by The Impostor
“Oh, it’s most amusing. Aunt Clara. It’s a Society mama and she’s putting her daughters on the marriage mart, only it’s really an auction block, and the daughters are really—”
Cows. Oh, drat. Guilt beat artistic pleasure on the head and threw it out of the door. That drawing had been the result of a particularly grueling chaperoning session that Beatrice had forced her into. She’d forgotten to take it out of the last packet she’d given to Gerald Braithwaite.
Well, if she had ever considered sharing her secret life with her in-laws, she could forget it now.
Kitty left with her trace paper and Clara returned to work, but the interruption had ruined her concentration. As fond as she was of Kitty, and even Beatrice, at times there was nothing she longed for more than a place of solitude and silence. It need not even be a real artist’s studio, though that was her ideal. Merely a place that she could truly call her own, from which she could rule her own destiny.
That was what she had thought to achieve by marrying Bentley in the first place. A home of her own, a future, a family.
As the indignant shrieks of a sisterly argument penetrated the walls, Clara snorted and began to pack up her drawing supplies in defeat.
She’d certainly acquired the family portion of her dreams.
A reminder to oneself—be careful what you wish for.
James found himself wishing he’d waited until after the meeting to allow Kurt to pound him into the floor. Sitting in the chair was allowing his muscles to stiffen abominably and he was aware that his aroma was none too fresh.
James forced himself to look away from the empty chairs that would be filled if not for him. My life for yours. The promise wasn’t worth much, but it was all the amends he could make. His life for the Liar’s Club.
If that club lasted the year.
The ragtag bunch that half-filled the meeting room was of the old club, the men hand-picked by Simon Raines and some even by the spymaster before him.
Men who had yet to truly give the new spymaster their support.
James watched as Dalton led the meeting—saw how the refined Lord Etheridge had to draw grudging answers and suggestions from the men as if with hooks and line.
“There has been an increase in French recruitment efforts among the merchants and manufacturers, according to our informants. Some are suborned with financial promises, some with French imperialist propaganda.”
“What—some poor draper sellin’ out his country ‘cause he wants to be as good as the toffs? Can’t imagine it.” The dry comment came from behind James, its originator probably not intending it to reach Dalton’s ears. James hoped it hadn’t.
Dalton’s gaze flicked to the heckler without hesitation. “Dissatisfaction with one’s station should not excuse treason, justified though it might be. Don’t you agree, Mr. Rigg?” His voice was cool, not rising in the slightest, but James felt the ridiculous urge to duck out of the line of fire.
Rigg blustered his way through a sort of agreement and James relaxed slightly. Open defiance and insubordination did not seem to be on the menu today, thankfully. Still, there was no comparing this stiff, uncooperative gathering with the camaraderie and teamwork of old.
He wanted to jump up and shout at them all, these men who had seen him through years of working together, who had searched for him when he’d been imprisoned, who had taken him back without a word even after his revelations under capture had cost several their lives …
He didn’t say a word. Not for him to order them to listen. Not for him to force their loyalty when his own hung by a damaged thread.
Dalton must forge his own chains of loyalty to the hearts of these men. James looked around the room, gazing at each recalcitrant face in turn.
God help him.
That meeting had been an improvement, Dalton told himself as the men moved from the room. This time there had been no bloodshed between arguing factions. In addition, not a single stick of furniture had been broken. Nothing that a bit of glue wouldn’t fix, at any rate.
All in all—another worthless attempt to bring the Liars together. Patience.
Unfortunately, Napoleon wasn’t going to wait while Dalton ironed out insubordination and inter-faction rivalry.
Dalton straightened his peacock finery and donned his plumed hat. Time to leave the club for the outside world and the smarmy existence of Sir Thorogood.
Dalton walked from the club with a tip of his hat to Stubbs, who was minding the door while he anxiously waited to begin saboteur training with James Cunnington. Unfortunately, until the Griffin recovered, the Liars were still drastically undermanned.
