Eloquence and Espionage

by Regina Scott

  “Some ruffian accosted Ariadne in Hyde Park,” Daphne declared, pausing in her pacing. “I say we should send for Bow Street.”

  “Surely Mr. Cropper and his comrades have more important things to do,” Ariadne protested.

  Emily feigned nonchalance. “Oh, I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.”

  Very likely not, as he was attempting to prove to Emily’s father that he would be worthy of her hand. Ariadne simply didn’t see how he could help them this time. It wasn’t as if the famed thief catchers knew what to do with spies.

  “But I’m fine,” she insisted.

  “You will be better when I show you this.” Priscilla swept into the room and handed Ariadne the papers. “I was able to send word to Nathan after all. He provided the guest list from His Grace’s masquerade.”

  Ariadne took it with trembling fingers. Somewhere on this list lay her centurion’s name. This morning she might have been loath to find it, enjoying their game of seek and be found. But after his behavior in the park, she wasn’t sure what to think. She wanted him to have been the one who had knocked her down, to save her from imminent death, of course. He was the hero, after all.

  Daphne strolled closer. “Good thinking. Everyone in London was there, Ariadne’s attacker included.”

  Emily and Priscilla exchanged glances, and Ariadne was glad Priscilla was clever enough not to correct Daphne on the timing. For how could Priscilla think to bring the list when she’d only just heard of the incidence? Of course, Daphne was like that. She tended to act without thinking, speak without full understanding. Small wonder Ariadne didn’t want to share her secrets.

  “I’ve crossed through the impossible,” Priscilla told them, going to take a seat near Ariadne on the sofa and draping her skirts about her. “We are not interested in females or anyone above a certain age. And of course, Nathan and His Grace are exempt from examination. We know where they were.”

  Indeed, they did: trying to stop the blackmailer who had threatened both Priscilla and His Grace. Ariadne lifted the page and scanned down the list, feeling Emily angle her head to read as well. One name jumped out at her.

  “Mr. Horatio Cunningham was in attendance.” And of course he hadn’t sought her out. At least, she didn’t think so. They had been wearing masks, so it was difficult to be certain.

  “Mr. Cunningham, as I recall, is blond,” Emily reminded her. “Hardly a dark-haired centurion.”

  “Centurion,” Daphne said. “Good word for a fellow who attacks ladies from the bushes: brash, arrogant.”

  She ought to argue, but she knew it would only give up the game.

  “He could have been wearing a wig,” Priscilla mused, ignoring Daphne. “And with a mask you might not have recognized him.”

  It was rather romantic to consider the matter that way. She’d admired Mr. Cunningham since the moment they’d first been introduced to each other at the party celebrating Emily’s disastrous betrothal to that dastard, Lord Robert. Tall, slender, with the most adorable curly blond hair and a ready address, he was everything a proper gentleman should be. They’d met several times now, and he had danced with her at Priscilla and Emily’s come out ball a month ago. True, he hadn’t called or been particularly welcoming when she’d meet him since, but perhaps he was merely awed by her presence. Perhaps he had conceived a passion for her, penning sonnets at midnight in his lonely room, dreaming of the day she might be his. Perhaps he’d used the masquerade to share his true feelings. Perhaps . . .

  “Ariadne,” Priscilla said, voice sharp enough to pierce a perfectly fine narrative, “who else is on the list?”

  “Oh.” The list, of course. It was always good to rule out any other potential suspects. She looked down again and tried not to think about Mr. Cunningham’s gamin grin.

  “Archibald Stump?” Emily suggested, obviously more intent on her reading. “He has dark hair.”

  “And an excellent build to wear a centurion’s costume,” Priscilla agreed.

  “Or Freddie Pulsipher,” Emily added. “I’ve felt he had a devious streak ever since he called my paintings decidedly feminine.”

  That was more obtuse than devious, as far as Ariadne was concerned. Emily tended to paint dark, dramatic subjects like battle scenes and tragic deaths.

