The Pretender (29 page)

Mrs. Trapp wiggled deeper into her seat cushion, and Agatha recognized the signs that a particularly choice piece of information was on its way.

"Well, you'd not know this, dear, for you're new to town, but Lavinia Winchell is…"

The lady leaned forward and looked to each side, as if to look out for eavesdroppers. Agatha stifled a hysterical giggle, for the parlor was chockablock with ladies, who had all gone silent and leaned forward as well.

"French."

Agatha stared at her. "But so many people are, Mrs. Trapp. There was such a flood of them emigrating during the Terror."

"True, true. But it does account for those airs, you know. Good English stock has no need of such pretty ways."

The woman spoke as if all English ladies were corn-fed and pastured, chewing their cud. The fact that the fashionable set slavishly copied the French whenever possible, in style and in social graces, seemed to have escaped her entirely.

Of course, the Trapp daughters were rather bovine, with their square faces and large, bland eyes. At the moment, both young women blinked slowly at Agatha, jaws moving from side to side while they downed another pair of cakes.

Another giggle was working its way up Agatha's throat, and she cast desperately about for a lifeline.

"Your daughters are so… appealing, Mrs. Trapp. Have you considered possible matches for them?"

Mrs. Trapp swelled with pride. "Indeed, Mrs. Applequist. With all the overtures we've had for them both, my husband and I are contemplating providing another season for them. One must allow the most options possible for one's children."

Then a look of smug horror crossed the lady's face and she turned to Agatha in apology. "I'm so sorry, dear. I forgot that you'll never know the miracle of children of your own."

The pain was instantaneous. It shot to Agatha's heart like an icy spear and lodged there, spreading the chill outward.
Children of her own.

Mrs. Trapp continued, carrying on about the shortage of young men in the marriage mart now that so many had been lost in the war, but Agatha had stopped listening.

It was true. She would never have a child, for despite her pose of independence to Simon and James, she knew that she could never marry anyone but the man she had given her heart to.

The man who didn't—couldn't—want her for his wife.

For her, there would be no sons with sky blue eyes and thick black hair. No laughing daughters to jump into the heaps of pink petals at Appleby.

Agatha turned away from the chattering lady, longing to flee to some haven from the ache that grew inside her. She found one in the level gaze of Mrs. Simpson.

"Beatrice Trapp is a fool," Clara said quietly, "but she doesn't mean to be unkind."

"I know," Agatha said. She felt as though a band around her heart would not let it beat properly. "It is only that it had not occurred to me—"

She stopped, shaking her head.

Mrs. Simpson took her hand in both of hers. "Perhaps all hope is not lost? There is a chance, perhaps, that Mr. Applequist has left something of himself behind?"

Perhaps. Agatha had not considered it at all, not even before that one magical night, or after it, in the mess of anger and pain.

There was a chance…

And there could be more.

She could ensure that Simon left something behind when duty stole him finally away.

Determination filled her heart, and the constriction around it eased somewhat. She had given her hopes of love and marriage to the voracious flames of duty, but she need not feed her hopes of motherhood to it as well.

Her window of opportunity was small. If she could become pregnant in the next few weeks, the child would simply seem to be a blessing, the only part of her dear departed husband that remained.

She could take her child back to Appleby, and no one would be the wiser. Not even Simon. She could make up a tale of quick wartime marriage to tell the village. That sort of thing happened all the time. If Jamie backed her story— and she was sure he would—no one would dare to doubt it.

New strength brought her head up.

Mrs. Simpson eyed her approvingly. "Hold on to that hope awhile. Let it give you strength." Then she stepped back and said more loudly, "You are a bit pale, Mrs. Applequist. Ladies, I think we've comforted her enough for one day."

As if a net full of birds had been cut, the ladies fled the room, happy to leave the pall of mourning behind them and continue their gossip elsewhere. Mrs. Simpson was the last to leave, and Agatha impulsively put out her hand.

"Thank you. You've helped me more than you know."

The lady seemed delighted, and Agatha felt another queasy wash of regret for her deception. She was fast becoming sick of this lying.

But she had one more act of treachery to perform. She must seduce Simon yet again.

Upstairs, Simon had been prying as much information out of James as he could. He made James repeat the story again and again, start to finish, finish to start.

James was familiar enough with this form of debriefing, but the strain was beginning to tell. Even from where he sat in the chair by the fire, Simon could see that James had gone pale and slumped against his pillows.

"I don't know, Simon! I can't remember mentioning any other names, but then, I can't remember mentioning any in the first place!"

"Think, James! I can't send another man out until I know how much the Liars have been compromised."