Once Dalton had settled the ambiguity of his place with his men, he was going to have to look into serious recruitment. Agatha was pushing to recruit some women. While Dalton wasn’t averse to the idea, he had no idea where to even begin. If he couldn’t seem to find a suitable woman for himself, he didn’t see how he was supposed to locate them for intelligence training.
Simon had found Agatha while searching for her brother.
Then again, Simon had given up everything for Agatha. Dalton couldn’t picture himself throwing away the Liar’s Club for anyone. The club was his now, if he could hold it.
From where Dalton stood across the street, he could see the two of them leaving the school. He watched as Simon handed Agatha into their carriage with such tender solicitousness that Dalton’s throat tightened.
Then Simon looked up to see him loitering outside the club. Dalton nodded to him, and Simon nodded carefully back, as if he were greeting a slight acquaintance, although there was an admonishing cast to Simon’s brow. Dalton could almost feel Simon’s thoughts, that Dalton was not careful enough in hiding his trail to and from the club.
Dalton shook his head at the notion as he turned to be on his way. As if anyone would suspect anything from Sir Thorogood’s presence at a extravagant gentlemen’s retreat like the Liar’s Club! In truth, it fit this persona perfectly.
As he walked down the crowded street, Dalton struggled with the unfamiliarity of his new identity. Not for Sir Thorogood the subtle passage of an anonymous gentleman. No, thanks to Button, Dalton found himself in full rainbow grandeur, complete with shoot-me-now pantaloons and a monocle. Every eye was upon him.
Then a prickle up the back of his neck gave him pause. Instinct cut in, making him slow his pace and extend his senses. That feeling meant only one thing. Trouble.
Dalton paused to let pass a boy with a barrow full of coal. Then he turned into a tobacconist’s shop as if it had been his destination all along.
He spoke to the proprietor for a moment about his latest shipment from the West Indies, and about the woe-fill loss of American trade lately. All the while, he kept one eye on the front window. The street was full at this late morning hour. Servants and gentry, merchants and vagrants, all passed before the large shop window in the subsequent minutes.
Yet only one person glanced at the interior of the shop as he passed. A tall man, fair-haired, of perhaps thirty years of age. A gentleman by his fine boots, although by the workingman’s cap pulled low and the casual knotted neckcloth, there had been an obvious attempt at a more disorderly ensemble. Still, there was a certain something in his carriage … was it military training?
No. Dalton smiled slightly. The fellow’s walk reminded him of the sort of posture and carriage drilled into the students at some of the finer schools. A gentleman, indeed.
The fellow passed on by, but Dalton remained within for a moment more. The shopkeeper had a truly fine array of cigars. Soon Dalton was strolling from the establishment with a box of excellent smokes under his arm.
Instead of hailing a hack he decided to walk a bit more, purely to see if his shadow returned to task. As he left the mercantile district to head back to Mayfair, he turned down a less crowded side street. Perhaps he could isolate the fellow from the crowd again.
The cobbled way was more of an alley, he realized as the high buildings on both sides c
ut off the daylight. Suddenly the city sounds seemed far away and his own boot heels rang loudly in the near silence.
Until he heard the slight grate of a shoe on the stones just behind him. Swiftly he turned, flinging the wooden cigar box up before him like a shield.
The point of a blade splintered through the printed lid of the box to gleam just before his eyes. The impact caught him in mid-turn and cost him his balance. Leaving the impaled box behind, he fell with a roll and was back on his feet in an instant.
There was no one there, only a dark shape at the far end of the alley rounding the corner and the fading sound of running footsteps on the cobbles.
A box of very fine cigars lay forlorn on the ground before him, stabbed through the heart.
Dalton rubbed his own chest in sympathy. That had been entirely too close. He stooped to recover the knife from the box without much hope of using it to identify his attacker. After all, the fellow would hardly have left it behind had it been engraved with his name.
He was quite correct. It was an ordinary knife with a Sheffield stamp, the sort that was available from any number of shops in and out of London.
