Celeste Bradley - [The Liar's Club 02] (34 page)

Dalton eyed the man he recognized well from the attempts on his life. “And who the bloody hell are you?”

Clara gasped and looked back and forth between them. “Don’t you know him?” The fair-haired man only tightened his embrace on her and continued to regard Dalton steadily.

Dalton shook his head, but James Cunnington nodded. “I do. Nate Stonewell. Haven’t seen him for years.”

Dalton jerked.
Nate Stonewell?
Ah. The pieces all began to fall into place. Randolph Stonewell had been known as the Old Man, the spymaster of the Liar’s Club before Simon. Nate Stonewell would be the wayward son.

The man quirked a brow. “I go by Lord Reardon these days.”

“You look so surprised. Lord Etheridge.” The mild voice of Mr. Wadsworth came from where he lounged in the doorway. “I’ve known of Nathaniel’s connection to those odious spies of yours for years. Why else do you think we recruited him for the Knights of the Lily?”

James turned to Wadsworth.
“You
recruited him?”

Wadsworth came off his shoulder to stroll into the room and stand just behind Nate Stonewell’s chair. “Surely you must realize that he is far younger than the rest of us. Why, he would have been a mere child when we were originally disbanded.”

Yes, Dalton remembered, Nate Stonewell had been a child. The child that Simon Raines had rescued from kidnapping so many years ago. The son who had rejected his father and everything the Old Man had stood for. Who had left home at a young age to undertake his education on the Continent. Who had inherited his title and wealth from an uncle and who’d determined to enjoy every useless privilege of such without taking any of the responsibility.

Lord Reardon was what Dalton himself might have become, had it not been for the strict guidance of Lord Liverpool—a careless, easily manipulated tool of traitors.

Reardon eyed Dalton with curiosity. “And you are Lord Etheridge, the new master of that band of misfits otherwise known as the Liar’s Club.”

James shook his head sorrowfully. “Oh, Nate. You never did get it, did you?”

“Get what? Get that my father preferred al of you to me, his own son?” Reardon stood, lifting Clara from his lap and setting her aside.

Dalton looked her over quickly. She was pale and obviously very confused, but seemed well enough. Her wide questioning gaze shifted to him, but he could only give her a tiny shake of his head. She slowly knelt and reached for the lap rug that had fallen to the floor. In the course of her action, she managed to move two steps closer to him.

Clever Clara.

Nathaniel strode angrily to stare into the coals, bracing one fist on the mantel. “And then to make matters worse, there was Simon Raines. A boy from the streets, a ragged little beggar.
Simon
. His project, my father called him. He cleaned him up, schooled him, involved
him in his work nearly every day. I, on the other hand, was expected to keep up my studies on my own and be a good example of a young British gentleman, pursuing all the useless things that such louts do. I was in line for a tide, you see. My mother’s brother was a lord with no issue and no desire to have any. I was groomed from birth to take my uncle’s place. I felt sometimes as if I’d been given away in exchange for a title in the family.”

Clara took another small step closer to Dalton as she drew the wool over her shoulders. Dalton could barely see her now without turning his head, which he dared not do for fear of alerting someone to her actions.

Reardon turned from his tragic pose to see what Dalton imagined were four distinctly unsympathetic expressions.

He shrugged. “Ah, but I was excited by my possibilities, of course. I enjoyed them to their fullest. I was a right little snot, taking care to rub that street boy’s nose in every privilege and advantage I possessed. It never truly helped, however. Simon was always the son my father wanted, and I was merely the pawn in the power match.”

Dalton saw Clara nod slowly. “I know precisely the feeling,” she said.

Reardon looked up then as if pulling himself from the past with an effort. “Yes, I imagine you do. I hadn’t realized…”

“Enough whining, my lord.” Wadsworth waved his pistol to capture Reardon’s attention. “What do you propose we do with this lot? We could throw them in the Thames. Or we might be able to pass it off as a carriage accident.”

Reardon considered the three of them. “Faking a carriage accident would be too tedious. I don’t care if anyone
knows they were murdered. The suspects in the murder of
Sir Thorogood
will be so numerous that no one will bother to dig very deeply.”

James groaned. “You’ve been keeping up with us every step of the way, haven’t you, Nate?”

