Celeste Bradley - [The Liar's Club 02] (36 page)

Dalton turned to face the Liars. They gazed back at him, waiting as they had for the past several weeks.

Waiting for him to trust them.

“Gentlemen, I need your full attention, for we have an operation tonight.”

They sat in silence, unresponsive. Dalton took some encouragement from the fact that they weren’t trying to kill him.

Yet.

It was progress of a sort. Now to rally them to follow him. Dalton’s mind swerved through argument and reason. What words could he use to inflame them? What rhetoric would dim the last mismanaged weeks of division?

Trust them.

His thoughts slowed. Calmed. There was only one way to gain their trust. He knew that now.

“Gentlemen, there are some things you ought to know.”

He stood before them and told it all. From the moment he’d been asked to step into Liverpool’s position in the Royal Four and his subsequent leadership of themselves to his true reasons for running the Thorogood mission himself to the moment when he’d been forced to watch Liverpool capturing Clara.

He spared himself nothing. Every error, every moment of mistrust, every self-serving impulse was laid before them in precise detail.

“You have me at a disadvantage now,” he finished. “I need you, but I have nothing to bargain with. I don’t
even know that I will be your spymaster once Liverpool sees to my reprimand. If you follow me tonight, you may very well be setting yourselves up against the Crown itself, or at least Lord Liverpool.”

He fell silent at last, feeling rather like a spent pistol. It was in their hands now, this motley group of loyal madmen. The only question was… loyal to whom?

Several men glanced at Kurt, waiting for his reaction. Dalton waited. The Cook had more years in the organization than any other. The survival rate was not high these days, but Kurt had always seemed untouchable, a rock in the changing tides around him. Who might influence Kurt?

Then Kurt looked to James. Surprised, James gazed back at the big man as if to say, “Who, me?”

Then James stood. Dalton waited. James had ever been a puzzle to him. He was supportive in private, yet never once had he aided Dalton’s rise into leadership.

James cleared his throat. “I—I don’t know why you care what I think, having cost you all that I have.”

Kurt grunted. “Old news, boy.”

James’s gaze flickered over all those present. Dalton imagined that James could also see all those not present.

“I say he’s in.”

Kurt nodded once. All eyes turned back to Dalton. Stubbs leaned forward. “Well, what’s it to be, guv’nor?”

Feebles tugged uncomfortably at his fine new waistcoat and fingered the cravat at his throat. He felt like a fox caught in the lamplight, despite Button’s reassurance that he’d fit right in the halls of Parliament. He certainly didn’t look like himself, with his hair neatly parted down the middle and slicked down with oil. The plain glasss
pectacles that perched on his nose further painted the picture of a lowly secretary.

Think bookish, he reminded himself. Think desk man, paper diddler, a pale and pottering sort who worked late into the night arranging another bloke’s affairs.

Lord Liverpool appeared at the top of the grand entry stairs, finally leaving for the evening. Time for the show. Peebles clutched his stack of papers to his chest and began to scuttle up the steps, muttering to himself in his fussiest manner.

One… two… He reached the step below Liverpool. Three. He let one toe catch under the lower step and faked a perfect stumble directly into the man on Liverpool’s left. The fellow jerked instinctively aside, allowing Peebles to shower his lordship with a flutter of paper.

Peebles had practiced only one phrase in correct “priss-bookish” with Button’s help.

He began to industriously brush off his lordship as if the paper had been the contents of a dustbin. “Oh, dear, how clumsy of me. Oh dear, how clumsy of me. Oh, dear. Oh
dear!”

Liverpool retreated a step with a pained expression. “I am quite well enough, my good man. Perhaps you should devote yourself to putting your papers in order?”

Peebles looked down at the mess and squealed in horror. “Oh, dear!”

Liverpool and his companion continued on their way without a single glance back, but Peebles continued his charade until his prop papers were all assembled and the numbered key that had once resided in Liverpool’s waistcoat pocket had made its way into his own. Then he scuttled to the street exit where Stubbs awaited him with an unmarked carriage. Time to set the plan in motion.

