Celeste Bradley - [The Liar's Club 01]

by The Pretender

  On the surface, this man was perfect for Agatha. He was wealthy, titled, stalwart enough to resist her when she had one of her harebrained notions, and reliable enough to care for her properly all the days of her life.

  Simon had never hated anyone more.

  The visit didn’t last much longer, much to Simon’s relief. Agatha very prettily deflected Collis’s protestations of affection and thanked Lord Etheridge politely for his businesslike offer, but told them both that she needed more time before she was ready to plan her future.

  The sadness in her eyes when she spoke was all too real, and Simon beat back another surge of guilt. This was precisely why he had never pursued emotional ties. Someone was always going to be hurt.

  When the two men had left, after Simon received another probing look from Etheridge, Simon followed Agatha back into the parlor.

  “Why didn’t you turn that pup down flat?”

  “Why should I?”

  “Oh, come on. You’d trample him in a week and you know it.”

  “Well, I’d not trample Dalton. He’s no pup.”

  Simon’s jaw fell open. “You can’t be serious. Not him!”

  “Why not?” Defiance and hurt flashed in her eyes. She had never looked more beautiful to him.

  She tossed her head like a stubborn horse. “I like him. He seems stuffy at first, but underneath I think he’s rather fun. Perhaps he’s just what I need, considering he isn’t the Griffin after all.”

  Meaning Etheridge wasn’t a man such as Simon was, a man who couldn’t afford to divide his loyalties. She was entirely right, but still Simon steamed at the thought of her belonging to another man.

  “Then who is he, and why was he in Maywell’s study?”

  “Perhaps he had a perfectly good reason.”

  “What reason could he have?”

  “Well, you were there, and you had good reason. Or so I thought at the time.”

  An uneasy silence fell. It always came back to that between them. Motives.

  “Agatha, I never would have—”

  She held up her hand. “Stop. I know. My apologies again. You had an excellent reason for everything you did. Your duty.”

  Simon stepped closer and ran his knuckles down her cheek. “Not everything was out of duty, damsel. Not everything.”

  Then, before the tear that trembled on her lashes could fall, he turned and left, cursing himself for a bloody coward.

  * * *

  The remainder of the day brought incessant callers. The tiresome Trapps came again, although Agatha was glad to see the interesting Mrs. Simpson was with them.

  Once Mrs. Trapp’s attempts to gain more gory details about Mortimer’s demise had failed, the lady reverted to her true love. Gossip.

  Agatha let her ramble on, thankful that the inquisition was over. Simon survived only another ten minutes before he fled the room. Yet another thing to be grateful for.

  Best of all, the longer Mrs. Trapp stayed and dominated the conversation, the less Agatha needed to speak at all.

  So she nodded now and again and expressed proper sounds of amazement and disbelief at the appropriate places, and the afternoon soon began to take on an unreal quality.

  Perhaps she was in Hell. Hell might very well be a parlor full of ladies whom one had lied to, and the infernal atonement was to be forced to continue the sham forever. Oh, yes, a veritable tableau of perdition.

  It did not help that the room was perfumed with the many bouquets of flowers she had received from the men and nurses at the hospital. The sweet scent of guilt …

  A familiar name came up, and Agatha seized upon it before her wild notions could make her break into frantic giggles.

  “Have you known Lady Winchell long, Mrs. Trapp?”

  “Oh, no, dear. Not personally. She came onto the board about the time you began volunteering. Although I’ve heard of her for years, you understand. Not much gets by me.”

  Mrs. Trapp wiggled deeper into her seat cushion, and Agatha recognized the signs that a particularly choice piece of information was on its way.

  “Well, you’d not know this, dear, for you’re new to town, but Lavinia Winchell is…”

  The lady leaned forward and looked to each side, as if to look out for eavesdroppers. Agatha stifled a hysterical giggle, for the parlor was chockablock with ladies, who had all gone silent and leaned forward as well.

