Simon had gazed at his young friend. There was so much that James didn’t understand. He was a good operative, quick-witted and dedicated, but the only one James put at risk was himself. If he was caught, the only neck in Napoleon’s noose would be his own. At least until he took over Simon’s position as spymaster of the Liar’s Club.
Simon couldn’t afford mistakes. He held in his hands the lives of every one of his men and, in a grander scope, perhaps even the lives of everyone in England.
There was no time for play, with a burden such as that. Not a moment to lose, nor a fact to disregard.
He had to remain on top of the mounting pile of clues, in order that the next time he sent out one of his Liars, perhaps even James himself, the man would go with the best and newest information that Simon could give him.
So that when one of them died in the service of his country, Simon could try to ease his own pain with the knowledge that he had done his best. Perhaps someday it would work.
James apparently had no such concerns. Taking his new assignment in hand, James had given Simon a half-salute and a grin. He’d left, whistling, to cadge a last drink from Jackham behind the bar.
Simon had never heard from him again.
That alone would have only given rise to worry, not accusation. But it then became obvious that someone was supplying descriptions and identities of Simon’s men to the opposition. One man after another turned up dead or injured.
Simon had entertained the possibility that the leak was someone higher in the chain of command than himself, so sure had he been of James’s loyalty.
Then a large amount of money was suddenly deposited in James’s account, so large that Simon had been forced to suspect that worst of all conclusions.
His spy was spying for the enemy. There was no way to know precisely how it had happened. So many things could turn a spy, from sedition to seduction.
He hadn’t discovered the name of James’s mistress, more’s the pity, but he’d kept a watch on his protégé’s bank account. Finally, a certain little Mrs. Applequist had made her appearance, freely using James’s money to set herself up in style.
That’s when Simon had made his move.
And only this morning he’d wondered how he could gain entry into the house in Carriage Square. The chimneysweep guise had worked well for him in his youth, but that had been before he’d reached his full height.
He’d planned everything carefully and had deliberately picked a moment when the cook was likely to be busy in which to knock on the back door. A quickly muttered, “Chimbley cleanin’ for Missus Applequist,” and he’d been inside.
Once he’d been admitted, he’d slipped through the house with an eye out for the butler. Fellows like the fine silver-haired houseman downstairs would look suspiciously indeed on the arrival of a chimneysweep when none such had been ordered.
He’d been hoping to make his later job easier with a quick casing of the layout and possibly the unlatching of a likely upper-story window. And to be honest, he’d been very curious about the lady of the house.
Then Simon had run smack into the comely Mrs. Applequist herself. Her curvaceous form had packed quite a wallop, and it had taken him a moment to get his breath back.
Luckily for him, the lady didn’t seem too interested in his purpose. Nor did she seem to realize that most chimneysweeps were either boys or poorly grown men the size of children. She obviously had something else on her mind.
What was her game?
Deciding that lingering in the bath wouldn’t help him learn much, Simon stood and let the water stream from his body.
As he rubbed the toweling over his chest, his eyes narrowed at the memory of Mrs. Applequist’s face when he had stepped out from behind the screen.
She hadn’t missed a beat, but her eyes had gone wide with what Simon wasn’t too modest to call appreciation. Well, it was mutual. She was a ripe little morsel herself.
Oh, her dress was perfectly demure and her house perfectly respectable. Nevertheless, a woman built on those generous terms was more likely to be at home in the bedroom than the ballroom. A lady of healthy appetite, she was.
And now it appeared she had an appetite for Simon. Not that he minded so much. He liked an armful as much as a handful, but he knew better than to get involved with the subject under investigation.
Unless it became absolutely necessary.
* * *
Agatha’s panic simmered as she waited impatiently in the parlor. Who could have known being married would be so complicated?
She tidied the tea tray for the fifth time and eyed the clock on the front parlor mantel. The ladies would be calling within half an hour and her chimneysweep had yet to come downstairs to hear his part in the charade.
Biting her lip, Agatha reminded herself that all this would surely be worth it if it meant finding Jamie.
