Celeste Bradley - [The Liar's Club 02] (17 page)

He reached up to fumble at the item on his face. A small cloth bag of some sort. The word
sachet
wandered through his cloudy mind, but that didn’t seem quite right. Sachets were smelly in a good way. This was smelly in a sharp herbal way that wasn’t pleasant at all.

“What’s in here?” he mumbled. “Is it tea?”

“Oh, good, you’re awake again! No, that isn’t tea, it’s catnip.”

He pondered that for a moment. “Why do you carry catnip?”

She was still rummaging. “For the cats, of course.”

That made sense. Rose liked cats, too. “Do you have many cats?”

“Oh, no, none at all,” she said absently. “Beatrice won’t allow them in the house.”

Dalton tried to figure that one out, truly he did, but it was simply too difficult. He fumbled for his jacket pocket and dropped the small gathered pouch inside. Wouldn’t want to lose the catnip.

“Aha! I found it!”

The reticule came to rest on his brow. If it hadn’t been for the beads dangling into his eyes, the cool weight of it would have felt soothing on his throbbing head. Then someone drove a spike through his nose into his brain and he forgot all about the bag.

“Bloody hell!” He sat up abruptly, knocking away the reticule and the offending hand that hovered before his nose. “What’d you do that for?”

“I had to wake you up.”

“I was awake. At least, I think I was awake. Now I wish I wasn’t!” His nose burned and the pounding in his
head had increased until he worried that his eyeballs were being knocked from his skull with every beat of his heart.

How he hated this woman. He could quite confidently vow that he had never hated anyone more in his life, with the possible exception of that pimple-faced boy from school. The one who had nicknamed him Dolly Dalton and had pushed him down at every opportunity.

That is, until Dalton had grown two inches taller and had sat on the boy once for an entire afternoon while he studied his lesson book. When the boy had finally agreed to choose a more pleasant nickname, “Monty” had been born. Thus had begun a brief period of acceptance from the other boys at school.

Of course, he’d left Monty behind many years ago. There was no room in his life for boyish distraction and amusement. Life was far too serious a matter to waste on such unimportant things. Liverpool’s voice echoed in his head, from the occasion of his being called to discipline a young Dalton for the single boyish prank of his life.

“There’s too much to be done to spend time on frivolities. When you are ready to take your seat in the House of Lords, you must remember this. A man is only as good as his mind. School the mind and you school the man!”

So Dalton had put away his heart and his soul the way that he had put away his cricket bat and his skates. Monty had gone into a storage trunk as well, never to be heard from again.

Until two nights past.

“Sir? Sir, are you still with me? Shall I apply the smelling salts again?”

Dear God, no. With difficulty, Dalton pulled his wandering
mind from the past to find that he was once again comfortably ensconced on a nicely padded lap. She was the perfect level of softness, he decided dreamily. Too thin and he’d feel her bones. Too plump and he’d not have room to roll his head so luxuriously into her midriff, where he could press his aching forehead into her pliant belly.

“Ah, Sir Thorogood?”

“Mm-hmm?”

“Are you—are you
nuzzling
me?”

Nuzzling
. What a perfectly charming word. “Yes, I believe I am.”

“I see. Are you sure that’s quite proper?”

Proper. Proper
was not a charming word.
Proper
was a stifling, cold word. In fact,
proper
was very likely his least favorite word of the King’s English.

“Sir? Don’t go back to sleep, sir.”

“Then talk to me. Tell me … about your husband.”

Cool fingers on his throbbing head. “Very well, if it will help you stay awake.”

“How did you meet him?”

“I’d known his sister for some time, for I’d been volunteering at the hospital. She invited me to dinner on several occasions where I met her younger brother Bentley.”

“And you took a fancy to him?”

He felt her shrug. It did delightful things to her midriff.

“Not at first, though most considered him handsome enough. I’d had so little attention from men that I certainly didn’t expect any from him. He seemed friendly, that was all.”

“How did you come to marry him, then?”

“Just before my father… died, Bentley’s outfit was
called up. He was off to war and full of fire and romance at the thought. At the funeral, Bentley asked me to marry him before he left for the Peninsula. I think I accepted out of sheer surprise. And relief.”

