And who was Lord Fistingham? Another paramour? A competitor for her affections? Perhaps one she was keeping on a string in case James was not to be found?
No, that he could not believe. Her affection for James was real; he’d wager his life on it. No mere business arrangement there. At least on her side of it.
James had made his lack of true feeling quite clear. Had he arranged for Agatha to leave her home in the country in order to keep her conveniently close in London? To be used at will, without regard for the pain he might cause her?
Anger sparked through Simon at this further sign of James’s bad character. James had fooled him well. Likely he had fooled Agatha even more so.
If she was innocent of treason, she would not be the first woman to give her loyalty to the wrong man. The real question was: Which way would she choose when she did learn the truth? Her lover or her country?
Slowly he turned to make the arrangements for Ren’s release from the hospital. Someone had much to answer for in Porter’s case.
Simon was fairly sure he knew who it was.
* * *
James Cunnington rolled over on his malodorous pallet and blinked at the morning light peeking through the planks of the wall before his nose. At least, he thought it was morning.
It wasn’t often that he was able to will himself free of the drugged fog he was kept in. But when he could, he tried to take in as many of the details of his surroundings as possible.
He knew that he was on a ship, probably a fishing ketch by the smell and the curve of the side. It wasn’t new, for it creaked with the lift of every wave and the planks were warped, even the seaward ones.
There was one crack wide enough that he could press his eye to it and see a bare inch of the outside world. Not much to see but somewhat comforting nonetheless. At least he was above the waterline.
He knew that they were in a port, for he could sometimes hear horses’ hooves in the distance, but that it was little used, for his sea-facing peephole had never revealed another ship passing on the open sea. No filthy Thames dock, this.
He knew the ship was run by Frenchmen, for he could hear them shouting at one another and cursing him when they fed him or beat him. He’d learned an astonishing number of new curses, but he doubted he’d ever have the opportunity to use them.
He knew that a man could survive quite well on bread so elderly it was almost solid mold and bitter water that tasted of dead fish and rust. He knew that being tied wrists to ankles, never allowed to fully straighten his body, was likely the worst torture ever committed upon a tall man.
He knew that rough-twisted rope didn’t stretch, but skin did tear. He knew that teeth were no help at all against sea-hardened hemp. He knew that he was going to die in the end.
He knew that he was slowly and inevitably being reduced from well-fed, civilized man to murderous animal, one likely to turn on the next person to walk into his tiny cell.
That fact, he found perfectly acceptable.
The hollow sound of footsteps echoed outside his short and narrow door. Breakfast time. Of course it was his only meal of the day, but it amused him to observe the niceties.
James let his head fall back on the pallet, feigning stupor, not that he was ever far from it. But if he kept quiet, the fellow who brought his meal would likely leave after delivering only a contemptuous kick or three.
Sure enough, the burly man whom James had mentally nicknamed Bull tossed his bread to the floor next to the flat straw pallet, put down the bucket with a wasteful slosh, and aimed a vicious kick to James’s side.
“Wake up! Wake! Eh, lazy English!”
James kept watch through carefully lidded eyes, not quite willing to trust that the man wouldn’t kick him in the privates this time. But all sense of self-preservation vanished when the lout turned away to reveal a sheaf of news sheets protruding from his back pocket.
News! He might learn all sorts of useful things from a local news-sheet. His location, the date, accounts of the war effort …
He had to have it. But how?
Well, the Lazy English would wake up, for starters. With a groan, James rolled groggily to the floor, then attempted to get his feet beneath him.
It was alarming how little of the weakness was feigned. If he didn’t get out of here soon, he might never be able to escape.
The Frenchman turned and grunted, raising a foot to kick him back down again. Bent over as he was, it was fairly easy for James to grab the raised foot as if for support and pull the heavy man down with him.
As they fell, Bull gave a great shout. Damn, that would bring the rest of them running.