James Cunnington was a soldier, away fighting Napoleon the last Agatha had heard from him. He had written her every week, and had for four years, until two months past.
Then there had been no word from him in any way. Despite all her inquiries to the army, she had received no answers, even after all this time.
Spurred by her need to find Jamie, a need that became more desperate by the hour, Agatha had packed a trunk and bought a ticket on the next coach, leaving her estate of Appleby for London. Her servants had aided her escape, and she knew they would keep her whereabouts hidden for as long as possible.
It wouldn’t do for Repulsive Reggie to find her before she found her brother. She’d be forced back to Appleby and to the altar with all the speed of Reggie’s thwarted ambitions.
“Marrying” Mortimer had simply made the journey easier. No one questioned a married woman’s morality in traveling alone, not in wartime with so many husbands gone.
When she had been inspired to investigate the Chelsea Hospital in London for news of dear Jamie, it had been her married status that had allowed her in and enabled her to volunteer to care for the wounded.
Still, creating an alias to travel under and presenting the world with an actual false husband were two entirely different kettles of flounder.
“Hello, love. Here I am.”
Pulled back to the present, Agatha looked up … and up … to see one of the handsomest men she had ever laid eyes on.
Jamie’s trousers fit the fellow a bit closely about the hips, although not excessively so for the current fashion. Rather too much for Agatha’s peace of mind, however.
She yanked her gaze from dangerous ground and followed the rest of the transformation upward.
Jamie’s snowy shirt and dark green waistcoat gave no reason for dismay, but the morning coat, oh my. While the cut across the shoulders was quite fine and the nipped waist fit perfectly, the cobalt color gave far too much emphasis to those twinkling blue eyes.
His cravat was only loosely tied round his collar, in a way rather more suited to a pirate than a gentleman, showing a bit too much of strong brown throat.
A lethal combination indeed. It was very odd how her imagination proceeded to remove every one of those articles of Jamie’s clothing from his frame, until in her mind’s eye he stood as nearly naked as before.
“What? Don’t it fit?” The chimneysweep flexed both shoulders and twisted at the waist to see behind him. “I thought it looked right nice, I did.”
“Oh, no, you look wond—adequate, perfectly adequate.” Agatha forced her wicked imagination to re-dress him. “Please, come in and sit. I have a boon to ask of you.”
The fellow smiled slightly at her, and Agatha had to fist her hands to keep from tracing the dimples indenting each side of his mouth.
She was attracted to him. How unthinkably inappropriate of her. Not to mention inconvenient. Really, was there no end to the obstacles in her path?
Agatha shot a look full of her irritation at the fellow before her and watched his beautiful smile fade. Good. If she could maintain her vexation for a while, the day would go easier
for her. Yes indeed. A brisk, no-nonsense manner was called for.
Agatha indicated the seat opposite her. “Please sit, Mr.—?”
“Rain, Simon Rain.” He sat and continued to look at her expectantly.
The clock chimed three-quarters of the hour, and Agatha knew she didn’t have much time to explain.
“I have a need for a gentleman to attend me today. You need do nothing, really, merely smile and greet my guests. I will do all the talking.” Agatha sat back and smiled. There. Rather succinct, if she did say so herself.
“Whafore?” Mr. Rain frowned. “I mean, I’d like to help you, mum, but I won’t do nothing what’s wrong. This here don’t sound much close to right, not a bit of it.”
“Oh, no. There’s nothing wrong here at all. I shall simply introduce you as my husband, you shall bow over the ladies’ hands, we shall all sit for the standard fifteen minutes and take tea. You shall never have to say a word.”
“Your husband?” Mr. Rain stood abruptly. “Here now, we ain’t married! What if your mister finds out? He’ll make a spot of trouble for me, he will. I would, if’n you was mine.”
“You would? I mean to say, of course you would. But there is no need to worry about Mr. Applequist. He—”
Sounds of arriving guests came through the closed door to the entrance hall. Agatha panicked. Oh, this was going very badly indeed!
