by The Impostor
He laughed out loud at that, then clutched his brain between both hands to keep it in his skull. “Ouch.”
Clara shook her head, smiling. She wasn’t sure at what point she had decided to forgive the man his posturing. Perhaps it had been when he’d told her that he’d been attacked because of her cartoons. Perhaps it had been when he’d thrust her behind him at the first sign of danger.
Or perhaps it had been the way he’d lain trustingly in her lap, defenseless but for her protection.
Whatever the reason, she found herself entirely able to smile naturally at Sir Thorogood without experiencing the desire to slap the curl from his powdered hair. So he’d assumed the credit for her cartoons—well, what of it? She had no intention of ever coming forward to claim her work. In fact, his charade only made her work easier, for now she would never be suspected.
She doubted she would ever understand what could make someone do such a thing, but her anger over the matter was gone. Let him bask in the glow for a while. If nothing else, she could be gratified by Society’s wholehearted approval of her drawings.
Or disapproval—
If someone were after her… er, him… if someone were after Sir Thorogood, then this man was in danger because of her—despite the fact that he had willingly assumed the role.
She leaned forward, trying to decide how to warn him. “Sir Thorogood, you said someone was trying to hurt you because of m—your cartoons.”
He didn’t look at her. “I did?”
“Yes, on the bridge. If that’s true, don’t you think it might be wise to… well, make yourself a little less public?”
“Oh, nothing of the sort, I’m sure. Footpads, that was all, taking advantage of the weather to hoist a few purses and pocket watches.” His tone was any, if rather muffled.
“But you said—”
“Oh, a wandering mind might say many a silly thing, dear lady.” He chuckled and waved a hand. “Silly things, indeed.”
Oh, dear. The pompous poseur was back, and in good form. How tiresome. Just when she’d actually begun to like the man a little. “Your friend should be here soon. I told John to bring him straightaway. It is an interesting name, the Liar’s Club.”
Sir Thorogood mumbled something from under the hands rubbing his temples. Not so long ago she would have thought the name of the club suited him perfectly. Now she simply sighed, thinking that she would be off to the attic in a few hours to change into Rose.
She wondered how long it would be before Sir Thorogood’s friend arrived. Edgy with anticipation, she considered her plans for the evening. Today was the first Sunday of the month. If Monty remembered what she had told him about Wadsworth’s habits, he might decide to appear again tonight to learn what new documents had made their way into the safe box after Mr. Wads-worth’s monthly accounting.
All she needed to do now was send Sir Thorogood on his way as soon as possible.
James knocked on the door of the Smythe Square house until the door was opened by a kind-faced butler. After introducing himself, he was led to a very comfortable parlor where he found Dalton enthroned on a sofa, attended by an attractive girl in a green dress.
She stood and moved toward him as he was announced, her hand extended. On second inspection, James decided that she was a woman, not a girl, though she had a youthful manner that had piqued his interest.
He sighed, thinking that, as usual, someone else had gotten to her first. All the quality females got snatched up by blokes like Simon and Dalton, leaving only the false-hearted ones for him.
“Thank you for coming so quickly, Mr. Cunnington. Sir Thorogood has had a blow to the head, but he won’t allow me to call for a physician. Please appeal on my behalf, won’t you?”
“Certainly, Miss …”
She blinked at him in surprise, then laughed at herself in a most charming way. “I beg your pardon, Mr. Cunnington.” James found himself captivated by her intelligent hazel eyes and almost missed her introduction.
“—Mrs. Simpson.”
James almost gawked. This was the “Widow Simpleton” that Dalton had described with such annoyance?
Mrs. Simpson took his silence for worry. “I’m sure he’ll recover, but he’s been fading in and out for over an hour. Perhaps you can reassure me as to his condition, you know him so much better than I.”
She led him to Dalton’s side. James spared him a glance, but aside from a certain pallor he looked all right, the hard-headed sod. James was far more interested in the pretty widow.