The assailant could simply have been an ordinary footpad as well, simply seizing a likely moment.
Or perhaps Simon had a point about concealing one’s trail.
“Clara! Claaa-ra!”
Clara cringed at the yodeling up-note in her sister-in-law’s call. She didn’t waste time answering, since Beatrice knew precisely where she was. Instead, she used the few seconds of warning to blow softly over the still-wet ink lines of her latest drawing.
As the door to her room opened Clara casually laid a blotting sheet over it, then turned to face Beatrice.
“Good morning, sister.”
Beatrice stood puffing loudly and fanning her face. Clara remained unmoved by the guilt that she was supposed to feel about putting her sister-in-law to the trouble of climbing the stairs.
In her own mind, she considered Bea’s daily climb something of a constitutional. Such exertion could only benefit someone so sedentary of habit.
When she saw no reaction, Bea snapped her handkerchief down and dispensed with the dramatics. “Well, I see you’re up and about already.”
“Indeed. I’ve already been for a walk. How are you this fine morning?”
It wasn’t morning any longer, for the clock had since struck two, but Clara saw no sense in encouraging Bea to rise any earlier than absolutely necessary. The morning hours when she had the house to herself were far too precious.
“Humph. I suppose you went shopping while you were out? Wasting more money on ink and such for your silly scribbles?”
“’Tis my money to spend as I please, Bea. I had another … investment pay off recently.”
“Well, if you’ve money to throw away, you might consider helping with the household expenses. I vow I don’t know how Mr. Trapp bears the burden of all these women to support. The cost of launching twin daughters into Society—mercy!”
Clara glanced over Beatrice’s fine silk morning gown and the flashing rings that were never removed but for bathing, but said nothing. Oswald Trapp couldn’t spend his wealth in this lifetime if he tried. Still, the Trapps had not had to take her in when Bentley had died.
She truly must keep that in mind. Clara tuned out the rest of her sister-in-law’s complaints as she gathered up her drawing supplies and tied shut her portfolio. There’d be no more time to work until the next morning came blissfully, quietly round again.
“… Sir Thorogood himself will be here!” Beatrice’s triumphant crow shattered Clara’s calm like a hammer on glass.
The ink bottle slipped from her suddenly numb fingers to bounce harmlessly on the carpet.
“Oh, my! You’ve ruined the rug, you careless thing!”
Clara knelt to pick up the well-corked bottle with shaking hands. “No, Bea See? Not a drop spilled.”
“Well, you’d best be glad of that, Clara Rose Tremont Simpson! That carpet is very valuable!”
It wasn’t, but Clara had no interest in arguing the point. The carpets were a sensitive subject. After the last stray cat that Clara had rescued, the house had become infested with fleas. It had taken soaking every carpet with benzene to rid them of the pests. After that, Beatrice had put her foot firmly down and Clara had brought home no more strays.
“What did you say about Sir Thorogood?”
“I declare I don’t know what you think you’re about, tossing ink around my home this way. You’d think this was your house—”
Clara sighed. “Sir Thorogood. What were you saying about Sir Thorogood?”
“What? Oh … oh, yes. When I met him at the ball last night I invited him to dine with us tomorrow. I just received his acceptance! We shall finally have an individual of wit at our table,” she caroled.
“At last,” Clara seconded weakly. She was fairly sure Beatrice didn’t spot the irony of her own statement.
“I thought you were partial to him. What’s wrong? You’ve gone pale of a sudden. Are you ill?”
Beatrice blinked at her in real concern. Clara took her sister-in-law’s hand, grateful for the reminder that Beatrice was not bad, simply more concerned with a part of life that meant nothing to Clara.
If she didn’t wish to be judged, she ought not to judge. “Dear Bea. You are so kind to me and I am so indebted.”
Beatrice actually blushed. “Well, of course you are. But I wouldn’t have it any other way. Bentley was very fond of you, and it’s only right that I should look out for you.”
