The Pretender (7 page)

Mrs. Applequist raised a brow. "I've been to country dances all my life, Mr. Rain. Surely it's no more joyous than that."

"I dunno about them country types, but unless they was Gypsy players, I can't see 'em whirling any faster than me mum and the baker."

She looked intrigued. "Whirling? I can't say that I have ever 'whirled,' " she said a bit wistfully.

Simon let her out of his arms and stepped back. Touching a finger to the base of the music box, he ended the sedate chiming.

"But, Mr. Rain, we haven't finished—"

Clapping his hands together sharply, Simon began whistling a sprightly tune. Giving her an encouraging grin, he took her hands and began to clap them within his own until she took up his rhythm.

Then, stepping back, he began a stamping counterpoint to her rhythm, stepping briskly forward to her, then back, then turning in time.

The lady definitely seemed interested, chewing her lip as she followed the pattern of his feet with her eyes and kept his rhythm with her hands. When Simon saw that she had it, he grabbed her hands to send her spinning and began to sing lustily:

"Go on, fellow, grab your girl.

Take her hand and let 'er whirl.

If she comes back, then dance you on.

If she don't, then hell, she's gone!

Take the next one, she might do.

If she won't, then take you two!"

Agatha was whirling. Skipping madly in a circle to Simon's bawdy song, she clapped and whirled until her head spun. Dizzily she reached out, only to collapse against Simon's sturdy chest. Panting wildly, she grinned up at him.

"You are quite mad, Mr. Rain."

"You honor me, Mrs. Applequist." The formal tone of the phrase she'd drummed into him was at odds with the rakish twist of his lips.

Agatha liked the feel of him beneath her hands. He was solid and truly very tall, when one stood so close. Her breath still came quickly from dancing, and with the air that she drew in, she drew in his scent as well.

Clean and sharp and manly, cinnamon and tobacco.

"Cinnamon."

"What?"

"You… smell of cinnamon:"

"Aye."

Agatha swallowed. The heat of him was seeping through her clothing, licking like firelight over her bosom and belly. He had grasped her elbows to steady her and her skin tingled where he touched. "Wh… Why?"

"Why do I smell of cinnamon?" he asked softly.

Agatha nodded. Odd, how she couldn't seem to catch her breath. Surely she hadn't danced that vigorously.

"Cinnamon drops. The bits of red sugar from the confectionery. I'm rather partial to them."

"Oh. Of course. Drops. Cinnamon." Then she noticed something. "Oh, how marvelous! You are speaking so beautifully."

Simon shook off the spell of her smile and the press of her soft, giving body against his. Damn, he'd slipped. Setting her firmly back on her feet, he moved back.

"Well, I've 'ad me a grand teacher, now 'aven't I?"

"Oh. Well, thank you, Mr. Rain." With a distracted air, Agatha pressed both palms to her face. "What were we doing? Oh, the waltz."

She waved a hand toward the music box. "If you please, Mr. Rain?"

They returned to their formal pattern of steps. Simon moved stiffly, trying very hard not to see the way her eyes had grown dark and the flush of exertion had turned her cheeks a flattering pink.

Her breath still came a touch more heavily than usual, and he could feel it on his neck, warm and moist and fragrant, like her skin.

Unthinking, he pulled her closer, wanting to once more feel her full bosom against his chest.

"Mr. Rain, we must stay a certain space apart! As if another person stood between us."

The phrase hit him with a splash of icy reality. A host of things stood between them. Secrets. Lies. And James. James stood between them as if a mountain had suddenly erupted where they stood together.

What was happening to him? Where was his analytical edge, his cool reason? Was it the disguise? Using the cant of his childhood, taking him back to the man he might have been—a simpler man with no more worries than making a pretty woman smile?

Simon pulled away. "Enough for now."

Agatha's expression softened. "No one expects you to grasp it all immediately," she said. "We have another four days."

"Good. Then I'm goin' out. I need some air." He dodged past her for the door. He had better get to it first. She was fast when she wanted to be.

"Mr. Applequist—"

"Rain," Simon interrupted brusquely. "My name is Rain."

"I know that, Mr.—" Agatha shook her head in irritation. "I cannot become too used to calling you that. I must be able to address you naturally, or this will never work."

"If you're my wife, then call me 'Simon.' Better yet, 'Simon, darling.' " He grinned at her.

"Better yet, 'Mortimer, darling,' you mean to say."

"Bloody hell. Did you have to pick such a name? Mortimer is the lad w' the broken spectacles and the running nose. You should' ve picked a strong name, like… like…"

Agatha raised a brow. "Such as 'Simon'?"

"Well, it beats 'Mortimer' any hour."

"I have no difficulty addressing you as Mr. Applequist. Many women address their husbands so."

"Well, how would you know? You ain't never been married, now, 'ave you?"

"Kindly recall the
h,
Mr.—" Agatha bit her lip. "My marital status is not the point. Besides, I could already be married if I wished. I shall call you 'Mortie.' And you shall call me 'Agatha.' Well enough?"

