Eloquence and Espionage

by Regina Scott

  The change in him was minute, she’d give him that. His head raised just the slightest, and his fingers tightened on the blotter. “Thank you, Miss Courdebas. That was . . . enlightening. I only wish more of my staff were as observant.”

  Was it her imagination or did Sinclair sink a bit in his chair? Perhaps it was merely that she had risen with the praise.

  “Then you will approve my request to join your group?” she asked.

  “I shall take it under advisement,” he promised. “Normally I extend the invitation after watching the fellow for a time, as I did with Lord Hawksbury. He has proven particularly adept.”

  Until recently. He didn’t say the words, but they seemed to hang in the air nonetheless. Had she somehow given them the impression that Sinclair had been lax in his duty?

  “His determination to catch this miscreant is no doubt one of the reasons I wish to assist,” Ariadne assured the spy master. “Indeed, if he had not been after the spy at that very moment I would have had no opportunity to observe the creature. Lord Hawksbury has given no thought to his own needs, risked personal injury, and threatened his relationship to his peers and family to pursue your ends. You could look for no finer emissary.”

  Sinclair was definitely lower than when she’d first seated herself. Now what had she done?

  Lord Hastings held up a hand. “No need to enumerate his finer points. I am well aware of Lord Hawksbury’s considerable skills. Thank you for delivering the message personally, Miss Courdebas. I’m afraid I have another appointment waiting. My associate will see you out.”

  She knew dismissal when she heard it. She rose, and they all stood with her.

  “My lord,” she said, dipping a curtsey.

  “Miss Courdebas,” he acknowledged with a nod. “You are a clever girl. I’m certain I have no need to remind you that what you have seen and heard must remain private.”

  Ariadne cocked her head. “Have we even been properly introduced, sir?”

  Lord Hastings chuckled. “Perhaps not, but you can be sure we will meet again.”

  Ariadne sighed. “No, no, we cannot meet again if we have never met. A better return would have been ‘I look forward to that introduction, madam.’”

  Lord Hastings frowned, but Sinclair took her arm. “Thank you for your time, my lord. Allow me to escort you home, Miss Courdebas.”

  She sighed again as he led her out the door. “Forgive me. I simply couldn’t allow poor dialogue to ruin the moment.”

  “Lord Hastings is not a character in a play,” Sinclair said, walking so fast down the short corridor she had to scurry to keep up. “And neither am I. You cannot put words in our mouths or dictate our actions.”

  “I’m sure I never . . .” she started.

  He drew up short as they reached the door. “Of course you do. You seem to find this all a game. I assure you, madam, it is far more serious.”

  “Well, certainly it is! I am not dim, sir, nor am I a child. We are at war with France. People are dying.”

  “People?” He grabbed her arm and drew her out of the way of the door. His face was dark, his eyes haunted. “My friends are dying. John Warren, Peter Makepiece, Winston Wallingford. All of whom should be here this Season, beguiling the ladies, boxing at Gentleman Jackson’s. They should have married and had children and grown old and fat and put up their feet at White’s. Instead, they died protecting our nation. I will not add to their number.”

  For a moment, she was ready to protest that she had no intention of growing fat and that she would never be allowed to so much as enter White’s, much less put up her feet there. But for once the import of his words came through the poor imagery.

  “You are concerned about my safety,” she realized.

  He rubbed his brow as if wearied. “Of course I am concerned for your safety. Did last night teach you nothing? He might have harmed you. He might have killed you. I wish you would take the matter seriously, Ariadne, for it quite chills my blood.”

  “Lord Hawksbury.” At Lord Hastings’s call, Sinclair stiffened. As he turned, Ariadne saw the spy master ambling closer.

  Sinclair put on a smile as if he were greeting the fellow after weeks away instead of only a few minutes. “My lord, how good to see you again.”

  Lord Hastings’ brown eyes twinkled as he came to stop in front of them. “Will you make me known to your lovely companion?”

  She thought Sinclair was clenching his teeth, the words came out so tight. “Miss Ariadne Courdebas, may I present Harold Petersborough, Marquis of Hastings.”

