by The Impostor
He eyed her as she chattered and preened, hardly stopping to take a breath. She was healthy, of good figure, and interested. She was too vapid to be a danger to his clandestine work. And he had been without a woman for a very long time.
Perhaps—
Her spine-altering laughter shattered his contemplation like a hammer on glass, making his shoulders rise in an involuntary attempt to protect his hearing.
Perhaps not.
Clara refrained from rolling her eyes. What a buffoon. What a waste of a tall, good-looking man. It was simply too much to hope the fellow might have a brain to go with those muscles.
And those eyes. She’d had difficulty all evening keeping herself from being mesmerized by the matching silver glimmer of his eyes. He would turn away and she would recover herself, remind herself of his lies, convince herself that there was nothing unusual about a pair of light gray eyes.
Then his gaze would swing back to her and she would almost stop breathing at the beauty of his eyes. He was handsome enough without that hypnotic gaze. It was truly quite unnecessary. Wasn’t that just like a man, to claim more than his due?
So she assured herself of time without his attention. All it took was a little boredom. Clara watched “Sir Thorogood” cringe as she tittered and prattled away. She wanted to laugh for real at the hunted expression on his face.
Beatrice’s reaction to all this was priceless, as well. She was staring at Clara as if she were contemplating calling in religious assistance.
It was time to move in for the kill. With only the Trapps for witnesses, the timing was not as good as a more public event would have been, but Clara was tired of waiting. She wanted this liar unveiled.
She opened her mouth to pin him down and force him to draw for the company—but Kitty beat her to the punch.
“Did you know that Auntie Clara draws as well, Sir Thorogood? She’s very good, almost like a real artist!”
Clara sent the girl a glare, and the poor thing retreated in confusion. Clara felt terrible, since Kitty was her favorite and was obviously trying to help Clara in her “pursuit” of Sir Thorogood. Yet her drawing ability was the last subject Clara wanted aired right now.
“Oh, my scribbles are nothing compared to Sir Thorogood!” Clara simpered. “Why, sir, you are a genius? A master? Those cartoons are so full of wit, as well as skill!” This was fun. “Why, I’ve heard that the Prince himself never misses one of m—your caricatures!”
She could see the dread growing on his face. Yes, you had better be worried, you fake. “We would simply love for you to draw something for us tonight, wouldn’t we, Bea?”
Beatrice began to chime in, obviously seeing an opportunity to best her rival, Mrs. Teagarden. To have an original Sir Thorogood drawing on display would be quite the social coup. Of course, Bea already had a number of them stored rather disdainfully away, but Clara could hardly tell her that.
“I spent all morning tracing one of your drawings. Sir Thorogood, and my hand was utterly exhausted,” Kitty said. “However do you manage to draw hundreds of each one for the newspaper?”
“They’re not all hand-drawn, Kitty,” explained Clara absently. “The original is taken to the engraver, who carves the lines into a metal sheet which is then inked and used to print—”
Halting with dismay, Clara looked up to see everyone at the table regarding her with surprise. Sir Thoro-fake had one eyebrow nearly to his hairline and Beatrice had stopped with a forkful of food halfway to her open mouth.
Even Kitty was astonished. “Why, Auntie Clara, how on earth did you know that?”
Eek. How could she make such an idiotic slip? “Ah—
I—visited a newspaper once to—to place an advertisement. I learned about it there.” Time to change the subject. “Sir, do tell us how you began your work. With whom did you study? Ackermann?”
“Oh, I never studied at all,” Sir Thorogood said airily. “I always felt that formal tuition would only sully my style.”
Sully his style? She, who had longed all her life for real instruction in art, wanted to sully more than his style, the blackguard!
Dalton was ready to leave now. These people knew little or nothing about Wadsworth. In the entire evening, he’d only managed to learn that the man was a faultless neighbor, if a less than friendly one.
Every time he’d brought the subject up, Mrs. Simpson had pointedly returned the topic of conversation to himself. The woman obviously thought that he would find such attention flattering.
She was almost frightening in her zeal. Dalton was quite sure he had never been pursued with such determination. The woman was like a terrier, never releasing her prey until it was dead. An admirable trait in a colleague. Not attractive at all in a paramour.
In fact, he was beginning to feel downright claustrophobic in this small overdecorated dining room, fixed in the hunter vision of a small, overdecorated predator.
He was forced to wait until the ladies rose from the table, but as soon as he was able, he bowed over their hands in turn. “I despise parting from your lovely society, Mrs. Trapp, Mrs. Simpson, but I must make my way home. There is such scope for inspiration in your exquisite company that I find myself quite overcome.”
He thought he heard a tiny derisive snort greet his words. Dalton looked up, only to see Mrs. Simpson gazing at him with single-minded devotion.
“Oh, do come again soon, sir. We take such delight in learning about your art. Next time, you must draw for us. Promise you will, for me?” She batted her eyelashes at him until he would have sworn that she blinded herself.
“Ah—yes, of course. Next time.” He turned to take his coat and hat from the butler. The door was mere steps away. He could make it—
“Oh, Sir Thorogood! Clara was just telling me how very much she wished to take some air in Hyde Park tomorrow. Do you think you might be available to escort her?”
