She shut her mouth with a click. “Never you mind. What are we going to do with Lady Winchell? We can’t simply leave her there, all … What did you do to her?”
“Me? Not a thing. She merely drank a bit too much brandy.”
“Brandy melts one’s clothing off, does it?”
Chuckling despite her scornful glower, Simon nodded. “It has been known to on occasion.”
“We cannot leave her here. He’s bound to realize that she was in here all along, and then I will have kissed you for nothing.”
Simon stiffened. “Pardon me. I’d no idea it was such a sacrifice.”
“Oh, you know what I mean. Grab her arms.”
Together they got Lavinia back on her feet, if one could call swaying like a badly set Maypole standing upright. Her head hung off her shoulders like a dead woman’s, and Simon wondered absently if she had killed herself with her greed.
He didn’t much care, one way or another, except that for her husband to find her when he returned would be inconvenient in the extreme.
“There is a dark sitting room next to this one. You hold her—no, I’ll hold her up while you check the hall.”
Simon turned his portion of Lavinia’s weight over to Agatha and obeyed without protest, all the while adding up the events of the last few moments.
Agatha was quite the little professional, wasn’t she? Cool as seawater, this one. Simon reminded himself that he was dealing with a woman who had likely seen it all and done her share of it.
Most important, she had revealed that she had a mission of her own, perhaps more than simply finding her lover.
Where was it she was in danger of being sent? Gaol? The Colonies?
There was no one in sight in the hall, and they managed to get Lavinia into the next sitting room and arrange her to look as though she had been drinking alone.
Simon grouped the filched decanter and single glass in a messy spill at her feet while Agatha did her best to repair the lady’s torn bodice.
“I suppose she did this herself, as well?” Agatha shot him an acid look as she used her own lace to hide the worst of the damage.
“Most assuredly.” Simon blinked innocently at her while he reassembled himself. He was missing a cuff stud. Oh, well, he’d just have to tuck it into his coat sleeve and hope it—
The lost stud gleamed in Agatha’s pink palm, held before his nose.
“I believe you lost this. In the hall outside.”
“Ah, I was wondering how you found me. That was quick thinking.”
“That was unbridled terror,” she shot back.
She took a last look around the room, then glanced at the clock on the mantel. “Three and a half minutes. Plenty of time left to hear your explanation.”
“Not quite. I never did get to finish up in there.”
Agatha went truly ashen. “You don’t dare!”
With a wink and a tip of an imaginary hat, Simon dared. She came after him, tugging at his arm at the door to Winchell’s study. “Don’t do this, Simon. You don’t have to do this.”
“It’ll only take a moment, love. You stand here and tap the door if Winchell comes back early.”
“I’ll not assist this! You will not go back—”
Simon shut the door on her objections, leaving her fuming on the other side.
Quickly Agatha turned to face the empty hallway, trying to assume a nonchalant pose against the door. Inside, however, she was anything but calm.
Her heart was pounding like a racing horse, and she knew it wasn’t because of their close call. Simon’s mouth on hers had been something of a revelation. She could still feel the shocking intimacy of his tongue sweeping across her mouth and the way that her breasts had tingled and tightened against his hard chest.
She’d only gripped his wide bare shoulders for a moment, but the heated rippling of his muscles against her palms still lingered, making her want to tighten her fists to keep him in her hands.
She desired Simon. Somehow, she’d managed to keep the fact from herself for an entire week. Oh, she’d been aware of some attraction, but not this pulsating ache in her belly and below that made her want to pull him down on Winchell’s sofa for another round.
This was a complication that bore more reflection. Later. When she wasn’t in imminent danger of being publicly exposed. And perhaps after she was no longer panting to be half-naked in Simon’s arms.
Like Lavinia. Anger coiled through Agatha at the image in her mind. Ah, yes. It was quite astonishing how pure fury could erase the smoldering embers of arousal. That was something she’d take care to remember in the future.
