by The Impostor
“I am?” She sounded inordinately pleased. “Imagine—me, outrageous.”
“Do not forget reckless. I shall have to keep a very careful eye on you until we sort this out. You’re likely to do something dangerous.”
“I won’t! I’m very careful—” She stopped for a moment. “I wasn’t careful at all, you know. It was as if I thought nothing could ever happen.”
“It’s the first thing we try to teach our young recruits. That feeling of immortality is the gravest danger an operative can face.”
“Did you feel that way, when you began?”
“Of course not,” he said stiffly. “I am a most cautious person.”
“Hmm. Very amusing coming from a man who is madder than I.”
“How so?”
“I have only one thing to say. Ruby pantaloons.” She snickered. “With a mustard waistcoat and emerald t-tails—” She dissolved into laughter completely. Nothing came from the opposite seat but soundless wheezing and the occasional snort.
Dalton pursed his lips. When she finally subsided, he cleared his throat. “I am not accustomed to being the object of laughter.”
She sighed with great satisfaction. “I know. That’s what makes you so very amusing.”
He was not going to pursue that line of questioning. “What have you drawn lately that might have set off someone powerful?”
She remained silent for a moment. He could almost hear the gears of her clever mind at work. “Nothing, really. Most of what I drew only caused a bit of gossip, unfortunately. Mistresses, graft, that sort of thing. Only occasionally was I able to catch someone in an illegal act.”
“Such as Mosely.”
“Yes. I’m very proud of what Sir Thorogood did for that orphanage. But that was months ago. If Mosely were after me, wouldn’t he have attempted something sooner?”
“The directive to find you came ten days ago. It could have been any one of several cartoons. Did you have to be so prolific?”
“Of course. Sir Thorogood is the most published cartoonist in London,” she said stoutly. “The drawings were printed every other day.”
“I wonder if you know how odd it is for you to speak of ‘him’ like that?”
“No odder than a grown man playing dress-up with a tricornered hat and a monocle,” she retorted.
“Would you leave off about my costume? I upset my valet, if you must know the truth. He’s a genius, but very sensitive to insult.”
She began to snicker once more.
He leaned forward and spoke in a menacing tone. “Don’t even begin.”
There was an audible gulp, then silence.
“Thank you.” Feeling better, he straightened his blessedly short and tidy cuffs. “Now, tell me precisely what inspired the drawings that were published in the last two weeks. …”
At length, the hack drove up to a house that was stately and in good repair, but the plantings were small in the front, as though newly grown. Still, the house sat snugly with the others in its row, its brown stone lending it a warmth and permanence that made Clara’s rootless soul twinge with covetousness.
They were admitted by a very fine butler whose dignity was not one whit impaired by his purple dressing gown and matching slippers.
“Pearson, I must see Simon at once.” Dalton’s urgency did not seem to disturb the man at all. The butler only nodded serenely.
“Of course, my lord. May I offer you refreshment while you wait?”
He was directing them to the drawing room when another man appeared at the top of the stairs. “Etheridge? What’s afoot?” Tying the knot of his dressing gown, he came quickly down the stairs. “Is it the club?”
The other man was attractive, although perhaps his features were not so severely chiseled as Dalton’s. But his smile was easy and welcoming and his blue eyes were indeed striking. Clara found herself gazing into them with dreamy fascination. Or perhaps it was with supreme exhaustion.
Had she seen him somewhere before? Her mind refused to work well enough to remember him.
Dalton cleared his throat beside her. “Simon, this is Clara Simpson. She’s had a rotten night and she needs rest. If I could trouble you—”
“Dalton, don’t be silly.” The crisp feminine voice came from the stairs.
Clara looked up to see a delightfully familiar face. “Agatha? Agatha Applequ—”
“Raines, dear Clara. Lady Raines, to be precise, but you must call me Aggie now.”
The man Simon turned to gaze at his wife with concern. “Damsel, get back to bed. You’ll catch your death.”
“Oh, don’t fuss, Simon. It doesn’t suit you in the least.”
