The Pretender (9 page)

Agatha blinked at the sheer volume of exposed bosom her reflection presented. There was no getting around it. She would have to fetch some lace to tuck into her decolletage. Dowdy but necessary.

Her appearance was not important, at any rate. She had to remember that she was here to find Jamie, not to parade herself about.

"Are you out of your mind?"

Agatha turned to see Simon scowling at her from the stairs. Well, scowling at part of her, anyway.

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean." Although she thought perhaps she did.

"You are not going anywhere like that!"

Even as Agatha's temper rose at Simon's high-handed tone, she felt pride rise in her at his cultured speech. She had done a marvelous job. No one would ever know him for an uneducated chimneysweep.

Simon hurried down the last few steps to join her in the entrance hall. His scowl darkened as he loomed over her, gazing down at her decolletage.

"You are not decent. Put something else on."

"This gown is the only thing I have that will do." Coolly, Agatha turned back to the mirror. Now that she thought about it, she had seen much lower necklines in the fashion sheets. "Frankly, I do not think it is so very daring. I imagine town ladies wear such things routinely."

Simon had to admit that Agatha was correct in that. Her gown was not so very daring, but her body was.

He couldn't take his eyes off the lush white breasts that threatened to spill from her gown. Well, truly, they weren't so much spilling as they were tempting him to spill them.

Nonetheless, Agatha needn't flaunt her charms to every man in London. It was damned distracting.

That was it. He had important business to conduct this evening and he couldn't afford the distraction of defending her from the lecherous stares she would surely incite.

"Change at once," he commanded.

Agatha ruffled. If Simon thought that would do it, he was sadly mistaken. No one told her how to behave. Not her father, not even Jamie. She narrowed her eyes at him.

"I'm going as I am." She turned to signal Pearson. "Please bring the carriage around."

Pearson stepped forward, bearing her wrap.

"Then you will go without me." Simon smiled a not very nice smile. "I seem to have developed the headache."

Oh, blast. Simon was standing firm. Spare her from men standing firm. Agatha smiled back, a very sweet smile with daggers drawn.

"Pearson, do fetch my husband a powder for his poor aching head." That last was hissed from between teeth still clenched in a smile.

When she turned to the door, Simon put his hand on her arm. "Agatha, in truth, it is not wise to go out like that." His tone was calmer now, less autocratic. "Isn't there any way to cover your… to raise the neckline slightly? A bit of lace, perhaps?"

Agatha stopped. Hadn't she been thinking the very thing before Simon had come down? The man had a way of making her forget what she was about.

She ought to keep her wits about her tonight and not let herself be distracted by the way Simon's gaze had trouble staying on her face.

"Perhaps you are right. I shall be back down in a moment," said Agatha grudgingly, and started up the stairs.

It was almost worth conceding the point when she glanced back to see Pearson handing a paper packet of Papa's foul-tasting headache powder to an unenthusiastic Simon.

As Simon helped Agatha from their carriage before the elegant Winchell home, she shook out her skirts but never let a single breath interrupt her lecture.

"Now, remember, the precise bowing depth depends on the lady's rank. When introduced to a Mrs., bowing halfway will do. With a Lady, it cannot hurt to dip deeply. Even if you go a bit far, it will only seem flattering, especially if you use one of the phrases I taught you."

Simon gritted his teeth, his patience shredded. It had taken nearly an hour to navigate the crowded London streets, and Agatha had nagged throughout the entire journey.

"Darling,
a
wife
really shouldn't lecture her dear
husband
in public." He cast a meaningful look at the couples being disgorged from their carriages around them. "One would not want to appear the shrew, would one?"

With a fixed smile, he firmly wrapped her hand around his arm and towed her into the line that was now forming at the door of the luxurious house.

"Oh. I apologize,
darling.
Thank you for reminding me,
darling.
One certainly would not,
darling."
Agatha glared at him.

Simon only bared his teeth at her. "If you don't let up, I shall strangle you. After two weeks of your correcting my every word, criticizing my every move, and scrutinizing every bloody breath I take—"

"Gentlemen do not say 'bloody' in the company of a lady," Agatha pointed out primly.

"One more word and there will be
no one
in my company except a very pretty little corpse!" hissed Simon.

As she opened her mouth to retort once more, Agatha's mind snagged on one word.

Pretty?

Simon found her pretty? The very thought made Agatha trip on the grand marble stairs leading to the entry of Lord Winchell's even grander house. Simon continued his measured pace, his grip on her hand ensuring that she kept up, like it or not.

Agatha was actually grateful for his domineering attitude at the moment, for it allowed her to pull her thoughts together before being forced to greet the host and hostess.

He wished her to hide her bosom, but he thought her pretty?

A slow smile began as she put the two together. The warm feeling that Agatha had felt during that one afternoon as they had waltzed returned.

She steered Simon to the row of servants who took their outerwear. Then they entered the ostentatious hall and followed the stream of people into a grand ballroom.

