Eloquence and Espionage

by Regina Scott

  “True,” Emily said, giving the gentlemen a glare that set them to studying their boots. “Although it was quite understandable why you did not reveal the truth in that regard. Sales would have dried up immediately.”

  “And Mother would be mortified to no end. I’m certain she’d recognize herself in the pages if she ever bothered to look. This is one time I considered myself blessed she reads so little of what I write.”

  “You are missing an opportunity, though,” Emily said.

  Ariadne frowned. “What opportunity?”

  Emily waved a hand, bringing a half dozen fellows to their feet. “They all know you are engaged to Lord Hawksbury. They would expect you to talk about him.”

  “But I know very little about him,” Ariadne protested as her admirers converged on them.

  “You don’t,” Emily said. “They do.”

  Of course! She must be careful how she phrased her questions, but surely she could learn something of her so-called intended. So, for the next little while, she and Emily quizzed her callers about Lord Hawksbury. The picture the gentlemen painted was not unlike the subject of one of Emily’s paintings--confidence, loyalty, intelligence, athleticism. Small wonder everyone congratulated her. She’d betrothed herself to a paragon.

  She had just about exhausted their knowledge when the gentleman with the upside down poetry book returned to her side and bowed. “I must go, my dear Miss Courdebas, but I promise you I shall never forget these precious moments we spent together.”

  She had a feeling his definition of never and hers must differ, for she doubted she’d remain on his mind beyond the next quarter hour. Still, she inclined her head, and he smiled devotedly before trotting off.

  Another fellow moved forward to take his place at her side. “Miss Courdebas, I rushed to extend my congratulations, but I see I am not the first.”

  Horatio Cunningham offered that grin that had once made her spill rosy red punch all down the front of her white gown. Now the loss of the gown seemed more tragic than the change in her feelings toward him.

  “Nor, I suspect, will you be the last,” she told him. “You remember my friend Lady Emily.”

  He inclined his curly-haired head, golden locks in charming disarray as they tumbled over a forehead she had previously considered noble. “Of course. And I believe congratulations are in order for you as well. Did I not hear that you are betrothed?”

  Emily raised her head. “Not yet, but I hope to make such an announcement shortly.”

  “To the consternation of everyone who knows you.” Acantha Dalrymple pushed her way into their circle. Ariadne hadn’t seen much of her former classmate since Acantha had thrown over the Duke of Rottenford at the masquerade, declaring that she could do better than the feeble-minded fellow. Now she stood with arms akimbo, giving everyone a view of the fine blue cambric gown she wore, and stared at Ariadne and Emily.

  “First Priscilla Tate accepts some nonentity,” she complained, “and then you declare your love for a common constable. Really, the only one of you with any sense is Ariadne. She caught the heir to a marquess!”

  Her nasal voice obviously carried, for everyone else in the room stopped their conversations and glanced their way. Ariadne thought her cheeks must be as pink as Emily’s. Only the four of them knew that Emily’s father had yet to allow Mr. Cropper to request her hand. The Duke of Emerson was a very busy fellow now that Napoleon was rampaging about the Continent again. Emily’s father rarely had time for her, much less her suitor of questionable background.

  But that didn’t mean Acantha had cause to gloat.

  “In the first place, Miss Dalrymple,” Ariadne said, raising her chin, “Priscilla Tate is marrying a man of intellect and integrity, whom His Grace the Duke of Rottenford not only relies upon but calls cousin. In the second, no one with half a brain in her head would consider a constable equal to the highly prestigious Bow Street Runners, who count Mr. Cropper as one of the youngest ever admitted to their exalted ranks. If you intend to find fault, at least get your facts straight.”

  Acantha sniffed, nose in the air. “They’re still marrying beneath them. That is a fact.”

  “At least,” Ariadne said, “they’re marrying.”

  Acantha colored. Hanging her head so that her bun of lank brown hair stood out behind her, she heaved a prodigious sigh. “This Season has been brutal. All the best gentlemen have already been captured.” She eyed Mr. Cunningham as if just now noticing him. “And what of you, sir? I suppose you will tell me you’re to be married as well.”