It took a few tries to wrest the paper from the man’s pocket without letting on what he was after. Finally, the rolled sheets fell to the floor. With a shove of his bound feet, James kicked them under his pallet as the two of them rolled across the floor.
Then he let Bull shove him off and fell unresisting into the hands of the rest of his captors, now piling angrily into the tiny cabin. They began to pass him from one to the other, cursing him in gutter French and taking out their frustrations on his stumbling, useless self.
Even as he began to black out, James was making note that there were six men in all. Hell. It looked as though this beating was going to take a while.
He only hoped he would remember why he’d earned it when they were done.
* * *
Agatha finished her check of the second-floor ward and started down the wide marble stairs to the ground-level vestibule. There were several new men on both the third and second floors, but none of them were Jamie and none of them knew Jamie.
She had also checked the list of casualties posted on the front door of the hospital as she had come in this morning and, as usual, had held her breath until she had seen that Jamie was not on the list of the dead.
She took the last few stairs at a bit of a run, eager to get out into the fresh air, gray though the day might be.
“Agatha!”
Pulled from her charge for the door by a familiar voice, Agatha skidded to a halt. Blast those slick marble floors, anyway. She ended up still standing, but with her arms stuck out like a windmill.
“Dear me, Agatha. Such a hoyden you can be.”
Lavinia. Oh, simply lovely. The silken tones dripped poison, like the fangs of a viper. How appropriate.
Agatha fought a snicker as she turned to face the woman who had tried to seduce Simon last night. She almost lost what little control she had when Lavinia bared her teeth in a friendly smile and revealed sharply pointed eyeteeth.
Instead, Agatha managed a wide smile of her own. “Oh, hello, Lady Winchell! I’m glad to see that you have recovered so quickly.”
Lavinia’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “I wasn’t aware that you knew that I had fallen ill last night.”
Oh, blast. Agatha realized that she herself had supposedly left the party before she could have known that anything was amiss with her hostess.
“Ah … when we couldn’t find you to make our regrets, I thought you must have had the headache and retired early.”
“Hmm. As you say.”
Lavinia considered her for another moment, and Agatha concentrated on projecting monumental idiocy. Apparently, the lady accepted the act, for she subtly relaxed.
“Have you been doing your bedpan duty so early, Agatha?”
Amused condescension was better than suspicion, of course, but vastly more irritating. Agatha kept her simpleton’s smile in place and nodded earnestly.
“Oh, yes, my lady. Have you come to visit today as well?”
“Doubtful. I came to speak to the administrator about the Prince Regent’s upcoming Royal Appearance at the hospital.”
“The Prince Regent?”
“Surely you recall the ruler of our dear empire? Odious fellow,” she added with supreme scorn. “Quite the most brainless man I’ve ever met. If not for the Prime Minister, England would fall to France in a heartbeat.”
Yet her
eyes gleamed, leading Agatha to think that Lady Winchell was very delighted indeed to be in the thick of planning for such exalted company.
“Lady Winchell! And my own darling wife. How delightful to run across you both.”
Agatha jerked her gaze to her left to see Simon bearing down on them both with his Mortimer smile on. Blasted idiot!
“Lady Winchell, you are looking fine this morning. We were so sorry to miss you when we made our departure last eve.”
Simon was at his Mortimer-smarmiest, Agatha could see. She wanted to kick him soundly in the pants for running such a risk but was forced to paste a delighted smile on her face instead.
“Si—Mortimer! Darling, what are you doing here?” She tried to signal him with her eyes to get out, but he only took her hand and tucked it into his arm, turning to smile once more at Lavinia.
Lady Winchell’s gaze shot sparks, but her smile was better than Agatha’s. Oh, yes, Lavinia remembered well enough, Agatha realized, she simply wasn’t letting on. Weren’t they all a delightful bunch of liars?
“Mr. Applequist. How nice to see you again so soon. I am quite recovered, thank you. In fact, I look forward to our next evening together. Perhaps the two of you might come for a card party next week?”
