Celeste Bradley - [The Liar's Club 01]

by The Pretender

  A voice whispered warmly in her ear, “Shut it, darling. We have company.”

  Simon’s body pressed closely to her back as he maneuvered her through the darkness to where a glimmer of light appeared under another door.

  It was terribly difficult to keep one’s mind on housebreaking when one’s body was on fire. Simon’s breath was warm on her neck, and his grasp on her shoulders reminded her of the kiss in her parlor.

  Having Simon pressed to her back was very nearly as exciting as having him pressed to her front.

  “Here.” It was a soundless whisper in her ear, and Simon pushed on her shoulders until she knelt before the keyhole.

  Agatha put her eye to the small circle of light and saw that she must not be in the study, for the study plainly was the next room.

  Then she heard rustling and footsteps and angled her head to see to the left a bit.

  A man stood, examining a sheaf of papers by the light of a candle. He was very tall, and his back was broad. He was dressed for evening, as far as she could see, and his hair was dark.

  “It’s Etheridge,” came Simon’s voice like a feather in her ear.

  Agatha eagerly pressed closer to the keyhole, willing Lord Etheridge to turn around.

  With a disgruntled huff, the figure in the study straightened the papers in his hand and turned.

  Agatha jumped and almost fell from her crouch. Simon pulled her tightly against him.

  “What? What did you see?”

  Agatha pointed, although of course Simon couldn’t see her gesture in the dark. “Lord Etheridge…”

  “What?”

  “Lord Etheridge is Uncle Dalton.”

  * * *

  “Are you telling me you’ve had entry to Etheridge’s all along?”

  They were back at Carriage Square, having made their escape from the anteroom of the study without detection and made their regrets to their harried hostess, who was dealing with a flock of swallows that had somehow swept into her kitchens.

  Agatha sat penitently on the sofa in the parlor, nervously toying with a small tasseled pillow in her lap. Simon was pacing before her, anger boiling within him.

  When he thought of all the ridiculous chances he’d taken this week, although he had found some interesting documents. Yet the exertion he had gone to—well, some of it had been rather fun.

  “I didn’t know he was Lord Etheridge, I told you. Collis called him Uncle Dalton, and Uncle Dalton introduced himself as Dalton Montmorency. Good lord, Simon. I don’t have the peerage memorized, you know.”

  Simon did. All his operatives did.

  But Agatha wasn’t an operative. He was finally sure of it.

  He glared at her, as if it were her fault that she wasn’t. She was stroking the tassels in long, slow movements, petting the velvet and silk almost as if—

  Simon shook his head. He’d wasted a week on her foolishness.

  “So do you think Uncle Dalton is the Griffin?” Agatha asked.

  “Stop calling him Uncle Dalton, for heaven’s sake. He’s not your uncle. He’s no older than me.”

  Agatha shrugged, playing idly with an especially long, thick tassel. The way her fingers stroked down the length of it made his ears pound.

  “Well, technically, you are old enough to be my uncle, if my mother were your older sister.”

  Simon bent over her and snatched the pillow from her grasp. “I’m not your bloody uncle!”

  Agatha jumped up and stood in his path. “Fine! You’re not my bloody uncle! Dalton Montmorency is not my bloody uncle!” She glared at him, fists on her hips. “I asked if you think Dalton Montmorency is the bloody Griffin!”

  Simon glared back at her. “No.”

  Agatha grumbled and dropped her hands, returning to sit on the sofa. “Oh, why am I asking you? I know more about the Griffin than you do.”

  Now that hurt. That truly hurt. Here he was, a bloody expert on the bloody Griffin, and she didn’t believe a word.

  Simon rubbed his face. What did he care what she believed? He was losing his mind. She was losing it for him.

  “Look, Aggie—”

  “Don’t call me that. James calls me that. You’ll have to come up with your own pet name.”

  “I don’t want to call you pet names,” growled Simon. “I want to engrave them on your headstone!”

