Eloquence and Espionage

by Regina Scott

  The Tates, Priscilla’s parents, who were pockets to let, had been devastated to learn their daughter was planning to throw over the wealthy duke they had seen as their salvation for his cousin and personal secretary. Nathan’s solution had been for His Grace the Duke of Rottenford to fund Priscilla’s father as a social advisor. So far, Mr. Tate’s advice had only managed to run up the duke’s bill to his tailor and lengthen the list of sycophants knocking at his door.

  “Do what you can,” Emily replied, and Ariadne swallowed her disappointment and nodded in agreement.

  “Would you like me to drive you home?” she asked Emily as they descended to the pavement where her family’s coach waited. “I’m to meet Daphne in Hyde Park in a quarter hour.”

  Emily glanced at the coach as if weighing its advantages. It was a fine landau, lacquered in crimson, the bold color one of the few concessions Lord Rollings had managed to secure from his stern wife. Emily had her own carriage, Ariadne knew, with driver and groom. She was also on tremendously good terms with her father’s staff, who she saw more often than her busy father. Ariadne could not make the same statement. Though her father was a well-respected viscount, their staff only listened to one person: her iron-willed mother.

  “I’ll come with you,” Emily offered. “It will keep Lady Minerva off the scent.”

  Lady Minerva was Emily’s eagle-eyed aunt who served as her chaperone for the Season. She had been a thorn in their sides at first, forever demanding certain types of behavior, but she and Emily had come to an uneasy truce, until Emily had declared her preference for an unsuitable suitor, Jamie Cropper, a Bow Street Runner. Now Lady Minerva spied out Emily’s every move and threatened to tell her father of any alleged impropriety.

  With their tendency to uncover murder and other misdeeds, there were entirely too many things to give the older lady pause.

  Of course, Ariadne had her own watchdogs to consider. She’d had to work extra hard the last few days to follow the trail of her centurion without raising suspicions. She could feel Mr. Crease watching her now as their footman Oscar handed her and Lady Emily into the landau. The coachman’s feathery gray brows were down in censure. Really, what unconscionable sin had she committed? She’d gone to Gunter’s and Priscilla’s, neither of which was unusual for her. The only thing unusual about it all was that she hadn’t eaten a single thing in either location.

  How could she eat when all she could think about was finding him?

  *

  It wasn’t easy seeking his quarry knowing Ariadne Courdebas was intent on finding him. He’d followed her as far as the Tate house and figured she’d likely visit her friend Priscilla for a time. By her conversation at the Duke of Rottenford’s masquerade, Ariadne thought Miss Tate more attractive. He was always surprised by the mistaken impressions people harbored. Miss Tate was a sugar plum compared to Ariadne Courdebas’ roast beef dinner. He doubted she’d approve of that comparison, but the fact was that no one survived on sugar plums for long.

  Besides, mistaken beliefs could serve his purpose. They made his famous father ignore the hints that his heir was delving into forbidden matters. They kept his grandparents safe. They made his foes underestimate him. With any luck, mistaken beliefs would cause his quarry to show his hand and prevent a tragedy.

  And where would England’s enemy be on a sunny day in May if he hoped to steal the secrets of the aristocracy? Nowhere else but Hyde Park.

  He strolled among the many couples--the ladies with their plumed bonnets, the gentlemen in their tailored coats--and nodded to acquaintances. His gaze, though casual, searched each face for hidden intentions, studied demeanors for dark purpose. Somewhere, a spy walked among them, ready to lie, steal, and even kill for the honor of France. He had been told only that the fellow was a gentleman who could pass himself off as English. And that the spy’s orders were deadly. He’d stalked the shadow through balls, along dark corridors of the theatre, among the crowds at race tracks, with no more than a hint of the man’s presence. The miscreant must be found, before murder was done.

