The Pretender (2 page)

"Sorry I am, missus. It's a pretty dress, or it were. I don't suppose the soot'll come out—"

He was perfect.

"Never mind the soot," she interrupted. "Come with me."

He only blinked at her, and she couldn't help her sudden fascination with the sapphire brilliance of his eyes. Then she noticed he hadn't moved yet.

"Well, come along then."

With another blink, the chimneysweep shrugged and fell into step behind her. She led him up the curved stairs and down a short hall.

Before a paneled door, she turned and held up a hand. "Wait. Did anyone see you come in?"

A knowing gleam entered those lovely eyes.

"I come in through the kitchen, mum. Blokes like me knows better than to use the front door."

Agatha shook her head. "No, I care nothing for the people on the street. Did any of the servants see you come in?"

"Well, Cook let me in, but she 'ardly looked at me. Up to her elbows in flour, she was." He grinned at her. "If you're after a bit o' fun, Simon Rain's your man. After a wash, o' course."

Agatha was barely listening. Was there enough time? "Yes, yes, I'll get a bath for you."

Agatha opened the door to the bedchamber she'd lovingly prepared for Jamie. She ignored the few of his possessions she had brought with her from home. There was no point in mooning over his books and his personal items. Sentiment would have to wait.

In an hour, three of the most influential women on the Chelsea Hospital Board of Volunteers would be calling upon Agatha and her husband, Mortimer, of whom they had heard so much.

Oh, why hadn't she kept her mouth shut? She could have simply listened when the other women talked about their husbands. She could have answered vaguely when they had asked about hers.

Instead, she had carried on about "dear Mortie," enumerating all his attributes and virtues. He was a scholar, a musician, a man of enormous charm and appeal—

And he was at home.

Well, she'd had to say that.

Lady Winchell, with her smarmy smile and her gimlet eyes, had wondered if it was quite proper for such a young bride to be working amongst the men at the hospital all day while her husband traveled abroad.

Now, Lady Winchell and two other highly placed ladies were coming to meet Mortimer.

Agatha remembered Lady Winchell's suspicious manner and couldn't help a shiver. If she were found out, she would never be allowed to stay here' in town alone. Her self-proclaimed guardian would fetch her home within days and she would never accomplish her mission.

Her choice seemed clear. She could admit to her situation and return to Appleby, and all that awaited her there.

Or she could lie. Again.

Well, in for a penny, in for a great many pounds. Putting one hand on the chimneysweep's back, she gave him a little push into the spacious bedchamber.

"Get undressed behind that screen. I'll have your bath brought up immediately." She had best not let the servants in on this little bit of playacting. Newly hired, they had certainly never seen Mortimer. She could always say that he'd been "called away" on another adventure by supper, and then things would go back to normal again.

After shutting the door on the bemused chimneysweep, Agatha pasted a happy smile on her face and hurried back down the stairs.

"Pearson," she called to her butler, "I've just had the most delightful surprise. Mr. Applequist has come home! He is terribly weary and wants his bath straightaway."

Coming from the parlor, where he'd been overseeing the preparations for her guests, Pearson raised a silvered brow and looked askance at the front door, which of course hadn't admitted a soul all morning.

"Yes, madam, happy news indeed. Shall I attend Mr. Applequist until a manservant can be engaged?"

Agatha folded her arms to disguise the black hand prints on her sleeves. "No, Pearson, that won't be necessary. I'll tend my husband myself. After all, we have so much to… talk about."

Now why was he looking at her that way, with both eyebrows nearly to his hairline? Couldn't a woman talk to her own husband?

"As you wish, madam. Nellie will bring the water directly."

"Thank you, Pearson. I shall be down in just a moment to greet the ladies."

By the time Nellie went back downstairs with the last of the hot water pails, Agatha was freshly changed and her hair repaired. Quickly she slipped into the other bedchamber.

The room was the finest in the house, much better than her own. Green velvet draperies framed the bed, and the hearth was nearly the size of a kitchen fire. There was no one in sight and only the large steaming tub in evidence. Had he left?

