The Pretender (25 page)

She finished it for him. "And he is a patriot. He would force himself to choose England, to choose the greater good. Then he would blame himself for abandoning his family for the rest of his life."

"Yes." He considered her for a moment. "I'm glad you understand, Aggie. You've grown up a great deal in the last month, haven't you?"

She sat on the sofa near his knees and tucked up one slippered foot beneath her. For a moment she regarded him sadly. "I've been growing up for years, Jamie. You simply haven't been there to see it."

James did not reply. There was no defense of his abandonment of her. He had told himself that writing letters showed his devotion. He had promised himself that he would visit, just as soon as things settled down, as soon as he finished the next mission…

The truth was that he loved his work. He loved the risk and the intrigue. He was the master of sabotage in the Liar's Club. The mighty Griffin, who moved with the stealth of a lion and struck with the accuracy of an eagle, the man called upon in one desperate scenario after another.

And he simply hadn't wanted to miss a moment of it.

As if she could read his thoughts, Agatha shook her head in bemusement. "To think you were the Griffin all along."

James tried to lighten the mood. "What? You don't think your older brother could be a blade at the throat of Napoleon?"

She snorted. "Don't get full of yourself around me, James Cunnington. I've seen you in your winter drawers."

He raised one fist and struck a haughty pose. "The Griffin does not wear drawers! The Griffin is not human enough to need drawers!"

"Baggy drawers yet. Baggy and gray with washing," mused Agatha. "I wonder if the Voice of Society would be interested in knowing about that?"

"Watch it, Aggravation. You're not too big to tickle."

"I am so."

James moved as if to prove his point. Though it was a weak gesture, Agatha jumped up with her hands held in front of her in defense.

"Fine! Whatever you say, O Master Griffin, sir."

Glad that he had been able to lift the sadness in her eyes, if even for a moment, James took one of her outstretched hands in his and settled back against his cushions.

"I'm glad to be home again."

"You aren't home yet."

He tilted his head, smiling at her. "Appleby is just a house and some trees. You are my family."

Abruptly her slight smile crumpled into tears. James pulled her close. She curled up on top of his quilt, face tucked into his neck.

He should never have left her so long. If he had been a better brother, none of this would have happened. She would not have come to London unprotected, she would not have been ruined…

"Agatha, we need to talk about your future. How many people know that Simon was not really Mortimer Applequist?"

She sniffled, then shrugged. "No one."

"Not even your servants?" This was excellent news.

"No. Pearson might have his suspicions after last night, but he'd never utter a word. The rest of the world believes wholeheartedly. Simon was very convincing once I—" She stopped, pressing her lips together.

James eyed her carefully. "What is it?"

Agatha flushed angrily. "I just realized. He never needed etiquette lessons at all, did he?"

James almost laughed out loud. "Simon? Oh, lord, no. He could pass as a gentleman in any ballroom—"

That had apparently not been the best way to put that, for Agatha's anger began to flare higher.

"That—that rat!" She grabbed a pillow from the sofa and flung it at the wall. "I took his hand in mine to show him how to hold
a fork!
That sneak! That unbelievable… rat… sneak…
bastard!"

James blinked. "He told you that?"

"If I ever see that man again, I'll
kill
him! Even if I don't see him again, I shall kill him!" Another pillow struck the wall, and a painting teetered. Agatha glared at the sofa. "There's a pillow missing."

Then she slumped onto the cushions once more. "I made Mortimer up," she muttered. "I can unmake him just as easily…"

"Aggie, pay attention. Did Simon tell you that he was a bastard?"

"What? Yes, of course. He told me all about his mother, and sleeping in alleyways…" She turned to look at him, becoming pale. "Did he make that up as well?"

"No, Aggie, he didn't." Dear God, he had told her about his
mother?
Even James had never heard those details.

That could only mean one thing.

For the first and only time in all the years James had known him…

Simon was in love.

After sitting with Jamie most of the day, Agatha had persuaded him to return to his bed for an early night. Now she paced restlessly in her own bedchamber, ignoring her own bed entirely, despite the fact that she had told Jamie she was tired as well and ready to retire.

Her anger threatened to overwhelm her, yet she clung to the strength it gave her, feeding it with thoughts of Simon's lies.

For Simon couldn't marry her, and she couldn't rightly force him to. If he'd fought marriage for any other reason than service to his country, she might have found some way to combat his decision.

For truth be told, she would do just about anything to have him. Lie, cheat, steal to have him, and to hell with her already severely endangered soul.

But he was too important to England, too devoted to his people.

What mortal woman could compete with that? What worthy woman would want to?

And to be honest, could she bear a lifetime of being second in his heart? She had no illusions of her own selflessness.

