by The Impostor
Dalton shook his head. “In Liverpool’s eyes she is.” The life was gone from his manner, his voice as colorless as his eyes. “First, she’s an overt reformist. That’s dangerous to an old conservative like our Prime Minister. Secondly, I’ve just sealed her fate by displaying my attachment.”
“Dalton, I know Liverpool has been something of a mentor to you over the years, much as you are to me—”
“Nothing like. You are one of my men, James. A brother. Liverpool considers me a tool in his hand. Rather he did until all this. Now I imagine he considers me a powder keg. He’d like to keep me far from the fire.”
“Far from Clara,” James said.
“Precisely.”
“So what will you do?”
“What can I do?” He turned on James and cocked a brow coolly. “I’m a peer and a gentleman. I have rank and responsibilities. Do you expect me to break her out of there in the dark of night?”
James stepped back. “No, no, of course not.”
“Good.”
James could have sworn those silver eyes began to glow.
“Then Liverpool won’t expect it, either.” Dalton gave James a fierce grin. “Suit up. Griffin. We’ve a wall to climb tonight.”
Clara’s room in the old palace was not much more than a comfortably furnished cell. She was up in the rooms reserved for visiting diplomats, far from the busy corridors and overcrowded meeting rooms of Parliament.
Her window held a soaring view of the Thames and the rooftops beyond. She was more than five dizzying stories high and she could barely stand to look through the glass, much less escape through it.
The single door was guarded by her own stoic pair of redcoats, who met any request from her with politely bland refusal. The physician had come and gone, leaving her with a bandage and the assurance that she would only carry a minor scar.
She tried to tell herself that she had nothing to worry about. Dalton was where they were likely discussing what to do with her, and he wouldn’t let anything happen to her.
Would he? He was a man torn between heart and duty and she truly had no idea which way he would turn.
Her baggage had been delivered to the room along with herself. Apparently, these four papered walls were going to be her only home for a long while. Resentfully, she wondered what Liverpool would say if she drew all over them.
Thorogood’s version of the Sistine Chapel. Which she would likely not live to see. Clara lay back on the silken coverlet and contemplated the gilded ceiling.
In that plain plastered portion over there, she would depict the young Prince, held mesmerized by a young Wadsworth, their revolutionary plans spread before them. Then another drawing, of a shame-faced George confessing his fears to Nathaniel’s father, while a child with Nathaniel’s green eyes peeked from behind a door to observe.
Perhaps a border around each vignette, filled with tiny figures portraying the Liar’s Club and their activities. It would take a very long time, but she likely had it to spare.
In the far corner, she would draw Nathaniel infiltrating the Knights of Fleur while a craven figure crouched in the sideboard, furiously scribbling away.
And she would draw Dalton as a man of light and shadow, tom between loyalties, tom between love and honor, perhaps even with herself as wretched harpy, shredding his shadow half with teeth and claws.
She’d mucked it all up severely these past weeks, and good men were suffering because of her.
At this rate, she ought to be able to bring the entire country of England to its knees within the year. Napoleon really ought to thank her for doing his work for him.
She rolled over, unable to bear the reproach of her imaginary drawings above her. How had she come to this point?
Breaking into the vicious Wadsworth’s in order to right a few wrongs, how could that be so bad? Helping Rose had been undeniably good. Sir Thorogood’s cartoons had done good as well, even if only bringing the plight of the disadvantaged to light.
Yet there had been one night of intrigue, one misunderstood conversation, one drawing too many.
One drawing too many …
She sat up, lethargy gone. One drawing had begun the entire chain of events. One drawing could stop it.
There was no paper in the room. Liverpool had taken even the ink from her when he’d left. Ruthlessly, she peeled a section of patterned wallpaper from an inconspicuous spot behind the bed. The back was blank enough if she was willing to disregard the dried glue. Then she gathered scraped soot from the fireplace with the heel of her shoe, catching it in one of the tumblers that had accompanied her request for a pitcher of water.