  “French.”

  Agatha stared at her. “But so many people are, Mrs. Trapp. There was such a flood of them emigrating during the Terror.”

  “True, true. But it does account for those airs, you know. Good English stock has no need of such pretty ways.”

  The woman spoke as if all English ladies were corn-fed and pastured, chewing their cud. The fact that the fashionable set slavishly copied the French whenever possible, in style and in social graces, seemed to have escaped her entirely.

  Of course, the Trapp daughters were rather bovine, with their square faces and large, bland eyes. At the moment, both young women blinked slowly at Agatha, jaws moving from side to side while they downed another pair of cakes.

  Another giggle was working its way up Agatha’s throat, and she cast desperately about for a lifeline.

  “Your daughters are so … appealing, Mrs. Trapp. Have you considered possible matches for them?”

  Mrs. Trapp swelled with pride. “Indeed, Mrs. Applequist. With all the overtures we’ve had for them both, my husband and I are contemplating providing another season for them. One must allow the most options possible for one’s children.”

  Then a look of smug horror crossed the lady’s face and she turned to Agatha in apology. “I’m so sorry, dear. I forgot that you’ll never know the miracle of children of your own.”

  The pain was instantaneous. It shot to Agatha’s heart like an icy spear and lodged there, spreading the chill outward. Children of her own.

  Mrs. Trapp continued, carrying on about the shortage of young men in the marriage mart now that so many had been lost in the war, but Agatha had stopped listening.

  It was true. She would never have a child, for despite her pose of independence to Simon and James, she knew that she could never marry anyone but the man she had given her heart to.

  The man who didn’t—couldn’t—want her for his wife.

  For her, there would be no sons with sky blue eyes and thick black hair. No laughing daughters to jump into the heaps of pink petals at Appleby.

  Agatha turned away from the chattering lady, longing to flee to some haven from the ache that grew inside her. She found one in the level gaze of Mrs. Simpson.

  “Beatrice Trapp is a fool,” Clara said quietly, “but she doesn’t mean to be unkind.”

  “I know,” Agatha said. She felt as though a band around her heart would not let it beat properly. “It is only that it had not occurred to me—”

  She stopped, shaking her head.

  Mrs. Simpson took her hand in both of hers. “Perhaps all hope is not lost? There is a chance, perhaps, that Mr. Applequist has left something of himself behind?”

  Perhaps. Agatha had not considered it at all, not even before that one magical night, or after it, in the mess of anger and pain.

  There was a chance …

  And there could be more.

  She could ensure that Simon left something behind when duty stole him finally away.

  Determination filled her heart, and the constriction around it eased somewhat. She had given her hopes of love and marriage to the voracious flames of duty, but she need not feed her hopes of motherhood to it as well.

  Her window of opportunity was small. If she could become pregnant in the next few weeks, the child would simply seem to be a blessing, the only part of her dear departed husband that remained.

  She could take her child back to Appleby, and no one would be the wiser. Not even Simon. She could make up a tale of quick wartime marriage to tell the village. That sort of thing happened all the time. If Jamie backed her story—and she w
as sure he would—no one would dare to doubt it.

  New strength brought her head up.

  Mrs. Simpson eyed her approvingly. “Hold on to that hope awhile. Let it give you strength.” Then she stepped back and said more loudly, “You are a bit pale, Mrs. Applequist. Ladies, I think we’ve comforted her enough for one day.”

  As if a net full of birds had been cut, the ladies fled the room, happy to leave the pall of mourning behind them and continue their gossip elsewhere. Mrs. Simpson was the last to leave, and Agatha impulsively put out her hand.

  “Thank you. You’ve helped me more than you know.”

  The lady seemed delighted, and Agatha felt another queasy wash of regret for her deception. She was fast becoming sick of this lying.

