Eloquence and Espionage

by Regina Scott

  The lady held out her hand in greeting as Ariadne approached. “Miss Courdebas, such a pleasure to meet you.”

  The gentleman nodded. “A great honor.” His voice hinted of a Scottish moor. He sat on a chair as Ariadne perched on the sofa beside the lady. “Thank you for receiving us,” he said. “I’m Andrew MacDougall, and this is my wife Sally.”

  Ariadne inclined her head. “A pleasure to meet you. Is there a reason you sought me out?”

  Mr. and Mrs. MacDougall exchanged glances. “Well, dearie,” Mr. MacDougall said, returning his gaze to hers, “we thought you might like an explanation.”

  Ariadne could not help her frown. “Of what, precisely?”

  Again they exchanged glances.

  Mrs. MacDougall sighed. “He hasn’t told you, has he? You’ve never heard of the family MacDougall.”

  He. Did she mean Lord Hastings? Ariadne’s father?

  Sinclair?

  “I’m afraid not,” she said, heart starting to pound harder. “Please enlighten me.”

  They sat taller, pressing the wool of the coats Pattison must have refused to take against the back of the furnishings. “Very well,” Mr. MacDougall said. “Our daughter was Lord Hawksbury’s mother.”

  Ariadne stifled a gasp. “You’re Sinclair’s grandparents?”

  Mrs. MacDougall’s blue eyes filled with tears. “Aye, for all we’re allowed to see him.”

  Her husband reached out to press his hand on hers in obvious sympathy. “We saw that you were engaged to be married to him.”

  Mrs. MacDougall sniffed, pulling a dainty lace-edged handkerchief from her reticule. “Can you imagine? Finding out something so important in the gossip sheets?”

  “I’m sure he simply hasn’t had time to tell you,” Ariadne said, guilt tugging though she knew this wasn’t her fault.

  “No, lass,” Mr. MacDougall said, sadness drawing more lines down his face. “We haven’t spoken to Sinclair since his mother died ten years ago. His father wouldn’t allow it, you see.”

  Mrs. MacDougall nodded, dabbing at her eyes. “Cruel tyrant that he is. Oh, if only we’d known what he was before we encouraged Lucy to marry him!”

  “I don’t understand,” Ariadne said. “Why would Lord Winthrop refuse to allow his son to see his grandparents?”

  “Because he thinks us beneath him,” Mr. MacDougall grit out, face twisting. “I’m a coal merchant. You may not know it to look at me, but I’m one of the wealthiest men in Scotland. Our Lucy was bright and beautiful. We weren’t surprised when a fancy English lord showed interest. A dowry that size was bound to attract jackals.”

  “Now, dear,” Mrs. MacDougall chided. “We should really try to avoid disparaging Lucy’s husband, for all he deserves it.” She turned to Ariadne. “Lord Winthrop convinced Lucy and us that they should marry. We thought she’d be a grand lady, a marchioness.” She sighed longingly.

  “But the blighter only wanted her money,” her husband spit out. “Went through every penny in a few years and had the audacity to ask for more. To support Sinclair, mind you. Made it sound as if Lucy and the lad would starve but for my allowance.”

  “And then, when Lucy sickened and died, he refused to allow us admittance.” Mrs. MacDougall seemed to realize her voice was rising, for she stopped to draw a breath. “We thought, we hoped, you might prevail upon Sinclair to see us himself.”

  “He’s a man grown,” his grandfather agreed with a nod. “Time he made his own choices.”

  Mrs. MacDougall edged forward on her seat. “Won’t you help us, Miss Courdebas? Won’t you speak to Sinclair on our behalf?”

  Oh, the injustice of it. She could see it all now: the sweet-natured daughter locked in a dank tower (of course it could have been a cellar) until her health faded; the dutiful son attempting to honor his father’s wishes despite his better judgment. Small wonder Sinclair didn’t like talking about his family. But now she knew how to give him a happy ending.

