Celeste Bradley - [The Liar's Club 05]

by The Rogue

  “Well, what do you want from me? Your pantomime ‘Meet me in the library’ was quite good by the way. I especially liked the motion you made for ‘book.’ Why did you wish to meet me here?”

  “To warn you, of course.”

  “Warn me? About what?”

  Ethan rubbed the back of his neck. “Well—”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, for one thing, it isn’t advisable for a young lady to be skulking about in the dark!”

  She blinked and drew her brows together. “Whyever not?”

  Ethan found himself distracted by that surprisingly attractive expression. She wasn’t a beauty exactly, but she did possess rather striking eyebrows. Fine, arched, and light brown, they perfectly expressed her every irritation—

  Ethan blinked, pulling himself back to the moment. Idiot, mooning about some irritating chit’s eyebrows. He’d ordered her here for a reason—he only needed to recall what that was.

  She did look utterly charming in her wrapper with her thick reddish-blonde braid trailing strands of hair along her cheek. And freckles? Adorable.

  But that was beside the point. The point was that she kept being where she ought not to be, and that could be dangerous in this house.

  He could not tell her about the Liars’ suspicions of Lord Maywell, not without explaining all about the Liars—which, if he was any judge of the ruthlessness in a man’s eye, would cause Lord Etheridge to give a very unpleasant order regarding poor old Ethan Damont. So, no telling the girl.

  No explaining himself to her at all, now that he thought about it. He’d meant to chastise her, to warn her, to scold her and demand that she keep herself safe—

  But there wasn’t one thing he could say.

  Actions spoke louder than words, did they not? Ethan picked up the candelabra and, never taking his gaze from that of Lady Jane, blew out one candle.

  Ethan Damont had ever been a creature of impulse. Looking back later, he would definitely come up with a better reason for his next action than the fact that she looked utterly charming in her wrapper. And after he’d thought it over some more, he would come up with the idea that getting himself driven out of Maywell House at the end of a horsewhip for meddling with one of the young ladies would most definitely make him useless to the Liars.

  He moved toward her, with a slight smile on his face. Her eyes widened and she drew back, but there was nowhere for her to go. Her back was pressed to the closed door. He blew out another candle, then another. There were only two left.

  Now he could see the frank panic skittering across her face. One more step. One less candle. Now he was a mere arm’s length from her with only a single candle standing between them and the intimate darkness.

  Ethan smiled at her, a purposely sensual, dangerous smile. “Lady Jane, you ought to be in bed,” he whispered softly, heavy on the innuendo.

  “If—if you s-say so,” she stuttered. Then, quick as lightning, she pulled the door open—

  Only to hear Lord Maywell’s voice in the distance. “We’ll be in the library. If you can find Mr. Damont, please have him join us there.”

  Within seconds, the room was dark, the unlit candelabra was back on the mantel, and the library was empty of anything other than books.

  Jane was quite breathless. Mr. Damont was a very efficient man.

  Of course, if she were inclined to be critical, she might find fault with his choice of hiding place. There was a true lack of space for one here under the cloth-covered library table. Two made for close quarters indeed.

  Behind her, Mr. Damont shifted uncomfortably. “Are you sure it is quite proper for us to be alone together here?” he whispered.

  She slid him a sideways glance. “Worried for your virtue, Mr. Damont?”

  “You ought to be worried for yours, my lady.”

  “From you? Hardly.” She turned her attention back to the slit in the fabric that showed the library most clearly. Uncle Harold was lingering in the hall with someone. She could hear their voices but not their words.

  Ethan was oddly affronted. “What are you implying?”

  “Hmm?” That other voice didn’t really sound like any of the younger men who had been at dinner. Who was Uncle Harold talking to?

  He tapped her on the shoulder. She turned her head again. “What do you mean, ‘hardly’?” he insisted.

  Jane sighed with resignation, then twisted her body slightly in order to look at him fully. “I imply nothing but that my virtue is utterly safe in your hands,” she reassured him in a low voice.

  “It is not!” he burst out in a loud whisper. “Take that back!”

