The Pretender (12 page)

The slight wait as their carriage was brought around was likely only minutes, but to a nervous Agatha it seemed like hours. Simon merely leaned nonchalantly against the wall, hands in pockets, looking sublimely unconcerned.

Well, simply wait. Once she got him into the privacy of the carriage, he'd find himself plenty concerned!

It had occurred to her in the last few minutes that if Simon was thief, not chimneysweep, then he'd had nefarious reasons for being in her house in the first place! The rat-sneak had been going to rob
her't

He hadn't in the end, she was positive. She'd brought nothing of real value from Appleby. Even the silver had come with the rented house, and she'd had no complaints of anything missing from Pearson, who would surely have noticed.

So Simon had not stolen, but he had lied.

She could call a constable on him right now for what he had done at Winchel’s. She wouldn't, of course, but she enjoyed the thought immensely in her ire.

She should threaten him with it at least, it was no more than he deserved for tricking her this way. Threatening him with exposure would teach him—

She became very still as the next thoughts began to ravel through her mind.

Would the threat of exposure keep Simon in line? Would it be enough to ensure his cooperation in something vastly more dangerous than posing as the harmless Mortimer?

The most important thing that Agatha had discovered tonight—other than the surprising appeal of Simon's kiss, which she was not quite ready to think about—was that the hospital had nothing on the social scene when it came to news and rumor. She had learned more tonight about the war against Napoleon than she had in weeks tending the wounded boys.

She would continue her work there, of course. The need for what little comfort she could bring them was enough to merit it. But in the evenings, with Simon at her side, she might learn more than she had ever dreamed from the whispers and tattle that were like breath to these people.

In truth, there were nearly as many uniforms in that ballroom tonight as there were in the hospital. Officers, yet. Men in command, who might really know where a certain Captain Cunnington was even now.

Excitement rang through her tightened nerves like bell song. The last bit of information she had finessed from a doddering old general had made the entire night worthwhile.

"Oh, the Griffin!" he'd declared in his creaky voice. He'd blinked his rheumy eyes in indignation. "My, yes, of course I've heard of him, what with him being plastered all over the papers like he is."

Agatha had taken a deep breath, and the old fellow, who had truly enjoyed the way his decreased height had left his eyes level with her bodice, kept talking.

"I tell you if I were in charge, heads would roll about that security leak. These youngsters, no respect for the government, telling Crown business the way they do—"

"Not like you, good sir." She'd leaned closer and the old boy had practically fallen into her bosom. "I'll wager Napoleon himself couldn't drag the Griffin's identity out of a man like you."

"Not Napoleon, nor good King George himself!" he declared stoutly. Then he blinked. "That is, if I knew…"

Another blasted dead end. Agatha had sighed and prepared to disentangle herself from the general's wiry grasp as the dance ended.

"… for certain."

With that, Agatha was back in the match, luring her gentleman back onto the floor for another waltz. Flattery, breathless attention, and a great deal of cleavage finally wrung his theory from him.

It seemed there was a certain reclusive gentleman… a lord, no less. A man of mystery who left the country for weeks at a time, then arrived back in town without fanfare or warning. A man who kept his mouth shut and his eyes sharp. A man with friends in
very
high places—this last was uttered with more than a dash of resentment.

If that wasn't the veritable description of a spy, Agatha didn't know what was. And she knew his name.

Now, she had only to gain entry to his inner circle, then somehow become invited to his home, and—and what?

Ask him if he were the Griffin? The futility of her plan made her slump. A royal spy would no more share information with her than he would any other gossip-mongering lady of Society.

No, what she needed was something more inspired, something—

The carriage came around, and young Harry jumped down to open the door. Simon stepped up to hand her in, but she pulled away from him. She didn't want him near her after he'd endangered her mission with his thieving—

The answer came to her with a triumphant rush of delight. Oh, she could not have planned anything more perfect if she had tried.

He wouldn't like it, she was fairly sure. Still, she would not be denied. It wasn't as though she would ever truly turn him in.

