by The Impostor
There was no turmoil, no conflict within him at the notice. He knew precisely where his duty lay.
With England, as always. The fact that serving Clara and England was one and the same at the moment didn’t signify.
Still, the message made him question everything he’d ever understood about his mentor. Dalton looked down at his clenched hands. Gone were the days of the steepled fingers and cool consideration. All he seemed to have now was rage and fists.
James’s shout interrupted his circling thoughts. He jumped to his feet to look down where James had spread out the collected drawings of Sir Thorogood on the floor.
James was waving a scrap of paper far too quickly for Dalton to discern the drawing itself. He reached out and snaked one hand around James’s wrist. Dalton brought the drawing, wrist and all, closer to the light.
The cartoon was one that Dalton recalled had caused quite a furor. It was more risqué than usual, with a half-dressed female figure dominating the scene in more ways than one.
“‘Fleur and Her Followers,’“ read Dalton. He scanned the entire drawing, but could see nothing more than a few wealthy fellows who were likely to get in trouble with their wives. “Why this one?”
“I told you that I spent some time investigating everyone who appeared in the drawings, didn’t I?” At Dalton’s nod, James continued. “Well, this is the only drawing that contained any mystery at all. See this fellow right here?”
James pointed out the man behind Fleur. His face was partially hidden by the opera dancer’s rounded buttock. Dalton turned James’s wrist sideways to get a different angle on the fellow. “Who is he?”
James plucked the drawing from his captured hand with his other, then handed it to Dalton to hold himself. “I was never able to learn his identity. Likely Clara herself didn’t know, or she would have drawn him in more detail.”
Dalton frowned. “That’s a bit thin, James. Why didn’t you simply find this Fleur and ask her?”
James snapped his fingers. “Because there is the mystery! There is no Fleur.”
“Could it be a stage name?”
James shook his head. “We couldn’t find her. We even had Button ask around, and if Button doesn’t know someone in Covent Garden or Drury Lane, they don’t exist. No one has ever seen her or heard her name before this came out in the newspaper, although there are now a number of girls who call themselves Fleur after the popularity of the cartoon.”
That was indeed mysterious. Dalton examined the drawing once more. “Well, we know who these two are.”
“Yes. Sir Foster, a courtier and generally useless hanger-on, and Mr. Wadsworth, that manufacturer of muskets whom you’ve been investigating.”
Dalton rubbed his chin. “I had thought I’d found indications of blackmail in his safe but discounted it. The man is richer than Midas. Wadsworth makes a large portion of the arms for the British troops.”
“One would consider him a loyal citizen, then.”
Dalton grunted. “And Foster is a friend of the Prince Regent, or at least he was in the past. I don’t think he’s been in favor for some time, come to think of it.”
“I think we should call upon Sir Foster, Dalton. It would only be the sociable thing to do, since we’ve a friend in common. He has a house not far from the palace.”
Dalton turned to gaze at James in surprise. James flushed. “I haven’t had anything better to do during the past few weeks.”
Dalton raised a brow. “Have you considered becoming an analyst, James? The Liars could use just that sort of information breakdown.”
James looked horrified. “A desk job? God forbid!” He looked at Dalton pleadingly. “Sir, I’m a saboteur, not a numbers man!”
Dalton cut him off with a sharp gesture. “Later. We have two suspects to speak to.”
Clara had sorted through the files that seemed to pertain to Nathaniel’s holdings and set those aside. Some were obviously to do with laws and other items currently before the House of Lords. She was curious about what went on in that exclusively male chamber, but forced herself to set those aside as well. She could study politics in her own time.
That left her with a most remarkable stack of dossiers. She didn’t know all of the names, but it didn’t take her long to realize what she had in her hands.
James Cunnington, Simon Raines, Kurt (no surname), and most interesting to her, Dalton Montmorency, Lord Etheridge.
This was going to be fascinating. She set the candle closer and bent to read.