  Mr. Cunningham angled his head to look around her at Ariadne. “Alas, no, Miss Dalrymple. I had an opportunity to advance my case with a most presentable young lady, and I regret that I squandered it on idle chit chat.”

  Did he mean her? Had he returned her feelings after all? Oh, why did her heart persist in beating faster? Perhaps she’d misunderstood his comments last night. Perhaps he’d merely been indulging in gossip or saying what he thought he ought. How was she to know? She searched his gaze and found only earnest entreaty.

  Acantha went so far as to pat him on the arm. “Happens to us all,” she assured him. Then she fluttered her lashes. “Though I’m certain any lady would be delighted to receive your call.”

  He stepped back, forcing her to drop her arm. “Which reminds me. I have other calls I must make. Again, Miss Courdebas, my heartfelt congratulations. I only hope our paths might cross again under more conducive circumstances.” He hurried over to pay his respects to Daphne and Lady Rollings.

  Acantha humphed. “All taken,” she muttered, rubbing absently at her graceful skirts.

  Ariadne straightened. “Nonsense. Why, I would wager there are at least half a dozen Eligibles in this room at the moment.” She seized Acantha by the shoulders and gave her a push toward the nearest group. “By all means, go find one.”

  Before Acantha could vacillate, Ariadne grabbed Emily’s arm and drew her over to the gilded marble hearth. The three gentlemen there made room for them with welcoming smiles.

  “Carry on,” Ariadne told them. “Don’t mind us.” She purposefully turned her back on their frowns of confusion.

  Emily shook her head. “This is madness. I will never understand boys.”

  “I quite agree. Truly, this would all be very amusing if Sinclair really had offered for me instead of claiming a false engagement to throw his nemesis off the scent.”

  “And can we be certain the ruse worked?” Emily asked. “Do we know his quarry is satisfied that you are no threat to him?”

  Ariadne stiffened. Indeed, with the whole betrothal story playing out, she had given no thought to the man who had attacked her in Hyde Park. Lord Hawksbury had seemed sure the betrothal would deflect all suspicion of her activities, but how could she be certain she was still not a target? She glanced around the room again, thought through the faces of the visitors who had called earlier. There had been several dark-haired men among them, including both Freddie and Archie. Could either of them be the spy Lord Hawksbury sought? And how would that spy react now, once he heard that Ariadne and Lord Hawksbury were apparently becoming one?

  Did a smiling face around her mask the heart of a villain?

  Chapter Ten

  Sinclair had an important engagement before he could call on Ariadne that day. His father wasn’t the only one who needed to hear of his betrothal from Sinclair himself. And so, at a discreet hour of the afternoon, he paid a visit to Whitehall.

  Many in Society were aware that the Marquis of Hastings held some position in government. Certainly they knew princes and Parliamentarians alike sought his council. A chosen few understood that he led an elite cadre of gentlemen intelligence agents recruited from among the aristocracy, who relayed all manner of suspicious activities occurring in the very cream of Society. And only Lord Hastings knew who exactly served in his employ.

  Sinclair still remembered when the marquis had approached him. He’d been fresh out of school, his enthusiasm for joining
the world tempered by his father’s decline and refusal to allow him to fight. Already two of his friends had died on a battlefield in Spain. Was he fit for nothing but the gaming tables at White’s?

  Though he’d been invited to play at the high-stakes game at the famous gentlemen’s club that night, he’d refused, taking himself to the bow window where Brummell had once passed judgment on passersby. Gazing out into the night of St. James’s, where gas light cast golden puddles on the pavement, he’d seen only darkness ahead of him.

  “Moment of your time, Hawksbury?” Lord Hastings had said, seating himself opposite before Sinclair could even acknowledge him. “I have a proposition for you.”

  Though Sinclair’s answer had thrust his life further into the shadows, he had never regretted accepting his lordship’s offer or the adventures it had provided. He only regretted he hadn’t been successful this time.

