The Pretender (37 page)

When he'd strayed into a wealthier neighborhood one evening to poke through their rubbish, he'd climbed nimbly to a rooftop to crouch next to a wide chimney for warmth. After he had slept for a time, a noise had awoken him and he'd spied something odd going on at a neighboring house.

He'd crept closer and heard a heatedly whispered discussion of who would be going off the roof to fetch the little boy from the nursery, the third window from the left.

Realizing that there was a kidnapping in progress, Simon almost decided that it wasn't any of his business. Then he'd thought about the little boy and how the child's life was so good, so warm and full of food and love, and how easily it could turn into a life such as his own.

So slipping down his own roof edge, he'd jumped from one ledge to the next, ledges that would never have supported an adult. He'd slipped into a neighboring room and seen the sleeping nursemaid.

He'd tried to wake her, but she was sleeping unnaturally deeply. Creeping into the child's room, he'd woken the little boy and kept him from being frightened by pretending to have come to play hide-and-go-seek with him.

He'd challenged the five-year-old with all the scorn of an older child that he could not stay totally quiet and hidden. The sturdy little fellow had declared that he could so hide quietly, and he could prove it.

Simon had heard the man working at the window and had swiftly stuffed the boy into a trunk in the nursemaid's room.

Then he had run screaming down the hall, "Fire! Fire!" until he had roused the house.

At first, they had not believed his story. When they'd discovered that the little boy was indeed missing, Simon had feared for his own safety for a moment. Especially when he'd shown them the trunk and it was empty.

They were all around, threatening him, then each other, so loudly that they hadn't noticed the little boy coming between their legs to reach Simon until the child had loudly stated that he wasn't an idiot, and that he wasn't likely to hide where the seeker put him, was he?

Then came a yell from outside. The entire company looked out the window to see the broken body of a man lying in the street, a man who must have slipped on the icy ledge when he'd heard the outcry of "Fire!" from inside the house.

Impressed by the young chimneysweep's wit and presence of mind, the master of the house had taken Simon from the streets and put him in school.

And when Nathaniel, the boy whom Simon had rescued, rejected his father's path and turned to a life of less responsible pursuits, the father took an interest in Simon and brought him into the family business.

For the Old Man had been the spymaster of a royal network of intelligence. At first, he had used Simon simply as a courier, then as reconnaissance—and a bit of acquisition when needed—then more deeply undercover.

Finally, Simon had taken his place as spymaster of a group of thieves and scouts called the Liar's Club.

Agatha listened, entranced by the tale and the way Simon's voice took on a wry fondness when he spoke of his mentor.

"You loved him as a father."

"Perhaps. I was very alone after the death of my mother. But he did not love me. I was a tool of his creation. A weapon to aim at the enemies of England. What happened to the man in me was not his concern."

She was uncomfortably aware that she had thought much the same thing about him in the beginning. A tool to hone for her purpose of finding James.

Why should James and his happiness be of more importance than that of the simple chimneysweep she had first thought Simon to be? She had never thought of herself as a snob. It was humbling to find the flaw within herself.

"You loved him. And you love the Liars."

"Perhaps, but I don't love what they have cost me."

"What have they cost you?"

He gazed at her, his eyes full of dark depths. "You. A life with you, out in the open. You would have no protection as my wife."

"Would I not be protected by the Crown?"

He shook his head as he twisted a strand of her hair around one finger. "We Liars are expendable, like kites. To be cut from our strings should we fly too deeply into the storm."

Agatha rolled to her stomach to face him fully. "I wish I could be a Liar."

A smile lifted one corner of his mouth. "You're a lady."

"I'm a woman."

"Too bloody right. But you were meant for better things than what I could give you."

Agatha snorted. "What do you see me someday as? Another Lady Winchell? All scrawny fashion sense and cynicism? Betraying my husband under his very nose? Throwing endless boring parties attended by useless boring people?"

"Well, when you put it like that, I don't know how you can resist the prospect." He tugged her closer and she came, bonelessly adapting her body to his. He loved the way they fit together. "I thought you said you liked London."

"I like you. I like the excitement of working with you. I even like the club. But the idea of being some gentleman's ornament leaves me cold."

He hated it, but he had to say it. "Etheridge wouldn't treat you that way."

She lifted her head and stared at him. Then she pressed her lips to his shoulder again—and bit him.

He retaliated with a tickle attack on her ribs that left her giggling helplessly, her head hanging off the bed, hands weakly fending him off.

When he'd pulled her back into his arms, she used his chest to dry the tears that laughter had left on her face.

"Simon, do me the favor of staying out of my love life. If I want to marry someday, I'll do the choosing."

"But you will marry, won't you?"

She gave a frustrated feline growl. "Simon, leave it. My future is quite secure. You've no need to worry."

"You shouldn't be alone. You were made to be loved."

She was still for a moment. Then she whispered softly, "That may very well be the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me."

He held her in silence after that, as they listened to the city awakening outside. The servants would be stirring downstairs by now. Agatha knew she should go back to her room.

She should, yet she stayed, thinking about their pasts and how they had come from such different worlds to meet here on Carriage Square.