Nathaniel knew everything about Dalton’s club. He knew of the entrance from the back alley, he knew of the secret office, he knew of the—what was that word? Cryptography room? Heavens, what went on in there? One hoped it had nothing to do with crypts.
Clara had suspected Nathaniel of some involvement, but this was nothing less than full-scale espionage! Dalton needed to know about this immediately.
She gathered the files and reordered them as best she could. Somehow she thought Nathaniel might keep track of that. Placing them back into the safe the way she had found them, she carefully shut it and inserted her picks to trip the lock once more.
She heard a sound behind her, a faint click. She stilled, listening. She’d just decided that it had been nothing but a structural creak when she heard the slow scrape of wood sliding on wood.
Whirling, she fisted her hands around her picks. “Who’s there?”
A man stood in the shadows. Only the faintest glow of the candle reached him, enough to show her that he was well dressed and quite tall.
Scream? But the long habit of silence supported her in this instance. She was not supposed to be here, after all.
The man pulled a pistol from his coat and aimed it at her heart. “I presume you have a likely explanation for your presence here?”
The breath left her in a nearly hysterical whoosh. “What a ridiculous question. It’s night, I don’t work here, and I’m standing in the study. I’m obviously trying to open the safe.” She was surprised at herself. When had she attained such composure, staring down a gun and giving saucy replies?
Especially when this particular view of a pistol made her spine dissolve with fear. Odd how the black hole in the barrel seemed to take up the entire room. She could hardly breathe as she realized that one twitch of a finger and her life would end.
The man moved one step forward. “Perhaps.”
The light fell somewhat brighter on his face, and Clara recognized that line of jaw, that cheekbone, that high brow.
“I know you,” she breathed.
“Of course you do.” He stepped fully into the light. Clara’s heart nearly shuddered to a stop. Lord Reardon. Nathaniel.
“Well, this is a surprise. What can I do for you, my lord?”
“I’m sorry to inconvenience you, Mrs. Simpson—”
The formality struck her as still more ridiculous in her panic. “Oh, please call me Clara,” she blurted, her hysteria rising.
That surprised a smile from him and her pulse skipped a beat. Even while standing behind a weapon, he was breathtaking. She shook her head. “A face like an angel. It’s truly too bad that you intend to kill me, for I should very much like to draw you again.”
He stepped closer and carefully returned the painting to the proper position. “I’m not going to kill you, Clara. But I have been wanting to speak to you privately. Won’t you sit?” He indicated the small settee with a courteous wave of his hand.
Her knees were not cooperating. “I don’t mean to be difficult, but I’m far too terrified to move a muscle.”
Again that archangel smile. “You certainly don’t look it. In fact, you look surpassingly angry but not frightened at all.”
An interesting statement that she must consider more fully at another time. “Nonetheless, I shan’t be walking anywhere while a gun is pointed at me. I simply cannot.”
He looked from her to the pistol and sighed. “Clara, I don’t want to hold this pistol on you. I simply need you to talk
with me without raising a row. If I put this away, do you think you will be able to oblige?”
“You’re asking a great deal of me, my lord.”
“Oh, bloody hell.” He shoved the pistol into his waistcoat and swept her into his arms, carried her to the settee and deposited her on it. “There. Dilemma resolved.”
I’ve been captured. And she’d done it all herself. There was no possible way for Dalton to know where she’d gone.
Every time Clara’s captor turned her way in his pacing, she sat very still, her eyes on the carpet at her feet. Every time he turned away, she cast her eyes desperately about the room looking for something, anything, to help her from this pickle.
It was a lovely study, a manly woodsy room, without a single dratted weapon in sight. Not a vase, not a figurine, not a single candlestick graced the mantel.
Nathaniel called for tea, but despite his claim that he wanted to speak to her, he didn’t say a word for a very long time.
His butler hadn’t turned a hair, but only brought tea and biscuits, then removed himself by backing through the double doors and closing them.
“I must say I feel quite the dunce for not dressing for the occasion. Tea with his lordship,” she muttered, her anxiety forcing her to break the silence, although not enough to beg for her freedom.
