The Pretender (20 page)

Having Simon pressed to her back was very nearly as exciting as having him pressed to her front.

"Here." It was a soundless whisper in her ear, and Simon pushed on her shoulders until she knelt before the keyhole.

Agatha put her eye to the small circle of light and saw that she must not be in the study, for the study plainly was the next room.

Then she heard rustling and footsteps and angled her head to see to the left a bit.

A man stood, examining a sheaf of papers by the light of a candle. He was very tall, and his back was broad. He was dressed for evening, as far as she could see, and his hair was dark.

"It's Etheridge," came Simon's voice like a feather in her ear.

Agatha eagerly pressed closer to the keyhole, willing Lord Etheridge to turn around.

With a disgruntled huff, the figure in the study straightened the papers in his hand and turned.

Agatha jumped and almost fell from her crouch. Simon pulled her tightly against him.

"What? What did you see?"

Agatha pointed, although of course Simon couldn't see her gesture in the dark. "Lord Etheridge…"

"What?"

"Lord Etheridge is Uncle Dalton."

"Are you telling me you've had entry to Etheridge's all along?"

They were back at Carriage Square, having made their escape from the anteroom of the study without detection and made their regrets to their harried hostess, who was dealing with a flock of swallows that had somehow swept into her kitchens.

Agatha sat penitently on the sofa in the parlor, nervously toying with a small tasseled pillow in her lap. Simon was pacing before her, anger boiling within him.

When he thought of all the ridiculous chances he'd taken this week, although he had found some interesting documents. Yet the exertion he had gone to—well, some of it had been rather fun.

"I didn't know he was Lord Etheridge, I told you. Collis called him Uncle Dalton, and Uncle Dalton introduced himself as Dalton Montmorency. Good lord, Simon. I don't have the peerage
memorized,
you know."

Simon did. All his operatives did.

But Agatha wasn't an operative. He was finally sure of it.

He glared at her, as if it were her fault that she wasn't. She was stroking the tassels in long, slow movements, petting the velvet and silk almost as if—

Simon shook his head. He'd wasted a week on her foolishness.

"So do you think Uncle Dalton is the Griffin?" Agatha asked.

"Stop calling him Uncle Dalton, for heaven's sake. He's riot your uncle. He's no older than me."

Agatha shrugged, playing idly with an especially long, thick tassel. The way her fingers stroked down the length of it made his ears pound.

"Well, technically, you are old enough to be my uncle, if my mother were your older sister."

Simon bent over her and snatched the pillow from her grasp.
"I'm not your bloody uncle!"

Agatha jumped up and stood in his path. "Fine! You're not my bloody uncle! Dalton Montmorency is not my bloody uncle!" She glared at him, fists on her hips. "I asked if you think Dalton Montmorency is the bloody Griffin!"

Simon glared back at her. "
No
."

Agatha grumbled and dropped her hands, returning to sit on the sofa. "Oh, why am I asking you? I know more about the Griffin than you do."

Now that hurt. That truly hurt. Here he was, a bloody expert on the bloody Griffin, and she didn't believe a word.

Simon rubbed his face. What did he care what she believed? He was losing his mind.
She
was losing it for him.

"Look, Aggie—"

"Don't call me that. James calls me that. You'll have to come up with your own pet name."

"I don't want to call you pet names," growled Simon. "I want to engrave them on your headstone!"

Agatha eyed him reproachfully. "Honestly, Simon. I know you haven't been at this sort of thing for very long, but you really must acquire a bit of self-restraint."

She stood, then clasped her hands behind her back. This had the unfortunate effect of decreasing the flow of blood to Simon's brain, for the movement thrust her magnificent breasts virtually under his nose.

Oh, he wanted to bury her all right. He wanted to cover her with his body and take his time driving her as mad as he was becoming.

"I'm going to bed."

Simon shut his eyes in surrender. She couldn't be so ignorant that she didn't know what she did to him. In this field, he had to accede to the master.

"Very well, Agatha. You go to bed. I'm going out."

He stalked past her, leaving behind his coat and hat, and slammed the front door behind him. He wouldn't be going to bed for quite a while, if the state of his erection meant anything.

It wasn't until he was a hundred yards down the walk that he realized he still clutched the small tasseled pillow in his fist.

Her sweet and citrusy scent rose from the velvet. God, was he never free of her? Simon was tempted to toss the bloody thing into the gutter.

Instead, he lifted it to his nose and wondered if Pearson would miss it if he kept it.

The starvation had worked. James Cunnington was now as clear-headed as he could be without a few good meals inside him.

He remained very still upon his pallet, which led his captors to believe him so weakened that they ceased bothering him at all. Apparently, he'd become a very boring fellow.

