The Pretender (30 page)

Simon drew a breath. "I missed my pouch after only a few blocks. I ran back, but I was too late. They'd beaten her so severely that she was like a broken bloody doll. She only lived a few moments, just long enough for me to discover what I had done. She died, right there in my arms." His voice dropped to a whisper. "By my hands."

James didn't say anything for a few moments. Grateful, Simon sank into the chair by the fire and pressed his palms into his eyes. When he had his control back, he opened his eyes to see the carpet at his feet.

Memory swept him of making love to Agatha on that rug.

God, he was an idiot. He wanted that carpet in his room. Wanted to keep just one good thing from all this.

"But, Simon… you aren't sixteen anymore. You're a professional. You're the Magician."

Simon sat back, letting his head fall back against the chair. "James, do you have any idea what our enemies would do to get their hands on the wife of the Magician? Being close to me is more dangerous than ever. Do you want her to die?"

James raised his chin, glaring tightly at Simon. "No, I want her to live. I want her to live a life without shame and censure."

"Her story has held. Even you thought she was wed. No one has censured her."

"Let us hope our luck continues."

"Indeed." Simon rose. "You're recovering well enough. Feebles is taking the street watch. I need to go out for a bit. And tomorrow I'll need to return to the club for the morning. I'll check on Ren while I'm out and let you know how he's doing."

He left James alone then, moodily picking at his food. There was a little matter of a certain mysterious suitor that Simon wanted to clear up.

Etheridge's town house was very fine and very large. Simon watched from the roof of the unoccupied house next door. He could see the rear of the place was as well kept as the front, and that the servants who came and went had none of the furtive attitude of the overworked and downtrodden.

The man was more than just wealthy, as Simon's reports indicated. Dalton Montmorency was the perfect gentleman. His wealth lay solidly in the Bank of England instead of in some bookmaker's pockets. His education was no farce paid for by family connections but was recorded as earnest scholarly pursuits. He took his seat in the House of Lords with serious dedication, promoting a far-sighted liberalism and concern for the less fortunate.

His servants were deathly loyal and astonishingly closemouthed. He entertained rarely and had no apparent family other than the irreverent Collis. While fine, his wardrobe and accoutrements were neither ostentatious nor dandified.

There was no record of a mistress or of an extremely pious nature. Neither sinner nor saint.

The perfect gentleman indeed. In Simon's book, such perfection was so unlikely as to be a cover for more sinister things. No man could be so evenhanded, so refined, so unblemished.

Of course, Simon was investigating his lordship this evening solely for the purposes of the Liar's Club. A man such as this bore watching, for he had gone into May well's study like a true professional and left not a trace of his presence.

The fact that Etheridge had expressed interest in Agatha had nothing to do with tonight's little expedition. Except, of course, that Agatha seemed to return a certain amount of the gentleman's regard.

Simon banked the slow burn that resulted from that thought. He would uncover Etheridge tonight, and there would be no further danger of Agatha becoming involved with someone unscrupulous.

He shifted his weight to the balls of his feet, preparing to walk the rope between the houses. Here in this wealthy neighborhood, the homes were nearly as large as country manors and as far from one another as the properties afforded.

As the neighborhood settled into late-night silence, and the lighted windows were long winked into darkness, Simon prepared to make his entry.

His two ropes were strung tautly across the gap, completely invisible in the dark. Earlier, Simon had sent his grapple across to Etheridge's roof to catch on the slated gable nearest him.

The best time to do that sort of thing was early in the evening, when the servants who lodged in the attic rooms had not yet retired.

Simon favored the blue wash of dusk for this work, for the inevitable rising fog and the uncertainty of light hid the most obvious of activities.

But for the actual rooftop work, the deepest night served best. Simon liked the quiet crossing, even the familiar bite of the rope through the bottoms of his soft-soled shoes. He'd missed the silence of his specially crafted gummed shoes on the slates and the muffled
snick
of a lock releasing to his picks.