Dalton was so surprised by Mrs. Trapp’s bad manners that he hesitated a fraction of a second too long. The woman clapped her hands together in delight.
“Oh, wonderful. The two of you will make such a dashing couple—as you drive, I mean to say.”
Hellfire. Once more in the company of the huntress. He was going to feel like a fox before the hound all morning, just waiting for her to take a bite out of him. The only comfort was the expression on Mrs. Simpson’s face. Apparently, Mrs. Trapp hadn’t consulted her sister-in-law either, for Mrs. Simpson looked truly disconcerted.
He bowed to her. Anything to get out of this house. “Tomorrow then, my dear lady. Shall I call for you at noon? Good night, Mr. Trapp, ladies.”
Then he was through the door and free. Until tomorrow morning, at any rate.
Still, his step lightened as he thought of his last task for the evening. He had a few things to return to Wadsworth. Things that, while they gave no hint as to Thorogood’s identity, did prove that the man was one nasty player in a very vicious game.
Idly he wondered if Rose would be up and about tonight. But he never stopped to ponder the fact that the corners of his lips were lifted in a smile at the thought of her.
Clara rushed through her own attic and into Wads-worth’s, only pausing a moment when her laden basket snagged in the narrow hole between the boards.
The light of a single tallow candle lit the shadowy space, and in its glow she could see Rose kneeling beside a small battered crate.
“How is it?” Breathless, Clara knelt next to Rose and peered down at the still form of the injured cat.
“It’s still breathin’, miss, but it ain’t opened its eyes once since I been here.”
Pity filled Clara. “I blame myself. If I hadn’t laughed, Wadsworth might not have been angered into striking it.”
Rose made a cynical sound. “The likes of him don’t need an excuse to hurt things. He just fancies it, is all.”
Clara thought about Rose’s dismal life in this house. Wadsworth had struck more than the cat today. “You must think me silly, to care for a dumb a
nimal when people are suffering around me.”
Rose looked up quickly, her dark eyes somber. “Oh, no, miss, never you! And carin’ for things, well, that’s just who you are—a caring sort, the way the master is a hurtin’ sort.”
Clara was humbled by the uncomplicated admiration in Rose’s eyes. “I thank you, dear one, but I cannot take so much credit.” She turned back to the cat before Rose could make her feel worse.
“I’ve some broth for the cat,” she said. She pawed through her basket and lifted out a small jar. She set it next to the crate and dug into her things again.
Then she snapped out a napkin and laid it over her arm like the master at a fine restaurant. “And for milady’s feast, we have a lovely kidney pie, accompanied by your usual chocolate of course.” She sucked in her cheeks and served Rose with snooty formality. The little maid giggled.
“Now when you’re done, I want you to go into my attic where it’s nice and warm. You should rest until I come back.” Rose looked so weary that Clara felt a bit guilty that her primary reason for the offer was that she was fairly sure Monty would be returning tonight and she wanted to see him alone. Then again, Rose would only be frightened by the presence of a masked thief in her attic.
“I thanks you, miss.” Without another word. Rose dug into her meal. Clara changed into her maid costume, then turned her attention to the cat.
The poor slat-ribbed creature looked near death. Yes, it was breathing, but only just. Carefully, Clara lifted its head with its poor tattered ears and spooned a bit of broth between the slackened jaws. She waited, gently stroking the filthy neck with one thumb, until she felt a contraction that meant the cat had swallowed.
If it—Clara quickly checked—if she could eat, then she would live, Clara was sure of it. Patiently, she dribbled the broth into the cat, spoonful by spoonful. Rose finished her meal and bid Clara good eve. Clara answered absently, her entire attention focused on the slowly reviving animal.
Finally the broth was gone and the cat had even roused enough to lick her jaws and Clara’s fingers with a rough tongue. Letting the creature’s head relax to the blanket in a more natural sleep than before, Clara stood and stretched.
It must be later than she thought, for she’d gone quite chill as she’d sat there.
Perhaps Monty was not coming after all.
Thinking that she could hear the watchmen call the hour if she opened the window, she crossed the attic to the high mullioned glass and unlatched it.
Monty was waiting just outside when she swung open the glass panel.
She started, her heart leaping from more than simple surprise. “Goodness, Monty, you near scared me to death!”
He leaned one arm over the sill and hoisted himself up to sit on it with his long legs dangling outside, putting his eyes on a level with hers. The light of the candle in the far end of the attic only lit his face enough for her to see the gleam in his shadowed eyes.
“You’re not surprised to see me, my flower.”
“That I’m not. Seemed to me you might be wantin’ to return what you took out of the master’s safe.” She grinned at him. “Get a good look at it, did you?”
He smiled back and leaned close to her ear, though there was no one to hear and they were nearly whispering already. “Maybe I came back to see your smilin’ face.”
His breath was warm on her neck and tingled within her ear. She licked her lips and swallowed. Without truly planning it, she tilted her head to reveal more of her neck to him. He obliged by leaning closer, hovering just a hairsbreadth over her skin. Time seemed to last, stretching on while they lingered in that almost-touch moment. Clara’s eyes drifted closed the better to absorb the pleasant sensation of his breath on her skin.
