by The Impostor
Dalton twitched one corner of his mouth. It wouldn’t do to reveal his relief at this moment. “Thank you, my lord. I shall.”
Liverpool turned his narrow gaze on Clara. “I suppose you’ll be wanting some sort of reward for your assistance in the destruction of the Knights of the Lily.”
Clara blinked. “I shouldn’t think—”
The Prime Minister raised one hand to halt her. “I’ll have you know that I don’t hold with extortion. You’ll get no more than any citizen would receive from the Crown coffers and like it.”
“But—”
“Are you arguing with me, child?”
Clara subsided. “No, my lord.”
“I’ll be watching you, girl.”
Clara raised a brow. “And I you, my lord.”
Liverpool left, trailed by his Guard. Once they were all gone and he could breathe easily again, Dalton turned to see Stubbs, Button, and Kurt grinning at his back. At least, Stubbs and Button were grinning. Kurt had his single eyebrow drawn down in a frightening manner and some of his few unbroken teeth bared. Dalton decided to declare it a smile and grinned back. “What’s with you lot?”
Stubbs shook his head. “You, tellin’ his lordship you ain’t got your Liar name.”
Button laughed. “We thought you knew, you see.”
Dalton’s smile faded. The lack of a Liar name had bothered him more than he wanted to admit, even to himself. “Knew what?”
That sent Button and Stubbs into choking snorts of hysteria, with much don’t-mind-us waving of hands and searching out of handkerchiefs.
“Shut it, you dolts.” Kurt turned his lowering gaze on Dalton. “You’ve ‘ad your name, sir. We all been usin’ it to your face for weeks.”
Dalton blinked, still confused despite a glowing coal of hope in his gut. “You have? What is it?”
“We picked it on account of ‘ow you can tear a strip from a bloke and never curse, not once. Never even raise your voice.” Kurt waited expectantly, but Dalton still had no glimmer.
“I know.” Clara stepped up, James close behind her. She folded her arms and gave Dalton the pirate smile of old. “You’re the Gentleman.”
The Gentleman. Dalton’s heart slowed and a sense of peace descended on him. Of course. He had been accepted by the Liars all along. It had been he who had not accepted himself.
He turned to Clara and reached for her. Gently he let his fingers rest on her shoulder for a moment, then he ran his hand down her graceful arm and took her hand in his.
‘This is all due to you,” he said.
She shook her head. “This is your merry band, my lord.”
He let his fingers twine with hers. Hers were shy, reluctant. “And will you join our merry band, my lady?”
She looked about her. Dalton could see many encouraging grins at the corners of his vision, but he did not take his eyes off her. He dared not, for oddly she seemed about to disappear.
“I don’t know… I’ve never taught.”
Dalton covered her hand with his two. “You have indeed taught, Mrs. Clara Rose Thorogood Simpson. You have taught me.”
He knelt before her. She gazed down at him in bewilderment as the Liars burst out in broad cries of approval. “You are far more woman than I deserve, yet I must tell you.” He brought her hand to his lips. “I love you, Clara. I love you and I want you and I need you quite without reservation.”
He smiled up at her astonished expression. “Will you wed me? Will you join us as my Lady Etheridge?”
Clara could only stand and stare down at Dalton in shock. The cries of the Liars died away as her silence lengthened. They all stood around her and Dalton, watching and waiting. The pressure of their eyes added to the hideous strain of the past days made Clara shake inside from tormented exhaustion. She’d been hunted, hounded, held at the point of a pistol, shot, and dropped down a palace laundry shaft. Now she was being proposed to?
She parted her lips to reply but no sound emerged. She couldn’t think. The only sound was Dalton’s voice in her mind. It is the perfect solution.
“I am not a problem for you to solve,” she whispered finally. Dalton’s hopeful smile faltered and her resolve nearly did as well. “I need to leave.” She eased her hand from his grasp.
“Leave?”
