The Pretender (26 page)

"I see no reason why I should be revealed now. I shall simply be the Widow Applequist, and have even more freedom than before."

"But you have no license, no legal proof at all."

"Pish-posh, Jamie. Do you go up to all widows of your acquaintance and demand legal proof? Of course not, because people believe what they are told."

"Because they can't believe anyone would be so twist-minded to lie about such a thing! It's wrong!"

"Oh, are you lecturing me on my morals now, Mr. Spy? Your
life
is a lie, just as Simon's is! You told me you were a soldier. You even carried a captain's uniform in your trunk!"

"How do you know what I carried in my trunk?"

"Because I looked, of course! Honestly, Jamie, can you be so naive?"

He appeared hurt by that. Agatha calmed her temper with an effort. "I know that you are worried about me. But all is well. I am the Widow Applequist. I'm not supposed to be a maiden."

"Even widows must watch their reputations, Aggie."

"Well, then it is a good thing my dear brother is in residence to act as my chaperon, isn't it?"

"About that… I don't think anyone should know that I'm here. Whoever I escaped from may still be looking for me. You could be in danger if I'm discovered."

"Oh." That did put a different light on things. "Well, no matter. I may receive a few callers in the next several days, but there shouldn't be much fuss."

However, there was a great deal of fuss. No sooner had the noon hour struck but flocks of tearful ladies descended upon the house in Carriage Square.

Jamie had been trapped upstairs all afternoon, and Pearson had warned Agatha that Cook was all but in tears over the run on refreshments.

Agatha whispered to him to let cost be no object and to fetch a likely scullery maid from an agency to help in the kitchen. She wasn't sure, but she thought she caught a glimmer of approval in his dry gaze.

Then she was forced to return to her tearfully fascinated guests. The ladies were clustered around the tea tray as she reentered the parlor, but their whispers carried well across the room.

"Strangled by his unmentionables! Do you think he was trying to do something… unusual?"

"Well, he was an exotic sort, wasn't he? All that traveling, you know. Perhaps he picked up some bizarre… proclivity?"

Agatha wished mightily that she had restrained herself while writing that news account. It had given her great vengeful satisfaction at the time, but now she realized what Jamie meant by calling attention to herself.

An accident while cleaning his pistol, a fall down the stairs, or even a simple trampling—anything would have been more forgettable.

Agatha strode into the hushed titters with her head high. She had no need to fake her pallor or her reddened eyes, for she had spent the last two days alternately raging and weeping.

Indeed, she fed her anger, for without it she would have dissolved into a worthless puddle of tears. Simon had much to answer for, but the one thing that she most hated him for was the fact that she couldn't hate him at all.

Despite the titillated gleam in her visitors' eyes, Agatha welcomed their sympathy. She had suffered a loss, after all. She had lost her heart.

So she tried to remain serene in the face of their fascination, nodding at their condolences and ignoring their veiled attempts to extract the gruesome details.

In truth, she toyed with the idea of embellishing upon her tale. How deeply could she embarrass Simon with this story?

But in the next wave of visitors was a young woman whom Agatha recognized. She was Clara Simpson, the widowed sister-in-law of Mrs. Trapp. Her black dress signified her own mourning and her sympathy was very real.

"I know you want us all to go," Clara said in a low voice.

"I remember precisely how I felt. But when we do, the silence will be so very… loud. Please send for me if you wish someone to fill the silence. I won't tell you that 'only the good die young' and that you should immediately turn your life over to your nearest male relative."

Agatha was moved and somewhat shamed by Clara's simple and sincere sympathy. In the face of real grief, Agatha's little fib seemed suddenly rather nasty and cheap.

It was wrong, just as Jamie had said.

Unable to look Clara in the eye, Agatha glanced away to see Pearson moving past the parlor to the front door. Oh, blast. Not more visitors.

A moment later, Pearson appeared at the door of the parlor. Agatha was astonished to see that he'd gone completely ashen.

"M-madam, Mr. A—"

Simon slid past the petrified butler with a quick movement and stood before the room with a slight smile on his face.

Mrs. Trapp screamed and fainted dead away. The other ladies shrieked or fanned the shriekers, depending on their dispositions.

Pearson raised his voice above the mayhem, his stutter gone. "Mr. Applequist, madam."

"But—but he's
dead
!"

Agatha dropped her hand from Clara's and rose, glaring at Simon. Her heart was racing. From anger. Only anger.

"Ladies! Ladies, please!" She raised her hands. "This is my husband's brother. His twin brother." She shot Simon another killing look.
"Ethelbert
Applequist."

The ladies sighed with relief.

Loudly and in unison.

Agatha wanted to roll her eyes at such dramatics, but she kept her gaze firmly on Simon, daring him to say her nay.

She saw his lips move slightly.
Ethelbert
?

