Celeste Bradley - [The Liar's Club 02] (33 page)

“Wadsworth.”

“Yes.”

“We’re on our way.”

They made good time through the city streets. The evening traffic was heavy as usual, but Dalton paid his driver well to see them at Wadsworth’s door within the hour.

Before they knocked, Dalton put one hand on James’s shoulder to halt him. “Tell me, James, if a man made his pounds from the sale of muskets, would he be in any hurry to end the war?”

James tipped a brow. “Would he be in any hurry to prolong it, do you think?”

“Depends on the man, doesn’t it?” Dalton had a very bad feeling about this. “From what I know about Wadsworth, he’s a hard man—all business. Keep your eyes open and your pockets buttoned.”

“My thoughts precisely.”

Clara had been gone for too long now. She could be out of the city—hell, she could be in some ship’s slimy hold on her way to France!

Fear for her churned inside him like too many fish in a pail. Ruthlessly he tamped it down. Later. He would deal with that later.

Finally Wadsworth’s butler answered the door. Dalton presented his card and he and James were shown to a richly appointed drawing room. By the time the polite amenities were observed and the butler withdrew, Dalton was fairly burning with the need to tear through the house calling Clara’s name.

“Well, this would make a lovely prison,” observed James idly, cocking his head and examining the richly painted ceiling. Then he looked at Dalton. “Oh—sorry.”

The door opened and a stout gentleman in his fifties entered. He was tastefully dressed, if a bit formally for this time of day. Intelligent black eyes glittered from the round folds of his face as he steepled his hands before him and affected a bow to them both.

“It is my pleasure to have you in my home. Lord Etheridge, and… “He raised a brow at James, obviously expecting an introduction. Dalton didn’t bother.

“Mr. Wadsworth, we are here to inquire into your involvement with Fleur.”

If Dalton had been expecting surprise and consternation from Wadsworth, he was disappointed. The man only nodded serenely and gestured to the lush chairs pulled close to the fire. “Of course you are. I’ve been expecting you for over a week.”

Dalton and James exchanged a glance but took the seats indicated. Wadsworth remained standing with one arm draped on the mantel and one hand tucked into his waistcoat pocket. Since Dalton had virtually invented the commanding fireplace pose, he was not impressed. James had seen it a few too many times as well, for he only leaned comfortably back in his chair and pondered the ceiling once more.

After a long moment of silence, Wadsworth gave up the ploy. “Ah, well. One never knows when that will
work.” He took the chair nearest the grate and gave Dalton an inquiring glance.

Dalton only returned the man’s gaze. He was here under false pretenses, having absolutely nothing to go on but the clue in the cartoon. He didn’t want Wadsworth to know that, however.

Wadsworth smiled. The man was as experienced a manipulator as Dalton himself. With a nod, he conceded the point. “I gather you’ve learned of my youthful association with the Knights of the Lily, then?”

Dalton nodded sagely but his mind was racing. Knights of the Lily? What the bloody hell was that? Some sort of gentleman’s club? A religious sect?

When Dalton didn’t respond further, Wadsworth blinked. “Well, you can imagine my surprise when Sir Thorogood associated me with Fleur after all these years. I haven’t a clue where the fellow got that idea.” He continued to gaze at them serenely. “It’s been years since I’ve had anything to do with that lot. It was just boyish play, you understand. Nothing serious. When certain authorities became aware of our little game, we were encouraged to disband.”

The first sign of disquiet crossed Wadsworth’s face. “Some of us more rigorously than others.” Then his untroubled mien returned. “That all happened long ago. I’d forgotten all about it until that silly cartoon brought it all back.”

Dalton glanced at James. James, after reading the look he’d been given, took up the supportive role. “I suppose it was simply chance that you met some of them here at your house, then.”

Wadsworth’s eyes shifted but he remained perfectly relaxed. Amazing. This fellow was as cold as January in the Yorkshire Dales.

The arms merchant smiled. “You’re fishing. You won’t like what you’ll find, you know. By whose authority are you here, by the way?”

“We are on a mission for the Prime Minister,” offered Dalton. After all, his association with Liverpool was rather well known.

“Ah.” Wadsworth smiled. “Lord Liverpool has no idea you are here, I imagine.”

