The Pretender (21 page)

If so, then Simon was most assuredly a gentleman and Repulsive Reggie was not.

Besides, Agatha cared very little about the opinions of others Where had those mysterious others been when she and Jamie had been virtually deserted to raise themselves?

If she wanted Simon over any other man, then why shouldn't she have him? Resolve strengthened her desire into determination.

Great lot of good it would do her. Here she sat, inescapably mad about him, and where was he? Out all night, no doubt housebreaking and putting himself in unbearable danger.

The truth was that there was no need for him to steal. She had more than enough money for the both of them. How could she let him know she not only could make him a good wife, but was an heiress to boot?

Goodness, the only reason that she didn't have beaux lining up on the street was that Jamie had decided they ought not to put it about.

Still, a little voice murmured in her mind, if Jamie was so concerned about her making a good marriage, why had he never brought her to London?…

Nonsense. In time he would have, she was sure. He simply hadn't wanted her to become bait for some fortune hunter.

Some money-mad bounder who only cared for profit—

Oh, dear. Perhaps she ought not to put quite so much temptation before Simon.

She
understood that her beloved thief was only striving to secure himself against ever returning to his boyhood poverty, but she wasn't entirely sure that Jamie would.

If she could get some sort of avowal of Simon's feelings before he ever learned of her wealth, then she would know that he truly cared for her. Oh, wouldn't she just love to hear the words from his lips…

An idea began to grow from that seed of longing.

If Simon confessed his feelings thinking her nothing but an ordinary woman, and if Agatha herself was ever so slightly compromised before Jamie came home… well, that would sort matters out quite nicely, wouldn't it? Even Lord Fistingham would be stymied by that little detail.

The kiss in the parlor wouldn't count as being compromised. Not if Jamie truly objected to Simon, as he most likely would. Reggie certainly wouldn't let a mere kiss from another man get in the way of his plotting.

No, nothing would do but a most serious tarnishing. And it had better be tonight, for she could not count on keeping her hold on him once they had broken Lord Etheridge's safe.

Tonight.

Her breath came a bit faster then. Memories of Simon's lips and hands rose in her mind, and her body heated.

Oh my. She could not
wait
.

She would yield her virginity to Simon, and when he declared his feelings, she would tell him the happy news.

Agatha smiled. She couldn't wait to see Simon's face when he learned what she was worth.

She turned from the front parlor window and began to pace the room once more. What did one wear to a seduction, anyway?

It wasn't until late morning that daylight seeped past the clouds and between the surrounding buildings to shine through the window of Jackham's office. Simon rolled from Jackham's sofa and stretched.

The sounds of a body growing older filled the room. Disgusted, Simon shook out his arms and shoulders and rubbed his face.

He should have gone to his own house. After all, he'd gone to much expense to purchase it and make sure it was comfortable, if rather monastically furnished. But the painful contrast between that silent stately home and Agatha's warm and welcoming little house had made spending the night at the bustling club seem like a viable alternative.

Of course, his back didn't seem to agree. One bloody night out of a comfortable bed. He was getting soft, was all.

And maybe just a tiny bit… seasoned. He must admit, he hadn't had those creaks and pops when he'd been younger.

Fifteen years on the job took it out of a fellow. At least he still had his career. Younger men than he had burned themselves up under the pressure.

Simon hadn't burned up, because he had long ago learned to be ice.

Cold logic and hard facts kept him to the course, until there was room for nothing else.

Still, it wouldn't hurt to begin looking for another successor, now that James was out of the running.

The loss of James hurt, in both the loss of a man he called friend and the loss of something he hadn't realized he held so dear. His faith in his ability to read someone, to know the good men from the bad.

Simon chilled the pain and drove it deep, and turned his mind back to the problem at hand.

The reality was, however, that there was no one else in the organization now with the proper view.

He needed someone who could see the shifting threads within the knot, who knew when to pull this one, when to ease that one, yet never lost sight of the entire tangle.