"Well enough," he grumbled. What did she mean, she could be married if she wished? She was a dove, a ladybird, a mistress. No respectable man would take her home and fit her out in an apron.

Then again, he was no respectable bloke, was he?

What was he thinking? She was not only a fallen woman, she was quite possibly involved in something entirely fishy.

He was here to terminate a leak, not to pluck her from her well-feathered nest of sin. No doubt she was perfectly happy where she was.

Air. He needed air. Pausing at the front door, he cursed the necessity of pausing to let Pearson help him into his outerwear. As soon as he had his coat on, he snatched the hat and gloves, then slammed out into the street.

The long walk through Mayfair and beyond was enough to clear Simon's head, but still his thoughts lingered on his pretty partner in crime. He shook his head, trying to shake her out of his brain. He had work to do.

The club stood directly across the street from where he lingered, but still Simon hesitated. Should he walk in the front door as Mortimer?

Mortimer certainly wouldn't be out of place at a respectable gentlemen's club. Well, somewhat respectable.

The rather Gothic facade before him housed the sort of club that wives and mothers didn't want to know about. A place for the restless set to gather, drink, and game, telling themselves they were experiencing the true streets of London.

Of course, no true Corinthian would waste his time here, for a real whoremongering gaming hell—while certainly full of other amusements—would never serve the sort of cuisine and fine liquor that was found at this establishment. Simon took particular pride in his selection of cigars, although he only occasionally smoked them himself.

No, in reality it was rather tame, at least on the surface. Mortimer was just the sort of poseur to enjoy the blunted badness of the Liar's Club.

His decision made, Simon pulled his top hat low over his eyes and strode across the cobbles, exuding all the snobbery of a gentleman slumming in a moderately shabby area for his own amusement. The doorman gave him a bored glance.

"It's a private club, sir. I can't admit ye without a sponsor."

Simon tipped his hat higher with one finger to show his face. "Open the door, Stubbs, or I'll dock your pay."

The doorman's eyes widened, and he truly looked at Simon for the first time.

"Sir! Yessir, Mr. Rain, sir! I didn't recognize ye all toffed up, sir!"

Simon grinned. "That's all right, Stubbs. I never use the front door anyway."

"Yessir. I mean, nossir!" Stubbs jumped to open the door for Simon.

"Is Jackham about, Stubbs?"

"Yessir. Mr. Jackham's in the office, sir, last I saw 'im, sir."

Simon only nodded, passing into the club. It was a relief to get away from the poor fellow's groveling.

It was even more of a relief to step into the manly, smoky world of his club. Even simply to be in the outer rooms, which were used solely by the young gentlemen and lordlings who frequented the tables and drink provided there. The deep green walls and dark woods were severe and simple. It was a world of men, free of floral scents, tea service, and nagging.

Not to mention free of temptation.

Jackham was grumbling about that very thing when Simon entered the office behind the billiards room. The older man was seated at the giant banker's desk. He had likely been there a while, for his reddish fringe of hair was already mussed from frustrated finger-running.

"We'd be twice the richer if we had some doves in here," Jackham grumbled rudely as he pored over the bookkeeping. "And where the hell have you been?"

Simon only smiled as he lounged on the threadbare sofa that Jackham was too miserly to replace. After days of having the social niceties stuffed down his gullet, Jackham's lack of polish was refreshing.

"You know the rules, Jackham. No opium, no whoring. We stay clean and we stay in business."

"Whores aren't illegal. They're practically subsidized by the ladies of London who want their husbands gone from their beds."

"Jackham, we've had this discussion before. You may bring in the floor shows when the blokes get restless, but
absolutely no whoring."

Jackham didn't dare do more than mutter when Simon glared him down. There was no possibility that Simon would ever budge on this issue. He had a few sins on his conscience—very well then, more than a few—but he refused to take part in the business of selling souls.

"So why haven't you shown your face around here for days, leaving me to run this place by myself? I don't own it, you know. You do."

"Business."

"Well, I figured that," groused Jackham. "It wouldn't have anything to do with that job got pulled over in Mayfair two nights back, would it?"

Simon grunted noncommittally.

Jackham's black eyes gleamed. "A fine piece of work, that. Worthy of the Magician himself, eh?" He winked at Simon. "Reminds me of my younger days on the rooftops. Hear tell the swag was full of diamonds. You know anything about that job, Mr. Rain?"

"Now, Jackham, you know I never tell tales out of school." Simon decided to throw a few diamonds into Jackham's cut this quarter, just to fiddle with his mind.

"I miss those days, I really do," sighed Jackham.

For a moment, the lines of pain in his face eased and Simon knew he was remembering his own days dancing with the devil on the rooftops of London, a mere shadow man who could lighten the wealth of the most secure establishments.

It was a thrilling life, the career of a master thief. It was also a short life, bound to end badly. For some, it ended in gaol or the gibbet.