Celeste Bradley - [The Liar's Club 01]

by The Pretender

  “Of course you don’t. The very thought is laughable. This sort of thing requires some small scrap of intelligence. No, you are merely a diversion. Looking for you will keep James busy for hours. I knew he would be pursuing me the moment I learned he was hiding out in your house this afternoon. I can’t afford the complication of having him looking for me, for I’ve a new and larger mission now. One that will buy my way back to Paris in style.”

  Agatha decided not to tell Lavinia that James believed her too shallow and silly to enact treason. Surely by now Simon and James knew that she’d been taken and realized that she’d been right about Lavinia.

  Vindication of her theory would be much more satisfying if she lived long enough to say, “I told you so.”

  “I truly don’t understand you, Lady Winchell. Your mother was fighting for her survival. You are only interested in money and lust.”

  Lavinia whirled on her, eyes blazing with scorn. “You’re wrong there, little farm girl. I am only interested in moneyed men, who are only interested in lust.” She sneered. “Bah! Why do I bother to tell you this? You trust men. You’re like an idiot child.”

  “Being trusting doesn’t make one an idiot. The shame is on those who take advantage of trust.”

  Agatha gazed at the fuming Lavinia, her calm seeming to grow as the other woman’s left her.

  So this was where lies would take one. A life of bitterness and regret. There would never be a single clear moment of pure joy, for how could one trust anything enough to let it happen?

  What about herself? Could she forgive herself for her own lies? Now, when her life seemed rather uncertain, she could scarcely remember her reasons at all. Why had she always felt such a need to flee the truth?

  Perhaps honesty was a strength of its own.

  Lavinia hissed like the viper she was and turned to leave. “I must get back. Gag her,” she ordered her henchman. She turned to flare one more icy smile at Agatha. “James will be far too busy trying to rescue you to interfere with me.… I wish him luck. He’ll need a net, I fear.”

  She contrived a tinkling laugh and gave the hulk nearest her a poke with her umbrella. “Allons-y! We have more important things to attend to. Once I do away with the old man, I may escape this horrid country forever.”

  Chapter Twenty-six

  James leaned over the privy seat hole and sniffed. The stench made his eyes water. Excellent. Winchell didn’t bother to ensure that his staff kept the privy sweet with lime, nor was the tiny wooden shed well ventilated.

  This was one of James’s favorite “distractions” to work in the field. Where there stood an army, there stood a hundred privies. Not a fatal outcome unfortunately, but it would have to do.

  For despite the fact that he was breathlessly worried about Aggie, James was forced to admit the sense in Simon’s plan.

  “Lavinia panicked,” Simon had reminded him. “She’s running scared and making mistakes. Her abduction of Agatha may give us the only opening we’ll have to search her possessions before she disappears forever. Our duty is to uncover the conspiracy. Don’t forget that, James. You are a Liar first.”

  “Why not simply arrest the lot of them, Winchell too?”

  “I don’t think she’s had a chance to complete what she has begun with her abduction of you. There must be some reason why she is still working in London after your escape. I want to know what that is. As long as Lavinia and her cohorts feel safe, we can hope that they will simply hold Agatha captive as they did you.”

  Duty warred with family loyalty once again. As much as he ached to search for his sister, he knew Simon was right.

  So James satisfied himself with this particularly appropriate bit of sabotage and the knowledge that now, Simon would have sufficient time to search Lavinia’s house for any information that would lead them to Agatha’s rescue.

  Working by feel in the darkness James felt in his satchel for the tin box of salt and opened it carefully on the plank next to the hole. Several feet of fine chain hung from each side of the sturdy box and James took a moment to lay the chains over his shoulder to dangle down his back.

  Then he removed the lid from the small crock he carried in one gloved hand. Nestled within on a bed of ash, live coals glowed in the dimness. With a pair of small tongs, James transferred the coals quickly into the salt box. Immediately, the contents of the box began to put out an acrid odor.

  “One,” he whispered. He tossed the crock aside and swiftly lowered the salt box into the privy until it met the bottom.

