Celeste Bradley - [The Liar's Club 02] (27 page)

The weather had tamed since the earlier clear moonlight. Now there was nothing but the reflection of the city’s street lamps against the lowering clouds. The slates were damp, and Clara’s borrowed slippers had little foothold. Luckily, they were a bit tight on her. At least they would stay on.

She could see little but shadows. Hopefully, that meant that their pursuers could not spy them at all. Dalton kept his grip on her hand as they slid and crawled to the ridge of the roof.

He pulled her close for a moment. “Feel the ridge? Keep it between your feet. If you slip, try to let your feet go down either side so you won’t fall.”

She soon had reason to try out this advice, for he kept a brutal pace over the rooftops. More than once, he nearly tugged her arm from the socket when she slithered on the slates. What would have taken minutes on the ground seemed to take hours on the rooftops.

Finally, the fourth chimney came into sight in the dimness. Dalton left her straddling the ridge as if it were a recalcitrant horse, both hands seeking a grip on the slates.

He went down the rear slant of the roof and over the eaves. As he went out of sight, she shut her eyes, willing him not to fall.

Then he was back, scrambling up the pitch using both feet and hands. “Take my hand.”

“I don’t want to do this,” she said as she released her grip on the ridge. “I truly, truly don’t want to do this.”

“I know. But the window is open now. I can drop you right into the attic.”

Her knees were weak with strain and fear, but Clara forced herself to pull her opposite leg over the ridge until her feet dangled down the slates together. With one hand in Dalton’s she let go of the ridge tile finger by finger.

Her tentative balance went awry as her weight shifted and she slid on one hip down the slates, gaining speed as she shot toward the edge.

“Clara!” Dalton’s hand tightened on hers and her slide ended in a yank that almost dislocated her shoulder. Her body flipped, slamming her face down onto the roof. She looked up to see Dalton spread-eagled on the slates, his arms extended to hers, and one foot cocked over the roof ridge.

Her feet dangled in midair and the roof edge cut into her thigh. So close…

With effort she reached up to grab Dalton’s sleeve with her other hand. He took her wrist and pulled her up until she could brace her feet in the gutter. He wrapped her in his arms, his own foot still hooked over the apex of the roof, and tucked her face into his neck as she struggled to catch the breath that had fled her lungs when she’d thought herself dead.

“I have you,” he murmured. “I have you safe.”

Then he helped her take a grip on the nearby chimney and regained his own balance. He moved around her, as able as a cat on the pitched roof, until he was beside her.

“We’re just above the window and to the left a bit,” he told her. “I’m going to let you down by hand. I want you to feel for the window ledge with your feet.”

She surrendered her trust totally to him, allowing him
to dangle her over the roof’s edge until her toes made contact with the stone ledge.

“Now, I’m going to drop you in. I want you to throw your weight in through the window. Ready?”

She nodded quickly but couldn’t speak. One misstep, one wrong move …

She’d never been more frightened in her life.

“Now!”

She swung forward and flung herself in through the dark portal, landing sprawling on the dusty wooden floor of the attic.

He was beside her in a moment, pulling her to her feet. She clung to him, her fingers tightening in his waistcoat until they ached.

At that moment, he could have been the devil himself and she would have sought shelter in his strength and solidity. The fact that he murmured softly into her ear and stroked her straggling hair away from her face with heart-melting tenderness had nothing to do with it.

When she could breathe once more, she stepped back and straightened her spine. “We should move on.”

He shifted in the darkness as if he wanted to reach for her again, but surely that was her imagination. “Right. Take my hand.”

She rested her hand in his yet again and they made their way blind through the unfamiliar attic, stumbling and knocking shins until they found the door and the stairs down.

Her nighttime spying experience certainly was coming in handy on this adventure. Too bad she would never be using these skills again, just when she was getting rather good at it all.

They reached the ground floor and Clara ran out of ideas. “Now what?”

“We raid the house for a cloak for you and we hail a hack.”

“A hack? At this time of night?”

