Celeste Bradley - [The Liar's Club 0] Page 4

  In his mind he heard the voice of Simon Raines. “We’ve never had all the men we’ve needed. We’ve certainly never had enough specialists. We’re now down to two pickpockets, one knife man, four scouts, three rooftop men, and one saboteur, without you.”

  Without him.

  If not for James, there would be no such deficiency. No empty bed-chambers, no half-filled meetings. No missions going undone because of the shortage of heroes . . .

  James closed his eyes. He would not wallow in his guilt. There was no time for mawkish self-blame. He must take the pain and regret he felt at his monumental error and direct it to finding the killers responsible.

  He entered the cryptography room. The chamber was large, but had little room in it. Most of the space was filled with stacks of papers, books, and even scrolls. Every code known to the British military and even a few that weren’t was held safe within these walls.

  There were a number of desks in the room, but only one was occupied by a gentleman. Another, younger man sat across from him.

  Fisher, the only one left . . .

  Because of Napoleon’s obsession with secret codes, the first Liars targeted during the recent betrayal were the brilliant code-breakers. The only remaining cryptographer was Fisher, who had been an apprentice at the time.

  Now he was head of his own tiny division.

  James looked at the empty seats. Giving those lost men their silent due, he closed his eyes and repeated his secret vow.

  “My life for yours.”

  Yet no matter how many years he devoted himself to his colleagues and his country, he could never erase what he had done.

  “James? I hate to disturb you but—”

  James gave his head a quick shake and pasted a lying smile on his face. “Sorry. Daydreaming a bit, that’s all.” He pulled a chair up and sat on it backward, facing the desk. There sat the imposing figure of Dalton Montmorency, Lord Etheridge, the spymaster of the Liar’s Club. Code name, the Gentleman.

  Or, as Dalton’s nephew Collis referred to him behind his back—and never above a whisper—the Grand High Oom-pah of Everything. James, being neither intimidated nor related, merely called him “sir.”

  Dalton nodded to him. “How’s the shoulder?”

  The last thing James wanted to think about now was his injury. “Fine,” he said.

  “Have you been keeping up with the retraining Kurt set you to?”

  “Yes, Mother.” James tried to crack a careless grin. He very much feared it came out a sour grimace.

  Dalton’s cool gaze didn’t waver. “Pray take your recovery seriously. We need the Griffin back in action. The club has only one other saboteur—”

  “This I know,” James snapped. The Liar name once worn proudly now fit ill, like a suit of armor made for another man. “Wouldn’t you like to know what our search revealed?”

  Dalton raised a brow. “So, what’s the news on our target?”

  “Good and bad,” James said. “We found him.”

  Fisher straightened in his chair. “Where? When can we get him here?”

  “Feebles brought me the new information just this morning.” James tossed the file onto the desk in frustration. “Where? In France. When? Likely never, for it seems he’s been working for Napoleon for months now.”

  “For Napoleon?” Fisher seemed to shrink. “D’you mean I’m up against Rupert Atwater!’ The thin young man swallowed. “I—but he’s Atwater! He’s brilliant, Matchless. Everything I know, I learned from someone who learned it from him!” Fisher looked as though he might cry. “He was a Liar. One of us. How could he?”

  James looked away from Fisher’s disillusionment. “Who knows?” he said bitterly. “Money? Power?” He glared at the floor, his jaw clenching. “A woman?”

  Dalton picked up the file and skimmed the contents quickly. “Was he the sort to fall for bribery?”

  James shrugged one shoulder. “I didn’t know him well. He retired from the Liars shortly after I began. Simon worked with him. Kurt probably knew him as well, although I doubt Cryptography and Wet-work ever spent much time together, even then.”

  Fisher snorted. “I should hope not! Consorting with assassins, indeed!”

  Dalton eyed the young man coolly. “We are all Liars, Fisher. We serve the Crown equally, for each of us has only one life to offer up. Every man in this club fulfills a vital purpose. They are all your comrades, from illiterate pickpockets to assassins—to overly educated gentleman farmers.” He shot a reproving glance James’s way.