Nathaniel turned and gazed at her for a moment, then shook his head. “You look angry again. From that, I gather that you are very frightened.”
“Aren’t you the clever one?”
He paced before her once more. “Your safety may depend upon your cooperation. Are you willing to talk to me?”
“I have no idea what to talk about.”
He stopped and turned toward her. “How did you learn about Fleur?”
“Fleur?” Cold fear had her muscles tensing beyond tolerance, causing her to tremble. Fleur. For some reason, that one cartoon had begun this chain of events. She’d been hunted, attacked, and now captured.
Living until tomorrow did not seem terribly likely.
Lord Reardon knelt before her, staring into her face with green-eyed intensity. “Tell me. Who told you about Fleur? Was it your brother-in-law?”
Clara Hesitated. He was obviously trying to follow the trail back to the person he thought had betrayed him. She could not let Oswald take the blame for her own foolishness.
She shook her head. “No one. I was there with you, at Wadsworth’s. Listening from a hiding place. I entered through the connecting attic from the house where I live.”
He rubbed his face, then regarded her soberly. “You’ve been watching Wadsworth. So you know a great deal, I imagine. That is not good, Clara. Not good at all.”
“Oh, I don’t know so very much,” she blurted. “Not much at all.”
“You must tell me everything you know about Fleur.” His voice was all the more terrifying for its calm, even tone. “Your life rides on your answer, Clara.”
“I don’t know Fleur, I never met Fleur, I wouldn’t recognize Fleur if I saw her on the street!”
Nathaniel stared at her. “Her?”
“Isn’t that who you are asking me about? Fleur, the opera dancer or mistress or whatever she is?”
His mouth dropped open. “She?” The smile returned, stretching across his face until he looked like a blissful Greek statue. “You believe Fleur is a woman?”
He rose, then took one step back to sit in the chair across from her. He laughed. It was a deep-chested guffaw of unadulterated relief.
Clara told herself that affronted pride was a low priority at this moment, when she might be dead before morning. Still, she squirmed as he laughed on.
And on.
And bloody on. “So happy to divert you, my lord,” she snarled.
Nathaniel sighed gustily as he wiped his eyes. “Oh, Clara, you are a delight.”
“Please don’t stop on my account,” she growled.
“My apologies. But you have no idea how you had us worried How fortunate that you took us literally. We thought the cartoon was allegory.”
“We?”
He fixed her with a fond gaze that was belied by the steel in his voice. “Do not inquire further, my dear. It truly would not be healthy.”
Fear tingled through her and she realized that she had almost begun to believe his vow that he would not hurt her. “Is that why you’ve been trying to kill Dalton, and then me? Because you thought Sir Thorogood knew too much about Fleur?”
“Clara, you don’t want to know any more.” Shaking his head, Nathaniel leaned forward to take her hand. “My God, you’re like ice! Here, move closer to the fire. I’ll ring for some more tea.”
He urged her to the best chair and arranged a soft rug over her lap. She watched him, confused. “Well, I suppose you wouldn’t bother to coddle me if you still planned on killing me.”
“I’ve told you. I have no intention of killing you.”
“Well, someone sent Kurt after me,” she grumbled as she reached her hands toward the coals.
The next moment, she was standing with Nathaniel’s hands hard on her shoulders. “Kurt?” His face was granite, all angelic resemblance gone.
Clara felt her stomach lurch. “Y-yes, Kurt. That’s what Dalton called him. He said there must be a k-kill order.” She couldn’t help it. A tear began to trace its way down her cheek. She’d had a very long night… or was it two? And for the first time, the words kill order seemed distressingly real.
Nathaniel’s face softened at her fear. He pulled her close, wrapping his arms tightly about her. “Shh. Don’t cry now, Clara, not after all your bravery. I didn’t mean to startle you.”
Confusion writhed within her. He was embracing her? Comforting her? Was this some diabolical gesture to earn her trust? Because despite herself, she was comforted.