  She was surprised into a soft laugh. She felt him stiffen with affront. Oh, dear, Mr. Ethan Damont was getting testy. Jane made a tiny scoffing sound.

  “I heard that,” he hissed. “Now take that back!”

  “Very well,” she drawled. “I take it back. I live in fear that your manliness will overcome me,” she chanted dutifully. “Pray, control your magnificent steed.”

  He growled. “Snot.”

  “Lecher,” she retorted. “Better now?”

  “Just you wait, Lady Pain-in-the-arse,” he growled. “One day you and I will be alone together in a dark room—”

  “Like now?”

  He made a noise like a frustrated bear. Jane stifled another chuckle. “Honestly, men can be such—”

  He dipped his head and kissed her. It was a swift kiss, with only the slightest lingering on the parting. Still, it sent a bolt of mingled fire and fear through her.

  “What?” he whispered against her lips. “Men can be such—what?”

  Jane turned away, back to her vigil at the slit, and drew her shoulder high between them. Mr. Damont said no more, though Jane could feel his warm breath stirring the small curls on the back of her neck. She bit her lips together, trying to erase the lingering memory of his warm mouth on them. It did no good. There was something growing within her, a newly awakened heat that she had no idea what to do with.

  Now the darkness was no longer comfortable. Now his presence behind her was no longer that of a companion in distress.

  Now, he was a man, and Jane had never felt more like a woman in her life.

  The library door opened at last. The butler entered bearing candles, then Uncle Harold and another, smaller man entered. “I have the information, my lord,” the other man said, standing with his back to Jane.

  “Fine, fine,” Lord Maywell said carelessly. “I’ll look at it later.” He sat before the fire, leaving the other man standing without an invitation.

  Jane slumped. Obviously the new man was just a servant of some kind. The door opened and the butler reentered with a pot of coffee.

  “Mr. Damont is nowhere to be found, my lord, but his hat and walking stick are still here,” the butler informed him.

  Jane turned to give Mr. Damont a disbelieving look. Walking stick? she mouthed. He grimaced, obviously not open to criticism of his personal style. She grinned. Flash, she accused silently.

  “He’s a slippery fellow,” Uncle Harold said to no one in particular. The visitor merely nodded politely.

  Uncle Harold waved the coffee away. “If Damont isn’t joining me, then I’m off.” He rose heavily. The smaller man did nothing to help him, which rather surprised Jane. A servant would have. The fellow might be something more. A man of business, perhaps?

  She would ask Serena tomorrow. The lovely thing about Serena was that she always answered truthfully, yet never asked why you wanted to know something. Jane knew without a doubt that she herself had never been that trusting, likely not even as an infant.

  Uncle Harold strode from the library, followed by the smaller man, then by the butler carrying the untouched coffee tray.

  Jane started to move immediately, but Mr. Damont put a restraining hand on her arm. She went very still, her heart thudding. The heat of his touch through her clothes plunged her directly back into that kiss.

  They waited a moment longer, then they
crept out into the empty room. Jane straightened her skirts with shaking hands. She clasped them behind her to hide the trembling.

  “Well, Mr. Damont, I fear it is time for me to say good evening and allow you to take your leave.”

  His lips quirked. “So formal. Very well, then, my lady. I will take my leave, as you so subtly request.”

  She nodded shortly and turned to go.

  His voice stopped her before she’d taken five steps. When had his very voice become like a leash to her will?

  “Lady Jane, I believe there is something you should know about me.”

  She took a deep breath and turned, but a small polite smile was the best she could do. “And what is that, Mr. Damont?”

  “I haven’t a sou. Not really.” He waved a hand over his own rumpled but fine attire. “All flash, no substance—just as you said.”

  That confession was the last thing she’d expected. If one could say nothing else about Mr. Ethan Damont, one could say he was very honest—for a card cheat.

  The stories she’d heard about him—well, yes, she’d asked about him, just out of curiosity—had that his father was a wealthy clothmaker who had disowned Ethan when he’d proved ungrateful.