* * *
Inside Winchell’s study, Simon had returned to the wall safe. Thank goodness Winchell had been too distracted by the disturbed lovers to see that the painting that concealed his safe hung askew because the safe door itself was wide open.
With quick, sensitive fingers, Simon sorted through the documents and stacks of cash that filled the small square box.
There was nothing conclusive inside. Some rather sensitive documents, yes, but nothing that Winchell shouldn’t have in his possession, considering his standing in the War Office. It was a bit surprising to find them stored at his residence, but perhaps the man took his work home with him.
Finally satisfied with what he did and did not find, Simon shut the heavy iron door and fiddled the lock back into action with his picks.
Straighten the picture here, shove the sofa back there, and, with a last glance about the room, the job was done. Not well and not without erecting some entirely new obstacles, but done just the same.
Now on to the hardest part. Convincing Agatha not to decry him for a “common parlor thief.”
What nonsense. He was anything but common.
* * *
It was difficult leaving the party. Agatha tried her best not to blush while giving her regrets to Lord Winchell, but his grandfatherly reproof made her realize what a picture she must have made, wrapped in Simon’s arms.
Simon, the rat, remained cool and relaxed, making his little bow of regret and the excuse of her—her!—headache as if the man had never seen a thing.
The one bright side was that their early departure would be entirely forgotten when his lordship discovered why his lady wife would not be joining everyone for supper. If only they managed to depart first!
The slight wait as their carriage was brought around was likely only minutes, but to a nervous Agatha it seemed like hours. Simon merely leaned nonchalantly against the wall, hands in pockets, looking sublimely unconcerned.
Well, simply wait. Once she got him into the privacy of the carriage, he’d find himself plenty concerned!
It had occurred to her in the last few minutes that if Simon was thief, not chimneysweep, then he’d had nefarious reasons for being in her house in the first place! The rat-sneak had been going to rob her!
He hadn’t in the end, she was positive. She’d brought nothing of real value from Appleby. Even the silver had come with the rented house, and she’d had no complaints of anything missing from Pearson, who would surely have noticed.
So Simon had not stolen, but he had lied.
She could call a constable on him right now for what he had done at Winchell’s. She wouldn’t, of course, but she enjoyed the thought immensely in her ire.
She should threaten him with it at least, it was no more than he deserved for tricking her this way. Threatening him with exposure would teach him—
She became very still as the next thoughts began to ravel through her mind.
Would the threat of exposure keep Simon in line? Would it be enough to ensure his cooperation in something vastly more dangerous than posing as the harmless Mortimer?
The most important thing that Agatha had discovered tonight—other than the surprising appeal of Simon’s kiss, which she was not quite ready to think about—was that the hospital had nothing on the social scene when it came to news and rumor. She had learned more tonight about th
e war against Napoleon than she had in weeks tending the wounded boys.
She would continue her work there, of course. The need for what little comfort she could bring them was enough to merit it. But in the evenings, with Simon at her side, she might learn more than she had ever dreamed from the whispers and tattle that were like breath to these people.
In truth, there were nearly as many uniforms in that ballroom tonight as there were in the hospital. Officers, yet. Men in command, who might really know where a certain Captain Cunnington was even now.
Excitement rang through her tightened nerves like bell song. The last bit of information she had finessed from a doddering old general had made the entire night worthwhile.
“Oh, the Griffin!” he’d declared in his creaky voice. He’d blinked his rheumy eyes in indignation. “My, yes, of course I’ve heard of him, what with him being plastered all over the papers like he is.”
Agatha had taken a deep breath, and the old fellow, who had truly enjoyed the way his decreased height had left his eyes level with her bodice, kept talking.
“I tell you if I were in charge, heads would roll about that security leak. These youngsters, no respect for the government, telling Crown business the way they do—”
“Not like you, good sir.” She’d leaned closer and the old boy had practically fallen into her bosom. “I’ll wager Napoleon himself couldn’t drag the Griffin’s identity out of a man like you.”