His curiosity was not to be assuaged, for Mrs. Simpson was already passing through the drawing room door. “I’ll leave you to take him home, if I may? My footman suffered a mishap in the fog as well, and I’d like to reassure myself.”
She looked to James as though she absolutely couldn’t wait to leave. He could only nod, mystified by the conflicting impressions of Mrs. Simpson.
“Is she gone?”
The long-suffering growl came from the sofa, and James turned back to Dalton. “Yes, she’s gone. I like her.” He settled in a nearby chair. “Got conked, did you?”
Dalton raised a hand to his head. “Oh, I did my share of conking as well, thank you for your concern.” With an expression of distaste, he flicked away the lap blanket that had been maternally tucked about him. “Get me out of this pink hell, will you? I’ve never seen so many women in one house before. Four of them! How does Trapp stand it, do you think?”
James looked about him at the comfortable drawing room. There was a certain amount of rose-colored decor, but it certainly wasn’t the worst he’d seen. His own mother had been prone to pink, and he’d never much minded it.
Shrugging, he helped Dalton to his feet. “Perhaps Trapp thinks himself a lucky man, to have four women to fuss over him after a long day.”
Dalton only looked mulish, so James dropped the subject. If Dalton was determined to dislike Mrs. Simpson, then more the fool he. James thought he himself might like to know her better. She was pretty, intelligent, and apparently not already under Dalton’s spell.
James shook his head in wonder. “Your standards must be inhuman, old fellow.”
Dalton brushed himself off and tugged his waistcoat straight. “I have no idea what you are talking about.”
James pursed his lips, looking toward the door that the decidedly not simple Mrs. Simpson had disappeared through. “No, I don’t suppose you do.”
He turned back to Dalton. “Well, do you want to take your headache home, or do you want to double it by going to the club?”
Dalton closed his eyes. “Tell me.”
“Oh, it’s not so bad. Stubbs heard Fisher telling Kurt that Button… “Talking as they left the house, James kept one eye peeled for another glimpse of the Widow Simpson.
An hour later, Dalton sat at the manager’s desk at the club and let the arguments swirl over his head. The factions of the club were becoming more deeply divided. The morale that had dropped after the losses suffered in the past months had struck a new low. Now the Liars were not only mistrustful of Dalton, they were beginning to be mistrustful of each other.
Fisher, the last living code breaker, had obviously spent far too much time alone in the coderoom. Dalton hadn’t realized how haunted the poor fellow was by the ghosts of his predecessors. How must it feel to know that your department had been targeted more severely than any other, including the assassins?
Never a brave soul originally. Fisher had likely felt the seclusion of the coderoom had been a safe place from which to fight the war. In addition, he had only been an apprentice when his superiors had been killed off one by one. His sudden promotion to final authority must have been quite traumatic.
Kurt the Cook, the Liars’ chef and premier knife man for many years, had taken exception to the quick rise of Fisher, and of Button, whose frankly effeminate ways did nothing to endear him to the gruff giant.
Dalton understood the man’s desire for the proper order of advancement, and it was true that. Button
could be very wearing, especially since he had begun his involvement with the Liars through the acquaintance of Lady Raines. Agatha was a great favorite among the men, and Button tended to wax on about his close relationship with her.
These men needed someone to fight for, Dalton understood that. He simply wished they would all choose their own someone.
The volume of the argument rose around him. Button had resorted to standing on a chair in order to emphasize his point by poking his finger into Kurt’s chest. Perhaps Dalton ought to remind Button that a valet without fingers might find himself short of work.
Perhaps it truly was time to get women into the club. Preferably by the boatload.
Kurt had Button dangling by the scruff of his neck. Fisher looked tense enough to string on a bow. James sat in one corner with his head in his hands.
Where was the close-knit group that had worked like a fine watch to save Agatha a few weeks past? Dalton cleared his throat. Abrupt silence fell. “Dear Lord, I do hope we won’t be needing to ran a rescue mission anytime soon,” he said with quiet disdain. “You lot couldn’t band together to save a chunk of coal from the fire.”