  Ariadne raised her chin. “I’m certain Sinclair would be delighted to see you, if he knew a way to go about it. If you’ll endeavor to be here tomorrow at three, I’ll endeavor to have him here to meet with you.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Ariadne felt as if a great weight had slid from her shoulders and she could stand tall once more. Well, she’d never stood all that tall, so perhaps that wasn’t the best analogy. But she could only be pleased with the turn of events. Her false engagement continued to make her the toast of the ton, with more invitations and callers that afternoon, giving her every opportunity to meet eligible gentlemen. Though her mother’s stratagems had yet to bear fruit, Ariadne had high hopes that she would be given an opportunity to meet with a patroness in time for her to attend Almack’s on Wednesday. Her friends would help her catch the spy, and Lord Hastings would offer her a permanent place at Sinclair’s side. Best of all, she was about to reunite Sinclair with his long-lost family. Really, it was enough for several grand novels and perhaps a play.

  She could only hope it would not turn out to be a farce.

  She was trying to catch up her journal the next morning over the half cup of cocoa her mother allowed her when the footman appeared in the doorway to her bedchamber.

  “Sorry to interrupt, miss,” he said with an apologetic grimace. “But Mr. Pattison is beside himself. You have an early caller. It’s Lord Hawksbury. Your mother isn’t even up yet!”

  Something must be wrong for him to have called so soon. “I’ll be right down,” she promised. Throwing her white satin dressing gown over her shoulders, she shrugged into the arms as she followed the footman to the withdrawing room.

  “What is it?” she asked, hurrying into the room. “What’s happened?”

  Sinclair stared at her, rising from an armchair, and she noticed that Pattison had brought him an entire pot of cocoa instead of the misery half cup she was allotted. Apparently he did not think Sinclair needed to watch his weight to avoid having his clothes let out mid-Season.

  “What are you wearing?” he asked.

  She tugged the sash on her dressing gown tighter. “You caught me before I’d dressed for the day, sir. I assumed it was on an urgent matter. It is unfashionably early for callers otherwise.”

  “Remind me to call as early as possible in the future,” he said with a smile. “You look utterly charming.”

  Her cheeks were warming again. “Thank you. That comment too will go into my journal. Now, what brought you to my door?”

  “Only this,” he said, moving to her side and bending his head to hers. For a moment, she thought he meant to kiss her again, and she stood on tiptoe to meet him.

  “I convinced Lady Jersey to hear your case,” he murmured, lips so close to hers she felt his breath brush them like a caress. “You have a half hour to make yourself ready.”

  The import of it dropped her to the soles of her feet. “Are you mad? How can I possibly compose myself in a half hour?”

  He shrugged as he straightened. “You wished to be an intelligence agent, madam. We must be ready at a moment’s notice.”

  “Wait here,” she told him and scurried for her room, calling for her maid.

  At slightly more than a half hour later (a lady can only do so much about a corset, after all), she returned to the withdrawing room. Sinclair had evidently finished the pot of cocoa and a plate of biscuits if the crumbs on the fine china were any indication and was now reading her father’s copy of The Times. Pattison would likely show up with a banyan and hassock next.

  “Ready,” she proclaimed.

  He rose and eyed her. “And worth every moment. Lady Jersey will adore you.”

  Ariadne glanced down at her outfit. Priscilla had said the patronesses were looking for some reason to find Ariadne interesting. Accordingly, she’d borrowed Daphne’s spencer with the black military frogging across the front and thrown a cashmere shawl patterned in cerulean and sunflower over the top. With her shako bonnet, she thought she looked daring, determined. That Sinclair approved
only made her more confident in her decision.

  That confidence was dealt its first blow as Sinclair’s carriage drew up before Lady Jersey’s residence. Number 38 Berkeley Square towered five stories above the street and was easily three times as wide as Ariadne’s home. Bay windows on the ground and first floor flanked a recessed doorway over which white marble statues of Greek warriors presided. Ariadne and Sinclair were ushered inside by a footman in a powdered wig and black tailcoat. His manner, though as polished as the formal furnishings, was none-the-less welcoming as he threw open the gilded double doors to a long withdrawing room.

  “Lord Hawksbury and Miss Courdebas, your ladyship,” he announced before bowing aside to allow Ariadne and Sinclair to enter.

