Celeste Bradley - [The Liar's Club 03] Read online

  “If not for vying with Miss Lacey, you wouldn’t have come as far as you have.” Dalton had been entirely correct. Bloody hell.

  The Prince tapped the leather case against his thigh impatiently. “Now, if we’ve all our history out of the way, I want to tell you my plan.”

  Collis and Rose blinked at the Prince. “Your plan, Your Highness?”

  George folded his hands across his girth and smiled benevolently. He looked rather like Humpty Dumpty perched on the wall, a drawing in one of Collis’s old picture books. The image did Collis’s peace of mind no favor. Humpty Dumpty hadn’t gotten on well at all.

  “My plan is that we take these drawings to a man I know. These tunnels will take us directly to him. He’ll know if there is anything interesting about these guns. Then we can decide what to do about young Louis.”

  “We?” Collis swallowed. Shattered prince filled his mind. “Oh, no, Your Highness. We are going to get you straight on back to the palace! Then we are going to take our suspicions to the club.” He was glad to see out of the corner of his eye Rose nodding vigorously.

  George tilted his head. “You and whose army?”

  All the king’s horses and all the king’s men… Panic welled. “Your Highness, you can’t be serious—”

  “I am most serious. I’ve been in need of a holiday. Well, I’m going to take it. I like you two, or I did, and I fancy a bit of adventure.” He casually studied his nails. “Of course, if you don’t wish to tag along…”

  Collis stopped breathing. Rose squeaked and sent him a look of pure panic. But what could he do? Refusing to accompany the Prince on his “holiday” would be disastrous! Obviously knowing this, George sighed happily and smiled sweetly at them both. “I expect we’ll have great fun. You’ll like old Forsythe. He’s not terribly social, but he can hold more liquor than a barrel.”

  Rose visibly swallowed. “And then—after we see Mr. Forsythe—you’ll go back to the palace?”

  George shrugged broadly. “Where else would I go?”

  Collis noticed that the Prince didn’t precisely promise—but again, what could he do? George was his own man. He listened to no one anyway, except for—

  “Liverpool!” Yes. “What of the Prime Minister, Your Highness?”

  “Robert will go on running the nation, as usual. I’m sure he’ll be able to come up with some way to excuse my absence for a day…or three. Don’t you two want to prove Louis Wadsworth guilty? I’m quite sure I do. Poisonous fellow.”

  “But—in that case, why don’t you simply overrule Liverpool, have Wadsworth investigated?”

  “Gainsay my Prime Minister on your word? Liverpool is valuable and very powerful. Even I would not do it without good reason. Don’t let my adventurous nature fool you, Collis. I am not a political idiot.”

  Collis was going to hyperventilate. And then he was going to faint like a tightly corseted dowager. And when he woke up, he was going to hyperventilate some more. He glanced at Rose. She didn’t look any better off. She was as white as paper, with a rosy spot of sheer panic on each cheek. She gazed at him like a deer that knew very well it was about to be shot.

  “Well, at least we’re going to go to hell together,” he murmured to her. As soon as possible, he would hire a likely boy to carry a note to Denny. A street boy wouldn’t be able to get within a mile of the Prime Minister, but Denny had been used as courier before.

  Rose shook her head repeatedly. “No. This is a very bad idea, Collis.”

  “Do you want him wandering around alone? Look what nearly happened at Wadsworth’s!” Collis didn’t really care if George could hear their hissed conversation. Serve him right, the spoiled old scoundrel!

  Rose pressed both hands to her stomach. “If we get him back safe, maybe they won’t hang us.” She didn’t sound any too sure.

  “Oh, don’t worry. The Liars don’t perform public executions.”

  “What about private ones?”

  Kurt’s flashing knives shimmered dangerously across Collis’s mind. “Well, that I don’t know. But I do know that if we allow him out alone, we’ll face much worse.”

  “I suppose.”

  They turned to George, united in their dread. “Very well, Your Highness. We’ll go show the plans to your Mr. Forsythe.”

  The Prince rubbed both hands together with glee. “Lovely. I’ll lead the way, shall I?”

