Celeste Bradley - [The Liar's Club 01]

by The Pretender

  “Goodness, it’s become warm in here,” Agatha muttered to herself, fanning her face restlessly.

  As she went to confer with Button over the best use of Simon’s new wardrobe, Agatha wondered why it should be that feeling Simon’s hard body pressed to hers had felt nothing like being pinned by Reggie’s vile weight.

  Chapter Six

  The evening of the supper dance finally came around. Agatha was pacing again. How many miles had she paced since all this had begun? Though the fire burned brightly in the grate, she rubbed her bare arms against a chill.

  Her gown lay on the bed, but she didn’t really wish to put it on.

  If she dressed, then she would have to leave. If she left, she would have to go to Winchell’s. And if she went to Winchell’s, her lies would ultimately be exposed in a most public and embarrassing way.

  Not that her pride mattered precisely, but going home would be bad enough. Going home in shame would only be worse.

  Stopping before the gown, Agatha squinted at the rich green satin, picturing it in her mind against Lady Winchell’s elegant apparel. Well, it would have to do. Unfortunately, she hadn’t thought of needing much fine dress when she’d left Appleby.

  The green was really the only thing she had. Not that anything she had left behind would have been any better. Spending all her life in the country hadn’t prepared her wardrobe for the elegant competition of London fashion.

  Still, the fabric was fine enough, and she had spent the afternoon retrimming it more modishly. Agatha pressed a hand to her middle and attempted to take a deep breath.

  She despised lacing up so tightly, but the gown had been made a few years ago, and certain parts of her had grown in the interim.

  The little porcelain clock on the mantel chimed. She had best ready herself for the night ahead.

  She helped Nellie pull the skirts over her head. It was a pity, really. It would have been nice to face Mr. Rain in something a bit more appealing.

  * * *

  Simon firmly commanded his fists to unclench. Button was only doing his job. The fact that his fluttering and worrying were driving “the master” mad had more to do with Simon’s misgivings about tonight’s appearance.

  He knew he could pull it off, of course. No one would know him for himself. If any did, they would no more claim acquaintance than he would, for their own protection.

  And it wasn’t that he didn’t look fine. He had to admit that while Mortimer might be a nauseating fellow, he was a snappy dresser. Agatha had spared no expense on his wardrobe. He looked quite the first stare of fashion.

  It was being the center of attention that worried him, he decided. Now, after all these years of keeping a low profile, it felt distinctly odd to be putting himself forward like this. He might as well dye himself red and flee before the hounds.

  He still wasn’t truly sure why he was going through with this, and that worried him as well. Oh, an invitation into Winchell’s house was handy, but he could easily get in on his own.

  As for this place, he was beginning to think there was nothing here. He had searched the house every night for a week and found nothing at all. Not a letter, not a word, not a clue.

  By all the signs, the “Applequists” intended no more than the most temporary residence here. There were no hidden safe-boxes, no false-bottom drawers, no mysteriously hollow walls. The house was just as it seemed.

  Agatha, however, was not. She was keeping something from him. Her manner was too friendly, too trusting and relaxed. Simon hadn’t let his guard slip once since the waltz lesson, no matter how her sweetness had tempted him.

  He had to admit, she was a consummate professional. He only wished he could be sure what profession.

  Button gave a last aggrieved sigh and reluctant tug on the cravat.

  “I suppose that will have to do, sir.”

  Button looked as though he wanted to cry. Simon examined himself in the mirror but could see nothing awry. Trying not to roll his eyes at the little valet’s perfectionism, he clapped the fellow on the shoulder.

  “Capital job, Button. Simply capital!” Giving his waistcoat a tug and casting an “I-am-Mortimer-king-of-all-I-survey” look in the glass, Simon sauntered out of the bedchamber in search of Agatha.

  If he had to do this, he would just as soon get it over with. He wondered idly what Agatha was wearing.

  * * *

  The blasted gown was too tight. Agatha stretched up on her toes to check her neckline in the gilt mirror hanging over the small table in the front hall. Yes, it was far too tight. Oh, why hadn’t she had a new wardrobe made for herself when she had ordered Simon’s?

  Well, she would, forthwith. But what was she to do tonight?

  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 décolletage. 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 décolletage.

  “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.

  Chapter Seven

  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 fulfillm
ent with such a—you’ll pardon me for saying—overblown country milkmaid?”

  The lady’s lashes fluttered, but Simon didn’t miss the hard-eyed stare as she waited for his reaction to her offensive words.

  Could it be a test? He tamped down his irritation and kept his smile easy. The lady was going somewhere, and he didn’t mind a bit following along until he learned where.

  “Oh, Aggie’s all right. She’s a comfortable sort, easy to please, not a lot upstairs. A man likes to keep his home life uncomplicated, if you take my meaning.”

  “Leaving you to pursue more discerning company elsewhere, hmm? A masterful plan. I’m sure my husband wishes he had done the same.”

  “Surely not, my lady. The man who could ignore your charms has yet to draw breath.”

  She blinked coyly at him, moving closer until her breast brushed his upper arm.

  “But I am ignored, you see. All this”—she waved a hand at her luxurious surroundings—“means nothing when a woman cannot feel … like a woman.” Her pout looked ridiculous on a face meant for feline superiority.

  She rocked to and fro minutely, but Simon could feel her nipple hardening against his bicep.

  “There could be no one more womanly than you, my lady.”

  Simon filled time with banal compliments, thinking quickly. If he could get her to lead him to her husband’s study, he could save himself considerable time, and time was beginning to be of the essence in this matter.

  Agatha was busily combing the crowd for news of the Griffin, and Lord Winchell was occupied with his cohorts in the smoking parlor.

  Time to get down to business.

  Giving Lady Winchell a heavy-lidded look, he leaned his arm into her breast and slid it slowly back and forth. “Tell me, my lady, have you ever considered taking a bit of revenge on the old chap for ignoring you?”

  “Oh, I think it has crossed my mind a time or two,” she breathed.

  “A man like that, always off playing cards, is he?” Simon knew Winchell was a devoted patron of the arts, but Mortimer wouldn’t necessarily know that.