Celeste Bradley - [The Liar's Club 01]

by The Pretender

  “No, it is his collections. So demeaning, a lady such as I married to a man who would prefer to spend his time with a painting or a statue.”

  “Now that is a shame.”

  Simon slid two fingers into her décolletage. He tugged at the fabric teasingly. “Such daring fashion. I wonder how easily I could slip these out and toy with them right in front of his lordship?”

  Lavinia shuddered, her eyes closing at his suggestion. “Do it!” she whispered. “Right here, right now. Toy with me!”

  “Oh, but that wouldn’t be enough for a man like me, would it? Why settle for a simple tease, when I could show you so many interesting pastimes I’ve learned in my travels?”

  That got her attention. Her eyes snapped open, glassy with lust. “Exotic pastimes?”

  “My dear Lavinia, I could take you on such a journey you’ll never want to come back. In the West Indies, I came upon a technique kept secret by the most decadent of courtesans.”

  “Show me! Now!” She grabbed his hand. “My bedchamber is—”

  Simon repossessed his hand. “Lavinia, I’m surprised. I thought you wanted to explore the exotic. No one of any discernment uses a bed any longer.”

  “They don’t?” She didn’t seem terribly disappointed. If anything, her lascivious expression heightened.

  “Now, this particular technique I have in mind for you is much heightened by certain … accoutrements, if you will. Of course, it requires a table or a desk of some sort…”

  “The breakfast room. Hurry—”

  “And to do it justice, I would really require…” How to get her into the study?

  “Yes? Anything!”

  “Ink.”

  “Ink?”

  “Surely you’ve heard of the erotic art of tattooing?”

  “But doesn’t that hurt?” Far from appearing worried by the prospect, her eyes glittered.

  “When done permanently, yes, it does. But this method is a sort of short-lived tattoo.”

  Even through her drink and lust, Lavinia was beginning to look suspicious. Simon pursed his lips and blew a soft trail of air across the exposed tops of her breasts.

  “Imagine the sensation of brush and ink as I cover your flesh with mysterious designs. Swirling and wet, the brush is first cold, then, as it warms from contact with your skin, begins to feel like a human fingertip, or perhaps even a tongue.”

  She was panting now, eyes completely lust-glazed. “My husband’s study. A desk. Plenty of ink.”

  “And imagine the enjoyment you’ll feel every time you see him sitting at that desk and you remember your wicked, wicked revenge.”

  He needn’t have embellished. She was completely amenable to the plan now. Grabbing his arm, she almost ran to the stairs at the back of the hall.

  “Here. Down and to the right. Seventh door. I shall meet you there by another route.”

  “Godspeed, my pretty.” Simon kissed her hand and nonchalantly headed down the stairs. Out of the corner of his eye he saw her skirts whirl as she took off in the other direction.

  As soon as she was out of sight, he flung himself headlong down the steps.

  No one was in sight in the ground-floor hall, which was lit by an abundance of sconces lining the walls. Simon ran, counting doorways under his breath.

  “Seven!” Quickly he pulled a brimstone match from his pocket and thrust it beneath the glass shade of the nearest lit sconce. Once the match flared to life, he ducked into the dark room with it and shut the door behind him.

  A handy arrangement of candlesticks stood on a table near the door. Simon grabbed the nearest available candle and lit it, then carefully snuffed the stick of sulfur-dipped juniper in his hand and returned it to his pocket.

  Now, where to start? Moving quickly to the desk, he swiftly but silently pulled each drawer completely out and ran his hands around the back and bottom.

  Without the slightest glance into the contents—for who would be stupid enough to hide something there?—he slid each drawer back into place before pulling out the next.

  Nothing.

  Dropping to his knees, he slid his hands over all the unexposed surfaces of the wood. Underneath, the bottom edges of the sides, around the kneehole.

  Nothing.

  Without pausing, he turned to the wall behind the desk and began neatly flipping paintings aside. He had just uncovered an iron safe-box when he heard a small sound. Smoothly he let the painting slip down and steadied it with his elbow as he turned.