  Agatha eyed him reproachfully. “Honestly, Simon. I know you haven’t been at this sort of thing for very long, but you really must acquire a bit of self-restraint.”

  She stood, then clasped her hands behind her back. This had the unfortunate effect of decreasing the flow of blood to Simon’s brain, for the movement thrust her magnificent breasts virtually under his nose.

  Oh, he wanted to bury her all right. He wanted to cover her with his body and take his time driving her as mad as he was becoming.

  “I’m going to bed.”

  Simon shut his eyes in surrender. She couldn’t be so ignorant that she didn’t know what she did to him. In this field, he had to accede to the master.

  “Very well, Agatha. You go to bed. I’m going out.”

  He stalked past her, leaving behind his coat and hat, and slammed the front door behind him. He wouldn’t be going to bed for quite a while, if the state of his erection meant anything.

  It wasn’t until he was a hundred yards down the walk that he realized he still clutched the small tasseled pillow in his fist.

  Her sweet and citrusy scent rose from the velvet. God, was he never free of her? Simon was tempted to toss the bloody thing into the gutter.

  Instead, he lifted it to his nose and wondered if Pearson would miss it if he kept it.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The starvation had worked. James Cunnington was now as clear-headed as he could be without a few good meals inside him.

  He remained very still upon his pallet, which led his captors to believe him so weakened that they ceased bothering him at all. Apparently, he’d become a very boring fellow.

  He’d been able to drink his fill every day, but he continued to avoid the bread. He rode the thin edge of starvation, he knew. There was now a sort of dreamy clarity to everything, his mind at once sharp and yet detached.

  He was able to consider his escape from all logical points, calculating the probabilities of his death coolly. He wasn’t suicidal, simply supremely uninvolved. The goal was to get out alive, but he had no fear, no anxiety about failure.

  After due consideration, he had decided that taking on the vicious Bull was unlikely to work. He couldn’t battle him while tied, and hadn’t even when he was stronger.

  Once he had thrown out plans wild and unlikely, it seemed that the best thing would be to remove a few planks from one of the inner walls of his little cell. If he was in luck, he’d find himself in another cabin or hold that might not be locked up tight.

  The trick was how to do it without causing so much noise that he’d be investigated immediately.

  And perhaps more to the point, how was he to remove the planks at all? The ship was old and in sorry disrepair, but he wasn’t in any better shape himself. Unless he could come upon some sort of lever, he’d be faced with pulling the bloody ship apart with his fingernails.

  The only things in his cabin were his pallet, made from moldy sailcloth stuffed with even moldier straw, and his water container. The sorry dented pail had no handle at all, which he might have used to force the nails from their planks.

  Still, there was something about the pail that teased his brain. He picked it up in his bound hands to examine it more closely. Suppose …

  Abruptly he dashed the contents to the floor and crawled to the partition with the worst warpage. Holding the pail by the bottom, he managed to wedge the rim under one corner of a plank. Perhaps it would work as a sort of grapple hook.

  He pulled on the outer edge of the rim, only really able to lean his weight away while he held on with a shaking grip. The plank shifted finally but gave a loud squeal of protest.

 
Too loud. He halted the experiment for the moment.

  When he released the pail, he noticed that the raw edge of the tin had scratched his palm. It probably stung, but he was too distanced from his body to care.

  What interested him was the sharp metal. He sat on his pallet with his back to the door. Should someone come, he’d be thrust away and his activity concealed. Gripping the pail between his knees, he dragged the ropes that bound his hands across the rim again and again.

  After several minutes, he inspected his work. A number of small strands within the thick rope were shredded. It wasn’t much, but it was far more than he’d ever managed with his teeth.

  A rumble of thunder penetrated past the creaking and sloshing sounds of the old fishing boat. He began again, working steadily. Cutting through was going to take hours.

