Celeste Bradley - [The Liar's Club 02] (15 page)

Dalton followed that determined little backside down to the door and into the dark stairwell. As the blackness closed around them, he was reminded of his wayward thoughts the last time they’d been here.

His bout of flirtation had been meant to distract her from her questions. Instead, he was fair to distracting himself from his mission. His arousal stirred at the soft scent of roses in the air. It was really past time to dally with some widow or another.

The image of Mrs. Simpson hovered in the blackness before him. She lay half-dressed upon a garden bench in the moonlight, only this time her eyes were open and so were her arms.

Forcefully, Dalton shunted that image aside and replaced it with one of the annoying widow braying loudly at the dinner table while her in-laws regarded her with dismay.

There. Lust all gone.

Until the woman before him turned abruptly and placed her palm on his chest to stop him as he followed her down the steps. His body continued two steps until
it came into contact with hers and he was forced to wrap one arm around her for balance. Or something.

“Wh—”

The small hand fumbled quickly to his mouth and pressed gently to his lips. Then she wrapped her fingers around the back of his neck and pulled his head down to hers.

Oh, yes, the lust was back.

“—the hall,” she whispered into his ear. Dalton realized he’d missed the first part of what she’d said in the roar of all his blood leaving his brain for other regions.

He shook his head quickly. She leaned closer until her small bosom contacted his chest and breathed softly into his ear. “I think I heard footsteps in the hall.”

He heard her this time, although he still didn’t give a damn what she said. All he wanted was to wrap his arms about her and pull her close for a deep breathless kiss.

Or a damp and breathless rogering would do.

She remained where she was, breast to chest with him. She was listening for danger, he managed to think. Good. She could listen.

He would lust.

Her hand still lay gently on the back of his neck. His head was still bent down to hers. One small tilt and he could capture her lips with his. …

She likely wouldn’t protest too much, if at all. She might claim that she was a good girl, but she was daring enough to meet him in the attic past midnight and show him through the darkened house.

She was no lady, no protected debutante. With his wealth, he could more than compensate her for any distress. His lust struggled to convince him that she was
fair game. A saucy servant girl, without a soul to protect her—

From him.

With deep gut-chilling shock, Dalton realized that he was actually contemplating seducing an innocent servant girl, of breaking down her protestations of virtue and taking her right here on this dusty attic stair.

He despised men who did such things. Reviled them for rutting selfish beasts who thought dependents were nothing but playthings.

How could he be so base? To even think such a thing about a bright brave young woman like Rose? Filled with self-loathing, he took a step back, shaking her lax hand from his shoulder as he did so.

He was a Montmorency. A peer and a gentleman. “Monty” was nothing but a fancy, and a dangerous one at that.

Her attention still on the hall, Clara reached for Monty’s hand again. “Come. They’re gone now.”

As she carefully opened the door to step into the hall with him, Clara wouldn’t allow herself to think about the chance they were taking. The cause of damaging the cruel Mr. Wadsworth was reason enough. If Monty wanted to clean the man out completely, all the better.

She wondered, however, why someone as honorable and kind as Monty would stoop to thievery. With his quaint gallantry and his mannerly behavior, he seemed rather more like some knight of old than a criminal.

They entered the study and Clara again opened the street-side draperies.

As she watched Monty swiftly return the contents of his pocket to the safe box, it occurred to her that an ordinary thief would no more take papers than he would
firewood, for that was all the use the papers would be to an uneducated man.

“Who are you, truly?” She kept her voice low, but it seemed to startle him all the same. Or perhaps it was the question itself.

He hesitated for a moment, keeping his back to her as he finished returning the safe to rights. Then he turned, his smile rueful in the dim glow of the street lamps.

“You’re thinkin’ that a thief’d be more like to take banknotes than papers?”

She nodded, wishing she could see him—all the better for observing all the small signals of a lie in progress. Most people never noticed the little things that liars did, the flick of the gaze, the tiny frown that marked the forehead for the merest instant.

However, she was an expert on faces. Bentley had never been able to keep the truth from her and she had caught the twins many times in their girlish fibs.