  The door opened. Lavinia thrust herself inside as if pursued by wolves and shut it once more, leaning breathlessly against it.

  “Will it do?”

  “Will what do?” Simon nonchalantly moved forward to settle one hip on the massive desk.

  “The desk,” she panted. “Can we use it for the ‘technique’?”

  “Oh, yes, perfect. I was just searching for some ink.”

  Simon was forced to step back as Lavinia flung herself at the desk and pawed wildly through a drawer.

  “Here!” She thrust an inkwell and brush into his hands, then hefted herself to sit on the polished ebony surface. A predatory snarl on her lips, she leaned closer and tugged at his cravat.

  “Where do you want me?” she growled.

  “Ah, here is good, for now.” Damn, now what? Simon couldn’t believe the speed with which she had gotten here. She must have run the entire way. He couldn’t leave now that he was so close to success.

  Hmm. How gullible was she while aroused? Reaching into his jacket for the packet of headache powder, he waved it before her until her glazed eyes focused on it.

  “What is it?”

  “Ah, my lady, it is a substance so secret that it has no name. Ground from the root of a plant found only in the highest reaches of Peru, it is gathered in moonlight by virgins and preserved in bowls made from the skulls of lechers.”

  Well, that was laying it on a bit thick. Hellfire, he was getting to be as much of a liar as Agatha. However, Lavinia was completely and utterly hooked. Now to reel her in.

  “What is it for?” she breathed.

  “A mere pinch in a glass of brandy will heighten erotic pleasure to an exquisite level. It—”

  Flinging herself from her perch on the desk, Lavinia rushed across the study to a small side table on which stood a full decanter and glasses. She sloshed a glass brim full and returned to him, holding it out eagerly.

  “Put it in!”

  Delicately Simon undid a fold of the paper and tapped a tiny sprinkle of powder into the brandy.

  “More,” she demanded, and reached for it.

  He held it out of her reach. “Ah, now, my lady. There lies the road to madness. Imagine yourself caught up in an unending orgasm, lost in the throes of ecstasy forever.” He shook his head. “A fate worse than death, to be sure.”

  She didn’t look sure at all. In fact, she looked quite ready to fling herself bodily into the pit of insane release. Simon shook a finger at her.

  “Now, my lady, you must trust me in this. If after you have drunk your brandy, you do not feel the effects, we shall see about giving you a bit more.”

  She raised the glass and tossed back the brandy with a professional speed that made Simon blink. This might not be as easy as he had thought.

  “There. Nothing. Give me more.” This time she brought over the entire decanter. Filling her glass again, she held it out. Simon sprinkled the powder and watched the brandy disappear with breathtaking swiftness once again.

  “Damn you, I feel nothing. Nothing at all.” She glared at him suspiciously.

  Simon shrugged. “I don’t understand. You should be trembling on the floor by now, lost in wave after wave of rapture.”

  Her eyes bulged. “Wave after wave?”

  “Positively. Perhaps the formula has lost some potency over time. I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to give you a bit more.”

  He held out the packet over her glass. She snatched it from him and dumped the contents, watching the powde
r sink with a satisfied smirk. She backed away from him, swirling her brandy.

  “Sorry, love. I don’t feel much like star—sharing.” She blinked, then shook her head and giggled. “Waves and waves. Oh my.”

  She flung the contents of the glass down her throat. For a moment she stood, head thrown back and eyes closed, swaying.

  Excellent. Any moment she should pass out.

  When she lowered her head and opened her eyes, Simon was surprised. What fortitude! Most men would be lost by now. When she focused on him, he felt wary.

  “I feel it, now. I feel the pleasure.” She danced toward him slowly. “Touch me. Tear my gown from my body!”

  Reaching up, she grasped her neckline with both hands and yanked. With a rip the seams gave and her breasts spilled out. Swaying before him, she closed her eyes. “Touch me.”

  “Ah, I will, in just a moment. First, ah, first the ink!” Stepping around her, being sure to stay out of her reach, Simon grabbed for the inkwell and brush.