  Captain Randolph, a tall, blond fellow with a square chin, led Sinclair immediately into a spacious suite hidden in a back corner of the impressive government building. As the captain went to stand behind the desk, head high in his Oxford blue regimentals, Hastings looked up from some papers before him and waved Sinclair closer. Anyone looking at him would hardly consider him dangerous in his dapper brown coat and gold-shot waistcoat. With thick, short-cropped hair and a bristling mustache turned to gray, he seemed more likely to be found reading a paper at his favorite club than directing the destiny of the nation. But those deep-set brown eyes were shrewd, his energy indefatigable.

  “Report,” his superior barked as Sinclair came to a stop in front of the claw-foot walnut desk.

  He kept his gaze on the white paneling over his lordship’s shoulder. “Still no luck identifying our French assailant.”

  Hastings leaned back in his chair, drawing Sinclair’s attention to his face. Were those new lines around his mobile mouth? Was this assignment even more important than Sinclair had thought?

  “No further sightings?” Hastings pressed. “No murmurs among the ton?”

  “Nothing since the attack on Ariadne Courdebas,” Sinclair assured him.

  The slightest crease appeared in Captain Randolph’s broad forehead. Did he know something Sinclair had failed to discover?

  “And Miss Courdebas?” Hastings asked as if the topic held no more interest than the current weather. “How does she fit in all this?”

  He was too canny by half. Hastings was ever observing, gauging reactions, sensing emotions. The least movement would speak volumes.

  “I am convinced she is an innocent,” Sinclair replied, holding himself steady and calm. “I have seen nothing, heard nothing that would tell me otherwise.”

  Hastings did not respond. As the silence stretched, Sinclair saw Captain Randolph swallow. Sinclair couldn’t stop the question. “Have you?”

  “Not a bit,” Hastings confirmed readily. “I’ve only met the girl twice this Season with her family, but she strikes me as level-headed and wise beyond her years.”

  Sinclair relaxed. “I am under the same impression.”

  “And that is no doubt why you felt it incumbent to betroth yourself to the girl.”

  Sinclair shook his head, chuckle bubbling up. “Perhaps you should discharge me, my lord, for you are the second person to admit to knowing news I thought unknown to most.”

  Hastings rose. “Nothing is a secret on the ton. You simply need to know who to ask.” He waved a hand. “Sit down, Hawksbury. I’m not going to discharge you. You have the makings of a fine intelligence agent. And, given the situation with Miss Courdebas, I might have done the same as you.”

  Sinclair allowed himself to sink onto the hard wood chair on his side of the desk. Hastings paced back and forth on the other side.

  “I have been made privy to certain actions within the halls of government,” he told Sinclair, hands clasped behind his back, “and I believe I know the spy’s target, if not the victim’s identity.”

  So that’s what he’d missed. His mind sorted through possibilities, considered every angle. “Lord Rollings?” he asked. “Ariadne’s father?”

  Hastings paused, glancing at him with raised brow. “An astute guess, but no. While he is an avid supporter in Parliament, he isn’t connected to the War Office.”

  “The War Office.” Sinclair edged forward in his seat. “Then this possible attack has something to do with our strategy against Napoleon.”

  Hastings commenced pacing again, as if his energy could not be confined to his desk or even this room. “That I am not at liberty to say. What I have surmised is that the gentleman in danger is someone of great importance to the government, most likely a member of the House of Lords, whose advice underpins many decisions concerning our relations with France.”

  Sinclair rose slowly to his feet. “My lord, if your life is in danger, you must take steps to protect yourself.”

  Hastings waved his hand again. “Not me. I like to think I’ve left such a muddy trail that France cannot tell whether I’m coming or going. And neither can I.” His eyes twinkled. “There are a handful of men who fit that description, and most are well aware of the dangers inherent in their positions. I have alerted them each to be cautious.”

  His heart sank. Once more, everything had been dealt with, by someone else.

  “Then what would you have me do, my lord?” he asked.

  Hastings narrowed his eyes. “Each of our prospective targets moves in the same circles as the Courdebas family. Stick close to your betrothed, Hawksbury. She may lead us to our villain yet.”