  Not that he wanted to spend much time in Hyde Park. Society called him arrogant, claimed that he thought no one’s company was good enough. It was not the presence of the living that held him back from trivial pursuits. It was the memory of the dead. He saw the shade of his friend Winston Wallingford pelting down Rotten Row, John Warren laughing as he knocked his friend’s hat off on the bridge over the Serpentine. He smelled the picnic lunch Peter Makepiece’s mother used to foist on them to her son’s protesting delight. And he remembered why he was defying his father to spy for England.

  He wasn’t sure how he knew Ariadne had arrived in the park as well. Perhaps it was the shift in the wind that brought the scent of honeysuckle. Perhaps it was the sound of her sister’s ringing laugh. Turning, he glanced toward Rotten Row, the sandy track that claimed the most gentlemen riders. The familiar crimson landau was stopped alongside, windows open to allow Ariadne inside and her sister on horseback to converse. The breeze tugged loose a strand of her warm brown hair and set it to stroking her cheek. His fingers tightened as he remembered the feel of her skin.

  Why was she here? Was she still seeking him, or was her visit as innocent as her looks? He did not think she would notice him in the crowd, dressed as he was in the common navy coat and fawn trousers of half the gentlemen on the ton. Even so, he ducked into the shadows of the trees, keeping an eye on her.

  Her sister nodded at something she’d said. She pulled her horse back. The door swung open, and the lady herself stepped down. She touched her sister’s skirts as if confiding something, then turned and hurried into the trees.

  Alone.

  Lady Emily Southwell climbed from the coach as well and stood watching her, as did her coachman and footman. Where was she going with such purpose? Why did no one follow?

  What could he do but discover the answers for himself?

  Chapter Three

  He was here. She could feel it. Perhaps it was the whisper of a warm male voice carried on the breeze. Perhaps it was the sight of a top hat on black hair over broad shoulders, disappearing into the trees. Regardless, she wasn’t about to let him get away this time. She’d told Daphne she needed a moment to herself for inspiration, something her sister accepted without question having been privy to her flights of fancy since the day Ariadne had been born.

  Emily, however, had raised a brow as if she doubted this sudden need for serenity.

  “I shall count to two hundred,” Emily had told her. “Then Daphne and I will follow you. Be careful.”

  Very likely wise advice. But Ariadne didn’t feel careful and cautious. She felt bold and brave and true. This time, she would catch him.

  As if he knew she was after him, he walked faster, and she had to scurry to keep pace, her skirts flapping about her legs. The shadows of the overhanging branches crossed her face like a lace veil, making her blink after the sunlight. She stopped amidst a copse of trees, bushes blocking her view in all directions. She turned in a circle, put her hands on her hips in consternation. He’d disappeared!

  “You aren’t a ghost,” she challenged aloud. “I will find you.”

  “Why?” a voice demanded behind her. “You must have something better to do with your time than chase after me.”

  She whirled, but still she did not spy him. “Perhaps I enjoy a little mystery,” she said, head cocked to hear his reply, eyes narrowed for the least movement.

  “There is appreciating a mystery, and then there is being foolhardy,” he retorted.

  The sound came from her left, where the bushes were thickest. She purposely turned to her right and strolled closer to the edge of the clearing.

  “Is it foolhardy to seek a gentleman’s attentions?” she said, keeping her voice calm and curious. “I was under the impression that was the entire purpose of the Season.”

  “You do not wish my attentions,” he said.

  She wove a crooked path across the clearing as if detouring ar
ound tree roots and leaves left over from the winter. The mossy ground betrayed no sound of her footsteps. “Why not? Are you such a loathsome creature behind that black leather mask?”

  His chuckle warmed her more than her quilted blue pelisse. Oh, but she should have worn a cloak when she’d ventured out this morning; it was so much more romantic for a clandestine meeting!

  “I have been told I have a pleasing façade,” he admitted.

  And was rather amused by the fact. Or perhaps he simply knew his worth, like Priscilla. “Then perhaps those broad shoulders are the result of a clever tailor and copious amounts of padding,” she said, edging nearer as if to smell a blossom on one of the bushes.

  “Possibly,” he said. “Or long hours of practice at fencing and boxing.”