“Oh, I don’t play cards, Lady Winchell, but-thank-you-anyway,” blurted Agatha.
Lavinia turned her chill gaze upon her, and the resemblance to a viper crossed Agatha’s mind once more. Only this time she wasn’t at all inclined to laugh.
“Of course you don’t, Agatha. How silly of me. Well, I wouldn’t want you to be uncomfortable in a sophisticated gathering. We’ll have to think of something more … rural to do.”
“Capital idea, my lady,” Simon said pompously. “We’ll look forward to your invitation.”
“I’m sure, Mr. Applequist, I’m sure.”
With her icy smile still in place, Lavinia turned and strolled gracefully into the hospital.
Agatha wrenched her hand from Simon’s grip, leaning close to hiss at him. “Blast it, Simon, what did you think you were doing?”
“I thought I was saving you from being skewered by the rapier of her ire.” He chuckled and gave her a jocular glance.
“Oh, would you drop Mortimer for a moment? I was handling her perfectly well. She doesn’t know that I know, so I had the upper hand with her not knowing that I know.”
“Unbelievable. I actually understood that.” Simon flashed his own sideways grin at her, and Agatha felt the familiar tug in her midriff. And slightly lower.
Why did he have to be so appealing? Why must the only man she had ever truly been attracted to have to be a thief and a scoundrel?
It was maddening. And completely inappropriate. Maybe she ought to take Collis up on his offer after all. They would have to negotiate over the ten children, of course.
She sighed. First she had to find Jamie. Then she would run away with Simon—er, Collis.
“What brings you here?”
“I came to … see you, of course. And take you out for the afternoon, if you’d like.”
Pure joy burst through Agatha at the thought. A drive in the afternoon with Simon, like an ordinary couple. Eagerly Agatha grabbed Simon’s hand and nearly dragged him from the building.
“Are we going to drive in Hyde Park? I haven’t been there yet.” Tucking her hand into the crook of his arm, this time quite willingly, Agatha felt the weight of her mission slip from her shoulders with more than a little bit of guilt.
But just for a while, just for one afternoon, she wanted to be a girl on an outing with her fellow, on the varied and fascinating streets of London.
Surely Jamie wouldn’t begrudge her that.
Outside, Agatha saw that Simon had retained one of the small two-passenger hackneys that filled the streets of London.
“Why didn’t you bring Harry? He loves to drive.”
He didn’t look at her. “Oh, I didn’t know how long we’d be out. It didn’t seem useful to have him waiting all day for us.”
“I see,” although she really didn’t.
Simon handed her into the carriage, then settled in beside her. The two of them were quite tucked up together on the single seat and very private.
The day was damp, and Agatha told herself that was why she leaned ever so slightly into Simon’s warmth. Truth be told, from the moment he’d climbed in with her she had detected the scent of cinnamon and her mouth had gone dry with wanting.
She tried to distract herself with chatter. “We will be very busy if we accept even half of the invitations we received today. I don’t know that musicales are quite the thing. I’d prefer to be where I may converse with the male guests. Perhaps we should stick to dances and dinner parties. Many more opportunities there.”
“Agatha, might we pass one afternoon in normal conversation?”
“Well, then, perhaps we should talk about our plan—”
“Dear lady, I think we should talk about anything but.”
It was marvelous, how his new manners now seemed so ingrained in him. He had helped her into the carriage like a gentleman born, and his speech was beyond her expectations.
Taken from its nasal Cockney tone, his voice was deep, and rumbling enough to give her a tingle in her toes. She could happily listen to him all day.
“Well, then, what shall we talk about? Will you tell me more about your mother and the market at Covent Garden?”
“As today is Market Day, why don’t I show you Covent Garden?”
“Indeed? Oh, I should love to see it!”
“Then see it you shall.” He leaned his head out of the window and gave direction to the driver.
Chapter Eleven
The market was everything she had thought it would be. So many people and wares, in such a variety that she had never seen.