While it was not as packed as it likely would be for a true ball, the guests seemed only to enjoy the spacious room the more. Agatha had never seen such expensive elegance. Memories of the assembly rooms that she had experienced in Lancashire faded next to the gleaming gilt-and-rose ballroom.

Her smile now one of excitement and delight, Agatha turned it on Simon.

"Isn't this beautiful?"

He leaned close. "It's a bloody dog 'n' pony show, if'n you ask me," he said, the Cockney thick in his voice.

"Simon! You promised!" Agatha was horrified until she realized from his grin that he was only teasing her. Glad to see his sour mood had dissipated, she smiled fondly at him as they came level with the Winchells.

Still delighted with her surroundings, Agatha found it easy to smile naturally at Lady Winchell as well.

Lavinia raised one perfect brow and twisted her lips in a wintry smile. "Why, Mrs. Applequist! You look quite grand. And I was so worried that you wouldn't find something suitable to wear after your long sojourn in the country."

Well, now the smile wasn't quite so natural, but Agatha refused to let Lady Winchell spoil her good mood.

"Lady Winchell, I pale beside your elegance, I'm sure. Wherever did you find such style? Most of the ladies I know bemoan the loss of French fashion, but you manage to look as if we were never at war at all."

Simon choked. Did Agatha realize that she had practically called a leading member of Society a French collaborator to her face? At the expression on Lady Winchell's face, he knew he wasn't the only one who had read the compliment as a barb.

With eyes narrowed and teeth bared in what hardly passed as a smile, Lady Winchell dropped Agatha's hand as though she held a dead rat and turned to Simon.

Instantly the lady's smile turned from piqued to predatory, and Simon blinked. He took her offered hand and repeated one of Agatha's scripted greetings as he bowed deeply over it. He felt Lady Winchell's middle finger slide up and down over his palm suggestively.

Now wasn't that an interesting development? He glanced up to see Agatha eyeing their clasped hands. She did not look happy.

"We mustn't keep you, my lady," she said sharply as Lady Winchell pulled her hand ever so slowly from Simon's. "I'm sure your other guests grow impatient."

Grabbing Simon's hand and nearly dislocating his shoulder, Agatha pulled him by force away into the circling guests.

"What is your difficulty?" snapped Simon. He wrested his arm from her grip. "I was merely following your instructions."

Agatha stopped her headlong charge and faced him. "You watch out for her,
darling.
She knows something, I can tell. She has always been suspicious of me, I don't know why."

"Could it be because you have been living a lie since you came to London?" Simon straightened his coat and cuffs, not looking up until he noticed her sudden silence.

"How did you know that?" Agatha whispered.

Oh, hellfire. For a moment, Simon couldn't recall what he was supposed to know and not know. "Ah, because you, ah, told everyone that you are married when you aren't and that you, ah, want to keep my real identity a secret…"

Agatha breathed a sigh of relief. "Oh,
that
lie."

Aha. So there was more. As she moved through the crowd before him, Simon wondered how many layers of deception she had woven around him.

The music ended and Simon politely returned Mrs. Trapp to her husband. He dropped a quick bow to the Trapp daughters but avoided their veiled hints that they wished to dance with him again.

Over Mr. Trapp's shoulder he could see Agatha waltzing in the arms of an elderly fellow in uniform. It seemed she had been dancing with one redcoat after another for hours. Gossip had already established Mrs. Applequist's preference for soldiers, he was sure.

Turning aside Mr. Trapp's invitation to a game of cards and sidestepping the elbow in his ribs when the man made a blue joke, Simon laughed, clapped Trapp on the shoulder, and declared his need for refreshment.

Once he was clean away, he hid behind a marble pillar to catch his breath and scout the assembly. The party was getting a bit sloshed by this time, and dinner was still half an hour off. Perfect opportunity for some sneakwork.

"Mr. Applequist! How fortunate I am to catch you alone." The feline purr behind Simon warned him, but he wasn't ready for the elegant hand that cupped his buttock. Damn, but Lady Winchell was brazen!

Turning swiftly, he caught the encroaching hand and brought it to his lips for a formal bow.

"You outshine the stars, my lady. They weep in jealousy of your beauty." He winced as he fell back on the horrendous phrase that Agatha had forced him to learn, but Lady Winchell only looked pleased.

"You may call me Lavinia… in private. You speak so well, Mr. Applequist. I must say, I am surprised. You seemed so reticent when first we met."

"A touch of an exotic fever had stolen my voice that day, my lady. I declare, it pained me to be so rude, but my darling wife implored me not to try to speak, so to sooner heal."

"Ah, yes, the little wife. Tell me, Mortimer—may I call you Mortimer?"

"Indeed, my lady, I should be honored." As a mouse is honored by a snake, he'd be honored.

"Tell me, Mortimer, how can a man of your… well-traveled nature find fulfillment with such a—you'll pardon me for saying—overblown country milkmaid?"