The Pretender (35 page)

No one noticed. They were all gathered around the Vingt-et-un table, three men thick. As not that many could play at once, there was either a superb winning streak going on or some other distraction.

Quickly he moved to the door to hand his hat to Stubbs.

"Mr. R—"

"Applequist, Stubbs, Applequist. Where is she?"

"Oh, Miss Berth?"

"Who?"

"Nellie Berth, our new dealer. Didn't Mr. Jackham tell you, sir? It's a good idea, ain't it? A woman dealer's nearly as good as whores, when she looks like that one."

Simon realized it was the name of Agatha's maid. At least the little lunatic had the presence of mind to use an alias.

But the risk she was running was enormous. These men were some of the same ones she had been dining and dancing with for weeks. Surely someone was going to remember her.

Then he drew up to the table, at least as close as he was able. He was tall enough to see over the heads of the others.

Simon felt as if someone had punched him in the stomach.

For at the table before him, painted and plumed, dressed in elegant but very daring feathers and silk, flirting with thirty men at once, was the very essence of a successful woman of the demimonde. A radiant, painted creature. A creature for fantasy and passion.

A creature for hire.

He stood tall and waited for her teasing gaze to wander up. She leaned toward the player who was winning, sent him a slow smile, and stroked the edge of her deck carelessly down her throat.

The man almost fell down that magnificent bosom, he ogled so. Simon had the almost irresistible urge to smack the back of the man's head. In the meantime, Simon was fairly sure that Agatha had slipped a card from the bottom of the deck.

Cheating. Why was he not surprised?

Then she saw him. She started ever so slightly. It was difficult to tell under the paint, but Simon thought she paled a bit. She should be very concerned, for he was quite positive that he had never been so coldly furious in his life.

Then she boldly winked at him and returned to her game.

"Ah, sir." Jackham was at his elbow. "I see you've discovered our newest treasure. Care for a game?"

Jackham was being careful. He'd never seen Simon on the floor before and obviously didn't know quite what to do about it.

"The name's Ethelbert Applequist, my good man," Simon drawled, never taking his eyes off Agatha. "She's very… interesting. Wherever did you find her?"

"Showed up this afternoon, just after—about the same time as the owner. My doorman came in to tell me he had another act for us."

Bloody hell. She'd been the one following him all along. He'd underestimated her yet again.

"So what was this lady doing in your office, sir?" Simon kept his voice quiet.

"Oh, fetching a fresh deck. A player had bent a card."

Simon couldn't even castigate Jackham for his gullibility. Not when he himself had fallen for her charms again and again.

Jackham continued to gaze at Agatha with a besotted grin, as if he couldn't decide whether to pat her on the head or hire her for a night. They were all goners—Jackham, Stubbs, Kurt.

Simon wanted to drag her out of the club by the hair. He wanted to drop her into the river, but he rather thought his own men might string him up before they'd allow it.

Well, her circle of protectors wouldn't be there forever. Sooner or later, he was going to get her alone.

And then he was going to make her regret her little adventure.

The night had both dragged and flown by after Simon had come to her table. The look on his handsome face had been almost terrifying, until she had decided he was teasing her.

At least, she hoped he'd been teasing her. How angry could he be, really? After all, she had only followed him.

And lied to get in.

And dressed herself up as a soiled dove. Albeit a very expensive one.

Too late, she remembered Jamie's reaction one day long ago. She had followed him to his secret hideout in a giant tree by the brook. He'd been furious to see her, giggling and teasing him, and his fury had lasted for weeks.

It seemed that the appeal of a secret place was in its secrecy. When someone else knew about it, and knew they could find you there at any time, the joy was gone.

Like the ruins, forever lost to her by Reginald's presence for just an hour.

But Simon wasn't a child. This wasn't a secret castle.

Many people came here every day. It couldn't possibly be considered the same.

Could it?

The last of the players had finally left—she couldn't find it in her heart to call those dear boys "marks"—and Jackham had counted up the house take with unrelenting glee. Apparently, honest money wasn't quite as lovely as cheated money.

