The Pretender (5 page)

Why did the room smell ever so very faintly of cinnamon?

Simon.

Mr. Rain to you, my girl,
she scolded herself,
and don't you forget it.
Moreover, Mr. Rain was safely all the way down the hall, ensconced in Jamie's big bedchamber for the week.

He hadn't liked the idea of staying in the house, and it had been all that Agatha could do to persuade him that there would be no irate person of the male persuasion coming to defend her honor. Truly, it was the only practical solution.

And it was lovely having a man around the house again. A deep voice, a heavier tread, a solid presence to fill the emptiness. Agatha bit her lip for a moment. She missed Jamie and Papa terribly.

As much as she loved Appleby, the estate had become more lonely burden than loving home in the last few years. Jamie had not been living there for quite some time, even before he went to war.

And poor Papa, gone just two years, had been so devastated by his wife's death fifteen years before that he had retreated into his books and his mathematics. Even when he was with his son and daughter, he was scarcely there at all.

The care of the sheep herds and the orchards had been hers for so long, it felt distinctly odd not to forever be thinking of lambs and apples. Odd, and something of a guilty relief.

But she would gladly tend both for the rest of her life if only she could bring back her family. The way they used to be. Agatha rubbed at her eyes, for they burned just the tiniest bit.

She pulled her determination about her like a shield against the pain. Papa was gone forever, but Jamie was out there, somewhere, and it was left to Agatha to find him.

Mr. Rain was not a replacement but a tool placed in her path to aid her mission.

She was close, she knew it. She could envision the moment when she found her brother, perhaps when the ambulance wagons brought the men into the hospital by the dozens.

She would offer a dipper of water to another wounded man, one who was not too terribly wounded, then raise her eyes to see the gleam of Jamie's wicked grin and hear his teasing voice.

"Got your nose in my business again, don't you, Aggravation? Can't leave you alone for a minute!"

And she would help him from his pallet and he would walk out of the hospital—because he wasn't too terribly wounded—and they would go back to Appleby, where things would be just as they had always been before.

Before Napoleon had struck and Jamie had gone soldiering. Before Papa had died.

Before Lord Fistingham had come to tell her that he was the executor of her inheritance now that her brother was likely dead as well. Hence, she should be honored to join her wealth and her lands to Fistingham by becoming the bride of his son, Reginald.

Before she had been left alone with Repulsive Reggie, with his sweaty hands on her body and his slimy tongue in her mouth.

She had managed to avoid Reggie for most of her life, neighbors though they be. She'd learned very young that he was not to be trusted.

Quickly she shut her mind to that older memory, so swiftly that only a brief vision of Reggie's sweating teenage face appeared, silhouetted against a cloudy summer sky while she fought him off with small childish hands.

He isn't here.

She was safe from him here as she had been for the past several years at Appleby. But that hadn't lasted forever, had it?

It had only been through her reluctance to offend Lord Fistingham that he and his son, Reggie, had managed to be let into Appleby last month.

His lordship had come to pursue an agenda of his own.

"You're an orphan, gel. Not a soul in the world to look after you. It's my duty to see you set."

"Jamie will look out for me, my lord," Agatha had argued. She hadn't thought claiming she could look after herself would have done her any good with an old-fashioned fellow like his lordship.

"Ah, but young James is dead, make no mistake. You must get beyond this foolishness and face the truth. You're all alone in the world, doomed to starve."

"Hardly that," she'd muttered dryly. She was fairly sure that Appleby brought in a larger income than Fistingham, for it was better managed by far. Not to mention that her accounts had not the constant drain of a useless gambling sot of a son.

"Nonsense. No woman can get by without a man. But I've taken care of that. Your father—ah, how I miss dear Jems— would have wanted me to."

Agatha had striven to seem respectful, for Lord Fistingham had been the closest thing her father had ever had to a friend. The unworthy thought crossed her mind that Lord Fistingham had only made the occasional appearance to hit his dear "Jems" up for a loan.

And her father would only blink dimly and write a generous cheque, never questioning the amount and never asking to be repaid. Although knowing Papa's complete disregard for anything but the realm of numbers and formulas, that likely had more to do with a total disinterest in money than actual generosity.

Then his lordship had outlined his plan to bring their great estates together under the name of Fistingham. Agatha had barely listened, mentally tallying her books while she nodded away.

Until she had realized with cold sinking horror that Lord Fistingham's plans included marriage. A proposal that he was not going to let her refuse. At first she'd been afraid he'd wanted to marry her himself.

Then her situation had become even more dangerous.

"You'll marry Reggie straightaway. You've no choice, gel. I've control of everything now, you see. With young Jems gone, your father's will turns it all over to me until you marry, at which time it will go to your husband."

She'd frantically tried to remember the reading of the will, but only the shadow of her grief came to mind. Still, she hadn't doubted for a moment that it was true. How like her father to turn her welfare over to a stranger. And why not? He'd practically been a stranger himself since her mother had died.

"But I've run Appleby for years! I'm perfectly capable of tending my own affairs!"

"Oh, I know young Jems let you play steward now and again, the silly boy. He's fortunate you didn't do much damage." Lord Fistingham had stood then, his formerly mild gaze sharpening suddenly on his son. "Time for you to wed, gel. Reggie, see to convincing your bride."

"Yes, Father." Reginald had smiled winningly at Agatha.

His lordship had left then, removing the key from the lock and closing the door carefully behind him. Agatha could still remember how that click had resonated through her nerves like a screamed warning.

For romantic persuasion had not been part of Repulsive Reggie's plan. As soon as his father had quit the room, he'd been on her. He'd clawed at her bodice and pulled her hair, all the while crudely pushing himself at her like a rutting ram.