Reardon turned. “Of course. I’ve known the secrets of that club since I was a child. My
father
didn’t tell me, of course. I had to follow Simon to learn anything. It wasn’t difficult at all. People never really see children, do they? Or if they do, they don’t take their activities seriously.” He shook his head. “If you were going to live past morning, you would do well to take note of that.”

Dalton closed his eyes for a moment in regret. Reardon was entirely correct. His pose as Sir Thorogood would bite him back now, for Thorogood had more enemies than Napoleon.

Wadsworth smiled. “Very well, then. Would you like to do the honors?” Wadsworth gazed coolly at Nathaniel and held out his own pistol. “Perhaps it is time that you prove your loyalty to the Knights of the Lily.”

There was a long pause. James and Dalton tensed, but bound and against so many, what could they do? Dalton heard Clara whimper and cower behind him.

Whimper?
Surely not his Clara? Then he felt a rhythmic motion against his bonds and realized that she had found a blade somewhere. A flare of hope ignited within him.

Faster, Clara
, he willed, as he kept his eyes on the tableau before him. Wadsworth was watching Reardon closely, and the two thugs were preparing to enforce their master’s will.

Then Reardon made a tiny bow. “As you wish.” He
took Wadsworth’s pistol and stepped back, aiming directly at Dalton.

Clara gasped. “No!” Dalton turned to see her go pale with alarm. He stepped in front of her once more.

“You said you wouldn’t harm anyone!” Behind Dalton, the cutting became ever more furious as she pleaded. “Nathaniel, you don’t have to do this!”

Reardon shook his head, but Dalton didn’t think he seemed all that regretful. Bloody
hell
. If he was shot, the chance of James’s and Clara’s escaping would decrease drastically, if it had ever existed at all.

“I’m sorry, pretty one.” Reardon took a step farther back. “I thought I could keep you out of this, but… alas.” With the heel of his left hand, he pulled back the hammer of the firearm.

Dalton watched Reardon’s finger tighten on the trigger. He readied himself, although there was no way to avoid the bullet at this range.

“No!”
Clara’s cry was followed by the explosion of the shot, and Dalton felt a violent push from behind.

Clara
. There was no time to stop her. All he could do was twist to break her fall as she lunged into him, taking them both to the floor, toppling a nearby table with a crash.

Dalton lurched to his knees, his arms still bound. “Clara!” She lay limply before him. Blood welled from her side. There was a glint of gold and he saw a small blade in her hand, no bigger than a leaf of grass.

No
. She couldn’t die. He couldn’t breathe, not even draw a breath. A vast band of pain and regret wrapped around his heart.
He couldn’t lose her
.

“Clara!”
Her name was torn from his tight and aching throat. Her eyes opened and she gasped.

“Good heavens, that hurts!” She pressed a hand to her waist. Red seeped through her fingers and dripped to the carpet.

“Oh, damn,” Reardon said faintly.

Clara peeled her bloodied fingers from her waist. A bloody slash cut into her skin, but there was no bullet hole. A flesh wound. Nasty but not deadly, as long as she did not take infection. Dalton closed his eyes with relief, bending to touch his forehead to hers in a silent moment of thanks to the divine.

“Damnation! You mucked it, you idiot!” Wadsworth was livid. He strode forward to yank the pistol from Reardon’s hand. “Bloody amateur!”

“Well, it wasn’t my pistol! I can do better with my own weapon.” Reardon reached into his vest to pull out a pistol. “I’m more accustomed to the sight on this one.”

Then he calmly levered it and fired once more. Wadsworth’s servant Bligh went down like a felled tree. Reardon
blinked and turned to the sputtering Wadsworth. “Oops.”

“Why in the bloody hell did you do that?” Wadsworth looked from Bligh to Reardon in astonishment.

Dalton took advantage of their distraction to pull violently at his half-cut bonds. He felt some skin go with the rope, but he finally broke free.

Then he lunged for Wadsworth.

The spent pistol spun off into the corner and Wadsworth went down hard. Dalton saw James fling himself bodily at the second flunky and go down in a pile of broken furniture. Dalton didn’t worry. Even bound, James was dangerous.

Dalton had pulled back one fist, ready to see how many pieces a man’s face could be broken into—when the double click of another pistol resounded through the taut silence. Still gripping Wadsworth by the throat, Dalton looked down into another steel barrel just like the first.

