Celeste Bradley - [The Liar's Club 05]

by The Rogue

  With the departure of the guard, at last the inmates settled to a random mumble of insanity and Jane could think.

  When she’d seen the doors close on Ethan’s protest she’d known she had no chance. She’d not been allowed to reach him, for the attendant’s thick arm had come around her waist, pulling her from her feet.

  The next several moments were a blur, but she’d come out of them with a few new bruises and a renewed feeling of helplessness.

  The nurse had ordered her carried to a room occupied by a fireplace and a number of crude iron tubs. There Jane was stripped and forcefully bathed despite the fact that she was already cleaner than the scummy water she was thrown into. She’d fought the nurse until the woman had threatened to leave the bathing to the guard.

  Quailing from such a fate, Jane cursed herself for her own girlish weakness. She wished she were stronger, or faster, or more persuasive. Yet many large men were incarcerated in Bedlam—who was to say they did not wish the same?

  Finally Jane decided she was simply going to have to be resilient and sturdy instead. She was no Augusta, who had never been so much as chilled in her life. She had survived Northumbria winters with little food and no coal. She’d managed to keep her mother in some dignity and comfort despite their poverty.

  She could survive Bedlam.

  For a while.

  As Maywell’s carriage rumbled back into Mayfair, Ethan pressed both hands to his head, trying to shut out the memory of that choir of madness. He had to think!

  He had to rescue Jane from that place. The thought that she had already spent hours there made him ill.

  He could go to the Liars—

  In his mind he saw Etheridge’s cool expression as he talked about sacrificing someone he could not trust. What if the spymaster decided that Jane could not be trusted? What if he ordered Ethan to leave her where she was? Which of course, Ethan would disobey—thus setting himself against the Liars. He cared little for the danger to himself, but what would happen to Jane? Her uncle was a traitor. She would likely already be guilty in Etheridge’s cold-as-marble estimation.

  He could go to Collis. Collis owed him—

  “I’m a Liar, Ethan. My loyalties lie here.”

  Right, then. He was on his own. But how could he get her out of there? Nausea roiled through Ethan at the thought of Jane caged like a beast. Getting her out of there was all that mattered. To hell with the Liars and their ridiculous intentions for him.

  To hell with Maywell’s plans and national security.

  He had to undo what he’d done to her.

  Think! Anyone could get into Bedlam. There had been a sign at the entrance demanding an admission fee. Pay a penny a head to see the animals in the zoo.

  The problem was not how to get in.

  The puzzle was—how to leave in the middle of the day with a woman at his side?

  Unless . . . unless he went in with one . . .

  He rapped on the ceiling. The small trapdoor opened and the driver looked down at him. “Yes, sir?”

  “I’ve had a long night,” Ethan said casually. “I’m in need of a bit of relaxation. Take me to Mrs. Blythe’s House of Pleasure.”

  Jane sat on the floor of her cell, in the corner farthest from its door. It helped a little to think of it as a cell, and not as a cage. Less degrading somehow. A prison cell implied a crime committed. A crime committed implied a person of some dangerous capacity. A criminal might be strong and fearsome, not helpless and cowering.

  She was a prisoner, a dangerous one who must be kept contained in a cell for fear of her criminal nature. She took a deep breath and tried to feel dangerous.

  It was a silly game, but it helped. A bit.

  She needed something to keep her calm for she must think. How could she get out of here?

  Ethan will come.

  He hadn’t wanted to leave her here last night, she was sure of that. She had heard him calling her name. She took a breath. Ethan might come. Then again, he might not.

  She’d already examined every inch of the ca—the cell. The door was hinged on the other side, in the direction in which it swung. The padlock was large and crude. Jane had heard of locks being picked by hairpins, but she had none. Her entire net worth consisted of a cheap flannel dress, soft felt slippers, a much dented tin chamber pot that didn’t bear touching, and a worn blanket that she’d confined to the other corner of the cell when she’d spotted the wildlife present in it. Better to sleep on the bare bench.

