by The Impostor
Even as these thoughts were skittering through her mind, another part of her was becoming very aware of the closeness of the air. Every breath she took was becoming more labored. She’d not thought the trunk might be airtight!
She must get out. Listening carefully, she heard nothing from above her. Perhaps he was already gone. Then a sound reached her. A tuneless humming, an idle sort of sound.
Drat. He was most definitely still there and he wasn’t leaving anytime soon. Time ticked slowly on and the air in the trunk became heavier and less satisfying. She tried her mightiest to wait the invader out, but finally she could not deny that shortly she would be in certain danger of suffocation. Could the alternative be any worse?
In a resentful panic, she rapped sharply on the lid.
“Yes?” came that deep voice.
Her lungs were beginning to burn and her head was swimming. In panicked anger, she slammed the side of her fist against the lid. “Oh, just get off, you great bugger!”
The deep chuckle barely reached her consciousness as her mind began to buzz unpleasantly. Then the lid no longer resisted her efforts and the air became blessedly clear.
Breathing deeply, she blinked, her eyes straining in the darkness. Where was he? Fighting the last of her dizziness, she rose to a crouch and looked about her. Where had he gone?
Then she saw motion in front of the window again and realized he’d retreated to his former position. Still, she had the feeling that he could see her every bit as well as she could see him.
Giving up entirely on stealth, she clambered noisily from the trunk. After all, if he’d wanted her dead, he’d only have needed to leave her in the dangerous position in which she’d put herself.
She stood and straightened her skirts with a swish, in no mood to be toyed with further. “‘Twas a dirty trick,” she hissed at the shadow. “You nearly done me in!”
The man didn’t move. “I’ll not harm you, girl.”
She flinched at his voice, though it was warm and even, and he made no move toward her. Clara realized that she had never heard a masculine voice in this attic, never known the way it could rebound from the slanting walls and low ceiling until he sounded as though he were standing right beside her, murmuring into her ear.
Then she took in his meaning. He could not truly see her, she was sure of it. How then had he known that she was female?
“I can smell your scent, my flower,” he said with a chuckle, though she had not spoken the thought. “And I can just see your pale bit of a face.”
The fellow shifted his stance, slowly moving his hands up and settling them into his pockets. With his form clearly in profile now, Clara could see that he was a fit fellow, tall and powerful.
Oddly, that didn’t add to her unease. If he’d wanted to attack, surely he could have done so by now. As it was, he reminded her of a man trying to ease his way into acquaintance with a gentle wild thing.
“Will you not come forward then, little one?” the fellow said softly after a moment. “I’d not meant to frighten anyone.”
His deep voice eased her fear with his soothing tone. The knot of fear in her belly untied itself, but the strings still thrummed with tension. She felt dizzy, unsettled by him, although that could be the result of scarcely breathing for so long.
“Why are you here?” she whispered.
“Not to do you harm, I swear to ye.”
“Well, you’re not here to clean the windows,” she retorted.
He laughed softly, still maintaining his position. ‘True enough, my rose.”
Rose? “Why—why do you call me that?”
“I smell roses on you.”
The soap she’d used for her bath this eve. A tiny joke with herself, using rose soap when she would be playing Rose.
The nightmare feeling was becoming more dreamlike by the moment. Here she stood, conversing with an undoubtedly dangerous stranger in a dark attic in the middle of the night.
Hardly the place for a proper lady to be.
She was not afraid of him, she realized, but was not startled by that, still caught up in the unreality of it all. She felt pulled to him, drawn by his attempts to reassure her. She wished the moon would come out from behind the clouds the better to see him, but the sky was impenetrable and the lamplight from the square was entirely inadequate. There was only the dimness and the man.
As if he had her insides on a string, he pulled her with his voice. “Will you not come closer, pretty rose? There’s no need to hide in the shadows.”
She took one step, then another. He turned his head as if to listen to the gentle grating of her shoes upon the floor and she saw the dark mask wrapped round the top of his face.
