The Pretender (48 page)

Simon hadn't meant to sleep. He'd intended only to watch over Agatha for the night. But his own exhaustion had caught up with him as he lay wrapped protectively about her.

When he awoke a few hours later, it took him a moment to recall where he was and why. The only immediate awareness was of warm, sweet woman cradled against him. His body reacted even before his mind truly put a name to the sensation.

Then he remembered the river and the foiled assassination attempt. And, painfully, Agatha's very public downfall at his hands.

The entire city would have the story by morning, he'd no doubt. She'd been ruined beyond the limits of public forgiveness, and would forever be known as "the Chimneysweep's Whore" or some other foul name.

"Let me send you away from England," he whispered against her neck.

"No," she whispered back.

He hadn't known she was awake, but now he was glad she had heard him. "Why not? You could go to the West Indies. It is the perfect solution. No one will know you. You may start over."

She rolled to face him, although he could scarcely see her in the dim final glow of the coals. He could feel her hand as she raised it to caress his face.

"I'll not run, Simon. I ran from Reggie, and look what happened. This would only follow me, as Reggie did. If I have learned anything, it is that challenging the past is the only way to conquer it."

"You may never truly be part of your world again. I know. I have spent my life on the outside. It is not a good place to be."

She didn't respond for a moment. Then he felt her move, and felt her lips gently on the corner of his mouth. "I shall make my own world," she whispered. "And you will always be part of it, though I never see you again."

He dropped his face into her neck. It was over, almost as soon as it had begun. Yet in their few short weeks together, he had fallen so deeply he thought he might never recover.

Her fingers entwined gently in his hair, and she softly ground her body against his. "We have this night," she murmured.

"Yes," he answered, and took her mouth with his. They had only hours left, and suddenly every moment counted. Every second, every sigh, every muffled cry mattered.

He had so much to prove to her, so much to reveal to her about her own soul and spirit. Assurances that he should have had a lifetime to convince her of.

"You are strong," he whispered as he held her above him and let her ride him at her own speed, confirming her power over his heart.

"You are splendid," he murmured into her as he took her to the peak of pleasure again and again with his mouth, teaching her the limitless pleasures of her own body.

"You are brave," he told her as he stroked deeply into her from behind as she knelt before him, artlessly gasping her orgasm into the pillow.

"You are beautiful," he cried into her mouth as he released into her for the last time and fell gasping to the bed beside her in the first glow of dawn.

Then she kissed him softly and replied to each and every lesson with three simple words.

"I love you," she said. But he could not bear to answer.

* * *

Agatha woke alone, to late-morning sunlight streaming into her room. Her body ached, especially her wrists and shoulder. She was terribly weak and thirsty as well. But most of all, she felt overwhelmed with sadness.

Her eyes burned with ready tears and there was an invisible manacle of anguish about her chest. Blurrily she tried to think. Why should she wake with her heart aching so?

Then she remembered. Her loss exploded within her, and she could only curl into a defensive ball as grief tore through her in expanding waves.

She wanted to howl, to strike out, to throw everything breakable in the world against the stone wall of her pain, yet it was only possible to lie silent as hot tears ran freely onto her pillow.

There was no tantrum powerful enough to alleviate this pain. No fit of spoiled anger would begin to tap into her loss. Without anger to strengthen her, only the soul-killing sadness remained.

No one came to her all morning, and she did not ring for them. There was no room for anyone else, for her pain filled every corner.

Finally she rose to use her chamber pot, and the next blow fell. Her courses had begun.

There would be no child, and the loss of that beautiful possibility was enough to knock her to her knees.

Agatha knelt there with her arms wrapped tightly about her stomach, around what never was, until the blackness passed from before her eyes. She was weak from hunger, she realized. Not a bite had passed her lips since just before Reggie had come.

Two days? Indeed she must eat, although the thought did not appeal. She stumbled to the bell-pull to call for Nellie, then made her way back to the bed.