The job required a very singular vision. And at the moment, Simon knew of no one else who could do it.

There was time, of course. Years to train another, as he had been trained to take over for the Old Man. Simon wasn't leaving the center of his web for a long time yet. There was time to bring up another young fellow, if he could find one. He had years.

For a moment, Simon longed to set down his burden. What life might he have led without it? The comfort of a loving wife, the joy of sons and daughters, a life without secrets?

A life in the light of day?

He shook off the fantasy. Rubbish. If not for his own mentor, the Old Man, he'd most likely never have lived to his thirteenth birthday, much less had a life of comfort and familial warmth.

Simon shook out his crumpled jacket and donned it. For a moment, he contemplated braving Kurt's kitchen for a roll, then decided he'd be better off cajoling a meal from Agatha's cook.

He rubbed his face. He'd handled Agatha badly the night before. He should have charmed her, not baited her. He should be at her side now, charming her for all he was worth.

It was time to get to the bottom of that woman's secrets, even if it meant going to the extreme and seducing her loyalty away from James.

He was halfway there already, judging from that kiss in her parlor.

Halfway to damnation
, whispered his conscience.

Halfway to ecstasy
, whispered his lust.

With a growl, Simon grabbed his hat and strode from the club. The possibility of having Agatha naked and willing by midnight was more than a plan of action. It was a dream come true, there was no denying it.

Every ache in his body disappeared at the mental image of Agatha in his arms, Agatha in his bed. Need pounded through him, scorching lust with a raw edge of loneliness.

He halted just outside the door of the club and leaned gratefully against the cold iron of the nearest lamppost. He took several deep breaths to clear his head.

The air outside was hardly fresh, but it was full of real scents and noises. The clattering of coach and wagon wheels, the clopping of horses, the ever-present sooty smell of his beloved London.

This was real. This was the world he lived in, the world he needed to protect. His city, his homeland. His role, to deal with the grit and grime of wartime and espionage.

The mission. Focus on the mission.

Find James Cunnington and take him down, by whatever means necessary. Stop a dangerous intelligence leak and protect his country.

Unfortunate that he was fond of the man, but entirely irrelevant. Unfortunate that he was captivated by his target's mistress, but also irrelevant.

Simon felt himself steady, felt himself grow flinty and cold inside once more, as if the iron of the lamppost were flowing through his palm and replacing the hot blood incited by Agatha's charms.

He had a mission. This time, he wouldn't forget it.

Once her decision had been made to seduce Simon, Agatha found that she was suddenly no longer in a hurry for him to return. She needed every spare minute she could manage.

First, she ordered the linens freshened in both their chambers, for she wasn't entirely sure where the night would end. Then she took a bath, hiding beneath the water until she remembered her tendency to prune. At which time she promptly erupted from the lather calling for Nellie.

Sitting in her bedchamber wrapped in a satin wrapper and a cloud of lemon verbena
eau de toilette,
Agatha decided to organize her thoughts.

She pulled a sheet of foolscap to her and uncorked her inkwell.

First, invite Simon to her room. No. Too spider-and-the-fly. She would go to his room.

When? Immediately after he retired? The stroke of midnight?

Heavens, how complicated seduction was. It was a wonder the human race continued at all.

Agatha chewed the end of her quill for a moment. She must decide. Very well, then. His room, as soon as Button had left him for the night.

She heard the chime of the clock in the hall. The day had nearly passed already, and Simon was nowhere to be seen. What if she had used up her favorite bath scent for nothing?

Just as she was truly beginning to panic, she heard Simon's familiar tread in the hall and the rumbling of his voice. She hopped up to press her ear to the door.

"If Mrs. Applequist is having supper in her room, then I'll do the same. No, I don't think I'll be joining her. You can bring up the food, Button, but then I want my privacy."