“A thief.” She froze once more. “You’re naught but a thief.”
He said nothing for a moment, then nodded. “You could say that, but I’ve not come to steal from you.”
“Not from me? How do you know I’m not the lady of the house, and will call down the law upon your head?”
“You may be a princess in your own right, my rose, but you’re no fine lady, by your voice.”
Clara realized that she’d kept Rose’s uncultured accents throughout the exchange, and blessed herself for unwitting cleverness. He thought her a simple chambermaid, and therefore of little consequence, as long as he could persuade her not to give alarm to the household.
And truly, a thief in Wadsworth’s home was hardly a bad thing, was it? If anyone deserved a stiff robbing, it was the master.
“No, I’m no princess, nor a lady fine.” She stepped closer once more, her curiosity overcoming the last of her fear. “And you’re no gentleman, but a common parlor thief.”
“Nay, not common at all.” He chuckled. “Are you not afraid, then?”
“No.” She truly wasn’t, though she was foolish to be so trusting. Still, aside from his teasing with the trunk he’d been nothing but respectful so far, though he had her quite alone. Which was more than she could say of the majority of Wadsworth’s guests. Many was the evening she took home a few bruises from fingers pinching in unmentionable places.
“I ought to call out,” she mused aloud. “I ought to run for the stairs and scream down the house.”
“But you won’t.” He seemed very sure.
She smiled at him. “No, I won’t.”
Dalton was having difficulty grasping the situation. No one should be in the attic at this time of night. Especially not a female person in an apron and cap, standing saucily before him with a smile.
He was surprised by the white gleam of her teeth in the dimness. He’d thought himself coaxing a shivering maid from calling an alarm, but now found himself the recipient of a conspiratorial grin.
This one was not in the manual.
“Are you sure you’re not afraid?” he asked again, trying to catch up.
She laughed out loud. “If you was to throw me over your shoulder and carry me away from here, I’d likely shout me thanks to the top of Westminster.”
Dalton relaxed. A disgruntled servant he could believe, knowing what he did of Edward Wadsworth. Heaven knew what this girl was forced to put up with in this household, although it apparently hadn’t broken her spirit.
She plunked something on top of her head, a cap of some kind, then held out her hand.
“Best we get on, then.”
He hesitated. “Get on where?”
“The master’s safe box in his study, o’ course. Or is it jewels you’re after? They’re in the master’s chamber.”
“N-no, the safe box’ll do.” He took her outstretched hand in his own and allowed her to lead him on a winding path through the crowded attic. How … unexpected.
“Good. The master don’t hold with jewels much, anyway. But I think there might be something in the safe box.”
“Does he use the safe often?”
“Every Thursday night, and the first Sunday of the month, as well.”
“Why Thursday?”
“It’s when h
e’s after having his meeting.”
“His meeting … every Thursday eve?”
“Aye. So he’s just had it last night.”
How perfect. If the girl was correct, Wadsworth wouldn’t even be checking his safe for days. If Dalton was able to get the contents away undetected, he could examine them at his leisure before he had to put them back.
“You never told me your name,” he said.
“Nor have you.”
Dalton smiled, charmed by her pertness. “Monty,” he said, his nickname from school long ago.
“It’s a nice name,” she said softly, “for a thief.”
“Only in good cause, my rose.”
She tilted her head and looked back at him soberly. “You know, I believe you mean that.”
They came to a narrow door that opened onto a set of even narrower stairs that wound down into complete darkness. Dalton spared a fleeting moment of pity for the poor souls who had to carry all the flotsam of the household up those tight turns. Were the stairs in his own house so inaccessible?
They traveled down, taking turn after turn. Dalton realized that she was leading him straight to the ground floor.
With one hand held by the girl and one hand trailing along the wall to keep his bearings in the darkness, Dalton had no way to tell that she had stopped short before him until he ran into her.
