Celeste Bradley - [The Liar's Club 02] (31 page)

James cleared his throat. “Just tell me where to start, Dalton. You know I’ll help.”

“If I knew where to start, I would be there now,” Dalton whispered.

James laid his hand on Dalton’s shoulder. “Then we must think. She must have left on her own. Who could have known she was in the club?”

“Agatha and Simon. You and I.” He’d been so bloody careful. “And whoever has been reading my files.” He’d been so bloody
stupid
not to see the hole in their plan. The rogue player knew too much, and knew it as soon as Dalton did. He’d thought Feebles the leak, or even Stubbs.

It hadn’t once occurred to him that his secret office had been compromised. James had found the kill order right in the Liars’ files downstairs, phrased in the usual euphemistic way. “Mrs. Clara Simpson is to be accorded the greatest of courtesies” meant the honor of meeting Kurt’s knife in a dark room.

What’s more, the order had finished with Dalton’s name, signed in his own handwriting.

Someone knew everything about him, and the club, and very likely Clara. Now she was out there, foolishly running from the very people who could keep her safe.

He shouldn’t have pushed about her leaving. He certainly shouldn’t have proposed! God, what had he been thinking? She didn’t need him, with all the complications in his life. Her own was entirely too problematical as it was.

He rubbed his face. “If only someone on the street had seen something. Then I would know if she’d been kidnapped, or fled, or…”

“Or disloyal?” James’s tone was reproachful. “Dalton, you can’t possibly still believe that.”

Dalton did believe in Clara. How could he not, after the last tempestuous twenty-four hours? “The important thing is to recover her.”

But recover her how? He still didn’t know who had ordered him on the case, or who had ordered the kill. Damn, but he was sick of fighting blind! He felt like a puppet who couldn’t see his own strings. Or the ground below his feet. Or the sky above.

Who was pulling those strings and why?

He unclenched his fists and rubbed the back of his neck. “Until we find who took Clara, we have nothing.”

And there was nowhere to begin.

Things were going well until Clara tried to get into Lord Reardon’s house.

She had managed to work her way quietly out of the club by peeking around corners and had finally followed a whistling young man who was obviously carrying out the rubbish. She’d ended up in the alley behind the building, probably the very one she’d walked through the night before.

Getting to Lord Reardon’s exclusive square had required a good bit of walking, but it was still fairly early. She didn’t think he’d be done with his visit to Cora Teagarden yet. A servant scurrying on his way had pointed out his lordship’s house and Clara had entered the rear delivery gate without causing any suspicion.

The house was quiet, with only a few rooms lighted
that she could see. Of course, the house was very large and grand and extended all the way to the street. It was twice as wide as the Trapps’ house and likely three times as deep. As she took stock of the situation from her hiding place behind a box hedge she was stumped.

She couldn’t pose as one of Reardon’s servants without considerable cooperation, which she didn’t think forthcoming. She certainly couldn’t climb the wall and enter through the attic the way Dalton had. The parlor-level windows to the garden stood rather high for her to climb into, but it seemed she had no choice. Eyeing them carefully in the dimness, she thought she saw a slightly wider dark line between the two swinging panes of one window. Well, it was as good a place to begin as any, she supposed.

She made her way to crouch at the foundation of the house but there she hesitated. Something was different and it was not simply the fact that she was quite literally breaking in. There was something different within her.

Although she was resolute, she was without her former assurance, that blithe confidence of one who has never been tried. “Well, Dalton,” she whispered. “You’ll be glad to know that I no longer believe in my own immortality.”

Breathing deeply to steady her nerves, Clara began to climb the wall, pressing her fingertips and shod toes into the even breaks between the great rectangular stones. The window was just above her head, so she needn’t climb too far—

With a very unladylike grunt, she managed to slap one palm onto the stone sill of the window, then the other. Using every muscle in her body, she pulled herself chest-high to the window and balanced herself on her elbows, toes precariously wedged between the stones.

She hadn’t climbed anything since childhood, and even then only the rare conveniently branched tree. Clara took a moment to inhale a congratulatory breath and to inspect the unlatching possibilities of the window.

