So Simon told him, sparing himself nothing in the telling. From the first clue in the active bank account to the moment outside Parliament when he was forced to walk away, Simon laid out the facts for the Prince. He wanted the Prince to know precisely what Agatha had sacrificed for her country. Perhaps royal favor might protect her even should his petition be rejected.
The Prince listened attentively, apparently fascinated. Agatha listened as well, never losing her serene expression, although Simon did hear one tiny peep of protest when he claimed the blame for seducing her. He ignored it, for the last thing he wanted the lascivious Prince to learn of was Agatha’s natural … ah, talents.
When Simon finished, all three were silent for a long moment. Then the Prince turned to Agatha.
“Well? Speak up, woman! You are a lady, born to marry a gentleman and have a life of ease. Will you give it all up for a bastard chimneysweep?”
“I’d prefer a life of adventure, Your Majesty.”
“You’re willing to marry this man?”
Agatha dimpled and tilted her head. “Yes, Your Majesty. Should I ever be asked.”
The Prince turned to Simon. “You haven’t asked the woman?” he inquired in surprise. “Have you no romance in your soul, man?”
“I didn’t think it wise to marry in my position. Rather dangerous for her.”
“Hmm. I know whereof you speak.” He turned back to Agatha, clearly fascinated. “So this man, this lowborn chimneysweep without a single romantic bone in his body, this is the man you want?”
“I fear so, Your Majesty. I have never been known for my taste.”
“You could do better.”
Agatha smiled and batted her long lashes. “Yes, I know. However, inasmuch as Your Majesty is already romantically occupied, I’m afraid I must satisfy myself with second-best.”
He liked that, Simon could see. The Prince flicked his gaze to Simon without moving his head. “She’s a bit saucy. Are you sure you’re man enough?”
“I ask myself that all the time.”
The Prince sat back with a chuckle. “It’s too amusing. The lady and the chimneysweep. I cannot resist. You’re released, Simon Rain, on the condition that you marry this enchantress before she takes on my court.”
He turned to his chamberlain with a gesture and nod. The man’s eyes widened, but he handed his master a bejeweled sword that had lain alongside the throne.
“As entertaining as it might be to let the two of you tame London on your own terms, I should hate to see the offspring of such a loyal union feel shame in the face of any man. Therefore”—he gestured for Simon to come closer—“kneel, man! Now is not the time to become dense.”
Agatha’s heart nearly stopped with pride as Simon knelt before the Prince Regent.
“With the powers vested in me as Prince Regent of the British Empire, so on and so forth, I dub thee Sir Rain.”
Simon tipped his head up. The Prince scarcely missed lopping off Simon’s ear as he jerked the blade up just in time.
“I beg your pardon, Your Majesty, but my true name is Simon Montague Raines.”
The Prince blinked. “You’re French?”
“My mother was.”
“Fine, fine, let’s get on with it.” He cleared his throat and intoned, “I dub thee Sir Simon Montague Raines.”
Agatha had no idea that tears were streaming down her face until they dripped on her hands clasped before her.
“Now get thee to a bishop and marry the little madwoman before she gets herself into any more trouble.” The Prince gave them a cynical smirk. “I don’t think you’ll find too many doors in Society closed to the two of you now. These silly fribbles do so love a romantic tale.”
Agatha curtsied blindly to the Prince and took Simon’s arm. She’d no memory of leaving the audience chamber at all but found herself in the outer hall with Simon and James.
“Oh, Simon!” She threw her arms about him, then kissed him deeply, surrounding guards be damned. Then she hit him in the shoulder with her fist. “I cannot believe you never told me your real name!”
He smiled gently at her and took both her hands in his. “It’s not much of a name, but I shall share it with you if you like.”
“Hmm. Lady Raines. Has a lovely lilt to it, don’t you think? I accept.”
“I should bloody well hope so!”
She rolled her eyes. “Unromantic to the end.”
