Celeste Bradley - [The Liar's Club 02] (19 page)

Dalton was fairly sure it wasn’t an idle threat. By the lifeless exhausted tone in the Sergeant’s voice, it was a simple statement of fact. “But it was barely conscious when I gave it to you.”

“It woke up right quick when we put it in the bath.”

“I see.” Dalton looked down at the writhing matted creature dangling from his majordomo’s outstretched hands. “Are you waiting for me to take it from you. Sergeant?”

“Or put me out of my misery with a bullet. Either one will do.” The Sergeant didn’t sound as if he cared one way or the other.

Dalton looked from the animal’s unsheathed claws to the red marks on the Sergeant’s hands and arms. He himself had unbuttoned his frock coat and removed it along with his waistcoat when he’d entered his study a few moments before. He looked down at his shirtfront, then took another look at the bloody rips in the front of the Sergeant’s sopping shirt.

Dalton put his waistcoat back on. Then he added his frock coat as well, buttoning it tight. Clothing could be replaced, but the Sergeant didn’t ‘look as though he would heal for some time.

“Uri, fetch some toweling,” Dalton ordered.

The young footman took a step back. “M-me, my lord?”

Unbelievable. Uri was a former soldier, a brave and lethal swordsman, and an utterly dependable servant. Dalton glowered at him. “Coward.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“The toweling is for the Sergeant, Uri. And for me.”

Uri gulped in relief. “Yes, my lord. Thank you, my lord.” He tore off down the hallway, shouting for linens from the chambermaid.

When the toweling came, Dalton wrapped a portion of it around both forearms and carefully approached the long-suffering Sergeant. A deadly growl emanated from the dangling beast, and a claw swiped lightning-fast in Dalton’s direction.

“Are you hurting it. Sergeant?” Rose wouldn’t like it if her pet was damaged.

“Not at all, my lord. The monster’s quite comfortable, aside from bein’ wet.”

“Ah… good.” Dalton moved another step closer. Another slash and a truly unholy howl. Dalton took a breath. “Sergeant, may I inquire as to your previous strategy? So I know what to avoid, you understand.”

“No, my lord, you may not. You’re stalling.”

Dalton sighed. “Yes, I fear I am.”

“On the count of three, my lord, I am dropping the animal and running for my life. You may keep my severance to hire yourself an army.”

“Really, Sergeant. There’s no need for such dramatics—”

“One.”

“After all, it is only a cat—”

“Two.”

“Oh, very well!” Dalton lunged forward, his towel-wrapped hands extended. He managed to get some of the cloth around the back legs, pinning the shredding claws neatly down. That inspired him to fling the rest of the toweling snugly around the creature’s front legs and
head, leaving only a pink nose and half a set of whiskers emerging from the bundle.

It now looked as though he held a baby in his arms. A demon baby whose banshee howls were not muffled in the slightest.

“I leave you to it then, my lord.”

The bundle twisted and screeched in Dalton’s hands. “No, Sergeant,
wait
—” The Sergeant, a man who would have stood at Dalton’s back were they outnumbered by one hundred, was gone, escaping down the hall like a rat deserting a sinking ship.

He was on his own. Carefully Dalton shifted the bundle under one arm. The toweling was already very damp and the room was chill. Cats liked warmth, did they not? He carried it closer to the fireplace, using his free hand to tug his chair around to face the coals.

He sat, gingerly letting the swaddled animal rest on his lap. In afterthought, perhaps not the best idea. A vulnerable spot, that. He made a long arm and nicked a cushion from the sofa, placing it between the cat and his personal effects.

Only then did he allow himself to relax the smallest amount. He could sit here for a time and allow the warmth to dry the creature. Perhaps the mishandled bath had been enough to clean it.

Weren’t cats supposed to keep themselves clean? Life must have been hard indeed for the creature if it had given up on such a basic function. A flash of sympathy caught him unaware.

He ought to feel sorry for the Sergeant, were he to feel sorry for anyone. Or even for himself, for being stuck with caring for the beast until he’d kept his promise to Rose.

Rose
. Dalton realized that he was smiling. He found
himself doing that more often recently, usually when he was thinking about a certain housemaid.