  A shiver ran through her as she made out a shape through the branches. “And of course you have such problems expressing yourself with eloquence.”

  She was certain she saw his sigh sway the leaves. “Only with you, my dear.”

  She stopped in front of the bush, convinced he was only on the other side. “You can come out, you know. I shan’t bite.”

  “I might.”

  The bush rustled as if he were about to push through it, and despite herself she stepped back. “I’m not afraid.”

  Still, he did not show himself. “You should be. You are messing about with things beyond your ken.”

  She raised her chin. “Espionage is not a mystical pursuit, sir. It is a matter of two people or two countries attempting to outsmart the other. Just as I have outsmarted you.” She reached for the limbs, ready to yank them apart and see his face at last.

  From behind her came the snap of a foot on a twig. Her stomach sank even as her arms fell to her sides. Somehow, she’d mistaken his direction. He’d been the one to outsmart her. Turning, slowly, she gazed across the clearing to where a man with midnight black hair and broad shoulders stood watching her. In the shadows of the trees, she could not see his face, but she could make out the pistol held in one gloved hand.

  “Down!”

  The bushes behind her were wrenched aside, and someone leaped at her, knocking her to the ground. The pistol roared with a flash of powder, and something flew past her bonnet. Then her assailant was on his feet and dashing across the clearing in pursuit of the man who’d fired.

  Ariadne pushed herself into a sitting position, trying to find her breath, stop the stuttering of her pulse. The bushes were nearly crushed once more as Daphne, astride her black mare, landed in the clearing.

  “I heard the shot!” she cried, turning the agitated horse among the leaves like a dervish. “Are you all right?”

  Ariadne managed a nod, then pointed toward the trees. “They went that way.”

  Daphne put heels to her horse’s haunches and galloped off.

  “They?” Emily asked, coming into the clearing behind her. Seeing Ariadne on the ground, she hurried to her side and helped her to her feet. Ariadne adjusted her skirts with a nod that was more about the shaking of her limbs than an affirmation to her friend.

  “They,” she insisted. “It appears there are two handsome, black-haired, broad-shouldered spies in London, and neither is particularly amused with me at the moment.”

  *

  The dastard! How dare he fire at an innocent! He pushed himself through the bushes, determined not to lose the villain. It had to be his spy, the creature who hid among the London crowds until he struck with lethal force. The fellow’s reasons for attempting to murder Ariadne Courdebas would have to wait. Right now, he must be captured.

  He broke out of the woods and skidded to stop on the grass. Hyde Park stretched before him, alive with movement, conversation, laughter. A dozen top hats were evident within the first twenty yards alone, and at least half sat on the heads of dark-haired men. Oh, but the villain knew how to blend in. He’d been wearing a navy coat and fawn trousers too. Very likely the pistol fit in a specially designed pocket. His own coat held two.

  He had only caught a glimpse of the fellow across the clearing. His gaze had been all for that pistol as it opened its deadly mouth toward Ariadne. No, not opened. The thing was already opened. He needed a better analogy.

  He needed to think!

  He shook his head, bit back an oath. At least Ariadne was safe, for the moment. He’d heard the bullet whistle by overhead. She hadn’t been hit. He ought to take comfort in the fact that he had saved her life.

  And would likely have to save it again.

  Mindful that she might even now be following him, plucky thing that she was, he turned and walked toward the nearest group of people. Several gentlemen knew him by name if not reputation, so they made room for him, introduced him to the ladies, asked after his father. He knew how to make polite conversation while his mind was elsewhere. He positioned himself to keep the woods in sight.

  The first out was her sister astride a powerful mare. Daphne Courdebas pulled up, glanced around with a frown as he had done. Having seen neither of the men who had accosted her sister, she could have no idea who to approach. He forced himself to laugh at a jest one of his companions had made.