Fisher reddened but retained his rebellious scowl, Kurt growled incomprehensibly, and Button straightened his waistcoat with a twitch and a defiant sniff. Dalton looked at James, but found no support in those neutral brown eyes. So… not even James.
To hell with the lot then. Dalton rose. “I have a mission to ran. I expect you all to work this out on your own. If anyone spills blood on the carpet, he’ll be scrubbing it out with his own hands.”
He stalked from the room and from the club without another word, but he wasn’t fast enough to miss the sound of the voices rising behind him once again.
Clara was in her room when Bea’s voice rose up the stairs.
“Claaa—raa!”
Refusing to answer in kind, Clara sighed and left her room to descend the stairs. Beatrice stood on the first step, inhaling once more.
“I’m coming, Bea,” Clara said hurriedly. There was no convincing Bea that actually climbing the stairs, or even troubling a servant, might be a more appropriate way to fetch someone. You could take a girl from the country…
“Clara, darling, you have a caller! A real caller!”
This was most embarrassing, as Clara had now descended far enough down the stairs to see a grinning Nathaniel—rather. Lord Reardon—standing directly behind Bea. It was fortunate that his lordship was not a “real” caller at all, or Clara might have been tempted to draw another Society Mama cartoon.
No, Lord Reardon was merely a friend, thankfully. He seemed amused by Beatrice but not unkindly so. Clara smiled at him gratefully.
“What fortunate timing. Have you had your tea, my lord? Would you like to join me?” Clara stepped down to his level and extended her hand.
Lord Reardon bowed over it and sent her a flattering look. “How charming to find you at home, Mrs. Simpson. I should be delighted to impose upon you for tea.”
Observing all the forms, they retired to the parlor and Clara rang for tea. Bea couldn’t quite come up with a good enough reason to include herself, and Clara didn’t invite her. One mustn’t encourage yodeling, after all. Nasty habit, unless of course one were Swiss.
Once they were alone. Lord Reardon leaned forward in his chair. “I came to return something to you and to beg a favor.” He pulled a small wrapped parcel from his breast pocket and placed it in her hand. The flat soft item was no larger than a card.
Ah, her handkerchief. Clara smiled. “Aren’t you the prompt one.” She set the package to one side. “Now, tell me how I can be of service to you, my lord.”
“This Tuesday I am committed to dine with my cousin Cora. I should like to bring you along, if you don’t object.”
Puzzled, Clara blinked at him. “I certainly don’t object to Mrs. Teagarden. Why would I?”
He laughed. “No, not object to my aunt—object to my blatantly using you for some intelligent conversation at the table. You have a very entertaining mind.”
Clara sighed. “And here I thought you loved me for my exceptional beauty.”
Startled, he blinked, then grinned. “Why aren’t you afraid to tease me? Most girls do nothing but sigh and flutter at me.”
“Well, I am hardly a girl, my lord.” She shook her head at him. “Besides, you couldn’t possibly be serious about courting me. Therefore, we may be friends and I may gladly provide distraction during your aunt’s dinner.”
“No,” he said slowly. “I couldn’t possibly be serious about courting you. Yet—”
She tilted her head and waited, but he didn’t finish. He merely smiled and set down his teacup.
“I shouldn’t keep you any longer. You’ve had quite a day already.”
Clara nodded in agreement, then looked at him sharply. “How did you know that?”
His smile deepened. “I’m afraid your sister-in-law told me the entire tale about your ill-fated drive this morning. You were very brave.”
“Well, I don’t know how you came to that conclusion. Just a bit of fog that caused my companion to stumble and hit his head, after all.” That was the version she’d told Beatrice, at any rate.
He gazed at her for a moment. “Indeed.” Then he smiled once more. His eyes went rather dreamy when he smiled, giving him the aspect of a knightly angel.