  James stiffened, but stifled further harsh comments speculating on Atwater’s probable bedroom preferences and likely inhuman ancestry. Dalton was quite correct. Atwater had been a member of the Liar’s Club for years, and according to his file, had only retired when he found that his beloved wife had developed consumption.

  The man had then apparently taken his savings and his family on a world tour in desperate search of a cure. The club had lost touch with him after a few years, for he’d moved on as fast as any rumor of a medical miracle could reach him.

  Indeed there might be mitigating circumstances that would explain Atwater’s sudden reappearance as Napoleon’s primary code-breaker and, worse, encoder. Atwater’s genius laid at the enemy’s disposal might not mean the man was guilty of treason . . .

  But James wouldn’t wager a broken copper on it

  Dalton squinted at the report once more. “Where’s the daughter?”

  James looked up, startled. “There’s no daughter with him in Napoleon’s retinue, by our informant’s report.”

  “Our records say that at the time he left the club, he had one young child, a girl.” Dalton flipped a page, then another. “No name for her. I wonder where she is now?”

  James closed his eyes to think. Atwater had barely registered in his awareness all those years ago, for the younger James had had no interest in the studious pursuits of the code room, not when there was danger and adventure to be found in the realm of the saboteur.

  Furthermore, the daughter would have been nigh invisible to a young man of twenty. “Well, Atwater’s wife is likely deceased, if she was diagnosed ten years ago. Perhaps the daughter developed consumption as well. They do say it runs in families. That would explain why Atwater’s alone now.”

  Dalton looked at the file. “Poor bloke,” he said quietly.

  James knew Dalton was thinking of his own beloved wife Clara and the child they both hoped to have. Fighting down sympathy of his own, James reminded himself why it was a good idea never to marry. Too much to lose.

  He cleared his throat. “Perhaps we can backtrack. Find out where Atwater was before he joined up with Napoleon. He may have left his daughter there, may have even let a few things slip to her that we can use.”

  “I hope he left her a bloody handbook,” said Fisher glumly, “for that’s the only way I’ll ever be able to break his codes.”

  James sat up off the base of his spine. “Might there be such a thing?”

  Fisher shrugged. “Could be. Some keep notes on paper, some keep it in their heads. Atwater is brilliant, but his codes are complex and intricate. If I were him I would keep a book, a key.”

  Dalton nodded. “Find the daughter and we might just learn more about that key, if it exists. It’s worth a try.”

  James was overwhelmed with the need to act. “I’ll go.”

  Dalton didn’t even look his way. “You’ll stay. We’ve a scout in place who can backtrack Atwater.”

  “But this is my case.”

  “Your task at this time is to heal. If you wish to return to full duty, you’ll need all your strength.” Dalton glanced up, indicating James’s injured shoulder with a pointed look. “If you recall, the last time you went up against someone, you nearly didn’t make it because you weren’t fully healed.”

  James scoffed. “That isn’t fair. My hands were tied behind me. And I did prevail . . . eventually.”

  “Eventually might be too late next time.” Dalton close
d the file with a snap. “This is not your case. You have no case. You are on half-duty training Stubbs and there you’ll remain until I say differently.”

  James clenched his jaw but did not protest further. There would be no moving Dalton until James proved himself to be well. In the meantime, James did not want Dalton to discern his current investigations into the treasonous career of Lady Lavinia Winchell.

  Furthermore, he now had something new to look for. Or rather, someone. Atwater’s daughter might be anywhere in the world, but Atwater had been a Brit and a Londoner for more years than he had been a nomad. Miss Atwater could very well be secreted right here in England, under their very noses.

  And if she was, James intended to find her.

  Dalton nodded as if they had come to some sort of agreement. “Good. Now rest. Heal. And teach Stubbs what you know so that I have even more excellent saboteurs at the Crown’s disposal.”

  Fisher looked up at that. James had quite forgotten the man was in the room, he’d sat so quietly during the short conflict. Handy trick, that.

  “Speaking of apprentices,” Fisher said, “have you found a likely boy who can read and is quick with sums? I need help and I need it immediately.”

