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 brash 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.
"Oh, yess…"
When she sat up straight and clasped her hands together in delight, he realized that he had spoken out loud.
A bucket of icy realization doused his pulsating lust.
Oh, bloody hell.
She had done it to him again.
Pure
"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 brash 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.
"Oh, yess…"
When she sat up straight and clasped her hands together in delight, he realized that he had spoken out loud.
A bucket of icy realization doused his pulsating lust.
Oh, bloody hell.
She had done it to him again.
Pure
Similar Books