  “Two.” The gas from the vaporizing salt would collide with the foul gases from the privy in a matter of seconds.

  The box settled firmly and James released the chains.

  “Three!” He leaped from the privy to take cover behind the alley gate.

  Simon watched from the corner of the house as James threw himself out of the splintery wooden doorway to run for cover. There was a muffled whump and Simon felt the ground quiver beneath his feet. Then the Winchells’ privy roof flew high into the air on a geyser of filth and flame.

  It was spectacular. Smoking muck hung in the air for a moment, then spattered the grounds and garden in a solid sheet of greenish-brown. Simon heard James give an involuntary whoop of vengeful delight and grinned fiercely.

  Then the smell hit him, and he hurriedly covered his face with the hood he carried with him. Even the scent of well-used damp wool within the mask was a welcome change from the odor without.

  The doors opened and the household staff rushed out, only to halt in horror. The first of them slipped and staggered in the slime covering the ground, a few of them falling to land in the filth. The others flinched away from the hands reaching for help in rising.

  Then the group of servants parted way for Lord Winchell. The man’s mutton-chop whiskers quivered in disbelief as he stood blinking at his previously pristine grounds.

  There was no sign of Lavinia. It was no more than Simon had expected. She was doubtless still seeing to securing Agatha somewhere. He had to believe that. It was the only thing that kept him focused.

  Time to go to work. Simon turned away from the spectacle to make his way swiftly around the house. He’d already confirmed that a side window remained unlocked while James had set up his privy distraction. Now he didn’t hesitate as he vaulted over the sill into the house.

  He needn’t be careful tonight, but speed was imperative. Still, he predicted it would be some time before any of Winchell’s staff came upstairs to Lavinia’s chamber.

  This time, he passed by his lordship’s study without a glance. His target lay upstairs, in the secret confines of a lady’s boudoir.

  Women had twisty minds. There was no telling where Lavinia hid her private papers. Surely not somewhere sensible like a desk or escritoire.

  As he ascended the stairs like a shadow, he thought about Agatha’s instinctive suspicion of Lavinia Winchell. He wished he could speak to her now to get a woman’s perspective on this particular search.

  Fury twisted within Simon. If only he had stayed with her. If only he’d—

  He shook off the self-blame. Such activity would be pointless if he recovered her safely, and if he didn’t, he’d have the rest of his damned existence to hate himself with thorough dedication.

  Simon reached the bedchamber he felt sure was Lavinia’s and stepped inside. The scent of the room confirmed his selection. The musky-powdery perfume that Lavinia favored made him think longingly of Agatha’s refreshing scent.

  He quickly lit the candle in his pocket, blessing Etheridge’s gift as he did so. Then he examined the room. As he’d supposed, the spindly escritoire contained nothing but blank paper, ink, and pen nibs. There were no books in the room at all. Apparently, Lavinia was not a great reader. What a surprise.

  Quickly Simon searched every drawer and shelf in the suite of rooms, including the vast wardrobe and the luxuriously appointed bathing chamber. He examined the contents of each, and the backs and bottoms. Nothing.

&nb
sp; He slid his hands beneath the feather beds upon the grand frame. Nothing. He climbed upon the bed to examine the canopy and crawled beneath the bed to feel between every slat. Still nothing.

  Simon felt helpless fear begin to erode his professional detachment. He’d been so sure that he would discover something here. That he would find his way to Agatha once again. Ferociously he quelled the spreading sense of loss that poisoned his ability to think.

  He closed his eyes and concentrated, trying to think like Agatha would, using instinct and an understanding of human nature.

  Lavinia was a suspicious, perhaps even paranoid, woman. A cunning creature, but without demonstrable intelligence. Her primary advantage lay in her apparent incredible unsuitability for intrigue. She simply wasn’t the type.

  She was more likely to gamble and shop her way into astonishing debt. She was a creature of tawdry passions, licentious as a mink. Impulsive, lazily cruel, and fond of low humor …

  Simon opened his eyes and smiled grimly. He had it.