  “Sir Damon Largesse,” Priscilla suggested, reading ahead. “Quite the debonair fellow with a flair for the dramatic. He would have made my list of gentlemen to consider if he had possessed more than a baronetcy.”

  Daphne had twisted her head, obviously trying to read the list upside down. Now she pointed to a name. “What about him?”

  “Lord Hawksbury?” Priscilla frowned. “I believe his family name is Sinclair. He is the heir to the Marquess of Winthrop.”

  Ariadne shook her head. “Then it cannot be him. The Marquess of Winthrop is famous for his many addresses to Parliament. I have several memorized. Surely his heir would have some gift for eloquence. The fellow I’m seeking occasionally has difficulty being persuasive.”

  Priscilla raised a golden brow as if wondering the nature of the centurion’s persuasion.

  Emily had risen to consult a book on the shelf and now returned with Debrett’s Peerage in hand, a page open. “Hawksbury has the courtesy title and precedence of an earl. He is wealthy through a bequest from his late mother.”

  “I would definitely have pursued him,” Priscilla said, “if he wasn’t known as something of a recluse, like his august father.” She peered at Ariadne as if trying to envision her friend landing such a big part as to play opposite a paragon of his nature.

  “Hawksbury.” Ariadne shook her head. “How perfectly brooding. And I suppose you will tell me his estate is a crumbling manor house on the Cornish coast.”

  “Scottish moors, actually,” Emily answered. “And I believe it is considered a castle. His father and mine are well acquainted though Lord Winthrop speaks through his personal secretary most often these days.”

  “Well, he doesn’t sound like the sort to accost women in the park,” Daphne declared, straightening.

  He certainly didn’t. Mr. Stump or Mr. Pulsipher were much more likely candidates. Neither had been particularly kind to her this Season. And Ariadne still couldn’t dampen her hopes that Mr. Cunningham might be her centurion. That was the man she still hoped to meet again, not the soulless creature who had pointed a gun at her. She shuddered at the memory.

  Priscilla sat back. “I suppose we will only know if we encounter the fellow again.”

  Emily nodded. “We must attempt to find a way to question all the gentlemen on our list of suspects.”

  “Mr. Cunningham doesn’t ride, as far as I can tell,” Daphne put in. “I’ve never met him on Rotten Row.”

  “Archie and Freddie have been avoiding Almack’s,” Priscilla added. “Too many matchmaking mamas for their taste.”

  “And I couldn’t meet them there in any event,” Ariadne reminded them.

  They must have heard the frustration in her tone, for they all rushed to console her.

  “It’s only a matter of time,” Priscilla assured her, patting her hand. “The patronesses are notoriously fussy.”

  “I have heard that only one young lady in a family is accorded tickets at one time,” Emily explained. “Though I don’t know whether that’s true.”

  “Bunch of old fuddy-duddies,” Daphne said with a hand on Ariadne’s shoulder. “You’re not missing much.”

  Perhaps not, but it did hurt that she was the only one among her friends and family who had yet to be granted vouchers to attend balls at London’s exclusive ladies’ club.

  “And by the sound of your gentleman, he wouldn’t attend in any event,” Emily concluded. She tapped her chin. “So where would our fellow hang about during the day? White’s? Parliament?”

  “More likely Henry Angelo’s fencing academy and Gentleman Jackson’s boxing emporium,” Ariadne replied, remembering his comments about how he’d earned his impressive physique.

  “Well, that�
�s no good,” Daphne scoffed. “They refuse to admit women, to my everlasting sorrow.”

  Ariadne thought harder. Surely something he’d said, something he’d done would give her some clue as to where to find him. He didn’t seem the sort to worship his tailor or rush to see the new horses at Tattersall’s, that haven of the racing world. But truly, what did she know about him save his ability to engage in witty conversation?

  Her head came up, and she stared at her friends. “I’ve been looking in all the wrong places.”

  Emily frowned. “Indeed? How so?”

  Ariadne grinned. “The man I seek won’t be found whiling away his time at White’s or prosing on in Parliament. He frequents another spot entirely. We need to visit a bookstore, and I know just the one.”