She added water a drop at a time until she had a thick paste of decidedly unattractive ink. It didn’t matter, for the engraver could correct vagaries of the lumpy lines. What mattered was getting Sir Thorogood’s final drawing on paper as soon as possible.
She used a pin from her hair as a nib. Bending close over her paper in the small light from her one candle, she carefully delineated four figures on the paper, inch by scratching inch.
One on a center pedestal, one partially cloaked behind, and two crouching on either side, reaching desperately for the standing figure.
Everyone would remember “Fleur and Her Followers” at the sight of this drawing, but this gave an entirely new slant on the topic, one that just might undo all the trouble she had caused.
She worked late into the night, until her eyes ached and her candle was a mere lighted wick in a puddle of wax. Finally came the last stroke of her clotted “ink” on her stolen wallpaper, the last flicker of light from her dying candle, and she was done.
As the room flickered to darkness, she laid her aching head down on her arms, her heart peaceful at last.
It was a very good cartoon, if she did say so herself.
Chapter Twenty-six
Dalton strode into the Liar’s Club with James fast behind him.
“Are you quite sure about this?” James tossed his coat over one of the chairs in the club room used by “customers” and loosened his cravat. “Last night you thought they were going to kill you, remember?”
“How can I expect them to trust me if I don’t trust them?” Dalton smiled grimly. “It’s good advice. You should keep it in mind when you’re spymaster.”
“Me?” James’s jaw dropped. “I’m still under consideration?”
“We’ll discuss that later.” Dalton pushed open the door into the private segment of the club, the part that the louts and lordlings knew nothing about. The room was full of men. Liars all, obviously holding some sort of conference. They froze at Dalton’s entrance.
He strode to the front of the room where Stubbs stood conducting the meeting. “Wondering what to do about me?”
Stubbs blinked, then conceded the invisible podium with a glance at Kurt and moved to sit at a nearby table. James seated himself in another chair, idly rubbing his shoulder and pretending interest in some dark and uninspiring portraits lining the walls. Dalton knew that his calm pose hid a burning curiosity held barely in check.
Dalton turned to face the Liars. They gazed back at him, waiting as they had for the past several weeks.
Waiting for him to trust them.
“Gentlemen, I need your full attention, for we have an operation tonight.”
They sat in silence, unresponsive. Dalton took some encouragement from the fact that they weren’t trying to kill him.
Yet.
It was progress of a sort. Now to rally them to follow him. Dalton’s mind swerved through argument and reason. What words could he use to inflame them? What rhetoric would dim the last mismanaged weeks of division?
Trust them.
His thoughts slowed. Calmed. There was only one way to gain their trust. He knew that now.
“Gentlemen, there are some things you ought to know.”
He stood before them and told it all. From the moment he’d been asked to step into Liverpool’s position in the Royal Four and his subsequent
leadership of themselves to his true reasons for running the Thorogood mission himself to the moment when he’d been forced to watch Liverpool capturing Clara.
He spared himself nothing. Every error, every moment of mistrust, every self-serving impulse was laid before them in precise detail.
“You have me at a disadvantage now,” he finished. “I need you, but I have nothing to bargain with. I don’t even know that I will be your spymaster once Liverpool sees to my reprimand. If you follow me tonight, you may very well be setting yourselves up against the Crown itself, or at least Lord Liverpool.”
He fell silent at last, feeling rather like a spent pistol. It was in their hands now, this motley group of loyal madmen. The only question was… loyal to whom?
Several men glanced at Kurt, waiting for his reaction. Dalton waited. The Cook had more years in the organization than any other. The survival rate was not high these days, but Kurt had always seemed untouchable, a rock in the changing tides around him. Who might influence Kurt?
Then Kurt looked to James. Surprised, James gazed back at the big man as if to say, “Who, me?”
Then James stood. Dalton waited. James had ever been a puzzle to him. He was supportive in private, yet never once had he aided Dalton’s rise into leadership.
