Celeste Bradley - [The Liar's Club 01]

by The Pretender

  “I think I can manage,” Agatha said dryly.

  “Good girl. You can start tonight, but take it easy at first. Just keep the marks happy, and take a bit in here and there.” He looked over his shoulder, then leaned closer. “Just one more thing.”

  Agatha leaned closer as well, although there wasn’t a soul in the room with them.

  “There’ll be no cheating the boys in the back room. Not by the house, and not by you. Just you remember that. The marks stay out front, the Magician’s boys stay in the back, and that’s the way we like it.”

  Agatha nodded seriously, but her own gears were turning. The boys in the back room? Who was the Magician? Simon?

  Good lord, the spy ring was concealed within a gaming hell? The Liar’s Club. How absolutely twisted and divine.

  As she donned her cloak and made her way to the street, waving politely at Mr. Jackham, Agatha realized that she had stumbled onto something that Simon did not want her to know.

  Now, how was she to get home? Then she saw that the young doorman had returned to his post.

  “Mr. Stubbs, might I trouble you to whistle down a hansom?”

  The boy almost fell over his feet to do so for her. His piercing whistle rent the air, and a small carriage stopped almost immediately. She gave the driver her direction, then Stubbs handed her into her seat with reverence.

  “I hopes you come back soon, miss.”

  Agatha smiled. “I shall be back this very eve.”

  “I’ll spread the word, I will. If it ain’t too bold, miss, could you tell me what you’re wearin’ tonight?”

  It occurred to her that she had a truly serious problem. Oh, dear. What did a lady dealer in a gaming hell wear, anyway? “Something … um, tight?”

  “Cor!” seemed all that he could manage at the prospect.

  Agatha giggled as the carriage pulled away from the curb. It seemed she had another conquest. He was as enamored as Button, although for completely different reasons.

  Button! Of course! If anyone could dress her for a night of employment in a gaming hell, Button could.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  “I don’t understand, madam. A lady dealer in a gambling establishment? Why would you wish such a costume?”

  Agatha sighed. She didn’t think Button was being purposely obstructive, but he was wearing out her patience nonetheless.

  “It’s for … a bit of parlor theatre. A charade.”

  Button’s eyes lit. Apparently she had stumbled upon his levering point.

  “Theatre! Oh, madam, I know the very thing. Let me send to my friend at the theatre. I myself had my start as a dresser on Drury Lane, you know,” he said modestly. “That isn’t normally the thing to tell one’s employer, of course, but I believe I can trust you, madam.”

  “Indeed.” Agatha grinned. Her own little platoon simply got more interesting, didn’t it? A chimneysweep-thief-spy, a jesting butler, and a costume-mad valet.

  Worlds to conquer, oh my.

  “I am all yours, Button. Have at.”

  * * *

  That evening, Simon stretched at his desk, rolling his head to ease the kinks in his neck. The clock on the shelf said nine, but that couldn’t be right, could it?

  Oh, hell. Agatha would likely be pacing a hole through the carpet by now. It was an oddly satisfying notion, the thought of someone waiting for him. Comforting. Of course, having her furious at him for his trick this morning wasn’t part of that cozy little fantasy.

  Deciding that he ought to squelch that notion within himself as soon as possible, Simon decided not to go home.

  At this point of the night Jackham was most likely on the floor watching the marks spend their money. Simon decided to risk the office entry.

  He wasn’t in the mood to go through the window and walk the narrow ledge to the secret entry over the kitchens. It was far too wet out tonight.

  Making his way soundlessly through the dark passage to his exit by the fireplace, Simon listened. Not a sound came from the other side of the wall.

  He eased the slot open just a fraction of an inch, then froze. There was light in Jackham’s office. Miserly Jackham never burned oil if he wasn’t using it.

  But this wasn’t a lamp. The light was dim and flickering.

  Like a candle.

  Jackham didn’t use candles. He considered them wasteful and dangerous. So who was in Jackham’s office?

  The candle went out.