"Yes, Ethelbert," confirmed Agatha, "come to pay his respects before he leaves on an
extended
tour of the Americas."

Again, the gathered ladies sighed as one, with the notable exception of the sensible Mrs. Simpson. Agatha could see herself quite liking the woman, were they meeting under other circumstances. True circumstances.

But would someone such as that wish to be friends with a liar?

As Simon bowed to each lady in turn, they twittered in obvious enjoyment of his novelty and charm.

"To think there is another man just like your Mortimer, dear Agatha."

Agatha could scarcely keep from snarling. "Not so very like, in my opinion. Mortimer was entirely more handsome and appealing."

"Oh… ah, of course." The lady fled to the other side of the room and joined the fascinated group seated there like an audience in the theatre. Perhaps Pearson ought to sell tickets.

"More handsome, dear sister? You wound me."

Of course he had heard her.

"Don't you have some spying to do?" she hissed at him under her breath. "I believe I hear Napoleon knocking at your door this very moment. You do have a door, do you not?"

He bowed slightly. "I do. A very nice door, on a house in a very respectable neighborhood."

"How nice for you. Please go there. Now."

"I'd rather stay. You and I need to talk."

"I don't think so. Likely nothing would come out of your mouth but lies anyway."

"I'm sorry, Agatha. I was only—"

"Doing your duty. Lord, spare me from a dutiful man. I declare I've had my fill."

The ladies were watching them both, avidly trying to hear every whispered word. Agatha wished them all gone, the women and Simon, too.

Agatha thought furiously, trying to fabricate some excuse, some way to force him from the house.

But her creativity failed her, and all she could think was how difficult it all was. Balancing the weight of all the lies she had woven around herself, until she couldn't sleep nights for the anticipation of it all falling on her head.

Abruptly she felt trapped. The room and the people within it seemed to be closing in on her, pressing upon her chest and stealing her breath clean away.

Simon must have seen it on her face, for he stepped forward to support her with one warm hand on her arm.

"I think my dear sister has had enough visiting for the day. If you ladies will excuse us…"

The ladies responded with a bustle of leave-taking, still casting fascinated glances at Simon. Mrs. Simpson left Agatha with a brief squeeze of her hand. "Do call on me, Mrs. Applequist, or send for me if you'd like a little quiet company."

Agatha struggled to smile at them all, then realized that in her pose as widow she needn't put on a cheerful face. It was a relief to merely nod in reply to the well-wishes until the room was empty and all the ladies were gone.

Then Simon steered her to the kitchen and sat her at the table. Cook, her face dusted with floury panic, rushed to fetch madam some tea. The kitchen was warm and very quiet after the endless chatter of her guests. There was only the sound of pots bubbling on the stove and the soft crackle of the fire in the hearth.

"Drink," Simon ordered, pressing the hot china cup into her shaking hands. "You look exhausted. You haven't slept, I gather."

Agatha shut her eyes, for she couldn't bear to look at his handsome face so near, and drank deeply. The tea scalded her tongue a bit, but the heat loosened the tightness in her chest and allowed her to breathe easily once more.

Then she set the cup aside and laid her head down on her crossed arms. She would not look at him. She would not reach for him or beg him to hold her close against his warmth and strength.

He never loved me. He never loved me.

I love him.

How could she be so weak? So girlishly sentimental?

"How supremely annoying," she muttered into the table.

"I know you didn't expect me to return."

"Actually, I rather thought you might. I'm annoyed with something else entirely." Agatha gently banged her forehead on the scrubbed-to-satin wood. It didn't knock him from her mind.

"You expected me?"

"Oh, yes. One doesn't scrape off a leech that easily."

"Ah." It was a quiet sound, but she knew she'd hurt him. It hurt her to hurt him.

"I apologize. That was nasty of me. I seem to be growing nastier by the moment." She took a deep breath and sat up. Then she opened her eyes.

He looked rather terrible. Good. Why should she be the only one who was unhappy?

"I see you've already found something black to wear."

"Simon, I was two years in mourning for Papa. Practically all I own are black gowns."

"I still don't understand why it had to be Death By Drawers."

"I was—am—very angry at you. You weren't here, so I took it out on Mortimer."

He gazed at her for a long moment. "Have you any idea how peculiar that sounds?"

"Simon, I invented peculiar," Agatha said wearily. "I thought you knew."

He grinned, that swift and deadly slash of white. Did he never smile for longer than a fraction of a second?

She couldn't think about his smile, couldn't sit here and wish more than anything that she could spend her lifetime making him smile.

"So pray tell, why are you here? If you're concerned that my brother has escaped you, Jamie is still in residence, recovering very well from his ordeal."

"I never thought anything but."

"Well, if you aren't here to guard Jamie—"

"I came to see you."

Blast. Why did her betraying heart have to leap at his words? She narrowed her eyes at him.