The square was huge and divided into a veritable maze by all the rows of stalls and wagons displaying any and every sort of fruit and vegetable possible.
There was more, of course. Among the bright displays of produce, there were flower vendors and ribbon sellers. There was a fellow with cages full of cats and one with multicolored birds.
“Do you think they might set up too near one another someday?” she asked Simon with interest. He looked at her oddly. Oh, well. It was an amusing thought.
Simon paid far too much for a bouquet of violets from a tattered woman standing before the church that faced the square. Agatha couldn’t help the flutter in her heart when he turned and presented them to her with a courtly bow.
As they walked away, she glanced over her shoulder to see the woman clutching the coins in her hand and staring after them as if Simon had just saved her very life. Judging from the number of thin children clustered about the flower seller’s skirts, Agatha had to wonder if perhaps he had.
A generous thief. How perfectly Simon.
He stopped again. Agatha followed the direction of his gaze, but saw only a child, a soot-blackened little fellow who sat on the ground, dozing against the wheel of a vendor’s cart, apparently too weary to eat the bruised apple he had obtained.
Agatha looked up at Simon. He didn’t seem touched so much as taken aback.
“What?” she asked him softly. “What do you see that I don’t?”
“Myself.” The word came so quietly, she scarcely heard it.
She looked back at the boy, at the brushes and rags that he had carefully entwined with his legs to prevent theft of them while he rested. On closer inspection she could see under the soot to the gaunt hollows in his cheeks and the deep shadows beneath his closed eyes.
“Are you truly a chimneysweep then?”
“I was.” He seemed to shake off the spell of memory to glance at her. “I’d not fit now, you know.”
Agatha looked back down at the child. At Appleby, the local sweep was a prosperous man whose many sons, large and small, helped with the family business. There was no comparison of those laughing children to this thin, exhausted boy.
&n
bsp; “Is it very hard?”
Simon shrugged. “It’s grueling work, but I’m sure he feels he’s lucky to have it.”
Still, the memories swamped him. The tight flue, the choking soot, the pace of chimney after chimney, some so hot the bricks would leave blisters on his hands, some so cold with disuse his bones would ache. The endless climbing until he could scarcely stand at the end of the day. The hollow hunger when his masters had decided not to pay him for some imagined flaw in his work.
Lost in recollection, he was barely aware of Agatha leaving his side. Then he realized that she bent over the sleeping lad, gently touching his shoulder.
The boy blinked up at her in confusion. Simon could only imagine his thoughts. Most ladies would flick their skirts from his vicinity, but never kneel and touch him. In her cream velvet spencer and matching bonnet, Agatha must look like an angel to the little sweep. Simon rather thought she did himself.
She took the lad’s grimy hand between her own with not a thought for the condition of her gloves. Simon thought he saw folded paper pass into the child’s hand. It must have been pound notes, for the little lad’s blue eyes grew large with disbelief, although he was careful not to look down or in any way betray what he had in his grasp.
Still, Simon thought it likely that the boy would be ducking into the nearest dark corner very shortly to examine his prize.
Agatha smiled encouragingly at the boy, who gazed back at her with near worship. Yet another conquest, mused Simon. She did rather collect them with her ready kindness.
She returned to Simon’s side. “Shall we buy something? My appetite is quite invigorated by all this attractive produce. Perhaps some of those lovely greens to have with our dinner?”
She turned to the lettuce vendor, but Simon stopped her with a hand to her arm. “Why did you do that?”
Her soft brown eyes shifted away. “Because when I looked back at him, I saw you as well.”
He let her go then, unwilling to let her see how her simple answer had touched him. As he watched her spirited haggling with the vendor as if she’d not just given ten times the amount away without a thought, he had to admit finally to himself that the main cause of his growing distaste for his former friend was less anger over James’s probable betrayal and more anger over James’s treatment of this singular woman.
Celeste Bradley - [The Liar's Club 01] Page 11