“He doesn’t exist at all, Mr. Rain!” she hissed, even as Pearson opened the door to announce her guests. “I’m not married, there will be no trouble made for you, and you mustn’t utter one single word!”
Chapter Two
Agatha’s chest tightened with anxiety as she smiled fixedly at her guests. Or perhaps her corset was laced too snugly. Surely the cause could not be the strong thigh pressed to her own or the clean scent of freshly bathed male.
Whatever the reason, she felt quite breathless as she sat next to Mr. Rain, across from Lady Winchell and her two companions.
Despite the pains Agatha had taken to fill the parlor with colorful comfort, Lady Winchell remained perched on the edge of her brocade chair as if she feared soiling her dress.
The lady made a slight face at her tea and set the cup and saucer down. The movement only accentuated the elegant curve of her figure, clad in her signature shade of mint green, and made Agatha yearn for a little lithesome grace instead of her own dumpling shape.
“When dear Agatha told us about you, Mr. Applequist, I must confess I thought you too good to be true.” She turned her piercing gaze on Agatha, then dropped her eyes to Agatha’s gloveless hands. “I’ve noticed before that you don’t wear your wedding ring, my dear. Have you lost it somehow?”
The ring. She’d forgotten the wedding ring entirely. “Ah—no, no indeed. But I’ve been leaving it off to work at the hospital. I feared to ruin it. It’s—it’s an Applequist family heirloom.” For a moment Agatha could even picture the ring. Sapphire, she decided. Just like Mortimer’s eyes—wait, those were Simon’s.
Blast. The next thing she knew, she’d be believing her own deception.
“Hmm.” The lady did not seem impressed. She turned to Simon. “You know she thinks you single-handedly hung the stars, don’t you, sir?”
All eyes turned to “Mortimer” and Agatha began to panic once more.
“My Mortie did hang the stars! At least the ones in my eyes!” Agatha dug her nails into her companion’s arm. He turned to her with that smile of his, and two of the three ladies sighed audibly. Lady Winchell only narrowed her eyes.
“Ah, you must tell us all about your travels, Mr. Applequist. Only then will we be able to understand how you could tear yourself away from such an adoring young bride.”
Agatha watched in horror as her chimneysweep actually opened his mouth to speak. Grinding her heel into his instep, she rushed to answer for him.
“Oh, well! I cannot be so bold as to think my simple company can compare with the excitement of tiger hunts in India, can I, darling?” The ladies turned their attention back to her. Good. Now she must think quickly!
Papa had always been easily distracted by her Banbury tales. Surely she could deflect a more discriminating audience. Her purpose depended on it. She lowered her voice to add some excitement to her yarn.
“Imagine, swaying atop an elephant as the mighty beast crashes his way through the jungle. Contemplate the tension as the party grows ever closer to their vicious prey. Can you envision the sight he must have made, whilst he raised his rifle to fire upon the tiger?”
Mrs. Trapp and Mrs. Sloane were enraptured. Not so Lady Winchell.
“Tiger hunting in India? Truly? While most of our young men fight the demon Napoleon?”
“But Mortimer was on a mission—for the Prince—carrying a message to the Rajah,” blurted Agatha. “The tiger hunt was necessary when … when the beast stole away the Rajah’s only son! Mortimer saved him with a single shot!”
“While the tiger held the child in his very jaws, Mr. Applequist?” inquired Lady Winchell in a silky voice. “How … precise.”
“How heroic,” sighed Mrs. Trapp.
“How divine,” breathed Mrs. Sloane.
Agatha’s smile grew more artificial by the moment. Had it not yet been a quarter of an hour? Surely fifteen minutes had never lasted so long.
“Mrs. Applequist, you must bring your charming husband to my little soiree tomorrow night,” Mrs. Trapp said.
The elder of Lady Winchell’s companions grew a bit flustered when Mr. Rain turned that overwhelming smile upon her invitation. Agatha tensed. No, he mustn’t—
He did. With a regal nod, he accepted for the both of them.