She would grow to hate it, and the hatred would grow and the love would shrink, until she'd loathe the very sight of his sheets of figures and equations—

No… that was Papa's mathematics she was thinking of.

Were Papa and Simon the same? Had she made the fatal mistake of falling in love with a man who could give her no more than indifferent attention and absent-minded affection?

Good lord, she'd be mad to do that!

And yet, there was no denying that she had done precisely that. And would do it again.

If Simon so much as crooked his finger at her, she would gladly throw her life away on those scraps of him that were left when his grand purpose was done.

And it would destroy her. Already, she was filled with self-loathing that she could resent her own homeland for taking him from her.

Why couldn't she have fallen in love with a simple man? Someone cheerful and uncomplicated, like young Collis Tremayne?

Absently she realized that she'd forgotten about the much-sought-after invitation to Etheridge House. She should be there now, she and Mortimer both.

Of course, Mortimer wouldn't be making any more parties. He was dead, as was any chance of her living happily ever after with Simon.

Dead…

Of course.

Quickly, she went to her little escritoire and pulled a sheet of foolscap from the drawer. If she hurried, she could send Harry immediately, and still get it into tomorrow's issue.

She only wished she could be present to see Simon's face.

Simon was in no mood to be patient the next morning as he struggled to make his way against the tide of traffic. He'd made a later start than usual this morning, after spending many sleepless hours lost in thoughts of Agatha.

The walks were crowded with pedestrians, and the streets were completely locked with carriages and carts. The teeming populace of London was on its morning rounds.

Simon growled as he was shouldered by yet another person walking the opposite direction.

"Sorry, guv'nor," said a familiar voice.

Quickly, Simon glanced over his shoulder to see the slouching figure of Feebles slipping away through the crowd. Simon didn't slow his pace, or react in any obvious way, but his hand slid to the inner breast pocket of his jacket.

His fingers met the crackle of paper. Paper that had not been there when he'd left his house shortly before.

Walking with the same impatient stride, Simon passed through the entrance of the Liar's Club without a glance at its Gothic facade.

Immediately he could feel himself relax. Here he was a respected leader, not a bastard chimneysweep, not a lowborn man who had ruined a lady.

Damn her for toying with his mind, for making him remember and acknowledge the man he had tried to leave behind years ago. He had dredged it all up for her, shown her the lowest side of himself…

And still she had said she loved him.

Simon pushed her away, from his thoughts and from his heart. He was more than that here.

He was the Magician.

Feeling much more the thing now, Simon strode through to the kitchen. Already steamy with the day's baking, the kitchen was warm and welcoming.

Simon snatched a fresh-baked roll from the pan cooling on the massive scarred table in the center of the room. Kurt turned with a swift growl, but the roll was already stuffed in Simon's cheek and his hands were empty.

Simon even managed his usual irreverent salute as he left the kitchen for Jackham's office.

The old fellow wasn't about yet—Jackham's aching bones didn't rise from bed as well these days—but Simon didn't mind. He had some reading to do.

He settled onto Jackham's spring-ridden old sofa and pulled Feebles's gift from his pocket.

It was today's news, folded to display a page of Announcements. Someone had married, or birthed a child, or died. Someone of interest to the Liar's Club.

Simon scanned the names, trailing one finger down the page. When he found it, his mouth actually dropped open for a moment. Then his jaw clenched tight with anger, along with his fist. The paper in his hand was reduced to a crumpled ball.

Someone had died all right.

He had.

Agatha had killed off Mortimer Applequist.

"That rat didn't deserve to live!"

"I know, but, Aggie—"

James rubbed his face with both hands. Not a good sign. He only did that when he was about to lose his patience. Agatha finned herself against his disapproval. No one would tell her what to do with her life. Not even her beloved brother.

He took a deep breath and smiled at her across the small table in his room where they shared breakfast. Agatha narrowed her eyes and pointed an egg-laden fork at him.

"Don't charm me, Jamie. It won't work."

"I only wish you had consulted me before running off to the news with this outrageous story. Declaring a man dead who is all too obviously still breathing is bad enough. But to claim… what was it again?"

He glanced down at the news-sheet in his hands and quoted, " 'Mr. Applequist met his end yesterday evening in a tragic incident with his masculine unmentionables. Apparently he was strangled to his death—' "

Agatha toyed with her fork. Perhaps she had gone a bit too far. But it had seemed such a lovely vengeance at the time. "He ought to be strangled for telling me such lies!"

"But, Aggie, to call such attention to yourself? You aren't in any shape to stand up to scrutiny right now. Should it be discovered that your marriage was a sham and that you have been living with a man for weeks unmarried, you'll be past ruined!"