Monty’s voice was clear, his gaze unshakable. “I’m only doin’ as I was told by the man what hired me,” he assured her. ‘This fellow don’t want alarm raised over somewhat missin’ from the safe box. He wants to read them papers, is all.”

Clara narrowed her eyes. Helping Monty relieve Mr. Wadsworth of his ill-used wealth was one thing, but she had no intention of assisting a stranger in what might be dastardly doings.

‘This man, who is he?”

Monty shrugged. “Just a fellow what works for them that’s suspicious of your master. You know. Bow Street sorts.”

“You’re working
for
the law?”

He seemed affronted. “O’ course I am!”

Clara considered this. It fit well into her perception of Monty so far. Whoever had thought to assign him to this task was little short of brilliant, she had to admit. What could be better than to read Mr. Wadsworth’s nefarious plans from his own files? After all, that was what she was interested in as well.

That and being alone with Monty.

Still holding Dalton’s hand as they entered the attic a few moments later. Rose turned right instead of left to the window.

“I want to show you somethin’,” she whispered. She released his hand. His fingers felt cold without her small warm ones within. In the dimness, he saw her kneel and remove something from behind a crate.

“Come to the light so you can see,” she urged, as she carried her surprise to the open window. He followed, intrigued. What would Rose consider an important secret? Something she’d found in the house? He leaned closer to see, then drew back slightly in dismay.

What she’d found was a cat carcass. It didn’t smell much yet but by the look of it, it wouldn’t be long. She’d bedded the thing carefully in a basket, tenderly placed on soft rags. The entire matter was somewhat awful.

He didn’t want to hurt Rose’s feelings. “Was this your cat?”

She laughed softly and stroked the animal’s side. He flinched.
“Bah
? Don’t touch it. It’ll still carry the sickness what killed it.”

Turning her face up to him, she grinned. “‘Tisn’t dead at all, squeamish Monty. And if it were, I don’t think the master’s kick is catching.”

He didn’t know how to break it to her. That was one singularly dead cat. “Wadsworth killed it?”

“Monty. It. Isn’t. Dead.” She placed the basket on the ledge and reached for his hand.

Dalton gritted his teeth and touched the cat. Its fur was matted and filthy, and he could see the creature’s ribs even in the forgiving moonlight, but he was still quite certain he was fondling a feline of a deceased nature.

That is, until a low growl issued from beneath his hand and a lightning strike from a set of very lively claws drew blood. He snatched his hand away to bring the back of it to his lips. “Bloody rat-catching—”

“Monty!” Rose batted him away. “To say such a thing about my marmalade darling.”

Dalton restrained a sigh. Rose was a cat lover. Bloody hell. “Yes, it’s right lovely, rosebud. A fine animal.”

She nodded, her attention still on the fur-covered hand assassin. “I know. She’s wonderful, isn’t she? But I can’t keep her, for B—the master would never allow it.” She turned a wistful gaze on him.

He should have seen it coming. He should have seen that look in her eye and run for it. Instead, he found himself caught by the heavily lashed darkness of her eyes. What color were they? He’d yet to see her in anything but dim light. Would he even recognize her if he saw her in the day—

“Would you take care of her for me? Just for a little bit?”

He found himself nodding before he’d even realized precisely what she’d said. Then it hit him.

Oh, hellfire. The Sergeant was going to kill him.

The next day dawned quite chill and foul. Dalton hoped that Mrs. Simpson would send a note begging off their
drive. Unfortunately, she seemed all the more eager when he arrived promptly at noon to take her out. Her footman accompanied them, clinging to the back of the low, open carriage.

He’d chosen this carriage hoping that she would become uncomfortable enough to end their outing early. It went against his every inclination to purposely displease a lady, but the sooner he scraped off this particular clinging vine, the better.

So he limited his conversation to monosyllables and shrugs and kept his horses to a slogging plod. If the weather wouldn’t discourage her, perhaps he could bore her to death.

If he didn’t die from boredom himself first.

