The Pretender (11 page)

Agatha smiled at her partner and curtsied low. When another fellow approached her for the next set, she pleaded exhaustion and slipped away.

It wasn't a fib at all, for she was full weary of being ogled and manhandled. She felt as though her figure led them to think she relished such attention. Rarely had she dealt with such disrespect.

Apparently there were two sides to this freedom coin.

And Simon had played his part all too well. She had spent the first part of the evening watching his every move, watching him laugh with the men and flirt with the ladies.

She'd had to force herself to stop so that she could do her own investigating into any rumors of the Griffin's true identity—which abounded. But through the last few hours she had tried to keep an eye on Simon.

So had many of the other women in attendance. Agatha quite feared she had created a monster in Mortimer Applequist. A flirting, charming monster wearing Simon's handsome face.

Where was he now? Agatha searched the ballroom from her perch on the third stair. There were many men with dark hair, some tall, some not, but there was no one with Simon's particular catlike grace.

He wasn't dancing. He wasn't gaming. The call to go in to supper was half an hour off.

Inasmuch as she had found all that she had come for, there was no reason to stay any longer. Besides, she thought it best if Simon left before supper. She wasn't at all confident of his newly acquired table manners.

Could he have gone into the gardens? She couldn't think why he would. Only couples seemed to be using the torch-lit graveled paths that wound away into the greenery. What in the world could one see in the garden at night, anyway?

Still, perhaps she ought to check. She started down the extravagant stairs to the ballroom floor, for the large open doors to the gardens were on the other side of the enormous room.

At that moment, her attention was caught by two figures who sidestepped her with absent nods and exited into the hall. The two gentlemen bypassed the gaming room and moved down the gallery, turning a corner that led back into the house.

If she wasn't mistaken, one of them was Lord Winchell himself.

Was there a smoking room set up deeper in the house? She hadn't been told of one, but if it was a gentlemen's chamber, there was no reason why she would have been.

Following the men at a slight distance, she could hear Winchell's words to his companion.

"If you'll join me in my study, I can show you the plans I've had drawn up for the new hospital wing. I think you'll see that my ideas are far superior—"

"Oh, I say, Winchell! Is this the painting you told me about? What a magnificent work! What detail…"

Art was fine enough in its place, but Agatha needed to find Simon. If Winchell was only going to his study, it wasn't likely that Simon would be joining him there as well.

She was about to turn back when she saw something glinting on the floor at her feet.

A cuff stud. Idly she picked it up and turned it in her fingers. Gold, inset with lapis.

Dear heaven, it was one of Simon's! She had chosen it herself because the stone so perfectly matched his eyes. What purpose could a chimneysweep have in skulking about in the halls of Winchell's house? Ignoring the tiny voice that reminded her that she herself was skulking, Agatha fumed.

He was going to get them both in trouble. If he was caught and ruined his charade, she'd be revealed as well.

She hadn't come this far to be thrown from her course by an ill-trained rascal like Simon. Keeping to the shadows of the wide passage, Agatha eased around the two men who were avidly debating the merits of the artist.

With her back to the wall, ready to smile and plead lack of direction, Agatha moved to the nearest doorway. Pressing the door handle, she thrust her head in and looked quickly about. Nothing.

The next room revealed only chill darkness as well. Sliding her feet and moving slowly to minimize the rustling of her skirts the way she used to do to sneak past her governess, Agatha slipped into the subsequent embrasure.

She knew the moment she saw candlelight through the first crack of the doorway that she had found Simon. Casting a glance back down the passage, she checked on Lord Winchell.

Blast! He was headed her way! Only his absorption in his conversation kept him from spying her immediately. Agatha slipped into the room.

She had taken a breath to warn Simon when she realized three things simultaneously.

First, the richly paneled room with the gigantic desk was certainly Lord Winchell's study. Second, the half-dressed woman sprawled upon the sofa was assuredly Lord Winchell's wife.

And third, the half-dressed man opening Lord Winchell's wall safe was undeniably her Simon.