Slowly he drew both her gloves free of her hands. From his pocket he pulled a golden ring adorned with sapphires. Agatha held her breath as he slipped it onto her betrothal finger, then lifted her hands to his lips and kissed each knuckle, gazing deeply into her eyes all the while.
“Marry me, for I love you with everything that I am,” he murmured huskily, “and I shall continue to love you until the end of time.”
She froze for a moment, her heart expanding until it threatened to spring her ribs. Then she drew a fractured breath. “I take it back. You are romantic.”
He grinned swiftly. She raised her fingers to trace the outline of his lips. “Someday, Sir Simon Montague Raines, I vow I will make that smile stay.”
He quirked an eyebrow at her. “What do you mean?”
“Oh, nothing. Nothing at all.” She turned to her brother. “Jamie, I am getting married. Will you do me the honor of giving me away?”
James was grinning, unabashedly watching their intimate exchange. “I’d be delighted, Aggie.”
Simon protested. “Wait a moment. I need James to be my best man.”
Agatha tilted her head and pursed her lips. “Hmm. This is a pickle. What do you say we draw for him?”
Simon tucked her arm into his and walked her past the bemused guards, James following along. “Very well. But we’ll use my cards and I’ll deal.”
She smiled sweetly up at her beloved chimneysweep-thief-spy-knight.
“Of course.”
Chapter Thirty-two
The wedding was small but lovely.
The stone chapel was very old, with a simple grace that can only be granted by the centuries. The double doors were left open during the ceremony and the perfume of ripening apples swept down from the orchards, causing all within to reflect upon the harvest, both from the laden trees and from the devotion of two people in love.
The sniffling servants of Carriage Square and Appleby stood to one side for the bride, and on the groom’s side there ranged an outrageous mix of openly weeping thieves and assassins.
The groom was accompanied by his good friend, a handsome gentleman who shared the bonds of his work.
And the bride was given away by her brother.
Of course.
Epilogue
Sir Simon Raines sat by the fire in his newly redecorated house reading the day’s news over an after-dinner brandy. The fire was delightful against the autumn chill, the news was good, and the brandy was sublime. Simon was extremely comfortable.
He was also extremely bored.
Oh, marriage suited him well, delightfully so. His life with Agatha was so happy that he waited constantly to wake up from his blissful dream. His beloved wife could never be the cause of his current state.
Simon’s problem was that he had nothing to do. Never in his life had he not worked. From his first memories of pawing through refuse for cloth to sell to the ragman, Simon had earned his keep. Now he was the one being kept.
True, he stuck a hand in with the Liars now and then. But he dared not do too much, for he wanted Dalton to earn the same undying loyalty from the men that he himself had enjoyed. So he kept his presence to a minimum, only offering advice when asked.
Currently the men were fighting over who would foster the little orphaned chimneysweep. Robbie had been absorbed into the Liar’s Club without a ripple from the outside world and by all accounts was enjoying the battle in full. Simon’s money was on Kurt, with James a close second.
Simon stretched in his luxurious chair, took a sip of magnificent brandy, and contemplated his p
redicament.
“Hello, darling man.” Agatha burst into the room, trailed by her maid, who was trying to gather up her mistress’s bonnet and cloak. The fresh air of autumn tinged with coal smoke came with her. Suddenly Simon was no longer bored.
“Shopping again, damsel?”
“Heavens, no. I’ve just been to the hospital for a meeting.” She shuddered theatrically. “After refurbishing every inch of this monastery of yours, I hope I shall never have to shop again.”
“Good. I was afraid you were going to try to replace my carpet.” Simon gestured in the general direction of their scandalously shared bedchamber, whereupon resided the jewel-toned rug from the house on Carriage Square. It most decidedly did not match the new decor. Simon didn’t care one whit.
Agatha sniffed. “That’s odd. I thought it was my carpet. I won it from you fair and square.”
“You did not. You cheated.”
