Celeste Bradley - [The Liar's Club 02] by The Impostor

himself in the path of a coal cart coming fast from his right. The lead horse threw up his head in alarm. There was nothing that Dalton could do but to reach for the harness and pray.
    His hand closed around the leather strap at the horse’sjaw and he was jerked from his feet. With all his might, he pulled down on the strap, using the leverage to swing one leg up on the cart horse’s back. There he hung sideways on the wild-eyed animal feeling like a circus fool, but at least he was not lying chopped beneath sixteen iron-shod hooves.
    The carter called halt and Dalton felt the horse come to a shuddering stop. Gratefully, he slipped off to land on his feet and released his death grip on the chin strap.
    “Oy, there, guv’nor! You all right, sir?” The drover stumped forward to hold the horse, his sweating face horrified and fearful. “I din’t see you ‘tall! The coal’s that heavy, it don’t stop easy. Tell me you’re all right, sir.”
    Dalton dusted himself off. “I’m very well, my good man. That was fine driving. Couldn’t have done better myself.”
    Profound relief crossed the stout man’s face. No doubt the fellow had dealt with “the Quality” before. Many a gentleman of the
ton
would have had the fellow up on charges, even for something so unavoidable.
    Yet had it been an accident, or something more sinister? Pedestrians were struck so often in the London streets that under any other circumstances, Dalton would have thought it was just bad timing on his part. After all, if it hadn’t been for the man on horseback—
    A fair-haired man, well dressed, with his hat pulled low. Dalton had only had the merest glimpse as he’d dodged behind the horse. He hadn’t seen the fellow’s face at all. He honestly couldn’t be sure. And yet, the ale wagon hadn’t so much as slowed its pace.
    Had the mystery man purposely herded Dalton into danger? If so, it was the perfect crime. Murder by ale cart would never be investigated. He would have simplybeen another unfortunate story for nannies to tell their charges, a cautionary tale about looking both ways before crossing the street.
    After reassuring the carter once more, Dalton headed onward down the street to a hack stand. From now on, he’d be taking a carriage to work. His daily constitutionals were becoming deadly.
    Morning sunlight streamed into Oswald Trapp’s study, illuminating dust motes into flakes of gold and making Clara’s eyes water as she glared at Oswald’s stubborn safe box.
    She blew her straggling hair from before her eyes and bent to the lock to try again. Had Monty told her to hold the top pick still and move the bottom one, or was it the other way around?
    Perhaps Wadsworth’s safe box worked differently from the Trapps’. Or perhaps she was simply no use at all at this sort of thing. Fortunately, she had decided to practice on Oswald’s safe first.
    She wiggled her new homemade lock picks in the keyhole once more, but nothing happened. She sighed. What she needed was a set of real picks. A hatpin and a dismantled scissor blade were never meant to be put to such purpose.
    She changed her approach and began again, even as she berated herself for her stubbornness. This was a terrible idea. She was losing her mind. There was nothing interesting left in Wadsworth’s safe.
    Except that Monty would be returning the papers soon, she was sure of it. And somewhere in that stack of documents might just be the ticket to striking a real blow for her objective. She’d been combing Wads-worth’sdesk for months, hoping the man would accidentally leave something useful for her, but she’d never dreamed she’d be able to get inside his safe.
    Not to mention that it would be a lovely excuse to see Monty again.
    “Oh, shut it,” she muttered to the little voice. “You’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”
    Monty. You recall, with the mysterious mask and the roguish grin and the way he has of making your toes curl when he stands close to