  Dalton raised a brow at Fisher’s tone, causing the younger man to flush although he held the spymaster’s gaze.

  “No disrespect, sir, but I’ve not had more than a bit of sleep for days. It’s been weeks since I’ve been back to my own rooms. If I keep this pace up, the club won’t have any code-breakers.”

  Dalton only gazed levelly at the man. James didn’t envy Fisher. Those silver eyes were a bit too sharp. “I thought you’d be far too busy to train someone up right now,” Dalton said.

  James frowned. “And what could an untrained lad help you with?”

  “Well, some of the simpler codes can be taught quickly,” Fisher explained. “Or at least the ability to spot them in use. If nothing else, he can run through the backlog of documents and eliminate the need for me to try every system on every item.” His urgency ran down, and Fisher returned to his usual glumness. “It would help. A little.”

  Satisfied, Dalton nodded. “I’ll talk to Lady Raines. I’m sure she can find an apprentice for you from the current class.”

  “Someone who can read,” Fisher reminded him. “And who can count past his toes.”

  Dalton nodded again, rather patiently, James thought. They all stood. After the spymaster had left the code room, James clapped Fisher on the shoulder. “Now Fish, about those letters you’ve been working on—”

  “I just can’t keep working on a closed case, James. I’m sorry.”

  James rubbed his face. “It isn’t closed, not officially. We suspect Lady Winchell is the one who penetrated our security. We know she kidnapped and drugged me. We are sure she fired a pistol at the Prime Minister. Now, we must prove it.”

  He threw himself into the empty chair opposite Fisher and sighed. “We need evidence. Evidence that does not compromise the secrecy of the club. Evidence that Lavinia cannot charm her way free of, nor lie herself out of. We can’t close this case until justice is done upon the one who murdered our comrades, Fisher. As long as we can’t prove that shooting me was more than the act of a jilted lover, we cannot question her properly—as a traitor should be. Her letters from prison to her lover are all we have. They must be coded somehow!”

  Fisher tapped his pen nib on his nose thoughtfully. James decided not to tell him that his nose already looked like a chimneysweep’s.

  “Now, don’t get angry, James, but you may not be seeing her clearly, not after what you went through. What if she truly was just a jilted lover having an attack of jealousy?”

  James raised his brow. “She kidnapped my sister and told her everything before she tried to kill her. Are you sure you want to call Agatha’s word into question?”

  Since James’s sister Agatha was now the bride of the previous spymaster of the Liar’s Club and ran the school that secretly trained the next generation of England’s spies, Fisher paled and gave his head a nervous little shake.

  “I thought not.” James rose. “I know you’re overworked. I know this case is low priority right now. But please, whenever you have a moment to spare . . .”

  Fisher sighed. “I know. I’ll go over it again. Who knows? Maybe she’ll slip up and we’ll spot the code in one of her letters.”

  “Thanks, Fish.”

  Fisher groaned. “My name is Fisher, Jamie. Not Fish, not Fishy, not bloody Fish-eye. Must you rename everyone?”

  “I don’t rename everyone,” James protested virtuously. “I haven’t renamed Kurt.”

  “And the knife rack in Kurt’s kitchen has nothing to do with that, I suppose?”

  James grinned. “It isn’t the knives, it’s the trifle. If I anger Kurt, he’ll never feed me berry trifle again.”

  Fisher narrowed his eyes at James. “If you make me angry, I’ll tell Kurt to put apples in everything he feeds you.”

  James shuddered. “No-thank-you-very-much.”

  Fisher smiled slowly. “Apple tarts. Pork with stewed apples. Bangers and applesauce.”

  James held up both hands in surrender. “Fine. I won’t hound you further. Just tell me when you find anything, anything at all, all right?”

  Fisher sighed and shook his head. “All right, James.”

  James gave the thinner man a sound clap on the shoulder that rocked him in his boots. “Good man.” Turning to leave, James gave Fisher a last teasing salute. “You’re a most excellent fellow, Fish.”