Agatha handed the last of her outerwear to her maid. “Thank you, Nellie. Would you please ask Pearson for a pot of tea? It’s gone very brisk out there. And I’m a bit hungry. Would you ask Sarah Cook to send in something light?”
Nellie bobbed cheerfully and left. Agatha turned back to Simon and fisted her hands on her hips.
“I did not cheat. It isn’t my fault that you played badly.”
“I played badly because you were naked.”
“It is still your loss,” she teased. She came closer to warm her hands at the fire. Simon made a long arm and swept her into his lap instead.
“I’ll warm you.”
She snuggled close. “Better already. Now, I want you to listen carefully, for I have something I’d like you to consider.”
“I won’t do it.” He nuzzled her neck instead.
“Simon, please. I need your undivided attention.”
“Then get naked.”
“Simon, I’ve rushed home to tell you something splendid. I have an idea what we can do with your skills and my money.”
Defeated by her tightly attached collar, Simon leaned back with a sigh and a silent vow to toss her lace betsy into the fire later. “I hope this is better than your plan for the beaver-breeding farm.”
“I still believe that would have raked in the pounds, what with beaver hats coming back into fashion.”
“Nonetheless, I do not believe beaver enjoy being bred.”
“Never mind that. I have decided that we should open a school!”
“Of fish?”
“No, and do stop teasing. I’m quite serious. We shall open the Lillian Raines School for the Less Fortunate.”
“Hmm. I appreciate the tribute to my mother, damsel, but the rest of the title sounds a bit … well … unappealing. I hardly think the parents of London will be lining up to register their little pets with us.”
She hopped off his lap to face him, by her expression very pleased with herself. “Precisely! It’s perfect.”
“Sorry, my love. You’ve lost me again.”
“We won’t be teaching little pets. We’ll be teaching those who want to improve their speech and their table manners. We’ll teach dancing and etiquette—”
“You are a wonderful teacher, Agatha, but—”
“—and pocket-picking, safe-breaking, and map-making—”
Simon’s chair squeaked as he abruptly sat up off the base of his spine. “And sabotage!”
“Yes! A training program for the Liar’s Club! Do you like it?”
With a laugh, Simon jumped up to gather Agatha into his arms and swung her around in a joyous spin. “It’s perfect. And we may actively recruit. The Liars will never be short-handed again! All the men will have the necessary skills.”
“And the women.”
That halted him for a moment. He gave her a wary look. “That’s been your goal all along, hasn’t it?”
“Well, you could use a few likely girls. Women are so overlooked, maids and governesses and so forth, that people say all sorts of things in front of them.”
He flashed her a grin. “Angling for a bit of work yourself, are you?”
“No,” she said smugly.
“No? I’m surprised. I thought you’d want to be right in the thick of the action.”
“Oh, no. I shall be far too busy teaching. Furthermore, the thick of the action is no place for a woman when she’s increasing.”
His mouth dropped open and threatened to stay that way. She tipped it shut with one finger. “A child, my love. Your child. Small. Occasionally loud. Usually wet.”
A child. Simon’s heart began to beat with a new resonance. His child.
A family of his own.
A slow smile began then, a smile that crossed his face and remained there for a very long time.
Keep reading for an excerpt from the first book in Celeste Bradley’s enchanting new series
Desperately Seeking a Duke
COMING MARCH 2008
FROM ST. MARTIN’S PAPERBACKS
It was past time to return Miss Phoebe to her chaperone. Yet, for some reason, he did nothing but remain where he was, standing a bit too close, with his hands about her waist, a bit too high, staring down at her as she stared back up at him.
Her blue gaze was like a cool clean pool, the sort that could wash away any sin.
“Are you a rake?” Her voice was husky in the quiet, yet the words rang loudly in his ears.
Rake.
He smiled slightly, despite the sudden and shamed pounding of his heart. A rake indeed. Worse actually. I am a bastard.
Suddenly he had the overpowering urge to become precisely what she thought him—an honorable man with only the best of intentions.
