Celeste Bradley - [The Liar's Club 02] (22 page)

Her hands fell to her sides for a moment and she closed her eyes.
You hadn’t wanted to know
.

She’d been more than an idiot. She’d been thoughtless, foolish, and by heavens,
gullible
. She’d played into his game, confiding in him, towing him around that house—good Lord, she’d even given him her
cat
?

Oh, the poor thing. No doubt left to die slowly and horribly in some rubbish bin within seconds of his leaving the attic.

And all the time, he’d been hunting her.

The strength left her knees at the thought. She’d felt so sheltered and secure in her invisibility. So
stupid
. And now she was bound to pay for her folly.

Desperately, Clara suppressed her fear. She needed to leave
now
, for she had not only endangered herself in her madness, but the family who had taken her in when she’d most needed them.

She’d only thought of scandal at first, which was why she had retained her anonymity. But looking back, she realized that she had grown foolish in her zeal to uncover corruption. She’d made enemies. Powerful enemies.

She would never forgive herself if something happened to her late husband’s family. Shallow and silly though they might be, they’d been nothing but kind to her through the last two years.

Even Beatrice’s urging to investigate the marriage mart once again had been grounded in concern for her. Of course, male attention was the last thing she’d wanted.

Until now. Until she’d met this man and fallen under his manipulative spell.

“Aunt Clara? What are you doing?”

Clara spun around, placing herself between the door and her bag. It was Kitty, come to return the tracing
supplies. With wide eyes, Kitty stared at the obvious preparations for leaving.

Clara moved quickly to take the girl’s arm and pull her into the room. She shut the door. “I must go away for a while, Kitty. I’ve been very foolish and put you all in danger. If I’m no longer here when they come for me, perhaps you and the family will not be held responsible for my actions.”

“What do you mean? How have you been foolish?”

Clara shoved the small chest into her bag with some force.

“Auntie, take care! You’ll wrinkle your gowns.”

Clara almost giggled in her panic. “The gowns don’t matter, Kitty—”

“Don’t matter? But Mama says—”

“Kitty, do be quiet and listen. If anyone should ask, you don’t know where I’ve gone. You don’t know when I’ll be back, if ever. I kept to myself all these years, and you never liked me much anyway. Can you remember that?”

“But we do like you. Aunt Clara, honest! I know Mama can be difficult at times, but—”

The feeling of hounds nipping at Clara’s heels increased. She gave Kitty an impatient little shake. “Simply do as I told you, Kitty. You know nothing about me, and you never cared to, do you understand?”

Kitty was obviously close to tears, but she nodded. “If you truly feel that strongly about it, then very well.”

Clara pulled her close for a quick hug. “Goodbye, sweet Kitty.” Then she hefted her case and made for the back stairs. Without a word to the staff she ran through the kitchen and halfway up the steps to the street. She stayed below street level for a moment, eyeing the surroundings carefully.

Everything looked normal, but what did she know of such things? Someone could be following her right now.

He
could be following her right now.

The spike of pain in her heart threatened to overpower her panic for a moment. Then she firmly plucked it out. Monty was, and had always been, a he. One could not love a lie.

Nor could one love a liar.

With a last sweeping glance at the street, Clara jumped up to hail a passing hackney. It was time to leave London but she had one stop to make first.

Dalton, dressed as Monty with his cap pulled down low, waited in the alley behind Mr. Edward Wadsworths’ garden wall.

Stubbs ambled through the back servants’ gate of the house and approached “Monty.”

“Did you give her the message?” Dalton managed to keep a cool tone. It wasn’t as easy as it should have been.

“Yessir. She said she’d be out in a jiff.” Stubbs made to lounge against the wall next to Dalton. “Did you know you’ve got cat hair on yer coat, sir?”

Dalton gave him a long look from beneath the brim of his cap. Stubbs pursed his lips.

“Right, then. I’ll be off.” The young doorman shoved his hands into his coat pockets and moved off, whistling softly and emanating a deceptive air of harmlessness.

Dalton settled back to wait. He tried to remain distant and cool but the need to see her, be with her, touch her face—

A soft crunch in the gravel beyond the gate snared his attention and he stepped back into the shadow of the
wall. The gate squeaked open softly on its iron hinges and a small form covered with a large shawl hurried through. A whisper came from beneath the head covering. “Miss?”