  But she had one more act of treachery to perform. She must seduce Simon yet again.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Upstairs, Simon had been prying as much information out of James as he could. He made James repeat the story again and again, start to finish, finish to start.

  James was familiar enough with this form of debriefing, but the strain was beginning to tell. Even from where he sat in the chair by the fire, Simon could see that James had gone pale and slumped against his pillows.

  “I don’t know, Simon! I can’t remember mentioning any other names, but then, I can’t remember mentioning any in the first place!”

  “Think, James! I can’t send another man out until I know how much the Liars have been compromised.”

  There came a knock on James’s door, and Agatha entered with a tea tray. “The callers have all gone for the day. I thought you might need something to eat.”

  She eyed James severely, although Simon noticed that she did not cast so much as a glance at him. That was odd. He’d thought they had resolved some of their tension earlier today.

  “Sorry, Aggie, but we don’t have time to eat. Unless His Mightiness will allow it?”

  “Don’t be snide, James. Simon doesn’t like this any more than you do.” She placed the tray across James’s lap.

  Simon was glad to see that it held two cups and enough of Sarah Cook’s delights for both men. There was some comfort in Agatha’s unwillingness to let him starve.

  James picked up his tea after she poured for him. “Aggie, I want to think of something else for a while. Tell me what’s new at Appleby.”

  “Well, the lambing was very successful this year, and we received top price for those that we sold at the meat market. The shearing was uneventful, and the wool is even now being baled.” She sat comfortably next to James and clasped her hands over one knee as she recited. “There was little frost damage in orchards this year, so I hope for a good crop of apples—”

  Jamie grinned and poked her in the arm with one finger. “You sound as if you run the place instead of Mott,” he teased.

  Agatha looked at her brother strangely. “Mr. Mott died a year before Papa did. Did he never tell you?”

  Frankly confused, James shook his head. “No, it never came up. Who has been managing the estate?”

  Agatha drew her brows together. “Why … I have. I’ve been making regular reports to you.”

  James actually paled. “I thought you were just catching me up on the news. I had no idea you were playing at running things.”

  “Playing?” Agatha stood, her tone growing cold. “Playing, you say. I’ll have you know I’ve been in complete control of Appleby for nearly four years.”

  Simon tensed. No, James. Don’t say it.

  James did. “Dear God. Do I have anything left?”

  Agatha flinched. Simon knew James could not have hurt her more if he had struck her.

  “When the new trees mature, you’ll have three times the acreage under harvest than you did before. Your flocks have nearly doubled every year. Your cottages are in excellent repair, and your house is well kept. I wish you much enjoyment of it all.”

  Spine straight, she turned and strode from the room. Simon shook his head at James, who stared after his sister.

  “I daresay you could not have handled that worse.”

  James whistled softly. “Three times the acreage, she said. I’ll be the largest apple producer in Lancashire,” he marveled.

  “You hurt her.”

  “Aggie? Oh, I doubt it.” James shrugged. “She’ll get over it soon enough, if I did. Never one to hold a grudge, that’s my sister.” He was popping one of Cook’s little cakes into his mouth when Agatha opened the door and stalked to his bedside.

  “You need broth to regain your strength. Drink this, every drop.” She set a deep bowl on the tray. Then she left again with starchy dignity.

  “Managing sort, isn’t she?” James said carelessly.

  For the first time, Simon realized what the Liar’s Club had cost Agatha, long before he’d even met her. What had it been like for her, to be left by everyone she should have been able to depend upon? Suddenly angry, he rounded on James. “You should never have left her with all that on her shoulders. She was little more than a girl.”

  Surprised, James choked down a mouthful in order to defend himself. “She did all right.”

  “She should have been dancing, going to parties, flirting with young men. Where were you when she needed you?”

  “Working for you!”

  “You told me you had no other responsibilities, no other commitments.”

  “I thought it was all taken care of.”

  “You chose to think so because it suited you,” Simon said scornfully. “Even now, you treat her like a pet, when she saved everything you own and tossed it back into your undeserving lap.”

