Eloquence and Espionage

by Regina Scott

  On her dressing table, her journal beckoned, quill in a brass stand waiting for her hand. Normally, she would have been eager to record the events of the day, but her mind was so full she didn’t know which thought to write down first. There was her impending meeting with Lord Hastings--what to wear to give the right impression that she was earnest, not flighty (so no white muslin!) and loyal (perhaps something blue and red like the flag of the Empire?)? What would she say? ‘My lord, I come bearing tidings of great import.’ My word, but she sounded like an archangel!

  And what exactly did she want out of her meeting? To tell his lordship about the spy, of course, but was that to be the extent of her involvement? Was she relegated to the role of parrot, chattering away for the amusement of others? Again, she had that feeling that she must be more, do more, than she had ever done before.

  Then there was her encounter with the spy. Could he really hurt Daphne or her parents? Surely plaguing Sinclair and Lord Hastings was not his chief purpose for being in London. He must be up to something dastardly, something risky, that he felt compelled to warn them away. Would he assassinate a member of Parliament? The Prime Minister? The Prince Regent! Surely she was not expected to stand by while others fought the fight.

  And the idea of fighting only brought up the strange visit with Sinclair’s father. Was the once-brilliant man beyond hope? What tragedy had so snuffed out his bright light? Was there nothing she could do to help?

  Over all her tumbling thoughts was one man: Sinclair. How noble his reason for becoming an intelligence agent. How admirable his determination to catch the spy. How dear the disappointment on his face when he admitted his failings. How manly the planes of his face. How warm his embrace.

  Yes, truly, she did have a great deal on her mind.

  She was still pacing when Daphne and their parents returned. Her sister poked her head in the door and brightened when her gaze met Ariadne’s.

  “Oh, good, you’re up.” She flounced into the room, ball gown swinging. “I can give you all the details if you like.”

  One more detail and she thought her head might explode, and that was no hyperbole. “Perhaps in the morning.”

  Daphne stopped with a frown. “I thought you would be curious.” She brightened again. “And I have news! You will never guess who was given vouchers for Almack’s.”

  Despite all she had been through, her head came up, and her heart started beating faster. “You convinced the patronesses?”

  “Someone did,” Daphne said with an emphatic nod that set her curls to bobbing. “Can you imagine what everyone will say next Wednesday when Emily walks in on Mr. Cropper’s arm?”

  Mr. Cropper. Jamie. Emily’s inamorata. “Oh,” Ariadne managed. “Someone convinced the patronesses to admit a Bow Street Runner to Almack’s. How nice.”

  “I think it’s divine,” Daphne said. “I imagine he’ll dance with her every dance. It’s like that at Almack’s. I never sat out once.” She hummed a snatch of melody and swayed on her feet as if she wanted to keep dancing even now.

  Ariadne was happy for Emily, but really. Was it too much to ask that she might be granted vouchers? She was of excellent family. She was pleasant. She was even supposedly betrothed to the Season’s greatest catch! What more did these ladies want?

  Daphne began waltzing around the room, bumping into the bed, the arm chair by the wood-wrapped hearth. “All our suspects were there as well. Archibald Stump even danced with me. He asked after you.”

  Probably making polite conversation, asking after friends and family. “How kind. What did you say?”

  “He wanted to know why you weren’t there, and I told him you had a distemperate inflammation of the innermost ear but would be free Friday if he wished to call. I said the same thing to Mr. Cunningham when he asked.”

  She licked her lips. “Mr. Cunningham asked after me?”

  Daphne nodded. “Yes, and he specifically told Mother he was disappointed not to have been able to dance with a lady of your caliber. I thought you’d like to hear that.”

  It was nice to hear the gentleman she had so admired thought of her when surrounded by the cream of London Society. Perhaps he was even now pining away, regretting the unthinking words he’d uttered at the Caldecott ball. Perhaps the next time they’d meet, he’d go down on one knee and beg her to throw Sinclair over for him.

  Which was ridiculous really. Why would she throw over Sinclair, when he actually admired her without prompting?