There came a knock on James's door, and Agatha entered with a tea tray. "The callers have all gone for the day. I thought you might need something to eat."

She eyed James severely, although Simon noticed that she did not cast so much as a glance at him. That was odd. He'd thought they had resolved some of their tension earlier today.

"Sorry, Aggie, but we don't have time to eat. Unless His Mightiness will allow it?"

"Don't be snide, James. Simon doesn't like this any more than you do." She placed the tray across James's lap.

Simon was glad to see that it held two cups and enough of Sarah Cook's delights for both men. There was some comfort in Agatha's unwillingness to let him starve.

James picked up his tea after she poured for him. "Aggie, I want to think of something else for a while. Tell me what's new at Appleby."

"Well, the lambing was very successful this year, and we received top price for those that we sold at the meat market. The shearing was uneventful, and the wool is even now being baled." She sat comfortably next to James and clasped her hands over one knee as she recited. "There was little frost damage in orchards this year, so I hope for a good crop of apples—"

Jamie grinned and poked her in the arm with one finger. "You sound as if you run the place instead of Mott," he teased.

Agatha looked at her brother strangely. "Mr. Mott died a year before Papa did. Did he never tell you?"

Frankly confused, James shook his head. "No, it never came up. Who has been managing the estate?"

Agatha drew her brows together. "Why… I have. I've been making regular reports to you."

James actually paled. "I thought you were just catching me up on the news. I had no idea you were playing at running things."

"Playing?" Agatha stood, her tone growing cold.
"Playing,
you say. I'll have you know I've been in complete control of Appleby for nearly four years."

Simon tensed.
No, James. Don't say it
.

James did. "Dear God. Do I have anything left?"

Agatha flinched. Simon knew James could not have hurt her more if he had struck her.

"When the new trees mature, you'll have three times the acreage under harvest than you did before. Your flocks have nearly doubled every year. Your cottages are in excellent repair, and your house is well kept. I wish you much enjoyment of it all."

Spine straight, she turned and strode from the room. Simon shook his head at James, who stared after his sister.

"I daresay you could not have handled that worse."

James whistled softly. "Three times the acreage, she said. I'll be the largest apple producer in Lancashire," he marveled.

"You hurt her."

"Aggie? Oh, I doubt it." James shrugged. "She'll get over it soon enough, if I did. Never one to hold a grudge, that's my sister." He was popping one of Cook's little cakes into his mouth when Agatha opened the door and stalked to his bedside.

"You need broth to regain your strength. Drink this, every drop." She set a deep bowl on the tray. Then she left again with starchy dignity.

"Managing sort, isn't she?" James said carelessly.

For the first time, Simon realized what the Liar's Club had cost Agatha, long before he'd even met her. What had it been like for her, to be left by everyone she should have been able to depend upon? Suddenly angry, he rounded on James. "You should never have left her with all that on her shoulders. She was little more than a girl."

Surprised, James choked down a mouthful in order to defend himself. "She did all right."

"She should have been dancing, going to parties, flirting with young men. Where were you when she needed you?"

"Working for you!"

"You told me you had no other responsibilities, no other commitments."

"I thought it was all taken care of."

"You chose to think so because it suited you," Simon said scornfully. "Even now, you treat her like a pet, when she saved everything you own and tossed it back into your undeserving lap."

James set aside his tray. He narrowed his eyes at Simon. "Let's talk about undeserving. You've ruined her, and you're leaving her with no future at all."

The truth hit Simon like a blow. He jerked in response and turned away, unsettled. "You know I cannot marry," he said in an undertone.

James gazed at him steadily. "No, I know you
choose
not to marry."

Simon worked his jaw. "You don't know anything."

"Then pray, enlighten me."

The old pain came back in an instant, and Simon paced restlessly before the fireplace. "I never told you about my mother."

"No. I knew she was not married to your father, but that is all."

"She was a tuppence whore in Covent Garden," Simon said bluntly. "When I went to work for the Old Man, I went on my first courier mission, carrying accounts of troop movements on Malta from the drop point to the club. I was so sure of myself. It never occurred to me that the transfer point had been compromised. I never once looked over my shoulder."

"I think we all feel a bit immortal on our first mission," James said quietly.

"But do you all race to brag to your mother the moment you complete it?"

He could see the horror cross James's face. "Oh, Simon, you didn't."

"I did. I made the drop well. Too well. The French agents must have thought I still carried the intelligence. I led them right to her. So damned cocksure I hadn't been followed. But I haven't told you the best part."

His voice almost failed him. "I left my courier pouch behind, quite by mistake. So busy counting out my pay to her, so busy being the one to save her from her life—"

"They thought she had something. Oh, God, Simon."