The Pretender (45 page)

James's head snapped up. "But you said—"

"Are you coming or not?"

James grabbed up his coat and raced Simon through the door.

The fog was clearing as the mass of men marched down the East India Dock, but still Simon imagined they formed an impressive sight stalking en masse through the trailing mist.

Hopefully they would be intimidating enough to inspire some of the permanent denizens of the wharf into cooperation. At this point, Simon didn't much care if the cooperation was prodded by a desire to help or the point of Kurt's knife.

They were at a standstill in the search. Dawn was imminent, which would make the hunt easier, but they'd lost the trail here in the tightly knit underworld of the Docklands. There were hundreds of ships in this section of the Thames alone, and not a helpful sailor among them.

"S-sir? You be lookin' for your lady?" The small voice came out of the darkness to his left.

Simon froze, holding up a hand to halt his fearsome troop. He turned and peered into the shadows. "Who is there?"

A figure stepped out, and for a moment Simon was sure it was an apparition, for even in the full light of James's lantern the creature was as dark as the night. Then a frightened pair of blue eyes blinked slowly at him from a soot-blackened face.

The double pang of familiarity struck deep into Simon. "You're the sweep from the market, aren't you?"

"Yes, me lord." The child's voice trembled, and Simon realized what a frightening crew of bandits the lot of them must look to him. Kurt alone would set most children to flight.

Simon shook his head and knelt to look the boy in the eye. "I'm no lord, boy. I myself was born within the sound of Bow bells, just as you were," he said gently.

The child blinked, sizing up Simon's clothes and manner. "You, sir? Out of Cheapside?"

"Indeed. So you've nothing to fear from one of your own, do you?"

The child shook his head slowly.

One of the men made an impatient noise, but Simon only waved him to silence without turning his attention away from the boy. "Now tell me, what do you know of my lady?"

"I seen her, drivin' through the Garden. She were ridin' in a hack, and lookin' out the window. She looked so sad, I started followin' along, watchin'. I don't know why. I just wanted to 'elp 'er, if I could."

The boy looked to Simon as if for explanation. Simon only nodded. "Yes, I know precisely what you mean."

"Then I seen it." The grimy face screwed into a scowl. "Someone hit her and knocked her down!"

Several of the Liars growled at that, and the boy nodded fiercely, growing bolder in his indignation. "That's right. She didn't come back up, not that I saw. I knew somethin' were wrong then for sure."

"Did you follow the hack?" The boy nodded. "All the way from Covent Garden?"

The child nodded again. It was an astonishing journey for such a little lad, who likely had never left his own square mile.

Simon was impressed. "What's your name, lad?"

"Robbie, sir."

"You're a good man, Robbie."

"'M only ten, sir."

If that were so, then he was a poorly grown ten years. Like plants lacking light and soil, children rarely thrived in the grime and stone of Cheapside.

"Wait a bit. Are you sayin' the wee tyke
walked
it?" Kurt pushed forward and hunkered down before the lad.

The child's eyes widened in alarm, and he glanced to Simon for reassurance. Simon smiled. "Don't fear him, lad. He looks bad, but he makes the best trifle on three continents."

"Trifle?" Remembered pleasure erased the fear on Robbie's face. "I tasted that once."

"Once?" boomed Kurt. "A brave man like yourself deserves trifle every Sunday!"

From the awed confusion on the pinched little face, such ecstasy was obviously beyond imagining, but the child now eyed Kurt with near worship. Simon gently reminded him of the subject at hand.

"So you followed them here?" he prompted.

"Yes, milor—yes, sir. I rode partway on the hind of a cart or two, when they was movin' too fast for me. When they got here, they took somethin' out of the hack all wrapped up. I think it was your lady." His eyes blinked rapidly. "She weren't movin', sir. Not a bit of it."

Simon pounded down his rising dread with sheer will. "Do you know where they took her?"

Robbie shook his head, and Simon's heart sank. Then the boy said, "But I knows who took them as had her, took them out and back. Dobb, they called 'im. He's down there," he said, pointing down a street traveling away from the quay, "Havin' a pint in that pub there."