Clara gripped her hand and smiled. “Well, then, you must take me shopping for a new gown. I rather think I’ll need something much prettier for our esteemed guest.”
Beatrice clapped her hands together. “We should go now so they will have time to fit you properly.”
“No, tomorrow,” Clara said absently. She had much work to do today and then there was tonight’s venture. She would shop tomorrow, she decided, then draw until the time came for dinner with the impostor.
Then Clara saw the disappointment in Beatrice’s face.
“But you must help me choose just the right gown. Perhaps something …” Clara concealed a shudder. “Pink?”
The cloudy night was perfect for a thief. Dalton leaned back onto the warm chimney at his back and watched the dusk overtake the square below him.
Wadsworth’s residence was one of a row of brick houses, all connected by their side walls. The fronts faced across the cobbles to the square with its manicured lawn and white graveled paths winding through graceful trees.
Wadsworth’s house was fine, if a bit ostentatious. It stood at a respectable address, in a part of Mayfair largely occupied by what Stubbs would call “the Quality.” Wadsworth was in manufacturing. Not all the money in the world would buy him into the ton, although presumably nothing could prevent him from living next door.
The back gardens ranged from the floral explosion of the house at his back to the grim formality of Wads-worth’s perfect lawn and flawless walk. Apparently not a blade dared grow out of place. Even the slates on Wadsworth’s roof were fitted with military precision.
The lamplighter came into the square below, trundling his oil cask and his apprentice, whom he sent shinnying up the posts like a monkey. All around the square the two figures went as the twilight deepened, until the center of the square glowed golden in the bluing night.
The light was enough for those at street level to see their way, but Dalton knew it didn’t reach as high as the rooftops. In his dark seaman’s wool and black silk mask, he was merely another shadow among many. On a cloudy night like tonight, not even the waxing moon would betray him.
Still, there was no point in making his entry too early. Londoners kept late hours, and Wadsworth was no exception, according to the servants. Dalton had approached an elderly footman earlier in the day and struck up an idle conversation.
“Sorry, me lad, but ‘is lordship don’t ‘ire outside ‘elp.”
“That’s too bad. I been lookin’ for anythin’ to keep the little ones fed. I’ll shovel coal, sand, or horse apples, I ain’t choosy. Me wife’s right pretty and well spoke. She could serve sometime when ‘is lordship’s ‘avin’ a do.”
“Nay, son, you don’t want to put a pretty girl in this ‘ouse, not by far! Late hours and little to show for it, and not every guest behaves as he should.”
Dalton had pressed for details but the old fellow had only warned him off again and shuffled back indoors. That alone had been something odd, for even the most base servants tended to boast about their employers to others in service, if only to make themselves more important.
So he prepared himself for a long wait and slouched comfortably against the toasty bricks behind him. At least this resident kept his house warm. He pondered the pretty grounds behind “his” house in the very last of the dusk. A woman lived here, likely more than one.
A warm house. A pretty house. You needed a woman for that. His own rather austere mansion was very fine, the best. Built by his grandfather for his grandmother upon their wedding, it was still new enough to be sturdy, but old enough to have become a fixture in its own elegant square.
But it was neither pretty nor warm. Nor would it be soon, for Dalton had no intention of marrying for many years, if at all. He simply couldn’t imagine his life with a wife and child in it. There would be too much distraction, too much disorder.
Besides, he had a nephew to inherit someday. Collis Tremayne would make a fine Lord Etheridge in his turn, or father one of his own. Families were for another sort of man altogether, not for him.
Still, the garden below was very nice, indeed.
Chapter Five
Clara trod as softly as she could along the carpeted hallway passing before the family bedrooms. Although it was past midnight, there was no guarantee that everyone was soundly asleep. Beatrice liked to think that they kept “town hours,” though their social calendar wasn’t quite that full. Privately Clara believed that if one slept until past noon, one didn’t have much choice about staying wakeful into the night.