The Pretender (34 page)

Whoring?
Whoring?
Her appalled silence must have spoken for her, for he nodded.

"Good, then. We understand each other. So, what have you got for me?"

Oh, dear. "Ah, well… what do you mean, precisely?"

"Good Lord, you do sound like a toff. Where'd you pick up that ladylike speech, m'girl?"

"Er, I've always been able to do it. You should hear me do the King."

His brow wrinkled. "Is that your act? Mimicking the mad King? Don't know if we've got much call for that sort of entertainment…"

Suddenly it became clear to Agatha that this fellow thought she wanted to be hired to entertain. She opened her mouth to set him straight—then closed it.

What if she did manage to get hired on here? She'd like to see this place in operation and find out what Simon's role here was.

Her curiosity burned. She'd wondered about Simon's secret life, the one that kept him from her. Here was a chance to see it for herself.

Entertainment. Well, she couldn't possibly pass herself off as a singer, nor a musician. Her pianoforte lessons had come to a sudden halt at her mother's death. Her father had seemed to forget all about them, and Agatha had not reminded him.

She doubted very much if she knew any stories that would entertain a club full of gentlemen. They came here for drinking and cards and snake acts—

"Cards! I'm very good with cards."

The man scowled at her thoughtfully. "A dealer? Well, well, well…"

Agatha hadn't thought about claiming to be a dealer. Did they actually hire someone to deal the cards? Why didn't the gentlemen simply take turns? Well, perhaps it kept things fair…

"Oh, you want me to cheat for you!"

His eyes widened and for a moment she thought she'd offended him. But the twinkle of pure glee that entered those cold eyes told her that she'd found his weakness.

"Can you? Can you deal that well? Could you cheat the sorry sods?"

Could she cheat? Well, if there was one thing she was good at, it was cheating at cards. One didn't grow up in a primarily male household without gaining the upper hand in something.

"Would you like to try me out?"

The fellow had her at a table with a deck in her hand so quickly that the green felt blurred before her eyes.

"Vingt-et-un," he demanded.

She began to shuffle the cards. Deciding to show off a bit, she did it so quickly, the cards were a blur. Then again, sending them in an arc through the air from one hand to the other. That one was very impressive, of course, but it also gave her the chance to glimpse the undersides of the cards.

"Would you like a high card or a low one?"

"Give me a decent start, to get me betting, then make it bad."

She gave him an approving smile, for that was one of her favorite gambits as well. She dealt him a three, then hit him again, keeping track of the cards in her mind's eye, chatting all the while.

"Did you know that the inventor of the modern card deck originally intended them to be used for children only?" She had no idea if that was true, but the point was distraction, not education. "But when he gave them to the poor little tots, he found that they couldn't remember what all the cards were."

She leaned forward flirtatiously, and the fellow's eyebrows climbed a bit as he couldn't help sneaking a peek down her bodice. Heavens, men were so predictable.

While he was thusly occupied, she slipped him the very worst card possible from the bottom of her deck. He took it absently and added it to the others without glancing at it.

"How close are you to twenty-one, sir?"

He looked down. "Bloody hell!"

He spread the cards out on the felt. Agatha leaned to peer at them herself.

Hmm. Where in the world had that two come from? Obviously, she needed to practice. Still, it was a truly horrid batch in all. And he'd received it with a smile. Even now, he was having a hard time keeping his gaze on his terrible cards.

"Can you do it for a full table? Can you do it all night long? How about letting one fellow win for a bit, then letting the others catch up, then taking them all down at once?"

"Well, I shouldn't want to be too obvious. Perhaps after they've been in their cups for a bit?"

"Oh, you're a bright girl, you are. Do you have a bit of flash to wear? Something nice, that will give the place a touch of class. But low-cut, you know, take their minds off their cards?"

"Why, sir, I blush," she teased. "Are you telling me you weren't watching the cards the whole time?"

His face lit up. "That's the way! If you catch them looking, they'll never admit it, will they? Oh, you're a treasure." He stuck out his hand. "My name's Jackham. Welcome to the Liar's Club, Miss—"

Agatha's mind went a complete blank. Name, name, anyone's name—

"Nellie Berth!" She sent a mental apology to the little housemaid at Carriage Square. Surely it was a harmless loan.

"Well, Miss Berth, you're hired. Now, just so you'll know, the owner's got his standards. No whoring on the premises, like I said." He actually reddened a bit at that. "Not that I'm assuming anything, mind you. And not that your own time isn't your own, if you take my meaning. But while you're in the club, you're to be a lady at all times."

"I think I can manage," Agatha said dryly.

"Good girl. You can start tonight, but take it easy at first. Just keep the marks happy, and take a bit in here and there." He looked over his shoulder, then leaned closer. "Just one more thing."

Agatha leaned closer as well, although there wasn't a soul in the room with them.