He'd been able to drink his fill every day, but he continued to avoid the bread. He rode the thin edge of starvation, he knew. There was now a sort of dreamy clarity to everything, his mind at once sharp and yet detached.

He was able to consider his escape from all logical points, calculating the probabilities of his death coolly. He wasn't suicidal, simply supremely uninvolved. The goal was to get out alive, but he had no fear, no anxiety about failure.

After due consideration, he had decided that taking on the vicious Bull was unlikely to work. He couldn't battle him while tied, and hadn't even when he was stronger.

Once he had thrown out plans wild and unlikely, it seemed that the best thing would be to remove a few planks from one of the inner walls of his little cell. If he was in luck, he'd find himself in another cabin or hold that might not be locked up tight.

The trick was how to do it without causing so much noise that he'd be investigated immediately.

And perhaps more to the point, how was he to remove the planks at all? The ship was old and in sorry disrepair, but he wasn't in any better shape himself. Unless he could come upon some sort of lever, he'd be faced with pulling the bloody ship apart with his fingernails.

The only things in his cabin were his pallet, made from moldy sailcloth stuffed with even moldier straw, and his water container. The sorry dented pail had no handle at all, which he might have used to force the nails from their planks.

Still, there was something about the pail that teased his brain. He picked it up in his bound hands to examine it more closely. Suppose…

Abruptly he dashed the contents to the floor and crawled to the partition with the worst warpage. Holding the pail by the bottom, he managed to wedge the rim under one corner of a plank. Perhaps it would work as a sort of grapple hook.

He pulled on the outer edge of the rim, only really able to lean his weight away while he held on with a shaking grip. The plank shifted finally but gave a loud squeal of protest.

Too loud. He halted the experiment for the moment.

When he released the pail, he noticed that the raw edge of the tin had scratched his palm. It probably stung, but he was too distanced from his body to care.

What interested him was the sharp metal. He sat on his pallet with his back to the door. Should someone come, he'd be thrust away and his activity concealed. Gripping the pail between his knees, he dragged the ropes that bound his hands across the rim again and again.

After several minutes, he inspected his work. A number of small strands within the thick rope were shredded. It wasn't much, but it was far more than he'd ever managed with his teeth.

A rumble of thunder penetrated past the creaking and sloshing sounds of the old fishing boat. He began again, working steadily. Cutting through was going to take hours.

No matter. He had the time. He had the means. And from the sound of things, nature was going to provide the opportunity.

What he needed was a distraction, preferably something loud, to keep his captors too busy to hear or care about their prisoner's doings.

What he needed was a storm.

Another rumble came, louder this time. James smiled grimly and set to work on his bonds.

Simon hadn't come home last night.

Of course, Agatha hadn't sat up waiting for him. She had quite properly gone straight to bed. True, she had slept with her door slightly open and one ear aimed at Simon's room even in her restless sleep, but that did not count as waiting
up
for someone.

When she had finally risen it had been past nine. Assuming she had missed his entry and that he would be past impatient waiting for her to come down, she had hurried her toilette.

Simon had not appeared at the table, nor had he come home by the time she had taken her tea. By then she had been completely dying to see him, for included in today's post had been something very special.

An invitation to an informal dinner at Etheridge House for tomorrow night.

She had posted an immediate acceptance, of course, although the late notice of the invitation had earned a dark glare at the richly monogrammed paper. Dalton Montmorency was certainly sure of himself. Wasn't that just like a man?

Agatha had been enormously satisfied with this outcome until one thought had occurred to her.

If tomorrow night revealed Lord Etheridge as the Griffin— and somehow she managed to convince him to tell her where to find Jamie—then she would have no reason to hold Simon to his agreement.

She wanted Jamie home safe.

Yet she also wanted Simon to stay with her.

Forever.

That was the thought that had her pacing the house in Carriage Square. She had argued with herself until the sun began to drop in the sky. Here she was still, repudiating her feelings to the empty room.

Oh, blast. Who was she trying to convince? She was a complete goner, and there was no denying it. This was what all the stories were about, this feeling of being one-half of something larger than oneself. Of being bereft when one's other half was gone.

True, she hadn't known him long, but she knew that they were a perfect partnership. She knew that when she was with him, she was understood.

From the moment she'd first seen him, she had been captivated. First by his appearance, it was true. Indeed, what was all that masculine perfection for, if not to attract?

But the man within was what kept her enthralled. She'd seen handsome men before, enough to know that the outside didn't always reflect a superior inside. Yet Simon had been with her in this house for weeks and had never pressed unfair advantage. Even Nellie had reported nothing but gentlemanly behavior when discreetly questioned.

Simon was a thief, the product of a past she couldn't even imagine. The difference in their classes should make him the last man she should want. Yet wasn't the definition of a gentleman a man with honor and strength enough that he would never take advantage of those weaker than himself?