Celeste Bradley - [The Liar's Club 02] (11 page)

Dalton dusted himself off. “I’m very well, my good man. That was fine driving. Couldn’t have done better myself.”

Profound relief crossed the stout man’s face. No doubt the fellow had dealt with “the Quality” before. Many a gentleman of the
ton
would have had the fellow up on charges, even for something so unavoidable.

Yet had it been an accident, or something more sinister? Pedestrians were struck so often in the London streets that under any other circumstances, Dalton would have thought it was just bad timing on his part. After all, if it hadn’t been for the man on horseback—

A fair-haired man, well dressed, with his hat pulled low. Dalton had only had the merest glimpse as he’d dodged behind the horse. He hadn’t seen the fellow’s face at all. He honestly couldn’t be sure. And yet, the ale wagon hadn’t so much as slowed its pace.

Had the mystery man purposely herded Dalton into danger? If so, it was the perfect crime. Murder by ale cart would never be investigated. He would have simply
been another unfortunate story for nannies to tell their charges, a cautionary tale about looking both ways before crossing the street.

After reassuring the carter once more, Dalton headed onward down the street to a hack stand. From now on, he’d be taking a carriage to work. His daily constitutionals were becoming deadly.

Morning sunlight streamed into Oswald Trapp’s study, illuminating dust motes into flakes of gold and making Clara’s eyes water as she glared at Oswald’s stubborn safe box.

She blew her straggling hair from before her eyes and bent to the lock to try again. Had Monty told her to hold the top pick still and move the bottom one, or was it the other way around?

Perhaps Wadsworth’s safe box worked differently from the Trapps’. Or perhaps she was simply no use at all at this sort of thing. Fortunately, she had decided to practice on Oswald’s safe first.

She wiggled her new homemade lock picks in the keyhole once more, but nothing happened. She sighed. What she needed was a set of real picks. A hatpin and a dismantled scissor blade were never meant to be put to such purpose.

She changed her approach and began again, even as she berated herself for her stubbornness. This was a terrible idea. She was losing her mind. There was nothing interesting left in Wadsworth’s safe.

Except that Monty would be returning the papers soon, she was sure of it. And somewhere in that stack of documents might just be the ticket to striking a real blow for her objective. She’d been combing Wads-worth’s
desk for months, hoping the man would accidentally leave something useful for her, but she’d never dreamed she’d be able to get inside his safe.

Not to mention that it would be a lovely excuse to see Monty again.

“Oh, shut it,” she muttered to the little voice. “You’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”

Monty. You recall, with the mysterious mask and the roguish grin and the way he has of making your toes curl when he stands close to you in the dark?

Clara sighed. “Oh. That Monty.” She was becoming as silly as Beatrice, drat it. All atwitter over a man.

Worse. All atwitter over a thief.

Clara bit her lip and forced herself to concentrate on her task. Now was no time to be thinking about the heat of his hands over hers, or the way she’d felt when his arms were around her as he had demonstrated the picks. Or the touch of his slightly rough fingertip on her mouth, and how her body had responded, warming and aching between her—

The lock tumbled, something clicked, and the door of the safe box opened into her hands. She’d done it!

Clara’s fingers twitched with curiosity, but with ruthless self-control she quickly closed the door and worked the lock back into action with her makeshift picks. She wasn’t here to snoop into the Trapps’ business, but to practice what Monty had shown her last night.

Now, again.

But the picks felt like pikes in her clumsy fingers and no matter how she concentrated, nothing she did seemed to work. How had Monty held this pick, and how had he moved that one? She ought to have paid better attention, but he’d been scrambling her thoughts with his large hard body pressing to her back. She’d felt the heat
coming from him through the fabric of her gown, felt it sink into her and warm her from a certain spot within. He was a big man, bigger than Bentley. She wondered if his size corresponded—

The lock went
snick
. Clara blinked as the door popped open. She’d done it again, but she’d been so busy thinking of a certain masked thief and his certain parts that she didn’t even remember doing it. …

Aha
? She grinned and shut the door, working the picks to lock it once more. Then she purposely concentrated on nothing but the dark need in Monty’s touch when she’d turned in his arms to face him. With sudden intensity, she wished she’d kissed him. Kissed him and wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed her body close enough to feel his bulging—

Click
. Clara pulled her thoughts from the fascinating contents of Monty’s trousers with difficulty, then smiled as the door released once more. It seemed that all she needed to do was think terrible, scandalous thoughts about Monty and nothing would be safe from her picks.