  Next came Ariadne, accompanied by her friend Lady Emily. Though her pretty blue pelisse was speckled with leaves, her bonnet askew, she did not appear to be concerned. She too glanced around, and he turned to chat with the lady beside him lest he draw undue attention. Miss Haversomething was just out this Season, and the petite blonde stammered answers to his polite questions, lowering her blue-eyed gaze and swaying so that her creamy muslin skirts brushed his boots. She did not appear to notice the leaves sticking to the leather, the mud across the toes where he’d dug into the ground to protect Ariadne.

  Ariadne would have noticed. She would have given him better conversation as well. With her, he was the one to stammer. It was an odd feeling, to be out of his depth, but he found he could not mind it. She expected him to be better, unlike everyone else in his life who thought he should aspire to be no more than the heir to a marquess, as if an accident of birth should decide his fate.

  He chanced a glance her way to find her hands on her hips as she cast about. For a moment, her gaze brushed his, then moved on. He was invisible to her, just as he’d been invisible to his father for so many years. Though he had not wanted her to discover him, he felt disappointed.

  She turned to Lady Emily and spoke, then the two headed back into the woods. If he knew her, she’d go over and over the clearing until she found something of use in determining the nature of the man who had shot at her. She might even learn the villain’s identity.

  For that reason, he must change his tactics. For the last four days, he’d done his best to keep Ariadne at arm’s length. Now he must stick to her like sealing wax on a letter. For if she learned the identity of the French spy, he wanted to hear of it. And if the spy attempted to harm her again, he knew he must be beside her to prevent it.

  Chapter Four

  Ariadne had always thought that it must be terribly gratifying to be made much over after a terrifying circumstance. She was annoyed to find it quite frustrating. As they trooped back to the carriage, Emily offered smelling salts, and Daphne vowed revenge. At the sight of her and a hurried explanation, Mr. Crease muttered about taking his horsewhip to brazen young men who preyed on the weak and helpless. She wanted to shriek at them all to be silent and go away.

  Not the act of an injured heroine.

  So, she smiled with just the right amount of melancholy, assured them she was fine, and allowed herself to be taken to the Emerson town house, which was closer than her family’s home in London. At least she’d managed a good look at the clearing before leaving the area, for all it told her nothing save to confirm what she already knew. By the damage to the bushes, two men had stood among them, one on the south side, one on the north. Which had been the one she’d followed? Which had been the one she’d sought for days? She had no clue and could think of no way to gain further clues.

  Emily’s kindly butler, W
arburton, had immediately sent for some restorative tea and biscuits. Even so, she could barely partake of the sweets with Daphne pacing about the elegant blue-and-white withdrawing room, kicking the long skirt of her navy riding habit out of the way.

  “You really should tell her,” Emily murmured over her dainty rose-patterned teacup.

  Ariadne sighed. It was probably too much to hope that she might keep this secret to herself a while longer. Since the day she had been born, it seemed as if she and Daphne had shared everything. She was only ten months younger than her sister, denoting a shocking lack of planning by her thoroughly organized mother, so there were times she felt she and Daphne were twins. Fraternal twins, of course, for the color of Daphne’s hair was more wheat than honey and more wavy than straight, her eyes were a guileless blue, and her body more athletic and supple. Their interests were just as diverse. Had Daphne been born a boy as their father had wished, she would have belonged to the sporting set, for she loved being on horseback, driving the gig her father had purchased her for their country house, and dancing the night away. If their mother had agreed, Daphne would have learned to fence and box as well.

  As close as they were, it was a miracle Ariadne had been able to keep her one secret hidden for the last six months. Daphne had been terribly hurt to learn she had been left out of Ariadne’s literary endeavors, such as they were. She hadn’t spoken to Ariadne for a good couple of hours when she’d learned the truth. How would she feel now if Ariadne admitted to a secret of a much more romantic nature?

  “What’s happened?” Priscilla demanded, appearing just outside the open door. Even though she was betrothed now and had no need to posture, she paused as if to allow them to admire her icy blue gown with its creamy lace at the neckline and scallops at the hem. Even with the sheath of papers in her grip, she looked as if she belonged on the shelf beside the other pieces of blue-and-white Wedgwood pottery decorating the withdrawing room.