James cleared his throat. “I—I don’t know why you care what I think, having cost you all that I have.”
Kurt grunted. “Old news, boy.”
James’s gaze flickered over all those present. Dalton imagined that James could also see all those not present.
“I say he’s in.”
Kurt nodded once. All eyes turned back to Dalton. Stubbs leaned forward. “Well, what’s it to be, guv’nor?”
Feebles tugged uncomfortably at his fine new waistcoat and fingered the cravat at his throat. He felt like a fox caught in the lamplight, despite Button’s reassurance that he’d fit right in the halls of Parliament. He certainly didn’t look like himself, with his hair neatly parted down the middle and slicked down with oil. The plain glasss pectacles that perched on his nose further painted the picture of a lowly secretary.
Think bookish, he reminded himself. Think desk man, paper diddler, a pale and pottering sort who worked late into the night arranging another bloke’s affairs.
Lord Liverpool appeared at the top of the grand entry stairs, finally leaving for the evening. Time for the show. Peebles clutched his stack of papers to his chest and began to scuttle up the steps, muttering to himself in his fussiest manner.
One… two… He reached the step below Liverpool. Three. He let one toe catch under the lower step and faked a perfect stumble directly into the man on Liverpool’s left. The fellow jerked instinctively aside, allowing Peebles to shower his lordship with a flutter of paper.
Peebles had practiced only one phrase in correct “priss-bookish” with Button’s help.
He began to industriously brush off his lordship as if the paper had been the contents of a dustbin. “Oh, dear, how clumsy of me. Oh dear, how clumsy of me. Oh, dear. Oh dear!”
Liverpool retreated a step with a pained expression. “I am quite well enough, my good man. Perhaps you should devote yourself to putting your papers in order?”
Peebles looked down at the mess and squealed in horror. “Oh, dear!”
Liverpool and his companion continued on their way without a single glance back, but Peebles continued his charade until his prop papers were all assembled and the numbered key that had once resided in Liverpool’s waistcoat pocket had made its way into his own. Then he scuttled to the street exit where Stubbs awaited him with an unmarked carriage. Time to set the plan in motion.
Button fussed with the gold braid on the enormous red coat he was fitting on a filming Kurt. Since soldiers were not encouraged to have long hair, Kurt had his tangled locks piled upon his head like a girl, ready to conceal under the tall helmet of a commander of the Royal Horse Guard.
The helmet was authentic, filched from the storeroom of the Guard itself. There had never been a uniform made, however, that could cover the gigantic frame of the club’s premier assassin, so Button had fashioned one from red wool and gold braid, although he still worried loudly that the gold buttons were not a perfect match.
“Don’t worry about it. Button. Do you think anyone staring into that face will be looking at the trim of his uniform?”
Kurt swung slowly to glare at James, bringing Button with him as the valet clung on during the slow turn. James only smiled at the big man. “Come on, Kurt. You know I love you like a brother, don’t you?”
Kurt only granted, then plucked Button from himself like a man forcefully removing a leech from his flesh. “It’s good. Go away.”
Button sniffed. “No one appreciates perfection. Why do I try, I ask you? Why do I even try?” He gathered his tailoring gear and left the room. They could hear his affronted muttering all the way down the hall. “‘It’s good,’ he says. It’s genius, I tell you, but do I get a speck of credit? I don’t think so. …”
James grinned at Kurt. “Best watch out. Remember how the genius valet dressed Dalton at the start of all this? How would you like flowing lace sleeves and high heels?”
Kurt grunted again, but said nothing. In truth, James doubted that he was in any danger from Button, since the valet had developed quite a passion for Kurt’s famous petits fours.
Just thinking about Kurt’s baking genius brought a growl to James’s belly. Unfortunately, the assassin had been too busy preparing for tonight’s venture to spare the time for any kitchen magic. Mournfully, James realized that he was going to have to wait until tomorrow for his favorite trifle with berries.
