The Pretender (24 page)

Agatha frowned. "That was
my
money, Simon. I took it from the estate account when I left Appleby."

Simon shook his head. "It was a great deal of money, Agatha. Far too much to be yours—"

She only tilted her head and gazed at him. Simon began to get the sneaking suspicion that he was wrong about this as well.

James broke in urgently. "Simon, you said identities were compromised. What did you mean?" In his eyes Simon could see the depth of James's fear.

"Some dead. Some just too badly wounded to work. All told, we lost twelve men off active duty."

"I wondered…" James said quietly. "I had such dreams while I was insensible. Endless questioning by a serpent who wouldn't let me rest. Still, I'd hoped I had let nothing important out."

He passed a shaking hand over his eyes. "It was the only thing that kept me sane."

Doubt replaced the near certainty in Simon's mind as he considered his old friend. His voice grim but devoid of anger, Simon said, "Ren Porter even now lies on the edge of death. Only you could have given the French the information that ruined his cover."

James flinched as if he had been struck. Guilt twisted his hollowed features. "Oh, God, Simon. Oh, dear God. I wish they'd killed me first," he whispered.

His anguish seemed quite real, and his condition certainly reinforced his story.

James was innocent.
Relief swept Simon as he realized that it would not be necessary to take steps against James after all. But now the larger problem loomed. What to do with him?

Even Simon had to answer to someone. The Royal Four would not be interested in Simon's instincts. They were going to require concrete proof. "There will be an investigation into your story, James. Until then, you had best keep to house arrest. I'm sorry, but until your innocence is proven, I cannot allow you your freedom."

James nodded slowly. "No more than I deserve. 'Tis an improvement over my last prison. I won't be up and about for a while, in any event."

He lay back on the cushions, his eyes tormented, lost in his guilt and regret.

Simon turned to Agatha. This was not an explanation he was looking forward to giving. Taking her hand, he led her from the parlor.

She followed to stand before him in the chill entry hall, her arms folded tightly about her thin wrapper. Her eyes were wide and betrayed. She waited for him to speak with the obvious mingled hope and fear of a woman who didn't know if she wanted to know the truth or not.

Simon wanted to pull her close and warm her. He did nothing. "I came here to find him. I found you. I thought you were his mistress, and that you knew more than you let on. I even wondered if you were a collaborator yourself."

She grew paler as he spoke. "And these past weeks?"

"Your ruse was… convenient to my own search. I was hoping to uncover something, some document or letter that would point me to James."

She moistened her lips. "And tonight?"

Simon wanted to lie, to tell her that tonight had nothing to do with his case. But the time for lies was over.

"I decided to find out if I could seduce the truth from you. But then, I—" Simon stopped. Then he what? Then he had changed his mind? Then he had wanted her for herself?

It didn't matter if he had. She was a gentleman's sister, a lady, and far above the likes of him.

And he was a spy, a danger to anyone whom he was fool enough to care for.

Agatha hadn't moved an inch, but she was suddenly miles from his reach. She raised her chin and met his gaze with severe composure.

"I see. You were simply doing your duty."

She turned and walked slowly to the front door. "Pearson," she called, "please assist Mr. Rain with his coat. He is leaving forthwith."

Then she opened the door, letting the cold outside air flow over Simon, chilling him deeply.

"Good-bye, Mr. Rain."

She was as cool as winter sleet. Her frozen manner made Simon ache with regret. His own stupid fault. He had tried to steal her warmth for himself, and now it was lost to them both.

Agatha left the door standing open as Pearson approached with Simon's coat. With quiet dignity, she turned and reentered the parlor, shutting the door between them.

Simon left the house in Carriage Square, striding down the steps and turning down the walk with automatic precision.

He wasn't seeing the late-night street, or the way the lamplight was cast into glowing spheres of fog, or anything at all but the icy look of pain in Agatha's eyes.

He was shaken, both by the magnitude of his regret and by the sheer monumental error he had committed over the past weeks.

