The Pretender (18 page)

But then, Simon had found it necessary to lean quite close to her, so perhaps she need not be embarrassed.

As far as Simon knowing, she was not uncomfortable with that at all. It seemed right that he should know.

When he'd asked her to share her story with him, she'd been prepared to lie. It was a little worrisome, how she lied so easily now.

Then when he had told her about his mother, the stark pain that had shone from his eyes for that one moment had made her want to give something back to him.

A truth for a truth.

"Are you ready to go home, Agatha?"

A misty rain had begun to fall on the market and Agatha watched those vendors not fortunate enough to work under permanent shelter scurry to cover their wares against the wet Simon was smiling at her. And Repulsive Reggie was far, far away.

Agatha smiled back. "Are you ready to talk about our plan?"

That white lightning smile crossed his face, the one that sent shivers up her spine and into her hair. Then she went entirely warm when he took her hand in his, fingers entwined.

"Very well, Agatha. We will discuss our plan in the carriage."

Every intelligent idea had flown from her head the moment he touched her, and all she could think was how much she wanted to kiss him again, this time in truth.

Her heart was growing somewhat attached, she feared. She resolved that she would think of Simon as she did Jamie. A brother, someone on whom she could depend, someone she could trust.

Not someone she could fall in love with.

The next morning, as they formed their plan in the blue parlor, Simon found out precisely what he had gotten himself into. Agatha had strategic abilities that some generals lacked and more than enough nerve to carry them out.

As usual, she was at her most attractive when she was using that surgically sharp mind of hers. At the moment, she sat on the floor next to where he sprawled in his customary chair. She was essentially ignoring him.

He hated that.

She was surrounded by a circle of opened invitations, with a calendar on her lap, writing in a notebook that contained the occupations and social connections of most of London's elite.

Even he had to admit that her information was excellent, if limited. When he remembered to think at all.

Her hair was down, pulled back into a simple braid that made him remember the way she wore it while she slept. She was clad for comfort, in an old flowered dress with a full skirt that didn't quite cover her white-stockinged ankles when she sat tailor-fashion.

He tried not to notice the free and delightful movement of her breasts under the muslin that proved she had abandoned her corset as well.

He wanted to take her hand and pull her down on the carpet with him, then roll around down there for the rest of the day. He blinked and cleared his throat.

Business.

"How did you come by those dossiers?"

She barely glanced at him, lost in concentration, twisting the end of her quill. "What's a dossier?"

If Simon weren't half-convinced that they would end up on opposite sides, he'd be in love. A woman with the mind of a master spy, the role-playing ability of a stage actress, and the body to make a man believe anything—

If only she would not choose the treasonous James, what he could do with a woman like her in his organization.

"A dossier is a file of information about someone, full of official and unofficial facts, gossip, et cetera."

He had finally gained her full attention. She was gazing at him with a puzzled but impressed expression. Somewhat belatedly, he realized that reciting definitions wasn't precisely in character.

"Button told me," he blurted desperately.

"Oh." She seemed to ponder this for a moment. "Perhaps we ought to bring Button in on this. He knows so much already, and there is no one like a valet for golden gossip."

"Really? How do you know?" Digging, always digging.

"Oh, James had one, before he joined the army."

Had Agatha known James that long? Or was this something that James had simply shared with her?

Damn, he wished he could simply question her for an hour, to hear every word James had ever told her, words that might tell him things she didn't even know that she knew.

An hour, a bright light, and a dose of opiate…

No, he wouldn't stoop to violating women, no matter how desperate he was for information.

And he was getting desperate. Something was brewing with the enemy, he could feel it like an itch under his skin.

A hunch was what people called it when the mind put information together in an inexplicable way, a way that didn't seem likely or possible. Most didn't trust it.

But he knew better. His information was very good, and usually he could reason things out consciously. But sometimes the facts came together in a feeling that he had learned to rely on over the years.

Something was most definitely afoot. He was very much afraid that he had work to do.

However, Agatha wanted to go housebreaking.

"I think I have our first victim. An adviser to the Prime Minister. If we can get into Lord May well's study, he may very well have information we can use to prove that Etheridge is the Griffin."

Always the bloody Griffin. "Not to mention the famous Maywell rubies."

Agatha scowled at him. "Simon, you are not to take a thing. I must insist. You'll endanger everything I've worked so hard for."

"Why?"

"Because if you get caught, it may come out that we aren't married and—"

"No, I mean why work so hard to find James? Perhaps he left you willingly. Perhaps he has decamped and is living high somewhere, not thinking of you at all."

She tilted her head and studied him for a moment. "I suppose I shouldn't expect you to understand. You've been alone for so long. James would never desert me. And I shall never abandon him."

