The Pretender (8 page)

For Jackham, one small misstep on a slippery and misted ledge had landed him on the cobbles from four stories up. He'd become an old man in his thirties, burdened with the never-ending pain from his shattered bones.

It was a lesson that Simon was careful to always keep in the forefront of his mind. He might have gone that route himself, if the Old Man, the old spymaster himself, hadn't plucked him from the streets and dusted the soot off to train him for intelligence work.

Being a sweep was practically sneakwork training after all, with all the climbing and working in the dark. Many a young sweep gave it a try when their bodies grew beyond the diameter of a chimney.

Simon wasn't a thief, although he knew why Jackham thought so. After all, when one masked black-clad man comes across another in the act of opening a wealthy man's safe in the middle of the night, assumptions will be made.

That night, Jackham had generously offered to share the contents with him, confessing that he was strictly a jewel man. Simon had taken the official papers held within but debated taking the money. In the end, he had decided it was necessary to his cover as a thief. Besides, the government-strangled coffers of the Liar's Club could use a bit of padding.

A partnership had arisen that night. Simon would choose the house and obtain the layout through bribery or trickery, and Jackham would apply his genius to the actual act of midnight entry and safe-breaking.

The Liar's Club had prospered, and Jackham had made a quick fortune, which he had just as promptly squandered. When the fall happened, Simon had just taken over from his predecessor, the Old Man. Simon had told Jackham that he was retiring as well, and he needed a manager for the club he was "buying."

It hadn't been easy keeping the real purpose of the Liar's Club secret from Jackham for all these years, but for all the fondness Simon felt for his friend, he had no illusions about Jackham's ultimate inability to refuse money. Not even in the form of a bribe to sell out his dearest friend.

So Jackham believed the boys in the back rooms were part of Simon's thieves' network and gleefully helped them plan many a break-in while tending the liquor and doing the books.

The club had renewed his interest in life and kept him feeling he was a part of the world he had lost.

Simon could see that the memories were turning Jackham's mood bleak. "You know, Jackham, the woman who danced with the giant snake was a nice bit. Why don't you bring her in for the customers? She can run one show for the marks out front, and then do one for our boys."

Jackham's eyes brightened at the idea of possible profit.

"She did have a right elegant act, didn't she? Brought us in a nice bit of change before. And the marks have seen her once, so they'll want to bring in their mates to prove they wasn't lying." His eyes narrowed. "Now, if even half of them bring a new face in, and even half of those want to join up…"

Simon grinned and left Jackham to his calculations, pleased that he had managed to get the man's mind off the past. There was nothing to be gained by looking backward, not when the road still stretched out ahead.

Simon's own road to the future was a straight one. He knew precisely what needed to be done and he knew he was the only man to do it. No matter how tempting the distractions.

Damn, but she was tempting, wasn't she?

The day was nearly gone and Mr. Rain still wasn't back from his outing. Agatha puttered about the house on Carriage Square for as long as she was able, but she wasn't used to idleness. For years she'd been busy with the estate. These past few days, Simon had filled her time and her thoughts.

No. Her
mission
had filled her thoughts.

But who fills your dreams?

Agatha ignored the little voice as she would a nagging fly. One couldn't help one's dreams. And if hers were filled with the noise and clatter of London streets, not to mention a certain pair of blue eyes—heavens, she'd never seen eyes so blue—well, that was a natural result of being unused to city life.

Irritated that she seemed unable to occupy herself without Simon, Agatha ventured into the kitchen. Sarah Cook, queen of her small domain, soon sent Agatha on her way with a sweet bun and a pointed hint. Pearson also had the household well in hand, so Agatha wasn't needed there, either.

She could write to her housekeeper back at Appleby. Surely there were some instructions she'd forgotten to offer Mrs. Bell as to the running of things.

No, to be honest, there was little she could tell her. Late spring was the easiest time of year in Lancashire. The apples were mere green marbles yet, and the sheep had lambed in early spring and had been sheared a month past.

Not that she was eager to return her mind to the tedium that had been hers for years. When the time came to tend Appleby once more, she would. However, the longer she could go without counting lambs or casks of cider, the better.

She'd always been content enough with country life before she'd come to London, although perhaps not entirely happy. She had secretly bemoaned her own restless nature and had done her best to suppress it. Papa had depended on her to see to the day-to-day things—and now Jamie did as well.

Jamie wasn't precisely neglectful of her, but he didn't visit as much as she would have liked. Instead she had to satisfy her need for family contact through his faithful correspondence.

Perhaps she needed children. She liked them very much, and the act of holding a babe had lately brought her near to tears of longing, yet Agatha couldn't think of a single man in Appleby she would want to wed.