Agatha was exhausted. Her face hurt from smiling so, and the torturous corset that Button had laced her into was cutting deeply into her flesh. She wanted to leave, but Jackham had told her the owner wanted to talk to her.

Well, she wanted to talk to him as well.

Stubbs was roaming through the gaming room, yawning and sweeping the floor with dubious aptitude. Finally, he gave up and joined Kurt to clean up in the kitchen.

Agatha wandered over to the stage. Stubbs had finally described the snake act. Now she had a mental image of a scantily dressed woman dancing with a giant snake draped over her outstretched arms like a garland. Oh, surely not.

She was tapping one finger on her lips, considering the possibilities, when Simon approached her. She glanced over her shoulder at him, then turned back to the stage.

"I wonder," she mused, "was it a very large snake?"

"Oh, yes," Simon answered easily. "At least ten feet long. I'd have thought the poor woman could hardly lift it." He smiled at the memory, and Agatha wanted to hit him. "It was really quite a show."

"I'll be sure to stop by next time." Aware that she was snarling, Agatha smoothed her temper.

"Nearly as enjoyable as the one you put on tonight. Tell me, did it once occur to you that you might be recognized as the Widow Applequist?"

"You
scarcely recognized me, yet you've seen considerably more of me than they have." That hadn't come out quite the way she had meant it to. She turned to face him, chin high. "So you have another secret."

"So you followed me. You're very good at tailing."

"Oh, Simon, you didn't really think that coat change was going to work, did you? No one's passed that one over on me since I was six. I know to watch the person, not the clothing."

"So you had an early start in your unconventional education."

"As did you. Chimneysweep, thief, spy. Now you run a gaming hell."

"Ah, own, actually. Jackham does the running for me. And it's not a gaming hell, it's a gentlemen's club."

"Indeed. The Liar's Club. In that case, all men must qualify for membership."

"If it were that easy, I'm sure many women would join as well."

Dangerous territory. Time to change the subject. "In your position, wouldn't it be awkward to run afoul of the law?"

He shrugged. "There is nothing illegal about cards and spirits." He gave her a wicked smile. "Or dancing with snakes."

"No," Agatha said, eyeing him thoughtfully. "All women dance with snakes sooner or later, do they not?"

He slapped his hand over his chest. "Ouch! A direct hit."

Then he stepped closer and she could see the fierce light in his eyes. Ah. She'd ruined his tree house, after all.

"I'm sorry I spoiled your little spy club for you, Simon. I never dreamed you took such boyish delight in secrets."

"Is that why you think I'm angry, because you spoiled my secret?"

"Of course. It's rather childish of you, in my opin—"

Simon lost his renowned control at that. He reached for her, grasping her shoulders to pull her closer. "You are unbelievable! You disobey orders and escape safety, wander the streets of London alone, dress up as a courtesan, and parade yourself in front of thirty men who might recognize you at any moment—risking that pretty little neck in what I can only see as an impulsive stunt—and
you think I'm angry about my 'little secret!"
He couldn't believe it. She'd actually reduced him to yelling.

"Oh… that," she muttered.

Simon desperately reined in his temper. "Precisely
that.
What in the bloody hell did you think you were doing?"

Slowly Agatha raised a brow and placed her hands on her hips. "Don't take that tone with me, Simon Rain. I am my own woman, remember?"

"You are your own worst enemy, you thoughtless little maniac!"

"You have no right to issue orders to me. You aren't my husband! You aren't my brother, or my father, or even my lover, as you made so clear last night!"

She was right. He was a cipher, nothing but a trumped-up Cheapside street rat infected with danger all around him. He was no one to her at all.

He absolutely couldn't bear to hear her say it.

With a single step forward, he grasped her shoulders to pull her close and stop her words with his mouth.

She was sweet and hot and everything he had ever wanted. With answering passion she pressed against him, but it was not close enough.

He maneuvered her back a few steps until he brought her up against the billiard table. Slipping his hands down to her buttocks, he squeezed those luscious hillocks for one self-indulgent moment before lifting her to sit on the edge of the frame.