  In a flash, Simon was out of his passage, crouching low and ready to strike.

  He listened for any rustling or breathing that would tell him where the intruder was. Then he straightened. Damn. He’d missed whoever it had been.

  He moved swiftly and silently to the door. The candle had likely been blown out as they left, for the scent of beeswax and burnt wick was strongest near the door.

  Then another scent twined its way through the air. A floral perfume with a lemony undertone. An aroma he knew very well.

  Agatha?

  Simon bolted from the dark room without a thought to being seen. He followed his nose down the short hallway to the Liar’s Chamber, where the real work was done.

  She wasn’t there, but her scent lingered among the tobacco smoke, and her obvious presence lingered in the bemused smiles of his Liars.

  Cherchez la femme. Too bloody right.

  How had she gotten in? What filthy, lying, manipulative trick could she have pulled to have infiltrated his world?

  Simon continued, dashing through the kitchen where he glared at the silly grin on the face of Kurt the Cook—who wasn’t called that because he was a chef, but because he was the deadliest knife man in England.

  She had charmed Kurt?

  Good lord. Was she insane?

  Simon paused before he entered the gaming room. He never made appearances there, for he didn’t want to be known. It was doubly dangerous now, for some of the over-privileged young men who frequented his club had been among his new circle as Mortimer and Ethelbert.

  Well, Ethelbert it was then. Simon straightened his coat and smoothed it. He was still dressed for day, but that wasn’t as bad form as showing up wrinkled. He tilted his hat arrogantly upon his head and strode through the kitchen doors.

  No one noticed. They were all gathered around the Vingt-et-un table, three men thick. As not that many could play at once, there was either a superb winning streak going on or some other distraction.

  Quickly he moved to the door to hand his hat to Stubbs.

  “Mr. R—”

  “Applequist, Stubbs, Applequist. Where is she?”

  “Oh, Miss Berth?”

  “Who?”

  “Nellie Berth, our new dealer. Didn’t Mr. Jackham tell you, sir? It’s a good idea, ain’t it? A woman dealer’s nearly as good as whores, when she looks like that one.”

  Simon realized it was the name of Agatha’s maid. At least the little lunatic had the presence of mind to use an alias.

  But the risk she was running was enormous. These men were some of the same ones she had been dining and dancing with for weeks. Surely someone was going to remember her.

  Then he drew up to the table, at least as close as he was able. He was tall enough to see over the heads of the others.

  Simon felt as if someone had punched him in the stomach.

  For at the table before him, painted and plumed, dressed in elegant but very daring feathers and silk, flirting with thirty men at once, was the very essence of a successful woman of the demimonde. A radiant, painted creature. A creature for fantasy and passion.

  A creature for hire.

  He stood tall and waited for her teasing gaze to wander up. She leaned toward the player who was winning, sent him a slow smile, and stroked the edge of her deck carelessly down her throat.

  The man almost fell down that magnificent bosom, he ogled so. Simon had the almost irresistible urge to smack the back of the man’s head. In the meantime, Simon was fairly sure that Agatha had slipped a card from the bottom of the d
eck.

  Cheating. Why was he not surprised?

  Then she saw him. She started ever so slightly. It was difficult to tell under the paint, but Simon thought she paled a bit. She should be very concerned, for he was quite positive that he had never been so coldly furious in his life.

  Then she boldly winked at him and returned to her game.

  “Ah, sir.” Jackham was at his elbow. “I see you’ve discovered our newest treasure. Care for a game?”

  Jackham was being careful. He’d never seen Simon on the floor before and obviously didn’t know quite what to do about it.

  “The name’s Ethelbert Applequist, my good man,” Simon drawled, never taking his eyes off Agatha. “She’s very … interesting. Wherever did you find her?”

  “Showed up this afternoon, just after—about the same time as the owner. My doorman came in to tell me he had another act for us.”

  Bloody hell. She’d been the one following him all along. He’d underestimated her yet again.

  “So what was this lady doing in your office, sir?” Simon kept his voice quiet.