Agatha had struggled silently against her own debilitating fear and his superior strength. She'd dared not call out for one of her servants to break down the door to help her, for she'd only condemn her own staff to an appearance before the magistrate if they laid hands on a lord's son. That would not end well, especially when Lord Fistingham
was
the local magistrate.

It hadn't been until Reggie had her down on the sofa, fixed on pinning her whilst he undid his breeches, that a long-ago event had flashed through her mind and she knew what she must do.

When they were young, Jamie had suddenly decided that she needed to learn to protect herself and had demonstrated how to disarm a man completely with one simple action.

With all her might, Agatha kicked out. Her knee had missed, for she was hampered by Reggie's weight on her skirts. But her thigh had made satisfying contact all the same.

Most satisfying indeed. Reggie's face had gone greenish-white and he had rolled off her with a breathless wheeze. She'd clambered out with practiced ease through a large window, leaving her foe writhing on the floor behind her.

When she'd left Appleby early the next morning, her household staff had still been trying to clean the vomit from the carpet.

Remembering that day, Agatha realized that she was rubbing her wrists, although the bruises had been gone for over a week.

She shuddered. Absently rebraiding her hair, she forced herself to focus her mind on the enormous task confronting her.

How to turn a chimneysweep into a gentleman in a single week?

He must be able to converse, to dine, to dance, to walk even, as if he were born to the gentry. It was a daunting task, without the remotest chance of succeeding. Agatha dropped her braid and flopped back onto her pillow.

One thing at a time. She had spent the evening with him, going over a few highly useful phrases that would get him by with the household help for the next few days. He had learned quickly and relieved her mind about his ability to master conversation.

The simplest change would be to transform the outside. Already he had proven to be acceptable-looking, even a bit devastating. With the proper clothes and a modicum of manners, he ought to pass well enough.

After all, it wasn't as though she were trying to find him a wife. She needn't prove anything about him but that he was an ordinary fellow.

If only she hadn't claimed he was a musician…

Curling her body around her pillow, Agatha sleepily tried to plot her way out of that one until she drifted off again.

Simon stepped out of the shadows to look down on Agatha. Even in the near darkness, he could see her sleep-flushed cheeks and one round shoulder peeking from the neckline of her gown.

What was her game? She was a consummate actress, with her fresh country ways and her direct sexuality. He had waited for another invitation tonight, half-expecting her to dispense his "reward" for remaining to help her.

Instead, she had brightly wished him a good evening and instructed a bemused Pearson to have breakfast ready promptly at seven.

Simon didn't know much about the habits of mistresses, but he had always pictured them a lazy bunch, sleeping their days away whilst awaiting their paramours at night.

The house creaked a midnight protest around him. He had searched every inch of it in the last few hours, barring the servants' quarters. But other than some rather incriminating inscriptions in the books lining his own room—"To James, my dear schemer, Love, A"—he had found nothing useful so far.

Agatha shifted restlessly beneath her covers and Simon stepped back into shadow. He was finished here, and he had much to take care of before he could remain in this house for a week. He should go.

This room held nothing more of interest to him. Nothing but the woman in the bed. She was a mystery that he was fast becoming obsessed with.

As he slipped out as silently as he had come, Simon decided that he probably shouldn't have untied her braid to feel the texture of her hair. And he definitely shouldn't have let her scent tempt him into leaning deeply over her as she slept.

The streets of London never truly slept, at least not in Simon's part of town. As he walked swiftly down the cobbles, using the shadows for concealment without skulking, Simon inhaled the damp, sooty smell of the city, overlain with a tinge of dirty Thames.

After the fresh-flower-scented halls of the house on Carriage Square, the city's reek was familiar as his own face in the mirror but not particularly welcoming.

This part of the city was neither the finest nor the worst. A mix of places gone to seed and establishments on their way back up. Londoners of all classes mixed here as they did nowhere else. During the day, gentlemen walked next to beggars and ladies passed unknowingly close to whores.

Neither desperate nor decadent, this area was the perfect location for the Liar's Club. By day a gentlemen's club of not-too-sterling reputation, by night the lair of England's finest—if somewhat irregular—spy corps.

Simon slowed, his boots clicking on the cobbles faintly. Casually he waited until a cart rattled past, then he ducked swiftly down an alley. Pausing for a moment to listen for any sound of trespassers, Simon let his eyes adjust. The light from the street lamps didn't penetrate into the darkness within, but Simon didn't need a lamp to find his way.

The alley angled sharply and Simon turned with it automatically. Then he stopped to feel in front of him, making a small sound of satisfaction when his hand touched cold iron.

With practiced ease, Simon swiftly climbed the rusted ladder that had been positioned between the two walls of windowless brick.

The ladder led nowhere. The raw iron of the ends was cut, leaving the climber halfway up one wall with nowhere to go but down.

Unless one knew to stand on the topmost rung and jump to the narrow ledge running the length of the opposite wall. There were handholds if one knew where to look.

Simon didn't have to look, having made this journey hundreds of times in the last several years, in wet weather and dry, at the black of midnight and in broad daylight.

Once he was perched on the ledge, clinging to the almost invisible grips chiseled into the brick, it was only a short journey along the ledge to a heavily barred window that rose from his knees to over his head.

The bars were joined with a massive lock and a loop of mighty chain that would have been at home on the docks. Simon ignored these for a small lever hidden in the upper right corner of the window.

With a substantial click and the whisper of well-oiled hinges, Simon was through the window and inside. Once within the storeroom situated above the kitchen, Simon secured the window and dusted his hands together.

Just another ramble to the office.