Scarcely had the boy finished giving the direction before Simon and James were running full stretch toward the tavern. "Take the lad to Stubbs, Kurt!" Simon ordered over his shoulder. Then he focused all of his attention on assuring the cooperation of a certain Johnny Dobb.

The boat surged again and again in the current, and every time Agatha feared she'd not be able to maintain her awkward position draped across the tilted mast. And the only place to fall was into the filthy Thames.

She was facing down as she dangled over the mast, but she tried not to look at the encroaching black water. She felt a few more strands of the rope part from around her wrists, although her hands were now so numb that she couldn't be sure. She only hoped she wasn't doing too much damage to her wrists and palm with the shard of brown bottle glass she used.

The boat surged again, and she forgot about her wrists as she felt herself slipping. The deck tilted away as the mast finally touched the reaching water and the boat gave up any attempt of staying upright. Agatha jackknifed her body in desperation, but there was no stopping her feet-first slide down the grimy deck.

She kicked out, hoping to feel her foot catch on something—anything—

She felt her ankle strike something solid, but the brief contact only turned her slide into a sideways tumble, and she fell even faster.

Then her left elbow snagged violently on a large iron cleat, pausing her fall with a jerk that felt as though it wrenched her arm from its socket.

It wasn't enough to stop her, for the pull ripped the last of her bonds free. Her numbed hands could only flail in the air as she plunged into the icy Thames.

When the black water closed over her head, the cold was almost enough to jolt a gasp from her lungs. She held on to her last bit of breath with all her might and thrashed her arms to take her back to the surface.

She'd been a good swimmer all her life, but never fully dressed with her ankles tied. By the time her head broke the surface, she was out of strength and out of air. Clumsily she tugged down her gag and took a desperate gasp.

The skirt of her gown was twisted tightly around her legs, and she realized dimly that her final roll had likely saved her life. Not only had it torn free her hands, but the yards of muslin had not swept over her head underwater. She'd never have been able to fight free of them in time.

Now, however, the fabric took on water and became incredibly heavy. Her legs could only kick in unison, for her feet were still bound.

The water rolled over her head again and again. It was all she could do to keep thrashing her mouth and nose clear afterward. She cried out for help again and again, but it seemed her voice had been returned to her too late.

The cold began stealing the feeling from her body, leaving only desperate fear behind. She was going to die. The river would take her down and she would never see Simon again.

Her head went under again, and this time the surface was simply too far to reach. She could see the silver light of morning gleaming above her through the swirling strands of her hair, but not all the will in the world could force her leaden body to return to the dawn.

The sail of Johnny Dobb's skiff was useless in the still air of daybreak. The five men Simon had chosen to accompany him out to the
Marie Claire
each manned an oar, including Dobb himself. Of course, it had taken the presence of James's pistol and Kurt's speculative gaze to inspire the man.

The skiff cut across the current with rather excellent speed, yet Simon could not help the sick dread within him. They should be able to see the mast of the
Marie Claire
by now, if Dobb had been accurate in his information.

There was no reason to expect him not to be. Information gained by strangulation was usually to be depended on. Even now, Dobb took a hand from his oar to rub resentfully at his bruised neck.

Simon had no sympathy at all. If he thought it would make the skiff move faster, he'd dump the sorry sod overboard himself.

"Where is it?" James stood awkwardly in the skiff to scan the lightening water ahead. "I don't see—oh, God, no!"

With a jolt of pure terror, Simon raised his eyes from his desperate rowing to see the stern of a small vessel upended in the water, like the rear of a diving goose.

"Agatha!" James's hoarse appeal was echoed by the cries of the seabirds in the otherwise eerily silent scene.

"Cor," breathed Johnny Dobb. "Sway weren't jokin' about the bilge."

Simon spared no breath crying Agatha's name but stood and began to tear off his coat and his boots as the skiff neared the wreck. When they were within yards of the sinking vessel, he kicked off into a hard dive, as deep as he could go.