She’d just jimmied the lock tight again when she heard the knob of the study door rattle. Quickly, she stood and straightened her skirts. By the time the door opened and Kitty entered, Clara was serenely examining a shelf of books, her head angled to read the titles.

“Oh, there you are. Auntie. Mama said she’s ready to go shopping if you are.”

“Oh … yes, shopping.” Drat. It was her own fault. She’d committed to purchasing a new gown yesterday. And she did need something appropriately featherheaded to impress Sir Impostor with her inanity. She turned a smile on Kitty. “I shall be ready as soon as I’ve fetched my bonnet and spencer.”

Kitty smiled back as if surprised that Clara was actually
going through with the outing. “Wonderful! I shall fetch Mama and Bitty at once.”

A quarter of an hour later, Clara stood outside the front door of the Trapp house tugging on her gloves. Inside, Beatrice was still haranguing the twins into preparing themselves for a day of shopping.

Clara had come outside to take a moment away from the hullabaloo and because she’d noticed that most of Wadsworth’s servants were out front unloading a delivery cart.

It wasn’t nosy to take a moment of air when one’s neighbor happened to be receiving something, she told herself primly. Besides, she’d seen Rose out there with the others and wanted to give her the signal to trade places with her again tonight.

Mr. Wadsworth certainly ate well, she noticed, as yet another bushel basket of greens was unloaded. A string of plucked birds came next, then a large wooden trough of organs.

The scent of the tripe wafted to Clara and she wrinkled her nose.
Ick
. Perhaps she didn’t want to sneak into Wadsworth’s tonight to serve after all.

Rose took the trough from the servant before her and turned toward the narrow stairs that led down from the street to the kitchen entrance. The huge wooden platter was so large it dwarfed the little maid. She could scarcely see over it.

Clara almost held up a hand to protest the obvious danger of such a move, then remembered that she could hardly be expected to know that Rose had an unfortunate habit of—

Rose stubbed a toe on the cobbles and stumbled forward.
The trough went spinning from her grip. Clara couldn’t watch. She squinted her eyes shut, but that didn’t do a thing to hide the squelching splat of the wet meats hitting Wadsworth’s front steps.

“You useless wench!” Wadsworth’s roar sounded over the street noise. Clara opened her eyes.

Oh, no
. Mr. Wadsworth stood in a sea of quivering creature parts. They mounded over his shoes and clung to his jacket and waistcoat. Strands of something unbearable hung trembling from the man’s hair and muttonchop whiskers.

Clara felt the snicker rising from somewhere reprehensible within her and firmly tried to suppress it. If she laughed and embarrassed Wadsworth yet more, things could only go worse for poor Rose.

Even now Rose fluttered about her master, attempting to clean him up with the corner of her apron. The man raised his fist.

“Get off, you stupid cow!” He swung a blow at Rose, who ducked with the ease of long practice, dispelling the worst of the impact. Wadsworth’s swing took him off balance. His shoes slithered in the slime at his feet and he landed with his large bottom directly on the pile.

Clara pressed her gloved fist hard to her lips, but a strangled snort escaped her. Wadsworth lifted his head and glared about him to see who was laughing.

A bedraggled orange tabby cat, attracted by the free banquet spread upon the cobbles, ran out to steal a bite from the mess. Wadsworth roared and took his rage out on the innocent animal in one savage swipe of his foot that sent the cat twisting and yowling through the air into the center of the busy street.

“No!”
Clara cried and started forward. It was too late.
The poor creature’s cry was cut off abruptly as it landed hard on the cobbles.

Sick with pity, Clara dodged an oncoming cart and ran to the still form. Gently, she laid one hand on its thin side. There was a faint heartbeat, wasn’t there? There had to be.

Carefully, she gathered the limp cat into her arms and carried it to safety. Beatrice stood on the steps with the twins, watching in horror.

“Oh, no! No more strays, not in my house. Clara Simpson, you drop that filthy creature right this minute! Goodness, what are you thinking, running into the street for such a thing?”

