Celeste Bradley - [The Liar's Club 02] (16 page)

“Thank you.” His tone was dry. “You don’t seem quite as easily impressed as before.”

Oh, drat. She’d forgotten she was supposed to be fawning over him. The very notion of laying one more flattering remark upon his lying head made her weak with exhaustion.

“Don’t let’s speak just now,” she pleaded. “Let us simply listen to the fog.”

He nodded, still gazing at her oddly. She turned toward the lake once more, but her thrill in the moment was gone. The way he studied her was alarming.

Did he suspect? After all her work, had she ruined her pose of silly uselessness with one terse comment?

Well, more than one, to tell the truth. Where was her self-control these days? The old Clara would never speak with such asperity. She was becoming as outspoken as her Rose persona.

Abruptly, she wished she truly was Rose. Rose had the freedom to be a bit saucy. Rose had the nights in her attic. Rose had Monty.

Monty Thief-in-the-night. The man would be horrified
if he knew who she truly was. He would avoid her, fear her even, for she was part of the world that disdained men such as him. He would never believe that she didn’t give one whit about that world.

She was in great danger, she knew it. Not from Sir Thoro-knave. Not from discovery. From herself.

She wanted to take Monty as her lover. And why shouldn’t she take a lover? She was no maiden that she must save herself for marriage. She’d likely never have an opportunity to wed again, nor did she want to.

Then again, if all she wanted was to take a lover, she could choose from any number of gentlemen. From what she could see, there was no shortage of men looking for bedmates.

For a moment the thought of Monty in her bed made her breathless. His mouth … on her. His hands … on her. His lean body, his wide shoulders, his hot skin beneath her fingertips. …

It was scandalous. It was shameful. It was, oh, so very tempting.

“What are you thinking?” Monty’s voice was low and warm in her ear.

“Mmm, you’d be surprised—”

Monty?
Clara’s eyes flew open to meet the searching silver gaze of Sir Thoro-snake close to hers. How odd, that she could mistake that, even in such an … unusual moment. Two more different men had never been born.

She shook her head and took a step back, reducing him to a misty blur. “I’m s-sorry. What did you say?”

“Don’t move away. The fog is growing thicker. I don’t want to lose you in it.”

I do.

He reached for her hand. Clara calmed herself firmly. She was being a goose. This was no time to be alone.
Reluctantly she placed her fingers in his, only to be surprised by the strength of his grip. Somehow, she’d imagined him to have limp-fish fingers.

He tugged slightly on her hand and she stepped closer. It truly was growing more difficult to see. For the first time she began to wonder how they were going to get home. “If the fog doesn’t lift …”

“I should think as the afternoon warms it will pass. It is a cold-weather phenomenon. Today dawned colder than usual, that is all.”

“Oh. You seem well informed on the subject.”

“Yes, I can speak intelligently on many topics. Quite boggles the mind, does it not?”

Was he joking? How odd. She’d never witnessed the slightest sign of a sense of humor in the man before. Well, she certainly couldn’t respond in kind. Hen-brained Clara had no humor in her at all.

She decided to take him literally. “Oh,
yes
? I’ve never understood the weather, not one little bit. I mean to say, why does it rain? Wouldn’t it be so much more pleasant if the sun shone all the time? Except when I’m out without a bonnet, of course. Then a cloudy day would be much more appropriate, don’t you think?” There, that ought to dispel any suspicion of a brain in her possession.

Dalton sighed. The Widow Simpleton was off again, traipsing down paths of illogic that only she could follow. Every time he thought he just might be attracted to her, she lit off on some inane burst of silliness.

Well, at least she wasn’t laughing. Then he might very well be driven to push her directly off the bridge.

The muffling effect of the fog had isolated them for many minutes now, masking the sounds of the city and
the other park occupants until it seemed to Dalton that they stood alone in the world.

Therefore, when the thud of a footstep sounded on the planks of the bridge, it seemed to vibrate right through him. Another thud followed the first. Mrs. Simpson started, as well, her fingers tightening on his.

“J-John?” she called toward the sounds.

“Aye,” came the grunted reply.

Dalton relaxed. But Mrs. Simpson released his hand to grab his arm. She leaned close.

