The Pretender (42 page)

Quickly Simon searched every drawer and shelf in the suite of rooms, including the vast wardrobe and the luxuriously appointed bathing chamber. He examined the contents of each, and the backs and bottoms. Nothing.

He slid his hands beneath the feather beds upon the grand frame. Nothing. He climbed upon the bed to examine the canopy and crawled beneath the bed to feel between every slat. Still nothing.

Simon felt helpless fear begin to erode his professional detachment. He'd been so sure that he would discover something here. That he would find his way to Agatha once again. Ferociously he quelled the spreading sense of loss that poisoned his ability to think.

He closed his eyes and concentrated, trying to think like Agatha would, using instinct and an understanding of human nature.

Lavinia was a suspicious, perhaps even paranoid, woman. A cunning creature, but without demonstrable intelligence. Her primary advantage lay in her apparent incredible unsuitability for intrigue. She simply wasn't the type.

She was more likely to gamble and shop her way into astonishing debt. She was a creature of tawdry passions, licentious as a mink. Impulsive, lazily cruel, and fond of low humor…

Simon opened his eyes and smiled grimly. He had it.

He strode confidently back into the necessary and lifted the seat of Lavinia's typically thronelike commode chair. No back garden privy for her. Then he pulled up the porcelain basin that sat within the seat.

There, in the hollow beneath the basin, lay a packet wrapped in oilskin.

"I've got you now, you viper," Simon whispered.

Though the cavity was somewhat damp, the packet was quite dry inside, and Simon quickly scanned the contents. Letters from lovers, records of some rather astonishing gambling debts recently paid off in lump sums, and a grimy handwritten receipt for the purchase of "wun smal bote namd
Mary Klar."

The boat James had been held captive on. The very vessel that Agatha
might
now be
held on. The
note was signed: "John Sway."

Another target for the hunt, then. Captains tended to keep track of their ladies of the sea, even when they didn't own them anymore.

Simon tucked the scrap into his breast pocket as he turned to go. Then he hesitated, eyeing the pile of love letters. Some of the most important pieces of intelligence came in the most unimpressive packages.

The first notes were varied, from painfully penned youthful anguish to sophisticated erotic wordplay. The lady did not seem to have any preference to either sort of lover at all.

Then, at the bottom of the stack of folded letters, he discovered one that began as insipid poetry on the first page, but then became abruptly businesslike on the second page.

References to payments and contacts were worded carefully, but Simon could recognize his own language when he saw it. The one paragraph that made no sense to him was a brief accounting of cloth yardage cut and bought. Simon shook his head. Codes were not his specialty, but he knew anything containing numbers likely contained dates and times as well.

He tucked the entire pile of letters into his jacket, on the chance that the others held information as well. As he left the bathing room, he glanced at the rosewood escritoire again. Lavinia was a decisive creature, who likely wrote in a strong hand…

Quickly he took the stack of paper from the drawer and examined it page by page, slanting it against the candlelight.

Yes, there, on the third page. Definite curling script that dug deeply through to the back of the paper. Only a few lines, but perhaps, just perhaps…

Simon knelt on the hearth and performed the soot technique just as he had on Agatha's letter once before.
Please, God, don't let it be some silly social letter…

Fresh and clear, legible even in reverse, Simon read "… love, I shall be your bullet aimed at Prinny's brain. Yours forever, L."

The enormity of the plot shot through Simon in a bolt of pure lightning horror. The assassination of the Prince Regent would throw the British government into complete disarray for months, perhaps even years.

Yet such an attempt would be useless. Prince George was perhaps the most heavily guarded man in the world. Even in public appearances, it would take an army to get within a pistol shot of the man, not to mention that an assassin would never survive the attempt. Lavinia was a determined amateur, as evidenced by her foolish uncoded reply. But was she suicidal?

Could it be some other form of weapon? Lavinia used the word
bullet,
but that could be figurative. Either way, it was his duty to report this to His Royal Highness and his advisers immediately.