  “Thank you for telling me,” Ariadne said to her sister. “Now, if you don’t mind . . .”

  Daphne stopped dancing directly in front of Ariadne and peered into her face. “You aren’t actually ill, are you?” Peeling off her glove, she put a hand to Ariadne’s forehead.

  Ariadne stepped back. “Certainly not! I’m fine.”

  Daphne dropped her hand. “No, you aren’t. For one thing, you’ve been keeping to yourself a great deal. Mother even remarked on it.”

  “Mother is forever finding fault,” Ariadne reminded her, though she felt her face heating.

  “Yes, but you have been enamored of Mr. Cunningham since before Priscilla’s ball, and you didn’t even smile to think he had asked about you.”

  If her sister knew her innermost thoughts, she would not be so concerned. Well, actually, if she knew all Ariadne’s thoughts, she might be concerned indeed!

  “I have a great deal on my mind,” Ariadne explained.

  Daphne frowned. “Like what?”

  A false betrothal, a French spy out for blood, the role she might play in his capture--none of which she could admit to her sister. “Well, it is the Season, you know.”

  Daphne’s look turned dreamy. “It is indeed.” Humming to herself once more, she side-stepped her way toward the door. Hand on the latch, she glanced back at Ariadne. “We can talk more tomorrow. We simply must find a way to get you vouchers. It would have been so much more fun if you had been with me tonight.”

  Ariadne smiled at her. “Thank you, Daphne. Sleep well.”

  “Sweet dreams,” Daphne called before dancing out the door.

  “Rather hope for no dreams,” Ariadne murmured as she headed for her bed. For she very much feared that whatever dreams might come, they would hardly be pleasant.

  *

  Sinclair called for Ariadne precisely at eleven the next day. He had very nearly been late again. He’d returned to his rooms the previous night to find an urgent note from his father, apologizing for his behavior. Sinclair might have been moved at this unusual response, if the note hadn’t continued with a demand to meet with Sinclair first thing that morning. Still, the odd wording had been enough for Sinclair to do as his father bid.

  He had been a little surprised to find his father missing from the study when Adams showed him in. Instead, Symthe was hard at work behind the desk. The personal secretary immediately shoved the papers into a drawer and looked up with his usual sickly smile.

  “Lord Hawksbury, how good to see you. May I be of assistance?”

  Sinclair shook his head. “I thought to speak with my father, but apparently he has yet to rise. Perhaps later.”

  Symthe rushed to his feet as Sinclair turned to leave. “Wait, my lord! I believe I know your father’s concerns.”

  Sinclair eyed him. Adam’s apple bobbing, Symthe scurried closer.

  “He does, on occasion, make me privy to his thoughts,” he said as if confessing a great honor. “He is most concerned about your association with Lord Hastings.”

  Sinclair could hear the trap closing around him. Did his father suspect? Did the secretary? He kept his face still to betray none of his concerns. “If my father cannot be bothered to deal with me, he should not be surprised when I turn to one of his old friends for guidance.”

  Symthe cocked his head, brown eyes sharp as glass fixed on Sinclair’s face. “Everyone requires guidance from time to time. I am honored to offer advice to your father on occasion. Is that the nature of your relationship with Lord H
astings? Does he listen to your counsel?”

  He refused to provide the silky fellow with details he would no doubt run to report to his employer. “I couldn’t say. Tell my father I called. Perhaps he can be bothered to see me next time.”

  “Certainly,” Symthe said, gaze darting to the desk as if he couldn’t wait to return to his tasks. “But, your father is a busy man, with many plans that require constant tending. You must excuse him for setting his priorities as he does.”

  “No,” Sinclair said, feeling as if the air in the room was seeping away, “I don’t have to excuse him at all. Tell him I have my own priorities to attend to.” He strode to the door and left.