Simon crossed the space on his double ropes, feet walking the lower, hands hanging from the upper. He was quick about it. If he was seen, as unlikely as that was in his dark, tight-fitting clothing on a dark night, the observer would not look back swiftly enough to catch him twice.

Padding across the slates with silent competence, Simon reached the far side of the house from where his rope was strung. He slipped easily down the stone walls to the second level. Then a quick heel-dangling stroll along the slight ledge that people insisted on decorating their homes with, bless them.

The window was locked, of course. There had been nothing in Feebles's report to indicate that Etheridge was a fool. It was a very fine lock, entirely suitable to the wealth likely held within.

Fortunately, Simon had mastered this particular lock when he was not yet shaving. In less than a minute, he was inside the silent room, letting his senses expand to fit the space.

A house the size of Etheridge's was actually easier to work than a smaller one such as Agatha's. A quick rifling through the study wouldn't be audible from the bedchambers of such a vast place as this.

The night was damned dark, and now Simon didn't even have the city glow reflected from the low-hanging clouds to see by.

There was no help for it. He'd have to light a candle. He only hoped enough coals remained in the fireplace to start a flame. Striking flint would take far too long.

He began to dig the brimstone match and candle stub from his pocket but halted.

There was someone in the room. Simon hadn't heard a thing, nor had he smelled anything but books and ink and leather.

Still he knew. He wasn't alone.

Simon had taken one step back toward the window when a scrape sounded and the glare of a flame seared his night-expanded vision.

"Mr. Applequist. How kind of you to stop by. Or should I say 'Mr. Rain'?"

If Agatha hadn't known better, she would have thought that Simon stayed out late purposely to vex her. Here she was, waiting to seduce him again, and he was gone.

Again.

Honestly, men and their lack of timing!

She threw down her cards in the middle of her turn and left the table.

"Oh, dear, and you were winning, too," Jamie drawled. "What's he done this time?"

"He's late."

"Well, he isn't in short pants, Agatha. I believe he is able to handle himself out there in the big bad world. If he survives it, he may even go out in the morning as well."

Still upset by his lack of faith in her, Agatha didn't answer James. She was in no mood for teasing and banter tonight.

Tonight would mark her real descent into immorality, by her own standards. All her conniving, all her manipulations to find Jamie, amounted to nothing when compared to what she was about to do.

She was going to steal a child.

She didn't bother to rationalize it to herself. Those days were done. There was nothing noble and altruistic about seducing Simon for a child. She was serving no interests but her own.

He'd hate her for it if he ever found out. Jamie would have to be sworn to secrecy forever, something that would likely drive a further wedge between the two men. Agatha accepted responsibility for that as well.

She would take her child back to Appleby and spend her days dutifully producing wool and cider to support them all. What had only days before seemed a prison sentence amounted now to the only penance she was able to pay for the crime she was about to commit.

It would be worth every day of lanolin in her hair and apple peels in her shoes.

If only the blasted man would come home.

Simon lounged on a luxurious velvet chair and swirled a crystal snifter full of rather amazing brandy in one hand. He was warm and dry and would have considered it all the height of comfort under other circumstances.

However, it was a bit difficult to relax with a pistol pointed at one's head.

Dalton Montmorency also lounged. His feet were up on his massive mahogany desk and a matching brandy glass hung negligently from the fingers of his left hand.

His right hand held the gleaming weapon that ruined Simon's peace of mind. Even when Dalton tipped his head back for the final taste of his brandy, his aim didn't waver.

The glass was set on the desk with a careless clink, and Simon winced, even though he ought to be more concerned for himself than for the priceless crystal.

Still, the thief in him could not help cataloging the street value of the contents of Etheridge House. Compared to Dalton, even James was a grubbing shepherd. Where had all that lovely money come from? Treason could be a very profitable business, if one went about it properly.

"Please, finish your drink so that we may begin our conversation." Dalton waved the gun in a gesture of encouragement.