“There’s always a hack available in the residential district this late. All those husbands sneaking home late from their clubs.”

Just as he’d said, once they’d made it to the street and fled around the corner from their pursuers, a hack came trotting down the cobbles in a leisurely fashion. Dalton raised one hand and the driver obligingly stopped.

Too grateful to marvel at their luck, Clara climbed inside and sank wearily onto the seat. She’d been through so much tonight, and it still lacked a few hours until dawn.

Part of her wanted to stay awake and note where they were going and how, but the rest of her fell victim to exhaustion immediately. She never even remembered lying down, but suddenly found herself being briskly shaken awake from her nap half-sprawled on the seat.

“Clara, come along. We must hurry.”

“All right. Fine. Yes,” she murmured, trying desperately to force both eyes open at the same time. Dalton pulled her from the hack and steadied her on the sidewalk as he waved the driver on.

The weather had deteriorated further. It was raining now, the chill needles striking her face and fully waking her at last.

Dalton began walking the opposite way from the route the cab had taken. He towed her along behind as if she had wheels. He ducked into an alleyway that allowed not a ray of street-lamp light within and made his way through the blackness as if he could see in the dark.

He led her around another corner, behind the building
she guessed, then climbed a box and hefted her up beside him. He took her hand and moved it forward until her fingers touched glass. A window.

“Don’t tell me—we’re breaking in again.”

She heard a dark chuckle.

“I’m allowed to break in here. Or at least, I used to be.”

His voice sounded grim, and for the first time she wondered what this never-ending night meant to him. From what she gathered, he’d lost his position defending her earlier. Fleeing with her again had likely only compounded the problem.

She tried to convince herself that it wasn’t so, as he opened the window in some way that she couldn’t see, and helped her through it. She wanted to believe that he hadn’t lost anything important tonight, for it would be very difficult to resist a man who had sacrificed so much on her behalf.

Very difficult, indeed.

Dalton felt the familiar air of the Liar’s Club fold around him and ached for it. He’d come so close.

Now he had no idea what lay in his future. Would he be tried for treason? If he could not prove the identity of the rogue member of the Royal Four, it was possible.

Clara
. What was he going to do with this maddening magnificent woman? She’d been so quick, so brave on the rooftops, with never a tear, never a betraying shriek that would have alerted the Liars. He shook his head. She’d have gone over the edge of the roof silent until the end, so as not to call attention to his presence there.

He still could not allow himself to care for her, but by God, she’d won his respect in that moment in a way that he’d rarely before esteemed a woman.

Holding his hand over her eyes in a last, rather hopeless gesture of secrecy—perhaps he ought to simply open the secret office to public tours—he led her up the narrow stair to the attic chamber. There he seated her on the old sprung sofa that probably predated Simon by many years.

She curled up, tucking her slippered feet under her
and wrapping the stolen cloak around her until he could only see her pale face in the glow of the candle he’d lighted.

Dalton rubbed the back of his neck, then untied his cravat and tossed it over the back of his chair. He sat at the desk, trying to think. It wasn’t easy with Clara in the room. The air seemed charged with her, as if lightning were about to strike him.

She made him too warm. He shrugged out of his damp coat and forced himself to consider his options. How long could he remain in the club unseen?

Simon had assured him that no one but James knew of the existence of the secret office, even though one of the entrances went directly through Jackham’s office.

Luckily, Jackham wouldn’t be in until three days hence, for he was still on his liquor-buying trip. He was likely tippling in Edinburgh even now, for he insisted on personally trying every liquid that made its way into the club. Dalton still wasn’t sure if the man was connoisseur or cozener, but it was just as well.

Dalton didn’t trust Jackham, despite Simon’s assurances that the man had no clue to the real purpose of the club. How could anyone work on the premises for years and learn nothing? The man was a common thief who had once lived for taking what he hadn’t earned. If there were ever a leak in the club’s security, Jackham would be the first person Dalton would look to.

So the office was safe enough for now. Taking Clara home to the Trapps would only put her back in the reach of the Liars. Their own territory would be the last place they’d look.