But not yet. Right now he couldn’t bear for this moment with Miss Millbury from Thornton to end. He tucked her closer into him, until his thighs pressed alongside hers and her breasts moved against his chest as she breathed.
Phoebe allowed it. After all, it wasn’t much closer than two might stand while dancing. She did not take offense.
When will you take offense? When he ravages you in the garden?
She hushed that thought, for it held the taint of the vicar’s voice. Besides, the opportunity of being ravaged in the garden by this man might be too interesting to pass up.
“Although that is probably the champagne talking,” she said out loud. “I am beginning to see why young ladies are not supposed to drink spirits. It does strange things to one’s guard.”
As in slaying it, beheading it, and burying it in the aforementioned garden. But no matter.
He crinkled his brow, not losing his smile. “I wish I was in on that conversation, but I fear I have no idea what you and the champagne are talking about.”
“The garden,” Phoebe informed him, opening her eyes to gaze up at him again. Goodness, wouldn’t she love to have this man stretched out in the flowers for her exploration? She sighed deeply. He did not hide his interest in her neckline, but it was only a rather politely admiring glance. His gaze came directly back to meet hers again.
“I see. Is it a fine garden or a poor one?”
Her eyes grew heavy-lidded as she let her gaze travel over his lips close to hers. “A very fine one. The finest.”
“Does it suit you, this garden you speak of?” His voice deepened, betraying a hint of … vulnerability? “Do you like it?”
Her heart melted. “I like it above all others.” She longed to embrace him—nay, to sink into him like water spilled in desert sand. “I wish … “ She bit her lip. “I wish it were mine.”
His gaze went to her lips and stayed there. “Do you want this garden to be yours … forever?”
Oh yes, please. Her heart was both racing and at peace. It was an odd thing, to have found what one was looking for so desperately, when one didn’t even know one was looking.
Looking up at him, at his fine clothing and dark hair and delicious mouth and the shadow of masculine cheek and jaw … the wrapping was quite perfect—including that posterior view which still lingered in her mind�
��s eye—but it was something more that tugged at her as if he had her soul on a string.
His eyes. It was if she was looking into still water, only the self she saw was the half of her she’d been missing all the days of her life.
Magic. Old magic, like in those stories her cousin Sophie was always reading. “I believe I am bewitched,” she said huskily.
His eyes knew. “As am I,” he said.
She could not look away. It was as if he recognized her as well, as if he could see directly into her and always had.
The astonishing thought that followed was that she had the distinct impression that he liked what he saw. Which was impossible.
Wasn’t it?
Yet, the longer he held her gaze trapped in his—the longer the silence grew and blanketed them, isolating them in a moment out of time—the more she began to believe in the impossible.
In his eyes, she saw herself as beautiful and more. She felt understood, as if her very nature was bared to his observation and he saw no wickedness, no inherent flaw, no dark and decadent seed of sensuality—or at least if he did, he didn’t mind it one little bit.
His expression was one of acute fascination. It was as if she were the first woman he’d ever seen—which was nonsense. Only … it didn’t feel like nonsense. He seemed as surprised by her as she was by him.
Wouldn’t it be lovely if it—if he—were real?
Rafe couldn’t tear his eyes away from her, which made no sense. She was a mess, really, in that fine but unflattering dress, with her hair clumped into that unwieldy bun …
It would be long, perhaps to her buttocks. It would curl around his fingertips when he stroked his hands through it and dragged it forward to drape over her bare breasts …
Need hit him so hard he could scarcely draw a breath. Not lust—well, not simply lust, at any rate. It was need, much like the need for air, or water. He needed her, in all her sweet boldness, in all her clear-sighted wholesomeness, in order to go on.
She is the one.
But this was nonsense. There was no shortage of ladies eager to be Rafe’s lover. Women surrounded him, glittering, stylish creatures with polish so perfect and hard that it seemed as though they had crystallized.
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