Wadsworth lay in his grasp, calmly aiming the matching pistol directly between Dalton’s eyes. “This is one of my own designs. Nathaniel may have bungled his shots, but somehow I don’t think I shall miss mine.”

Smoothly, the trigger began to slide back before his eyes.

Dalton grinned. “That depends on whether or not your design accounted for this—” He gripped the pistol backward, shoving his thumb
under
the trigger. Glaring, Wadsworth struggled to pull the trigger all the way back, but the mechanism wouldn’t fire without full release.

Dalton twisted the pistol from Wadsworth’s hold and stood. “Have you any more of these about your person?”

Wadsworth only glared and reached for his fallen
walking stick to help himself stand. Dalton went to where James lay half-sprawled on the floor. The other lackey was out cold, his nose bloody and his temple swelling.

Dalton knelt to untie James. “Did he get you?”

James was pale and sweating. “No,” he gasped. “I believe I got myself. Fighting with my arms tied behind my back played bloody hell with my shoulder.” When he was untied, he hissed as he used his good hand to drag his injured arm forward. “Damn. Another three weeks in the sling, I’ll wager.” He looked up past Dalton.
“Look out!”

Dalton rolled just as he heard the unmistakable
swish
of a sword through the air. On his back on the floor, he raised the pistol in his hand and fired almost before he registered his target.

The narrow blade fell to the carpet. Wadsworth followed it a moment later to land half on the rug and half on Dalton and James. Dalton struggled to free the two of them from Wadsworth and to stand once more.

Something moved in the corner of Dalton’s vision.
Reardon
. With the speed of a whip, he was across the room and had the man by the throat.

‘Too bad,” came a cultured voice from the door. “It was a lovely carpet.”

Dalton turned. Liverpool stood just beyond, holding the sword that had fallen and gazing down at the body on the floor. Blood seeped from a bullet wound in the man’s chest. Behind Liverpool stood two Royal Guardsmen, who quickly helped James to his feet.

Liverpool approached Dalton calmly, taking a handkerchief from his pocket to polish the slender blade in his hand. “Your coat is mined, as well.”

Dalton rolled one shoulder forward to find that his
silk coat was slashed across the back of the collar. Apparently Wadsworth hadn’t known how truly difficult it was to behead a man. Dalton was very glad he hadn’t had to find out, either.

Liverpool glanced down at Clara and then over at James. “Obviously a trying day had by all.” Under one arm he’d tucked the business end of Wadsworth’s silver-handled walking stick, which Dalton realized had concealed the sword.

James pursed his lips in an awed whistle. “Where can I get one of those?”

Liverpool shot him a quelling look. “Etheridge, do let Reardon go. He’s on our side.”

Startled, Dalton turned to stare at the man he still held by the throat. Reardon, growing purple but manfully trying not to show it, gave a careless wave of his hand. Dalton looked back to Liverpool. “But he shot Clara!”

“I’ll be all right, Dalton.” Clara came toward them, a handkerchief now pressed to her side, the other side supported by James. She was pale and her eyes were wide, but she looked wonderful to him.

Reardon took advantage of this distraction to reach up to peel Dalton’s fingers from his throat. Wheezing just a bit, he shook his head. “I didn’t intend to shoot anyone. I was going to very carefully miss you. It was all I could do to pull the pistol aside as it was.” He took a step toward Clara, but Dalton moved into his path.

Reardon shrugged. “I only want to apologize. Shouldn’t we fetch a doctor for her?”

“It’s nearly stopped bleeding already,” Clara said. She looked down at her ragged, filthy, rain-soaked and wrinkle-dried, bloodstained self. Then she looked back up to Dalton. “However, I think I need another change of clothing already,” she said faintly.

Dalton felt his throat tighten at her bravery. What heart his Clara had!

Clara watched the look in Dalton’s eyes go from worried to proud. Warming inwardly at his approval, she forced herself to turn away from him when all she wanted was to run into his arms. She moved to stand before Lord Liverpool.

Her side burned badly, and she was beginning to feel a bit faint, but primarily she found that she was terrified of the man before her. She could scarcely draw breath her throat was so tight, and she was sure her hands were shaking.

She put them behind her back and raised her chin, making sure not to look away from Lord Liverpool. “There is something you must know, my lord.”