As Agatha made her way down the stairs, past history filtered through Clara’s weary brain. “Oh!” She turned to Simon. “You’re the Chimneysweep Knight!” Then realizing how that must sound, she blinked. “Oh, dear. How rude you must think me.”
A rather astonishing smile flashed across Sir Raines’s face, and he bowed in acknowledgment. “Not at all. You are most welcome to our home, Mrs. Simpson.”
Clara returned his bow with a weary curtsy, then turned to Dalton. “I fear I’ve no sense left at all.”
Dalton shook his head. “You’ll have to do without for the moment.”
Agatha had reached her by now and taken her by the elbow. “You look simply exhausted, Clara. Let me have a bath drawn for you, and then we’ll tuck you into bed and you can sleep until noon.”
“Oh, that sounds lovely.” Clara fought back a tremendous yawn. Sleepily she turned to Dalton. “Good night, Dalton. I shall see you in the morning.” She stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek, then turned back to follow Agatha.
The stairs were far too numerous for Clara’s teetering legs to carry her and it took all of her concentration not to sit down for a nap on the way up. It wasn’t until she reached the top that she became aware of Agatha’s startled expression.
“Why are you—” Oh, no. She hadn’t truly done that, had she? The urge to look back at Dalton swept her, but she didn’t dare. She followed Agatha on down the hall, resolutely not looking. What if he was wiping his cheek with a handkerchief? Or worse, yet, what if he was looking up at her the way part of her wanted to look down at him?
Chapter Nineteen
Gazing up the stairs after the two women, Simon shook his head. “Was that a kiss? I thought you didn’t like the Widow Simpson? What about Rose?”
Dalton rubbed the back of his neck. “The Widow Simpson is Rose.”
“Truly?” Simon raised an eyebrow. “I think I’m going to need a brandy. You, too. You look like a man who’s had a shock.”
Yes, a shock was quite correct. The way she kissed him, softly, casually, the way a woman might kiss her husband good night. …
He’d liked it very much. So naturally he forced himself to ignore it.
He followed Simon into the study, which resembled his own in its array of manly comforts. Good leather, good liquor, good books. He was always able to relax with Simon, who was perhaps the one person in the world who had no expectation of him. When he was handed a brandy, he quaffed it in one swallow.
“Rough night?” Wary amusement dripped from Simon’s voice.
“The roughest. It seems someone has set an assassin on my tail.”
Simon cocked a brow and settled back into his chair with his brandy. “That’s new? I thought you suspected that all along.”
“Yes, I did. But I never suspected that the assassin was Kurt.”
“Kurt?”
“Got you there, didn’t I? Yes, the assailant was Kurt, at least this night. I find it hard to believe a man as skilled as Kurt would have missed thrice before.”
“But Kurt would never work outside the club!”
Dalton poured himself another brandy and sat in the chair opposite Simon, leaning back and stretching his legs toward the fire. “Precisely.”
Simon rubbed his chin. “What did you do to get on the Liars’ list?”
“I? Not a
thing, until I knocked Kurt out and trussed him like a turkey. I believe it is Rose they are after.”
“Clara.”
“What?”
“Her name is Clara. You called her Rose just now.” Simon grinned. “How many women are there in that bed of yours?”
Dalton carefully set his brandy glass down before he shattered it in the fireplace. “There are three women, if not in my bed, then yet in my head.” He ticked them off on his fingers. “The Widow Simpson, Rose, and Clara. None of whom know the meaning of prudence.”
“Well, what do you intend to do with your triplets? If Kurt truly is after them—I mean, her?”
“I forgot someone on that list. Sir Thorogood.”
That finally drew a sound of surprise from Simon. Unfortunately, he was in the midst of sipping his brandy. Dalton leaned forward to give him a good pounding on the back until he could speak again.
Simon wheezed and shook his head in amazement. “Clara Simpson is Sir Thorogood.” It was a statement, not a question, but Dalton nodded.
“That’s quite a woman you have,” Simon marveled. “Yet how can you be sure? Could she not be posing as such, as you did?”