She was still standing with one hand wrapped about the bedpost, staring at her great empty bed, when Nellie popped into the room seconds later. The little maid must have restrained herself with difficulty all morning, for Agatha could practically see the sympathetic curiosity bubbling inside her.

"I've brought you some tea, miss." Nellie set the tray upon Agatha's small table and arranged the chair for her. Then she saw that Agatha still stood by the bed.

"Would you like your tea in bed, miss?"

The bed seemed to call to Agatha.
Climb in and stay forever. Curl up and forget everything but the last night you spent with him here. You can live a lifetime in this bed, a lifetime in your memories.

Agatha shuddered. "Now that is quite simply pathetic," she muttered. She cast a challenging glance at Nellie. "Do I strike you as pathetic?"

"No, miss?" The girl gazed at her warily, as if not sure that was the correct response.

"Precisely." Agatha turned away from the bed and moved shakily to the table. "I'll need a bath after breakfast, Nellie, if you please. And I'll wear the yellow gown. The black is rather pointless, now."

"Yes, miss."

"Ask Cook to send up something plain, will you please? I'm not feeling quite myself today."

"Nor should you, miss," ventured Nellie. "You nearly died!"

"Well, I'm not dead yet," resolved Agatha, and set about proving it to herself.

When she was fed, bathed, and dressed, her outlook was somewhat improved. She still felt as though her chest were full of shattered glass, and her eyes had a tendency to leak tears, but her strength and will were returning.

After checking on a sleeping James, who was pale, but not terribly feverish, Agatha restlessly made her way downstairs. There was nothing to do down there, either, but at least she would not feel so very much as though she were hiding out.

The table in the entry that had once overflowed with invitations held nothing but an empty salver and a vase of dimming flowers from the garden. Agatha was unsurprised.

She was a true pariah now. After all her experiences this week, she found little reason to care about the silly opinions of useless people. The only one with whom she might have enjoyed a closer acquaintance, Clara Simpson, gave her a small pang when she thought of what the young widow must think of her now. But it was only a pang.

She almost entered the parlor but decided not to subject herself to a room in which she and Simon had spent so much time together. The breakfast room was off-limits for the same reason. Finally, she ended up at the kitchen table, sharing a comfortable cup with Sarah Cook.

"I know it all seems dark now, madam, but you're young yet. Men will come and go in a woman's life. Fathers, brothers, husbands, even lovers."

Agatha couldn't help her piqued curiosity. "Did you have lovers, Sarah?"

"Did I have lovers? What a question. I wasn't always just known for my pastries, was I?" The stout woman fluttered her lashes seductively.

Agatha managed a small smile. "But was there ever one man who was…"

"The one man?"

Nodding, Agatha ran a fingertip around the rim of her teacup. "I simply can't imagine ever not loving him."

"Who said you would ever not love him? The first man you love, well… you never really get over him, no matter how it ended."

"Oh, dear. That doesn't sound very promising."

"But that's not to say you couldn't love someone else. Maybe not that easy-hearted way, or so much, but mark my words, you'll love someone else… someday."

Agatha pressed her fingertips to her aching eyes. "But not today. And not tomorrow."

"No, can't say that you will."

"Today and tomorrow will be the most difficult, I believe. Then of course, there is the day after that."

The two women sat in silence for a moment, contemplating their tea and their memories. Then Pearson appeared in the doorway, with the attitude that he had been looking for Agatha for some time. She decided not to check his eyebrow gauge.

"Madam, an invitation has come for Mr. Cunnington."

Agatha blinked. "Well, it seems James will still be welcome in some houses."

"Indeed, madam. It is a Royal Invitation."

Agatha smiled, her joy in James's public redemption undiluted by her own reverse situation. "He is to be decorated, I was told. No one deserves it more."

"Yes, madam. The Invitation came by Royal Messenger. He awaits a reply."

"Of course." Agatha held out her hand for It. "How do you manage to capitalize spoken words that way, Pearson?"

"Years of practice, Madam."

"Well, you're very good at it."

Pearson bowed. "Thank you, Madam."