Blast! She clenched his arm until all the feeling left her fingers, but he only smiled serenely at her and patted her hand.
Agatha turned her own witless smile to her guests. “Oh, how silly of Mortimer. He has forgotten that we are unable to make a Tuesday event, as we visit his mother every Tuesday. Mortimer dearly loves his mother. But you are so very kind to include us, Mrs. Trapp.”
Heavens. That had been entirely too close. Agatha turned relieved eyes to Lady Winchell.
The smile on that lady’s face gave Agatha a chill as she watched those glinting eyes travel over “Mortimer.” The woman looked positively hungry. Oh, dear.
“His lordship and I are hosting a supper dance in one week, Mr. Applequist. I daresay the gentlemen would relish the chance to hear of your escapades”—she shot a look at Agatha—“first-hand.”
Agatha opened her mouth to protest. Lady Winchell held up a hand.
“Now, now, no need to thank me. I know how difficult it is for a young couple like yourselves to make their way into Society.”
She stood and gave Agatha a polite smile with a gleam of triumph in it. “I so look forward to getting to know you better, dear Agatha.” Her voice dropped to a purr. “And your handsome husband as well.”
Mr. Rain gave a creditable bow once Agatha had dragged him off the sofa. Mrs. Sloane and Mrs. Trapp tittered appreciatively.
Agatha refrained from rolling her eyes. Heaven save her from ever being so silly. The ladies turned to go with many a backward glance.
Giving “Mortimer” a shove to indicate that he should stay behind, Agatha followed her guests to the door where Pearson stood ready with bonnets and shawls.
“I do hope we may attend, my lady. One never knows when Mortimer must—”
“Oh, you’ll attend, Mrs. Applequist. After all, it is not a Tuesday.”
Her smirk told Agatha that the lady hadn’t believed a single word. Lady Winchell donned her hat and gave Agatha a glacial smile, her eyes hard.
“You mustn’t disappoint us. Remember, one doesn’t get many opportunities to put one’s best foot forward in this world.”
Lady Winchell stroked a strand of pale hair into place and cast a lingering glance back into the parlor. “A man of few words, your husband. I do hope he feels more talkative next time. The gentlemen will be so looking forward to hearing
of his adventures.”
Agatha shivered at the last icy smirk delivered with these words. When the ladies were gone, she wrapped both arms around her against the chill and returned to the parlor. What was she to do now?
“I thought that went right well, I did. It weren’t so ’ard at all. Them’s real nice ladies, for toffs.” Mr. Rain looked very pleased with himself. “And I never said not one word, just like you wanted.”
Agatha’s jaw dropped. He had no idea what he had done to her, with his irresistible smile and his fabulous anatomy.
Simon had done a terrible thing, he knew, but the lady deserved it for telling such staggering whoppers. Tiger hunting in India? Rescuing the Rajah’s son with a single shot? How poisonous. Even he hated Mortimer Applequist.
Ah, but there was no Mortimer Applequist, was there? There was only pretty Mrs. Applequist and her penchant for fibbing. She was no more married than a Drury Lane actress would be. Although he’d wager she was just as good in bed.
Yet she was no ordinary ladybird. She lied beautifully, if a bit outrageously. She went to great lengths to support the tiniest details of her story. And even more surprising, she comported herself among real ladies without hesitation.
Simon knew from experience how hard it was to overcome a lifetime of class-conscious diffidence to pose as one of the gentry.
All of the above smacked of a great deal of training. Training that quite possibly came from the French. He’d not received any mention of women in their intelligence network, but that didn’t mean they weren’t there. Napoleon was nothing if not creative.
It made little difference to Simon either way. Whether she was here as James Cunnington’s paramour or co-conspirator, he was willing to bet that she could lead him to James himself.
At any rate, he’d accomplished his task and was now well versed in the layout of the house. He’d even left a likely window unlatched upstairs. Tonight would do for a more thorough search. He would have to take care. If he left any sign of entry tonight, he’d be the first one suspected.
Celeste Bradley - [The Liar's Club 01] Page 2