Dalton blinked. “I hadn’t thought of that.” Then he shook his head. “No, she’s the one. She had access to Wadsworth’s and the drawing style definitely matches.” He patted the jacket pocket where he’d stored his evidence.
Simon leaned forward. “Show me.”
Dalton looked away. “I’d rather not.”
However, Simon looked so affronted—as if believing that Dalton didn’t trust him—that finally Dalton handed over the two drawings he’d rolled and tucked into his pocket. “If you laugh, you’re a dead man.”
To his credit, Simon didn’t laugh, although perhaps the hand clapped firmly over his mouth should have taken the credit. Still, his eyebrows rose to new heights as he examined the two pages covered with various sketches. His shoulders shook just the tiniest bit, however.
Finally Dalton could stand no more. “Enough!” He snatched the drawings and returned them to his pocket.
Simon still didn’t speak but sat back in his chair, an enormous grin spread across his face. He closed his eyes and clasped his hands across his stomach, giving a happy sigh.
“What are you going on about?”
Simon shook his head, his eyes still closed. “You said I couldn’t laugh. You didn’t say I couldn’t picture the moment when you show those drawings to Liverpool.”
“Oh, dear God.” Dalton contemplated the drawings with horror. He ought to fling them in the fire this very moment! But he had never in his career tampered with evidence and he wasn’t about to start.
“Maybe she’ll draw some more for you, so you won’t have to use those.” Finally a snicker broke through Simon’s control. “Some with drawers on.”
Dalton studied the fire without expression.
Simon took another sip of brandy. “Seriously now, you can’t think to turn her over to Liverpool? He may have ordered the kill himself, you know.”
Despite his own reservations on the subject, Dalton felt obliged to defend Liverpool. “No. I cannot believe it. Clara may be many things, but she is not treasonous. I’d wager my life on it. Liverpool might dislike her politics, but he’d never order an innocent woman killed.”
“Well, as long as you’re sure.” Simon didn’t sound too sure at all. “In my opinion, Liverpool is obsessed. Obsessed men can do strange things, if it feeds their obsession.”
Dalton stiffened. “If Liverpool has an obsession, it is the safety and security of England.”
Simon shrugged. “I never said it wasn’t an honorable obsession.”
Gritting his teeth, Dalton forced himself to take another sip of brandy, as if he was not feeling a most uncivilized desire to rub Simon’s nose in the carpet for a while. A good row would—
A row? What was happening to him? He was thinking like Monty again. He rubbed his forehead as if he could rub Monty from his mind. How could an alias become such an insidious part of his personality?
Agatha entered the study and settled on the arm of Simon’s chair. “Clara is having a bath and something to eat. I daresay she’ll sleep for hours. She’s completely exhausted, poor thing.”
Dalton didn’t want to feel sympathy for Clara. He didn’t want to feel this need to protect her. Where was his icy logic, his cool judgment?
He forced himself to focus. “What I need right now is information. Who ordered the kill and why, for a beginning. There’s something not right here, something more than simply offended aristocrats taking revenge on a cartoonist—”
Pearson appeared at the door of the room. “Sir Raines, Mr. Cunnington is here to see Lord Etheridge.”
James? Dalton looked up in alarm. “No, Pearson, send him away—”
Agatha raised one hand. “Why would we send him away when we just sent for him? He’s been trying to find you since this afternoon.”
Dalton stood. “Damn it, I didn’t want James involved in this!”
“Well, that hardly surprises me,” James said dryly as he lounged in the doorway. “You never want me to have any fun.”
“James, this doesn’t concern you.”
“I can hardly refute that, since I have no idea what you are talking about.” He held up a leather-covered file. “I’ve come because I have a theory that you should hear.”
Simon perked up. “What theory?”
“I have reason to believe … “James stretched the moment out dramatically. “Sir Thorogood is a woman!”
Dalton nodded. “Of course she is.”
James dropped his hand, his expression stunned. “You knew? How did you figure it out?”
“He didn’t.” Simon smiled. “He fell into it, face first.”
Agatha patted Dalton’s arm. “Don’t feel bad. All men are dense when it comes to women.” She turned to James. “How did you figure it out, Jamie?”