Button fussed with the gold braid on the enormous red coat he was fitting on a filming Kurt. Since soldiers were not encouraged to have long hair, Kurt had his tangled locks piled upon his head like a girl, ready to conceal under the tall helmet of a commander of the Royal Horse Guard.

The helmet was authentic, filched from the storeroom of the Guard itself. There had never been a uniform made, however, that could cover the gigantic frame of the club’s premier assassin, so Button had fashioned one from red wool and gold braid, although he still worried loudly that the gold buttons were not a perfect match.

“Don’t worry about it. Button. Do you think anyone staring into that face will be looking at the trim of his uniform?”

Kurt swung slowly to glare at James, bringing Button with him as the valet clung on during the slow turn. James only smiled at the big man. “Come on, Kurt. You know I love you like a brother, don’t you?”

Kurt only granted, then plucked Button from himself like a man forcefully removing a leech from his flesh. “It’s good. Go away.”

Button sniffed. “No one appreciates perfection. Why do I try, I ask you? Why do I even try?” He gathered his tailoring gear and left the room. They could hear his affronted muttering all the way down the hall. “‘It’s good,’ he says. It’s genius, I tell you, but do I get a speck of credit? I don’t think so. …”

James grinned at Kurt. “Best watch out. Remember how the genius valet dressed Dalton at the start of all this? How would you like flowing lace sleeves and high heels?”

Kurt grunted again, but said nothing. In truth, James doubted that he was in any danger from Button, since the valet had developed quite a passion for Kurt’s famous
petits fours
.

Just thinking about Kurt’s baking genius brought a growl to James’s belly. Unfortunately, the assassin had been too busy preparing for tonight’s venture to spare the time for any kitchen magic. Mournfully, James realized that he was going to have to wait until tomorrow for his favorite trifle with berries.

Kurt heard James’s stomach growl and took it as due flattery, as it was. “Got gooseberries in,” he growled, which was his normal mode of speech. “And fresh cream and butter.”

James’s knees went weak. “Maybe we’ll finish early this evening?” There was always hope.

Kurt shrugged and pulled his tentlike cloak over his fabricated uniform. Tucking the hat under one arm, well hidden under the cloak, he turned without a word and left the room. James grabbed his own cloak and followed. “If you start the sponge cake tonight—”

Clara rolled her forehead on her folded arms. Something had roused her, but she couldn’t seem to open her eyes. Perhaps there had been nothing at all—

The faint sound of a key in the lock of her door woke her like cold water down her back. She stumbled to her feet to face the door. Who could it be at this tune of night?

The door swung open and she blinked against the glare from the lighted hallway. Then a giant stepped into the rectangle of light, a giant that she recognized with a stab of primal fear.

Kurt.

The breath left her lungs as her worst fears seemed about to realize themselves. Liverpool had made his decision. She was to be disposed of—

The big man stepped forward, looming so far above her that she was forced to tilt her head all the way back to see his frightening face. He looked down at her impassively.

Then his gaze flicked to the drawing on the table. Clara had left it out so that the rather terrible ink could safely dry. Oh, no. She ought to have hidden it somehow. If her one bargaining chip were taken from her she would disappear for certain.

Kurt’s buttons seemed to shake before her eyes. Then she heard a sound emerge from deep inside his chest, rather like the crunching of gravel. He was… laughing?

Quickly she snatched the now dry drawing and rolled it in her hands, standing and backing away from him as she did so.

He watched her for a moment from beneath heavy lids, then turned to gather her case under one great arm as if it weighed nothing. “Time to go,” he growled. Stepping forward with surprising swiftness, he wrapped one massive hand around her arm and took her with him.

He didn’t hurt her, but neither did she have the means to struggle. Her toes were scarcely touching the ground as he walked her down the hall to another doorway. It was a plain narrow door, built to disappear into the paneling of the wall. A servant’s passage?

Kurt tapped twice, then opened the panel. He thrust her inside, then shut her into the dark space.

A scraping sound met her ears and a small light flared. Before her stood a man holding a tiny slip of burning
wood and a coil of rope, wearing a rakish grin on his face.

Her mind spun. “Monty?”

Dalton stilled and his grin wavered. “If you like.”