Since that was precisely the case, Dalton had to wonder at this. What was going on that he didn’t know about? Why was he being kept in the dark?

Wadsworth stood and crossed to the bell pull. He rang for his butler and requested a carriage be brought round immediately. “Fetch my hat and stick.” Then he turned to James and Dalton. “Let’s go and see him, shall we?”

Dalton held up one hand. “I am happy to accompany you, sir, but perhaps you would be good enough to satisfy my curiosity on one point before we go.”

Wadsworth nodded warily. “Of course, my lord.”

“Why have you been trying to kill me?”

It was a shot in the dark, based on gut instinct and wishful thinking. It hit center target with a
twang
. Wadsworth stiffened, his face darkening.

Dalton continued, pushing the man. “You thought I truly was Sir Thorogood, didn’t you? You sent the footpads after me twice, and I think you may have had something to do with a certain ale wagon as well.”

Wadsworth was silent, but it was a sullen burning silence this time, all serenity gone. He made a sharp gesture with one hand. Suddenly Dalton felt the cold steel of a pistol barrel pressing to the back of his neck.

“James!” He was too late. James stood with his chin raised at an odd angle prompted by the glint of knife steel held at his throat by another flunky.

Wadsworth made an effort to return his expression to that of kindly uncle and stepped closer to Dalton. “I shouldn’t recommend that you put up a struggle, my lord. Bligh has missed you thrice before. His reputation is now at stake, and he’d very much like to repair it.” Wadsworth’s tone turned richly smug. “Wouldn’t you, Bligh?”

The man behind Dalton answered, “Indeed, sir.” The chuckle was accompanied by a gale of the foulest exhalation Dalton had ever had the pleasure of holding his breath against.

The man deserved to the for that act of pollution alone. The pistol was jammed hard under Dalton’s ear. “The master wants you in the carriage. Your I
ghness
. Get your rocks movin’.”

James cast Dalton a questioning look from the corner of his eye, but Dalton shook his head slightly. Being taken at the point of a pistol wasn’t his preferred method of gaining information, but it was an effective one. It was surprising what people would reveal when they thought their audience wouldn’t see another sunrise.

He and James were being kidnapped, perhaps the same as Clara had been kidnapped. Dalton fought down the image of her probable terror that rose in his mind. He needed to keep his head clear. If he and James were fortunate, they would be taken to the same place that held Clara. Then they must all escape together.

From some unknown place, from unknown number of guards, with Clara in unknown condition.

Again, not his favorite method.

Wadsworth donned his hat and hefted his jaunty walking stick. Dalton and James were shoved into the carriage like a duo of recalcitrant pigs going to market. James looked distinctly concerned at their predicament,
but all Dalton could think about was that he was finally on his way to Clara.

Nathaniel took Clara’s hand and towed her unwillingly back to the parlor. She resisted. He looked back at her and laughed, shaking his head. “My dear, you look like a reluctant child.”

“I hardly care—what you think,” she puffed, pulling and twisting her hand within his. “Better to look foolish than to look dead.”

He made an exasperated sound, then swept her into his arms again. She wriggled, but he calmly toted her down the hall. “I’ve decided that this is simply the best way to transport you. A dreadful liberty, I know. Still, I rather like it.”

He stopped in front of the fire. “If I sit you down, will you stay?”

She only struggled harder. That turned out to be a mistake, for he only shrugged, lifting her as easily as he did his shoulders. “So be it.”

He sat in the chair and plopped her across his lap, still holding her nearly immobile with easy implacability. “I want to try to make you understand, Clara. You may even find that you want to help me.”

She tilted her head back to give him a disbelieving glare. “I will not! How can you possibly expect me to—”

He kissed her, a quick soft press of his lips on hers that left her startled to the bone.

“Clara, I am a gentleman, but even gentlemen have their limits. I am in a deserted house with a pretty woman on my lap and nothing better to do. If you don’t want my mind to wander further in this improper direction,
I suggest you stop wriggling your bottom against me.”

She froze. “No wriggling. See? Not a bit.”

He laughed. “How flattering. Do you have any idea how adorable you are?”

