what the younger man had lost to Napoleon. Dalton hadn’t been close to Collis’s mother, for his sister had been years older than himself and long married when he’d still been in school. He and Collis were actually closer in age, close enough to be like brothers … had Liverpool allowed it.

  Stiffly, Dalton nodded to acknowledge his gaffe. “I only meant that you should pay a call on James Cunnington today. He’s working on a most interesting puzzle for me.”

  Collis was never able to stay somber for long. The customary glint reappeared in his eye immediately. “I’d be happy to. James isn’t nearly as much of a stiff rod as you, O Mighty One.”

  With a mock salute and bow, Collis was off. Dalton watched him go with a weary scowl and the feeling that he ought to be doing more for his nephew. If Collis didn’t find useful occupation to take his thoughts from his infirmity, his light-minded ways bid fair to making him one very idle and useless Lord Etheridge someday.

  Dalton noticed the Sergeant still waiting for instruction. “I’m going to bed,” he stated with finality. “If anyone wakes me in the next four hours, behead them.”

  The Sergeant nodded. “It’ll be my pleasure, milord.”

  Clara had greeted the dawn with a yawn and a quick cup of tea before spreading her drawing supplies out across her desk and setting to work. She’d been awake long into the night plotting wild acts of revenge against the impostor. Her favorite was still one involving replacing all the seams of his ridiculous clothing with cheap thread. The next time he performed one of those flourishing bows, he would split his breeches and reveal his true nature to the world and whatever highly shock-able ladies of influence might be standing behind him.