It was no worse than when Jamie had threatened to tell Papa about that unfortunate incident with the harvest bonfire and the gunpowder. She'd been forced to muck out after Jamie's palfrey for weeks in order to gain his word that he would blame it on their favorite scapegoat, the imaginary Mortimer Applequist.

In the end, she'd escaped detection and had only to sit through another one of her father's lectures about avoiding undesirable comrades. Poor Papa, to the end he had believed in the ubiquitous Mortimer.

Simon flipped up his tails and sat across from Agatha, reflexively giving the roof a double tap with his fist to signal the driver that they were ready. His mind was entirely on the luscious little problem that sat across from him.

Agatha was going to take delicate handling from here on out. She was obviously angry at him. One could tell by the brilliant smile on her—

Simon checked again. Yes, she was smiling joyously at him, as if he were the answer to her every prayer.

Oh, hell. This could not be good.

"Absolutely not."

She only smiled wider. "Oh, yes, I rather think so."

"I won't do it."

"You don't even know what it is yet."

"If it is bad enough for you to be charming me instead of raging at me, it is something I want no part of."

"Please don't play the righteous and simple man of honor, Simon. If I wished, I could turn you in to the magistrate directly. You just rifled through both Lord Winchell's study and Lord Winchell's wife."

There was no denying that. Damn. Simon the Chimneysweep was dead, by his own hand yet. Time for Simon the Master Thief to come to the surface.

"Yes, you are quite correct. I am not a man of honor. I am a man of opportunity."

Her eyes narrowed. "Which I have provided for you, tenfold. You would never have free entry into a house like Winchell's without the training I gave you."

You used me.
She didn't have to say it out loud. The thought was plain to see on her abruptly unsmiling face.

He could hardly deny her accusation without bringing up far worse offenses. If she knew that the past week had been nothing but a farce, Simon really couldn't predict her outrage.

If there was one thing Simon knew about women, it was that they were all violently allergic to liars, even if they told the occasional falsehood themselves.

Time to point her toward safer ground.

"What precisely do you have in mind?" he asked, knowing he was going to be very sorry he had.

"I want you to do that again." She waved a hand to indicate the Winchells' house in their wake.

"You want me to tickle Lord Winchell's… safe again?"

"Not Lord Winchell's safe, nor Lord Winchell's wife."

Did he detect a slightly possessive snarl in her tone? Oh, yes. How gratifying. Still, it was quite beside the topic.

"I will arrange to be invited to a house, and you will accompany me as Mortimer, as you did tonight. But the only mischief will be done at my direction." She gave him a stern look that was surprisingly impressive on her sweetly rounded face.

"Then whose safe will I be tickling?"

"Lord Etheridge's safe."

"Why do you want to steal from Lord Etheridge?"

"I don't want to steal from him. The very idea." She actually had the nerve to look offended. "I suppose there's no harm in telling you. It's not as though you'll go running to the authorities. I only want to find out how he is connected to Jamie."

"I apologize. You've lost me once more."

"Please learn to pay attention. I am looking for the Griffin. Lord Etheridge keeps a house, but rarely uses it. He comes and goes, and no one knows where. He avoids the social whirl, but for a few select friends, all of whom hold government posts. He is an obvious suspect." She sat back, her expression smug.

"Bloody hell!" He was stunned. Lord Etheridge
was
a perfect suspect. After all, the man was on Simon's own list, among others. If not for the short-handed condition of his team, Etheridge would already have been thoroughly investigated.

Still, it had taken some time before his own sources had ferreted out any suspicious activity by Etheridge.

Damn, but she was good.

She regarded him as if not sure how much he needed to know. At any other time he might have found this amusing, but he was too busy wondering how she had discovered in one night what he and his operatives had taken weeks to uncover.

"If this man is the Griffin, then he has been in touch with Jamie. Lord Etheridge likely knows where he is at this very moment."