  No matter. He had the time. He had the means. And from the sound of things, nature was going to provide the opportunity.

  What he needed was a distraction, preferably something loud, to keep his captors too busy to hear or care about their prisoner’s doings.

  What he needed was a storm.

  Another rumble came, louder this time. James smiled grimly and set to work on his bonds.

  * * *

  Simon hadn’t come home last night.

  Of course, Agatha hadn’t sat up waiting for him. She had quite properly gone straight to bed. True, she had slept with her door slightly open and one ear aimed at Simon’s room even in her restless sleep, but that did not count as waiting up for someone.

  When she had finally risen it had been past nine. Assuming she had missed his entry and that he would be past impatient waiting for her to come down, she had hurried her toilette.

  Simon had not appeared at the table, nor had he come home by the time she had taken her tea. By then she had been completely dying to see him, for included in today’s post had been something very special.

  An invitation to an informal dinner at Etheridge House for tomorrow night.

  She had posted an immediate acceptance, of course, although the late notice of the invitation had earned a dark glare at the richly monogrammed paper. Dalton Montmorency was certainly sure of himself. Wasn’t that just like a man?

  Agatha had been enormously satisfied with this outcome until one thought had occurred to her.

  If tomorrow night revealed Lord Etheridge as the Griffin—and somehow she managed to convince him to tell her where to find Jamie—then she would have no reason to hold Simon to his agreement.

  She wanted Jamie home safe.

  Yet she also wanted Simon to stay with her.

  Forever.

  That was the thought that had her pacing the house in Carriage Square. She had argued with herself until the sun began to drop in the sky. Here she was still, repudiating her feelings to the empty room.

  Oh, blast. Who was she trying to convince? She was a complete goner, and there was no denying it. This was what all the stories were about, this feeling of being one-half of something larger than oneself. Of being bereft when one’s other half was gone.

  True, she hadn’t known him long, but she knew that they were a perfect partnership. She knew that when she was with him, she was understood.

  From the moment she’d first seen him, she had been captivated. First by his appearance, it was true. Indeed, what was all that masculine perfection for, if not to attract?

  But the man within was what kept her enthralled. She’d seen handsome men before, enough to know that the outside didn’t always reflect a superior inside. Yet Simon had been with her in this house for weeks and had never pressed unfair advantage. Even Nellie had reported nothing but gentlemanly behavior when discreetly questioned.

  Simon was a thief, the product of a past she couldn’t even imagine. The difference in their classes should make him the last man she should want. Yet wasn’t the definition of a gentleman a man with honor and strength enough that he would never take advantage of those weaker than himself?

  If so, then Simon was most assuredly a gentleman and Repulsive Reggie was not.

  Besides, Agatha cared very little about the opinions of others. Where had those mysterious others been when she and Jamie had been virtually deserted to raise themselves?

  If she wanted Simon over any other man, then why shouldn’t she have him? Resolve strengthened her desire into determination.

  Great lot of good it would do her. Here she sat, inescapably mad about him, and where was he? Out all night, no doubt housebreaking and putting himself in unbearable danger.

  The truth was that there was no need for him to steal. She had more than enough money for the both of them. How could she let him know she not only could make him a good wife, but was an heiress to boot?

  Goodness, the only reason that she didn’t have beaux lining up on the street was that Jamie had decided they ought not to put it about.

  Still, a little voice murmured in her mind, if Jamie was so concerned about her making a good marriage, why had he never brought her to London?…

  Nonsense. In time he would have, she was sure. He simply hadn’t wanted her to become bait for some fortune hunter.

  Some money-mad bounder who only cared for profit—

  Oh, dear. Perhaps she ought not to put quite so much temptation before Simon.

  She understood that her beloved thief was only striving to secure himself against ever returning to his boyhood poverty, but she wasn’t entirely sure that Jamie would.