  *

  The clock in the entry way struck two and then half past, with no sign of Ariadne’s supposedly devoted groom-to-be. So much for her newfound power to command men. She was only glad she had never mentioned the appointment to her mother or Daphne. As it was, they made sure to usher every caller out by three. Even Emily excused herself. Ariadne did not have to be told why. Her mother said it for her as she closed the withdrawing room door behind them.

  “We have a great many things to do if we’re to be ready for Almack’s tonight.”

  As if she weren’t all too aware that “we” did not include her.

  Given all the fuss today, she’d half expected a voucher to arrive, addressed to Lord Hawksbury’s betrothed, of course. For Almack’s, she was ready to make concessions.

  “Perhaps it is a blessing Daphne was granted the voucher instead of you,” her mother said as they climbed the stairs to the chamber story. “After all, you are betrothed now. You have no need to search for a husband.”

  “Lucky you,” Daphne muttered.

  And Ariadne could not tell her sister she felt the same way.

  Oh, but this was maddening! She nearly slammed the door of her bedchamber behind her. She couldn’t remember a time without Daphne at her side. Daphne, the exuberant; Daphne the daring. Daphne who tended to say the first thing that came to her mind. That trait alone made her a poor choice for confidences, much less secrets of international import.

  And how many times had she wished herself brave enough or pretty enough to step out from Daphne’s shadow? Here was her chance! Why did she feel so guilty in taking it?

  No, she would be happy her sister had this opportunity to dance the night away at the most exclusive club in London, the only club run by and devoted to the ladies. She would hope Daphne attracted the perfect suitor: kind, clever, handsome, wealthy. She kept her smile bright through dinner with her parents and sister, wished them all farewell from the entry way as they headed for the carriage in their finery, lamplight setting their jewels to sparkling. As their butler Pattison closed the door, she felt as if the night air wrapped around her, darkening the glow from the chandelier.

  A good book, that’s what she needed. Perhaps she’d reread Pride and Prejudice for the fourth time. She wanted to determine how the anonymous author made her readers part of the story and left them longing for more. Surely reading great writing would make her a better writer. She was painfully aware that her journal h
ad been calling for hours.

  But she hadn’t even reached the top of the stairs before the knocker sounded, echoing through the house. She turned and glanced back as Pattison went to answer.

  “Lord Hawksbury to see Miss Courdebas,” his lordship announced, striding past the butler into the entry. The swirl of his tweed greatcoat seemed to invite adventure inside with him. The light glowed on his dark hair as he pulled off his top hat.

  “I regret that Lord and Lady Rollings and Miss Courdebas have left for the evening,” Pattison said, eying him with obvious disapproval.

  “Not that Miss Courdebas,” Ariadne declared, descending. “This one.” She stepped down onto the marble tiles. “It’s all right, Pattison. Lord Hawksbury and I are betrothed.”

  Her butler turned his fish-eyed gaze her way. Everything about Pattison always seemed too much. His powdered-wig added inches to his already impressive height. His skin hung in jowls about his narrow mouth. His black coat seemed to have been cut for a larger man, dripping in folds around his figure. Now his pale skin was beginning to turn red, as if he was highly disturbed that she might question his decision. Had her mother neglected to inform the staff of Ariadne’s change in circumstance, or had the august butler simply refused to believe the tale?

  “I’m certain Mother would expect me to receive him,” Ariadne continued, reaching for Lord Hawksbury’s arm. “Will you have refreshments sent to the withdrawing room?”

  His nostrils flared as if her request disgusted him, but he inclined his head, dropping white powder into the shoulders of his coat. “At once, miss. May I take your coat, my lord?”

  “No need,” Lord Hawksbury said. “I shan’t be long. But perhaps you can postpone those refreshments and fetch Miss Courdebas her cloak. We’ll be going out shortly.”

  Pattison’s face puckered as if he’d just sucked a lemon. “I was not informed of a change in plan.”

  Neither was she, but she knew if she had to sit here all night she’d go mad. She flapped her fingers at the butler, who backed away as if she’d pulled a weapon on him.