“Relief?”

Her fingers continued to trace through his hair. He wondered if she even knew she was doing it. She seemed very different in the fog, more … agreeable. Kind, just as Agatha had described her.

“Relief that I would have a home of my own, I suppose, some chance at a future. A family.”

“And then he was killed?”

“Yes. And I was left dependent upon Beatrice’s kindness.” She remained silent then. Dalton missed her soft voice, for listening to her made the pounding in his head ease and his mind sharpen.

‘Tell me about your drawing.”

She seemed to stiffen briefly. “There’s little to tell.”

“But you are so interested in drawing, and your niece told me that you are quite good. How did you learn to draw?”

He felt her body relax beneath his head and shoulders and her fingers took up that lovely motion once more.

“My mother loved to draw and paint. My earliest memory is of her holding my hand while I held a pencil, helping me draw a flower. When she died, I drew because it helped me remember her. Eventually, I drew because I had no choice in the matter. Drawing was a way to leave my life for a while. A way to dream.”

“And what did you dream of?” he whispered.

She didn’t answer. “I believe the fog will lift soon. I think it is growing brighter already.”

Dalton opened one eye, then promptly shut it once more. The light was indeed brighter, and therefore even
more painful to his damaged brain. He began to lose his train of thought. The fog had left the landscape and clouded his mind instead.

He felt a cool hand cup his cheek. Cool hands and a warm lap. How he loved this woman. What was her name again? Rose?

“Sir, do you think that the footpads are still out there?”

Footpads. No, he must tell her—

He stirred, reaching his hand to hers once more. “When the fog lifts … call for John … get out of the park and send someone back for me …”

“Shh. I’ll do no such thing.”

“You don’t… understand. I think someone is trying to … you’re not… safe with me.”

“Those men were after you specifically? I thought they were simple thieves.”

“Even … footpads stay home … in these conditions.” He gripped her hand earnestly. “I think… it’s the cartoons. Someone wants them stopped. I can’t… my head … if they’re waiting, I can’t… fend them off.”

Guilt rushed through Clara. This was her fault. Then the real truth struck her. Oh, dear God. They weren’t after
him
. They were after
her
?

Someone wanted her dead.

Mrs. Simpson took her footman’s hand and alighted from the carriage before the Trapps’ house. With a worried expression, she turned to regard Dalton still seated inside.

“Are you sure you will not come in and allow me to call for someone? What if you lose consciousness again?”

She and John had managed to get him on his feet and back to the carriage when the fog had lifted. He’d remained conscious the entire way while John drove her home, but he remembered the alarming way he’d faded in and out on the footbridge.

He looked at her, for a moment having trouble placing her name. “Why would I do that?”

She stepped forward and removed the reins from his unresisting hands. “I insist that you stay. John can fetch one of your people back here in no time.”

He nodded. “My people.” Then his gaze sharpened on her suspiciously. “My… people?”

Dalton pulled himself back from the brink of revealing the truth about himself. He must concentrate! What
should he do? How could he reach James?

“My… friend Mr. Cunnington.” Focus, damn it! “He can be reached at the gentlemen’s club that I… frequent.” Had he given too much away? No, no, there was nothing unusual about having a friend at a club.

Mrs. Simpson nodded briskly. “Excellent! John, help me bring Sir Thorogood into the house.” She turned back to Dalton. “Will you let me bring in a physician, as well?”

Dalton shook his head vigorously. It made his head throb worse. Damn, he did need a doctor, but not one of Mrs. Simpson’s choosing. She’d likely bring in some quack who’d bleed him dry and ask too many questions, questions that he couldn’t afford in his suggestible state.

“My friend… please, just fetch my friend.” John was practically lifting him from the carriage. Dalton shook him off and descended on his own. The dizziness was easing, but he knew he should not be driving.

Inside the house, he was forced to endure the fluttering of Mrs. Trapp and her daughters until Mrs. Simpson shooed them from the drawing room. Dalton closed his eyes, grateful for the silence.

A cool hand settled on his temple, then laced gently through his hair to check his lump. He flinched, but not much, for the soft touch felt wonderful.