  “Oh, fetching a fresh deck. A player had bent a card.”

  Simon couldn’t even castigate Jackham for his gullibility. Not when he himself had fallen for her charms again and again.

  Jackham continued to gaze at Agatha with a besotted grin, as if he couldn’t decide whether to pat her on the head or hire her for a night. They were all goners—Jackham, Stubbs, Kurt.

  Simon wanted to drag her out of the club by the hair. He wanted to drop her into the river, but he rather thought his own men might string him up before they’d allow it.

  Well, her circle of protectors wouldn’t be there forever. Sooner or later, he was going to get her alone.

  And then he was going to make her regret her little adventure.

  * * *

  The night had both dragged and flown by after Simon had come to her table. The look on his handsome face had been almost terrifying, until she had decided he was teasing her.

  At least, she hoped he’d been teasing her. How angry could he be, really? After all, she had only followed him.

  And lied to get in.

  And dressed herself up as a soiled dove. Albeit a very expensive one.

  Too late, she remembered Jamie’s reaction one day long ago. She had followed him to his secret hideout in a giant tree by the brook. He’d been furious to see her, giggling and teasing him, and his fury had lasted for weeks.

  It seemed that the appeal of a secret place was in its secrecy. When someone else knew about it, and knew they could find you there at any time, the joy was gone.

  Like the ruins, forever lost to her by Reginald’s presence for just an hour.

  But Simon wasn’t a child. This wasn’t a secret castle. Many people came here every day. It couldn’t possibly be considered the same.

  Could it?

  The last of the players had finally left—she couldn’t find it in her heart to call those dear boys “marks”—and Jackham had counted up the house take with unrelenting glee. Apparently, honest money wasn’t quite as lovely as cheated money.

  Agatha was exhausted. Her face hurt from smiling so, and the torturous corset that Button had laced her into was cutting deeply into her flesh. She wanted to leave, but Jackham had told her the owner wanted to talk to her.

  Well, she wanted to talk to him as well.

  Stubbs was roaming through the gaming room, yawning and sweeping the floor with dubious aptitude. Finally, he gave up and joined Kurt to clean up in the kitchen.

  Agatha wandered over to the stage. Stubbs had finally described the snake act. Now she had a mental image of a scantily dressed woman dancing with a giant snake draped over her outstretched arms like a garland. Oh, surely not.

  She was tapping one finger on her lips, considering the possibilities, when Simon approached her. She glanced over her shoulder at him, then turned back to the stage.

  “I wonder,” she mused, “was it a very large snake?”

  “Oh, yes,” Simon answered easily. “At least ten feet long. I’d have thought the poor woman could hardly lift it.” He smiled at the memory, and Agatha wanted to hit him. “It was really quite a show.”

  “I’ll be sure to stop by next time.” Aware that she was snarling, Agatha smoothed her temper.

  “Nearly as enjoyable as the one you put on tonight. Tell me, did it once occur to you that you might be recognized as the Widow Applequist?”

  “You scarcely recognized me, yet you’ve seen considerably more of me than they have.” That hadn’t come out quite the way she had meant it to. She turned to face him, chin high. “So you have another secret.”

  “So you followed me. You’re very good at tailing.”

  “Oh, Simon, you didn’t really think that coat change was going to work, did you? No one’s passed that one over on me since I was six. I know to watch the person, not the clothing.”

  “So you had an early start in your unconventional education.”

  “As did you. Chimneysweep, thief, spy. Now you run a gaming hell.”

  “Ah, own, actually. Jackham does the running for me. And it’s not a gaming hell, it’s a gentlemen’s club.”

  “Indeed. The Liar’s Club. In that case, all men must qualify for membership.”

  “If it were that easy, I’m sure many women would join as well.”

  Dangerous territory. Time to change the subject. “In your position, wouldn’t it be awkward to run afoul of the law?”

  He shrugged. “There is nothing illegal about cards and spirits.” He gave her a wicked smile. “Or dancing with snakes.”