  Ariadne curtsied. “Lord Hastings.”

  He bowed. “Miss Courdebas, a pleasure. I understand congratulations are in order.”

  “Yes, my lord,” she said with a sidelong glance to Sinclair. His smile was tepid at best, but she thought perhaps he was attempting to look suitably besotted.

  “Excellent.” He clapped Sinclair on the shoulder. “I have known this one since he was in leading strings. As such, I wonder if I might ask a favor.”

  Was he going to accept her after all? “Anything, my lord,” Ariadne assured him.

  “Bear in mind that Miss Courdebas is busy on her first Season,” Sinclair cautioned with a look her way. “Her mother is rather protective of her time.”

  As was he. That much was clear by the way he put an arm about her waist. She would have found the gesture wildly romantic under other circumstances.

  “I can imagine,” Lord Hastings told him. “That is why I thought of her for this very assignment.”

  Assignment? Then she was being tried for the position! Ariadne beamed, then remembered she should only look interested and tempered her smile.

  “I understand,” Lord Hastings continued, “that an old friend of mine may make an appearance at Almack’s next Wednesday. He’s no doubt changed with time, but I believe you saw him recently, Miss Courdebas. I was hoping you might help reintroduce me to him.”

  He wanted her to identify the spy. Her heart leaped, only to come crashing down. She lowered her gaze. “I regret, my lord, that I have not been given vouchers to Almack’s.” Then she glanced up at him, hope sparking. “Perhaps you could see a way toward changing that.”

  His look turned sad. “If you wish to converse with the Prince Regent or send word to Wellington in France, I’m your man. But I’m afraid vouchers to Almack’s are beyond my reach. I suggest you endeavor to find a way to secure them yourself by next Wednesday.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  “Doomed,” Ariadne intoned as Sinclair sat across from her in his carriage. “My plans for being an intelligence agent, my dreams of a Season, gone! Oh, a pox on those patronesses!”

  Sinclair wasn’t sure whether to sympathize or thank God. He knew all too well the heady feeling of being chosen to join Lord Hastings’s cadre, of thinking himself of use at last. He hated to deny her that joy. But the idea of watching her put herself in harm’s way knotted his stomach.

  That’s why he’d lashed out at her in Whitehall. She seemed to see the world as if everyone was an actor on a stage. The world, he knew to his sorrow, was far more unpredictable. Look at how so many of his friends were already gone. Look at how his mother had died so young of the influenza. Look at how his father had declined, the way he’d lashed out at Sinclair’s grandparents. If Ariadne joined the cadre and was hurt, he wouldn’t be able to live with himself. He didn’t want to lose her too.

  “Perhaps it’s for the best,” he said. “You have enough on your hands with the Season and your literary hopes.”

  She shook her head, and a bit of the veil, which was still on top of her hat, slipped down over her forehead. “Our engagement has made the Season moot in any event. Mother won’t push me to find a husband when she thinks I already have one. And I’ve already told the publisher the second volume will be late.”

  He had thought she only had hopes of publishing one day. He should have known she’d already accomplished it. He’d heard tales of some popular novels written “by a lady.�
�� Was he looking at the author of Pride and Prejudice?

  “The publisher?” he said with feigned nonchalance. “Then you are writing one of your romantic novels.”

  She blanched. “No, I, well, not exactly.”

  Good Lord, what was she writing? Something told him he would not like the answer to his question. He couldn’t stop himself nonetheless. “Ariadne, you must know that the exploits of Lord Hastings and his men are not for public consumption.”

  She beamed. “Excellent turn of phrase.”

  Why did he feel like preening? “Glad you approve. But I want your word that you will not write about what you know of Lord Hastings or his cadre.”

  She raised her hand. “I solemnly swear. May my last quill snap in two if I so much as consider writing about any of this.” She lowered her hand with a giggle. “Though it would make a marvelous story.”

  Just what he’d feared. “This isn’t a story! You cannot dictate the outcome.”

  Her smile faded. “And am unlikely to even participate in it at this rate. Oh, I wish I knew a way to get my hands on a voucher!”