It bothered him, all that strength and loyalty directed to another man. Especially one who was seeming more guilty by the hour.

He wished she had less faith in James.

And more faith in him.

Agatha rose from her seat on the carpet and rang the bell-pull for the butler. Pearson appeared as if she'd rubbed his magical lamp.

"Pearson, would you kindly ask Button to join us?"

Simon had to admire how Pearson could invest such wealth of meaning in one raised brow. When the butler left, Agatha turned her head to grin at Simon over her shoulder.

"Do you think they teach that in butler school?"

Simon nodded. "The right brow is for disapproval."

Agatha returned to sit on the floor before him. "What is the left brow for?"

"Severe disapproval."

She nodded. "And both brows?"

"You don't want to know."

Pearson returned, opening the door of the parlor and intoning, "Mr. Button is here to see you, madam." When he spied his lady employer's unseemly sprawl on the floor, he raised his left brow nearly to his hairline.

Both Simon and Agatha broke into snickers, sending Pearson away with an offended sniff.

Button was obviously uncomfortable. He stood before them with hands twisted together, growing paler by the moment.

Agatha was all concern. "Button, whatever is the matter?"

Simon glanced at her dryly. "He thinks you've called him down to sack him, Agatha."

"That's nonsense. I'm not sacking you, Button. I'm promoting you, and I shall grant you a raise in pay as well."

Simon thought Button might faint with relief.

"Pr-promoting me?" The little valet whipped out a lacy handkerchief the size of a pillowcase to mop his brow. "Oh my. I was so worried—"

"Well, you have nothing to worry about. You're the finest valet in town, and a veritable lockbox of confidentiality." Agatha stood and urged Button to a seat. "Poor dear, you're overcome. Let me have some tea brought in for you."

"Oh, no, madam. I'm fine now. It was just the thought of having to find another position…"

Button spared a moment for a theatrical shudder. "I'd never find another master with Mr. Rain's physique, or your taste and generosity, madam. My talents would never again have such a palette to work with."

"And you shine, Button, you truly shine. Why, everyone says that Mortimer Applequist is the absolute glass of fashion."

Button turned to peer at Simon in tearful adoration. "I know. He does me such credit. Not a speck of padding needed in the shoulders of his coat, and the way his tails fall— heaven, sheer heaven."

"Why, Button, you sound like a tailor."

The little fellow turned back to Agatha, fluttering his handkerchief. "Oh, thank you, madam. It is my dream to someday have my own exclusive sartory on Bond Street."

Simon sent Agatha a get-on-with-it look and she answered him with a just-a-moment flick of her eyelids.

"Button, you deserve nothing less. However, I do hope you'll remain with me for a while, as I've a special mission for you."

"A—a mission, madam? For me?"

Button appeared absolutely thrilled. Oh, hell. Not another amateur with delusions of glory.

"I know that you know everything about everyone in London."

"Well, only everyone who is anyone," demurred Button.

"Precisely. I need your information, Button." Agatha handed him her notebook. "Here are the people on my list. I want you to write down every detail you can think of, no matter how small."

She took Button's other hand in hers and pressed it down onto the notebook with great ceremony. "I cannot tell you any more than this, for your own safety. If you wish to withdraw, now is the time to speak."

Simon rolled his eyes. That was spreading it a bit thick, wasn't it? Button, however, was completely gulled, to judge by the smitten look on his puckish face.

"No, madam. I'll carry my mission through, you shall see."

"Thank you, Button. I knew I could count on you." Agatha leaned forward and kissed him on one cheek, then the other, as if she were sending him into battle that very morning.

Button rose, and Simon could swear the little chap stood three inches taller.

"I shall return when I have completed it, madam," he said formally. Then he paused. "I may need more paper than this."

Agatha nodded serenely. "I shall have Pearson deliver it to your quarters himself."

A twinkle of mischief pierced Button's solemnity. "He'll hate that."

Agatha smiled. "I know."

Chortling, Button bowed to Simon and Agatha. He left nearly strutting with pride.

When the door shut, Simon began a slow, sarcastic applause. "Encore! Encore!" he called.

Agatha wrinkled her nose at him. "Oh, shut it, Simon. I made him happy." She returned to her pile of invitations and sorted Lord Maywell's out of the mass. "This one's tonight. Do you think I might wear my green gown twice in one week?"

"How would I know? I'm no bloody valet," he growled.

She sat back on her heels and looked at him. "Why are you so grumpy?"

"Well, it seems like I've done a bit more for you than Button, and all I get is 'shut it, Simon.' "

"Poor little Simon." Cooing mockingly, Agatha rose to her knees and leaned on the arm of his chair. "Does he want a kiss, too?"

She was teasing, pouting her lips in an exaggerated kiss.

On impulse, Simon bent his head and pressed his lips to hers.