And what were they now? Lovers, with the future an uneasy subject between them.

"You should go," he said finally.

"Definitely."

"One kiss," he demanded.

Carefully, aware of the fragility of what they had begun this night, they kissed.

Simon ached to keep her there. To close out the world and stay in bed for days, drinking her in.

The power and the potential of what might lay before them both humbled him and devastated him that it could never be. As he ran both hands down her neck and over her shoulders, he made a silent vow to her that she would always know how beautiful and precious she was when he made love to her.

Then she was gone, slipping away with a smile that made him hurt inside. And he was alone.

Of course.

That morning, the tension over the breakfast table was thick. Simon was very aware of Agatha seated at the end of the table, but he couldn't look at her for fear of betraying his need to steal her away to someplace safe and very, very private.

When James entered late and plopped into the chair opposite him with an insouciant, "Good morning," Simon's frayed temper snapped.

"Finally up, layabed? What sloth. I can't believe I ever thought you were qualified to take over the club."

James stopped with a forkful of eggs an inch from his open mouth. "What did I do?"

Simon sat back and folded his arms. "You let her out of the house yesterday."

James shrugged defensively. "She was gone before I woke. Hell, she was gone before the sun awoke."

Agatha broke in, her expression apologetic. "I'm sorry I worried you, Jamie—"

"I wasn't worried. Pearson told me she was with you, Simon."

"But she wasn't
with
me. She was tailing me."

Agatha made an exasperated noise. "Am I not here?"

Simon didn't look at her.

James grinned. "She's good, isn't she?"

"Not good enough to keep herself out of danger."

"I must not be here. How annoying." Agatha put down her fork.

"There's no need to get your knickers in a twist, Simon. Feebles was right behind her."

Agatha leaned forward. "What? What's a Feebles?"

Simon ignored her question. "Feebles is a courier, not a bodyguard."

"He's pretty good with a knife in a pinch."

"Street fighting. He'd go down quickly against trained men."

Agatha was looking from one man to the other in confusion. "Wait, do you mean to say that someone was following
me?
"

James had lost his smile and was eyeing Simon narrowly. "Any of us could go down against trained men, Simon. Even you."

"The point is, James, that you didn't keep her—"

A piercing whistle cut the air, and both men turned in surprise. Agatha removed her two fingers from her mouth and smiled sweetly.

"Hello. I am Agatha Cunnington, and this is my house. If you must pretend I don't exist, you may go elsewhere to have this discussion.
Without
my cook." Her smile turned slightly feral. "Is that perfectly clear?"

"Of course, Agatha."

"Sorry, Aggie."

"Thank you. Now, I would like to know why I was followed by a Feebles."

James shrugged. "He's a Liar, assigned to watch the house. I thought you knew."

"How would I know that? Do I pluck knowledge from the thin air like a mystic?"

She turned to Simon. Her gaze was fond, but annoyed all the same. "Simon, is there anything else I should know?"

"Feebles is the day man. Kurt is night watch."

"Kurt? The lovely cook from the club?"

James sputtered. "You took her to the club?"

Simon tilted his head and eyed James for a moment. "My dear fellow, your sister not only followed me to the club, she gained entry without my knowledge, then persuaded Jackham to give her a job
and
the keys to his office."

Awestruck, James turned to his sister. "You didn't?"

Instead of showing any sign of remorse, Agatha looked positively smug. "I did."

A look of profound admiration crossed James's face. "Damn." He leaned closer to Agatha and whispered, "What did Simon do?"

"He kissed me."

Simon closed his eyes and dropped his face into his hands. Hell. "Agatha, why do you never lie when you should?"

James sniffed. "Aggie would never lie to me, would you, Aggie?"

"Not unless I had a very good reason," she assured him, patting his hand.

Suddenly James did not seem quite so confident. Simon decided to save him. "James, today we are going over every moment of the evening when you were captured."

Apparently breakfast no longer appealed to his friend, for James slowly put down his fork. "I rather thought we had."

"Not the way we are going to today."

Agatha nodded. "Very good. I want to hear this as well."

James turned a peculiar shade of red. "Aggie! There were some very personal events that day. Things you shouldn't hear."

"Oh, you mean the fact that you spent six hours with your mistress that evening? Honestly, James, what in the world were you at for six entire hours? I happen to know it doesn't take nearly that long. Does it, Simon?"

Simon choked on his eggs. This time it was his turn to redden and look away from James's stunned gaze.

"Ah, well… perhaps James is correct, Agatha. There's no need for you to sit in on our discussion. It isn't likely—"

"You don't think I'll be of any use, do you?" Agatha folded her napkin carefully by her plate. "Very well then. I suppose I might take Dalton up on his offer of a drive."

Bloody hell. Bloody Dalton and his bloody offers.

Agatha continued dreamily. "He is such good company. And his carriage is enclosed, so I needn't worry about wearing a heavy black veil all day—"

"I think we'll be needing your perspective after all, Agatha." Deliberately casual, Simon kept his eyes on his plate. Still, he caught a movement at the edge of his vision that looked suspiciously like Agatha's elbow hitting James's ribs.

"Er… right!" James agreed. "Absolutely. Perspective, the very thing."