Celeste Bradley - [The Liar's Club 01]

by The Pretender

  It was a lonely business. He wondered why he’d never realized that before. He was a secret entity, one who did not exist in any record. A phantom man, without friends or family. A man with only one purpose on this earth.

  Very well then. Back to business.

  Several minutes later, Simon slipped from the dark of the alley along the garden wall of a house located in a respectable but not fashionably visible part of town.

  With a quick look about, he grasped the top of the wall and pulled himself swiftly over.

  The hedges were overgrown all around the perimeter of the yard, providing even more cover from prying eyes. He slipped through the dark garden, avoiding the gravel path with its betraying crunch.

  Unlike many houses, this one bore a sturdy lock on the kitchen door. Simon didn’t even pause to toy with it, although he knew he could pick it if he chose.

  Instead, he made his way to where the decorative brickwork that delineated the corners of the house provided a simple ladder. Using only the tips of his fingers and the edge of his shoes, Simon quickly and silently clambered up to the third level of windows.

  Reaching for the window nearest him, he flicked it open with one outstretched hand. With one fluid motion, he grasped the sill and flipped neatly into the room.

  The valet standing at the bureau whirled around to face him, clutching one hand to his heart in surprise.

  “Oy, sir, I hates it when you does that!”

  Simon pulled off his jacket and tossed it to the man. “Sorry, Denny. You know I can’t resist.” He tugged at his loosely tied neckcloth and threw it on top of the jacket.

  “Well, you might’ve let me know where you was. Ain’t been half-worried about you, sir.”

  “Yes, Denny. I know. I’m sorry.”

  Denny wasn’t the genius with a cravat that Button was, but then, he hadn’t had Button’s advantages, either. Barely eighteen, the poor little ex-bagman was still rather unsure of his position as majordomo and tended to fret overmuch.

  “I’ve been taking care of business. Something local, as you must know, since you have sent me a good twenty messages at the club in the last two weeks.”

  Denny sniffed but stopped his nagging. Sometimes Simon wondered who served whom. Keeping servants was half caring for them and half being mothered by them.

  Still, he used this Spartan house so rarely that Denny managed to take care of it well enough on his own, hiring out day work for the grounds and the housekeeping.

  He ought to sell the place, for it was more headache than home. It hadn’t half the warmth of the house on Carriage Square.

  And never would, for Agatha would never step foot within its walls. But then where would he put his finds, his strays from the street, such as Denny?

  Stubbs was one of his found treasures, as was Feebles. The pickpocket had been more than worth the bribe Simon had been forced to pay to free him from being transported. There was such a blinding need for good information acquisition that Simon wished he had a full staff of pickpockets with Feebles’s skill.

  Denny tended to his duties silently, with only the occasional theatrical sniff to remind Simon of his sins.

  Simon reached for patience. “Denny, it’s very late. Why don’t you go on to bed? I’ll be needing you bright and early tomorrow.”

  That cheered the fellow, and a smile almost creased his doleful face. “Yessir. I’ll be up with the milk wagon then.”

  “You do that. Good night.”

  When he was finally alone with his regrets, Simon didn’t go to bed. Instead, he pulled a chair close to the fire, seeking a little of the warmth he had lost.

  It had taken him a while to see past his surprise and understand precisely what Agatha had done. A young woman, a lady, forced to fabricate a husband in order to have the freedom to search for her lost brother. Rather heroic, really.

  And her actions tonight. She had believed herself in love. With Simon Rain. Thief, former chimneysweep, and bastard son of a Cheapside whore.

  Well, she wasn’t in love any longer, he’d wager. Not after what he had done.

  He had taken her virginity, then promptly betrayed her heart.

  It had not been well done, either. In his ignorance and lust, he had hurt her more than necessary. The memory of her wide eyes haunted him, making him flinch every time he thought of her.

  He had simply been so … shocked. Shocked at her, shocked at himself. He didn’t like knowing he was the kind of man who wouldn’t stop, who could lose control of his mind to his body’s need.

  And was it only your body’s need?

  He shook off the thought. Of course it had been. Agatha was a heavenly armful, a real delight, with her ardent abandon and sweet flesh. Any man might let his senses take over with a woman such as she.

  Any man but him. He was the master of control, the surgeon, occasionally even the cold instrument itself. There was no room in his dark world for the sweetness and warmth of Agatha.

  He was the Magician, called so by his men for his ability to know precisely what the enemy was about to do and where to send a man and what assignment to give him.

  And early on, it had been given him for his uncanny ability to make things disappear. Including himself.

  A man of the shadows. Always between worlds, walking in the eclipse between what was legal and what was necessary, for the good of his country.

  The same class-conscious citizens of which would never accept him as one of their own.

  As if he would even be allowed to try. Should he choose between being a trumped-up bastard chimneysweep trying to pass himself off in good society, or being an overeducated street rat who would forever be highly suspect among his fellow commoners?

  Or remain invisible, where he might do some good and where his life might have some meaning.

  Not much of a choice really. More of a destiny. It was only too bad that his destiny included mind-bending solitude.

  It had never truly bothered him before, but he wasn’t enough of a liar to pretend that he didn’t know why it bothered him now.