  Chapter Five

  Hatchard’s famous bookshop on Piccadilly was sparsely populated as Ariadne and Daphne entered the next day gowned in their best muslins with matching blue spencers. She supposed everyone was out riding or walking or paying calls on such a sunny day during the Season. Whatever the reason, the limited number of shoppers would make the store relatively easy to canvas.

  Priscilla and Emily had been unable to accompany them, having had previous engagements. She supposed that would be the way of it in the future, as each of the friends found their true loves. Terribly romantic for them; rather lonely for her. But that was tomorrow. Today, she had a purpose.

  She forced herself to focus on the shop. As always, Hatchard’s wrapped itself around her like a favorite cloak. Lit by the glow of golden gas lamps, dark wood bookcases lined the walls and ran in orderly fashion through the center of the main room. A curved staircase led upstairs to a second story with yet more books, including some newly published by the owner himself. She could see Mr. Hatchard behind his counter now, craggy brows drawn down as he surveyed his domain, sideburns bristling. With a distinguished nose and a long face, he looked as if he just might have read each of the many tomes crowding his bookstore.

  “Ah, the Misses Courdebas,” he said with a nod, smile warming his face. “Welcome back. If I can be of any assistance, please let me know.”

  Ariadne nudged Daphne. They had agreed that she should question the bookseller while Ariadne looked around. Daphne gave a sharp nod and set off stalking a nursemaid and her two young charges through the stacks. Ariadne sighed. Best not to question her purpose. There was method to her sister’s madness. Most of the time.

  Of course, not when she’d become a devotee of the ton’s favorite pundit, Lord Pompadour Snedley. The first volume of his book of advice was still prominently displayed on a table near the front of the shop. Ariadne wasn’t sure whether to hope that the ridiculous things were thrown out with the rubbish or that they sold out and languished on library shelves growing dusty with time. Lord Snedley’s popularity had served its function leading up to Priscilla and Emily’s come out ball. Now, he rather embarrassed Ariadne.

  So she marched determinedly into the stacks, trying not to allow the titles to beckon her as she kept an eye out for other shoppers with sufficiently broad shoulders and dark hair. The first floor appeared to be empty save for the nursemaid and company, so she ventured up to the second. Two gentlemen, both blonds, were debating over a book on horse racing. A lady was devouring the latest gothic novel. Defeated, Ariadne wandered back downstairs and into the first stack, hoping she’d somehow missed him.

  Behind her, a bell on the front door tinkled, alerting Hatchard’s staff that a new customer had entered the premises. Ariadne glanced toward the door, but the tall bookcase obscured her vision. All she could make out was the crown of a gentleman’s top hat, bobbing along the aisle.

  Perhaps a gentleman with midnight black hair?

  Heart starting to beat faster (goodness, but the cliché was true!), she edged her way toward the end of the aisle. The hat stopped, so she stopped. She could hear a clerk extolling the virtues of Lord Snedley’s work, assuring the customer that he wouldn’t need such advice but that perhaps he had a betrothed for whom it would make a fine gift.

  Ariadne rolled her eyes. What young lady would appreciate the gift of a book with advice on etiquette? She’d certainly take it to imply the gentleman thought her lacking!

  “I am not betrothed,” the newcomer replied.

  That voice! Could it be? She stood on tiptoe to peer between the books, but all she saw was the back of a bottle green coat.

  “A sister, perhaps?” the clerk persisted. “Or a good friend?”

  The coat moved as if its wearer had replaced a book on the display. “I know no one who would appreciate this drivel.”

  “Drivel!” As soon as the word exploded out of her, Ariadne clapped both hands over her mouth and scuttled back along the row. Stupid, stupid! She’d all but given herself away, in more ways than one! She clamped her lips together, lowered her hands, and listened for a similar cry from the other side of the bookcase, the sound of feet pounding closer. All was silence. In the distance, the bell chimed again, no doubt accompanying her quarry as he ran for his life.

