The Pretender (15 page)

Nodding at three of his men gathered around a map spread out upon a table and another who sat making out his report, Simon continued into the office that was nominally his, but was actually occupied by Jackham.

Simon's real office was not gained through any but the most secret of means. Only a scarce few knew the entry. Unfortunately, James Cunnington was one of them.

His own lack of judgment buffeting him once again, Simon threw his hat and coat harder than he had meant to, toppling Jackham's hat stand with a clatter.

Jackham looked up, surprised. Simon narrowed his eyes at his old friend and manager in warning. The last thing he wanted to hear about today was the loss of his signature self-control.

"Ah, hello, Simon," Jackham said carefully.

"Anything new?"

"We gained six new marks—ah, members—after the snake charmer performed. Kurt says that the price of lamb has gone up and he wants another lad for the scullery. Oh, and that little fellow Feebles stopped by, said he had a tip for you."

Simon only nodded, but inside he'd come to full alert. Feebles was the man he had put on James's case. The only man whom Simon had informed of his search at all.

The wily pickpocket was the one who had ferreted out the information about the bank account and was currently assigned to keep an eye on certain establishments for any man who matched James's description.

Affecting boredom, Simon threw himself down on the old, comfortable sofa Jackham kept in the office. "Did he say where he'd be?"

"He said he'd be working the street out front today. I told him fine, as long as he kept his mitts out of our gents' pockets. I'd rather keep all that lovely money in the club."

Jackham sounded faintly disapproving, as if pickpockets were not on the same social level as former upper-class burglars like himself.

Simon had to agree that on the surface, Feebles looked like a mighty poor specimen, all bones and mismatched apparel as he was.

"I suppose I'd better sort him out, then. I shouldn't think I'll be too long."

Simon forced himself to amble to the front door, when in fact he wanted to chase Feebles down at a run. He clapped the terribly flattered Stubbs on the shoulder. "Have you seen Feebles in the last hour or so?"

"Oh, yessir. He were working that corner earlier, then he mentioned he were going to give the next block a try." Stubbs gestured to his right.

Simon thanked him and strolled easily down the street, nodding and tipping his hat to other pedestrians. Soon he came upon Feebles leaning nonchalantly on the corner lamppost, his eyes casing the marks walking by.

"Having a good day?"

Feebles shrugged, a bit shamefaced. "Just workin' the fingers nimble, Mister Rain. Not keepin' anything."

"What have you got for me?"

"Been down to the Chelsea Hospital this morning. Didn't see Mr. Cunnington anywhere, but Ren Porter is in the third-floor ward, and he don't look good."

"Porter? Damn." Simon hadn't even known Porter was in trouble. His last report had come in good time, and his next wasn't due until tomorrow. "What happened? What did he say?"

"That's the thing, sir. He didn't say nothing. Head wound, and a bad 'un. He ain't woke up, and they don't think he ever will."

Sick remorse swept Simon. Another good man sent to his doom.

"Do they know who he is?"

"No, sir, and I didn't say a word. They call him John Day, there. Tell you the truth, I hardly recognized him. If it weren't for that curly hair of his, his own mother wouldn't know him."

"All right. I'll see to him being claimed, and find out what they know."

There were some rooms that his men used on occasion in town. Ren could be looked after there. He would have the best nursing money could buy, and perhaps by some miracle, Simon wouldn't have another soul on his conscience.

Simon turned away with a nod to Feebles, but the little thief called him back. "There's another thing, sir. That woman you was askin' about, the one using Cunnington's bank account?"

Simon turned swiftly. "What do you know?"

Feebles blinked at Simon's ferocity. "Nothin' much, Mister Rain. Just that I heard her being introduced to someone in the first-floor ward this very mornin'. She's there all the time. Seen her myself. I just didn't know her name 'til today."

"Mrs. Applequist? At the hospital?" What could be the point?… Of course. She was looking for James, just as he was. Yet another example of her cleverness.

"Thank you, Feebles. Good work."