  He couldn’t deny it any longer. He wanted more. He wanted warmth and heat and heart.

  And passion.

  During the last few weeks he had been guilty of more than one lapse of judgment. He had underestimated Agatha, time and again. And he had underestimated passion. Passion had sneaked up on him like an alleyway thief, club upraised.

  From the moment she’d collided with him in her hallway, he’d been entranced by her. Completely captivated. Utterly and totally besotted.

  Passion. He’d never seen it coming.

  Now he didn’t want to live without it.

  He wanted Agatha. And a lifetime in her arms.

  Pity he would never be able to let himself have it.

  * * *

  “I wanted him to marry me.”

  Agatha turned from the parlor window as if the morning light hurt her reddened eyes. James watched her as he lay recovering on the sofa, his forgotten breakfast tray still on his lap. Her pallor and quiet pain alarmed him. His Aggie was never quiet.

  “Marry you? Why?”

  “I’m in love with him.”

  Jamie grimaced. Damnation. What a situation. “Are you sure? You’ve only known him a few weeks.”

  Agatha raised her gaze to his. “You’ve known him for years. You tell me. Is there any reason why I shouldn’t be in love with him?”

  There was no denying that Simon was the finest man he had ever known. James currently might want to kill him, but he couldn’t disparage him.

  “He was playing a role,” he couldn’t help reminding her. “Perhaps you are simply infatuated with the role.”

  Agatha looked down at her hands. “I did nothing all night but wonder about that. It isn’t a nice thought, to know that you may be in love with someone who doesn’t truly exist.”

  She turned to pace the room. That was better. Aggie in motion he could handle.

  “Then again, I’m not sure,” she said.
“I think that there was much of him in that role. Perhaps it was the man he used to be, or almost was, but it was him, all the same.”

  James ran his hand through his hair. “What do you want to do? It’s possible I can force him to marry you.”

  A spark of indignation lit her dull eyes briefly. “Is he that against me as a wife? If he needs so much convincing, then I don’t want him.”

  James felt obliged to defend Simon on that score. “It isn’t that, Aggie. For Simon to marry would mean the end of his post, the end of his career. He’s said it many times, and I believe him. He reasons that if he were to marry, his wife and family might someday be used against him.”

  He could see the realization dawn on her face and continued. “Don’t you see? In his position, he might someday have to choose between his loved ones and his country—”

  She finished it for him. “And he is a patriot. He would force himself to choose England, to choose the greater good. Then he would blame himself for abandoning his family for the rest of his life.”

  “Yes.” He considered her for a moment. “I’m glad you understand, Aggie. You’ve grown up a great deal in the last month, haven’t you?”

  She sat on the sofa near his knees and tucked up one slippered foot beneath her. For a moment she regarded him sadly. “I’ve been growing up for years, Jamie. You simply haven’t been there to see it.”

  James did not reply. There was no defense of his abandonment of her. He had told himself that writing letters showed his devotion. He had promised himself that he would visit, just as soon as things settled down, as soon as he finished the next mission.…

  The truth was that he loved his work. He loved the risk and the intrigue. He was the master of sabotage in the Liar’s Club. The mighty Griffin, who moved with the stealth of a lion and struck with the accuracy of an eagle, the man called upon in one desperate scenario after another.

  And he simply hadn’t wanted to miss a moment of it.

  As if she could read his thoughts, Agatha shook her head in bemusement. “To think you were the Griffin all along.”

  James tried to lighten the mood. “What? You don’t think your older brother could be a blade at the throat of Napoleon?”

  She snorted. “Don’t get full of yourself around me, James Cunnington. I’ve seen you in your winter drawers.”

  He raised one fist and struck a haughty pose. “The Griffin does not wear drawers! The Griffin is not human enough to need drawers!”

  “Baggy drawers yet. Baggy and gray with washing,” mused Agatha. “I wonder if the Voice of Society would be interested in knowing about that?”

  “Watch it, Aggravation. You’re not too big to tickle.”

  “I am so.”

  James moved as if to prove his point. Though it was a weak gesture, Agatha jumped up with her hands held in front of her in defense.

  “Fine! Whatever you say, O Master Griffin, sir.”

  Glad that he had been able to lift the sadness in her eyes, if even for a moment, James took one of her outstretched hands in his and settled back against his cushions.

  “I’m glad to be home again.”

  “You aren’t home yet.”

  He tilted his head, smiling at her. “Appleby is just a house and some trees. You are my family.”

  Abruptly her slight smile crumpled into tears. James pulled her close. She curled up on top of his quilt, face tucked into his neck.

  He should never have left her so long. If he had been a better brother, none of this would have happened. She would not have come to London unprotected, she would not have been ruined.…

  “Agatha, we need to talk about your future. How many people know that Simon was not really Mortimer Applequist?”

  She sniffled, then shrugged. “No one.”

  “Not even your servants?” This was excellent news.

  “No. Pearson might have his suspicions after last night, but he’d never utter a word. The rest of the world believes wholeheartedly. Simon was very convincing once I—” She stopped, pressing her lips together.