His arm swung to catch himself, and wrapped right about her waist. She inhaled sharply in response, which only served to tighten his grasp.
She was taller than he’d thought, for her head fit just under his chin. If he bent down, he could kiss the top of her silly mobcap. Not that he wanted to, of course, though she smelled of flowers and warm woman, and fit so nicely against him.
The thought scampered across his mind that this was the second time in two days that he had been in this position with a woman.
He felt her let her breath free in a slow, controlled exhalation, then she calmly peeled his arm away and moved on, never losing her grip on his other hand.
“I’ll thank you not to be thievin’ from me, masked man. My safe box is not for your pilferin’ hands.”
Dalton grinned in the dark. She was a bold thing, this attic rose—dainty and poised, but saucy. He decided that he liked saucy.
He heard a click, and a rectangle of pale light appeared before them. He’d made it into the house.
For a brief moment, he felt regret at leaving the scented intimacy of the dark stairwell. This fearless maid had him somewhat enchanted, and he was frankly a bit afraid to see her clearly.
Her face could never live up to her clear lilting voice and her lithe graceful form. She’d have a large nose, or bulging eyes, and his enjoyable moment of fancy would be quite spoiled.
She turned briefly, lit from beyond by the few sconces still burning in the hallway. Her cap was pulled low and she ducked her head but Dalton saw enough to reassure him. There was no bulbous nose in view. Only a delicate profile, one with a decidedly firm little chin.
She was no beauty, perhaps, but apparently fine featured and clear skinned. Pretty, he decided, in an understated way. Hiding it like that likely did her good in this house of men.
He was glad that she was pretty, even as he laughed at himself. What a fairy-tale fool he was, to fancy her a dream girl, a secret beauty formed just for him from midnight magic.
She was only a maid, and he was only an idiot who’d gone too long without the caress of a woman’s hands.
Still, he was enjoying this adventure. He was Monty, sneak thief and charmer of pretty chambermaids. His life was chancy but free, and he made the most of it.
No responsibilities, no seat in Parliament, no national security needs laid at his doorstep. Lord Etheridge would return to his life in a few hours, but for now Monty would relish his freedom and flirt with a pretty girl.
She led him down the hall, moving too quietly for words. Was she required to be so silent in her duties? Dalton realized that he had little idea what a chambermaid’s life was like.
The girl stopped before a set of double doors that looked very much like the ones that led to Dalton’s own study. Pushing him back and motioning him to stay, she pushed one open and entered, ducking her head and shuffling as she did so.
She popped back out immediately, flashing him that same gamine grin in the dimness. “His lordship’s gone to bed hours ago,” she said. Then she took his hand and towed him into the study.
“How can you tell?”
“The fire. ’Tis cold as ice. He don’t allow a fire to burn unless he’s in the room. Wasteful, he says.”
“Chilling,” muttered Dalton. In more ways than one. Now that he thought about it, the attic had been uncommonly cold, as was the rest of the house. And this poor girl had to work in this unheated place?
Wadsworth was even more close-fisted than Dalton had realized. Not to mention uncaring to the point of cruelty. Dalton decided that he would enjoy pilfering Wadsworth’s safe box.
Without being asked, the girl moved to open the draperies of the street-facing window. The glow from the lamps on the square provided enough light for Dalton to examine the safe box.
It wasn’t a very complicated one, he soon learned. Apparently Wadsworth couldn’t bear to part with his brass, not even for good security. Dalton removed two picks from his pocket and slipped them into the keyhole of the lock.
He smelled roses, and looked down to see that the girl was standing almost in his armpit, gazing raptly at what he was doing.
“Thinkin’ of takin’ up a new career?” he teased.
She flashed him that pirate smile again. “None o’ your cheekiness, Mr. Monty Thief-in-the-night! I’ve always wondered, is all.”
Dalton wasn’t sure what possessed him, but he pulled the picks from the lock and reached for her hands. “I’ll show you.”