Dalton stepped forward. “Rose!” Unable to fight the impulse, he swept her into his arms with a glad laugh.

She squeaked and jabbed at him sharply with one elbow, kicking him away furiously.

“Let me go!” She gave him a push and backed away, all the while eyeing him suspiciously from beneath the shawl that half-covered her face.

There was no hiding her voice, however. He’d never heard this girl before.

“Oh, hell. The idiot sent for the wrong maid!” Dalton turned away heatedly. “Damn you, Stubbs,” he muttered. “I said
Rose.”

“I am Rose,” came a small voice from behind him. “What d’you want with me? I ain’t… I ain’t done nothing.”

As Dalton turned to stare at the girl in astonishment, he thought she didn’t sound too sure of that.

“You’re
Rose?”

She nodded and sniffled, pushing her shawl back and wiping her nose with her wrist. A fresh mark on her cheek overlapped an older bruise. She bore a superficial resemblance to his Rose, what he had ever been able to see of her. The same height and figure, the same dark hair, but there was no sauce in this girl’s gaze, only wariness.

“And there is no other Rose in this house?”

She stared at him like a rabbit in a snare. “N-no. Only me. No other Rose. How—how could there be?”

Dalton knew fear of discovery when he saw it. He moved in, locking his eyes on hers. Dark suspicion began
to twine through him. “Indeed. How could there be? How could a woman—who looks very much like you—gain entrance here, use your name, move freely through this house… and never raise the slightest alarm?”

He leaned close, pinning her with his gaze. He knew the effect his silver eyes had on people. All his life, the ignorant had made the sign against the evil eye when they thought he wasn’t looking. This girl was no different. He saw her hand twitch at her side.

‘Tell me. Rose.” He was almost whispering. “Tell me who she is. I must find her. Please?”

He hadn’t meant to say that last. Hadn’t meant to let that note of longing enter his voice.

Suddenly the fear left her eyes, and she gave him a measuring look. “You fancy her, don’t you?”

Dalton straightened. “That’s not your business.”

Rose ducked her head to hide her smile, but he saw it anyway. Damn. He’d lost the advantage. This never would have happened before. What was the matter with him?

Rose hummed to herself for a moment, then looked up at him again. “You know her and you like her.”

“What makes you think so?”

“How could you not? Why, I’d not be alive right now if it weren’t for her bringing me food and takin’ care of me when I was sick! She’s pure good, she is. A real lady, through and through.”

A
lady
? Surely not!

Yet even as his mind denied it, his heart gave a leap of hope. If she were a lady, then she would not be so completely out of his reach. A lady—

Thrusting his distraction aside, Dalton appealed to the girl’s loyalty. “I need to find her. She’s—she’s in grave danger.” At the shadow of concern in Rose’s eyes, he
elaborated, weaving the he with truth. “There are people after her, very powerful people.”

“But—she wouldn’t hurt anyone! She’s good, I tell you!”

“I know that,” he said soothingly. “If only I can find her first, I can protect her.”

Rose chewed her lip uncertainly. “I don’t know. I promised.”

“You’re very loyal to be protecting her. I want to protect her, as well. But I only know her as Rose the maid. If I can’t find her—” He halted, damning the betraying hint of longing that had invaded his voice once more.

Fortunately, it seemed to sway Rose to his side. She gave him a look of wary sympathy. “I know,” she said. “The lady just gets right into your heart, don’t she?”

Dalton looked away when he should have coldly denied any such thing. Apparently that settled it for Rose. She leaned close.

“She lives next door. She’s a widow, livin’ with her husband’s family.”

Next door?

Rose continued. “I think the family is named Trapp, but my lady’s name is—”

Dalton didn’t need to be told.
“Clara Simpson.”

Later, Dalton scarcely recalled leaving Wadsworth’s mews for the house next door. He’d given Rose several pounds, along with Agatha’s card, and recommended that she get herself out of her situation immediately.

The Trapps’ butler had a kindly mien, but Dalton was brisk all the same. “I am—Mr. Montmorency. I need to see Mrs. Simpson immediately,” he said, barely able to keep a smile from his face.