"Hello? Mr. Chimneysweep? Are you here?"

"That you, missus? Crikey, a bloke's like to freeze his you-know-what off by the time he gets his bath round here."

From behind the painted Oriental screen that stood in a corner of the room, she heard a rustle.

"Oh, no!
No,
don't come"—it was too late—"out." From behind the screen had stepped a man who was quite very nearly naked.

She should turn away. Yes, definitely.

She couldn't turn away. She could only stand and stare, without blinking or even breathing.

With the majority of soot wiped from his hands and face, the man before her was as beautiful as a Greek statue. Lapis blue eyes shone in a poetically boned face, with a mussed shock of black hair and the body from her dreams, dreams she hadn't even known she'd had.

Whipcord muscle wrapped around his lean frame. Even his stomach rippled in a most diverting way. His shoulders weren't enormously broad, but they were square with strength, the muscle twining down his arms to wide hands that grasped the toweling at his narrow waist.

Agatha blinked at the size of those hands. Heavens. Were his feet as large? She let her gaze travel down. Oh my. Jamie's boots would never fit him. "Blast!"

The fellow's grin disappeared and he looked down. "What's wrong w' me feet?"

"Let me see your boots."

"Whafore?" His voice rose in indignation. "They're mine. I ain't stole nothing!"

"I need to examine your boots to see if they'll do."

Still scowling suspiciously at her, he bent to retrieve his boots from behind the screen.

Agatha almost swallowed her tongue at the view.

"Let me see." She held out a hand and he gave her the boots. She examined them closely, her eyebrows raised in surprise.

"These are rather fine. Yes, I think they'll do well enough. Let me have Pearson give them a cleaning while you are in your bath."

She turned to go. "We'll be expecting you downstairs in a quarter of an hour. Do be sure not to say a word, not to anyone."

"But, missus, wha' about"—the fellow gestured to the bed—"you know?"

Agatha looked at the bed, and then back at him.

"You may have a nap later if you like, although I shouldn't think you'll find any of this terribly exhausting."

She smiled brightly at him.

"Yes, you'll do nicely. Your new things are on the chair. Hurry now. And remember,
not one word."

Agatha shut the door on her beautiful chimneysweep and drew in a long breath. My, oh my. Did all men look like that underneath? Somehow she doubted it.

Then she shook off the spell of his masculine charms. She must focus on the problem at hand. Trotting downstairs to see to refreshments, she firmly denied herself the imagining of that perfect body in the bath.

Wet.

Covered in soap.

Oh my.

Simon twisted his lips cynically as he squeezed the sponge over his already perfectly clean torso. Here he was, in Mr. Applequist's house, in Mr. Applequist's tub, with Mr. Applequist's lady awaiting him downstairs.

If she was indeed Mrs. Applequist, for that was not the name on the account that had rented this house and hired these servants. That account belonged to none other than James Cunnington, Simon's fellow spy, former best friend, and probable traitor.

At the thought of James, Simon's fingers tightened on the sponge until it was wrung dry. Years of friendship and trust, sold out for a bag of gold or possibly no more than a woman's favors.

For James was a man in love, or at least in lust. Simon had heard it from his protege himself, when last he'd seen him. James had sat across from him in Simon's private office, preoccupied with his latest mistress.

"She's incredible, Simon. As limber as a snake, and as lusty as a mink. Like no woman I've ever known. The things she does! So much energy…" James had thrown his head back on his chair and given a great sigh of weary satisfaction. "I'm exhausted, but I'm sure I'll recover before tonight. You should find yourself such a woman, old man."

Simon had only grunted, too engrossed in the recent reports from the front to take up the challenge.

"You don't have to marry a woman, Simon. You don't even have to love one. But you need a little fun, Simon. A bit of muslin to take your mind off work. Just the thing for you, to get you out of this dusty office. Get your juices flowing before you become as rigid as our dear founder, cold in his grave."

James had eyed the portrait of Daniel Defoe that hung behind Simon's head, squinting as if to make out something not usually seen. "Although I'll wager he was a juicy fellow in his day. A man of adventure. You'd never catch him moldering behind a mountain of paperwork."