  If she could get some sort of avowal of Simon’s feelings before he ever learned of her wealth, then she would know that he truly cared for her. Oh, wouldn’t she just love to hear the words from his lips.…

  An idea began to grow from that seed of longing.

  If Simon confessed his feelings thinking her nothing but an ordinary woman, and if Agatha herself was ever so slightly compromised before Jamie came home … well, that would sort matters out quite nicely, wouldn’t it? Even Lord Fistingham would be stymied by that little detail.

  The kiss in the parlor wouldn’t count as being compromised. Not if Jamie truly objected to Simon, as he most likely would. Reggie certainly wouldn’t let a mere kiss from another man get in the way of his plotting.

  No, nothing would do but a most serious tarnishing. And it had better be tonight, for she could not count on keeping her hold on him once they had broken Lord Etheridge’s safe.

  Tonight.

  Her breath came a bit faster then. Memories of Simon’s lips and hands rose in her mind, and her body heated.

  Oh my. She could not wait.

  She would yield her virginity to Simon, and when he declared his feelings, she would tell him the happy news.

  Agatha smiled. She couldn’t wait to see Simon’s face when he learned what she was worth.

  She turned from the front parlor window and began to pace the room once more. What did one wear to a seduction, anyway?

  * * *

  It wasn’t until late morning that daylight seeped past the clouds and between the surrounding buildings to shine through the window of Jackham’s office. Simon rolled from Jackham’s sofa and stretched.

  The sounds of a body growing older filled the room. Disgusted, Simon shook out his arms and shoulders and rubbed his face.

  He should have gone to his own house. After all, he’d gone to much expense to purchase it and make sure it was comfortable, if rather monastically furnished. But the painful contrast between that silent stately home and Agatha’s warm and welcoming little house had made spending the night at the bustling club seem like a viable alternative.

  Of course, his back didn’t seem to agree. One bloody night out of a comfortable bed. He was getting soft, was all.

  And maybe just a tiny bit … seasoned. He must admit, he hadn’t had those creaks and pops when he’d been younger.

  Fifteen years on the job took it out of a fellow. At least he still had his career. Younger men than he had burned themselves up under the pressure.

  Simon hadn’t burn
ed up, because he had long ago learned to be ice.

  Cold logic and hard facts kept him to the course, until there was room for nothing else.

  Still, it wouldn’t hurt to begin looking for another successor, now that James was out of the running.

  The loss of James hurt, in both the loss of a man he called friend and the loss of something he hadn’t realized he held so dear. His faith in his ability to read someone, to know the good men from the bad.

  Simon chilled the pain and drove it deep, and turned his mind back to the problem at hand.

  The reality was, however, that there was no one else in the organization now with the proper view.

  He needed someone who could see the shifting threads within the knot, who knew when to pull this one, when to ease that one, yet never lost sight of the entire tangle.

  The job required a very singular vision. And at the moment, Simon knew of no one else who could do it.

  There was time, of course. Years to train another, as he had been trained to take over for the Old Man. Simon wasn’t leaving the center of his web for a long time yet. There was time to bring up another young fellow, if he could find one. He had years.

  For a moment, Simon longed to set down his burden. What life might he have led without it? The comfort of a loving wife, the joy of sons and daughters, a life without secrets?

  A life in the light of day?

  He shook off the fantasy. Rubbish. If not for his own mentor, the Old Man, he’d most likely never have lived to his thirteenth birthday, much less had a life of comfort and familial warmth.

  Simon shook out his crumpled jacket and donned it. For a moment, he contemplated braving Kurt’s kitchen for a roll, then decided he’d be better off cajoling a meal from Agatha’s cook.

  He rubbed his face. He’d handled Agatha badly the night before. He should have charmed her, not baited her. He should be at her side now, charming her for all he was worth.

  It was time to get to the bottom of that woman’s secrets, even if it meant going to the extreme and seducing her loyalty away from James.

  He was halfway there already, judging from that kiss in her parlor.