The cat had stopped its yowling and lay unmoving in the bundle. Worriedly, Dalton leaned over to peer through the narrow tunnel of cloth to see a single malevolent green eye glowing within. “Kit-kit-kit,” he called softly.

The responding growl was so deep that he felt it rather than heard it. The sound made the hair on the back of his neck rise and he sat back quickly. Fine. No peering. No
kit-kit
. Understood.

Dalton remained where he was, carefully holding the bundle and feeling the warmth of the coals on his face. The house was silent. The servants were all hiding belowstairs, no doubt. Bloody cowards.

He ought to be at the club, or at least be pondering the club, but frankly he was bone-weary of his battle for the Liars’ respect.

Liverpool assumed that Dalton wanted power and influence, that leadership of the Liars would put him in a position for advancement to Prime Minister someday.

Liverpool had it completely wrong.

Dalton’s lap was vibrating. In astonishment, he looked down to find that he was absently stroking the damp bundle he held. Leaning closer, careful not to stop his rhythmic caress, he cocked an ear toward the cat.

The sound emanating from the animal was none other than a rusty purr. It
liked
him?

Dalton dropped his head onto the chair back and laughed out loud. Someone finally liked him, someone no one else could stand.

Except for Rose. “She likes us both, doesn’t she?” The cat continued its deranged sawing sound. “The monster and the thief.”

But would she like him if she knew he wasn’t a thief?
Clara finally made her escape into the attic, but only after she’d told the edited version of her adventures to the twins at least five times.

This time Clara awaited Monty with an open window and a lighted candle. She’d had a very long day, however, and fell asleep on the pallet of old draperies that she’d scavenged from a trunk.

She awoke to find him kneeling over her, her cheek still tingling from the touch of his warm fingers. Lulled by her weariness, she only smiled up at him sleepily.

“Are you all right, rosebud? Did the master work you too hard this day?”

Clara nodded and opened her mouth to answer, only to be surprised by a sudden yawn. She clapped one hand over her mouth, embarrassed, but Monty only chuckled.

“You should be yawning. You’re up very late.”

“No later than you,” she retorted with a smile. Oh, she was happy to see him. His gray eyes twinkled behind his mask and his teeth shone white in the candlelight. The light from the candle flame was small and dim, yet it was the brightest in which she’d ever seen him.

“You are handsome,” she breathed, then caught herself. She blushed. “At least, I think you are. I wouldn’t really know, now would I?”

Monty leaned close to whisper in her ear, his breath warm and caressing. “I’ll let you take me mask off,” he teased, “… last.”

The very thought of undressing his hard body sent hot fire through her belly. Suddenly—
desperately
—she wanted him. He must have seen it in her face as he drew back, for his teasing smile died and his eyes grew dark. “I’m sorry. Rose. I shouldn’t play—”

“Nay, you shouldn’t!” She sat up quickly, giving his shoulder a shove when he remained in her way. Once she was on her feet she found it a bit easier to breathe.

Dalton cursed himself as he stood to face her. He had no intention of taking advantage of Rose, yet whenever he was near her he couldn’t seem to help but speak with Monty’s flirtatious manner. It was as if Monty were a real man, perhaps even the real man inside of him. After all, who knew what was left after the years of polish?

Sometimes he couldn’t even recognize himself in the mirror, only a younger reflection of Liverpool.

Now his fearless Rose was looking at him with doubt and longing in her eyes. He was a bounder to string her along this way. What if she fell in love with him? What would it do to her to learn that he was a gentleman and a peer, miles above her reach, and had only been using her to gain entry to Wadsworth’s house?

She could be sacked for what she was doing for him.

Or hanged
?

His breath left him in a hurry. Dear God, he’d never thought of that. He would get her out of this house directly, he decided. Not to hire her himself, of course. That wouldn’t be right, feeling about her as he did—rather, with her feeling about
him
as she did.

He’d talk to Agatha and Simon tomorrow and ask them to take her into their household. She’d be well treated among that bunch of odd ducks, and he’d be able to see her on occasion—

No. It would be best not to see her at all. It would only confuse her further. She mustn’t acquire any hopes in his direction at all. After tonight, he would secure her a comfortable position far away, never to see her again.

Then perhaps someday his chest would no longer ache at the thought of her.

