by Regina Scott
She found Nathan at her side. With tender fingers, he removed her mask, touched her cheek with a smile. She felt herself trembling.
Before he could speak, her parents rushed up.
“Don’t you have an announcement, dearest?” her mother asked with a pointed look to the top of the stairs, where His Grace, Acantha, and Glynnis still waited, their own masks now off.
Not anymore. At least, she hoped not. She glanced at Nathan, who slipped his hand over hers and gave it a squeeze before turning to her parents.
“I believe I do,” he told them. “Mr. and Mrs. Tate, I intend to marry your daughter. I know I am not the matrimonial catch you had hoped for her, but I am a member of the House of Rottenford, and I have a reliable income and the promise of a small estate just outside London. I cannot keep her in the style you would no doubt expect, but I will love and cherish her all the days of my life.”
His declaration warmed her heart, but her father’s smile was tight.
“That’s all very well and good, young man, but I’ve already given Rottenford my word that our daughter will marry him.”
“Something I intend to rectify,” Priscilla promised Nathan.
Her mother stiffened. “Oh, Priscilla. Don’t be rash.”
Priscilla smiled at her. “I’m not, Mother. You know me. I always know exactly what I’m about. And I’m convinced this is the best for all of us.”
She drew Nathan through the crowd and up the stairs to the duke’s side.
He applauded at the sight of her. “Well done, Miss Tate!”
Acantha sniffed. “Yes, well done. But I want you to know this was all your fault. You were the one who spurned Mr. Richmont.”
“And your sisters were the ones who gave Miss Fairtree the idea to blackmail us,” Priscilla reminded her. “I’d say we’re even.”
Acantha sniffed again and tossed her curls, which were beginning to wilt along with what was left of her feathers.
Glynnis touched Nathan’s shoulder, quickly withdrawing her hand. “What will become of me? Will your Runner take me away too?”
Priscilla looked from her pale face to Nathan. He shook his head. “I think not. The family would not appreciate the scandal.” He turned to the duke. “I propose we make use of our cousin’s surprising organizational skills and determination, Your Grace. Your estate in Jamaica has not been as profitable as it should. Perhaps it requires the leadership of a new manager.”
His Grace wrinkled his nose, and Priscilla was so glad she’d chosen Nathan instead. “A woman manager?”
“A Rottenford manager,” Nathan countered. “Someone who has your best interests at heart.”
Glynnis raised her head. “I’ll do it. I’d be glad for something to call my own. Perhaps then I can prove to you that I truly do love you, Your Grace. All I ever wanted was your admiration. We can make the arrangements tomorrow.” Excusing herself, she went to find her mother.
One problem solved. Now to the other. Taking Acantha’s hand and the duke’s, Priscilla tugged them to the opposite side of the ledge. She could feel Nathan watching her, but he didn’t move to intercede.
“Your Grace,” she said. “I don’t love you, and I have found a man I do love. I release you from your obligation to marry me.”
The duke frowned. “Are you jilting me?”
Priscilla smiled. “No. I’m giving you a chance to find a girl who loves you for yourself.” She glanced at Acantha.
Acantha drew herself up. “Don’t look at me. It’s clear he’s dim as a doorpost. I could do better.” With a toss of her feathered head, she sashayed down the stairs.
His Grace looked to Priscilla. “What am I to do now?”
Priscilla patted his arm. “Go enjoy your party. We can find you a suitable bride another day.”
With a happy nod, he strolled off. Priscilla turned to Nathan, but just then, Ariadne wandered past, whimsical smile on her face.
“Espionage,” she murmured to Priscilla before drifting down the stairs in Acantha’s wake. Priscilla determined to take her aside at the first opportunity to learn what had happened with the dashing centurion.
Nathan moved to her side, and her heart started beating faster again. Her parents might complain, Society call her mad, but this was the right path. She had never been more certain of it.
She took a step closer and fluttered her lashes. “Have I told you, Nathan, how very much I admire and esteem you?”
“Not nearly enough,” he replied with a laugh. “But we have our whole lives to assure each other of our mutual devotion. Starting now.”
Going down on one knee once more, he took her hands and gazed up at her, and she found herself sinking into his remarkably fine eyes.
“Priscilla Tate,” he said, “I adore you. Never have I met a more determined, clever, talented, beautiful woman. I offer you all that I am, such that I am, and all I will ever be. Will you do me the honor of marrying me?”
“Yes,” Priscilla said, delight bubbling up. “Always and forever, yes, Nathan.”
He rose and took her in his arms. And Priscilla Tate, belle of London, the toast of many a fine gentleman, gave herself up to the joy of being loved by someone who truly knew her. And that was, quite simply, the greatest matrimonial catch she could ever have imagined.
From the Author
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Read more about our intrepid sleuth, Lady Emily Southwell. She and her friends Priscilla Tate and Daphne and Ariadne Courdebas have other adventures ahead. If you missed the first book, which introduced Priscilla and her friends and the mysterious happenings at Brentfield Manor, be sure to look for Secrets and Sensibilities. And Art and Artifice will tell you the story of how Lady Emily first met dashing Bow Street Runner, James Cropper. Turn the page for a sneak peak of Book 4, Eloquence and Espionage, available now.