He hoped.

He glanced over at Clara. She’d melted into the sunken cushions like warm tallow, only her dark eyes
wide in her pallor to show that she was still awake. She must be exhausted.

“When did you sleep last?”

She blinked. “Other than in the carriage?” She thought about it for a moment. “I had a nap Tuesday evening.”

It was Thursday morning. Two nights without sleep. One spent with him, one night on the run. “What’s holding you up?”

“Fear,” she said promptly. “And I’m hungry as well, but you needn’t concern yourself about that.”

His mouth twitched. Only a small dig at his lack of hospitality. “There is a kitchen here. I’ll find you some bread and cheese, if you like.”

“And tea, please. Rather a great deal of tea.” She snuggled deeper into the couch. “I feel as though I shall never be warm again.”

“Ah, then, tea and a fire. Your wish is my command.”

He was rising to leave, so he couldn’t quite hear her murmured comment, but it sounded something like “I entirely doubt that.”

True, he thought as he took the candle and left the room. Unfortunate, but true.

The fire was warm and the small meal heartening, but still something deep inside Clara shivered. Having discarded the wet wrapper, she sat on the floor in front of the fire, shrouded in her overlong cloak. She had braided her hair but had nothing to tie it with. Dalton moved restlessly about the room looking rather like a pirate in his shirtsleeves and unbuttoned waistcoat. She could just see the curls on his chest in the open throat of his shirt. Were his shoulders getting broader by the moment?

He was truly beginning to get on her nerves.

“Don’t you have something lordly to tend to?” she snapped finally. “You’ll turn me mad if you pace round me once more.”

“James is securing your protection.” His voice held frustration and the edge of something else. “There’s nothing at all for me to do but guard you.”

“Guard me how? Safeguard me, or prison-guard me?” She stood to face him. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He stopped abruptly in his pacing and pondered her in a manner that gave Clara pause. “What is it?” she asked.

“To be truthful, you are going somewhere. I’ve decided to send you away until I can find the source of this mess.”

She rolled her eyes. “You might have thought of that before you dragged me back to London. I was already on my way to the country to hide.”

“I had somewhere a bit farther in mind.” He looked away. “Scotland will do for now.”

“Scotland?”

“Unless I need more time. If necessary I shall put you on a ship for the West Indies.”

She glared at him. “Do I not have a say in this?”

“No. I need you off where you won’t distract—I mean, attract assassination.”

“And this has nothing to do with the fact that we were lovers?”

He stiffened. “Of course not. There is no point in bringing that up. That is irrelevant.”

Her chill was complete now, all through her. “Ah,” she said faintly. “It felt rather… relevant to me.”

“Completely without bearing on the future.” Then Dalton relented, facing her with apology in his eyes.

He reached one hand to tug gently on her raveling braid, turning her to the light.

Her face in the candlelight was pale and drawn, a stranger’s face, really. But the flashing hazel eyes were pure Rose. “I’ve asked myself a thousand times… why didn’t I see it? Why didn’t I see Rose in the Widow Simpson?”

“I took care you shouldn’t.” Her words were a mere breath. If he’d been standing three steps back, he wouldn’t have heard them.

“Perhaps. Or perhaps I wanted my fairy maid so badly that I didn’t
want
to see.”

Slowly she reached up and drew his hand from her braid. Her trembling fingers told the story that her rigid stance would not. She was as troubled as he. As anguished. As alone.

He took her face between his palms. “Who are you really?” His voice was hoarse even to his own ears. With his fingers he stroked dangling strands of damp hair from her temples. “All those faces. Are
any
of them real?”

She gave her head a tiny shake. “None. Or perhaps… all. I cannot say for sure.”

“So there is some hope?” His thumb stroked away a tear. He doubted she knew she was crying. “My Rose is in there somewhere?”

“I don’t know. In the end, it seems I am only Clara after all.”

“Clara,” he said, testing the name. Would Clara touch his heart? Would she soothe that dark place inside him that he’d never known existed until Rose showed him the way?