Clara looked away. Dalton didn’t think she was adorable. He thought she was reckless and outrageous—even dangerous. Upon reflection, she decided she preferred dangerous.

Still holding herself immobile, she sat stiffly on Nathaniel’s lap. “What did you want to tell me?”

Nathaniel watched her for a moment, only the clenching of his jaw revealing his uncertainty. “Tell me this now, Clara, and I shall never ask again. Have you any involvement with a plot against the Crown?”

Clara threw back her head with a noise of exasperation.
“Why
does everyone keep asking me that?” The ceiling held no answer so she looked back at Nathaniel. “No. I am not plotting against the Crown. I dislike it when the privileged abuse the underprivileged, that is all.”

He blinked at her. “Doesn’t everyone?” Then he smiled. “I’m going to do a very bad thing that will likely get us both into serious trouble.”

“Oh, lovely,” she muttered. “I cannot get enough of
that.”

“I am going to tell you about a group of young revolutionaries which was composed of Wadsworth and a number of other young miscreants with ties to France.” Nathaniel shifted a bit beneath her and Clara realized that he’d not exaggerated the improper route his thoughts had been heading. She held herself like stone.

He gave her a bemused look and continued. “They
called themselves the Knights of the Lily. The
Fleur-delis
, to be precise.”

At first Clara couldn’t move, couldn’t react.

Fleur.

What in God’s name had she drawn herself into? “No!” she protested. “I expose pilferage and—and venality. I don’t know anything about revolutionaries or—or—” Her hands flew to her mouth in horror. “Oh no! And it sold two thousand copies!”

“Nearly three thousand, from my calculations. Not to mention all the tracings that were passed around.” He sighed. “Now, to complicate matters, I must add to this the story of a young man, not much more than a boy really, who in a moment of rebellion against his powerful father took up with the wrong sort of people. People who wanted his father—well, let’s just say they wanted the power out of his father’s hands.

“To the young man, this plan to foil his father was like a game. It was great fun, what with all the secret meetings and the messages that must be burned at once. It wasn’t until he became bored and attempted to stop playing that he realized that his erstwhile comrades had not been playing at all.

“He didn’t know what to do. If he turned to his father, his father might suspect the betrayal to be very real because of their past conflict. The punishment would be swift and permanent if that were so. His life as he knew it would be over. Yet if he did nothing, the group might very well succeed against his father and he would be guilty forever of betraying the man he loved most in the world.”

“But didn’t you say he disliked his father?” Despite her predicament, Clara found herself caught up in the story. What a terrible position to be in!

Nathaniel gave her a sad smile. “Things between fathers and sons can be very complicated. Admiration can turn to disillusionment in an instant, and usually does, for what mortal man could sustain the illusion of heroism every moment of his life? In their turn, fathers have such expectations of their sons, as if they believe that a young man is a mere extension of themselves, able to perform with all the wisdom and experience that they themselves possess.”

His gaze was now fixed on the fire and Clara could see the grief and regret in his eyes. “So what choice did you make, Nathaniel? Did you choose your father or yourself?”

He opened his mouth to answer, just as a fracas erupted out in the hallway. The door burst open and two bound men were shoved into the room to stagger before Lord Reardon and Clara.

She gasped. “Dalton!”

Dalton straightened, his eyes traveling slowly over her as she sat on Nathaniel’s lap in her maid costume. Cold ice went through Clara as she realized what he must think. “I don’t—he isn’t—”

Nathaniel chuckled deeply, his grip upon her tightening. “Oh, but I am,” he said, his gaze upon Dalton. “Or at least I’d very much like to be.”

Dalton was so glad to see her alive and well that he could have laughed out loud. She was pale with dark circles under her eyes, but she was composed. Most of all, she was blessedly, thankfully safe.

He wanted to run to her, to sweep her close and hold her close until every cell of his body believed she was well.

Instead, he could only stare as another man held her in his arms. She looked back at him so worriedly, thinking
he would blame her for her predicament. Loyal Clara.

One corner of Dalton’s mouth quirked. “Let me guess. You fell off the roof and landed there by accident.”

“No.” The fair-haired man, who held Clara still closer, leaned back in the chair to regard Dalton. “I put her here, and here she’ll stay, for the moment.”