A bit.
“I cannot return you now and I cannot keep you here,” he murmured in her ear. “I must send for someone who will know what to do.” With that, he turned and left the study and shut the doors once more. This time she heard a distinct click as he locked her safely inside.
Clara looked down at the small scissor blade she still clasped tightly in her palm. He hadn’t noticed it. She tucked it quickly into her waist as the door opened once more. She looked up at Nathaniel pensively.
“I simply cannot determine which side you are on,” she told him. “You know so much about Wadsworth and the others. You know so much about Dalton Montmorency and the Liar’s club. And you know more about me than I do.”
She tucked back a strand of wayward hair and contemplated him. “Why do you need to know so much?”
Lord Reardon cast a glance at his now-covered safe box. “I was too late, I see. You should not have done that, Clara.”
Clara folded her arms. “Do you know what, my lord? I am becoming rather weary of being told what not to do. And I am definitely becoming weary of all this secrecy. If you are on the side of good, then what have you to hide?”
He cocked one eyebrow at her. “Do you truly need to ask that, Sir Thorogood?”
Clara inhaled quickly. “Ah.” He did have a point, drat him.
Lord Reardon stood. “I’d thought to take you to my superior, but now that Liverpool—”
His superior? Connections fell into place in Clara’s mind, snapping together like links in a chain. She leaned her head back to stare into his face. “You work for Liverpool, too, just like the Liars! And Fleur—Fleur isn’t a woman, it’s a plot!” She stumbled to her feet and backed away from him.
“Clara, wait—” He stepped forward to catch at her hands.
She pushed at him, hard. “You are against me! Let me go!”
Surprised, he released her immediately. She scuttled backward, stumbling over the sodden trailing hem of her dress.
“You and Liverpool! And Wadsworth! There is a plot against the Crown, and Liverpool is behind it! I’ve heard he was ruthless and power-hungry… but to plot against the Prince and King!” She gathered up her skirts and made
a break for the door. She was through it and down the hall before Nathaniel could grab her.
The front door was locked, but the key stood out from the hole. In her haste she turned it the wrong way at first, then reversed it. The lock clicked and she tugged at the handle, but the door did not move.
Looking up, she saw a wide palm pressed against it above her head. She whirled and flattened herself against the wood, staring at Nathaniel not ten inches from her.
He gazed down at her. “Clara, you must believe me. We take no part in a plot against the Crown. Liverpool is as loyal as they come, as am I.”
“Loyal to whom? Napoleon?” She aimed a kick at his shin, but only succeeded in bruising her toes. The pain made her all the angrier. “You’re mad, that’s what you are! I’ve gone from one madman to another for days and I’ve had enough. Enough, I tell you! Let me go this instant, or I’ll—I’ll eviscerate you in my cartoon!”
“Clara, you must listen to me. You’re truly in danger. You have no idea how much. There is no authority that you can run to now to save you, not a soul in England who can defend you.” He reached one hand to push back a lock of hah from her face. “No one but me.”
Foster was not at home. Dalton and James couldn’t so much as gain entry. His house stood empty in the midst of an ostentatiously fashionable neighborhood. There was no one at all in residence but a man raking up the debris from last night’s storm.
“No, milord. Sir Foster done left days ago. Told ‘is lady to pack for a long ocean voyage and warmer climes, ‘e did. They put a man to sellin’ what was left so I don’t expect they’ll be back.”
The old groundskeeper nodded constantly as he spoke, rather in the manner of a bored horse. Dalton tossed the fellow a coin and left with James.
“He must have left soon after the drawing came out,” James said.
“I agree. I think we’ve found Sir Thorogood’s offense. However, Foster couldn’t have had anything to do with the attempts on my life or Clara’s disappearance.”
“There are two other men in the picture.”
Dalton nodded. “I wish she’d seen the third fellow better. Only a quarter of his face is showing, as if she only saw what might show under the hood of a cloak.”