  “What happened with your father?” Goodness, had she just blurted that question out like that? Curiosity was one thing, but now she was embarrassing them both!

  He didn’t seem embarrassed, however. He tilted his head, gazing at her calmly. “I was disowned, tossed out, etcetera.”

  “But why? What did you—” She stopped and bit her lip. “This is none of my affair. My apologies.”

  He shrugged. “I think it’s best if you know. What did I do?” He shook his head. “What didn’t I do? I was not only a disappointment, I was a grand failure. I should know. I worked very hard at it.”

  He didn’t sound particularly sorry, but Jane had the feeling he wasn’t really telling her everything. He went on.

  “I had my share of fine feeling and disappointment, as does any young man. After one particularly wrenching drama, I spent several weeks staying as drunk as possible. That bit of wallowing was the final straw for my father. He tossed me out on my sodden arse and told me never to return.”

  How terrible for him. Jane missed her own gentle father dreadfully. She could not have borne such disapproval from him, she was sure. “Did you ever return?”

  “No.” Ethan looked away. “He took ill soon after. I didn’t hear about it in time—probably because I was still very drunk—so I never saw him again. My mother retired to the country and some distant cousin took over the factories.”

  “But aren’t they yours?”

  “Oh, no. My father did live long enough to write me out of everything. It isn’t like it is in your world, my lady. The common man chooses precisely who inherits his wealth. Leaving it all to the eldest son is still the usual, of course, but it is by no means the law. If a man takes a particular dislike to his own offspring, he may leave his accumulated blunt to anyone he likes.” He took a long breath. “I assure you, a rat in the attic stood a better chance of inheriting than I. And likely deserved it more.”

  Jane frowned. “But did you actually want to inherit the factories?”

  He grinned wryly at her tone. “What, can you not imagine me as a merchant? Can’t you see me keeping my books with my ink guards about my sleeves while working my poor employees into their early graves?” He shook his head, laughing slightly. “No, I can’t picture it either.”

  Jane took a breath. “Thank you for telling me all this, Mr. Damont. I ought not to have asked.”

  He shook his head, chuckling. “My dear Lady Jane, give me this much—you did not bring it up. I did.”

  She pursed her lips. “That is true. Why did you think this should concern me?”

  “You are on the hunt for a rich husband, are you not?”

  Hunt? Jane blinked, then recovered. That was her express purpose in this house, after all. “Yes, I suppose I am on the hunt for a rich, titled husband, since you insist on putting it so bluntly.” She raised her chin. “Do you mean to take yourself out of the running with this confession of alleged poverty?”

  “I only wish to warn you against becoming attached.” His eyes were shadowed. She could not see if he was in his teasing mode. By the sobriety of his tone, she feared he was quite serious.

  The arrogance of his assumption was more than enough to return her equilibrium. She tilted her head, clasping her now dead-steady hands before her. “Mr. Damont, I assure you, becoming attached to you would require lengths of strong rope and quantities of glue.”

  She whirled and went on her way, pausing only to look back over her shoulder at him. “And even then, sir, I would not wager on it.”

  The quiet rumble of his laughter followed her down the hall like a friendly dog, at once comforting and annoying. Still, she was glad they were back on familiar, maddening ground.

  That meant she could put thoughts of that disturbing kiss behind her. And she would. Soon.

  It was a pity that she must, however. It had been a very nice kiss.

  Moreover, it had been her first.

  Ethan arrived home early, unannounced and in a shabby hack.

  It did him no good. Jeeves was waiting on the front steps to take his hat and stick.

  “You exhaust me, Jeeves,” Ethan said to the butler as he alighted from the cab.

  “Yes, sir,” Jeeves replied evenly. “Will you be going back out, sir?”

  “No, Jeeves. You can relax now.” Ethan entered his house and headed for a brandy. He was halfway across his study before he remembered that his brandy had taken up residence in his chambers.

  “Never mind,” he muttered to himself. The fire was mesmerizing enough and his chair had been pulled invitingly close to the hearth. Rubbing his brow against the tension that tightened there, he flung himself into his chair without looking.