Simon turned at the slight sound behind him, thinking that Lavinia was rousing. His heart sank when he saw Agatha's wide, betrayed gaze.

He opened his mouth to say something, anything to remove that look of suspicion from her brown eyes. Before he could cover his presence there, she burst into action.

With a flying leap, she wrapped her hands around the arm of the sofa. Grunting, she swiveled it a quarter-turn to face the fire. Then in a quick motion she flung a lap quilt from its perch upon the back to conceal what was still visible of Lady Winchell's sprawling limbs.

After, she turned to him and threw herself into his arms while thrusting one hand behind his neck to pull his mouth down to hers.

Rigid with surprise at first, it only took an instant for Simon to kiss her back. He pressed his lips against her tightly closed ones, tickling the seam of her mouth with his tongue.

She almost pulled away, then pressed into him with renewed force. Her full breasts softened to his naked chest in precisely the way he had dreamed.

Forgetting his mission, forgetting the fact that they stood in a stranger's study, in a stranger's house, Simon gave in to the siren call of her softness.

He wrapped one arm about her waist and pulled her to him, raising her to her tiptoes in his need to feel her body next to his. With his other hand, he shoved his fingers into her hair and pressed her mouth closer still for his ravishment.

Her lips parted slightly in surprise and he touched again lightly with his tongue, encouraging her to open to him. Why wouldn't she kiss him deeply, the way he ached for her to?

The door opened.

"I must show you this, Bingly—Great Scott!"

"I say—isn't that Applequist?"

Simon froze with Agatha in his arms. Ah. Not a fit of amour, then.

She must have known Winchell was on his way in and had flung herself at him to cover his undressed state. Even while his mind blessed her quick thinking, his body protested her lack of true intent.

"Oh!" Agatha pulled her mouth from his to gaze at Winchell in very believable shock and alarm.

"Oh, I say—isn't that
Mrs
. Applequist?"

"Ah, yes, well… newlyweds, you know, Bingly," mumbled Winchell, obviously torn between amusement and embarrassment himself. "What say we give them a moment to compose themselves, eh?"

He pushed the fellow out of the doorway. "Have you seen my new watercolors? I've discovered the most talented chap…"

The door swung slowly behind them, and Simon relaxed his grip on Agatha, relief filling his lungs with blessed air.

Then Winchell stuck his head back in.

"Five minutes, Applequist. And for God's sake, man, put your shirt on." Then the door was shut in truth.

Agatha pressed her face into his bare chest, apparently unable to conceal her laughter. At least, Simon thought it was laughter. He was feeling a bit giddy himself.

But when Agatha pulled away, he saw only accusation in her angry eyes.

"You're a thief! A common parlor thief!"

"Agatha, we've only got a few moments. Can we fling epithets later?"

"No, I rather think I'd like to fling them now. How could you endanger my purpose so carelessly? I could be sent back to—" She halted, mouth still open.

Simon was desperately curious. "Where? Sent back to where?"

She shut her mouth with a click. "Never you mind. What are we going to do with Lady Winchell? We can't simply leave her there, all… What did you do to her?"

"Me? Not a thing. She merely drank a bit too much brandy."

"Brandy melts one's clothing off, does it?"

Chuckling despite her scornful glower, Simon nodded. "It has been known to on occasion."

"We cannot leave her here. He's bound to realize that she was in here all along, and then I will have kissed you for nothing."

Simon stiffened. "Pardon me. I'd no idea it was such a sacrifice."

"Oh, you know what I mean. Grab her arms."

Together they got Lavinia back on her feet, if one could call swaying like a badly set Maypole standing upright. Her head hung off her shoulders like a dead woman's, and Simon wondered absently if she had killed herself with her greed.

He didn't much care, one way or another, except that for her husband to find her when he returned would be inconvenient in the extreme.

"There is a dark sitting room next to this one. You hold her—no, I'll hold her up while you check the hall."

Simon turned his portion of Lavinia's weight over to Agatha and obeyed without protest, all the while adding up the events of the last few moments.

