Celeste Bradley - [The Liar's Club 01]

by The Pretender

  “Oh, yess.…”

  When she sat up straight and clasped her hands together in delight, he realized that he had spoken out loud.

  A bucket of icy realization doused his pulsating lust.

  Oh, bloody hell.

  She had done it to him again.

  Pure hatred momentarily warred with blind want, then won. He could see her for what she was again, a manipulative player of games, a lady without morals or virtue, except that of being a very, very good liar.

  She had taken him in twice with her beautiful body, made him no more than a mindless tool to her hand. He thought he might happily kill her for taking away his famous control.

  But then again, what had he really promised? To attempt Lord Etheridge’s safe, but only if she could get them into the house.

  As the gentleman in question was not a social sort, was in fact damn near a recluse, this seemed as unlikely an event as Agatha’s supposed brush with honest matrimony. It would likely never come up, then, so no harm in it.

  He roused from his thoughts long enough to grunt a response to Agatha’s happy chattering, though not to listen to her outlandish plans for convincing Lord Etheridge to include them in his nonexistent social calendar.

  No, Simon’s thoughts traveled over Lord Etheridge in an entirely different vein. A man of mystery indeed. A spy, was he? It was entirely possible.

  However, the reclusive fellow was no spy for the Crown. Simon would surely know if he was, although he could hardly tell Agatha that.

  Not that she would likely believe him. Believe that Simon, her rascally chimneysweep-thief whom she had raised from a life of petty larceny on the streets of London, was none other than a royal spymaster himself?

  No, it was better for her to believe the worst of him than to learn the truth. He could not afford for her to discover that her beloved James was the target of his mission. One of his own men gone rogue whom Simon must find before he could further betray his country.

  There would be no public trial, for that would only compromise the anonymity of the Liar’s Club. Regrettably, it was all up to Simon to find James.

  Find, single-handedly try and judge, and if necessary …

  Execute.

  No, he didn’t think Agatha would like that one, not at all.

  Chapter Nine

  James Cunnington was floating, dreaming, lost in the trap of his own imagination. Behind him was the comfortable fog of unconsciousness. Before him rose the visage of a snake. It danced before him, swaying upright over its own coils.

  “Jamessss.”

  Nasty things, snakes. Repulsive, yet fascinating.

  “James? Who is Mortimer Applequist? I know I’ve heard you say his name. Who is he?”

  The tongue flicked out and in, and the snake said his name again.

  “James? Answer the question. Who is Mortimer Applequist?”

  No one.

  “Answer me, James. Who is he?”

  Hadn’t he just answered the damned slimy thing? In his dreamland, he wrapped his fingers around the snake’s throat and squeezed.

  But the voice continued. “Who is it? Tell me, James.”

  He wanted to be left alone. He needed to think. Something was very wrong here, but he just couldn’t think what it could be. If the bloody snake would just go away, maybe he could gather his thoughts.

  “S’no one,” he muttered.

  “No one? What do you mean?”

  Thick-headed bugger. “No one. An alias. Don’t wan’ get caught, s’blame it on Mort’mer.”

  “An alias. Whose alias? Yours?”

  Sometimes. Sometimes it was Agatha’s. In the end, even the staff had used Mortimer as a scapegoat a few times. His mathematician father had fallen for it, too lost in his grief and his studies to be aware that there was no such person. He’d blink at them and remind them to watch the company they kept, to stay away from that dreadful Applequist boy. James and Agatha would nod solemnly and agree.

  Agatha. There was something there he should remember as well. If only the damned snake would let him be …

  He reached for the cloudy abyss, turning his back on the serpent. The voice kept speaking, but more dimly now. James slipped back into his insensible void, no longer listening.

  * * *

  Simon trotted down the stairs bright and early the morning after his close call at Winchell’s, despite a night of pacing and thinking. He expected to see Agatha perusing the news-sheets over her eggs as usual.