  She was quicker than he thought. With a growl, she flung her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist, pressing his face to her bosom.

  Under the unexpected burden, Simon staggered back. When the backs of his knees came in contact with the sofa behind him, he had no choice but to fall with her on top of him.

  She straddled him now.

  “I want to touch you. Take this off!” She tugged at his shirt.

  Simon played for time. Surely the brandy would take effect soon? “All right, now. I don’t want you to tear anything. Let me remove it.” She swayed above him, giggling while he reluctantly undid his cravat and shirt studs.

  “Oh, I like your chest. Do you like mine?”

  She stroked her hands lightly up her body, teasing her own nipples, then slid her hands up her neck and plunged her fingers through her hair, pulling it loose. She stretched her arms above her head, arching her back seductively.

  “Take me,” she demanded huskily.

  And then fell over, completely crocked.

  Chapter Eight

  Agatha smiled at her partner and curtsied low. When another fellow approached her for the next set, she pleaded exhaustion and slipped away.

  It wasn’t a fib at all, for she was full weary of being ogled and manhandled. She felt as though her figure led them to think she relished such attention. Rarely had she dealt with such disrespect.

  Apparently there were two sides to this freedom coin.

  And Simon had played his part all too well. She had spent the first part of the evening watching his every move, watching him laugh with the men and flirt with the ladies.

  She’d had to force herself to stop so that she could do her own investigating into any rumors of the Griffin’s true identity—which abounded. But through the last few hours she had tried to keep an eye on Simon.

  So had many of the other women in attendance. Agatha quite feared she had created a monster in Mortimer Applequist. A flirting, charming monster wearing Simon’s handsome face.

  Where was he now? Agatha searched the ballroom from her perch on the third stair. There were many men with dark hair, some tall, some not, but there was no one with Simon’s particular catlike grace.

  He wasn’t dancing. He wasn’t gaming. The call to go in to supper was half an hour off.

  Inasmuch as she had found all that she had come for, there was no reason to stay any longer. Besides, she thought it best if Simon left before supper. She wasn’t at all confident of his newly acquired table manners.

  Could he have gone into the gardens? She couldn’t think why he would. Only couples seemed to be using the torch-lit graveled paths that wound away into the greenery. What in the world could one see in the garden at night, anyway?

  Still, perhaps she ought to check. She started down the extravagant stairs to the ballroom floor, for the large open doors to the gardens were on the other side of the enormous room.

  At that moment, her attention was caught by two figures who sidestepped her with absent nods and exited into the hall. The two gentlemen bypassed the gaming room and moved down the gallery, turning a corner that led back into the house.

  If she wasn’t mistaken, one of them was Lord Winchell himself.

  Was there a smoking room set up deeper in the house? She hadn’t been told of one, but if it was a gentlemen’s chamber, there was no reason why she would have been.

  Following the men at a slight distance, she could hear Winchell’s words to his companion.

  “If you’ll join me in my study, I can show you the plans I’ve had drawn up for the new hospital wing. I think you’ll see that my ideas are far superior—”

  “Oh, I say, Winchell! Is this the painting you told me about? What a magnificent work! What detail…”

  Art was fine enough in its place, but Agatha needed to find Simon. If Winchell was only going to his study, it wasn’t likely that Simon would be joining him there as well.

  She was about to turn back when she saw something glinting on the floor at her feet.

  A cuff stud. Idly she picked it up and turned it in her fingers. Gold, inset with lapis.

  Dear heaven, it was one of Simon’s! She had chosen it herself because the stone so perfectly matched his eyes. What purpose could a chimneysweep have in skulking about in the halls of Winchell’s house? Ignoring the tiny voice that reminded her that she herself was skulking, Agatha fumed.

  He was going to get them both in trouble. If he was caught and ruined his charade, she’d be revealed as well.

  She hadn’t come this far to be thrown from her course by an ill-trained rascal like Simon. Keeping to the shadows of the wide passage, Agatha eased around the two men who were avidly debating the merits of the artist.

