hatred momentarily warred with blind want, then won. He could see her for what she was again, a manipulative player of games, a lady without morals or virtue, except that of being a very, very good liar.
She had taken him in twice with her beautiful body, made him no more than a mindless tool to her hand. He thought he might happily kill her for taking away his famous control.
But then again, what had he really promised? To attempt Lord Etheridge's safe, but only if she could get them into the house.
As the gentleman in question was not a social sort, was in fact damn near a recluse, this seemed as unlikely an event as Agatha's supposed brash with honest matrimony. It would likely never come up, then, so no harm in it.
He roused from his thoughts long enough to grant a response to Agatha's happy chattering, though not to listen to her outlandish plans for convincing Lord Etheridge to include them in his nonexistent social calendar.
No, Simon's thoughts traveled over Lord Etheridge in an entirely different vein. A man of mystery indeed. A spy, was he? It was entirely possible.
However, the reclusive fellow was no spy for the Crown.
Simon would surely know if he was, although he could hardly tell Agatha that.
Not that she would likely believe him. Believe that Simon, her rascally chimneysweep-thief whom she had raised from a life of petty larceny on the streets of London, was none other than a royal spymaster himself?
No, it was better for her to believe the worst of him than to learn the truth. He could not afford for her to discover that her beloved James was the target of his mission. One of his own men gone rogue whom Simon must find before he could further betray his country.
There would be no public trial, for that would only compromise the anonymity of the Liar's Club. Regrettably, it was all up to Simon to find James.
Find, single-handedly try and judge, and if necessary…
Execute.
No, he didn't think Agatha would like that one, not at all.
----
Chapter Nine
James Cunnington was floating, dreaming, lost in the trap of his own imagination. Behind him was the comfortable fog of unconsciousness. Before him rose the visage of a snake. It danced before him, swaying upright over its own coils.
"Jamessss."
Nasty things, snakes. Repulsive, yet fascinating.
"James? Who is Mortimer Applequist? I know I've heard you say his name. Who is he?"
The tongue flicked out and in, and the snake said his name again.
"James? Answer the question. Who is Mortimer Applequist?"
No one.
"Answer me, James. Who is he?"
Hadn't he just answered the damned slimy thing? In his dreamland, he wrapped his fingers around the snake's throat and squeezed.
But the voice continued. "Who is it? Tell me, James."
He wanted to be left alone. He needed to think. Something was very wrong here, but he just couldn't think what it could be. If the bloody snake would just go away, maybe he could gather his thoughts.
"S'no one," he muttered.
"No one? What do you mean?"
Thick-headed bugger. "No one. An alias. Don't wan' get caught, 's' blame it on Mort'mer."
"An alias. Whose alias? Yours?"
Sometimes. Sometimes it was Agatha's. In the end, even the staff had used Mortimer as a scapegoat a few times. His mathematician father had fallen for it, too lost in his grief and his studies to be aware that there was no such person. He'd blink at them and remind them to watch the company they kept, to stay away from that dreadful Applequist boy. James and Agatha would nod solemnly and agree.
Agatha. There was something there he should remember as well. If only the damned snake would let him be…
He reached for the cloudy abyss, turning his back on the serpent. The voice kept speaking, but more dimly now. James slipped back into his insensible void, no longer listening.
Simon trotted down the stairs bright and early the morning after his close call at Winchell's, despite a night of pacing and thinking. He expected to see Agatha perusing the
She had taken him in twice with her beautiful body, made him no more than a mindless tool to her hand. He thought he might happily kill her for taking away his famous control.
But then again, what had he really promised? To attempt Lord Etheridge's safe, but only if she could get them into the house.
As the gentleman in question was not a social sort, was in fact damn near a recluse, this seemed as unlikely an event as Agatha's supposed brash with honest matrimony. It would likely never come up, then, so no harm in it.
He roused from his thoughts long enough to grant a response to Agatha's happy chattering, though not to listen to her outlandish plans for convincing Lord Etheridge to include them in his nonexistent social calendar.
No, Simon's thoughts traveled over Lord Etheridge in an entirely different vein. A man of mystery indeed. A spy, was he? It was entirely possible.
However, the reclusive fellow was no spy for the Crown.
Simon would surely know if he was, although he could hardly tell Agatha that.
Not that she would likely believe him. Believe that Simon, her rascally chimneysweep-thief whom she had raised from a life of petty larceny on the streets of London, was none other than a royal spymaster himself?
No, it was better for her to believe the worst of him than to learn the truth. He could not afford for her to discover that her beloved James was the target of his mission. One of his own men gone rogue whom Simon must find before he could further betray his country.
There would be no public trial, for that would only compromise the anonymity of the Liar's Club. Regrettably, it was all up to Simon to find James.
Find, single-handedly try and judge, and if necessary…
Execute.
No, he didn't think Agatha would like that one, not at all.
----
Chapter Nine
James Cunnington was floating, dreaming, lost in the trap of his own imagination. Behind him was the comfortable fog of unconsciousness. Before him rose the visage of a snake. It danced before him, swaying upright over its own coils.
"Jamessss."
Nasty things, snakes. Repulsive, yet fascinating.
"James? Who is Mortimer Applequist? I know I've heard you say his name. Who is he?"
The tongue flicked out and in, and the snake said his name again.
"James? Answer the question. Who is Mortimer Applequist?"
No one.
"Answer me, James. Who is he?"
Hadn't he just answered the damned slimy thing? In his dreamland, he wrapped his fingers around the snake's throat and squeezed.
But the voice continued. "Who is it? Tell me, James."
He wanted to be left alone. He needed to think. Something was very wrong here, but he just couldn't think what it could be. If the bloody snake would just go away, maybe he could gather his thoughts.
"S'no one," he muttered.
"No one? What do you mean?"
Thick-headed bugger. "No one. An alias. Don't wan' get caught, 's' blame it on Mort'mer."
"An alias. Whose alias? Yours?"
Sometimes. Sometimes it was Agatha's. In the end, even the staff had used Mortimer as a scapegoat a few times. His mathematician father had fallen for it, too lost in his grief and his studies to be aware that there was no such person. He'd blink at them and remind them to watch the company they kept, to stay away from that dreadful Applequist boy. James and Agatha would nod solemnly and agree.
Agatha. There was something there he should remember as well. If only the damned snake would let him be…
He reached for the cloudy abyss, turning his back on the serpent. The voice kept speaking, but more dimly now. James slipped back into his insensible void, no longer listening.
Simon trotted down the stairs bright and early the morning after his close call at Winchell's, despite a night of pacing and thinking. He expected to see Agatha perusing the
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