It was latched, but poorly. Clara leaned her torso on the biting stone edge of the sill and inserted her fingertips into the gap. She pulled steadily. The window remained latched. She pulled harder, almost groaning in frustration.

The window sprang open. Clara jerked her head back to avoid being struck in the face—and overbalanced. As she felt herself slip, her heart stopped and she went back to that dreadful moment on the roof, but there was no one to catch her now—

She landed hard on her rear on the soft lawn beneath the window. Stunned for a moment at the brevity of her fall, she sat unmoving. Then she chuckled at herself. No one to catch her? How overly dramatic. “Let’s not be too hasty with the symbolism, shall we?” she muttered as she rose from the grass. Her rear throbbed and she’d bitten her tongue, but she looked up at the open window in triumph and began the slow climb upward again.

A few moments later she threw one leg over the sill, then the other, and then let herself slide to the delightfully firm floor. Dalton could keep the climbing, she decided. She was going to leave by the door if she could manage it.

She shut the window but left it unlatched, just in case. Then she turned, dusting her hands. There, safely in.

Abruptly Clara had never felt more unsafe in her life. She was in the grandest house she had ever seen. Even in the darkness she could see the gleam of real gold on the plaster walls and hear the chime of the chandelier crystals as they moved in the breeze she had allowed
into the room. Nathaniel’s place in Society was made clear by the very beauty and luxury of his home.

She did not belong here. Reprisal for being found in this place illegally would be swift and certain.

Then again, Mr. Wadsworth would have been rather unhappy with her as well. She shrugged away her intimidation and stepped quietly through what looked like a small music room.

There were several parlors in a row, each grander than the last. She smiled as she imagined the butler sorting guest’s by status into their respective rooms. She wondered into which one she would have been placed had she come calling?

The house was empty enough—it nearly echoed—so the servants were likely gathered in the kitchen enjoying an evening off from his lordship’s demands.

The next room was the one she had been looking for. The study. And yes, there was the handy candle in its stick next to the door. She had to stir the coals vigorously to find a live one, but then she had her light.

Quietly she circled the room. There was little to see other than good paintings and lovely subtle wallpaper of a green-on-green pattern.

What was it about men that all studies looked the same? Same big desk—size dependent on the importance of the man, of course—same blotter, same oversize chair before the fire, same shelves of the same books, same paintings behind the desk covering the—

The safe
. Oswald kept his safe box covered by a painting behind his desk, as did Wadsworth. Clara quickly stepped around the desk to haul the large painting to one side.

Behind it was the largest safe box she had ever seen.

She dipped to reach beneath the hem of her skirts.
Tucked tightly in her garter were her own homemade picks. She hurried to the safe box, levering the heavy painting out of the way with one shoulder. The lock resisted her every effort, until she was cursing most obscenely under her breath. This might require more than a hatpin and a scissor blade.

Then she remembered the trick she’d discovered in Oswald’s study. Perhaps if she thought of Dalton in some improper way, she’d be able to manage the lock.

“Lord Etheridge,” she swore in a whisper. “I vow if my very life did not depend upon this, I would never think of you this way again as long as I live.” She rubbed her forehead on her upraised wrist, as if to rub the thoughts from her mind.

Then she let herself dream. Nay, not dream… remember. She remembered his large hands on her skin, the way his heat had jumped to her as if by a live spark, to ignite her own increasing need.

She remembered the way her heart had opened for him, and the way her body had softened for him. She remembered the way she’d taken his breath into her own lungs as they’d mated like beasts on the floor. The way she’d clung onto his shoulders as he’d lunged within her and the way his muscles had rippled under her hands.

She remembered how deeply she had fallen for his dark and lonely soul. How she missed his rumbling voice, and the way he’d seemed to see right into her, the real woman, not the lady, not the maid, but her secret heart.

And she remembered how it would never be again. …

By the time the lock went
snick
, Clara’s face was wet with tears.