  The entire conversation might have darkened his day if he hadn’t been meeting Ariadne afterward. She was waiting for him in the sitting room at the front of the house. As she rose from a blue chintz-upholstered chair, he blinked at the sight of her outfit. Gone was the pristine white she normally wore during the day. Her navy- and green-striped walking dress was of crisp material that said its wearer would brook no nonsense. The black velvet hat perched on her hair held a lace veil that came to her chin, offering only a hint of her features.

  “I sent my mother and sister out shopping this morning,” she confided as she moved to his side. “All it took was the suggestion that you thought Daphne’s gloves more suited to a dowager.”

  He had never so much as noticed her sister’s gloves. “And my opinion matters so much to them?”

  “My entire family is in awe that I captured your attentions,” she said. “They wish to do nothing to change your feelings. If you asked them to dress like camels for the queen’s birthday, I would not be surprised if they politely enquired where they might purchase the costumes.”

  He shook his head as he offered her his arm. “I am unused to such unswerving devotion. I will use my newfound powers wisely, I promise.”

  Through the veil, he thought she was grinning. “But I think my mother would look lovely as a camel.”

  He chuckled, steering her past her butler, who was once more eying him as if Sinclair intended to carry off Ariadne and install her in a sultan’s harem. At least not all the people in her household thought him just short of divine.

  She paused on the step and took a deep breath, as if afraid to continue. He could see nothing that might have concerned her.

  “Nervous?” he asked, hand gentle on her arm.

  “Quite,” she responded.

  He gave her arm a squeeze. “You don’t have to go, you know. I could relay the message.”

  “No,” she said, head coming up so that the velvet of her hat tickled his chin. “I promised to tell Lord Hastings, and I intend to keep that promise.”

  “The dedicated heroine, protecting her family at the peril of her reputation” he complimented as he led her down the stairs to his waiting carriage. “Admirable.”

  He thought he caught a smile as he handed her into the carriage. “And the stalwart hero, always at her side and protecting her,” she countered.

  Pleasure rippled through him at the thought. But that was silly. He was no hero. He had failed too many times. The only place where he could claim any success was in safeguarding his grandparents from his father’s wrath, and she knew nothing of that.

  She sat across from him and arranged her skirts, then rubbed at them with her black-gloved hands as the coach set off. “Is there anything I should know, a code word, a secret handshake?”

  “Nothing like that,” Sinclair assured her. “It’s all very polite. We simply don’t talk much about the whole thing.”

  Her sigh pushed the veil away from her face. “Pity. But I suppose that is the point.”

  He managed to keep her talking about commonplaces like the weather and the health of the sovereign until they reached Whitehall. It was a mark of her trepidation that she did not protest the mundane topics.

  Once more he was ushered into Lord Hastings’s private suite. Captain Randolph raised a brow as Ariadne came with Sinclair. She glanced around at the plain room, and he thought he heard a “humph” from behind the veil. No doubt the place failed to live up to her imagination, but then, he was coming to realize, so did much of the world.

  “Miss Courdebas,” his superior greeted her, rising from behind the desk until she was seated across from him. “An unexpected pleasure. I understand you felt it necessary to speak directly to me about something of great urgency.”

  Ariadne pulled the veil up onto the velvet of her hat to offer them all a clear view of her face. Her normally creamy skin was turning pink. “Yes, my lord. I had two purposes for my visit, if you would indulge me.”

  Two purposes? What did she have in mind besides detailing the spy’s activities last night? Sinclair could see the curiosity in the older man’s deep brown eyes as well.

  “Certainly,” Lord Hastings said. “How might I be of service?”

  “It is not how you would serve me, my lord,” Ariadne said, raising her head. “But how I might assist you. For one thing, I have news of the French spy you seek, and I can describe him for you, in great detail.”

  He leaned forward. “Please do.”

  She held up a hand. “In a moment. But if I describe him sufficiently for you to apprehend him, then I request a service from you.”

  He smiled. “Tickets to the opera, perhaps?”