The Invitation came in the form of a rolled scroll of vellum, wrapped in silk ribbon and marked with an ornate seal. Agatha carefully detached the seal to save it for Jamie. One didn't get one of these every day, after all.

The Invitation was for James to attend the Morning Audience at the Palace in order for the Prince Regent to show his official appreciation for an Act of Valor.

In four days.

"Four days? His Royal Highness cannot be serious!"

Even Pearson seemed concerned. "Master James will not be much recovered in four days."

"I shall have to refuse for him, then."

Pearson cleared his throat. "I would not advise it, madam. The audiences are sometimes scheduled months in advance. Someone powerful may have been bumped aside for Master James. It would not do to put His Royal Highness out."

Agatha chewed her lip. "Would it be permissible to have someone accept it in his place?"

"Perhaps. If he were dead."

"Ah. Well, then. I suppose I must reply with a respectful acceptance."

Pearson cleared his throat again. Agatha looked up. "An obsequious acceptance?"

"It may be advisable."

Agatha thought about her own filth-beneath-their-feet position in Society and decided that she would hurt James's chances for recognition as little as possible.

"Thank you, Pearson. Will you be so kind as to bring me my writing case? And come back here. I've a feeling I'll need your expertise to word this properly. I might make a muck of it, myself."

"Most assuredly, madam." Then he was gone before she could figure out precisely which part of her request Pearson was agreeing with.

Simon nodded in response to something Stubbs had said, but he wasn't listening. Instead, his gaze kept returning to the fire in the hearth of Jackham's office. The flames reminded him of the golden lights on Agatha's skin as she reached for him before the fire that first fateful night.

"So d'you think the Griffin will be back to his post soon, sir?"

Simon drew his attention back with a jolt. "What? Oh, perhaps. But he has a bit of healing to do, first."

"True enough. I was thinkin' maybe he might be wanting to take me on as an apprentice-like, while he's laid up."

Stubbs gazed at Simon hopefully.

"Why, Stubbs, I'd no idea your ambitions lay in that direction."

"Oh, yessir. 'Specially after that lovely bit he pulled on Winchell's privy. I 'eard the muck flew near 'alf a mile. Wish't I seen it."

Simon forced his mind to consider the plan. Training an apprentice took time, which was why he never seemed to have enough skilled men. No one really wanted to stay out of the field long enough to do the job, so new men were only trained while injuries healed or when attrition made it a necessity.

"It's a good idea. I know you have the mechanical ability for the job. I'll speak to him, Stubbs."

"Yessir. Thank you, sir! Well, I'd best get back to the door, then." Bobbing awkwardly, Stubbs backed out of the room.

Simon closed his eyes and scrubbed his face with both hands. He was finding it very difficult to care today. Would he never regain his lost enthusiasm?

He heard someone clear their throat. "Stubbs, I said I would speak to him." Simon looked up. "I can't promise—"

It wasn't the delirious Stubbs. Before him stood Dalton Montmorency, who did not look happy at all. He loomed over Simon's desk like a well-dressed angel of Death. It was incredibly irritating. Simon had a serious dislike of being loomed over.

He gave a sour smile. "Well, don't you look every inch the Lord Etheridge this fine morning."

"I want to marry her."

Simon looked away with a spasmodic jerk of his head. "Thanks for the warning," he said tightly.

Dalton shrugged. "But I can't. Not until you tell me face-to-face why you won't."

Simon leaned back in his chair, a bitter bark of laughter escaping him. "My leash has been pulled."

Dalton nodded. "Liverpool."

"Yes. Apparently she is now completely off-limits, even should I overcome my own reservations, for she has become a public oddity. The focus of far too many eyes. He does not want me or the Liar's Club exposed to such scrutiny."

Simon wished fervently for a brandy, though the sun was not yet low in the sky. "Furthermore, should I fail to respect those limitations, he will withdraw all support for the reinstatement of James Cunnington."

Swearing, Dalton sat on the sofa opposite Simon's desk. "The calculating bastard. He's always wanted more of a hold over you."

"He has one now. Agatha would never risk her brother's career."

"And you would never ask her to."

"No."