Agatha was quite the little professional, wasn't she? Cool as seawater, this one. Simon reminded himself that he was dealing with a woman who had likely seen it all and done her share of it.

Most important, she had revealed that she had a mission of her own, perhaps more than simply finding her lover.

Where was it she was in danger of being sent? Gaol? The Colonies?

There was no one in sight in the hall, and they managed to get Lavinia into the next sitting room and arrange her to look as though she had been drinking alone.

Simon grouped the filched decanter and single glass in a messy spill at her feet while Agatha did her best to repair the lady's torn bodice.

"I suppose she did this herself, as well?" Agatha shot him an acid look as she used her own lace to hide the worst of the damage.

"Most assuredly." Simon blinked innocently at her while he reassembled himself. He was missing a cuff stud. Oh, well, he'd just have to tuck it into his coat sleeve and hope it—

The lost stud gleamed in Agatha's pink palm, held before his nose.

"I believe you lost this. In the hall outside."

"Ah, I was wondering how you found me. That was quick thinking."

"That was unbridled terror," she shot back.

She took a last look around the room, then glanced at the clock on the mantel. "Three and a half minutes. Plenty of time left to hear your explanation."

"Not quite. I never did get to finish up in there."

Agatha went truly ashen. "You don't dare!"

With a wink and a tip of an imaginary hat, Simon dared. She came after him, tugging at his arm at the door to Winchell's study. "Don't do this, Simon. You don't have to do this."

"It'll only take a moment, love. You stand here and tap the door if Winchell comes back early."

"I'll not assist this! You will not go back—"

Simon shut the door on her objections, leaving her fuming on the other side.

Quickly Agatha turned to face the empty hallway, trying to assume a nonchalant pose against the door. Inside, however, she was anything but calm.

Her heart was pounding like a racing horse, and she knew it wasn't because of their close call. Simon's mouth on hers had been something of a revelation. She could still feel the shocking intimacy of his tongue sweeping across her mouth and the way that her breasts had tingled and tightened against his hard chest.

She'd only gripped his wide bare shoulders for a moment, but the heated rippling of his muscles against her palms still lingered, making her want to tighten her fists to keep him in her hands.

She desired Simon. Somehow, she'd managed to keep the fact from herself for an entire week. Oh, she'd been aware of some attraction, but not this pulsating ache in her belly and below that made her want to pull him down on Winchell's sofa for another round.

This was a complication that bore more reflection. Later. When she wasn't in imminent danger of being publicly exposed. And perhaps after she was no longer panting to be half-naked in Simon's arms.

Like Lavinia. Anger coiled through Agatha at the image in her mind. Ah, yes. It was quite astonishing how pure fury could erase the smoldering embers of arousal. That was something she'd take care to remember in the future.

Inside Winchell's study, Simon had returned to the wall safe. Thank goodness Winchell had been too distracted by the disturbed lovers to see that the painting that concealed his safe hung askew because the safe door itself was wide open.

With quick, sensitive fingers, Simon sorted through the documents and stacks of cash that filled the small square box.

There was nothing conclusive inside. Some rather sensitive documents, yes, but nothing that Winchell shouldn't have in his possession, considering his standing in the War Office. It was a bit surprising to find them stored at his residence, but perhaps the man took his work home with him.

Finally satisfied with what he did and did not find, Simon shut the heavy iron door and fiddled the lock back into action with his picks.

Straighten the picture here, shove the sofa back there, and, with a last glance about the room, the job was done. Not well and not without erecting some entirely new obstacles, but done just the same.

Now on to the hardest part. Convincing Agatha not to decry him for a "common parlor thief."

What nonsense. He was anything but common.

It was difficult leaving the party. Agatha tried her best not to blush while giving her regrets to Lord Winchell, but his grandfatherly reproof made her realize what a picture she must have made, wrapped in Simon's arms.

Simon, the rat, remained cool and relaxed, making his little bow of regret and the excuse of her—her!—headache as if the man had never seen a thing.

The one bright side was that their early departure would be entirely forgotten when his lordship discovered why his lady wife would not be joining everyone for supper. If only they managed to depart first!