  Nothing to use for a key. Nothing to use for a weapon. She didn’t want to hurt anyone—with the possible exception of the crude male attendant—but she would use a weapon if she had to. If she’d had one.

  A bit of string tied her simple braid at the end. Jane untied it and examined it closely. It was useless, being only ten inches long. She sighed, wrapped it twice about her wrist, then experimented with pulling her long hair over her face to hide from observation.

  A useful disguise perhaps, but she did not like it. She might be in Bedlam, but she would retain herself for as long as she could—she simply was not the sort of woman who let her hair hang in her eyes.

  She rebraided it neatly and used the string to tie it up again.

  After what seemed a thousand hours, an elderly woman came past the cages, pushing a cart. The cart contained loaves of dark bread and tin cups of watery soup.

  Jane made no attempt to be dainty about the coarse fare. She’d eaten worse and much less of it. It was important to maintain her health and strength against the filth all around her. She drained the cup before handing it back to the woman and took her hunk of dry bread back to her corner.

  The meal seemed to revive the woman to Jane’s right, although the limp form to her left had her worried. The first woman stirred to glare at Jane through rheumy eyes.

  “Gimme yer bread!” A grimy hand reached through the bars.

  Jane started and cringed, then remembered—dangerous. She slapped the woman’s hand hard until it withdrew. When the sanctity of her cell was restored, Jane gave the creature an even stare. “If I’ve hurt you, I apologize. If I have more than I need, I will be happy to share. But if you put your hand in here uninvited again, I cannot promise that you’ll get it back.”

  The woman blinked, then gave a rusty chuckle. “Yer a canny lass. You’ll do all right, for a while. Not like ’er.” She indicated the too-still inhabitant of the far cell, then shrugged. “At least the stupid cow stopped ’er singin’. Near to drove me mad.”

  The woman went back to her bread, chuckling at her own joke. Jane eyed the other cage with pity. The feeding nurse had taken the cup of soup away, but the hunk of bread still lay on the floor, not six inches away from the woman’s limp hand. Jane saw the woman on the far side reaching for it with one scrawny arm. She would have protested, but the other inhabitant hadn’t a chance of reaching it. Jane could, but not even her own survival would induce her to steal. That thought settled firmly within her, comfortable from long use.

  She would not fall from her own set of standards, no matter what. She’d survived without falling before, she could do it again. At least this time she had no one to look after but herself.

  When the relative amusement of eating the bread had been drawn out as long as it could, and not even a crumb was left, Jane began to have trouble ignoring the clamor about her. The voices rose and fell, and had been never-ending even in the dark of night. The incessant banging on the bars began to chip away at Jane’s reserve of cool rationality. She leaned both elbows on her knees and pressed her hands over her ears.

  She shut her eyes and prepared to wait out the rest of the day.

  That morning, Ethan appeared at his appointed time at Lord Maywell’s freshly bathed and apparently at his ease.

  Maywell eyed him carefully as Simms let him into the study. Ethan bowed genially. “Good morning, your lordship.”

  Maywell nodded, then waved Ethan to a seat. Ethan sat with a well-satisfied sigh. He knew his lordship’s driver
would have reported on the midnight visit to Mrs. Blythe’s. In fact, he was counting on it.

  “I hear you had an enjoyable evening after—”

  Ethan would have laughed if he hadn’t been so consumed with cold, calculating fury. Lord Maywell couldn’t even bring himself to speak of what he had done, the hypocritical bounder.

  “Yes, I did. Your niece was safely ensconced in the hospital and I felt the need for a bit of company. Should I not have used your carriage?”

  “No—no, that was quite all right. You sent it back in good time.”

  Ethan could see that Maywell was wondering if he’d underestimated Ethan. Ethan wasn’t feeling particularly charitable. Let the old schemer wonder.

  Maywell cleared his throat, placing his folded hands before him on the desk. “Damont, I believe in rewarding loyalty. You’ve showed that, true enough. I know it wasn’t easy for you to take my niece Jane to Bethlehem Hospital. I know you’re partial to her.”