  Instead, she was already dressed to go out, standing in the front hall examining her post. There was a great deal of it. Apparently the Applequists had made quite the social splash last evening at the Winchells’.

  There was an impressive pile on the salver, full of heavy paper and ornate embossing that he could see from where he stood. He imagined most women would be swooning with pleasure over such bounty.

  Agatha, contrary creature that she was, paid it no attention at all. She had no shallow pretensions to raising her status in Society, he had to give her that. But was that really a recommendation of her values or merely a sign of her professionalism?

  Instead, she was engrossed in the reading of a letter of several pages, written on ordinary foolscap. Simon itched to read whatever put such a frown between her sable brows.

  He simply knew it would reveal something about her secrets. Perhaps a clue toward her lover’s whereabouts. Or something that would give him the lever he needed to make her reveal all she knew of James Cunnington’s activities over the last six months.

  She looked up from her letter. “Oh, good morning. Pearson has breakfast ready for you.” She looked down again distractedly. “If you’ll excuse me, I really must answer this.…”

  With that, she turned and walked away from him, entering the little front parlor and shutting the door. She was going to pen a reply now, with her hat pinned to her hair and her short coat already buttoned?

  It must be urgent, and therefore interesting. Perhaps he could get a hint from her when she came out. Better yet, perhaps she’d leave the letter behind. Pretending idle curiosity, Simon strolled to the hall table and flipped through the invitations massed there.

  Nothing from Etheridge, of course. Life was never that simple. Still, Simon was impressed by the range of hostesses interested in entertaining the Applequists. From a colonel’s wife to a countess, with many a member of Parliament in between.

  Agatha had truly worked the marks last night. Admiration laced his thoughts as he remembered watching her operate. He’d seen her dance with every gentleman soldier in the place. And he had seen those gentlemen losing all discretion when faced with her … ah, obvious charms.

  The two of them had operated like a well-oiled machine, and Simon remembered how much he had once enjoyed working with a partner. He and Jackham had been just as unstoppable, once upon a midnight.

  Mortimer had done his share, of course, before disappearing into the back hallways of the house. Boasting, charming the ladies, and all around being as putrid a fellow as any spoiled gentleman could be.

  He had fit right in.

  Simon shook his head. What a useless existence. How could any man with a backbone and smidgen of brains tolerate it?

  The parlor door opened and Agatha hurried out. He opened his mouth to question her, but she was across the hall and out the front door before he could even speak, busily tucking a letter into her reticule.

  If he didn’t know better, he’d think she hadn’t even seen him.

  Pearson opened the door to the breakfast room and raised an inquiring brow at Simon.

  “Will you be wanting Cook to hold your breakfast, sir?”

  The smells wafting from behind Pearson were nearly enough to bring Simon to his knees, but who knew when Agatha would return? He ought not to let this chance go by.

  “I’ll be just a moment, Pearson.” He turned away, then hesitated. Turning back, he couldn’t resist asking, “Is it coddled eggs today?”

  “Yes, sir. An
d bacon.”

  Damn. He’d better hurry then. As he let himself into the parlor, he wondered if it would be possible to steal away Agatha’s cook when all this was over.

  In the meantime, he would be sure not to miss any meals.

  The blue-papered parlor was bright with sunlight. Agatha had obviously not wanted to take the time to light a lamp and had pulled back the heavy draperies to let in light from the windows instead.

  Taking a deep breath, Simon realized that he could detect her scent, that warm sweet air that followed her everywhere she went.

  Resolutely he pushed down his body’s instant response. He wasn’t normally the sort to let his erection rule his will or his brain.

  There was a stack of stationery still lying on the little corner desk, and she had left her ink uncapped. Her hurry was undoubtedly fortunate for him. Had she a firm script or a delicate one?

  Simon held the top sheet of paper atilt of the sunlight streaming in through the window. Ah, a firm hand indeed.

  He carried the sheet to the cold fireplace. Pearson’s dedication was evident in the pristine condition of the grate, despite its having been used recently.