“That is
not
John!” she whispered urgently.

Dalton didn’t have time to do more than thrust her behind him before the men were upon them.

“No!” Clara’s protest came too late. The idiot had thrust her behind him with such force that he’d pushed her past the visibility point. Or had that been his intent? If she could not see him, then the strangers couldn’t see her.

She heard the grunt and scuffle of a fight just beyond her vision. The bridge shook from an impact on the railing, then another. Curses and the thick sound of blows on flesh issued from the dimness, but she couldn’t hear Sir Thorogood’s voice among them at all.

Then came a great splash, followed by the sound of running footsteps on the bridge. Someone very large ran past Clara, brushing against her in the swirling mist and spinning her quite around with the impact. Then the figure was gone and only silence remained.

“Sir Thorogood?” Her voice sounded thin in the dimness, even to her. “Sir, please answer me.” Was he all right? Had he sacrificed himself to protect her?

Well, wasn’t that just perfect. If the dratted man turned honorable at this late date, she was throwing up her hands at the whole confusing mess.

She stood still for a moment, trying to get her bearings.
Then she thought to kneel and feel at the planks beneath her feet. They ran perpendicular to the length of the footbridge. Therefore she should be able to follow them to—there!

The post of the railing appeared just inches before her eyes. But was it the right-hand railing or the left? She tried to feel the faint arch of the bridge beneath her feet, but she was simply too disoriented to tell.

Suddenly, a low groan came from behind her. She turned, then stopped. “Sir? Is that you?”

Following the railing with one hand, she kept the other out before her and moved closer. She kept onward, feeling nothing there at all. Had she imagined the sound? Was she now quite alone on the bridge?

“Mrs. Simpson, I’m sure those are very lovely shoes,” came a voice from the vicinity of her feet. “But would you mind removing them from my hand?”

Clara stepped back quickly. “Oh, dear! Sorry!” She knelt where she had been standing and reached toward the voice. She found suit cloth beneath her hands and clutched it. The suit howled.

“Unhand me, you tw—dear lady!”

She jerked her hands back. “I’m sorry! Are you wounded there?”

“I wasn’t,” he gasped.

“Where did I …” She stopped. “Perhaps I don’t want to know.”

“No, you don’t,” he wheezed.

Free to clutch his bruised privates in the fog, Dalton suppressed a moan of pain. Bloody hell, the little idiot had nearly unmanned him! He was
definitely
not going to pursue an affair with the woman. She had a grip like a vise!

“Are you better now?” came a hopeful voice a few seconds later.

Only a woman would ask that at a time like this. Then Dalton forced down his irritation with a pang of guilt. It wasn’t her fault they were in this position. He never should have agreed to this outing, knowing there was likely someone after him.

“I’m sorry I shouted at you. Yes, I’m much better now.” He felt for the railing and pulled himself upright. Immediately his vision darkened and he swayed under the attack of a blinding headache. Taking stock, he realized that he wasn’t all right.

He’d taken a bad knock to the head at some point. Now the pounding in his head combined with the swirling fog to completely disorient him. Dizzily he slid back to sprawl on the planks. Even with the solidity of the bridge beneath him, he couldn’t seem to steady himself.

“I—my head—”

“Shh.” Soothing cool hands came to cup his cheeks, then softly felt through his hair to find the tender spot. There must have been a lump indeed, for the fingers immediately moved away to gently and efficiently travel down his body searching for other injuries.

He didn’t think there was anything seriously wrong elsewhere, but his voice didn’t seem to be responding well enough to tell her so. And her touch did feel good.

His mind began to wander. He pulled himself back. Fog. They were in the fog, which may have been more aid than hindrance to him in the attack. Things had been so confusing that half the time he’d been convinced the two men were fighting each other. Then one had landed in the lake below and the other had run for his life. Dalton was sure he himself had suffered a slight concussion, nothing more.

Unless one counted the damaged family jewels.

Clara tried to keep her objectivity as she ran her hands over him to search out further damage. There was no denying the fellow was very nicely put together. Not a tailor’s padding thickened his chest and shoulders, but hard muscle. Not whalebone and lacing made his waist fit and flat, but it was ridged and hard of its own merit.