From Eloquence and Espionage, Book 4 in the Lady Emily Capers
Ariadne Courdbas, youngest daughter of Viscount Rollings, had earned the reputation as a bluestocking. Not only was she often found with journal and pencil in hand, noting her impressions of various activities, but she had the tendency to see the plays and books she read lived out in real life. She had a ready supply of quotes for every situation, saw dramatic possibilities in the most mundane of events. She appreciated a well-placed word, a witty turn of phrase. In literature, no matter how dire the consequences, everything was generally resolved between the front cover and the back. Reality was far more messy.
Particularly when one was pursuing a French spy.
She cracked the shutters on the window of her family’s landau to peer out at the square. As she’d hoped, Gunter’s was suitably busy for a sunny afternoon in the middle of May, so that one more carriage would not be remarked upon. Waiters with white aprons tied around their waists darted across the crowded street to and from the famous confectioner’s, taking orders from the aristocracy who waited in their carriages or sat at little tables under the trees. Already she’d seen a half dozen perfectly lovely ices pass her vantage point. But sacrifices must be made to complete an investigation. She puffed out a sigh.
A spear of light from the sliver of open shutter brightened the page of her journal, and she smoothed her gloved hand over the writing. How slanted and crowded the letters looked, testimony to the state of her nerves the night she’d written them. But truly, what young lady on her first Season in London could have been calm after the events at Lord Rottenford’s masquerade ball four days ago?
She would always remember the moment her life changed. She’d been with
her dear friend, Priscilla Tate, whose betrothal to the Duke of Rottenford was to be announced that very night. Such a momentous occasion would have been cause for celebration, but for two things: Priscilla had decided she loved someone else, no less than the duke’s personal secretary, and someone had been blackmailing her with vague threats of dire consequences. Quite clichéd, actually. Ariadne would have added more specifics: demands for her family jewels, perhaps an order to walk naked through the streets on Sunday morning. Still, even with unimaginative threats, it had taken the combined forces of Ariadne’s older sister Daphne, Priscilla, and their acknowledged leader Lady Emily Southwell to uncover the culprits and bring them to justice.
But that night, while trying to outwit their nemeses, Ariadne had noticed a gentleman following her and Priscilla. He was tall and broad-shouldered, and he carried himself like a celebrated thespian, full of brash confidence and bravado. He’d been dressed like a Roman centurion, hair black as midnight streaming down to his shoulders and face hidden by a dark leather mask. And Ariadne had offered to distract him so Priscilla could make her escape and save the day.
He’d been standing at the top of the stairs where a balcony braced His Grace’s massive ballroom. Ariadne had approached cautiously, trying to conceive of the appropriate opening gambit in this sort of situation. Priscilla was the one gifted with the ability to sway a gentleman’s thoughts. Of course, it didn’t hurt that she had long curly hair of a lustrous gold, green eyes bright as emeralds, and considerable curves that she dressed to accentuate.
Ariadne was not so blessed. Her straight hair was merely light brown, and she generally wore it in a bun at the nape of her neck with a few contrived curls framing her round face. That night, she’d worn it undressed and flowing down her back, in keeping with the white diaphanous silk robes and laurel wreath that made up her costume of Athena, goddess of wisdom. Her eyes were an ordinary blue that was not dark enough to be termed sapphire or bright enough to be called cornflower. And her figure, to her ongoing consternation, tended to look more plump than perfect.
Had she been cast in one of Mr. Sherman’s wonderful plays, she would likely have been the second understudy to a walk-on role. So she thought it particularly bold of her to sashay up to the powerfully built centurion and say, “Have you no legions with which to battle that you must be chasing after us, sir?”
He was surveying the ballroom, bare arms crossed over his bronze breastplate, scarlet cloak draping his back, quite as if he had not noticed her approaching. Now his gaze swung to meet hers. The mask shadowed his eyes, but she thought they were dark, brooding.
Quite suitable, actually.
“And how could a gentleman fail to follow where beauty leads?” he countered with a practiced drawl. The perfection of it sent gooseflesh up inside her long white evening gloves.
“Yes, my friend is particularly lovely,” she acknowledged with a smile. “I would offer to introduce you, but she is promised to another, I fear.”
He straightened, raising his head above hers and making her feel surprisingly petite. “Why would you think I meant your friend?”
His Grace’s elegant ballroom was terribly warm from all the bodies crushed inside it, but she didn’t think its coziness was making her face feel as if it was on fire. For a moment, she couldn’t think of a thing to say. That was generally the case with her and boys. She often was tongue-tied; they tended too often to speak of unimportant matters like horses and carriages and hunting.
As if he knew how his words had affected her, he leaned closer, raising his hand to touch her cheek below her mask with tender fingers, and she found herself trembling.
“You do not give yourself enough credit, my dear,” he murmured, and her breath hitched in her chest. “I imagine entire legions would march to the ends of the earth at one word from those pearly lips.”