Kurt heard James’s stomach growl and took it as due flattery, as it was. “Got gooseberries in,” he growled, which was his normal mode of speech. “And fresh cream and butter.”
James’s knees went weak. “Maybe we’ll finish early this evening?” There was always hope.
Kurt shrugged and pulled his tentlike cloak over his fabricated uniform. Tucking the hat under one arm, well hidden under the cloak, he turned without a word and left the room. James grabbed his own cloak and followed. “If you start the sponge cake tonight—”
Clara rolled her forehead on her folded arms. Something had roused her, but she couldn’t seem to open her eyes. Perhaps there had been nothing at all—
The faint sound of a key in the lock of her door woke her like cold water down her back. She stumbled to her feet to face the door. Who could it be at this tune of night?
The door swung open and she blinked against the glare from the lighted hallway. Then a giant stepped into the rectangle of light, a giant that she recognized with a stab of primal fear.
Kurt.
The breath left her lungs as her worst fears seemed about to realize themselves. Liverpool had made his decision. She was to be disposed of—
The big man stepped forward, looming so far above her that she was forced to tilt her head all the way back to see his frightening face. He looked down at her impassively.
Then his gaze flicked to the drawing on the table. Clara had left it out so that the rather terrible ink could safely dry. Oh, no. She ought to have hidden it somehow. If her one bargaining chip were taken from her she would disappear for certain.
Kurt’s buttons seemed to shake before her eyes. Then she heard a sound emerge from deep inside his chest, rather like the crunching of gravel. He was… laughing?
Quickly she snatched the now dry drawing and rolled it in her hands, standing and backing away from him as she did so.
He watched her for a moment from beneath heavy lids, then turned to gather her case under one great arm as if it weighed nothing. “Time to go,” he growled. Stepping forward with surprising swiftness, he wrapped one massive hand around her arm and took her with him.
He didn’t hurt her, but neither did she have the means to struggle. Her toes were scarcely touching the ground as he walked her down the hall to another doorway. It was a plain narrow door, built
to disappear into the paneling of the wall. A servant’s passage?
Kurt tapped twice, then opened the panel. He thrust her inside, then shut her into the dark space.
A scraping sound met her ears and a small light flared. Before her stood a man holding a tiny slip of burning wood and a coil of rope, wearing a rakish grin on his face.
Her mind spun. “Monty?”
Dalton stilled and his grin wavered. “If you like.”
She caught herself up. “It—I was only startled—I’m—” Why was she apologizing to a man who was kidnapping her? Again!
She shook off the last of her daze. “What is it you want, my lord?”
He narrowed his eyes at her. “I think I liked ‘Monty’ better.” He touched the end of the match to a candle set on a crate. The closet looked like some sort of supply room for the palace staff. Dalton began running the rope through his hands, forming a sliding loop at one end.
Clara didn’t know what to think. Kurt and Dalton, working together. Was that good news or bad? “What are you doing?”
He stopped and tilted his head as he considered her. He looked so dashing with his hard body outlined all in black that she lost a moment to useless fantasy. All they lacked were the silk mask and the privacy of their attic.
What about your sanity? For you are certainly lacking something? Clara put a rein on her wayward thoughts. As Dalton continued to toy with the rope, tying it into some sort of harness, she realized that once more he was stealing her away.
“I cannot leave! If I am in trouble with Lord Liverpool now, imagine if I attempt to escape!”
“Bloody hell.” Dalton turned back to her with a grunt of exasperation. With one arm he swept her close and lowered his mouth to hers.
She could never truly remember the depth of her response to him until he touched her, and then it all came flooding back. Her knees faltered and her pulse climbed, and her arms rose all of their own to wrap themselves around his neck.
The taste of him filled her mouth, mingling with her own until she couldn’t remember which was which. She felt weightless when he held her, insubstantial yet somehow connected to the earth in a whole new way. As if when he touched her, he created a current within her that—