  “No,” Agatha said, eyeing him thoughtfully. “All women dance with snakes sooner or later, do they not?”

  He slapped his hand over his chest. “Ouch! A direct hit.”

  Then he stepped closer and she could see the fierce light in his eyes. Ah. She’d ruined his tree house, after all.

  “I’m sorry I spoiled your little spy club for you, Simon. I never dreamed you took such boyish delight in secrets.”

  “Is that why you think I’m angry, because you spoiled my secret?”

  “Of course. It’s rather childish of you, in my opin—”

  Simon lost his renowned control at that. He reached for her, grasping her shoulders to pull her closer. “You are unbelievable! You disobey orders and escape safety, wander the streets of London alone, dress up as a courtesan, and parade yourself in front of thirty men who might recognize you at any moment—risking that pretty little neck in what I can only see as an impulsive stunt—and you think I’m angry about my ‘little secret’?” He couldn’t believe it. She’d actually reduced him to yelling.

  “Oh … that,” she muttered.

  Simon desperately reined in his temper. “Precisely that. What in the bloody hell did you think you were doing?”

  Slowly Agatha raised a brow and placed her hands on her hips. “Don’t take that tone with me, Simon Rain. I am my own woman, remember?”

  “You are your own worst enemy, you thoughtless little maniac!”

  “You have no right to issue orders to me. You aren’t my husband! You aren’t my brother, or my father, or even my lover, as you made so clear last night!”

  She was right. He was a cipher, nothing but a trumped-up Cheapside street rat infected with danger all around him. He was no one to her at all.

  He absolutely couldn’t bear to hear her say it.

  With a single step forward, he grasped her shoulders to pull her close and stop her words with his mouth.

  She was sweet and hot and everything he had ever wanted. With answering passion she pressed against him, but it was not close enough.

  He maneuvered her back a few steps until he brought her up against the billiard table. Slipping his hands down to her buttocks, he squeezed those luscious hillocks for one self-indulgent moment before lifting her to sit on the edge of the frame.

  She was higher now, high enough for him to dive headfirst into
her bosom the way every man in the club had been dying to all night.

  He couldn’t keep his hands still. Her neck, her shoulders, the exposed tops of her breasts drove him mad with their softness. She was a fantasy creature of silken-wrapped stubbornness, and he couldn’t get enough.

  Her hands were fisted in his hair, and the impassioned tugging was sweet pain. Heat and softness and breathless moans of need were all he was aware of.

  Until Jackham walked in.

  “Here, you! I told you no whoring on the premises,” he barked.

  Simon jerked his mouth from Agatha’s in dismay.

  “Ah—sorry, sir, didn’t see it was you.” Flustered, Jackham turned on his heel and left them alone.

  Agatha giggled, soaring on the joy of having Simon in her arms again. The look on Mr. Jackham’s face had rivaled Pearson’s for trenchant disapproval.

  She raised one hand to stroke Simon’s face. “Now where were we?”

  But the damage was done. Simon gathered the tatters of his self-control and took a step away from temptation. “I’m sorry, damsel. That was unforgivable of me.”

  Agatha puffed a sigh of exasperation. “Simon, the only thing I object to is the fact that you aren’t kissing me any longer.”

  The cold resolution in his eyes surprised her. Obviously, she was simply going to have to prove to him that between the two of them were no boundaries, but only love.

  But he wouldn’t listen. He lifted her down to her feet and silently adjusted her neckline with all the passion of a nursemaid. Then he walked to the door to gather her wrap and tell Stubbs to call a hack.

  The streets were nearly silent so late in the night, and they were home in a very short time. Simon helped her from the carriage into the dripping night and silently walked her to the door.

  Pearson said not a word as he took their outerwear, but Agatha thought she could see sympathy in his piercing eyes.

  “Wash that paint off your face and go to bed, damsel.”

  “I think we should talk about what—”

  “We should not talk about it. We should forget it ever happened. It will never happen again.”