  No matter. He reached up the flue and scrubbed his fingertips against the firebrick. He pulled them back and eyed the black soot covering his hand. Excellent.

  Turning the paper over on the hearth with his clean hand, he carefully brushed his sooty fingers across the reverse indentations of Agatha’s curling penmanship.

  The faintly raised letters took the soot and formed clearly, albeit backward. It was clear that he had in his hand only the last page of Agatha’s reply, for it began midsentence and ended with a greatly enlarged “In loving reply, A.”

  Loving reply? Simon’s eyes narrowed. Could she have written to James himself? Was her supposed mission as false as her use of “Mrs.” before her name?

  Or perhaps she had been honest with him until now, but had finally received communication from the elusive James Cunnington.

  He would watch her, he decided. Closely.

  Of course, not as closely as he’d like to.…

  Voices in the hallway outside Agatha’s parlor brought Simon abruptly back to himself. Now was not the time to be distracted by the winsome lady’s voluptuous charms. No, he’d not let his purpose be obscured by his lust again.

  She was hiding something. And now he held one of her secrets in his hand. The reversed script was tight and florid, likely difficult to read in proper ink, impossible in smudged soot.

  He needed a mirror. Hurriedly departing the parlor, he could only give a wistful sniff to his breakfast before loping up the stairs to his room.

  * * *

  As Agatha removed her short coat and tied on one of the aprons kept in the utilitarian cloakroom reserved for the volunteers, she tried to force the letter from her mind. All the way to the hospital, it had weighed like a stone in her reticule.

  She’d had to bring it with her today, for she’d not had time to find a suitable hiding place for it. Perhaps she was being silly, but she could take no chances that someone would read it and inform Lord Fistingham of her whereabouts.

  Although she knew that his lordship was rarely in town, she had been dismayed to learn how tightly knit the nobility was in London. Likely half the people she had met at the supper dance last night knew Lord Fistingham in some capacity. And now they knew her as well.

  As much as she liked her new staff, it wouldn’t do to forget that servants gossiped, although she doubted any might actually mean her harm. It was simply best that she keep her own counsel and hide any evidence of Agatha Cunnington safely away.

  His lordship was becoming more suspicious by the day, according to her housekeeper’s letter.

  I don’t know how much longer I can deceive him, Miss Agatha. He comes nearly every day with his son, and waits for you sometimes for hours. I’ve told him you were berry-picking, though nothing’s ripe yet. I’ve told him you were visiting Miss Bloom, and the next day he informed me that Miss Bloom told him you had not visited her for weeks. He is becoming most suspicious.

  There wasn’t much that Agatha could do from London, except find Jamie as soon as possible. In the meantime, she’d given Mrs. Bell what instruction she could.

  She shuddered, as if she’d felt Repulsive Reggie’s touch from afar.

  Infinitely preferable to think of Simon. Last night’s kiss, while no more than a ruse, still had set her heart to pounding every time she’d thought of it. His lips had been warm and encouraging without being demanding. He’d liked kissing her, she was fairly sure.

  And she’d liked kissing him, far too well for her own peace of mind. Agatha licked her lips, fancying she could still detect the faintest trace of cinnamon. For a moment she was back in the dim study, pressing herself tightly to a half-naked Simon.…

  Two ladies Agatha didn’t know well entered the cloakroom, causing her to realize she’d been standing there for some moments, reliving that kiss.

  How foolish. As if she had nothing more urgent on her mind. She’d best keep her attention on her business.

  She left the cloakroom and made her way to the first-floor ward. The smells of illness and healing pulled her mind away from her own troubled thoughts at last.

  Having been away for the past week working with Simon, she had forgotten how being here affected her. There was an air about those who worked here. A constant expression of mingled hope and despair, for the Chelsea Hospital was partly a place of miracles, partly a chamber of horrors.

  So many, so young. She hardly considered herself old, but the boys who filled the beds and rooms and hallways of the hospital seemed like children to her.