She prattled. She giggled. She tossed her plumes this way and that until he sneezed repeatedly. She pointed out people that she didn’t know and begged him to introduce her. She waved vigorously to people she did know until even they looked askance at her behavior.

Finally, the horse stopped of his own accord, his nose dragging sleepily near the ground. Dalton couldn’t blame him. If not for the Merry Widow’s screeching giggle, he’d be near sleep himself. Every time he began to nod off, she would peel the paint from their surroundings with her shrill laughter.

The horse had stopped near the promenade that led through the trees and over the Serpentine. Perhaps a bit of exercise would enable him to keep his eyes open. “Shall we walk for a bit?”

Mrs. Simpson bounced down with alacrity, brimming with energy. Her eyes were bright with enjoyment as they walked and her step was fight. Dalton examined her in the pearly daylight, realizing that he had never seen her in the sun.

Of course, with all those cosmetics, he wasn’t truly seeing her still. She might even be an appealing female under all of that, but there was no way to know.

She was certainly being a good sport about his lack of attention. Feeling guilty for his behavior, Dalton made a sincere attempt to be entertaining, only to find that it made no difference to her whatsoever.

She was looking this way and that, at the sky and at the ground, making no pretense of listening to him at all. How discourteous. If he was forced by propriety to show false interest, then so should she be. “You seem distr—”

“Where are the birds?”

Damn, the silly twit was making him miss his noon meal for this nonsense? “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

“They’re gone.” She finally met his gaze, her eyes wide. “The birds. Where did they go?”

Dalton looked about them. By God, she was correct. Where just moments ago had clustered flocks of sparrows and pigeons there was nothing but crumbs and droppings on the grass.

Oh, no. “Quickly, move off the path. There are too many carriages near.” He took her arm. “We must get to the footbridge.” He turned to call to her footman. “Get to the bridge, man! The fog is coming!”

Mrs. Simpson gasped, then grabbed up her skirts and broke into a ran. Dalton had to grant that she knew how to move when it was required of her.

The air was thickening even as they drew near the gateposts of the small bridge that crossed over the Serpentine. A stench of coal smoke and sewage fell upon them along with the damp cloak of thick brownish fog. Within seconds, Dalton could see nothing but the bridge
planks beneath his feet and the pale face of Mrs. Simpson.

“It’s like twilight at noon,” she marveled as she caught her breath. “I’ve never been outside in it before.”

“Don’t be frightened. It’s only the ‘London particular’,” he explained. “That’s what the locals call it. It may pass quite soon.”

She turned to look at him. “I know what the ‘London particular’ is, sir. I have lived here all my life.”

“My apologies. So many people leave the city during the cooler months and never see this phenomenon. It’s unusual for it to strike at this time of year.”

She put her hand on his arm. “Oh, do be quiet. I want to listen.”

Surprised, Dalton eyed her through the growing murk. Gone was the fluttering admiration and the coy flirtation. Instead, she stood tall, clinging with one hand to the bridge railing with her eyes half-closed and a slight smile. A private smile of enjoyment—really only a tilt of the corners of her lips.

In truth, her lips were rather fine when she wasn’t using them to speak nonsense. He wondered how they would look swollen and flushed after a long hard kiss …

It was definitely time to find himself a lover.

For Clara, the moment was rather thrilling. To be frozen in time in day-turned-to-night was very exciting. She only wished Sir Thoroughly Unbearable wasn’t with her. If only—

If only Monty were here.

Monty would see the adventure in this moment. He would feel the magic in the sudden muffling of the city’s frenzy, in the cloaking of the world—

“Madam? Madam, where are you?” John’s cry came over the water from their right.

Clara opened her eyes to find the impostor gazing at her soberly. Struck by his expression, it was a moment before she could tear her gaze away to search the dimness by the bank. “John? John, come no closer. You’ll fall into the water.”

“Aye, madam. Are you well enough where you are?”

“Yes, John. We’re fine.”

“Get you to a tree, John,” called the fake. “It will shield you from a trampling.”

Indeed, Clara could hear the sounds of panicked horses coming from various directions. “That was quick thinking, to head for the footbridge,” she admitted grudgingly.