  Collis’s hopes of sending word to Liverpool were dashed by the fact that George was able to negotiate the tunnels all the way to and into the Tower environs. How the Prince held the map of this odd, disjointed system in his head so well was a mystery, but Collis knew that when Dalton learned of it, he would covet it powerfully.

  They made excellent time through the relatively open, airy dry passages that looked as though they had been built last year, they were so unworn. It would take five times as long to navigate London’s twisting, traffic-clogged streets. Collis felt he could happily use this system every day.

  Rose, however, suffered silently enough but Collis could tell she was unhappy about being underground. Her cool fingers would reach for his in the shifting dimness behind George and his lantern, sometimes just for an instant of contact before she would march forward.

  Finally, they climbed an interminable iron ladder up to a more elderly tunnel. “We’re just under the White Tower,” explained George. “Only a little farther now.”

  “Just who is this Forsythe, Your Highness?”

  Collis was glad to see Rose recovered enough to be curious again. It seemed she wouldn’t be holding his hand for a while. Pity.

  “He’s an inventor,” George said. “Explosives, primarily. A true man of science, not one of those posturing mystics floating around London these days prattling to old ladies about Electricity.”

  “But ’tis early morning, Your Highness. Are you sure he will not be asleep?”

  “Oh, Forsythe doesn’t sleep. Says it’s a waste of time.” George knocked on a plain wooden door. Rose expected him to walk directly in—after all, he was the ruler of the country, was he not?—but George waited patiently with a small smile on his face.

  Eventually the sound of multiple bolts sliding from their locks came through the thick wood. The door opened a tiny slot. “What?”

  “Why bother locking if you simply open the door?” George grinned. “You have callers, Forsythe! Put your drawers on and let us in.”

  The door opened slightly wider. “Who’s that? Georgie? Bloody rotter, I’ve got my drawers on. I just don’t have any trousers. Can’t think where I put them….” The voice wandered away. George pushed the door open and strode in.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The Prince disappeared into the tower chamber. Rose glanced at Collis, who shrugged. They entered a few respectful feet behind the Prince. After three steps, they stopped, for there was nowhere to go in the cramped room.

  It was a large room, enormous even, for it used an entire open floor of the Tower. Only pillars supporting struts broke the openness, yet there was hardly an inch unused. Or unpacked. Books, mostly, although there were open crates of metal objects here and there as well. Collis whistled. “It’s like Portobello Road in here.”

  “Ha!” A frazzled gray head popped up not ten inches from Rose’s elbow. “I’ve more books than those wankers! I’ve more books than anybody!” A man bustled out, clad in shirt, waistcoat and, yes, baggy, dingy drawers. He wasn’t a bit taller than Rose, but that was likely caused by his incredible stoop, which almost merited the term hunchback. His head was as large as Collis’s, and if his bent back were straightened, he would be nearly as tall. Rose had the impression that the bent back was the result of a lifetime of neglecting to stand up straight rather than an accident of birth.

  He wore two pairs of spectacles, one perched on his nose and one perched atop his wild mop of hair. “I,” he said with great dignity, “have more books than the King himself.”

  George grunted. “These are my father’s books, Forsythe.”
r />   “Mine now. But you may borrow one if you like. As long as it doesn’t leave this room.”

  Suddenly the man seemed to notice Rose for the first time. He halted, blinked, then swept her a tottering bow. “Georgie, where are your manners? Introduce me to the lady!”

  Rose stepped forward. “I am Rose Lacey, sir. I am—” She cast a questioning glance at the Prince. Did this man know about the Liar’s Club?

  “She’s one of Etheridge’s trainees, Forsythe.”

  “Etheridge! Is he still playing spy at that boys’ club of his? Oh, well, at least they’re using their heads for something besides holding up their hats.” Forsythe swung on Collis. “Ha! That’s why you look so familiar. You’re Etheridge’s heir, aren’t you?”

  Collis nodded. “Collis Tremayne, sir, at your service.”

  “At my bloody service, eh? Not likely. No one comes up here unless they want something. Even you, Georgie. No time to visit an old friend anymore? You used to hang about here by the hour. Couldn’t get rid of you for anything but a meal or a pretty girl.”