Clara fought back a sigh of artistic longing. How she would love to pin him down for hours to model for her. Of course, she’d need a real studio. She could hardly ask him to sit in her bedchamber…
“I shall call for you at seven, if I may?”
“Hmm?”
“This Tuesday evening? Seven o’clock?”
Clara blinked. “Oh, yes, of course.” She laughed at herself. “I’m sorry. Thinking about drawing you again, I’m afraid. I can be quite the goose when I do that.”
His smile faded and his gaze sharpened. “Oh, no, Mrs. Simpson. Never a goose, not you.”
After Lord Reardon had taken his leave, Clara remembered the little package. She opened it, expecting her own simple handkerchief. Instead, within the wrapping lay an exquisite bit of lawn edged in Brussels lace… it was the handkerchief of a duchess.
Clara held it gingerly in her hand and wondered precisely what Lord Reardon meant by the gift. He couldn’t actually have formed an attachment for her, could he? A man like that? No, surely he’d only meant to show his appreciation for the drawing she’d given him.
The clock in the hall chimed and Clara smiled. Only six short hours to go until she could go back to being Clara Rose.
Tick-tock, she urged silently. Tick-tock in earnest.
Chapter Thirteen
Dalton went straight to his study when he arrived home, positively aching for some peace. As he relaxed into the dark green room that was filled with the smells of fine leather and good cigars, he felt his shoulders start to come down from around his ears.
The dispute at the club had left him exhausted and somewhat depressed. As usual, the men had spoken to him with scarcely concealed disrespect, calling him “the gentleman,” an irritating reference that called to mind the class differences that stood in the way of his ever truly belonging.
In a few hours, he’d don his Monty costume for another midnight excursion. According to what he’d read in the files, Wadsworth was in the process of blackmailing someone powerful, although it was not clear who. Dalton was very interested in the progression of certain of his lordship’s plans.
And Rose has nothing to do with that interest?
Dalton rubbed the back of his neck, being careful of his head although the throbbing had quieted somewhat. He wasn’t quite ready to examine his attraction to Rose.
There was every reason to believe that he was only feeling a bit deprived. He wasn’t a monk, after all.
Even Mrs. Simpson had an effect on him, which only went to show how far gone he was. Furthermore, by the time he’d been rescued by James this afternoon, he’d almost begun t
o like the woman.
Still, all the while in her company, thoughts of Rose had kept crossing his mind. He’d been itching to leave Mrs. Simpson in order to go to his saucy flower. To hear her soft laugh, see her outlaw smile… smell the scent of roses.
Funny valiant Rose, leading him by the hand through the darkness …
Lead me on, my flower. I’ll follow you anywhere.
Which was precisely what he couldn’t do. She was not for him. She was for a man like Monty, a free soul who could give her what she wanted, who could live happily in her world and never force her to live unhappily in his.
He rested his head back on the chair. Perhaps he was getting ahead of himself. She was only a useful informant, after all, a girl he liked and respected who’d helped him gain entry to Wadsworth’s secrets.
If he could scarcely stand the wait before he saw her again, perhaps it was only his eagerness to get this case solved and prove himself ready to rule the Liars.
The fire in his study was warm and inviting. A few hours’ rest…
He leaned back into the chair and closed his eyes, only to open them again immediately as the study door exploded inward and banged into the wall.
Dalton jumped up to land crouched on his feet facing the door, instinctively ready to do battle. The Sergeant stood just inside the gaping doorway, dripping and bleeding, his dignity in shreds along with the skin of his forearms. Something wet and furred dangled from his careful grip. “My lord, if you order me to try to wash this monster again, I must respectfully request that I be court-martialed instead.”
Dalton was fairly sure it wasn’t an idle threat. By the lifeless exhausted tone in the Sergeant’s voice, it was a simple statement of fact. “But it was barely conscious when I gave it to you.”
“It woke up right quick when we put it in the bath.”
“I see.” Dalton looked down at the writhing matted creature dangling from his majordomo’s outstretched hands. “Are you waiting for me to take it from you. Sergeant?”