She was wrong. Wrong about the Griffin, wrong about James. Unfortunately, he couldn't tell her so. All he could do was try to talk her out of her hideously dangerous plan.

If he couldn't, she was likely to get her pretty little carcass tied into a brick-filled sack and thrown into the Thames.

Agatha waited, but Simon wasn't answering, only sitting there watching her in the half-light that came from the lanterns bobbing from the sides of the carriage. Suddenly Agatha was very weary.

Weary of the lies, weary of the strain of not knowing Jamie's fate, weary of dancing with men who stepped on her toes.

Well, she could do something about the last, at least. Bending, she flipped off her silken slippers and took one set of her toes in each hand. Rubbing gently, she sighed with relief.

Her feet felt like stomped grapes. So many men had trod on her toes tonight, from lords to generals. Pity that none of them had been Simon. At least he had made it fun while he made mush of her toes.

Dancing was the last place for silk slippers. Better to wear the sturdy workshoes of a farm woman on the dance floor.

The image made her smile. Wouldn't that start talk? Green satin and hobnails. She looked up at Simon, ready to share the joke, but froze at the animal glaze to his eyes.

Simon was on fire. Was she teasing him apurpose? Did she have any idea that when she leaned that way, he could see her entire bosom?

The spark that had been kindled by her revealing gown and stoked by her quick-minded kiss suddenly flared into a white-hot inferno. He could hardly think over the roaring in his ears.

"Where is your lace?" God, was that his voice? He sounded hoarse and dangerous, even to himself.

"In Lady Winchell's bodice."

Her lace… they'd left it behind. A tiny fragment of his mind worried over that betraying bit of evidence, but the larger part led him to relive his little charade earlier.

Only this time, it wasn't Lavinia's gaunt body under his ministrations. No, he wanted to replay it on Agatha's abundance. The wet brash swirling, warming… drawing designs that enhanced the shape and bounty of her curves.

Agatha, ripe and lush, naked and willing, painted like a primitive goddess for his worship—

"So will you?"

She leaned forward earnestly, and Simon saw the rosy circle of one nipple edge above the fabric. Her bodice was off-center, twisted from her efforts earlier. The heat within him flared out of control.

"Oh, yess…"

When she sat up straight and clasped her hands together in delight, he realized that he had spoken out loud.

A bucket of icy realization doused his pulsating lust.

Oh, bloody hell.

She had done it to him again.

Pure hatred momentarily warred with blind want, then won. He could see her for what she was again, a manipulative player of games, a lady without morals or virtue, except that of being a very, very good liar.

She had taken him in twice with her beautiful body, made him no more than a mindless tool to her hand. He thought he might happily kill her for taking away his famous control.

But then again, what had he really promised? To attempt Lord Etheridge's safe, but only if she could get them into the house.

As the gentleman in question was not a social sort, was in fact damn near a recluse, this seemed as unlikely an event as Agatha's supposed brash with honest matrimony. It would likely never come up, then, so no harm in it.

He roused from his thoughts long enough to grant a response to Agatha's happy chattering, though not to listen to her outlandish plans for convincing Lord Etheridge to include them in his nonexistent social calendar.

No, Simon's thoughts traveled over Lord Etheridge in an entirely different vein. A man of mystery indeed. A spy, was he? It was entirely possible.

However, the reclusive fellow was no spy for the Crown.

Simon would surely know if he was, although he could hardly tell Agatha that.

Not that she would likely believe him. Believe that Simon, her rascally chimneysweep-thief whom she had raised from a life of petty larceny on the streets of London, was none other than a royal spymaster himself?

No, it was better for her to believe the worst of him than to learn the truth. He could not afford for her to discover that her beloved James was the target of his mission. One of his own men gone rogue whom Simon must find before he could further betray his country.

There would be no public trial, for that would only compromise the anonymity of the Liar's Club. Regrettably, it was all up to Simon to find James.

Find, single-handedly try and judge, and if necessary…

Execute.

No, he didn't think Agatha would like that one, not at all.