The Pretender (31 page)

"As far as I have been able to ascertain, Miss Cunnington is entirely blameless in the whole affair."

"She is. Her only flaw is a tendency to manage things. She thought she could discover her brother's whereabouts on her own."

"Why didn't you discourage her from such a dangerous act? How could you allow her to put herself in such jeopardy?"

Simon darkened but did not reply. It would serve the pompous bastard right if he did marry Agatha. Simon gave Etheridge one week before he would be as stunned and be-muddled as Simon himself.

"More to the point, Simon, why are you here if not to clear the way for the ambitions of one of my colleagues?"

"I was investigating you as a possible spy," Simon said. "You've a very suspicious way of life, my lord. Positively reclusive. And all those journeys abroad? Not very subtle of you." He sat back with his hands clasped over his abdomen, watching his captor narrowly. "You were a spy, weren't you? An independent operative."

This time Etheridge was the one to redden. "That's preposterous," he sputtered. "I have shipping interests! And I don't socialize because I despise silly people and their idle chatter—"

He halted at Simon's grin and grimaced. He set the pistol down on the desk with more respect than he had the glass.

"You don't know how I envy you, Simon. I've missed the fieldwork terribly since I took over for Lord Liverpool. Now it is all politics and court intrigue."

"I'd hate every minute of it," Simon said with feeling. "Is that why you were in Maywell’s study? Because you missed the fieldwork?"

"Bloody hell. You are as good as Liverpool claimed. How did you know that?"

"I was right behind you." Simon snickered. "So was Agatha."

The front legs of Etheridge's chair made sudden contact with the floor as he sat up straight in surprise.
"She
does sneakwork?"

"A finer partner I've never had. She's the most creative liar and the most spontaneous confidence artist I've ever had the pleasure of being finessed by. For days even I thought she was a professional."

Etheridge pursed his lips in admiration. "And all tied up in that pretty little package, too." He cast Simon a measuring look. "Who are you to Miss Cunnington, really?"

Her worst nightmare. Simon had to look away. "A friend." Then he shot Etheridge a warning glare. "One who would be highly upset to see her hurt."

Etheridge nodded. "A friend. Yet you lived with her for weeks unchaperoned. And she is so very beddable."

With the speed of a bullet, Simon was across the room, over the desk, and at Etheridge's throat. His voice was a deadly hiss. "Lord or no, I will rip your foul tongue from your head if you ever belittle her that way again."

Etheridge managed a nod and raised both hands to show his agreement. When Simon released him, he rubbed his throat calmly.

"You've answered my question. I wanted to know your true feelings for the lady. I think you've expressed them quite well."

"Manipulative bastard," Simon muttered.

"Aren't we all?"

The hell of it was, he was right.

The clock struck nine. The servants cleared away the dishes from Agatha's lonely breakfast. Her restless thoughts had kept her up so late that she'd missed Simon already this morning, and she'd not wanted to disturb James's rest simply to provide herself with company.

"What would you like Cook to serve your guests today, madam?" Pearson stood before her.

Oh, blast. Another day of callers to get through. Agatha pondered the thought of claiming illness to avoid them.

"The usual, I suppose, Pearson. They seem to like it very well." She sighed. "Or perhaps we should prepare something less appetizing. Chocolate-covered snails, perhaps?"

"Are you asking my opinion, madam?"

"Oh, heavens, no, Pearson. I can hear the disapproval dripping from your very voice."

"Indeed, madam."

Agatha closed her eyes. "Can you make it all stop for a day, Pearson? I simply need to catch my breath."

"Yes, madam. I shall inform God."

Agatha jerked her head up, but Pearson had gone. Had that been humor? From
Pearson
?

"Good lord, the world is coming to an end," she muttered.

"That's a pity, for I was going to take you out for an ice."

Simon strolled casually into the breakfast room, bringing with him the fresh spring air from outside.

Suddenly the day was brighter, strung with light and joy. She'd missed him, silly fool that she was. She ought to be eager to put her plan into play, but for the moment she was simply content to be in the same room with the man she loved.

She smiled wistfully. "Out? I can't go out, I have callers coming."

"All the more reason to go, if you ask my opinion. It's a lovely day. The sun is shining and the sky is clear. I say, go out."

Agatha's smile widened, thinking of the child's game. "Simon Says, 'Go out for an ice.' "

He leaned one hip upon the table. "Indeed. You must always do what Simon Says."

Agatha jumped up. "I'll be ready in two minutes." She left the room, then thrust her head back through the door. "Did I ever tell you how much I like raspberry?"

Simon had never had the urge to eat a raspberry-flavored ice before, but suddenly it seemed that if he didn't have just one taste, just one sweet drop, he would expire on the spot.

Of course, it might have been the fact that said little pink drop was just then tracing its way down Agatha's chin and was threatening to fall to her bosom.