She couldn’t look at him. “I cannot be here. I need… “Shaking her head, she turned away, almost staggering in her weariness. “I need to think…”
“Clara.” Dalton was on his feet now, reaching for her worriedly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize—Stubbs! Fetch milady a carriage!”
Clara flinched. “Milady” she breathed in alarm. “You presume, my lord.”
“Clara? What is wrong? Tell me what I’ve done?”
She turned to him, gazing up into his silver eyes. She had seen those eyes seethe and she had seen them freeze. She had seen so many faces of this man she could scarcely remember them all. “You? You’ve done nothing. I don’t even know you.”
He recoiled as if she had shot him with Wadsworth’s pistol.
“I see.” He stepped back from her. She saw his throat work as he swallowed hard. “Yes, you should go home. I shall call on you tomorrow—”
She flung up a hand. “No. I need time. Time to think.”
Stubbs stepped up. “I’ve a hack outside for ye, milady.”
Their sheer blind persistence made Clara’s spine melt in weary frustration. She could only shake her head blindly and make for the door and her escape.
Chapter Twenty-eight
The reward she received was more than Clara had ever dreamed of earning on her own. Beatrice had urged her to take it.
“You should take the reward. Because of you, a threat to the Crown has been removed. And now you’re famous as well.”
She was now an independent woman.
She had returned to the Trapp house to take a whole new position within the family. She had pondered finding her own small house, but she couldn’t bring herself to begin.
She had sought out Rose in order to invite her to come to live with her, but the little maid had turned spy trainee and was more than happy with her new situation.
“Milady thinks I have potential,” Rose had enthused, her eyes shining behind her new spectacles. “I never drop anything now. And Milady thinks that my knowledge of belowstairs’ll come in right—come in very handily.”
Rose had found her place in the world, and Clara could be nothing but happy for her. If only she could say the same. Independent life was full of freedom. The freedom to be desperately lonely in the midst of Beatrice’s gossiping cronies. The freedom to spend her evenings trying her hand at true art, though most of it landed in the fire.
And the freedom to dream long lovely dreams in which she wasn’t alone at all.
She was sitting in the front parlor one afternoon after a week of independence, pondering that she was determined never to be under anyone’s thumb again, when it occurred to her that in all her life the only person who hadn’t tried to control her was Dalton. He’d angered her, he’d driven her mad, he’d tried to protect her, yes—but never once had he tried to quash her.
Then again, he’d not contacted her either, not once. Which only gave credence to her suspicion that his offers of marriage had been merely dutiful impulse.
Her thoughts were interrupted by a knock at her door. Could it be …? With a thrill, she ran lightly to the door.
It wasn’t Dalton. Not even close.
Upon her step stood a bent old man with a delivery basket. “Be this the Trapp house?”
Clara nodded and accepted the basket. It was probably something else from Agatha, who seemed to delight in purchasing gifts for everyone of her aquaintance. Clara tipped the old fellow and turned to place the basket on the side table. She didn’t much feel like opening—
The basket meowed.
Clara dropped to her knees there in the hallway to open the ties with trembling fingers. When she lifted the lid, the smooth beautiful
face of a ginger cat looked up into hers.
Disappointed, Clara realized that it was not her dear rescued cat. For a moment, she’d hoped that Dalton had kept and cared for the poor slit-eared animal for her. Instead, he must have thought to carelessly replace her with this lovely creature.
The cat blinked at her with wide green eyes and Clara’s heart softened. “I’m sorry. It isn’t your fault that you’re not my ragged little friend.” She ran her fingers gently across the top of the cat’s head, and scratched gently behind an ear. There was something wrong with the soft velvet flap. …
“What’s this?” She reached into the basket to pick up the cat and carried her to the light of the window. In this glossy animal’s ears there were unmistakable slits, the kind that never would heal completely whole.
Her eyes stung. Clara held her cat close, tucking the silky head beneath her chin. He had kept her trust. He had more than kept it, he had exceeded it. Only the finest of care could have resulted in such radiant health in her pretty marmalade darling.
Then her pretty marmalade darling dug claws into Clara’s arm and sprang from her embrace. “Ouch!” Clara rubbed the scratch and watched the cat trot back to the basket and hop in.