  She puffed out a sigh and went to find Daphne. Her sister was bent over the smallest of the nursemaid’s charges, showing him a book about horses. The slender nursemaid looked unsure of the situation, head cocked so that her cap slipped on her blond hair, hands on the shoulders of the other wide-eyed child as she hugged him close to her dark skirts.

  “She loves to ride,” Ariadne explained with a contrite smile. She took Daphne’s arm and raised her up. “Come along, sister. We must be going.”

  Daphne handed the book to the boy with a smile. “Very well, but I must say that was a great deal less time than you usually spend in here.”

  “I didn’t find what I was looking for,” Ariadne said, mindful of the nursemaid watching them.

  Daphne frowned and waved a hand that nearly sent a book tumbling. “Why not? There must be a book here on every subject imaginable.”

  There was that. Glancing around, Ariadne felt the tug from a dozen directions. That tome on ancient Egypt, perhaps? She’d always been fascinated by archeology. Or that one on changes in fashion over the last decade. Her first Season out, she really should try to remain current. And what about that one on new machinery using steam? Perhaps she could advise Father on his investments.

  “Now, that’s the Ariadne I know and love,” Daphne said, giving her a gentle shove down the stacks. “Go on, pick one or two if you can limit yourself. I have money in my reticule. I’ll just chat with Mr. Hatchard while you look.”

  Ariadne beamed at her. “You truly are a marvelous sister, you know.”

  Daphne grinned. “I know.”

  So Ariadne wandered the rows, gazing at titles and authors, choosing one here to read the dedication, another to confirm depth of coverage. She’d selected what appeared to be a perfectly fine set of essays on the theme of British innovation when a familiar voice spoke again.

  “I’d try another, if I were you. Far too pedantic.”

  Ariadne stopped, raising her gaze from the spine to the row. She was the only one in it, but was that a shadow on the other side of the stack? “You’ve read it?” she ventured.

  “Yes. Disappointing at best. Try the one two shelves down.”

  She could hardly refuse. The longer they conversed, the more likely Daphne was to spy him. Bending, she pulled out a thinner tome to find it had been authored by a member of the Royal Society whose writings she had previously admired.

  “Excellent choice,” she said, straightening. “So I take it you are an eclectic reader?”

  “I have been known to indulge in scientific treatises as well as Mr. Shakespeare’s sonnets.”

  Something skittered along her skin. “And did you learn anything from either?”

  “I might compare thee to a summer’s day, but I shan’t attempt to construct a battery out of shoe polish and garden twine.”

  Where was Daphne? Could she see him better from her vantage point? Perhaps Ariadne should attempt to draw him out
. She moved along the stack, and he paced her.

  “Very wise of you,” she said. “I find shoe polish can be particularly tricky.”

  “Especially if you’re wearing satin slippers,” he agreed.

  Ariadne giggled and hurriedly swallowed the sound. Had he drawn back? Was she about to lose him? Why not ask her questions, then? She forced her voice to come out stern. “Why are you following me?”

  He was still there, for his voice came out surprised. “In case you failed to notice, you’re in danger.”

  So he was protecting her. Another thrill ran through her. “But why? Do I know you?”

  “No, and neither does my opponent, I hope. Or rather, he might know my name, but not my purpose. All he knows is that you seek me too, and that could have dire consequences.”

  “Oh, not you too,” Ariadne said. “I do wish people would be specific in their threats.”

  “That gun would put a period on your life quite nicely.”

  There was that, and well stated too. Glancing up to compliment him, she saw they were almost to the end of the row. If she darted around the corner to confront him, would he stay long enough to continue the conversation?

  As if he suspected her intent, he paused. “I should leave. Go nowhere alone, and stay on your guard.”

  “Wait!” Ariadne cried, reaching out a hand though she knew she could not touch him. “Please! This is maddening! You seem concerned about my safety. Surely I would be safer if I knew who you were.”

  “I wouldn’t count on that,” he murmured.

  Ariadne raised her chin. “I would. You saved my life yesterday. You aren’t out to harm me. Can’t you accept that I mean you no harm as well?”