  Ethan nodded slowly, thinking of Lady Jane Pennington climbing into his lap last night. His cravat seemed to tighten. Partial—that was a bit of an understatement.

  Lord Maywell leaned back in his chair, watching Ethan through narrowed eyes. “I’ve an offer for you, son.” He smiled slightly. “You don’t mind me calling you that, do you, my boy?”

  Son. Ethan hadn’t heard the word in a very long time. Part of him, long buried along with any hope of hearing that word so fondly spoken again, responded. Maywell would know that about him. He shook his head silently. Twisty old bastard.

  “I’ve a passel of daughters, but the fates never saw fit to give me a son,” Lord Maywell mused aloud. “It’s a real lack for a man to have no son.”

  Ethan cleared his throat. “I wouldn’t know, my lord.”

  “I’ll be blunt, Damont. I want a man inside the Liar’s Club. I know they sent you to me, hoping I would recruit you. They thought you would make a superior double spy.”

  Ethan swallowed. This man was very frightening sometimes. “I’ve told you, my lord. I don’t frequent—”

  “The Liar’s Club. Yes, I know you have. Simply listen to what I have to propose.”

  He leaned forward, white whiskers bristling earnestly. “I’d like for you to go back to the Liars, carrying certain information that I have prepared. It will be true—at least, for the most part. True enough to convince them that you have been successful. In return, they will give you misinformation to feed me, I’m sure. It is what I would do. Bring it to me anyway, for sometimes it can be as useful to know what the opposition is trying not to hide as it is to know what they are trying to hide.”

  Ethan frowned. “How very . . . intricate. If I were to do this—which I could not, for I don’t frequent the Liar’s Club—but if I were, what makes you so sure that I would choose to heed your orders and not theirs? How could one leader ever be sure of a double spy?”

  Maywell didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he leaned back in his chair and drew on his cheroot and focused a narrow gaze on him. Ethan tried to match it with a level one of his own, but he feared the man saw inside him all too well.

  For what it was worth, Ethan knew Maywell understood what it was like to be the unwanted son, to feel the scorn of the family, to long for their acceptance and to finally realize that there was no reprieve but to try to establish a dynasty of his own.

  “I think it’s time you took a wife,” Maywell said lightly, as if he were not reading Ethan’s very thoughts. “I think you’ve shown your worth to me. I care nothing for this matter of rank and title. I follow good old Napoleon’s creed, that a man is who he proves himself to be. A man of constancy and honor—now that man is as good as a lord in my book.” He took a deep pull on his cheroot. The smoke swirled between them, hiding his lordship’s eyes from Ethan’s view. The haze seemed to take shape in his imagination until Ethan could almost see his future in that writhing air.

  Maywell continued, his voice as low and soft as a mesmerizer’s. “As good as a lord—good enough to wed a lady . . . Would you like that, Damont? Would you like to wed Jane, to stand proudly by her side, welcomed by her relations, defended by my standing against whatever Society may want to say about it?”

  Longing swept Ethan, stealing his breath like a blow to the gut. To wed Jane—to be her husband, to be part of her family, to be given her hand with her family’s blessing, to live out his days beside her and his nights in her arms . . .

  All he had to do was join Lord Maywell in his secret crusade—a cause that Ethan himself did not entirely lack sympathy for.

  To be truthful, what did he owe the Liars? Or for that matter, the Crown, or even England herself? He’d spent his adulthood fighting for his own survival, for every scrap of respect and acceptance, yet he’d never truly belonged anywhere.

  Lord Etheridge had seen this in him, he realized now. This was the spymaster’s fear, this was the source of his reluctance to invite Ethan fully into the Liars. That lack of trust hit Ethan a further blow, contrasting rather unfavorably against Maywell’s offer.

  Grimly, Ethan wondered if Etheridge would ever know that it was his own suspicions that had driven Ethan away.

  With a start, Ethan realized that he was seriously contemplating it. He would step over the line he had straddled for too long, he would cross to the other side, he would betray his country freely—if it meant he could possess Jane.