Simon shrugged and tossed back his own brandy, only pausing for a moment to regretfully let the last of it slide down his throat. Well, if he was going to die, at least Etheridge was letting him go in style.

Etheridge raised a brow. "All done? Well, why don't we start with an explanation of why you crept through my study window in the middle of the night?"

"I certainly would be a fool to do it in the middle of the day, wouldn't I?"

"You're a fool to do it at all, Mr. Rain."

"Rain? Who is he?"

"He is you, the sometimes Mortimer and/or Ethelbert Applequist, and let us not forget Simon Montague Raines, the proprietor of a little place called the Liar's Club."

Simon didn't react visibly, but he was stunned that his cover had been so easily broken. As far as he knew, today was the first time Etheridge had laid eyes on him. How could he have cut through the layers of disguise so quickly?

"What do you know of the Liar's Club?"

"I know everything about the Liar's Club, Mr. Rain. I am one of the men who, along with the Prime Minister, decide what use to put that gang of misfits to in the service of His Majesty."

Simon's mouth fell open. "You're the Cobra."

Now it was Dalton's turn to be surprised. "You've redeemed yourself considerably with that leap of intuition, Simon. I'm happy to see that you are an intelligent man after all. How did you know? Even I have not yet been made privy to the identities of the other three."

Simon shook his head. "I have complete dossiers on the Royal Four, and have for years. I know what they eat, and drink, and who they cry out for in their sleep. When Spencer Perceval was assassinated earlier this year and Lord Liverpool was made Prime Minister in his place, I knew there would be another member selected to fill in for Liverpool eventually."

"Your informants must be slipping, for I've been fully invested since Perceval took his final breath."

It was his damned manpower shortage at fault yet again. "The lack is mine, my lord. The Liars are all the finest in their specialties."

"I am not entirely certain the Liars are anything but what their name implies. Lord Liverpool isn't at all sure you merit the freedom granted your predecessor, and I need not tell you that the Prime Minister's approval is necessary to the continued existence of your organization. It took you months to track down your leak, losing several men in the process, and in the end, the man shows up at your very door."

Dalton narrowed his eyes. "Whereupon you failed to report his capture and placed him on house arrest on his own recognizance."

Simon nodded. "That explains the pistol, then. You think I've gone over."

"Sir, I trust no one, with the possible exception of Lord Liverpool. Not even the other Three. For all I know, you could be on official assignment right now."

Simon grinned. "What? The mighty Lord Etheridge fears assassination by one of his fellows? Tell me it isn't true."

"Power can be an ugly thing in the hands of the wrong men. I am loyal to His Majesty, and to the Prince Regent. I work for England, not for my own enrichment. This can be hard for some men to understand."

"It seems we are on the same side." Simon spread his hands. "And all this?"

"Inherited, mostly, increased with a few investments of my own." Etheridge shrugged. "I am used to suspicion as to my holdings, Simon. It is all quite the usual."

"The way you lit that match was not usual."

Etheridge held up a small wooden box, smiling slightly. "This is quite interesting, I must agree. Something that a friend of mine has been working on. He calls them Lucifer matches. One scrapes the sulfur head of the match against sandpaper, and it miraculously lights itself."

Simon felt an instant acquisitive lust for the things. What freedom such an invention would give the Liars! "I must have some. Where might I get a supply?"

"Oh, I doubt he is in production just yet."

"He will produce for me and my Liars," Simon said with certainty.

With a raised eyebrow, Etheridge considered the small case in his hand. "I see. These would be quite invaluable to you and your men." He tossed the box to Simon, who greedily plucked it from the air and tucked it into his pocket.

"My thanks."

"A trifle."

Indeed, a trifle for this man. A tingle of resentment ran through Simon. "So, you are a wealthy, eligible, powerful patriot." How putrid could the fellow be? "And you want to marry Agatha Applequist."

"Agatha Cunnington, to be precise."

"Ah, yes. Of course you would know about her family ties. I'm surprised you would consider a match with the sister of my primary security leak."