Well before Bond, this regency era tale of the crown's
operatives is the second in the Liar's Club series.
It isn't easy moving about Society dressed like a dandy-
especially when one is a ruthless spy. But that's precisely
the latest mission for Liar's Club agent Dalton Montmorecy.
Dalton is posing as Sir Thorogood, the elusive cartoonist
whose scathing political caricatures have all of London
abuzz. The true identity of Sir Thorogood is a mystery, and
Dalton hopes that impersonating him will flush out the real
menace before his cartoons do further damage to the Crown.
Now, if Dalton could only find a way to get the irksome,
yet oddly appealing widow, Clara Simpson, off his trail...
When Clara meets Sir Thorogood at a ball, she's certain he
is an impostor-because she's the true Sir Thorogood.
Secretly penning the cartoons under the frothy nom de
plume, Clara hopes to save enough money so that she can
leave her in-laws and find a new residence. Now she is
determined to reveal an imposter's identity-and that means
doing some undercover work herself. But pretending to be
someone you're not has a funny way of making a woman do
things she wouldn't ordinarily dream of-even if it drives
her straight into the arms of her devilishly handsome
adversary!
Excerpt "You never told me your name," he said.
"Nor have you."
Dalton smiled. Ever the saucy one. "Monty," he said, his
nickname from school long ago.
"It's a nice name," she said softly, "for a thief."
"Only in good cause, little rose."
She tilted her head and looked back at him soberly. "You
know, I believe you mean that."
They came to a narrow door that opened onto a set of even
narrower stairs that wound down into complete darkness.
Dalton spared fleeting moment of pity for the poor souls
who had to carry all the flotsam of the household up those
tight turns. Were the stairs in his own house so
inaccessible?
They traveled down, taking turn after turn. Dalton realized
that she was leading him straight to the ground floor.
With one hand held by the girl and one hand trailing along
the wall to keep his bearings in the darkness, Dalton had
no way to tell that she had stopped short before him until
he ran into her.
His arm swung to catch himself, and wrapped right about her
waist. She gave a quick intake of breath, which only served
to tighten his grasp.
She was taller than he'd thought, for her head fit just
under his chin. If he bent down, he could kiss the top of
her silly mobcap. Not that he wanted to, of course, though
she smelt of flowers and warm woman, and fit so nicely
against him.
The thought scampered across his mind that this was the
second time in two days that he had been in this position
with a woman.
He felt her let her breath free in a slow, controlled
exhalation, then she calmly peeled his arm away and moved
on, never losing her grip on his other hand.
"I'll thank you not to be thievin' from me, masked man. My
safe-box is not for your pilferin' hands."
Dalton grinned in the dark. She was a bold thing, this
thorny rose -- ladylike and poised, but saucy.
He decided that he liked saucy.
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