She wiped them away, pulled a number of files from the safe and began to read, sitting in a small circle of light in the large darkened study.

“I’ve got it!”

James’s jubilant voice rang through Dalton’s office, startling Dalton from his thoughts.

Dalton had been reading a message from Liverpool that James had brought with him. It had been very clear. He’d been ordered to drop the entire mission and any inquiry into Thorogood’s location.

There was no turmoil, no conflict within him at the notice. He knew precisely where his duty lay.

With England, as always. The fact that serving Clara and England was one and the same at the moment didn’t signify.

Still, the message made him question everything he’d ever understood about his mentor. Dalton looked down at his clenched hands. Gone were the days of the steepled fingers and cool consideration. All he seemed to have now was rage and fists.

James’s shout interrupted his circling thoughts. He jumped to his feet to look down where James had spread out the collected drawings of Sir Thorogood on the floor.

James was waving a scrap of paper far too quickly
for Dalton to discern the drawing itself. He reached out and snaked one hand around James’s wrist. Dalton brought the drawing, wrist and all, closer to the light.

The cartoon was one that Dalton recalled had caused quite a furor. It was more risqué than usual, with a half-dressed female figure dominating the scene in more ways than one.

“‘Fleur and Her Followers,’“ read Dalton. He scanned the entire drawing, but could see nothing more than a few wealthy fellows who were likely to get in trouble with their wives. “Why this one?”

“I told you that I spent some time investigating everyone who appeared in the drawings, didn’t I?” At Dalton’s nod, James continued. “Well, this is the only drawing that contained any mystery at all. See this fellow right here?”

James pointed out the man behind Fleur. His face was partially hidden by the opera dancer’s rounded buttock. Dalton turned James’s wrist sideways to get a different angle on the fellow. “Who is he?”

James plucked the drawing from his captured hand with his other, then handed it to Dalton to hold himself. “I was never able to learn his identity. Likely Clara herself didn’t know, or she would have drawn him in more detail.”

Dalton frowned. “That’s a bit thin, James. Why didn’t you simply find this Fleur and ask her?”

James snapped his fingers. “Because
there
is the mystery! There is no Fleur.”

“Could it be a stage name?”

James shook his head. “We couldn’t find her. We even had Button ask around, and if Button doesn’t know someone in Covent Garden or Drury Lane, they don’t exist. No one has ever seen her or heard her name before
this came out in the newspaper, although there are now a number of girls who call themselves Fleur after the popularity of the cartoon.”

That was indeed mysterious. Dalton examined the drawing once more. “Well, we know who these two are.”

“Yes. Sir Foster, a courtier and generally useless hanger-on, and Mr. Wadsworth, that manufacturer of muskets whom you’ve been investigating.”

Dalton rubbed his chin. “I had thought I’d found indications of blackmail in his safe but discounted it. The man is richer than Midas. Wadsworth makes a large portion of the arms for the British troops.”

“One would consider him a loyal citizen, then.”

Dalton grunted. “And Foster is a friend of the Prince Regent, or at least he was in the past. I don’t think he’s been in favor for some time, come to think of it.”

“I think we should call upon Sir Foster, Dalton. It would only be the sociable thing to do, since we’ve a friend in common. He has a house not far from the palace.”

Dalton turned to gaze at James in surprise. James flushed. “I haven’t had anything better to do during the past few weeks.”

Dalton raised a brow. “Have you considered becoming an analyst, James? The Liars could use just that sort of information breakdown.”

James looked horrified. “A
desk job?
God forbid!” He looked at Dalton pleadingly. “Sir, I’m a saboteur, not a numbers man!”

Dalton cut him off with a sharp gesture. “Later. We have two suspects to speak to.”

Clara had sorted through the files that seemed to pertain to Nathaniel’s holdings and set those aside. Some were
obviously to do with laws and other items currently before the House of Lords. She was curious about what went on in that exclusively male chamber, but forced herself to set those aside as well. She could study politics in her own time.

That left her with a most remarkable stack of dossiers. She didn’t know all of the names, but it didn’t take her long to realize what she had in her hands.