She caught herself up. “It—I was only startled—I’m—” Why was she apologizing to a man who was kidnapping her? Again!

She shook off the last of her daze. “What is it you want, my lord?”

He narrowed his eyes at her. “I think I liked ‘Monty’ better.” He touched the end of the match to a candle set on a crate. The closet looked like some sort of supply room for the palace staff. Dalton began running the rope through his hands, forming a sliding loop at one end.

Clara didn’t know what to think. Kurt and Dalton, working together. Was that good news or bad? “What are you doing?”

He stopped and tilted his head as he considered her. He looked so dashing with his hard body outlined all in black that she lost a moment to useless fantasy. All they lacked were the silk mask and the privacy of their attic.

What about your sanity? For you are certainly lacking something
? Clara put a rein on her wayward thoughts. As Dalton continued to toy with the rope, tying it into some sort of harness, she realized that once more he was stealing her away.

“I cannot leave! If I am in trouble with Lord Liverpool now, imagine if I attempt to escape!”

“Bloody hell.” Dalton turned back to her with a grunt of exasperation. With one arm he swept her close and lowered his mouth to hers.

She could never truly remember the depth of her response to him until he touched her, and then it all came flooding back. Her knees faltered and her pulse climbed,
and her arms rose all of their own to wrap themselves around his neck.

The taste of him filled her mouth, mingling with her own until she couldn’t remember which was which. She felt weightless when he held her, insubstantial yet somehow connected to the earth in a whole new way. As if when he touched her, he created a current within her that—

He stepped back, pulling himself from her embrace. “Imagine if you don’t,” he said. It took her a moment to remember the thread of their conversation.

Imagine what would happen if she
didn’t
attempt to escape Liverpool, he meant. Remembering her own sure knowledge of her doom only moments before, she nodded. “You may have a point.”

She swiftly yanked up her skirt to tuck her rolled cartoon into her garter. When she looked up, she was gratified to see the same stunned-ox expression upon Dalton’s face that had surely been on her own a moment ago.

She shook her skirts sedately down once more. “Shall we go?” She arched a brow at him, serenely holding out her hands to take the rope harness.

Wordlessly he helped her into it but she imagined that his breath was coming a bit faster than necessary and his hands lingered on her a bit too long.

Then he turned to wrestle with something behind him. Clara noticed an odd cupboard built into the wall for the first time. Then Dalton opened it to reveal a darkened shaft. Clara picked up the candle and edged forward to peer warily down… and down… until the shaft simply disappeared into blackness. A warm flow of rising air toyed with the messy strands of her hair. She smelled… lye?

She pulled her head back in and closed her eyes for a moment. “You’re sending me down the linen chute?”

He nodded, obviously very pleased with himself. “We can get you all the way to the cellar unseen. No one will be working at this time of night, and we can take the tunnels to St. Stephen’s chapel. Stubbs is waiting there with the carriage at this moment.”

Clara sighed. “Someday, my love, we must discuss my feelings about using doors.” But not now. Grasping the upper casement of the opening, she went in feet first with Dalton’s help. Sitting on the edge of the hole with the wood biting into her thighs, she froze when he reached to touch her face.

“Be careful, my Clara.”

Turning her eyes to his unearthly silver gaze, she blinked at the emotion she saw there. The mask, it seemed, was well and truly gone.

Clara looked about her at the most secret establishment in the history of England and marveled at her own presence here. She’d never thought to see the inside of a traditional gentlemen’s club, much less be welcomed in a den of spies.

They were all rather darling in their way. The big frightening fellow, Kurt, had brought her a dish of cream puffs that she was certain constituted an apology for his attack. He only grunted when she praised them. She ate one to please him, trying desperately not to blush at the memories that filled her mind.

Button, a prim and elegant fellow, had entertained her with tales of his life in the theatre that he claimed would be perfect fodder for her drawings.

A scraggly little man who seemed vaguely familiar
shyly handed her a golden comb for her hair. She thanked him solemnly and forbore asking its origin.

“You done right, bringing the gentleman back to us,” Stubbs said shyly. The young doorman seemed sincerely infatuated with her. Clara wagered with herself that he fell in love at least once an hour.