"Yessir. I'll be gettin' back to you if I find anything more."

"Yes, do that." Absently Simon gave him a wave and turned down the street.

Not back to the club, then. The hospital, where he must face a living dead man and silently beg his forgiveness. The idea that he would be seeing Agatha there made it both worse and better.

Simon stopped, then shook his head and walked on. He didn't really want to examine that thought just now.

Once he arrived at the hospital, Simon strode confidently in as if he were on official business. No one so much as glanced his way as he followed the direction given by Feebles until he stood at the bedside of "John Day."

"Oh, Ren. You don't look good at all," he whispered.

Indeed, the young man did not. He lay in the bed with that deep stillness that might be mistaken for death but for the faint movement of his chest.

It was a miracle that Feebles had recognized Porter at all. With his face battered to a mass of swellings and bruises, and his distinctive curly hair nearly hidden by the great swathing of gauze around his head, Ren Porter looked nothing like himself.

Simon examined the chart hanging on the end of the bed. There wasn't a great deal of hope for the unconscious John Day, that was obvious.

Ren had been found outside a tavern on the outskirts of London, near the docks. He'd been added to a convoy of wounded coming off the ships by a local physician who'd felt the anonymous young man needed more help than he could give.

Simon had no doubt that the quality of Ren's clothing had something to do with that assessment. Porter had been posing as a disillusioned young gent who was down on his luck, in the hopes of drawing the eye of whoever was recruiting for the French intelligence.

Or so Simon had assumed they were. He certainly was, on the other side of the Channel.

Somehow, and Simon had a sickening feeling he knew, it seemed that Ren's cover had been compromised and retaliation had been swift and well-nigh fatal.

The chart blurred slightly. Simon closed his eyes. He'd not let Ren Porter go so easily. The man would get better care in Simon's hands than in this overcrowded ward.

Ren had no family to speak of, only a distant cousin who lived in the country. Rumor around the club had it that he'd been courting a London girl, a little blonde with more figure than sense.

Simon seriously doubted the engagement—even had there truly been a formal one—would last long.
If
Ren lived, there was no telling what condition he would be in, mentally or physically.

The nurses and doctors did their best, but Simon could see how overwhelmed they were. Everywhere in the building, men and women in street clothes moved among the wounded. Volunteers, without skills or knowledge, offered what help they could.

Simon rehung the chart, then put his hand on Ren's shoulder in promise. "I'll be back for you."

The administrator's offices were downstairs, but Simon took a moment to scan the rest of the wounded for any more familiar faces. As he paused in the door of one of the great vaulted rooms that made up the wards, he spotted Agatha.

She sat on the edge of a young man's cot, laughing and playing cards. There was a great deal of room for her on the bed, for the fellow's legs were entirely gone.

"Got you again, Seamus," he heard her say.

"You've the luck of the fairies with you, Mrs. A." The black-haired young man gave her a tired grin.

Simon observed that fellow had the look of fever about him, the greenish pallor of his skin contrasting with the flush of his cheeks. Likely sepsis was setting in. The poor boy was doomed, for few men survived such drastic amputation and the inevitable infection.

"Well, the fairies and I have taken enough of your money today, Seamus." She tucked a deck of cards into her apron pocket.

"See there? Just like a nixie, not giving a fellow the chance to win it back," he said.

"You'll have to wait another day to do that."

Leaning forward, Agatha pressed her hand to Seamus's forehead. "Your fever is back. If you don't lie down and rest now, I'll tell Nurse on you."

Laughing weakly, he held up both hands. "No, not that! I'll rest now, I promise."

Awkward and off-balance with so much of his body gone, the lad required Agatha's help to lie down. Still grinning slightly, he lay back upon his pillows and closed his eyes.

Simon watched as the teasing grin left Agatha's face. Blinking quickly, she tucked the young man's covers about him and rose quietly from the bed.

As she turned away, he saw her brush at her eyes and take a deep breath.

Then she smiled brightly and turned to the next bed, where another young soldier eagerly awaited her visit.