  As he retraced his earlier path, this time with a smile on his face and Atwater’s daughter on his mind, James heard Fisher call out behind him.

  “Don’t call me Fish!”

  Chapter Four

  On her first morning in the Cunnington household, Phillipa stretched luxuriously in her new—and comparatively huge—bed. She was warm, she was fed, and she was refreshed after a wonderful night’s sleep in her new safe abode. Not a scream, not a shouted argument, not a single clatter of rubbish bins had marred her rest.

  She dressed quickly, for the scent of cooking food had wafted under her door. It seemed she had some catching up to do, even after polishing off the manly serving that Mr. Cunnington’s manservant had brought to her room last night.

  There didn’t seem to be much staff in this house. She’d only seen one so far. She breathed deeply. Eggs. Ham. There must be a cook as well, a good one. Getting up every morning to such reward would be well worth donning men’s clothing.

  Still, Phillipa tugged at her woolen trousers and thought wistfully of fine batiste underthings and Belgian lace. She missed being a girl, missed the soft fabrics and the sweet scents.

  And in this house of men, she found that she missed her mother’s voice more than ever. The studied English with the Castilian lilt. The torrent of liquid Spanish she would release in moments of high emotion.

  Phillipa’s father had loved his wife with a profound devotion, wrapped in lifelong British reserve. But her mother had known. Everyone in Arieta had known, for Rupert Atwater had a way of coming to life in his wife’s presence, as if every other moment were merely filled with waiting for her.

  When Isabella Atwater had finally drifted away from them, something in Phillipa’s father had died as well. In the past few years, he had yet to come to life again. When France had invaded Spain three years before, Papa hadn’t so much as commented upon it, other than to note that Arieta was too isolated to come to any harm in the conflict. It was as if he were merely a walking husk of the man he had been.

  Perhaps that was why he had not put up more of a struggle when Napoleon’s men had come for him. Or perhaps he’d hoped it would aid Phillipa’s own escape, which it had.

  She’d passed the next two nights after the raid walking the road alone, taking cover during the day, until she reached her uncle’s home. Her mother’s brother had reluctantly traveled into the village to make inquiries, for no one wanted to draw the wrong
attention. His face when he returned was pale, and he would not look at her.

  Rupert Atwater had disappeared, he told her. Then he pressed a wad of notes into her hand and told her to return to England, for she was endangering them all with her presence. He never met her eye, not even once.

  She understood his shame, and his fear. Making her way to the coast to board a ship for London had been difficult and lonely, though the money from her father and uncle lubricated many a reluctant cog. Still, she’d concentrated on the fact that soon she would be safe at the home of her father’s friend in Cheapside.

  But Mr. Upkirk had not been there.

  “Dead,” a neighbor had explained when Phillipa had found the house dark and the knocker removed. Somewhat reluctantly, the lady had invited her in and served her tea and the story of Upkirk’s demise.

  “The poor gentleman ran afoul of a footpad most likely. Decent people aren’t safe on the streets anymore. When I was a girl, I went out at my pleasure, with only a footman or two. These days, I hardly dare go out at all, except to Bond Street of course.” The woman had sipped her tea, probably contemplating her next adventure in shopping, Phillipa had thought wildly.

  “At any rate, they pulled poor Mr. Upkirk from the river a few weeks ago.” The woman had frowned. “I don’t know what’s to happen to the house.” She had eyed Phillipa’s well-made but battered traveling dress with mild distress. “I do hope someone unsuitable won’t be moving in.”

  Phillipa had been too stunned to do anything but thank the lady and leave. This cannot be taking place, had been her only coherent thought. She’d come so far, and had freely spent her funds to bribe her way. She’d not worried at the state of her purse, but had only thought of getting Papa’s documents to Mr. Upkirk as Papa had wanted.

  She had stood on that unfamiliar street and realized that she had nowhere to go. No home in the world. No friends, no resources, no net of paternal safety. She was entirely alone. Fear and anxiety near consumed her.

  She’d once held a secret belief that had she lived a different life, she would have been a different, bolder, more exciting person. It seemed that she was only Phillipa after all.