  James set aside his tray. He narrowed his eyes at Simon. “Let’s talk about undeserving. You’ve ruined her, and you’re leaving her with no future at all.”

  The truth hit Simon like a blow. He jerked in response and turned away, unsettled. “You know I cannot marry,” he said in an undertone.

  James gazed at him steadily. “No, I know you choose not to marry.”

  Simon worked his jaw. “You don’t know anything.”

  “Then pray, enlighten me.”

  The old pain came back in an instant, and Simon paced restlessly before the fireplace. “I never told you about my mother.”

  “No. I knew she was not married to your father, but that is all.”

  “She was a tuppence whore in Covent Garden,” Simon said bluntly. “When I went to work for the Old Man, I went on my first courier mission, carrying accounts of troop movements on Malta from the drop point to the club. I was so sure of myself. It never occurred to me that the transfer point had been compromised. I never once looked over my shoulder.”

  “I think we all feel a bit immortal on our first mission,” James said quietly.

  “But do you all race to brag to your mother the moment you complete it?”

  He could see the horror cross James’s face. “Oh, Simon, you didn’t.”

  “I did. I made the drop well. Too well. The French agents must have thought I still carried the intelligence. I led them right to her. So damned cocksure I hadn’t been followed. But I haven’t told you the best part.”

  His voice almost failed him. “I left my courier pouch behind, quite by mistake. So busy counting out my pay to her, so busy being the one to save her from her life—”

  “They thought she had something. Oh, God, Simon.”

  Simon drew a breath. “I missed my pouch after only a few blocks. I ran back, but I was too late. They’d beaten her so severely that she was like a broken bloody doll. She only lived a few moments, just long enough for me to discover what I had done. She died, right there in my arms.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “By my hands.”

  James didn’t say anything for a few moments. Grateful, Simon sank into the chair by the fire and pressed his palms into his eyes. When he had his control back, he opened his eyes to see the carpet at his feet.

  Memory swept him of making love to Agatha on that rug. God, he was an idiot. He wanted that car
pet in his room. Wanted to keep just one good thing from all this.

  “But, Simon … you aren’t sixteen anymore. You’re a professional. You’re the Magician.”

  Simon sat back, letting his head fall back against the chair. “James, do you have any idea what our enemies would do to get their hands on the wife of the Magician? Being close to me is more dangerous than ever. Do you want her to die?”

  James raised his chin, glaring tightly at Simon. “No, I want her to live. I want her to live a life without shame and censure.”

  “Her story has held. Even you thought she was wed. No one has censured her.”

  “Let us hope our luck continues.”

  “Indeed.” Simon rose. “You’re recovering well enough. Feebles is taking the street watch. I need to go out for a bit. And tomorrow I’ll need to return to the club for the morning. I’ll check on Ren while I’m out and let you know how he’s doing.”

  He left James alone then, moodily picking at his food. There was a little matter of a certain mysterious suitor that Simon wanted to clear up.

  * * *

  Etheridge’s town house was very fine and very large. Simon watched from the roof of the unoccupied house next door. He could see the rear of the place was as well kept as the front, and that the servants who came and went had none of the furtive attitude of the overworked and downtrodden.

  The man was more than just wealthy, as Simon’s reports indicated. Dalton Montmorency was the perfect gentleman. His wealth lay solidly in the Bank of England instead of in some bookmaker’s pockets. His education was no farce paid for by family connections but was recorded as earnest scholarly pursuits. He took his seat in the House of Lords with serious dedication, promoting a far-sighted liberalism and concern for the less fortunate.

  His servants were deathly loyal and astonishingly close-mouthed. He entertained rarely and had no apparent family other than the irreverent Collis. While fine, his wardrobe and accoutrements were neither ostentatious nor dandified.

  There was no record of a mistress or of an extremely pious nature. Neither sinner nor saint.