Simon decided then and there that if it did fall, he was throwing caution and career to the four winds and following it down.

Wild visions of Agatha's magnificent breasts smeared in sweet pink syrup ambushed him, and he grabbed the edge of the table tightly. His trousers were fit to split, and if he wasn't mistaken, he was beginning to pant.

Fortunately for all concerned, Agatha absently caught the drip in question with her handkerchief, keeping her attention on her ice all the while.

It was a terrible thing for a man's career to hang on the flick of a hankie. He really needed to do something about this situation. He would think on it seriously.

Later.

At the moment, it was all he could do to keep responding in an intelligent manner while watching Agatha take sensual delight in a frozen concoction of sugar and ice and raspberry juice. Her tongue swirled round and round the pile of shaved ice in its card holder until she pulled it back between her pinked lips to savor the sugary treat.

God save him, for he was surely going to die. Suddenly he was very thankful that they'd taken a secluded table where Agatha could throw back her heavy widow's veil. Perhaps no one would notice the tenting of his trousers from where he sat.

"Whatever are you thinking of? You have the oddest look on your face."

With a jerk, Simon came back to himself to watch Agatha pat her lips daintily with the damned hankie, having finished the very last lick of her ice.

"You've scarcely touched yours."

He followed the path of her finger pointing to his own melted dish of lemon-scented syrup. He'd ordered an ice? Good lord, he hated the stuff.

Except for raspberry ice. He thought he could possibly become very fond of raspberry ice.

"Agatha, would you please excuse me for a moment?" Without waiting for a reply, Simon pushed back his silly little chair and fled the Italian ice parlor at a near run.

Agatha leaned back in her chair, pushing her finished treat away. If she was to be perfectly honest with herself, and she had vowed she would be, she must admit that she had just done her best to drive Simon wild with lust.

She almost hadn't. They had been having a lovely time on the drive and had been very comfortable with each other, as they used to be.

It hadn't seemed the time to pursue her plan, and she'd been happy for a brief moment free of pretense and deceit.

Until she had remembered how short a time she had to secure his child.

Well, she certainly had him thinking in that direction now. He'd tease and laugh no more this afternoon, but she'd wager he'd think of her all the more.

Simon was gone for several minutes. Agatha spent them eyeing his lemon ice. Regretfully, she decided that her hips did not need the extra padding and let the attendant take it away.

She was just beginning to become curious when Simon returned and gave her a cool smile before he took his seat once more.

"Is everything quite all right?"

"Of course." His cool smile remained, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Everything is fine."

It was truly beginning to get on her last nerve, that smile. Daring him to remain indifferent to her, she leaned forward on her elbows. Blast good manners, anyway. She was on a mission.

Reaching out with one hand, she stroked his coat sleeve. "I've always admired how well you look in blue. It brings out the color of your eyes."

Simon didn't respond beyond a polite nod, but she noticed that his throat bobbed forcefully. Excellent. She leaned slightly closer and dropped her voice.

"Simon? Do you know what I like you best in?"

He leaned closer to hear her and made a polite noise of inquiry, keeping that blasted cool indifference upon his face.

She slid her fingers down to stroke his wrist beneath his cuff. "I like you best in…me," she whispered.

He jumped as if she'd slapped him. No longer indifferent, she could see. His jaw was clenching furiously, and his eyes flashed darkly.

"Stop this immediately," he growled.

"Why? I've decided that I'd very much like to discuss what happened that night."

"Agatha—"

"There's no need to go all prudish now, Simon. If you were willing to do what we did, you should be willing to speak of it."

"One does have to wonder at your motives, it is true. But now that I understand you, I think there's all the more reason—"

"Agatha!"

His sharp remonstrance drew glances from the other patrons, and she noticed that his jaw tightened furiously. He grabbed her by the hand and towed her to the door and out to the street.

With one hand, he waved Harry forward with the carriage.

"Simon—"

"Go home, Agatha. I'll see you at supper."

Swiftly he bundled her into the carriage and signaled Harry to take her home. As the carriage clattered away, Agatha thrust her head from the window to see Simon turning away to walk down the street.

He didn't seem at all affected by her boldness. How disappointing. She'd thought that surely he would—

As she watched, Simon took a sharp detour, turning aside to plant his fist against a rubbish bin.

Agatha smiled and sat back onto the seat of the carriage. Perhaps not so indifferent, after all.

Agatha tied her wrapper with determined movements. The house was silent and dark. Some of the servants might still be up, but they wouldn't come to this part of the house unless rung for.

She hadn't seen Simon at supper after all. Jamie had pleaded weariness, so Agatha had taken her meal in her room once again.

It was time. She was going through with this.

She was fighting for her future child, and nothing would get in her way, not conscience, not nerves, not fear of Simon's rejection.