Once that was done, protection of the royals was not Simon's job, thank the fates. He wouldn't want to be the poor fellow faced with containing the Prince's excesses. Even the arrest of Lavinia would fall to the Royal Guard.

Simon's place right now was to find Agatha. Hopefully he would find the enemy operatives in the process, but frankly, he couldn't find it in him to care very much if he did. For the first time in his career, he had other priorities. God help him.

He blew out his candle and slipped from the room. Despite the desperate search that had taken place, the only evidence of his visit was the fast dissipating wisp of smoke.

Agatha finally realized both she and the ship had been deserted. Slimy fingers of fear began to work their way through her belly. Somehow she knew that neither Lavinia nor her cohorts were ever coming back.

She knew Simon and Jamie would be looking for her. But a small, ramshackle ship among hundreds, anchored in the sea of masts in the filthy docks? How in the world would they ever find her?

The gag was all too effective, muffling her loudest cry to something less than the creaking of the rigging above her. She thumped her heels for a time but soon exhausted any hope of being heard.

What she needed to do was free herself. Jamie had cut his bindings with the rim of a pail, but her captors had apparently learned better, for her wrists were tied tightly behind her back.

If she could make her way to the deck somehow, surely someone would see her.

This thought brought back the image of the unsavory denizens of the quay. Might she be putting herself in further danger if she was seen by the wrong sort?

It was a possibility, yet death by dehydration and starvation was a certainty if she remained hidden below.

Agatha rolled to her knees next to the splintery wall and managed to get to her feet by nearly standing on her head. She could do no more than tiny shuffling steps, scarcely an inch at a time. Her petticoats didn't make the effort any easier, for they hung ragged around her feet, impeding her even more.

Impatiently Agatha used her bound hands to pull up the rear of her skirts. By the simple pulling free of the tapes tying her petticoats in the back, she was able to drop them to the floor.

Kicking them off proved impossible, and she was forced to hop from the center of the billowed underskirts in awkward little bounds.

"I believe I look quite ridiculous," she muttered to herself around the gag. Still, this form of locomotion got her to the door.

If it was locked, her fate was inescapable. She turned and sidled backward to the door pull. It was a crude affair, with no keyhole at all.

She tugged, and for a breathless moment she felt it stick.
Oh, please
—
please open
.

The door gave toward her suddenly, causing her to lose her balance. She pitched forward onto her face, quite unable to catch herself. Reflexively she flinched aside, narrowly missing landing on her nose.

Still, it was painful. After a moment, she took a breath. "Ow," she muttered, then wasted no more energy on the subject, despite the scrape on her cheekbone.

Roll to the wall, struggle to her feet, inch her way. The ship tossed her down a number of times, but she continued to repeat the process until she stood in the passage, looking up the steep staircase to the deck above.

Truly, it was more of a ladder than a staircase, and a broken one at that. Her knees went weak with frustration.

Turning, she sat gratefully on a narrow tread for a moment She was frightened and weary, and her face and body throbbed from her many encounters with the floor. She didn't have the strength to face the climb.

Then again, she hadn't anything better to do.

Going up the ladder was easier than she'd first thought. She was able to use her hands to pull herself up backward, scooting on her bottom like a tot.

She was concentrating so thoroughly on her slow climb that she didn't realize she had reached the top of the companionway until a fresh breeze stung her abraded cheeks. The air smelled of fish and garbage and unwashed sailor.

It was lovely. She might still die on this wretched excuse for a ship, but at least she wouldn't die in the dark. Except, of course, that night was fast on its way.

The deck was piled with stinking netting, filthy clothing, and tangled rope. Seabirds flocked to the piles of refuse here and there among the litter. Lavinia's men were obviously bad housekeepers.

Irritated that she could not possibly make her shuffling way through all those obstacles, Agatha decided to stay where she was for the moment. She could see rescue coming from here, and she could also let herself slip back down the steps should danger approach.

She only hoped she'd be able to tell the difference.