  She shook her head. “No, my lord. I want to join your ranks. I want you to make me an intelligence agent.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  If they had been ladies on the ton, Ariadne was certain Sinclair, Lord Hastings, and the handsome fellow in blue regimentals would have all gasped. She might even have had to administer smelling salts. As it was, Lord Hastings collapsed back in his chair as if she had issued him a challenge to a duel, and Sinclair surged to his feet, looking remarkably heated for all he was wearing an icy gray coat and black trousers.

  “Absolutely not,” he declared. “Unthinkable. I won’t have it.”

  What was he doing? Was he trying to protect her or did he think so little of her? Once she might have immediately begged their pardons, but now, well now she could not help but wonder why this must be denied her. She was clever, she was loyal. Why shouldn’t she serve her country?

  Ariadne eyed him. “Frankly, my lord, it is not your decision. I do wish you’d remember your role.”

  He sat, but his gaze remained on hers, eyes made darker by his concerns. “You persist in casting me as the hero, madam. What hero encourages the woman he loves to put herself in danger?”

  The woman he loves? Oh, but her heart started hammering at the thought. But, no. She’d asked him to play his part. Surely he was just trying to convince Lord Hastings they were truly engaged. Yet if the betrothal was intended to throw the spy off the scent, why wouldn’t England’s spy master know the truth?

  Still, she could not allow a word like love, so casually tossed about, to dissuade her.

  “And do you expect me to sit and sip tea while England is in danger?” she countered. “I hope I am made of stronger stuff.”

  “Ahem.” Lord Hastings’ polite cough drew her attention back to him. One finger stroked the tip of his walrus mustache, and she thought he was fighting a smile. “I believe you were going to describe our quarry, Miss Courdebas.”

  So he would not promise anything. Very well. She supposed it was only logical that she would have to prove herself first.

  “Of course,” she said, settling back in her seat. “I only saw him sitting, but his head was perhaps four inches higher than mine, his legs by the manner he curled them under the seat edge some distance longer. By my estimate, that would place him at around six feet tall. He was wearing a cloak of fine black wool in the Russian style favored by the tailor Mr. Simstone on Bond Street. You might inquire of his clientele.”

  Lord Hastings nodded to the fellow in regimentals, who stepped forward to make a note of that on a paper on the desk.

  “His build was similar to Sinclair’s,” Ariadne cont
inued, remembering that night, “but I believe him to be heavier. By the way the carriage dipped when he entered, I’d estimate nearly ten stone. His hair was dark, perhaps a shade lighter than Sinclair’s, I should think, and certainly not nearly as thick, long, or lustrous.”

  She glanced at him, trying to picture the fellow standing next to him. Pink appeared to be creeping into Sinclair’s cheeks. What had she said wrong? Surely she ought to provide some manner of comparison, and he was readily handy.

  “Go on,” Lord Hastings urged as if fascinated.

  How nice to have a receptive audience! Even her friends had been known to stop her when she spent too long over descriptions, preferring action to narrative. “He had a narrow face, with his hair receding just the slightest. A long nose with a bit of an upturn to the tip, as if he was in the habit of sneering. Mouth narrow as well, with thick lips the color of a dead salmon. Ruddy complexion, with a darker spot just here,” she pointed to the cheek under her right eye. “Straight teeth in need of a good brushing. Thick-fingered hands in gloves of Moroccan leather that are only sold at Harris’.”

  The soldier was scribbling frantically.

  “Anything else?” Lord Hastings asked.

  “Yes. He had a deeper baritone voice, and his dialect was far too pure. Most people carry a hint of their original location--the long vowels of Yorkshire, the lilt of Ireland. He spoke English as if he’d been carefully coached. His exact words were as follows.”

  She drew herself up and took a deep breath before declaiming firmly. “Tell Lord Hastings we’re on to him and his little cadre. Back off, or someone will get hurt.”

  Sinclair was staring at her. Should she have been louder, attempted to mimic the spy’s speech? She glanced at Lord Hastings, whose eyes had narrowed.

  “Did he give you no details?” he asked.

  Ariadne sighed. “None. And I pressed him. He didn’t like that. He threatened to torture Sinclair and throttle my sister. He did, however, wish me to tell you that the message came from an old friend.”