  He strode confidently back into the necessary and lifted the seat of Lavinia’s typically thronelike commode chair. No back garden privy for her. Then he pulled up the porcelain basin that sat within the seat.

  There, in the hollow beneath the basin, lay a packet wrapped in oilskin.

  “I’ve got you now, you viper,” Simon whispered.

  Though the cavity was somewhat damp, the packet was quite dry inside, and Simon quickly scanned the contents. Letters from lovers, records of some rather astonishing gambling debts recently paid off in lump sums, and a grimy handwritten receipt for the purchase of “wun smal bote namd Mary Klar.”

  The boat James had been held captive on. The very vessel that Agatha might now be held on. The note was signed: “John Sway.”

  Another target for the hunt, then. Captains tended to keep track of their ladies of the sea, even when they didn’t own them anymore.

  Simon tucked the scrap into his breast pocket as he turned to go. Then he hesitated, eyeing the pile of love letters. Some of the most important pieces of intelligence came in the most unimpressive packages.

  The first notes were varied, from painfully penned youthful anguish to sophisticated erotic wordplay. The lady did not seem to have any preference to either sort of lover at all.

  Then, at the bottom of the stack of folded letters, he discovered one that began as insipid poetry on the first page, but then became abruptly businesslike on the second page.

  References to payments and contacts were worded carefully, but Simon could recognize his own language when he saw it. The one paragraph that made no sense to him was a brief accounting of cloth yardage cut and bought. Simon shook his head. Codes were not his specialty, but he knew anything containing numbers likely contained dates and times as well.

  He tucked the entire pile of letters into his jacket, on the chance that the others held information as well. As he left the bathing room, he glanced at the rosewood escritoire again. Lavinia was a decisive creature, who likely wrote in a strong hand.…

  Quickly he took the stack of paper from the drawer and examined it page by page, slanting it against the candlelight.

  Yes, there, on the third page. Definite curling script that dug deeply through to the back of the paper. Only a few lines, but perhaps, just perhaps …

  Simon knelt on the hearth and performed the soot technique just as he had on Agatha’s letter once before. Please, God, don’t let it be some silly social letter.…

  Fresh and clear, legible even in reverse, Simon read “… love, I shall be your bullet aimed at Prinny’s brain. Yours forever, L.”

  The enormity of the plot shot through Simon in a bolt of pure lightning horror. The assassination of the Prince Regent would throw the British government into complete disarray for months, perhaps even years.

  Yet such an attempt would be useless. Prince George was perhaps the most heavily guarded man in the world. Even in public appearances, it would take an army to get within a pistol shot of the man, not to mention that an assassin would never survive the attempt. Lavinia was a determined amateur, as evidenced by her foolish uncoded reply. But was she suicidal?

  Could it be some other form of weapon? Lavinia used the word bullet, but that could be figurative. Either way, it was his duty to report this to His Royal Highness and his advisers immediately.

  Once that was done, protection of the royals was not Simon’s job, thank the fates. He wouldn’t want to be the poor fellow faced with containing the Prince’s excesses. Even the arrest of Lavinia would fall to the Royal Guard.

  Simon’s place right now was to find Agatha. Hopefully he would find the enemy operatives in the process, but frankly, he couldn’t find it in him to care very much if he did. For the first time in his career, he had other priorities. God help him.

  He blew out his candle and slipped from the room. Despite the desperate search that had taken place, the only evidence of his visit was the fast dissipating wisp of smoke.

  * * *

  Agatha finally realized both she and the ship had been deserted. Slimy fingers of fear began to work their way through her belly. Somehow she knew that neither Lavinia nor her cohorts were ever coming back.

  She knew Simon and Jamie would be looking for her. But a small, ramshackle ship among hundreds, anchored in the sea of masts in the filthy docks? How in the world would they ever find her?

  The gag was all too effective, muffling her loudest cry to something less than the creaking of the rigging above her. She thumped her heels for a time but soon exhausted any hope of being heard.