  “Sorry, old friend. It’s that damn Regent thing I do. Takes all my bloody time.”

  “Ha! That Jenkins boy does all the work and you know it.”

  Rose slid a glance at Collis. Jenkins boy? she mouthed. Collis nodded. Liverpool, his lips said.

  Robert Jenkins, Lord Liverpool? Mr. Forsythe called the Prime Minister of England “that Jenkins boy”? He was either entirely mad or the bravest man she’d ever met. Even Lord Etheridge said “my lord.”

  While she’d been pondering that, Mr. Forsythe had wandered away. They found him puttering about the other end of the room where a series of tables had been set up. Rose eyed the scorch marks on the nearby walls and stayed well away from the bubbling beakers and coils of copper tubing, but Collis and George approached the table to exclaim over the apparatus assembled there.

  She watched in horror as her two companions poured something from one of those dangerous-looking containers into two smaller beakers and toasted each other. They raised their “glasses” to drink. “Stop!” She rushed forward. “What are you thinking?”

  George sipped. “I’m thinking it’s a bit young, but it’s been a long night. What are you thinking, Collis?”

  Collis sniffed his first. “I’m thinking it’s best tossed back quickly.”

  “Agreed.” They quaffed their potions, gasped, and choked—then laughed at Rose’s look of horror.

  “It’s a still, my dear,” said George. “Gin. Forsythe makes it himself.” He patted back a belch. “Pardon me!”

  Forsythe looked up, blinking through the fog that had collected on his spectacles from the boiling pot he was watching. Rose stepped forward warily to peek. Stew?

  “Are you still here?”

  “Yes, Forsythe.” George seemed to have all the patience in the world for this old man. “We’re still here.”

  Forsythe sighed. “Oh, very well. If the rudeness isn’t working, I might as well give it up. Very tiring, you know.”

  “I know.” George clapped the man on the back. “And I hate to bother you in the middle of your…” He sniffed. “Lamb?”

  “And leeks.”

  “Ah. Well, in the middle of your, um, breakfast. We must ask your help deciphering some designs.”

  “Ooh. I like designs. What for?”

  “The George the Fourth Commemorative Carbine, I believe.”

  “Well, give! Give!” Forsythe nearly danced in anticipation. The Prince handed him the battered leather case that Rose had stolen from Louis. Forsythe spread the plans out on a table, disregarding George’s and Collis’s attempts to clear it first. He picked up a candle to peer closely at the plans. “Hmph. Heavy-handed with the stock decoration, I’d say.”

  “Yes, Forsythe. I thought so as well. Do you see any reason for someone to hide this away, anything wrong—or hidden?”

  “I’ll say I do. Lousy proportions, for one. A well-made musket is a lost art, if you ask me. Ever since that upstart Manton came up with his ridiculous percussion cap—”

  “Now, Forsythe—just because he got his design before the Board of Ordnance first.”

  Forsythe made a noise and peered more closely until his untidy mustache trailed on the paper. “Oh, my! Oh, my, my, my….”

  George, Collis, and Rose stepped forward simultaneously. “Yes?”

  Forsythe grunted. “Well, either Mr. Wadsworth is the worst musket designer in the world or…”

  “Or?”

  “He’s not on our side.” Forsythe tapped a portion of the drawing. “See this?”

  They all peered closer, although of course the symbols were meaningless to them.

  “The boring, you see.” He looked up at them, but they obviously didn’t see. He sighed, as if teaching a group of very slow children. “The bore is the hole, if you will, through—”

  “Through the barrel, yes, we know, Forsythe. Go on.”

  “Well, this bore is tapered, just a fraction. You wouldn’t even see it in the design if you weren’t looking. But if the barrel is machined to these specifications it will swell with heat. It will tighten—well, you see what I mean!”

  He looked at them and sighed. “If you built this musket, per this design, using these materials…I give you two, three firings before the bloody thing blows up in your hands.”