  It was obvious the matter concerned her, and for more reason than that she hoped to identify this French spy to him and Lord Hastings. He understood a little why. His friend Wallingford’s sister had once been denied vouchers, and the poor girl and her mother had gone into a decline.

  “No chance of a decent marriage now,” Wally had confided in Sinclair. “Some of the high sticklers won’t even receive her.”

  Ariadne wouldn’t have that problem so long as people thought her engaged to Sinclair, but once their false betrothal was ended, she could well struggle to remain a viable part of high society if she wasn’t allowed into Almack’s.

  “Perhaps simply request a voucher?” he suggested.

  She eyed him. “You have clearly never been initiated in the ways of Almack’s, sir. My mother submitted a request for herself and her daughters before we ever reached London. Besides, a lady patroness does not grant vouchers to anyone who she has not called on personally.”

  “So invite one to call,” he said, wondering why the matter had to be so difficult. It wasn’t as if she were trying to smuggle secrets to Wellington behind enemy lines.

  “The Countess Lieven has already called,” she informed him. “And questioned Daphne and me at great length. Vouchers arrived shortly after. For my mother and Daphne.”

  Oh. Well, that did make the matter trickier. “Perhaps she thought you were too young.”

  “Of Daphne and I, which of us appears the most mature?” she challenged.

  Her, certainly. Her sister was far too exuberant, likely to fly off on odd tangents. Yet somehow he felt any answer would disappoint Ariadne.

  “So, what will you do?” he asked.

  She twitched her mouth back and forth, the movement drawing his attention to her lips. They were the prettiest shade of pink, and he knew from experience that they felt softer than her cheek. He had to force his gaze to meet hers.

  “I fear I must appeal to an expert on such matters,” she said with great resolution.

  “Your mother,” he guessed.

  Now she wrinkled her nose. “Certainly not. My mother may be well respected in Society, but sometimes I think she has no idea how things are really done. No, I need someone of sophistication, of undeniable cunning. Take me to Priscilla.”

  *

  Ariadne was not surprised to learn Priscilla was not at home. It was the Season after all. They managed to track her down on Bond Street, coming out of a haberdashery on the arm of her betrothed, Nathan Kent.

  “Lord Hawksbury,” he greeted, remarkably fine gray eyes shining through his spectacles. “Miss Courdebas. What a pleasure.”

  Priscilla’s curtsey was designed to honor a monarch and display her considerable curves to advantage in the frilly muslin gown. She was the one person Ariadne knew who actually made white muslin look good.

  “My lord,” Priscilla said, fluttering golden lashes. She was fawning from habit. Priscilla was engaged, and so, for all Nathan knew, was Ariadne, to Sinclair.

  Sinclair inclined his head in greeting to both of them, then looked to Ariadne to share their purpose. Should she broach the subject with Nathan watching? Like Sinclair, Priscilla’s betrothed was an upstanding young man. Ariadne wasn’t sure how he’d take Priscilla’s stragems in this instance.

  Priscilla seemed to sense a problem, for she linked arms with Ariadne. “Walk with us,” she said. “I’m sure Nathan and Lord Hawksbury will find something fascinating to discuss.” Her look back to Nathan was pointed.

  Nathan chuckled. “I know when we’re not wanted, Hawksbury. Come with me to Ackermann’s. They have some excellent caricatures on display, guaranteed to amuse.”

  Sinclair’s gaze remained on Ariadne, so she gave him a quick nod. He turned and left with Nathan.

  Priscilla led her along the row of shops, where everything from multitiered wedding cakes to bright bolts of satin were on display. “Quickly,” Priscilla said. “They won’t be able to leave us alone along. What do you need?”

  “Vouchers,” Ariadne answered, twitching aside her walking dress from a puddle on the pavement. “By next Wednesday.”

  Priscilla tapped one finger to her perfectly shaped lips. “Not enough time to blackmail a patroness, and I suppose putting an acquaintance in a compromising position is also out of the question.” She cast Ariadne a look, green eyes tilted up like a cat’s.

  Ariadne shook her head. “I fear so.”