And immediately hop out with a tiny mirror image in her careful jaws.
Clara ran to the basket to see one other perfect tiny creature, a tabby of a lovely dove-gray color. “Kittens? Oh, you clever, clever kitty!”
And beneath them, somewhat the worse for riding about with babies, was an envelope. Gingerly, she opened the outer envelope to find with relief that the inner letter was relatively undamaged.
In a large manly scrawl, she read, “Never forget all of those whom you have redeemed. Your grateful liar.”
After watching the mother cat carry both kittens to a new nest that she carefully made on Beatrice’s best sofa, Clara turned from the basket and strode to the small study. She took a piece of stationery from her desk and with swift decisive strokes, she penned an acceptance of the one position that she had been offered since her world had been upturned.
“Dear Lord Etheridge…”
Clara alighted from the rented hack to find herself the recipient of a delighted grin. She smiled back. “Mr. Stubbs! How nice to see you again.”
Stubbs blushed and stuttered, then held the door for her, despite the fact that the club had not yet opened. She supposed she didn’t actually qualify as a member, nor precisely as a guest.
In his eagerness, Stubbs followed her inside and took her cloak. “The Gentleman’s expectin’ you upstairs.”
The door to the kitchen opened slowly, for the width of mere inches, and she could see three heads backlit by the kitchen lanterns. She shook her head. Some spies they were!
“Good afternoon, Kurt. I trust you are well. Button? And James, it is always a pleasure.”
She received two shame-faced greetings and one grunt in reply, which she accepted with regal serenity. It seemed that the Gentleman wasn’t the only one expecting her.
She ought to have been nervous. Or excited at the very least. But frankly, all she felt was a tranquil certainty. She was precisely where she ought to be, doing precisely as she should. If Dalton Montmorency couldn’t see that, then she was just going to have to convince him otherwise.
And wouldn’t that be a lovely way to pass an afternoon?
She was here. Fisher, the code-breaker, had run upstairs to whisper it a moment ago, before casting him a thumbs-up and dashing away.
Dalton would have known anyway, for his senses hummed in that way they always did when she was near. He patted the pocket that held the ring. He checked the light, fiddling with the draperies yet again.
Dimness was more intimate, but he didn’t want to seem to be setting some sort of sensual snare. Then again, the attic truly wasn’t at its best in good light, despite the hours that the Liars had spent cleaning the place.
Apparently a dozen spies did not good housekeeping make. They’d finally brought in Agatha’s new protégée, Rose, in an advisory capacity. She’d rolled her eyes and set the lot of them to sweeping and scrubbing all over again.
Agatha had then stepped in to choose a number of things to make the attic comfortable and useful. There was a fine easel and a variety of papers in a printer’s stand. There were inks of every color and a lifetime supply of plumes and nibs for pen-making.
The rest of the attic’s furnishings disturbed him a little. Apparently, Agatha had been inspired to create what Dalton thought of as Ah Baba’s cave. In the far end of the attic there existed a fantasy of drapery and cushions that kept Dalton’s mind turning back to the nest of old curtains where he had lost his heart to Rose the maid.
Rose the maid, and the merry Widow Simpson, and the valiant Clara, and by God, even Sir Thorogood! All of them combined made for a fascinating woman, a goddess of justice and fey, sensual charm that he could not wrest from his heart, no matter that she loved him not.
Perhaps if he said he was not opposed to a long engagement, she might reconsider. He’d even accept a secret betrothal, if that was what she wished. If only she would give him another chance to make that divine request, the one he’d bungled so badly twice before.
Unfortunately, he hadn’t a clue how to do it. So he’d decided to bribe her with this outrageous studio, and planned to promise to abide by her slightest wish, and…
There his inspiration stopped. He’d never been a glib man. People thought it was because he was too important to be bothered, but it was simply that he didn’t know how. Oh, he could discuss the exports of China, debate the writing of a law, even argue down the Prince Regent himself if necessary, but on this… sensitive matter, he’d had no practice at ah.