He had been wrong about everything. Every bloody conclusion he had reached about Agatha had been entirely in error.

What kind of spymaster was he, that he could be so deluded by his own assumptions? Blind. Stupid. And deeply, deeply ashamed.

He had enacted many a sin in his life, but he had never broken anyone's heart. Until now.

Turning blindly down another corner, Simon stumbled into a group of carousing young Corinthians. Sidestepping them, he turned and watched them stagger down the walk, jostling one another and casting lewd aspersions on one another's manhood.

Shaking his head, Simon looked around him. He'd wandered into a street where he knew there existed several exclusive men's clubs for the fashionable set.

Again, not his world. He had no business in this place of shallow amusements, any more than he did in Agatha's house. His business was to defend the Crown and apprehend anyone who threatened it.

It was a lonely business. He wondered why he'd never realized that before. He was a secret entity, one who did not exist in any record. A phantom man, without friends or family. A man with only one purpose on this earth.

Very well then. Back to business.

Several minutes later, Simon slipped from the dark of the alley along the garden wall of a house located in a respectable but not fashionably visible part of town.

With a quick look about, he grasped the top of the wall and pulled himself swiftly over.

The hedges were overgrown all around the perimeter of the yard, providing even more cover from prying eyes. He slipped through the dark garden, avoiding the gravel path with its betraying crunch.

Unlike many houses, this one bore a sturdy lock on the kitchen door. Simon didn't even pause to toy with it, although he knew he could pick it if he chose.

Instead, he made his way to where the decorative brickwork that delineated the corners of the house provided a simple ladder. Using only the tips of his fingers and the edge of his shoes, Simon quickly and silently clambered up to the third level of windows.

Reaching for the window nearest him, he flicked it open with one outstretched hand. With one fluid motion, he grasped the sill and flipped neatly into the room.

The valet standing at the bureau whirled around to face him, clutching one hand to his heart in surprise.

"Oy, sir, I hates it when you does that!"

Simon pulled off his jacket and tossed it to the man. "Sorry, Denny. You know I can't resist." He tugged at his loosely tied neckcloth and threw it on top of the jacket.

"Well, you might've let me know where you was. Ain't been half-worried about you, sir."

"Yes, Denny. I know. I'm sorry."

Denny wasn't the genius with a cravat that Button was, but then, he hadn't had Button's advantages, either. Barely eighteen, the poor little ex-bagman was still rather unsure of his position as majordomo and tended to fret overmuch.

"I've been taking care of business. Something local, as you must know, since you have sent me a good twenty messages at the club in the last two weeks."

Denny sniffed but stopped his nagging. Sometimes Simon wondered who served whom. Keeping servants was half caring for them and half being mothered by them.

Still, he used this Spartan house so rarely that Denny managed to take care of it well enough on his own, hiring out day work for the grounds and the housekeeping.

He ought to sell the place, for it was more headache than home. It hadn't half the warmth of the house on Carriage Square.

And never would, for Agatha would never step foot within its walls. But then where would he put his finds, his strays from the street, such as Denny?

Stubbs was one of his found treasures, as was Feebles. The pickpocket had been more than worth the bribe Simon had been forced to pay to free him from being transported. There was such a blinding need for good information acquisition that Simon wished he had a full staff of pickpockets with Feebles's skill.

Denny tended to his duties silently, with only the occasional theatrical sniff to remind Simon of his sins.

Simon reached for patience. "Denny, it's very late. Why don't you go on to bed? I'll be needing you bright and early tomorrow."

That cheered the fellow, and a smile almost creased his doleful face. "Yessir. I'll be up with the milk wagon then."

"You do that. Good night."

When he was finally alone with his regrets, Simon didn't go to bed. Instead, he pulled a chair close to the fire, seeking a little of the warmth he had lost.

It had taken him a while to see past his surprise and understand precisely what Agatha had done. A young woman, a lady, forced to fabricate a husband in order to have the freedom to search for her lost brother. Rather heroic, really.