  Rose saw Collis flinch and then rub his damaged arm. George pursed his lips. “So,” he said, “I hand out these weapons, with my name and image upon them—”

  “But why?” Rose demanded. “It wouldn’t work, not really. After a few incidents, the lot of them would be discarded. They wouldn’t do that much damage.”

  “They would do enough,” Collis growled. He’d gone pale and tight-lipped. “How many men would lose their hands? Their sight? Die? Even one makes him a murderer.”

  George nodded thoughtfully. “And me by association, I assume.”

  Rose gasped. “He wants you blamed!”

  Forsythe was examining the plans again. “How many of these crackers did you have made?”

  “We upped the order,” George said faintly. “Louis gave us a wonderful price. The commemoration was his idea. We’d thought to replace a large percentage of the weapons now in use. Some of them are so old. We had them made for cavalry and infantry. The gleaming damascened barrels, you know. Reflecting the sunlight on the battlefield. ‘So intimidating,’ Louis said. ‘The French will be half-beaten at the sight.’”

  George closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again, he was no longer the jovial prince Rose had come to know in the last few hours. His eyes had gone cold and icy and his round jaw had attained a firmness that bode Louis Wadsworth no good.

  George turned to offer her a deep, heartfelt bow. “My thanks, Rose of the Liars. It seems you have come just in time. The carbines aren’t due to be shipped for another three days. You have saved me from a great burden of guilt, and many men from a terrible fate.”

  He kissed her hand. She couldn’t do anything but nod in a short, panicky manner. The Prince squeezed her fingers lightly. “Now, my dears, we must end our adventure. To the palace.”

  “Georgie!” Forsythe looked up from his fascination with the plans. “Are you sure he actually made the guns flawed? Could be this design was accidental, then discarded. Not that I couldn’t have done better, mind you. But if you chop off his head before you’re sure…”

  George thought a moment. “Could you tell me? If I find you some of them to try, could you tell me—without blowing yourself up?”

  “Oh, too right I could. Let’s see…to ignite and fire without actually touching the trigger?” He started to wander off again. “I could use a string…or a spring! Or a…” He disappeared among the chaos.

  George nodded shortly. “Come, you two. We’ll just duck down through the tunnels back to the palace.” Before they managed to find the door, Forsythe appeared once more.

  “Presents!” he cackled. He handed Collis a complicate
d contraption of hinged metal. “You push this release here and it snaps open to become a grappling hook.” He scratched his nose. “I think. If I recall.” He turned to Rose.

  “A gift for the Rose of the Liars,” he said, and pressed a small, delicate pistol into Rose’s hand. She’d never seen a pistol so small. “It is decorated with the huntress Diana there on the lock plate, and the barrel is damascened with silver. A pistol fit for a lady,” Forsythe said proudly. Indeed, it was incredibly delicate and ornate, nearly a shimmering deadly piece of jewelry in its own right.

  Still, Rose could not help shrinking from it. “Oh, no thank you, sir!”

  Collis shifted his stance. “Rose is afraid of firearms, Mr. Forsythe.”

  Forsythe wrapped her fingers about the pistol anyway. “It seems to me that when a lady needs a pistol the most, fear of a bit of noise would not be a problem.”

  Rose laughed shortly. “That is true, sir. But I cannot accept this. It is much too fine for me. If you must give me something, let it be another box of your amazing matches. I’ll find them vastly more useful, I’m sure.”

  Forsythe squinted at her. “If you’ll come back and visit me, I’ll make sure you never run out.”

  She smiled. “You’re flirting, sir.”

  He cackled. “You’re correct, my dear.”

  She leaned forward to plant a kiss on his creased cheek.

  “Ladies are born, Rose of the Liars,” he whispered while she was near. “Born, not made. And you, my dear, are a lady born.”

  She pulled away to gaze at him questioningly, but he was gone, wandering through his stacks of books and other objects like a man lost in the forest.

  “Now where did I put those breeches? I know I saw them last week….”

  The Prince’s vow to “duck back down through the tunnels back to the palace” was an understatement. St. James’s Palace was far from the Tower and would take much longer to traverse than their previous journey.

  “I know a shortcut,” George assured them, and led the way once more.