  Only to jump up with a shout when something small and squirmy shot out from behind him with a strangled squeak.

  Ethan swept up the poker and brandished it in the direction the nasty thing had gone. His study door opened.

  “Is there a problem, sir?”

  “Jeeves, there’s a rat in here!”

  “Yes, sir. What color is it, sir?”

  “Color?” He blinked. He’d only had the merest glimpse. “Why . . . sort of orangish, I think.” Which was ridiculous.

  He watched as Jeeves calmly crossed the room and reached beneath the settee. Impressed, Ethan lowered his weapon. “Hellfire, you’re certainly a man of parts, Jeeves!”

  “Indeed, sir,” Jeeves replied calmly. He serenely patted around in the dark space for a moment, then drew out his hand. “Is this your rat, sir?”

  From the butler’s grip dangled a thin, stringy-tailed, struggling . . . kitten. Ethan recoiled. “No, by God! That’s worse!”

  Jeeves turned his wrist in order to gaze into the kitten’s face. The little monster batted him gently on the nose. Ethan shuddered. “Take it away, Jeeves.”

  “Yes, sir.” Jeeves stuffed the thing into his pocket. The tiny tail flipped this way and that from the top rim of the pink pocket. “Shall I send it back to Mrs. Tremayne, sir, or merely toss it into the alley?”

  Ethan went still. “Mrs. Tremayne? Rose brought that thing here?”

  “Yes, sir. This evening while you were gone. I assumed you wished to have a pet cat, sir, or I would have refused it on your behalf.”

  The kitten was a gift from Rose.

  Now what was he supposed to do about that? Ethan closed his eyes in resignation and hung the poker back on its hook. He reached out his hand. “I’ll take the kitten, Jeeves.”

  “It is no trouble to dispose of it, sir. I’m sure there’s a rain barrel about somewhere . . .”

  Ethan laughed, a soft, helpless gust. “Oh, shut it, Jeeves. You wouldn’t do such a thing and we both know it. Now give me it.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The kitten was dropped into his hand
. It weighed nothing at all. Ethan closed his fingers entirely around the little creature’s belly. It didn’t struggle, but simply hung there tensely in his grip, little paws spread as if it could only prepare itself for a fall.

  Taking pity on it, for he’d felt that way a few times in his life himself, Ethan brought it closer and put his other hand beneath it to support its feet. The kitten went limp then, melting into his hands like warm taffy.

  Ethan took Rose’s gift back to the chair with him and sat, holding it carefully before him as if he weren’t sure it wouldn’t go off. In fact, he wasn’t. Other than horses, he’d never spent much time around animals.

  There had been no pets in the Damont household. His father had always treated creatures as commodities, to be bought and sold, and only valued for what work they could do.

  “Don’t feel bad, little moggie,” Ethan whispered to the kitten. It blinked large sleepy green eyes at him. “He quite felt the same way about me.”

  So, he was no longer alone. A butler, a new cook, and a tiny morsel of fur. He brought the kitten to his chest and tucked it into his waistcoat—but only because his arms were growing tired. A loud rattling purr erupted from the scant little thing.

  “I hope you don’t expect me to give you the best pillow, or buy you liver, or . . .” What else did one do to spoil a cat?

  He’d have to ask around.

  Chapter Nine

  Ethan woke up to the smell of something heavenly beneath his nose. Breakfast was usually not a happy event for him, so he waited for the customary morning-after queasiness to surge.

  Instead, his stomach growled voraciously. He cracked one eye open the tiniest possible slit. Oddly, the morning light did not slice into his brain like a knife. Ethan raised one hand to his head, but there was no pounding there at all.

  His stomach made another, less polite request. Damn, something smelled good. Opening both eyes was rewarded by the sight of a tray at his bedside, silver covers fogging slightly at the edges from the steaming delights within.

  The kitten sat on the table beside it, stringy tail daintily curled about its feet, wide green eyes fixed on its own image reflected in the gleaming silver.