The Pretender (4 page)

Giving "Mortimer" a shove to indicate that he should stay behind, Agatha followed her guests to the door where Pearson stood ready with bonnets and shawls.

"I do hope we may attend, my lady. One never knows when Mortimer must—"

"Oh, you'll attend, Mrs. Applequist. After all, it is not a
Tuesday
."

Her smirk told Agatha that the lady hadn't believed a single word. Lady Winchell donned her hat and gave Agatha a glacial smile, her eyes hard.

"You mustn't disappoint us. Remember, one doesn't get many opportunities to put one's best foot forward in this world."

Lady Winchell stroked a strand of pale hair into place and cast a lingering glance back into the parlor. "A man of few words, your husband. I do hope he feels more talkative next time. The gentlemen will be so looking forward to hearing of his adventures."

Agatha shivered at the last icy smirk delivered with these words. When the ladies were gone, she wrapped both arms around her against the chill and returned to the parlor. What was she to do now?

"I thought that went right well, I did. It weren't so 'ard at all. Them's real nice ladies, for toffs." Mr. Rain looked very pleased with himself. "And I never said not one word, just like you wanted."

Agatha's jaw dropped. He had no idea what he had done to her, with his irresistible smile and his fabulous anatomy.

Simon had done a terrible thing, he knew, but the lady deserved it for telling such staggering whoppers. Tiger hunting in India? Rescuing the Rajah's son with a single shot? How poisonous. Even
he
hated Mortimer Applequist.

Ah, but there was no Mortimer Applequist, was there? There was only pretty
Mrs.
Applequist and her penchant for fibbing. She was no more married than a Drury Lane actress would be. Although he'd wager she was just as good in bed.

Yet she was no ordinary ladybird. She lied beautifully, if a bit outrageously. She went to great lengths to support the tiniest details of her story. And even more surprising, she comported herself among real ladies without hesitation.

Simon knew from experience how hard it was to overcome a lifetime of class-conscious diffidence to pose as one of the gentry.

All of the above smacked of a great deal of training. Training that quite possibly came from the French. He'd not received any mention of women in their intelligence network, but that didn't mean they weren't there. Napoleon was nothing if not creative.

It made little difference to Simon either way. Whether she was here as James Cunnington's paramour or co-conspirator, he was willing to bet that she could lead him to James himself.

At any rate, he'd accomplished his task and was now well versed in the layout of the house. He'd even left a likely window unlatched upstairs. Tonight would do for a more thorough search. He would have to take care. If he left any sign of entry tonight, he'd be the first one suspected.

Not that she'd ever be able to find him. But he'd be watching her. Indeed he would.

He nodded politely as he passed her. "Nice to be of service to you, mum. I thanks you for the bath. I'll be collectin' me rig and be on me way."

The parlor door slammed shut inches in front of his face.

Simon looked down to see a plump palm pressing the door closed.

" 'Ere now. I thought we was done."

"Done?
Done?
After the mess you've gotten me into? Did you have to be so charming? Did you have to smile so… so… ?"

Blast. He was doing it again.

Agatha got shivers in her stomach as Mr. Rain smiled down at her.

"Charmin', was I? And me not sayin' a word? Now, how could that be?"

His voice was low and flirtatious and his eyes gleamed as if they held a secret. Only one corner of his mouth actually curled upward, and it gave her hot chills simply to look at it.

But those shivers no longer lived just in her stomach. A great deal more of her person seemed to be involved.

She licked her lips.

He chuckled and his breath was warm on her face. He smelled of cinnamon. What would he taste like?

Good lord, what was she doing?

Quickly Agatha ducked under his arm and scuttled across the room. Yes, distance was good. Enough distance that she couldn't feel the heat of him on her skin.

Smoothing damp palms down her skirt, Agatha resumed her artificial smile and turned back to Mr. Rain. Indicating that he return to his seat on the blue velvet sofa, she herself perched where Lady Winchell had sat.

Distance.

Mr. Rain moved to the sofa but did not sit. Instead, he stood behind it and planted his elbows on the back. He said nothing, only studied her closely, that off-center smile still lingering on his lips.

"You may sit, Mr. Rain," Agatha said with another regal motion to the sofa.

"Oh, I knows it. I'm just keepin' the way clear to the door, in case you're wantin' to snare me again."

"I assure you, Mr. Rain, I have no intention of 'snaring' anyone." The gall!

Well, except she had rather snared him, hadn't she? Oh, heavens, what was she doing? Abruptly the starch and indignation left her spine and Agatha wilted.

Putting her face in her hands, she blocked out the room and the man and her hopelessly tangled situation.

Think. No, not about the fit of Mr. Rain's trousers. Think about how to mend the damage.

She must be allowed to continue at the hospital. It was the best link between London and the soldiers still at war. She was able to ask about Jamie at every opportunity and peruse first-hand the lists of men lost and men found.