Clara busied herself adjusting her cap while she recovered from her moment of yearning, then picked up the candle. When she turned back to Monty, she was quite sure not a bit of her feelings remained visible on her face.

“Do you wish to go to the study? His lordship was supposed to have had another meeting tonight.” There, her voice sounded quite normal.

Monty looked at her oddly. “Don’t you know if he did or not?”

Drat, she’d slipped. “I—I pled illness to come upstairs and wait for you.” Indeed, the real Rose was ill with a terrible cold. Even now she was sleeping in Clara’s attic with a warming pan at her feet and a poultice on her chest. “I’m sure the meeting occurred, for the cook has been workin’ all day for it.” The proof of that was in the smell of baking that had reached clear up to the attic this evening.

“Does he dine with them in his study?”

She laughed. “Of course not. They eat a late supper in the dining room, then retire t’ the study with port and cigars.”

He seemed intrigued. “Where’s the dining room?”

“Come, I’ll show you.”

They traveled down the servants’ stair to the ground floor, this time with the candlelight to guide them. Clara was quite sure that being in the dark with Monty was dangerous for both of them.

Thoughts of her handsome thief occupied her mind as she led him out of the hidden stair into the hall outside the dining room. The sconces were still lighted, so she doused her own light and left it on the stair.

When she opened the dining room doors she was stunned to see a fire blazing and the table all laid out
for dinner in the bright light of the chandelier. Suddenly she realized why she could still smell a strong smell of cooking, even at this late hour.

“Oh, no!” She turned and pushed him back into the hall. “The meeting must’ve been delayed. Quickly, back to the stairs!”

He moved, but not swiftly enough. At the far end of the hall, the front door opened to admit a number of gentlemen who stood talking while Soames took their coats.

Clara yanked Monty back into the dining room by one arm and shut the door. He turned to run for the door in the far wall, but she held on and pulled him to a stop. “No, that’s down to the kitchen! It’ll be full of staff right now.”

There was no help for it. Clara towed him toward her favorite hiding place in the sideboard. She’d emptied it of its dusty tureens and tablecloths months ago and none of the servants had so much as noticed. It was roomy for one. She only hoped it would hold two.

She opened the large cupboard doors on the bottom and made to shove Monty inside. He climbed in readily, but then he pulled her in after him and shut the door, trapping them together in the darkness.

Wadsworth’s guests began their supper with a lively discussion of Sir Thorogood’s drawings, which made Clara feel a tiny spurt of pride. Voices were rising outside the cupboard. She’d certainly managed to inspire some rigorous debate on hired love. Or were they talking about the war?

“I rather like the notion,” one voice said. “A mistress is precisely what she is to me.”

“Rather too poetic for my tastes, sir,” another voice added, one that Clara recognized as Mr. Wadsworth. “I prefer to keep things businesslike. Payment for services rendered and so forth.”

A third voice entered the discussion, a low cultured tone that made Clara think of fine drawing rooms and genteel strolls in the park. “Wadsworth, your plebeian roots are showing. I cannot participate in business at my status level. The very idea. No, I prefer to think of a good wine, beginning as mere fruit, then aging to something altogether more… rewarding.”

This brought laughter and murmurs of agreement, although Clara was at a loss to understand why. She was finding it difficult to concentrate on anything but Monty. She was tucked deeply into the curl of his body, so deeply it was as if she’d climbed inside of him. His scent surrounded her and became her scent. His heat seeped through the layers of cloth separating them and became her heat.

“You’re trembling,” he breathed into her ear. “Only keep quiet and they’ll not find us here.”

He didn’t understand. The last thing on her mind was fear. Perhaps there was a bit of it, but it only added an edge to the other tension thrumming through her nerves.

His hand shifted a tiny amount on her hip, and she jumped. He pressed her hip down firmly. “Shh.”

His breath in her ear sent her thighs to trembling. She wanted him to move his hand. The only problem was, she wanted him to move it to a much more scandalous spot of her body. Several of them to be precise.

Dalton had a problem. And it was growing larger by the moment. Rose’s warm firm body was driving him mad. He’d bent his head slightly to whisper to her, and he hadn’t been able to make himself move away afterward. She smelled like warm heaven, like woman and rose petals and, rather suddenly, like passion.