“Not Napoleon, nor good King George himself!” he declared stoutly. Then he blinked. “That is, if I knew…”
Another blasted dead end. Agatha had sighed and prepared to disentangle herself from the general’s wiry grasp as the dance ended.
“… for certain.”
With that, Agatha was back in the match, luring her gentleman back onto the floor for another waltz. Flattery, breathless attention, and a great deal of cleavage finally wrung his theory from him.
It seemed there was a certain reclusive gentleman … a lord, no less. A man of mystery who left the country for weeks at a time, then arrived back in town without fanfare or warning. A man who kept his mouth shut and his eyes sharp. A man with friends in very high places—this last was uttered with more than a dash of resentment.
If that wasn’t the veritable description of a spy, Agatha didn’t know what was. And she knew his name.
Now, she had only to gain entry to his inner circle, then somehow become invited to his home, and—and what?
Ask him if he were the Griffin? The futility of her plan made her slump. A royal spy would no more share information with her than he would any other gossip-mongering lady of Society.
No, what she needed was something more inspired, something—
The carriage came around, and young Harry jumped down to open the door. Simon stepped up to hand her in, but she pulled away from him. She didn’t want him near her after he’d endangered her mission with his thieving—
The answer came to her with a triumphant rush of delight. Oh, she could not have planned anything more perfect if she had tried.
He wouldn’t like it, she was fairly sure. Still, she would not be denied. It wasn’t as though she would ever truly turn him in.
It was no worse than when Jamie had threatened to tell Papa about that unfortunate incident with the harvest bonfire and the gunpowder. She’d been forced to muck out after Jamie’s palfrey for weeks in order to gain his word that he would blame it on their favorite scapegoat, the imaginary Mortimer Applequist.
In the end, she’d escaped detection and had only to sit through another one of her father’s lectures about avoiding undesirable comrades. Poor Papa, to the end he had believed in the ubiquitous Mortimer.
Simon flipped up his tails and sat across from Agatha, reflexively giving the roof a double tap with his fist to signal the driver that they were ready. His mind was entirely on the luscious little problem that sat across from him.
Agatha was going to take delicate handling from here on out. She was obviously angry at him. One could tell by the brilliant smile on her—
Simon checked again. Yes, she was smiling joyously at him, as if he were the answer to her every prayer.
Oh, hell. This could not be good.
“Absolutely not.”
She only smiled wider. “Oh, yes, I rather think so.”
“I won’t do it.”
“You don’t even know what it is yet.”
“If it is bad enough for you to be charming me instead of raging at me, it is something I want no part of.”
“Please don’t play the righteous and simple man of honor, Simon. If I wished, I could turn you in to the magistrate directly. You just rifled through both Lord Winchell’s study and Lord Winchell’s wife.”
There was no denying that. Damn. Simon the Chimneysweep was dead, by his own hand yet. Time for Simon the Master Thief to come to the surface.
“Yes, you are quite correct. I am not a man of honor. I am a man of opportunity.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Which I have provided for you, tenfold. You would never have free entry into a house like Winchell’s without the training I gave you.”
You used me. She didn’t have to say it out loud. The thought was plain to see on her abruptly unsmiling face.
He could hardly deny her accusation without bringing up far worse offenses. If she knew that the past week had been nothing but a farce, Simon really couldn’t predict her outrage.
If there was one thing Simon knew about women, it was that they were all violently allergic to liars, even if they told the occasional falsehood themselves.
Time to point her toward safer ground.
“What precisely do you have in mind?” he asked, knowing he was going to be very sorry he had.
“I want you to do that again.” She waved a hand to indicate the Winchells’ house in their wake.
“You want me to tickle Lord Winchell’s … safe again?”
“Not Lord Winchell’s safe, nor Lord Winchell’s wife.”