“I’ve been staring at these drawings for days, trying to figure out why they are so unique. Everyone loves them, rich or poor, male or female.” He handed the file to Agatha, who undid the string fixture and spread the cartoons over the table. “Then I saw something that struck me, something that Ackermann lacks, as do the other popular cartoonists.”
Simon moved to examine the drawings as well. “What’s that, James?”
“Detail. To be specific, fashion detail. Whoever drew these is up on the latest fashion in women’s clothing, shoes, and hair.”
Agatha picked up a drawing of four ladies picnicking on top of a mountain of piled rubbish, with the sewage-laden Thames running sluggishly behind them. “He’s right! How clever of you, Jamie!”
Dalton hadn’t moved from brooding into the fire. “Yes, very clever,” he snapped. “Too bad you didn’t think of it two days ago.”
James looked at Agatha and Simon. “What’s wrong with him?”
Simon cleared his throat. “Dalton, perhaps you should fill James in. If the Liars have targeted you, then he’s in the line of fire already as your second.”
James blinked. “Targeted?”
Dalton turned from the fire and forced his fists to unclench. “First of all, you’re right about Thorogood. The mystery cartoonist is really Mrs. Clara Simpson.”
“Do you mean that little widow who’s been plaguing you?” James’s mouth twitched. “Well, that explains the attraction, then. She’s been working you, trying to figure out what you’re up to, right?”
“Despite your confidence in my charms, James, it’s a bit more complicated than that.”
“Stop dancing about it, Dalton.” Agatha turned to James. “She’s been posing as a maid at Wadsworth’s as well. Dalton didn’t recognize her until it was too late.”
James grimaced. “Too late? What do you—” Then his jaw dropped. “Oh.”
Dalton sighed. “Thank you, Agatha. I believe I can take it from here.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “She recognized me first and made a run for it. When
I caught up with her, so did Kurt. He tried to take us both down.”
“You killed Kurt?” James looked shocked and just a tiny bit impressed.
“No, simply left him unconscious and bound to buy us time. So you see, I’ve placed myself on the wrong side of the line now. You might want to reconsider being involved.”
“What are we going to do?”
Dalton looked at his second in command for a long moment. Determination hardened James’s jaw, and he looked ready to take on the Liars single-handed.
“Thank you, James,” Dalton said quietly. Then he turned to the stack of drawings. “Somewhere in this mess is the answer. There must be a link between one of these cartoons and the Royal Four. Someone issued that kill order and I want to know who and why.”
“So do I.” The soft voice from the doorway drew everyone’s gaze. Clara stood there, clad in a fresh nightdress and wrapper. Her hair streamed loose about her shoulders. Dalton’s fingers itched to touch it.
He scowled. “Why aren’t you resting?”
She shrugged. “Oh, you know how it is. Conspiracy, murder attempts, running for one’s life… it’s the little things that keep one up at night.” She had a smile for James, however. “Hello, Mr. Cunnington. It is good to see you again.”
“Indeed, Mrs. Simpson.” James stared appreciatively for a moment, then looked at Dalton. “I still like her.”
Dalton’s scowl deepened. He was very conscious of how alluring Clara looked in her nightclothes. The last thing he needed was for James to take a fancy to her. “Well, she doesn’t like you.’ He gestured sharply to Clara. “Take a seat, please. You may as well hear this.”
She raised a brow at his peremptory tone. “Always the gentleman.” She sat next to Agatha. “So how are we to puzzle out this mess?”
Dalton decided that he liked the way the candlelight brought out the red tint in her hair. He’d never seen it down before. She looked softer, warmer… fresh out of bed.
“Dalton?” James waved one hand before Dalton’s eyes. “The kill order?”
Damn. He was forgetting his purpose. She was making him forget. Dalton forced his eyes from Clara and focused on the glow of the fire. Distance. Control. ‘The kill order is merely the symptom of the disease. This goes deeper than the danger to one woman. If one of the Royal Four has gone rogue, then the entire structure of the government is in danger. The Crown itself, perhaps.”