With dismay, Clara looked up at Bea standing above her on the steps. She’d thought to nurse the poor cat if she could, but she’d forgotten. This was not her house. If Bea wouldn’t allow the cat inside—and she wouldn’t—then Clara had no recourse.

If only she had her own home. …

Well, she didn’t. She was dependent on Bea and Oswald, at least for now.

“Here, miss,” came a soft voice at her elbow. “Let me take that dirty thing. I’ll put it in the rubbish for you.”

Rose stood beside her, a bruise already darkening her pale cheek. The maid held out her apron to catch the cat.

Bea stamped her foot. “Well, give it to her, Clara! And then go change your gloves. I hope you didn’t get any vermin on that gown. New carpets don’t grow on trees, I’ll have you know!”

Clara eyed Rose, who gave her a small wink. “I’ll put it far away, miss. No one will ever see it.”

Clara hid a smile. Good old Rose. The cat would be
waiting in the attic tonight, she’d wager her stockpile on it.

‘Thank you. I’ll let you see to it, then.” She placed the cat gently into Rose’s apron and watched as the maid returned to the kitchen, her bulky apron convincingly wadded up to her bruised cheek as if to soothe it.

Bea’s housemaid trotted forward to hand Clara a new pair of gloves. After donning them and giving the girl the bloodied pair to dispose of, Clara turned to Bea, who was now leaning from the carriage window. The look on her face did not bode well.

The footman opened the door and held out a hand. With yet another sigh, Clara stepped up into the vehicle, sure that her afternoon of fashion was going to be a tedious one.

“My God, Etheridge. Don’t you look the first stare of fashion!”

Dalton forced a pleasant smile on his face while he bowed low to the Prince Regent. Being called unexpectedly before England’s ruler was always a bit nerve-wracking. Being forced to show up in full Thorogood finery ranked somewhere just past nightmarish.

Especially since Prince George the IV liked this hideous costume. With every fiber of his being, Dalton prayed that the Prince would not decide to adopt such rainbow-hued regalia, thereby sending every gentleman in England to outdo each other in slavish imitation.

He straightened to find George regarding him with greedy eyes. Oh, hellfire. Male dignity was doomed. Then Dalton pictured Lord Liverpool dutifully rigged out in poisonous colors and high heels. Perhaps there was a bright side …

Feeling better, he was able to greet the Prince with a very sincere smile. “Good afternoon. Your Highness.”

“I say, you do look fine, Etheridge.” The Prince Regent walked once around Dalton, finger tapping his chin.
“Bother that Beau Brummell anyway, making us wear funeral dress all the time.” George sniffed. “I used to wear a waistcoat like that, back when a man was allowed to show a little color. Who is your tailor, anyway?”

“Dead,” stated Dalton flatly. “Fell over dead last week, just like that.” He snapped his fingers.

George furrowed his brow. “Pity. I could have made him a very rich man.” He sighed. “Ah, well, I suppose such ostentatious dressing would look bad in wartime, eh?”

“Very wise observation, Your Highness.”

“Humph.” George didn’t look as though he appreciated such speedy agreement. “Still, your
shoes
? You must give me the name of your cobbler.”

Dalton supposed that another sudden death for the cobbler might cause suspicion. He nodded. “I’ll send his direction to your valet.” Poor Button. Dalton didn’t want to be nearby when the little valet learned that he’d missed a royal opportunity due to his own untimely death.

Casting a glance down at the results of Button’s latest act of vengeance, Dalton wondered if perhaps he ought to leave town for a while.

“So, sit and share my tea,” invited George, waving Dalton to a table absolutely groaning with food. Tea for the portly Prince Regent was apparently a week’s feasting for anyone else. “Tell me about this Thorogood. Found him yet?”

It wasn’t policy to give his report over Liverpool’s head like this, but who was he to refuse a royal edict? So Dalton related the entire case history to George, aware that he had little to show for several days’ work.

George nodded and grunted here and there while he polished off platter after platter. One would have thought
he was scarcely listening had it not been for the occasional probing question and intelligent aside. Dalton never underestimated the Prince Regent. He was a brilliant man, swift and decisive when he wanted to be.