"There'll be no cheating the boys in the back room. Not by the house, and not by you. Just you remember that. The marks stay out front, the Magician's boys stay in the back, and that's the way we like it."

Agatha nodded seriously, but her own gears were turning. The boys in the back room? Who was the Magician? Simon?

Good lord, the spy ring was concealed within a gaming hell? The Liar's Club. How absolutely twisted and divine.

As she donned her cloak and made her way to the street, waving politely at Mr. Jackham, Agatha realized that she had stumbled onto something that Simon did
not
want her to know.

Now, how was she to get home? Then she saw that the young doorman had returned to his post.

"Mr. Stubbs, might I trouble you to whistle down a hansom?"

The boy almost fell over his feet to do so for her. His piercing whistle rent the air, and a small carriage stopped almost immediately. She gave the driver her direction, then Stubbs handed her into her seat with reverence.

"I hopes you come back soon, miss."

Agatha smiled. "I shall be back this very eve."

"I'll spread the word, I will. If it ain't too bold, miss, could you tell me what you're wearin' tonight?"

It occurred to her that she had a truly serious problem. Oh, dear. What did a lady dealer in a gaming hell wear, anyway? "Something… um, tight?"

"Cor!" seemed all that he could manage at the prospect.

Agatha giggled as the carriage pulled away from the curb. It seemed she had another conquest. He was as enamored as Button, although for completely different reasons.

Button! Of course! If anyone could dress her for a night of employment in a gaming hell, Button could.

"I don't understand, madam. A lady dealer in a gambling establishment? Why would you wish such a costume?"

Agatha sighed. She didn't think Button was being purposely obstructive, but he was wearing out her patience nonetheless.

"It's for… a bit of parlor theatre. A charade."

Button's eyes lit. Apparently she had stumbled upon his levering point.

"Theatre! Oh, madam, I know the very thing. Let me send to my friend at the theatre. I myself had my start as a dresser on Drury Lane, you know," he said modestly. "That isn't normally the thing to tell one's employer, of course, but I believe I can trust you, madam."

"Indeed." Agatha grinned. Her own little platoon simply got more interesting, didn't it? A chimneysweep-thief-spy, a jesting butler, and a costume-mad valet.

Worlds to conquer, oh my.

"I am all yours, Button. Have at."

That evening, Simon stretched at his desk, rolling his head to ease the kinks in his neck. The clock on the shelf said nine, but that couldn't be right, could it?

Oh, hell. Agatha would likely be pacing a hole through the carpet by now. It was an oddly satisfying notion, the thought of someone waiting for him. Comforting. Of course, having her furious at him for his trick this morning wasn't part of that cozy little fantasy.

Deciding that he ought to squelch that notion within himself as soon as possible, Simon decided not to go home.

At this point of the night Jackham was most likely on the floor watching the marks spend their money. Simon decided to risk the office entry.

He wasn't in the mood to go through the window and walk the narrow ledge to the secret entry over the kitchens. It was far too wet out tonight.

Making his way soundlessly through the dark passage to his exit by the fireplace, Simon listened. Not a sound came from the other side of the wall.

He eased the slot open just a fraction of an inch, then froze. There was light in Jackham's office. Miserly Jackham never burned oil if he wasn't using it.

But this wasn't a lamp. The light was dim and flickering.

Like a candle.

Jackham didn't use candles. He considered them wasteful and dangerous. So who was in Jackham's office?

The candle went out.

In a flash, Simon was out of his passage, crouching low and ready to strike.

He listened for any rustling or breathing that would tell him where the intruder was. Then he straightened. Damn. He'd missed whoever it had been.

He moved swiftly and silently to the door. The candle had likely been blown out as they left, for the scent of beeswax and burnt wick was strongest near the door.

Then another scent twined its way through the air. A floral perfume with a lemony undertone. An aroma he knew very well.

Agatha?

Simon bolted from the dark room without a thought to being seen. He followed his nose down the short hallway to the Liar's Chamber, where the real work was done.

She wasn't there, but her scent lingered among the tobacco smoke, and her obvious presence lingered in the bemused smiles of his Liars.

Cherchez la femme
. Too bloody right.

How had she gotten in? What filthy, lying, manipulative trick could she have pulled to have infiltrated his world?

Simon continued, dashing through the kitchen where he glared at the silly grin on the face of Kurt the Cook—who wasn't called that because he was a chef, but because he was the deadliest knife man in England.

She had charmed
Kurt
?

Good lord. Was she insane?

Simon paused before he entered the gaming room. He never made appearances there, for he didn't want to be known. It was doubly dangerous now, for some of the over-privileged young men who frequented his club had been among his new circle as Mortimer and Ethelbert.

Well, Ethelbert it was then. Simon straightened his coat and smoothed it. He was still dressed for day, but that wasn't as bad form as showing up wrinkled. He tilted his hat arrogantly upon his head and strode through the kitchen doors.