She heard Button respond, but his higher tones didn't travel as well. Simon's door opened and then closed.

Agatha sat back, nervously toying with the sash of her wrapper. The time was only just eight. Her own early supper sat congealed on the table in the corner. She had been quite unable to eat.

Shortly Simon would be alone in his room for the night. Alone, relaxed, and ready for bed.

A warm tingle went through her at the thought. Then a cold wash of utter fear. What if she went about it all wrong?

She was country-bred and had been involved in keeping sheep for as long as she could recall. When a ewe was ready and a ram was ready, they simply acted. Surely people did not need lessons on this subject, either?

Agatha heard Button arrive with Simon's supper. A few moments later, she heard Button leave again.

Determined to wait until Simon had eaten, Agatha began pacing again. After all, one should digest one's food entirely before embarking on… physical activity.

The thought shook her resolve and she sank to a seat on her mattress. She didn't have to do this. It still was not too late to back out of her plan—

And lose Simon. Lose her beautiful thief and never see his breathtaking smile again. Never again feel his laugh vibrate through her body or taste the faint flavor of cinnamon on his lips.

Never again experience that unrivaled sense of union that fed her parched soul.

Her resolve suddenly renewed, Agatha stood.
That
was simply not an option.

She took a deep breath, then strode calmly to the door and stepped into the hall.

As Simon never went into any fray without a strategy, he was going to take tonight to form his plan.

Unfortunately, he couldn't think of a thing that would convince Agatha that she should abandon James for him.

The James that Simon had known, and the man that Agatha believed she knew, was altogether a finer candidate for her affections.

James was a wealthy man and an educated one. Although Simon was secure financially and was now well-read, there was no denying his low birth.

James was a gentleman and could move freely among the finest of society. Then again, as a gentleman, James would never marry a ladybird like Agatha, but only break her heart.

Simon would… no, he could not marry her, either. Not to someday put her in danger as his bride.

Then again, James was not here, and Simon was.

She'd be better off with him. He understood her and he understood what it was like to live in the world between the low and the high.

He could do it for his country and save her from herself at the same time. But he wouldn't keep her, paying for her wares. No, he'd buy this house for her and make it a gift.

Then give her the choice. It wouldn't be wrong if she came to him as an independent woman, would it? A knowledgeable, experienced woman, who made her decision freely?

Would it be so wrong, to have something warm for himself after all these years? To take pleasure in Agatha's hot, sweet flesh and giving nature?

She wouldn't be his whore. She would be his woman, his partner, wife in all but name.

He was fairly confident that he could maneuver his way into her bed, and from there he was sure he could maneuver his way into her heart. She would be better off.

Wouldn't she?

Simon turned away from his mostly intact supper tray and stood to pace restlessly around the room.

Everything here belonged to another man. The books and dressing table items belonged to James, the clothes to Mortimer. There was nothing of Simon but a tiny sack of cinnamon drops tossed carelessly on the washstand.

As it should be.

Simon perused the books on the shelves once more. These had never been a surprise to him, for he had known that James had a fascination with Daniel Defoe. Every one of the Liars went through it at some point.

Who was this man, this king of liars? A writer, a poet, everyone knew this. Not all of them knew that he had also been a master intelligencer.

Had he been a man of great emotion or a man of cold logic? Artist or artificer?

The questions haunted them all as they struggled with the eternal conflict between being a man and being a spy.

Simon chose
Moll Flanders
from a shelf and hefted the weight of it in his hands. His own burning question had always been… where had the man found the time?

Idly he lifted the cover to flip through some of his favorite passages. On the flyleaf, he found an inscription in a familiar sturdy script.

For Jamie,

Beloved kindred spirit

A

Kindred spirit.
Ice wedged itself deeply into Simon's gut. How could he sink so low that he would divide her from the man she loved?

Thinking furiously, he sat in the chair before the fire without even realizing he had moved, still holding the open book before his unseeing eyes.