  Until one looked into their eyes. Some kept their pain at bay with jokes and charm, some retreated into a silent world of their own, faces to the wall.

  Yet in all their eyes she could see the horror of fire and death and suffering, like shadows that would live within them forever.

  She carried the basin of steaming cloths from bed to bed. Farther down the ward, Clara Simpson, a young widow Agatha recalled as being a relative of Mrs. Trapp, was feeding a silent, motionless boy with a spoon, whispering encouragement even while tears fell down her cheeks.

  Agatha looked away from Clara’s naked emotion. All the women who worked in the hospital, volunteers and nurses alike, understood the pain of hopeless cases but never spoke of it to one another. It was as if by acknowledging death out loud, they would invite it in.

  “Ah, the fairest ray of the sun has found me at last!” No gloom dimmed the vibrant masculine voice behind her.

  Agatha’s smile was real when she turned toward the speaker. Collis Tremayne was her favorite patient, and not only because of his well-spoken charm.

  Collis had once dreamed of being a musician. That had been before he had donned a uniform and gone to war. Before the battle that had caused the shattering of one arm.

  Rumor had it that he’d been destined to lose it entirely, but a sharp-eyed physician, sick of the piles of amputated limbs at his feet, had noticed that the young soldier’s left hand was still warm with blood flow and still flinched when pricked.

  “Let him keep it,” the doctor had declared. “Likely it will be as useless as a log, but he’ll still be whole.” Then he’d sewn up the wounds and bound the arm tightly in a splint, matching the pieces of bone as well as he was able.

  When Collis had woken from the shock of surgery and transport here in this ward, Agatha had seen the loss in his eyes at the realization that his left arm had been rendered little more than an ornament to balance the right.

  He had lain in silence for a while, blinking rapidly, gaze fixed on the ceiling. Then, with a tiny smile quirking his lips, he had looked up at her and said, “That tears it. I’ll have to learn the drum now.”

  And he had. When next she’d seen him, he’d been sitting up in bed with a new drum in his lap, the sort that marchers carried on parade.

  To the encouragement—and sometimes co
mplaints—from his ward mates, Collis had learned to play the drum one-handed, the nimble fingers of his right hand controlling both drumsticks with great precision.

  Now, he tipped his twin drumsticks to her in a sort of salute. When he couldn’t play, he spent every moment twirling the sticks between his fingers, ever compelled to gain more control.

  “Good morning, Collis.” Agatha couldn’t resist teasing him. “You had best watch out, spinning those things in the air. Private Soames has sworn to burn them if you fly one into his nose again.”

  “Soames is a philistine. He has no appreciation of the fine art of percussion.” Collis leaned toward her. “I’ve missed you, sweet angel.” He looked about them, then whispered, “The cards, did you bring them?”

  “Collis, I already own your house, your cattle, and your first-born child. Haven’t you had enough?”

  “I suppose.” He dropped back onto the pillows in disappointment. “I likely wouldn’t win today, either. But won’t you just shuffle the deck for me? Watching you is like seeing an artist at work.”

  Agatha sat on the edge of his cot and balanced her basin on her knees. “Fine. I’ll shuffle for you. Then you’ll leave off? No begging for another chance?”

  “Not a word.”

  She gave him a doubtful glance, but he only returned her an innocent smile. Agatha reached into her dress pocket and pulled out a small deck of cards.

  Collis sat back with a smile, and a few of the surrounding patients craned their necks to get a good look.

  What was the male fascination with cards? Jamie had always loved card tricks and had taught her a few when they were young. While she waited between his rare visits home, she had practiced them and learned more, until she had surpassed the teacher, much to his glee.

  Next, she cut the cards into two decks, spread her hands wide, and sent them sailing toward one another to land in a tidy little pile on Collis’s knees.

  He shut his eyes in rapture. “What a woman. Say you’ll marry me. I’m leaving today. This is your last chance to say yes, sweet angel.”