Simon had finally looked up at that. "What do you call penning hundreds of novels and works of political satire, if not paperwork?"

James had only grinned affably, happy to have gotten a rise from his mentor and superior, even if it meant losing the point.

"I could find out if she has a sister. Or a friend."

"No thank you. James, I've been where you are, and I decided it was seldom worth it. It makes one too vulnerable. So I'll leave the womanizing to you."

James had dropped his clowning and leaned forward, his elbows dislodging a week's worth of counterintelligence reports.

"Seriously, Simon, you need to get about more. Get a bit of perspective. There is more to life than the Liar's Club. Hell, there's a whole world outside of Europe that doesn't give a damn about Napoleon, nor how many horse soldiers he has, nor how many spies in London!"

Simon had gazed at his young friend. There was so much that James didn't understand. He was a good operative, quickwitted and dedicated, but the only one James put at risk was himself. If he was caught, the only neck in Napoleon's noose would be his own. At least until he took over Simon's position as spymaster of the Liar's Club.

Simon couldn't afford mistakes. He held in his hands the lives of every one of his men and, in a grander scope, perhaps even the lives of everyone in England.

There was no time for play, with a burden such as that. Not a moment to lose, nor a fact to disregard.

He had to remain on top of the mounting pile of clues, in order that the next time he sent out one of his Liars, perhaps even James himself, the man would go with the best and newest information that Simon could give him.

So that when one of them died in the service of his country, Simon could try to ease his own pain with the knowledge that he had done his best. Perhaps someday it would work.

James apparently had no such concerns. Taking his new assignment in hand, James had given Simon a half-salute and a grin. He'd left, whistling, to cadge a last drink from Jack-ham behind the bar.

Simon had never heard from him again.

That alone would have only given rise to worry, not accusation. But it then became obvious that someone was supplying descriptions and identities of Simon's men to the opposition. One man after another turned up dead or injured.

Simon had entertained the possibility that the leak was someone higher in the chain of command than himself, so sure had he been of James's loyalty.

Then a large amount of money was suddenly deposited in James's account, so large that Simon had been forced to suspect that worst of all conclusions.

His spy was spying for the enemy. There was no way to know precisely how it had happened. So many things could turn a spy, from sedition to seduction.

He hadn't discovered the name of James's mistress, more's the pity, but he'd kept a watch on his protege's bank account. Finally, a certain little Mrs. Applequist had made her appearance, freely using James's money to set herself up in style.

That's when Simon had made his move.

And only this morning he'd wondered how he could gain entry into the house in Carriage Square. The chimneysweep guise had worked well for him in his youth, but that had been before he'd reached his full height.

He'd planned everything carefully and had deliberately picked a moment when the cook was likely to be busy in which to knock on the back door. A quickly muttered, "Chimbley cleanin' for Missus Applequist," and he'd been inside.

Once he'd been admitted, he'd slipped through the house with an eye out for the butler. Fellows like the fine silver-haired houseman downstairs would look suspiciously indeed on the arrival of a chimneysweep when none such had been ordered.

He'd been hoping to make his later job easier with a quick casing of the layout and possibly the unlatching of a likely upper-story window. And to be honest, he'd been very curious about the lady of the house.

Then Simon had run smack into the comely Mrs. Applequist herself. Her curvaceous form had packed quite a wallop, and it had taken him a moment to get his breath, back.

Luckily for him, the lady didn't seem too interested in his purpose. Nor did she seem to realize that most chimneysweeps were either boys or poorly grown men the size of children. She obviously had something else on her mind.

What was her game?

Deciding that lingering in the bath wouldn't help him learn much, Simon stood and let the water stream from his body.

As he rubbed the toweling over his chest, his eyes narrowed at the memory of Mrs. Applequist's face when he had stepped out from behind the screen.

She hadn't missed a beat, but her eyes had gone wide with what Simon wasn't too modest to call appreciation. Well, it was mutual. She was a ripe little morsel herself.