  With her back to the wall, ready to smile and plead lack of direction, Agatha moved to the nearest doorway. Pressing the door handle, she thrust her head in and looked quickly about. Nothing.

  The next room revealed only chill darkness as well. Sliding her feet and moving slowly to minimize the rustling of her skirts the way she used to do to sneak past her governess, Agatha slipped into the subsequent embrasure.

  She knew the moment she saw candlelight through the first crack of the doorway that she had found Simon. Casting a glance back down the passage, she checked on Lord Winchell.

  Blast! He was headed her way! Only his absorption in his conversation kept him from spying her immediately. Agatha slipped into the room.

  She had taken a breath to warn Simon when she realized three things simultaneously.

  First, the richly paneled room with the gigantic desk was certainly Lord Winchell’s study. Second, the half-dressed woman sprawled upon the sofa was assuredly Lord Winchell’s wife.

  And third, the half-dressed man opening Lord Winchell’s wall safe was undeniably her Simon.

  * * *

  Simon turned at the slight sound behind him, thinking that Lavinia was rousing. His heart sank when he saw Agatha’s wide, betrayed gaze.

  He opened his mouth to say something, anything to remove that look of suspicion from her brown eyes. Before he could cover his presence there, she burst into action.

  With a flying leap, she wrapped her hands around the arm of the sofa. Grunting, she swiveled it a quarter-turn to face the fire. Then in a quick motion she flung a lap quilt from its perch upon the back to conceal what was still visible of Lady Winchell’s sprawling limbs.

  After, she turned to him and threw herself into his arms while thrusting one hand behind his neck to pull his mouth down to hers.

  Rigid with surprise at first, it only took an instant for Simon to kiss her back. He pressed his lips against her tightly closed ones, tickling the seam of her mouth with his tongue.

  She almost pulled away, then pressed into him with renewed force. Her full breasts softened to his naked chest in precisely the way he had dreamed.

  Forgetting his mission, forgetting the fact that they stood in a stranger’s study, in a stranger’s house, Simon gave in to the
siren call of her softness.

  He wrapped one arm about her waist and pulled her to him, raising her to her tiptoes in his need to feel her body next to his. With his other hand, he shoved his fingers into her hair and pressed her mouth closer still for his ravishment.

  Her lips parted slightly in surprise and he touched again lightly with his tongue, encouraging her to open to him. Why wouldn’t she kiss him deeply, the way he ached for her to?

  The door opened.

  “I must show you this, Bingly—Great Scott!”

  “I say—isn’t that Applequist?”

  Simon froze with Agatha in his arms. Ah. Not a fit of amour, then.

  She must have known Winchell was on his way in and had flung herself at him to cover his undressed state. Even while his mind blessed her quick thinking, his body protested her lack of true intent.

  “Oh!” Agatha pulled her mouth from his to gaze at Winchell in very believable shock and alarm.

  “Oh, I say—isn’t that Mrs. Applequist?”

  “Ah, yes, well … newlyweds, you know, Bingly,” mumbled Winchell, obviously torn between amusement and embarrassment himself. “What say we give them a moment to compose themselves, eh?”

  He pushed the fellow out of the doorway. “Have you seen my new watercolors? I’ve discovered the most talented chap.…”

  The door swung slowly behind them, and Simon relaxed his grip on Agatha, relief filling his lungs with blessed air.

  Then Winchell stuck his head back in.

  “Five minutes, Applequist. And for God’s sake, man, put your shirt on.” Then the door was shut in truth.

  Agatha pressed her face into his bare chest, apparently unable to conceal her laughter. At least, Simon thought it was laughter. He was feeling a bit giddy himself.

  But when Agatha pulled away, he saw only accusation in her angry eyes.

  “You’re a thief! A common parlor thief!”

  “Agatha, we’ve only got a few moments. Can we fling epithets later?”

  “No, I rather think I’d like to fling them now. How could you endanger my purpose so carelessly? I could be sent back to—” She halted, mouth still open.

  Simon was desperately curious. “Where? Sent back to where?”