  “Hmm.” She stopped in front of a shop where feathered hats sat on plump velvet pillows like pampered parrots. “Then you’ll simply have to do something to impress them.”

  Her bones positively wilted at the thought. “That approach has not proven effective.”

  “That’s because you haven’t made an effort,” Priscilla informed her, turning to face her.

  Ariadne raised her chin, then took a step back as a mother and daughters exited the shop, followed by a footman armed with packages. “I most certainly have. Ask Mother. I’ve been polite when others would have railed; danced with every gentleman who asked even when he was rude, frog-faced, or flat-footed; and attended every at-home and generally listened more than I talked.”

  Priscilla shook her head, the cabochon on her bonnet flashing in the sunlight. Only Ariadne and Priscilla’s parents knew the gem was paste.

  “So has every young lady on the ton,” she insisted. “You have to rise above, show them you are worth their time, prove that you are remarkable.”

  Ariadne sighed. “Even when I fear I’m not?”

  Priscilla’s look softened. “You are, you know. There isn’t a girl in London who can match you for intellect.”

  Ariadne cast her a grateful smile. “Thank you. But I doubt that will dazzle the patronesses.”

  “Perhaps not, but they do enjoy wit,” Priscilla suggested.

  Through the glass, Ariadne could see a clerk gazing at them. He began waving his arms as if to draw their attention to the various wares so beautifully displayed. So as not to give him false hope, she turned and led Priscilla forward.

  “I enjoy wit as well,” she told her friend as they wended through the growing crowds of shoppers. “I simply tend to think of the witty thing to say after the conversation is over.”

  Priscilla stopped in front of a jeweler’s, gazing longingly at a tiara shining in the window. “There is another way,” she murmured. “Though it will take all your courage and cunning.”

  Neither of which she could rely on. “What do you advise?”

  She turned to meet Ariadne’s gaze. “All the patronesses pride themselves on knowing everything about Society. Lady Jersey in particular thrives on gossip. Her sobriquet is Silence, because she is so rarely that.”

  “I’m not much of a gossip,” Ariadne protested. “It is an abhorrent practice that too often is rife with untruths and misconjectures.”

  “Precisely,” Priscilla agreed. “But you do know
a perfectly true secret or two.”

  Ariadne started shaking her head, but Priscilla caught her arm.

  “Listen to me! If you truly want vouchers, Ariadne, there is only one thing for it.”

  Ariadne swallowed. “What?”

  Priscilla’s face was hard. “You will have to lay bare your deepest, darkest secret and pray it doesn’t spread through the ton like wildfire.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  “Must be nice to have an easy betrothal,” Nathan Kent said, clasping his hands behind his bottle green coat as he and Sinclair ambled back toward their ladies through the other shoppers thronging Bond Street.

  Sinclair would hardly have called his relationship with Ariadne easy. Interesting, exhilarating, challenging, certainly. But he couldn’t exactly complain about his family issues or their investigation of the French spy to the Duke of Rottenford’s personal secretary, however wise Nathan was rumored to be.

  So he turned the comment around instead. “Your betrothal can hardly be called difficult. Half the fellows in London would kill to be in your position, or so I’ve heard.”

  Nathan glanced ahead to where Priscilla was paused before the window of a jeweler’s, the golden curls escaping her bonnet to catch the summer sun. “I am to be envied above all men. I merely meant that of Priscilla and her friends, your betrothal is most likely to meet with the approval of the ton. Cropper’s mother may have been aristocracy, but the fact that his father never acknowledged him makes it difficult for him to be received. I come from excellent family, but Priscilla’s family would far have preferred her to accept a greater offer than mine. You and Miss Courdebas have no such issues.”

  He obviously wasn’t up on gossip. Or perhaps the gossip about Sinclair’s mother had been so long ago that it was no more remembered. “Every courtship has issues,” Sinclair said. “It is up to us whether we allow them to rule us or we rule over them.”

  He thought they had been far enough away from the ladies that his voice would not carry, but Ariadne looked up just then, smile bright and blue eyes brighter as Sinclair and Nathan rejoined them.