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

into Wadsworth’s tonight to serve after all.
    Rose took the trough from the servant before her and turned toward the narrow stairs that led down from the street to the kitchen entrance. The huge wooden platter was so large it dwarfed the little maid. She could scarcely see over it.
    Clara almost held up a hand to protest the obvious danger of such a move, then remembered that she could hardly be expected to know that Rose had an unfortunate habit of—
    Rose stubbed a toe on the cobbles and stumbled forward.The trough went spinning from her grip. Clara couldn’t watch. She squinted her eyes shut, but that didn’t do a thing to hide the squelching splat of the wet meats hitting Wadsworth’s front steps.
    “You useless wench!” Wadsworth’s roar sounded over the street noise. Clara opened her eyes.
    Oh, no
. Mr. Wadsworth stood in a sea of quivering creature parts. They mounded over his shoes and clung to his jacket and waistcoat. Strands of something unbearable hung trembling from the man’s hair and muttonchop whiskers.
    Clara felt the snicker rising from somewhere reprehensible within her and firmly tried to suppress it. If she laughed and embarrassed Wadsworth yet more, things could only go worse for poor Rose.
    Even now Rose fluttered about her master, attempting to clean him up with the corner of her apron. The man raised his fist.
    “Get off, you stupid cow!” He swung a blow at Rose, who ducked with the ease of long practice, dispelling the worst of the impact. Wadsworth’s swing took him off balance. His shoes slithered in the slime at his feet and he landed with his large bottom directly on the pile.
    Clara pressed her gloved fist hard to her lips, but a strangled snort escaped her. Wadsworth lifted his head and glared about him to see who was laughing.
    A bedraggled orange tabby cat, attracted by the free banquet spread upon the cobbles, ran out to steal a bite from the mess. Wadsworth roared and took his rage out on the innocent animal in one savage swipe of his foot that sent the cat twisting and yowling through the air into the center of the busy street.
    “No!”
Clara cried and started forward. It was too late.The poor creature’s cry was cut off abruptly as it landed hard on the cobbles.
    Sick with pity, Clara dodged an oncoming cart and ran to the still form. Gently, she laid one hand on its thin side. There was a faint heartbeat, wasn’t there? There had to be.
    Carefully, she gathered the limp cat into her arms and carried it to safety. Beatrice stood on the steps with the twins, watching in horror.
    “Oh, no! No more strays, not in my house. Clara Simpson, you drop that filthy creature right this minute! Goodness, what are you thinking, running into the street for such a thing?”
    With dismay, Clara looked up at Bea standing above her on the steps. She’d thought to nurse the poor cat if she could, but she’d forgotten. This was not her house. If Bea wouldn’t allow the cat inside—and she wouldn’t—then Clara had no recourse.
    If only she had her own home. …
    Well, she didn’t. She was dependent on Bea and Oswald, at least for now.
    “Here, miss,” came a soft voice at her elbow. “Let me take that dirty thing. I’ll put it in the rubbish for you.”
    Rose stood beside her, a bruise already darkening her pale cheek. The maid held out her apron to catch the cat.
    Bea stamped her foot. “Well, give it to her, Clara! And then go change your gloves. I hope you didn’t get any vermin on that gown. New carpets don’t grow on trees, I’ll have you know!”
    Clara eyed Rose, who gave her a small wink. “I’ll put it far away, miss. No one will ever see it.”
    Clara hid a smile. Good old Rose. The cat would bewaiting in the attic tonight, she’d wager her stockpile on it.
    ‘Thank you. I’ll let you see to it, then.” She placed the cat gently into Rose’s apron and watched as the maid returned to the kitchen, her bulky apron convincingly wadded up to her bruised cheek as