She was higher now, high enough for him to dive headfirst into her bosom the way every man in the club had been dying to all night.

He couldn't keep his hands still. Her neck, her shoulders, the exposed tops of her breasts drove him mad with their softness. She was a fantasy creature of silken-wrapped stubbornness, and he couldn't get enough.

Her hands were fisted in his hair, and the impassioned tugging was sweet pain. Heat and softness and breathless moans of need were all he was aware of.

Until Jackham walked in.

"Here, you! I told you no whoring on the premises," he barked.

Simon jerked his mouth from Agatha's in dismay.

"Ah—sorry, sir, didn't see it was you." Flustered, Jackham turned on his heel and left them alone.

Agatha giggled, soaring on the joy of having Simon in her arms again. The look on Mr. Jackham's face had rivaled Pearson's for trenchant disapproval.

She raised one hand to stroke Simon's face. "Now where were we?"

But the damage was done. Simon gathered the tatters of his self-control and took a step away from temptation. "I'm sorry, damsel. That was unforgivable of me."

Agatha puffed a sigh of exasperation. "Simon, the only thing I object to is the fact that you aren't kissing me any longer."

The cold resolution in his eyes surprised her. Obviously, she was simply going to have to prove to him that between the two of them were no boundaries, but only love.

But he wouldn't listen. He lifted her down to her feet and silently adjusted her neckline with all the passion of a nursemaid. Then he walked to the door to gather her wrap and tell Stubbs to call a hack.

The streets were nearly silent so late in the night, and they were home in a very short time. Simon helped her from the carriage into the dripping night and silently walked her to the door.

Pearson said not a word as he took their outerwear, but Agatha thought she could see sympathy in his piercing eyes.

"Wash that paint off your face and go to bed, damsel."

"I think we should talk about what—"

"We should not talk about it. We should forget it ever happened. It will never happen again."

The words were too painful. "Don't say never, Simon. Please," she whispered.

"Agatha, we have no future."

She nodded. "I understand that. I only ask for the present with you. What we began the night Jamie came home, we have never finished. You taught me what passion was that night, Simon."

He shook his head, a quick violent motion. "I only taught you pain."

"I was curious about that, I admit. What was all the fuss and fury about? So I asked Sarah Cook, and she explained that it won't be like that again."

"It won't happen at all."

"That isn't fair, you realize. I shall go all my life wondering what should have been, in your arms."

Is that what would happen? He had taken from her and given nothing. Did he owe to her the real pleasure they could have shared?

Hell. She was in his head, twisting his thoughts again. "I know what I'm doing, Agatha."

She tilted her head, narrowing her eyes at him. "I don't think you know any such thing. I think you are a coward, Simon Rain. Well, I'm not. And I'm not done with this."

"You are for tonight." He pointed to the stairs. "Up.
Now.
I've first watch, so there's no use sneaking into my room this night."

She gazed at him in silence for a moment, then turned to climb the stairs. With a sick relief, Simon walked to the parlor.

After building a small fire against the chill, he flopped into a chair and stared morosely at the flames. He was a worthless coward indeed, because in spite of the danger he might put her in, all he really wanted was to follow her up those stairs and into her bed.

Her room was cold and damp in the deepest hour of the morning, for she'd left her windows wide. She'd hoped the early ringing of the tower bells would rouse her, and they had.

Shivering, she pulled her wrapper around her. Nellie must have returned it after finding it in Simon's room. What did the servants think of all this, with identical twin masters and a mysterious brother coming home in the night?

They probably quite rightly thought it all the most hideous blarney. She only hoped they'd keep their opinions to themselves.

There were no servants about to see her make yet another journey down the hall to the third bedchamber. There was no light, but Agatha moved confidently in the darkness.

Simon may think her impulsive, but she had planned ahead enough to clear the hall of impediments the day before she began night maneuvers.

She'd oiled the hinges of Simon's door as well as her own, and stashed a spare wrapper in a cupboard just outside it. She didn't relish another nude dash to her room, thank you very much.