“Does it hurt you very much?”

The soft question was uttered from quite close by, and warm breath feathered across his ear. Suddenly Dalton was overcome with longing for more soft voices and gentle touches in his life.

All of its own, his hand crept up to capture the smaller one in his hair. He brought it to his lips briefly. The fingers in his fluttered slightly like a captured moth, then slowly pulled away.

Dalton sighed and let his head fall back to rest on the sofa’s cushioned back. His head pounded still, but was settling into a bearable throb. “I think I should very much like a brandy.”

A quiet laugh came from the booming silence. “And I should like a pair of wings, but I think neither of us will win our wish today. Spirits would be a very bad idea at this moment.”

Dalton nodded carefully. She was quite right. “You are being very kind to me, Mrs. Simpson, especially after I was such horrid company on our drive.”

“Were you? I’m sure I didn’t notice.”

That bothered him for some reason. He’d come to rather enjoy her flattering attentions, he mused, but now he seemed to have lost her interest.

What difference does it make? You have a mission!

Startled from his fog, Dalton opened his eyes at that thought to find Mrs. Simpson regarding him steadily. She tilted her head and gave him a tiny smile. “Your eyes are entirely too beautiful for a man. Why are all the gentlemen I meet prettier than I?”

He laughed out loud at that, then clutched his brain between both hands to keep it in his skull. “Ouch.”

Clara shook her head, smiling. She wasn’t sure at what point she had decided to forgive the man his posturing. Perhaps it had been when he’d told her that he’d been attacked because of her cartoons. Perhaps it had been when he’d thrust her behind him at the first sign of danger.

Or perhaps it had been the way he’d lain trustingly in her lap, defenseless but for her protection.

Whatever the reason, she found herself entirely able to smile naturally at Sir Thorogood without experiencing the desire to slap the curl from his powdered hair. So
he’d assumed the credit for her cartoons—well, what of it? She had no intention of ever coming forward to claim her work. In fact, his charade only made her work easier, for now she would never be suspected.

She doubted she would ever understand what could make someone do such a thing, but her anger over the matter was gone. Let him bask in the glow for a while. If nothing else, she could be gratified by Society’s wholehearted approval of her drawings.

Or disapproval—

If someone were after her… er, him… if someone were after Sir Thorogood, then this man was in danger because of her—despite the fact that he had willingly assumed the role.

She leaned forward, trying to decide how to warn him. “Sir Thorogood, you said someone was trying to hurt you because of m—your cartoons.”

He didn’t look at her. “I did?”

“Yes, on the bridge. If that’s true, don’t you think it might be wise to… well, make yourself a little less public?”

“Oh, nothing of the sort, I’m sure. Footpads, that was all, taking advantage of the weather to hoist a few purses and pocket watches.” His tone was any, if rather muffled.

“But you said—”

“Oh, a wandering mind might say many a silly thing, dear lady.” He chuckled and waved a hand. “Silly things, indeed.”

Oh, dear. The pompous poseur was back, and in good form. How tiresome. Just when she’d actually begun to like the man a little. “Your friend should be here soon. I told John to bring him straightaway. It is an interesting name, the Liar’s Club.”

Sir Thorogood mumbled something from under the hands rubbing his temples. Not so long ago she would have thought the name of the club suited him perfectly. Now she simply sighed, thinking that she would be off to the attic in a few hours to change into Rose.

She wondered how long it would be before Sir Thorogood’s friend arrived. Edgy with anticipation, she considered her plans for the evening. Today was the first Sunday of the month. If Monty remembered what she had told him about Wadsworth’s habits, he might decide to appear again tonight to learn what new documents had made their way into the safe box after Mr. Wads-worth’s monthly accounting.

All she needed to do now was send Sir Thorogood on his way as soon as possible.

James knocked on the door of the Smythe Square house until the door was opened by a kind-faced butler. After introducing himself, he was led to a very comfortable parlor where he found Dalton enthroned on a sofa, attended by an attractive girl in a green dress.

She stood and moved toward him as he was announced, her hand extended. On second inspection, James decided that she was a woman, not a girl, though she had a youthful manner that had piqued his interest.