Certainly not Repulsive Reggie. Not for his title, not for his lands, not even to stay close to her home. Agatha shuddered even now to think of his groping hands and the way his panting breath had felt on her face.

Forcing her mind back to the present, Agatha shook off the past. She had spent far too much of her life dreading him, certain that he was waiting for another chance to have her in his power. Besides, she had a chimneysweep to train.

And wasn't he coming along splendidly? There was much satisfaction to be found in helping someone achieve his potential. Perhaps she was meant to teach, for she affirmed privately that she had considerable natural skill. Just look what she had done with the man in a few short days!

Of course, she must allow him a certain amount of credit. He certainly was a lovely bundle of raw material. Those eyes… and that physique. Such long legs, and the way that the tails of his coat fell just so over his muscular…

"Goodness, it's become warm in here," Agatha muttered to herself, fanning her face restlessly.

As she went to confer with Button over the best use of Simon's new wardrobe, Agatha wondered why it should be that feeling Simon's hard body pressed to hers had felt nothing like being pinned by Reggie's vile weight.

The evening of the supper dance finally came around. Agatha was pacing again. How many miles had she paced since all this had begun? Though the fire burned brightly in the grate, she rubbed her bare arms against a chill.

Her gown lay on the bed, but she didn't really wish to put it on.

If she dressed, then she would have to leave. If she left, she would have to go to Winchell's. And if she went to Winchell's, her lies would ultimately be exposed in a most public and embarrassing way.

Not that her pride mattered precisely, but going home would be bad enough. Going home in shame would only be worse.

Stopping before the gown, Agatha squinted at the rich green satin, picturing it in her mind against Lady Winchell's elegant apparel. Well, it would have to do. Unfortunately, she hadn't thought of needing much fine dress when she'd left Appleby.

The green was really the only thing she had. Not that anything she had left behind would have been any better. Spending all her life in the country hadn't prepared her wardrobe for the elegant competition of London fashion.

Still, the fabric was fine enough, and she had spent the afternoon retrimming it more modishly. Agatha pressed a hand to her middle and attempted to take a deep breath.

She despised lacing up so tightly, but the gown had been made a few years ago, and certain parts of her had grown in the interim.

The little porcelain clock on the mantel chimed. She had best ready herself for the night ahead.

She helped Nellie pull the skirts over her head. It was a pity, really. It would have been nice to face Mr. Rain in something a bit more appealing.

Simon firmly commanded his fists to unclench. Button was only doing his job. The fact that his fluttering and worrying were driving "the master" mad had more to do with Simon's misgivings about tonight's appearance.

He knew he could pull it off, of course. No one would know him for himself. If any did, they would no more claim acquaintance than he would, for their own protection.

And it wasn't that he didn't look fine. He had to admit that while Mortimer might be a nauseating fellow, he was a snappy dresser. Agatha had spared no expense on his wardrobe. He looked quite the first stare of fashion.

It was being the center of attention that worried him, he decided. Now, after all these years of keeping a low profile, it felt distinctly odd to be putting himself forward like this. He might as well dye himself red and flee before the hounds.

He still wasn't truly sure why he was going through with this, and that worried him as well. Oh, an invitation into Winchell's house was handy, but he could easily get in on his own.

As for this place, he was beginning to think there was nothing here. He had searched the house every night for a week and found nothing at all. Not a letter, not a word, not a clue.

By all the signs, the "Applequists" intended no more than the most temporary residence here. There were no hidden safe-boxes, no false-bottom drawers, no mysteriously hollow walls. The house was just as it seemed.

Agatha, however, was not. She was keeping something from him. Her manner was too friendly, too trusting and relaxed. Simon hadn't let his guard slip once since the waltz lesson, no matter how her sweetness had tempted him.

He had to admit, she was a consummate professional. He only wished he could be sure what profession.

Button gave a last aggrieved sigh and reluctant tug on the cravat.

"I suppose that will have to do, sir."

Button looked as though he wanted to cry. Simon examined himself in the mirror but could see nothing awry. Trying not to roll his eyes at the little valet's perfectionism, he clapped the fellow on the shoulder.

"Capital job, Button. Simply capital!" Giving his waistcoat a tug and casting an "I-am-Mortimer-king-of-all-I-survey" look in the glass, Simon sauntered out of the bedchamber in search of Agatha.

If he had to do this, he would just as soon get it over with. He wondered idly what Agatha was wearing.

The blasted gown was too tight. Agatha stretched up on her toes to check her neckline in the gilt mirror hanging over the small table in the front hall. Yes, it was far too tight. Oh, why hadn't she had a new wardrobe made for herself when she had ordered Simon's?

Well, she would, forthwith. But what was she to do tonight?