Did he detect a slightly possessive snarl in her tone? Oh, yes. How gratifying. Still, it was quite beside the topic.
“I will arrange to be invited to a house, and you will accompany me as Mortimer, as you did tonight. But the only mischief will be done at my direction.” She gave him a stern look that was surprisingly impressive on her sweetly rounded face.
“Then whose safe will I be tickling?”
“Lord Etheridge’s safe.”
“Why do you want to steal from Lord Etheridge?”
“I don’t want to steal from him. The very idea.” She actually had the nerve to look offended. “I suppose there’s no harm in telling you. It’s not as though you’ll go running to the authorities. I only want to find out how he is connected to Jamie.”
“I apologize. You’ve lost me once more.”
“Please learn to pay attention. I am looking for the Griffin. Lord Etheridge keeps a house, but rarely uses it. He comes and goes, and no one knows where. He avoids the social whirl, but for a few select friends, all of whom hold government posts. He is an obvious suspect.” She sat back, her expression smug.
“Bloody hell!” He was stunned. Lord Etheridge was a perfect suspect. After all, the man was on Simon’s own list, among others. If not for the short-handed condition of his team, Etheridge would already have been thoroughly investigated.
Still, it had taken some time before his own sources had ferreted out any suspicious activity by Etheridge.
Damn, but she was good.
She regarded him as if not sure how much he needed to know. At any other time he might have found this amusing, but he was too busy wondering how she had discovered in one night what he and his operatives had taken weeks to uncover.
“If this man is the Griffin, then he has been in touch with Jamie. Lord Etheridge likely knows where he is at this very moment.”
She was wrong. Wrong about the Griffin, wrong about James. Unfortunately, he couldn’t tell her so. All he could do was try to talk her
out of her hideously dangerous plan.
If he couldn’t, she was likely to get her pretty little carcass tied into a brick-filled sack and thrown into the Thames.
Agatha waited, but Simon wasn’t answering, only sitting there watching her in the half-light that came from the lanterns bobbing from the sides of the carriage. Suddenly Agatha was very weary.
Weary of the lies, weary of the strain of not knowing Jamie’s fate, weary of dancing with men who stepped on her toes.
Well, she could do something about the last, at least. Bending, she flipped off her silken slippers and took one set of her toes in each hand. Rubbing gently, she sighed with relief.
Her feet felt like stomped grapes. So many men had trod on her toes tonight, from lords to generals. Pity that none of them had been Simon. At least he had made it fun while he made mush of her toes.
Dancing was the last place for silk slippers. Better to wear the sturdy workshoes of a farm woman on the dance floor.
The image made her smile. Wouldn’t that start talk? Green satin and hobnails. She looked up at Simon, ready to share the joke, but froze at the animal glaze to his eyes.
Simon was on fire. Was she teasing him apurpose? Did she have any idea that when she leaned that way, he could see her entire bosom?
The spark that had been kindled by her revealing gown and stoked by her quick-minded kiss suddenly flared into a white-hot inferno. He could hardly think over the roaring in his ears.
“Where is your lace?” God, was that his voice? He sounded hoarse and dangerous, even to himself.
“In Lady Winchell’s bodice.”
Her lace … they’d left it behind. A tiny fragment of his mind worried over that betraying bit of evidence, but the larger part led him to relive his little charade earlier.
Only this time, it wasn’t Lavinia’s gaunt body under his ministrations. No, he wanted to replay it on Agatha’s abundance. The wet brush swirling, warming … drawing designs that enhanced the shape and bounty of her curves.
Agatha, ripe and lush, naked and willing, painted like a primitive goddess for his worship—
“So will you?”
She leaned forward earnestly, and Simon saw the rosy circle of one nipple edge above the fabric. Her bodice was off-center, twisted from her efforts earlier. The heat within him flared out of control.
Celeste Bradley - [The Liar's Club 01] Page 8