And her actions tonight. She had believed herself in love. With Simon Rain. Thief, former chimneysweep, and bastard son of a Cheapside whore.

Well, she wasn't in love any longer, he'd wager. Not after what he had done.

He had taken her virginity, then promptly betrayed her heart.

It had not been well done, either. In his ignorance and lust, he had hurt her more than necessary. The memory of her wide eyes haunted him, making him flinch every time he thought of her.

He had simply been so… shocked. Shocked at her, shocked at himself. He didn't like knowing he was the kind of man who wouldn't stop, who could lose control of his mind to his body's need.

And was it only your body's need?

He shook off the thought. Of course it had been. Agatha was a heavenly armful, a real delight, with her ardent abandon and sweet flesh. Any man might let his senses take over with a woman such as she.

Any man but him. He was the master of control, the surgeon, occasionally even the cold instrument itself. There was no room in his dark world for the sweetness and warmth of Agatha.

He was the Magician, called so by his men for his ability to know precisely what the enemy was about to do and where to send a man and what assignment to give him.

And early on, it had been given him for his uncanny ability to make things disappear. Including himself.

A man of the shadows. Always between worlds, walking in the eclipse between what was legal and what was necessary, for the good of his country.

The same class-conscious citizens of which would never accept him as one of their own.

As if he would even be allowed to try. Should he choose between being a trumped-up bastard chimneysweep trying to pass himself off in good society, or being an overeducated street rat who would forever be highly suspect among his fellow commoners?

Or remain invisible, where he might do some good and where his life might have some meaning.

Not much of a choice really. More of a destiny. It was only too bad that his destiny included mind-bending solitude.

It had never truly bothered him before, but he wasn't enough of a liar to pretend that he didn't know why it bothered him now.

He couldn't deny it any longer. He wanted more. He wanted warmth and heat and heart.

And passion.

During the last few weeks he had been guilty of more than one lapse of judgment. He had underestimated Agatha, time and again. And he had underestimated passion. Passion had sneaked up on him like an alleyway thief, club upraised.

From the moment she'd collided with him in her hallway, he'd been entranced by her. Completely captivated. Utterly and totally besotted.

Passion. He'd never seen it coming.

Now he didn't want to live without it.

He wanted Agatha. And a lifetime in her arms.

Pity he would never be able to let himself have it.

"I wanted him to marry me."

Agatha turned from the parlor window as if the morning light hurt her reddened eyes. James watched her as he lay recovering on the sofa, his forgotten breakfast tray still on his lap. Her pallor and quiet pain alarmed him. His Aggie was never quiet.

"Marry you? Why?"

"I'm in love with him."

Jamie grimaced. Damnation. What a situation. "Are you sure? You've only known him a few weeks."

Agatha raised her gaze to his. "You've known him for years. You tell me. Is there any reason why I shouldn't be in love with him?"

There was no denying that Simon was the finest man he had ever known. James currently might want to kill him, but he couldn't disparage him.

"He was playing a role," he couldn't help reminding her. "Perhaps you are simply infatuated with the role."

Agatha looked down at her hands. "I did nothing all night but wonder about that. It isn't a nice thought, to know that you may be in love with someone who doesn't truly exist."

She turned to pace the room. That was better. Aggie in motion he could handle.

"Then again, I'm not sure," she said. "I think that there was much of him in that role. Perhaps it was the man he used to be, or almost was, but it was him, all the same."

James ran his hand through his hair. "What do you want to do? It's possible I can force him to marry you."

A spark of indignation lit her dull eyes briefly. "Is he that against me as a wife? If he needs so much convincing, then I don't want him."

James felt obliged to defend Simon on that score. "It isn't that, Aggie. For Simon to marry would mean the end of his post, the end of his career. He's said it many times, and I believe him. He reasons that if he were to marry, his wife and family might someday be used against him."

He could see the realization dawn on her face and continued. "Don't you see? In his position, he might someday have to choose between his loved ones and his country—"