James was less than a second behind him. Plunging deep with powerful kicks, they reached the wallowing boat in time to wrap their hands around a stay-line and follow it down to the gaping companionway.

The pearly light of morning did not filter through the small opening into the bowels of the little ship, but the planks had burst from the keel in several places. These gaps gave just enough light to keep up their hope of finding Agatha.

The inside was filled with debris freed of its lowly position on the floor to drift about the spaces within. They had to bat aside everything from tools to wooden casks drifting on the swirling eddies of the water invading the ship.

Simon saw a pocket of silvery air above him, trapped in an airtight corner. He swam to it and thrust his head up to take in any possible air.

There was only room to tilt his mouth and nose above water, so he took a few swift breaths and moved aside to allow James a lungful.

Simon was making his way into another cell-like chamber when he felt the vessel take a violent shift and roll. It would sink completely soon, too swiftly for escape. They must get out now if they were to survive themselves.

Simon turned and pushed James toward the companion-way. James shook his head, his anguish plain even in the distorted dimness. Then, when Simon shoved him again harder, James turned reluctantly to kick his way to the small square of brightness to their left.

Simon watched to make sure that James escaped, then
turned back into the darkness. His lungs ached and his body grew numb, but he would not leave without her. The thought of abandoning her to the dark river was more than he could bear.

His love had killed her, and the least he could do now was take her home. Filling his lungs once more at the now-stale pocket of air, Simon returned to his grieving search.

When James's head broke the surface, the skiff was only feet away. Kurt bent to reach for his hand, but as he was pulled aboard, James noticed that the other men were watching something behind them.

"Ahoy, there!" came a cry over the water. James rolled over, still gasping for his breath, to see another small-boat making its way to the foundered fisher from the direction of a large schooner anchored some distance away.

James knew he ought to reply or ask for help in their search, but dots still spun dizzily before his eyes and grief further tightened his chest. He was grateful when Dobb stood to call out, "Man—er, woman overboard!"

The small-boat was gaining on them swiftly. Now James could plainly see the man standing in the bow, one foot raised to rest on the prow. The fellow brought his hands to his mouth once more.

"Another one?" he called.

"What?" James croaked.
Another
?

Agatha!

He rose, clinging to the sail rigging with his hands. "Aggie!"

A high cry came across the water, and for a moment James was sure it was only the weeping gulls above him. Then he plainly heard it, what he'd thought never to hear again.

"Jamie?"

His heart skidding with joy, James turned to share the moment with Simon.

But Simon was nowhere in sight.

James grabbed Kurt's massive arm. "Simon is still down there!"

She wasn't here. He'd searched every corner of the small vessel until he could no longer feel his arms and legs, and his bit of breathing air no longer sustained him.

He hung there now, suspended unmoving in the water with his nose just barely above. His lungs fought to take in more, and he knew the air in his little pocket had gone bad.

Pain washed through him, making the numbing ache of the cold seem trivial in comparison. He'd lost her,
killed
her, and the knowledge made him want to sink into the depths with the
Marie Claire.

"Simon!"

He could hear her now, naming him craven.

"Simon Rain, you are a coward. A lily-livered, jelly-spined coward. You are not going to walk away
—"

"No, damsel," he whispered. "I'm going to swim away."

"—
you are too vital to the security of England. I will not rob her of you, dear as you are to me."

"I can't go on to live without you." He was almost begging, but even as the words left him, he was breathing deeply to take the remaining air with him.

Simon let himself sink, then turned. He could see the shimmer of daylight through the companionway, like a door into Heaven. He stroked toward it, his limbs heavy and slow. He wondered numbly if he was going to make it.

Then the light disappeared from the square and Simon was swept up in a massive eddy. As the water tossed him away from the portal, he realized that the ship was moving.

And the only way the ship could move was if it was finally sinking completely.

He almost gave up then, for his will was battling to force his lungs to breathe, and the numbness had reached his mind.