  His gut twisted. Jane, for his very own. He could get her out of Bedlam this afternoon, he could ride right up to the doors with all the proper papers and Jane would be free—and his.

  Maywell, the evil bastard, had known just what key to turn.

  His cold control nearly shattered, Ethan bowed his head and stood. “My lord, if I could—if I could take a little time to think on this . . .”

  Ethan had not been home for two days, yet still Jeeves had the door wide and stood at the ready. In no mood for their usual banter, Ethan merely nodded at him as he strode by him.

  “Pardon me, sir, but you have a guest.”

  Ethan stopped short. He never had guests. “Who is it?”

  “It is a Mr. Tremayne, sir. He is waiting for you in your study, sir.”

  Collis. Ethan worked his jaw for a moment, then turned. He marched into the study and tossed his hat down on the desk. “Tremayne,” was all he said by way of greeting.

  Collis was leaning on the mantel, toying with the coals with a poker. He looked up and blinked at Ethan. “Damont, old man! Where have you been?”

  “Maywell’s,” Ethan said shortly. “Where else?”

  Collis folded his arms before him. “How about Carlton House, for starters?”

  Ethan halted in the act of looking for his decanter. It was upstairs, of course. He turned to Collis. “I figured it out. Thanks so much for letting me in on it.”

  Collis nodded. “George told me.”

  George. “A few people whom I hold in great affection are permitted to address me as ‘George.’ ”

  Ethan didn’t smile. “How is the old codge?”

  Collis was watching him carefully. “He is well. He’s concerned about you, however. He seemed to think you were upset by the discovery.”

  Ethan threw himself into the chair behind his desk. “Upset? Why would I be? You had your reasons for lying to me. National security and all that.”

  “Yes, national security and all that.” Collis looked relieved, until he began to peer more closely at Ethan. “There is something bothering you, isn’t there? Is it Maywell? Is it the case?”

  Ethan leaned his head back on his chair and closed his eyes. Collis had been his friend since they were both in short pants and skinned knees. He wanted to confide—to confess—and most of all, to confer. What should he do about Jane?

  But Collis was a Liar, through and through.

  And Ethan was not.

  “The case is going well. Maywell seems to trust me quite a bit already.”

  “Really?” Collis sat forward eagerly. “Has he offered you a po
sition in his organization yet?”

  Yes, he has. “No, not yet.”

  Collis looked disappointed for him. “Well, don’t worry. I know you can do it.”

  With a few more encouraging words that Ethan responded to vaguely, Collis left with a relieved smile on his face. “I’m glad you understood about the George bit,” Collis told him as he left. “I’m glad you know now. George likes you. He trusts you to keep the whole affair close.”

  Ethan nodded and smiled, nodded and smiled, until Collis was gone and he was finally alone.

  He’d lied to the best friend he had. Ethan wasn’t even sure why he lied. Hell, he wasn’t even sure what side he was on. He was lying to everyone, left and right, just as he always had.

  So why did they keep trusting him? Didn’t they understand what sort of man he was? Didn’t they realize he would only disappoint and betray?

  The way he had disappointed and betrayed Jane.

  Into his arms, into Bedlam, and, if he gave in to temptation, into marriage.

  And Jane would hate him for it.

  Yes, she would. Loyal little Brit that she was, she would despise him.

  He could win her over, part of him argued. He could use her desire for him against her. He could make her want him, over and over, until he burrowed his way back into her heart as well.

  Like a worm.

  She would be his. That was what truly mattered, didn’t it? Possessing her, wedding her, freely and openly laying claim to the only woman he had ever loved?

  And destroying her in the process.

  He could not do it.

  Even as he’d smiled, even as he’d leaned forward to present his hand to Lord Maywell, even as he’d smoothly stated his intention to think on his lordship’s most generous offer, Ethan had been giving his magnificent Jane away.

  Love was a cruel mistress, it seemed—an even more demanding one than Luck. He found it surprising that he was not more shocked at the consuming love he felt for Jane. He’d mocked love and he’d fled it, so why was he love’s willing servant now?