There was no sign of a wound on him, not a tear in his clothing, not the sticky welling of blood. Still, she knew that a bad blow could injure without a sign. Worry began to spike through her, and she wondered how much longer the fog would last.

What if there was something seriously wrong with him? He might be a liar and a fake, but he had placed himself between her and the footpads without hesitation. She very likely owed him her life.

Drat it.

Finished with her examination, she felt her way back up to sit where he leaned his head upon the hard railing of the bridge.

“I think I can do better than that,” she said. Gently she coaxed him to lay his head upon her lap. He came willingly enough and collapsed limply upon her. This worried her. She knew from volunteering at the hospital that those with head injuries should not be allowed to sleep until all danger of unconsciousness had passed.

“Sir?” He didn’t respond. She patted his cheeks lightly. “Sir Thorogood? Sir, please answer me.”

Real alarm was beginning to join with the dismay in her stomach. “Oh, do wake up. You mustn’t sleep now.” She patted him again, this time more firmly.

He stirred, rolling his head on her thigh to lean his cheek against her waist. “You smell good,” he murmured.

Relief made her laugh. She was so happy that he wasn’t unconscious that she only stroked his hair once more. “Stay awake, please.
I
should have a great deal of difficulty explaining how I came to be sprawled on this bridge with an unconscious man.”

She could feel his chuckle against her torso. “Tell them that I expired … from an excess of devotion.”

She snorted. “Romantic twaddle. I’ll simply tell them that you tried to take advantage and I was forced to defend myself with my parasol.”

He nestled closer, pressing his cheek intimately into her. “Ah, but where is this great weapon of yours? You brought no parasol with you.”

“Hmm. True. I shall have to say that it fell into the river. Actually, I could solve the entire matter by pushing you in right now.”

“A crime of passion. How … theatrical of you …”

His voice faded. Alarmed once more, Clara patted his cheek. “Do wake up, sir!”

He didn’t respond. “Sir Thorogood!” She gave his cheek a right wallop in her fear.

“Ouch.” His hand came up to cover hers on his face. “Careful … I’ll start to think you like me again.”

“Don’t be silly. Of course I like you. I’m saving your life, aren’t I?”

“Oh, is that what you’re doing? I thought … I was going to end up in the river.”

“I was simply teasing,” she said softly. “You took this blow defending me. I should be an ungrateful wretch to let you go now.”

“My head … is it bad?”

“There’s a lump.” She took his hand to cover the damage. “I should think you’ll be right as rain tomorrow. In the meantime, it’s important that you remain awake.”

He shuddered. “God, yes. I must stay awake. Someone I know took a bad blow to the head a few months ago … he has yet to wake from it.”

Compassion welled in her at the dread in his voice. His predicament would seem doubly grim then, with his friend’s situation foremost in his mind.

It seemed as though she’d heard of such a case herself at the hospital not too long ago. A gentleman had arrived with a cartload of wounded soldiers, so badly beaten that they hadn’t expected him to last the night.

The man had lived, but hadn’t awakened in the remainder of his time there. Eventually someone had claimed him, she supposed.

Who would claim this man? If she were to take her impostor to a physician, she would not even be able to give his real name. She knew nothing about him at all.

She’d been going about this all wrong, she realized. She should have been gaining his confidence, charming him into sharing his purpose with her. She
‘d
seen him admiring her figure on occasion. If she exercised her little-used feminine wiles, perhaps she could finally determine whether he was truly a threat or not.

His head lolled on her thighs and she realized that he was fading out again.

She rummaged in her reticule for the smelling salts that she had begun carrying after her unfortunate experience with the overly tightened corset. She found pencil stubs, scraps of foolscap, a ribbon from Kitty’s bonnet that she’d promised to sew back on, and sundry other items, but no salts.

In his haze of semi-consciousness, Dalton found he rather liked lying on a woman’s lap. It wasn’t something he’d often had opportunity to do. Fuzzily, he decided to seek out more opportunities to do so in the future.

He could hear Mrs. Simpson rummaging through her reticule directly over him. Something plopped from her bag to nestle softly in his eye socket.