James pulled Simon aside to one corner of the main gaming room of the Liar's Club. "It'll take hours to search the docks, perhaps even days. If I've read this coded letter properly, the dates match up with the Royal Appearance tomorrow. They want us out of the way for the Regent's tour of the Chelsea Hospital, I'll wager."

"It won't make any difference." Simon dismissed that concern with a restless shake of his head. "The Prince is well guarded."

James nodded, relieved. "Then we can turn our manpower to hunting Agatha."

"But it also sets a time limit on our search. If we don't find her before the attempt on the Prince, they'll have no reason to keep her alive afterwards. They may flee for their lives, cutting the dead weight."

Immediately Simon regretted his poor choice of words, at the images that rose in his own mind. He turned to face the motley gathering that filled the gaming room. Cooks and thieves, spies and servants. Pearson rubbed shoulders with Feebles, while Button murmured to Jackham in a low voice.

The clock on the mantel chimed ten bells into the low hum of conversation, silencing them all by the last ringing note.

"We've a long night before us, lads—sorry, Sarah Cook, and ladies. James's sister Agatha, who is known to some of you as Nellie Berth, has been taken by the opposition."

There were nods and angry mutters at this, and Simon was struck again at Agatha's ability to win the loyalty and affection of others.

"As James escaped from an old fishing boat moored off a small village west of here, and Winchell's servants confirmed that they had delivered supplies to the dock twice in the last two months, we are going to focus our search on the docks.
Hopefully, the enemy has not had time to flee local waters."

James moved to Simon's side. "We have reason to believe the boat is named the
Mary Klar,
formerly owned by a fellow named John Sway. Kurt, you and Stubbs comb the dockside taverns. Find Sway and determine if he has any idea where his boat may be now."

Kurt nodded grimly. Of course, Kurt was always grim. He and Stubbs stood, waiting to be dismissed.

Simon nodded. "Yes, go. Bring any new information back here."

Then they were gone, his deadliest man with one of his youngest. Simon suppressed the automatic worry that always rose at this moment. He couldn't afford to second-guess himself now.

"I need two men to work their way into the dockside registration offices. All boats must be registered with their destinations and their docking locations. The information will possibly be falsified, but that may tell us something as well."

Feebles stood. "Sounds like my kind of job, guv'nor."

"Excellent. Take someone with you to provide any needed distraction." Simon scanned his little army. Button straightened hopefully as Simon's gaze passed him. Simon nodded. "Yes, Button will accompany you. That theatre background of yours should come in handy here, Button."

"Yes, sir, Mr. Rain."

Feebles looked askance at his new partner but obviously wasn't going to debate Simon's choice. "Right, then. We'll be off.
Mary Klar,
you said?"

"Or anything remotely close. Shay isn't much for spelling."

They left. Soon others followed, as Simon assigned sections of the docks to search. In pairs and teams, they left the room until only Simon, James, and Sarah Cook remained.

"Aren't we going out, Simon?"

"Yes. We've enough evidence to move on Lavinia now. It's time for a little talk with the lady. James, let's go before Lavinia gets wind of the search and absconds. Sarah, can you make note of any new information that comes through that door?"

"I can feed a dinner party of two hundred, on time and hot. I think I can handle bein' your secretary." She waved a hand. "Go. Bring my madam home."

As he ran for the street accompanied by James, Simon had a terrible feeling that they were fast running out of time.

The boat was sinking. She was sure of it now.

An hour ago she had hoped it was her imagination. It was merely the river becoming rougher with the changing current. Only the darkness making her hear the sloshing of water from
inside
the vessel.

Now there was no denying it. Even the list and roll of the boat had become sluggish and heavy, slow to return to its upright position in the water. And the process seemed to be accelerating.

There would be no daybreak for this pathetic vessel. Or for its solitary passenger if she couldn't divine a way to untie her bonds. If she weren't bound, she might have a slight chance to float her way to rescue clinging to something buoyant.

A very slight chance.

Well, there was no help for it. She was going to have to find something sharp with which to cut her way free. Fortunately, the deck was rife with trash. Surely there was something broken in the mess.