  The room was done in shades of yellow, from the tufted upholstery on the fine wood chairs to the sunny flowers on the thick carpet. The walls were draped in yellow satin, the fireplace made of white marble carved with Grecian relief. Pastoral paintings alternated with gilded mirrors that threw light in all directions.

  Lady Jersey sat on a velvet-covered sofa, her gown of rich russet framing her figure. A turban trimmed in tiny pearls perched on her dark curls, making her look as if she were a reigning monarch.

  Considering the power she wielded over London Society, she was.

  “Lord Hawksbury,” she said, patting the seat beside her. “How delightful to see you again.”

  Sinclair went to bow over her offered hand. “Lady Jersey, always a pleasure. May I introduce my betrothed, Miss Ariadne Courdebas.”

  Ariadne dropped a deep curtsey, skirts pooling around her. “Your ladyship.”

  “Miss Courdebas.” She nodded to the chair nearest her, and Ariadne sat and arranged her skirts. Sinclair seated himself on the sofa, where he nodded encouragement to Ariadne.

  “You are Viscount Rollings’s youngest, I believe,” the countess said, eying Ariadne as if she were a fashion Lady Jersey wasn’t sure she liked. “Your sister is out this Season.”

  “As am I,” Ariadne assured her. “Mother thought with Daphne and I so close in years it made sense to bring us both out together.”

  “Social sense or financial cents?” Lady Jersey asked. She leaned closer. “How tragic to hear that your family finances are wanting, Miss Courdebas.”

  How had Ariadne given that impression? “Our finances are fine, your ladyship. It’s simply that Daphne and I have always done everything together, and we saw no need to make an exception for our first Season.”

  “Ah.” She leaned back as if disappointed. Then she glanced at Sinclair. “But though you are the younger, you seem to have captured the greater matrimonial prize.” Her gaze speared back to Ariadne. “How does your sister feel about being left on the shelf?”

  She was digging for gossip! Having something sordid to say about her family might have made Ariadne interesting, but she certainly wasn’t about to vilify her sister, even for vouchers to Almack’s. “My sister has too many callers to be considered behind the times. She continues to enjoy great popularity. We expect several offers from very presentable gentlemen by the end of the Season.”

  “How nice,” Lady Jersey said, already sounding bored. She wiggled her fingers against the satin of her skirts. “And your mother? How envious she must be of your youth and vitality.”

  Despite her best intentions, Ariadne’s chin came up. “My mother has never had call to envy anyone.”

  Lady Jersey’s eyes narrowed. “Really?”

  She’d blundered. She’d made her mother sound above even the mighty patronesses. It was too late now to make a witty comment about how her mother had always lacked Lady Jersey’s taste or her place in Society. And too late to flatter in other ways. She could see her vouchers winging their way out the tall, velvet-draped windows.

  Oh, but she would not give up so easily.

  “Indeed,” Ariadne said quickly. “Of course, she might have cause to envy if she knew my secret.”

  “Secret?” Lady Jersey nearly purred the word as she reclined against the back of the sofa. “And what secret could a delightful young lady like yourself possibly hide, my dear?”

  Ariadne took a deep breath, ready to give all for King and Country.

  “Why, the fact that Ariadne has been granted a private audience with you,” Sinclair put in with a look to Ariadne. When she met his gaze, he shook his head, then pasted on a smile as Lady Jersey glanced his way.

  Lady Jersey’s interest leaked away, her eyelids dipping lower as if she was already considering ways to dismiss her guests. Ariadne did not understand why Sinclair was trying to warn her away from this tact, but she had to say something interesting or lose all hope of ever reaching Almack’s.

  “This visit is terribly kind of you, your ladyship,” Ariadne agreed. “But that was not the secret I meant. Are you familiar with the sayings of Lord Pompadour Snedley?”

  Lady Jersey’s lovely lips curled up. “Absolutely. Nonsense, of course, and nothing I need heed, but vastly entertaining for the masses.”

  Ariadne doubted the masses could afford the ten-pound price the publisher charged. “Yes, well I . . .”

  “Am a devotee,” Sinclair put in. “As is most of London, I know.”

  What was he doing? He knew this was the only secret she was at liberty to share. Why was he trying to stop her?