Willingly she moved in front of him and allowed him to manipulate her hands while she held the picks. “Y’see,” he said softly into her ear. “You hold this one still whilst you find the tumbler with this one. Then you turn it till it gives in to you.”
It wasn’t very gentlemanly of him to move still closer, pressing himself to her back. But then again, Monty was no gentleman, was he? The maid’s hands went motionless beneath his, then she shifted slightly against him and bent to her task once again.
The lock clicked and sprang open, but Dalton’s senses didn’t absorb it for a moment. He was still somewhat dazed by the unexpected rush of desire that had swept over him at the light brush of her bottom against his groin. Startling and … somewhat confusing.
Triumphant, she turned in his arms, holding the picks aloft. “I did it!” Then she froze when she saw his face.
Her own face was a pale oval in the dimness, only her brow, cheekbone, and chin catching the glimmer from the street. The shadows added mystery, so that all he could see of her eyes was fathomless darkness.
As if on its own, his hand lifted to her face. She didn’t move, still gazing into his eyes. He let his knuckles skim along her soft cheek and she started slightly. Did she feel it, too?
The silence pulsed around them and he could hear her breathe. He let one finger drag along her bottom lip, just to see if it was as soft as her skin. Her lips parted and a small breath escaped her. Dalton liked the way her lips felt. He especially liked the lower one, which was just a shade too plump for refinement, but which suited him very well.
She made a tiny sound at the contact, a small catch of her breath.
It was enough to wake him from his daze of lust. Dalton became aware of two things simultaneously. She smelled better than any woman he had ever known, and she had suddenly begun to shake against him.
She was alone with him, and he wanted her. She had good reason to be afraid, were he anyone else. It sickened him to know he’d caused fear in her. He’d never taken advantage of a woman in his life, not even a chambermaid, and in his position of wealth and power he easily could have.
With a physical wrench, he s
tepped back and dropped his arms, forcing a weak laugh. “Well, you can’t blame a bloke for dreamin’, now can ye?”
She only looked at him, her eyes dark and wide in the dimness. “Best you don’t dream of me, Monty Thief-in-the-night. For you’ll dream in vain.”
Then she moved neatly away from him, stopping only when she had placed a large chair between them. “Go on with your job. ’Tis gettin’ late.”
Dalton stared at the open safe for a moment, feeling foolish. He was on a mission. He was not here to cuddle chambermaids. Angry at himself and at her for being more focused than he was, he began rifling through the contents of Wadsworth’s safe, sorting by feel.
Keeping his back to her, he left the lovingly wrapped banknotes alone, taking only the tightly bound portfolios. Wadsworth’s files would be worth more to this mission than all his wealth.
Swiftly he stuffed them into the small bag that was strapped over his shoulder, keeping them in the precise order in which they had lain in the safe, and closed the clasp. He shut the safe and held out his hand.
“My picks.”
Clara looked down at her hands, surprised to see her fingers still tightly wrapped around the long metal picks. The metal had bitten into her skin and her fingers opened stiffly after clenching for many minutes. She likely had red marks driven deeply into her palms.
He’d frightened her worse than she’d thought.
Frightened, were you? Is that why your knees are weak and you can’t catch your breath?
Of course it was. What else could it be but fear?
Fear and a tall, broad-shouldered, slim-hipped male body that was made all the more tempting by the black mask above …
Clara shook her head before that sharp little voice could answer. There was something quite seriously wrong with her. Watching Monty warily, she stepped forward to drop the picks into the dim blur of his waiting hand, then retreated behind the chair once more.
He’d touched her so … longingly? No, it hadn’t been mere longing. There had been something darker and more intense in the delicate sensuous strokes of his fingers.
Bentley had desired her physically and she’d been willing enough, if never terribly enthusiastic. But he’d never ached for her, the way that Monty’s silent touch had revealed that he did.