"You looks a bit mopped, mum. Don't know why. Them ladies think you're right married now."

"Yes. Married to you," Agatha muttered from between her palms. "What will they think if I do not go to Lady Winchell's supper dance? I cannot very well go without an escort, especially now that they have met Mortimer."

And Lady Winchell had known that no one could easily turn aside such a highly sought after invitation without inviting gossip. Gossip meant curiosity into her affairs, curiosity she could ill afford.

What a blasted muck-up she'd made of things. Blast, blast, blast!

Vulgarity helped, but when Agatha raised her eyes, the central player in the muck-up still leaned insouciantly against her sofa back.

"Well, that's a right shame for the lady, but it ain't got nothin' to do with me then, do it?" He turned to go.

"Wait!" Perhaps this wasn't a mess. Perhaps it was a miracle.

The only other clue Agatha had to Jamie's disappearance was a name. Not even really a name, more of an epithet. On Jamie's last visit home, she had chanced upon a letter in his room, a message clearly in code, signed by "the Griffin."

What did a common soldier have to do with the most famous gentleman spy in Britain? Agatha had no idea, but there was no doubt that Jamie and the Griffin had some connection.

Finding the Griffin might just mean finding Jamie. And finding the Griffin would be much easier if Agatha could enter Society.

And for that, Agatha needed Mortimer.

Mr. Rain turned halfway back to her, clearly not intending to be swayed from his departure. How could she make him stay?

"It seems I still require a husband. You were interested in making use of a bed. That can be arranged, if you agree to help me." He could nap in Jamie's bed for the rest of his life, if he would help her find her brother.

Simon was startled by her bold invitation. What was the alleged Mrs. Applequist after, really?

He let his eyes travel over her with the intensity he reserved for business, seeking out clues that would tell him who this woman was.

There was little to discover on the surface. Her wardrobe was of good quality, if a bit short on style. Her features were regular and appealing in an apple-cheeked country fashion. Nothing to hint that she was anything out of the very ordinary.

Until he looked at her body.

It was difficult to do so with detachment. Her full, sweet curves made his blood heat. He couldn't examine her without wanting to get a much closer look. Would the reality prove as promising as his imagination?

Would her breasts overflow his hands the way they overflowed her corset? Would her bottom prove as luscious as the swelling of her hips promised him? She was full-bodied and ripe, like the fruit of temptation hanging just out of reach.

His mouth watered.

"I should think you'd jump at the chance to earn a decent wage, Mr. Rain. After all, you're getting a bit large to sweep chimneys, aren't you?"

So lush…

"Mr. Rain?"

With difficulty Simon bridled his hunger and wondered if perhaps he should check his chin for saliva. Quickly he pulled on the impudent facade of Simon the Chimneysweep.

"What all will you be wantin' me to do? I ain't interested in nothing what might get me across the law, and no mistake!"

"Of course not. The very idea. There is no breaking of the law involved. The merest bending, perhaps, but truly nothing serious. And all for the finest of causes, I assure you."

"Well, that's good—"

"Oh, Mr. Rain, I cannot thank you enough! It will only be for a few weeks, perhaps slightly more, but hardly any time at all, really. And I will reward you for your pains, most handsomely."

The lady beamed at him and heaved a great sigh. Simon was forced to rip his gaze from her decolletage.
Pains?
He had agreed to perform as her husband? He'd been so distracted, he hadn't even noticed.

She was clever. Too clever, for a mere mistress. Her ingenuity and persistence were something other than ordinary. Simon was forced to move her from "bystander" to "accomplice."

A party at Lord Winchel’s London house would fit into his plans anyway. All the better to keep his eye on this woman. And Winchell was definitely on his list of possibles, for the man lived very well, with high standing in both Society and the War Office. Winchell's position close to the Prime Minister alone made him worth investigating.

With the Liars' current manpower shortage—Simon suppressed the pain and loss—every man had to serve more than one purpose as it was. He could kill his two birds with one stone…

Carefully Simon focused his attention on the problem at hand, squelching his odd distraction. Yes, agreeing to her plan might yield a great deal of information.

But he wondered… what
precisely
had he agreed to?

It was a most agreeable dream.

Warm breath caressed Agatha's neck and she sighed. Turning into the heat, she stretched her body in luxurious delight. Reaching out, she stroked her hand over—

—the chill hard wood of the bedpost.

Snapped from her sensual half-dream, Agatha jerked upright. Her nighttime braid had slipped its knot and her hair spilled in front of her eyes. She pushed it hurriedly aside and sat very still, listening.

The chamber was the same unimpressive room as always, its squat furnishings not improved by the shadows. Unlike Jamie's chamber, she had made little effort to improve her own.

Yes, her window was still shut against the last chill of spring and the coals still glowed from her bedtime fire. So why were her nerves trembling? Why was her breath coming short and sharp, and her neck aquiver with sensation?