  James eyed her carefully. “What is it?”

  Agatha flushed angrily. “I just realized. He never needed etiquette lessons at all, did he?”

  James almost laughed out loud. “Simon? Oh, lord, no. He could pass as a gentleman in any ballroom—”

  That had apparently not been the best way to put that, for Agatha’s anger began to flare higher.

  “That—that rat!” She grabbed a pillow from the sofa and flung it at the wall. “I took his hand in mine to show him how to hold a fork! That sneak! That unbelievable … rat … sneak … bastard!”

  James blinked. “He told you that?”

  “If I ever see that man again, I’ll kill him! Even if I don’t see him again, I shall kill him!” Another pillow struck the wall, and a painting teetered. Agatha glared at the sofa. “There’s a pillow missing.”

  Then she slumped onto the cushions once more. “I made Mortimer up,” she muttered. “I can unmake him just as easily.…”

  “Aggie, pay attention. Did Simon tell you that he was a bastard?”

  “What? Yes, of course. He told me all about his mother, and sleeping in alleyways.…” She turned to look at him, becoming pale. “Did he make that up as well?”

  “No, Aggie, he didn’t.” Dear God, he had told her about his mother? Even James had never heard those details.

  That could only mean one thing.

  For the first and only time in all the years James had known him …

  Simon was in love.

  Chapter Sixteen

  After sitting with Jamie most of the day, Agatha had persuaded him to return to his bed for an early night. Now she paced restlessly in her own bedchamber, ignoring her own bed entirely, despite the fact that she had told Jamie she was tired as well and ready to retire.

  Her anger threatened to overwhelm her, yet she clung to the strength it gave her, feeding it with thoughts of Simon’s lies.

  For Simon couldn’t marry her, and she couldn’t rightly force him to. If he’d fought marriage for any other reason than service to his country, she might have found some way to combat his decision.

  For truth be told, she would do just about anything to have him. Lie, cheat, steal to have him, and to hell with her already severely endangered soul.

  But he was too important to England, too devoted to his people.

  What mortal woman could compete with that? What worthy woman would want to?

  And to be honest, could she bear a lifetime of being second in his heart? She had no illusions of her own selflessness.

  She would grow to hate it, and the hatred would grow and the love would shrink, until she’d loathe the very sight of his sheets of figures and equations—

  No … that was Papa’s mathematics she was thinking of.

  Were Papa and Simon the same? Had she made the fatal mistake of falling in love with a man who could give her no more than indifferent attention and absent-minded affection?

  Good lord, she’d be mad to do that!

  And yet, there was no denying that she had done precisely that. And would do it again.

  If Simon so much as crooked his finger at her, she would gladly throw her life away on those scraps of him that were left when his grand purpose was done.

  And it would destroy her. Already, she was filled with self-loathing that she could resent her own homeland for taking him from her.

  Why couldn’t she have fallen in love with a simple man? Someone cheerful and uncomplicated, like young Collis Tremayne?

  Absently she realized that she’d forgotten about the much-sought-after invitation to Etheridge House. She should be there now, she and Mortimer both.

  Of course, Mortimer wouldn’t be making any more parties. He was dead, as was any chance of her living happily ever after with Simon.

  Dead …

  Of course.

  Quickly, she went to her little escritoire and pulled a sheet of foolscap from the drawer. I
f she hurried, she could send Harry immediately, and still get it into tomorrow’s issue.

  She only wished she could be present to see Simon’s face.

  * * *

  Simon was in no mood to be patient the next morning as he struggled to make his way against the tide of traffic. He’d made a later start than usual this morning, after spending many sleepless hours lost in thoughts of Agatha.

  The walks were crowded with pedestrians, and the streets were completely locked with carriages and carts. The teeming populace of London was on its morning rounds.

  Simon growled as he was shouldered by yet another person walking the opposite direction.

  “Sorry, guv’nor,” said a familiar voice.

  Quickly, Simon glanced over his shoulder to see the slouching figure of Feebles slipping away through the crowd. Simon didn’t slow his pace, or react in any obvious way, but his hand slid to the inner breast pocket of his jacket.

  His fingers met the crackle of paper. Paper that had not been there when he’d left his house shortly before.

  Walking with the same impatient stride, Simon passed through the entrance of the Liar’s Club without a glance at its Gothic facade.

  Immediately he could feel himself relax. Here he was a respected leader, not a bastard chimneysweep, not a lowborn man who had ruined a lady.

  Damn her for toying with his mind, for making him remember and acknowledge the man he had tried to leave behind years ago. He had dredged it all up for her, shown her the lowest side of himself …

  And still she had said she loved him.

  Simon pushed her away, from his thoughts and from his heart. He was more than that here.

  He was the Magician.

  Feeling much more the thing now, Simon strode through to the kitchen. Already steamy with the day’s baking, the kitchen was warm and welcoming.

  Simon snatched a fresh-baked roll from the pan cooling on the massive scarred table in the center of the room. Kurt turned with a swift growl, but the roll was already stuffed in Simon’s cheek and his hands were empty.

  Simon even managed his usual irreverent salute as he left the kitchen for Jackham’s office.