The door opened. He swung about with betraying eagerness, then cursed himself. He would not pressure her. He would not try to sway her with tales of his own loneliness and longing for her.
She entered from the dark narrow stair, blinking against the sudden glare of the sunlight shining through crystal-clean windows to bounce from whitewashed walls back into her eyes.
Damn, he should have drawn the draperies, he should have—
“Dalton, what is this?”
She was looking about her, her delicate brows drawn together.
He cleared his throat, which had closed at the sight of her wide hazel eyes. “An artist needs a studio, does she not?”
She looked him in the eye and laughed, the sound bursting from obvious amazement. His heart fell with a sickening impact. “You don’t like it.”
Covering her giggles with her hand, she shook her head, looking around her at the mountain of supplies and the Bedouin nest. Then she must have seen his disappointment, for she composed herself quickly.
“It isn’t that I don’t like it. It’s only that—” She looked around her in disbelief once more. “All I need is a desk and paper and ink. I could work in any corner, had I candles enough.”
Ah, they had overdone it. He’d suspected as much himself. Cheering somewhat, he gestured to the printer’s rack. “There. Paper.” He patted the cabinet that held the array of pen-making supplies. “Ink! And should you need them on a cloudy day—” He threw open the cupboard door to show a solid two hundred fine wax tapers. “Candles!”
She gave up any semblance of control and threw back her head, laughing out loud. Dalton had to smile with her, for she was so obviously delighted with his excess.
Drawing one hand across her tearing eyes, she sputtered to a stop. “Dare I ask about the—?” She canted her head toward the shameless pile of luxury in the corner.
Dalton tugged at his cravat. “That was Agatha’s doing, I fear. I swear I never told a soul about—”
“No, I’m sure you would never lack for subtlety, Dalton. Not like setting this stage in an attic, or some such.”
Rubbing the back of his neck, he gave up and confessed. “Very well, then, I lack subtlety. But I also thought it had good light.”
She gazed at him for a long moment
. “Do you need a lesson in subtlety, my fine British spy?”
The sultry note in her voice made Dalton’s trousers tighten. She smiled and came closer, removing her gloves one slow finger at a time. Had the removal of kidskin ever been so subtly erotic? Or was it simply that every move she made fascinated him?
She drew near and he caught a whiff of roses. The memories it evoked nearly knocked him to his knees. He closed his eyes briefly in an effort to control his thoughts and he felt her touch upon his hand.
When he opened his eyes, she’d already turned away to examine the easel, leaving him clutching the soft skin of her gloves like a man clinging to a lifeline.
The easel was crafted of fine ash wood, and she ran her bare fingers over it appreciatively.
God, he would kill to be that easel!
“So sturdy,” she murmured. “Strong and tall and fine…”
His lips parted.
She laid her cheek against the smooth polished wood, closing her eyes with pleasure. “Do you not love to stroke a finely made piece?”
His hands started to shake. His neck was sweating and his chest felt tight. He was very careful not to look down at himself, for fear of what he’d see.
“I have a gift for you.”
He opened his eyes to see that she held out a scrolled paper. A drawing?
Then his eyes widened. She had carried nothing when she entered the room. Where had she kept it? And how could he live with knowing he’d missed seeing her retrieve it? His mind occupied with visions of garters and fluttering petticoats, he absently reached for the drawing and unrolled it.
And nearly swallowed his tongue.
“This—this is pornographic!”
She gave him that wild-child grin and tilted her head at him. “Are you going to arrest me?”
He’d had enough. He reached for her. “No, I’m going to throw you down and turn this sketch into reality!”
She danced beyond his reach. “Not until you hear me out.”
Anything, he’d promise anything, if only he could bury himself in her fire once more. He hadn’t been warm in ages, perhaps forever.
His longing must have shown in his face, for she held up a hand to halt him. Then she faced him, her hands loosely clasped at her waist. She looked the picture of proper English womanhood in her lavender half mourning and her prim stance.