  “He is enormously popular,” Lady Jersey said, eying him. “Yet do you not find it odd we know so little about him? I mean, who is he? Who are his antecedents? Why do so few recall even meeting him?”

  And those who claimed acquaintance were liars. “Not so odd when you realize why he must remain obscure,” Ariadne told her. “You see, I . . .”

  “Know the fellow all too well,” Sinclair finished. “And I’m certain could arrange for an autographed copy, purely for your library, of course.”

  Lady Jersey glanced at Ariadne, eyes once more narrowed. “You know Lord Snedley?”

  Ariadne nodded. “Extremely well. We are related, you see.”

  Lady Jersey’s smile grew. “Are you indeed. Closely related, perhaps?”

  “Very,” Sinclair replied before she could confess.

  “How amusing,” Lady Jersey said, straightening. “By all means, send me an autographed copy. And do give my regards to your father.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “I think that calls for a celebration,” Sinclair said as they left Lady Jersey’s home and headed for his waiting carriage. He helped Ariadne inside, told his driver where to go, and climbed in after her.

  “A celebration?” she asked, sounding anything but pleased. “I don’t know how you can see that visit as a success. Lady Jersey thinks my father wrote Lord Snedley’s book and will likely tell everyone she knows, and I’m no closer to obtaining vouchers to Almack’s!”

  “Oh, you’re closer,” Sinclair promised her, leaning back against the squabs. “In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if one didn’t show up this afternoon. And as for rumors about your father, no one with sense pays any attention to Lady Jersey’s gossip.”

  The way her pretty lips compressed told him she didn’t believe him. Lady Jersey was a respected Society hostess, after all. But Lord Rollings was known for being an even-tempered, kind sort of fellow. Surely the ton wouldn’t believe him capable of writing Lord Snedley’s questionable advice.

  “I don’t understand why you didn’t allow me to tell her the truth,” Ariadne said, settling back in her seat. “Surely that would have been easier all around.”

  “Easier for whom?” Sinclair argued. “I knew what might happen if you shared your secret. As it is, you gave her enough information for her to find you interesting. That ought to guarantee you entrance to Almack’s.”

  Still, she looked doubtful. The carriage was slowing, and she peered out the window. Then she jerked around to face him, eyes widening. “Gunter’s?”

  He smiled. “I thought you deserved a treat for that performance.”

  She heaved a sigh of delight. “Oh, but you kno
w me so well.”

  Did he? He couldn’t help wondering as he lowered the window and gave their order to the waiter who appeared outside. All his life, people important to him had worn two faces: the one they showed the public, and the one they showed to him privately. His father had been a brilliant politician who could not seem to stomach the son born to him from a woman he could not love except for her money. His mother had been everything kind and good, but the legal arrangements she’d made before her death had deprived his father of money he felt owed him and driven him into a decline. Even Lord Hastings was all affability in public and all cunning behind closed doors. How could Sinclair be certain Ariadne was any different?

  She had called herself normal, but he was learning she was so much more. Still, he could almost believe life might begin to resemble the idyllic world of his dreams as they chatted about books they had read and plays they had seen and sipped their ices. In fact, they were the typical young lady and gentleman, until he saw her home.

  Then Ariadne put her hand on his arm as he reached for the carriage door. “I need you to return by three. I have a surprise for you.”

  He glanced at her askance. “A surprise?”

  She raised her brows at his hesitation. “You brought me one this morning with Lady Jersey and another with Gunter’s. The least I can do is return the favor.” She squeezed his arm. “It isn’t anything horrid, I promise. You’ll enjoy it.”

  He nodded, smiling at her as he jumped down to hand her out. “I trust your judgment. I’ll return precisely at three.” And count the minutes until then.

  *

  Ariadne floated into the house. Sinclair had bent and kissed her on the cheek before leaving.

  “To further our ruse,” he’d whispered as he straightened, but she could see the light in his eyes. Their betrothal was growing into something real, something lasting. She knew he felt it too.

  “Mr. and Mrs. MacDougall are expected at three,” she told Pattison, who was passing through the hall as she entered. “Make sure to put them in the withdrawing room.”