Simon stepped back from the entry and leaned against the wall of the corridor. This was not at all what he'd expected to find. He'd assumed Agatha merely checked the wards. He'd never thought to see her like this.

Such a simple thing it was, to laugh and tease and play cards with wounded men. One would think anyone could do it. But not everyone did. He himself had never thought to come here merely to spend time with the shattered boys who had given so much for England.

He had scarcely been able to stay at Ren's bedside for a quarter of an hour. How was Agatha able to spend hours with one wounded man after another? To be cheerful and teasing in the face of their ruined lives? In the face of death itself?

And perhaps more important—why?

He was going to have to seriously reevaluate his conclusions regarding Agatha's motives.

She was obviously loyal to James. Yet she was also here, giving of her time and spirit to the soldiers of England.

What he had seen in that ward was not the act of a French collaborator. The woman who had turned away to hide her tears could no more aid the enemy than he himself would.

So who was the real Agatha? The wild mistress James had described? The faultless professional whom Simon had seen in action? Or this gentle woman, giving of herself in the face of death and grief?

The letter he'd deciphered this morning only lent credence to her innocence, even while it raised new questions.

The final page had held instructions to "dear Mrs. Bell" about how to further evade the questions of "Lord Fistingham":

Tell him that I've gone to take a cure in Kendal. Be careful not to let on that I've left Lancashire or he'll know immediately that I've come to London. I'm sure to have word of James soon.

Lancashire. James hailed from Lancashire, although he'd not lived there for years. It seemed this affair went further back than Simon had originally thought.

And who was Lord Fistingham? Another paramour? A competitor for her affections? Perhaps one she was keeping on a string in case James was not to be found?

No, that he could not believe. Her affection for James was real; he'd wager his life on it. No mere business arrangement there. At least on her side of it.

James had made his lack of true feeling quite clear. Had he arranged for Agatha to leave her home in the country in order to keep her conveniently close in London? To be used at will, without regard for the pain he might cause her?

Anger sparked through Simon at this further sign of James's bad character. James had fooled him well. Likely he had fooled Agatha even more so.

If she was innocent of treason, she would not be the first woman to give her loyalty to the wrong man. The real question was: Which way would she choose when she did learn the truth? Her lover or her country?

Slowly he turned to make the arrangements for Ren's release from the hospital. Someone had much to answer for in Porter's case.

Simon was fairly sure he knew who it was.

James Cunnington rolled over on his malodorous pallet and blinked at the morning light peeking through the planks of the wall before his nose. At least, he thought it was morning.

It wasn't often that he was able to will himself free of the drugged fog he was kept in. But when he could, he tried to take in as many of the details of his surroundings as possible.

He knew that he was on a ship, probably a fishing ketch by the smell and the curve of the side. It wasn't new, for it creaked with the lift of every wave and the planks were warped, even the seaward ones.

There was one crack wide enough that he could press his eye to it and see a bare inch of the outside world. Not much to see but somewhat comforting nonetheless. At least he was above the waterline.

He knew that they were in a port, for he could sometimes hear horses' hooves in the distance, but that it was little used, for his sea-facing peephole had never revealed another ship passing on the open sea. No filthy Thames dock, this.

He knew the ship was run by Frenchmen, for he could hear them shouting at one another and cursing him when they fed him or beat him. He'd learned an astonishing number of new curses, but he doubted he'd ever have the opportunity to use them.

He knew that a man could survive quite well on bread so elderly it was almost solid mold and bitter water that tasted of dead fish and rust. He knew that being tied wrists to ankles, never allowed to fully straighten his body, was likely the worst torture ever committed upon a tall man.

He knew that rough-twisted rope didn't stretch, but skin did tear. He knew that teeth were no help at all against sea-hardened hemp. He knew that he was going to die in the end.

He knew that he was slowly and inevitably being reduced from well-fed, civilized man to murderous animal, one likely to turn on the next person to walk into his tiny cell.

That fact, he found perfectly acceptable.