His outrageous Widow Simpleton. His intrepid Rose. All wrapped up in one very suitable lady, just waiting for him to untie the bow.

The butler flicked his eyes from Dalton’s boots to his cap, obviously weighing Dalton’s manner and confidence against the common clothing. Dalton cocked a brow and tilted his head arrogantly. The well-versed Society butler should have no difficulty with this one.

The butler didn’t quite smirk. “Yes, indeed,
my lord.”

Ah. Perhaps he’d overdone the arrogance a bit. This man was very good.

The butler showed him into the familiar parlor and left at nearly a full run. He reappeared almost immediately
to open the door for a breathless Beatrice and Oswald Trapp. Blinded by his hauteur, confused by his attire, they didn’t seem to see any resemblance to Sir Thorogood.

“How may we help you, my lord?”

Damn. Not Clara. “Where is Mrs. Simpson?”

The Trapps looked at each other uneasily. “Clara?
Our
Clara?”

No, my Clara.

Mrs. Trapp blinked at him, obviously mystified. “Whatever would you want with Clara?”

Oswald merely blew through his mustache like a rather confused horse.

Dalton could barely stand it. Drawing on his last thread of patience, he tried to explain without explaining. “I have some business with Mrs. Simpson. It is most urgent that I see her.”
Clara-my-Clara
. “Is she at home?”

Oswald made another equine noise. “Hmph. No, not at the moment.” He looked down at where his thick fingers entwined across his stomach. “No longer her home, y’see.”

The man wasn’t the most intelligent example of the species, Dalton knew, but he hardly expected Oswald to forget a relative in his own home. There was something going on here.

Trapp rumbled on. “She’s gone off. Left this morning at daybreak.”

“Gone?”

“Packed it up and left without a by-your-leave.”

“She said goodbye to me,” came a high, nervous voice from behind them. All eyes turned to the door. One of the Trapp daughters stood there, pale but defiant.

“Kitty!” Mrs. Trapp blinked at her. “What do you know about all this?”

“I know that Aunt Clara would never do anything truly wrong. She said she’d been foolish, and put us all in danger. She said if they came for her, that we were to act as if we didn’t know her well and didn’t like her very much at all. She said it would help.”

A very odd sensation began to occur in Dalton’s chest, a chilling of his heart.

The girl’s chin quiyered. “But I did like her! I won’t say nay to it, not even if you throw me in the Tower!”

Beatrice moved to stand beside her daughter. “Neither will I!”

It seemed that Clara Simpson inspired loyalty in the most unlikely defenders. Still, it was obvious that the Trapps knew nothing that would help Dalton.

“May I see her room? She might have left some clue to her destination.”

Beatrice looked as though she would have liked to refuse, but Oswald gave her a nudge and a growl. “The man’s a
peer
, you birdwit! Show him the room!”

Clara’s room was rather plain. Almost Spartan, for a woman. There was no lace except at the windows, and she didn’t seem to be fond of covering her dressing table with fragile little oddments.

All in all, he would have declared the room’s resident a very sensible woman.

Not the Clara Simpson he knew at all. His Clara was a mad creature, trading identities the way some women changed their gloves. His Clara was a risk-taker, a creature of danger and mystery.

The desk held all the implements of drawing, overflowing with charcoal and inks, pen nibs and papers of various types. Not hoping for much, he fanned through
the stack of drawing paper. She might have left some sort of note, some clue—

It was like catching a glimpse in a mirror, if mirrors came supplied with black silk masks. And if they also furnished wicked glints in the eye, and grins full of mischief and flirtation. And removed one’s clothing.

Dalton had spent hours in the last week pondering Sir Thorogood’s drawings. He knew every stroke, every clever form, every light and humorous line. …

It felt rather like being stabbed with one of Kurt’s long knives, that feeling of recognition and betrayal that pierced him. A very curious sensation, indeed.

He thought he might well bleed himself dry from it, slowly and forever. Abruptly he straightened and drew himself in. What a ludicrous thought. He was disappointed, that was all.

It was obvious to him now, of course. Memories of Mrs. Simpson streamed across his mind—questioning, pressing for a drawing, pursuing him like a love-maddened mink. And Rose—his Rose—sneaking through Wadsworth’s house in the dark, leading him along, learning how to open safe boxes, by God!