  What she needed to do was free herself. Jamie had cut his bindings with the rim of a pail, but her captors had apparently learned better, for her wrists were tied tightly behind her back.

  If she could make her way to the deck somehow, surely someone would see her.

  This thought brought back the image of the unsavory denizens of the quay. Might she be putting herself in further danger if she was seen by the wrong sort?

  It was a possibility, yet death by dehydration and starvation was a certainty if she remained hidden below.

  Agatha rolled to her knees next to the splintery wall and managed to get to her feet by nearly standing on her head. She could do no more than tiny shuffling steps, scarcely an inch at a time. Her petticoats didn’t make the effort any easier, for they hung ragged around her feet, impeding her even more.

  Impatiently Agatha used her bound hands to pull up the rear of her skirts. By the simple pulling free of the tapes tying her petticoats in the back, she was able to drop them to the floor.

  Kicking them off proved impossible, and she was forced to hop from the center of the billowed underskirts in awkward little bounds.

  “I believe I look quite ridiculous,” she muttered to herself around the gag. Still, this form of locomotion got her to the door.

  If it was locked, her fate was inescapable. She turned and sidled backward to the door pull. It was a crude affair, with no keyhole at all.

  She tugged, and for a breathless moment she felt it stick. Oh, please—please open.

  The door gave toward her suddenly, causing her to lose her balance. She pitched forward onto her face, quite unable to catch herself. Reflexively she flinched aside, narrowly missing landing on her nose.

  Still, it was painful. After a moment, she took a breath. “Ow,” she muttered, then wasted no more energy on the subject, despite the scrape on her cheekbone.

  Roll to the wall, struggle to her feet, inch her way. The ship tossed her down a number of times, but she continued to repeat the process until she stood in the passage, looking up the steep staircase to the deck above.

  Truly, it was more of a ladder than a staircase, and a broken one at that. Her knees went weak with frustration.

  Turning, she sat gratefully on a narrow tread for a moment. She was frightened and weary, and her face and body throbbed from her many encounters with the floor. She didn’t have the strength to face the climb.


  Then again, she hadn’t anything better to do.

  Going up the ladder was easier than she’d first thought. She was able to use her hands to pull herself up backward, scooting on her bottom like a tot.

  She was concentrating so thoroughly on her slow climb that she didn’t realize she had reached the top of the companionway until a fresh breeze stung her abraded cheeks. The air smelled of fish and garbage and unwashed sailor.

  It was lovely. She might still die on this wretched excuse for a ship, but at least she wouldn’t die in the dark. Except, of course, that night was fast on its way.

  The deck was piled with stinking netting, filthy clothing, and tangled rope. Seabirds flocked to the piles of refuse here and there among the litter. Lavinia’s men were obviously bad housekeepers.

  Irritated that she could not possibly make her shuffling way through all those obstacles, Agatha decided to stay where she was for the moment. She could see rescue coming from here, and she could also let herself slip back down the steps should danger approach.

  She only hoped she’d be able to tell the difference.

  * * *

  James pulled Simon aside to one corner of the main gaming room of the Liar’s Club. “It’ll take hours to search the docks, perhaps even days. If I’ve read this coded letter properly, the dates match up with the Royal Appearance tomorrow. They want us out of the way for the Regent’s tour of the Chelsea Hospital, I’ll wager.”

  “It won’t make any difference.” Simon dismissed that concern with a restless shake of his head. “The Prince is well guarded.”

  James nodded, relieved. “Then we can turn our manpower to hunting Agatha.”

  “But it also sets a time limit on our search. If we don’t find her before the attempt on the Prince, they’ll have no reason to keep her alive afterwards. They may flee for their lives, cutting the dead weight.”

  Immediately Simon regretted his poor choice of words, at the images that rose in his own mind. He turned to face the motley gathering that filled the gaming room. Cooks and thieves, spies and servants. Pearson rubbed shoulders with Feebles, while Button murmured to Jackham in a low voice.