Her nerves evaporated. Ariadne sighed. “Oh, and you were doing so well. My lips are not pearly, sir. No woman would appreciate that compliment. Who wants to think of her lips as white and round?”
His fingers touched her lips, soft as a feather, then withdrew. “I meant because they are delectably plump.”
Ariadne rolled her eyes. “Plump? I cannot think why I would approve of that adjective being applied to any part of my person.”
He straightened. “So you are proof against seduction.” She thought he sounded disappointed.
“I am proof against poor imagery,” she replied. “Syntax too. And don’t get me started on misplaced modifiers.”
He blinked.
“Here,” she said. “Allow me to demonstrate.” She leaned closer, reached up to touch his cheek, imagining the pebbles of stubble rough against her gloves. “Your hair, madam, puts me in mind of pure melted chocolate, warm and thick, and I would wager my last guinea that you taste as sweet.”
“That’s very good,” he said, and now his voice betrayed his admiration. “I may use it.”
Ariadne dropped her hand with a wave. “Feel free. Just avoid talking about skin like alabaster. Have you seen some of the alabaster in London? All mottled brown and white. Not a compliment that I can see.”
“You seem to have spent a great deal of time thinking about all this,” he said, resting his hip against the balustrade of the balcony so that his long legs below the scarlet tunic were all the more evident. “What would you do if you were trying to convince a gentleman to share his secrets? Gentleman to gentleman, of course.”
Ariadne pursed her lips in thought. “Gentleman to gentleman, eh? Hmm. Is he particularly vain about some characteristic: his looks, his intellect?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
“Then does he have some favorite pastime, say riding or racing his yacht?”
She thought his mouth turned up below the bottom of the mask. “I don’t believe he has a yacht.”
She threw up her hands. “You must know something about him, sir. How else would you know he has secrets?”
He shrugged. “Everyone has secrets.”
“Only in books and plays,” she retorted. “Some of us are distressingly normal.”
He leaned closer again. “Are you?”
For a moment, she thought he knew her secret, the one only she and her three dear friends shared, for his eyes searched hers so deeply. And they were brown, a deep, warm shade that drew her in.
But she’d learned enough from Priscilla and the many plays she’d watched to raise her chin and meet his gaze even though her heart was pounding. “Yes, completely, unapologetically normal. Rather boring, actually.”
“I don’t believe you.” He straightened once more. “But it doesn’t matter. The gentleman in question has far more secrets. He’s a spy.”
Like him. He didn’t say as much, but she felt as if the words hung in the air, ready to plunge into her journal and shake her world. Despite herself, she backed away.
He stiffened as if he knew he had overstepped himself. “I meant he is dressed like a spy. That’s his costume tonight.”
She didn’t believe him. People generally dressed like obvious characters at a masquerade. Priscilla was gowned as one of those charming Dresden shepherdesses the ton so loved to collect. Daphne was dressed very similarly to Ariadne, only she was supposed to be Diana, goddess of the hunt. Emily, in her usual dark fashion, had chosen to come as Death. No one came as a spy, for the very reason that no one knew what a spy looked like. He could well be the person standing next to you.
Dressed like a Roman centurion.
“How interesting,” she said, taking another step back. What was she doing, conversing with a spy as if he were an old friend? “Well, I do hope you locate him. Excuse me.” She’d started to turn, but he’d caught her arm, pulling her into his embrace.
“Do nothing to give me away,” he’d murmured, and then he’d pressed a kiss against her lips, so sweet he once more robbed her of speech. When he’d released her and swept away, it had been all she could do to stand there, gathering her wits around her bef
ore going to find her friends.
Her fingers were tightening on her journal now, and she released the leather-bound book. She hadn’t given him away, but neither had she been able to forget the encounter. In the last four days since the masquerade, she’d done everything she could imagine to find her gentleman spy, with no luck. It was time to call in a more enlightened investigator.
Hearing footsteps approaching, she peered out the window again, then swung open the door of the carriage. Her footman handed in Lady Emily Southwell.
“What’s wrong?” she asked as she settled her navy skirts next to Ariadne, dark curls bobbing with her movements. “Why did you ask me to meet you here? And how can I help?”
*
Across the square, a gentleman with broad shoulders, midnight black hair pulled back in a queue, and deep brown eyes sipped his coconut ice. A waiter approached the wrought-iron table offering a second helping, but the gentleman waved him away with one gloved hand. Gunter’s confections were famous throughout the capital, but he was more interested in the coach beyond the trees. The perfectly matched black horses and the crimson landau they pulled were known to belong to Viscount Rollings. Why did Ariadne Courdebas think she was hiding?
Did she know how dangerous she was? She was more clever than most of the young women making their debut this Season. Someone like that might easily pierce the façade he’d worked so hard to erect and uncover his secrets. Her seemingly guileless conversation had already tripped him up once.
And she’d proven particularly dangerous to his peace of mind. With her warm brown hair, sky blue eyes, and nicely rounded figure, she embodied the very flower of English womanhood. Wait, was flower the right word? Essence. Yes, the essence of English womanhood. She’d approve of that. It was alliterative.