Then they flew open again and she drew back to glare at him.
“None o’ that, sir! I’m a good girl.” Oh, no I’m not? “You’ll not be talkin’ me out of it.” Please talk me out of it?
He drew back, his lips slightly parted, and for a moment she thought he would kiss her. Then he grinned and leaned closer, dangling comically by one hand gripping the window frame until his face nearly nestled in her bosom. “Just one kiss, my flower, and I’ll die happy man.”
“You’ll die all right,” she replied tartly. “With me fist in your nose, you’ll die.”
He clapped a hand to his heart, and swayed on his perch on the sill. “I’m done for, then. You’ve broken me heart with your hard-hearted ways. Goodbye, cruel maiden!”
He moved as if to throw himself from the window, but Clara caught the lapel of his short wool coat and dragged him back.
With a lithe twist, he was standing within the attic and her tug had him pressed nearly to her front. His big body blocked the dim light and she could no longer see his eyes behind his mask, but she could feel his soft chuckle as if it came from her own body.
“She says yes, she says no, she says yes again,” he murmured. “Reel me in, little fisherwoman. I’m well and hooked.”
His voice was low and intimate, and although he kept his hands to his sides, she could feel him lean closer. He tilted his head and she felt the brush of his lips warm on her forehead.
She had only to tilt her own face up to invite the kiss she wanted. The pull was strong, as strong as her grip on his coat, and it would be so easy …
She stepped back once. Then again. The second one was easier, but not much. She released her stranglehold on his lapel. The third step was easier still. In a moment, she would begin breathing again, surely.
Clara forced herself to fill her lungs. Why did he make her so breathless? And why did she want him to? This was not why she was here.
“Enough of your play, Monty. Do you have the master’s papers or no?” She had every intention of using her new-found lock-picking skills to open the safe herself and read them after Monty had gone.
He slid his hand down to the deep pockets that all such rough coats had on each hip. “Here. I’ve ‘em all here.”
“Good, then. The house is well asleep. Let’s put them back where they belong.”
He caught her hand. “I know where to go. You’d best be out of this, for your own good.”
“And if someone hears a noise, will it be you claimin’ to be sneakin’ to the kitchens for a bit of bread? That would be convincing, wouldn’t it?” She cast her gaze up in impatience. “Would you get steppin’, Monty? We’ve not got all night.” She turned and left him there.
Chapter Ten
Dalton followed that determined little backside down to the door and into the dark stairwell. As the blackness closed around them, he was reminded of his wayward thoughts the last time they’d been here.
His bout of flirtation had been meant to distract her from her questions. Instead, he was fair to distracting himself from his mission. His arousal stirred at the soft scent of roses in the air. It was really past time to dally with some widow or another.
The image of Mrs. Simpson hovered in the blackness before him. She lay half-dressed upon a garden bench in the moonlight, only this time her eyes were open and so were her arms.
Forcefully, Dalton shunted that image aside and replaced it with one of the annoying widow braying loudly at the dinner table while her in-laws regarded her with dismay.
There. Lust all gone.
Until the woman before him turned abruptly and placed her palm on his chest to stop him as he followed her down the steps. His body continued two steps until it came into contact with hers and he was forced to wrap one arm around her for balance. Or something.
“Wh—”
The small hand fumbled quickly to his mouth and pressed gently to his lips. Then she wrapped her fingers around the back of his neck and pulled his head down to hers.
Oh, yes, the lust was back.
“—the hall,” she whispered into his ear. Dalton realized he’d missed the first part of what she’d said in the roar of all his blood leaving his brain for other regions.
He shook his head quickly. Sh
e leaned closer until her small bosom contacted his chest and breathed softly into his ear. “I think I heard footsteps in the hall.”
He heard her this time, although he still didn’t give a damn what she said. All he wanted was to wrap his arms about her and pull her close for a deep breathless kiss.
Or a damp and breathless rogering would do.
She remained where she was, breast to chest with him. She was listening for danger, he managed to think. Good. She could listen.
He would lust.
Her hand still lay gently on the back of his neck. His head was still bent down to hers. One small tilt and he could capture her lips with his. …
She likely wouldn’t protest too much, if at all. She might claim that she was a good girl, but she was daring enough to meet him in the attic past midnight and show him through the darkened house.
She was no lady, no protected debutante. With his wealth, he could more than compensate her for any distress. His lust struggled to convince him that she was fair game. A saucy servant girl, without a soul to protect her—
From him.
With deep gut-chilling shock, Dalton realized that he was actually contemplating seducing an innocent servant girl, of breaking down her protestations of virtue and taking her right here on this dusty attic stair.
He despised men who did such things. Reviled them for rutting selfish beasts who thought dependents were nothing but playthings.
How could he be so base? To even think such a thing about a bright brave young woman like Rose? Filled with self-loathing, he took a step back, shaking her lax hand from his shoulder as he did so.
He was a Montmorency. A peer and a gentleman. “Monty” was nothing but a fancy, and a dangerous one at that.
Her attention still on the hall, Clara reached for Monty’s hand again. “Come. They’re gone now.”