Eloquence and Espionage

by Regina Scott

  “Well, now you have been told,” she said. “Fetch my evening cloak, Pattison. Lord Hawksbury and I have an appointment to keep.”

  Chapter Eleven

  How easily she trusted him, even knowing his true calling. He’d watched her family leave earlier, so he knew they could not interfere with his plans. Still, she took pains to leave precise instructions with the butler to inform them that she’d gone out and with whom.

  “Making sure they know where to search for you?” he teased as he led her down to his waiting carriage, a shiny black barouche with brass appointments.

  She cast him a glance. “Trying to forestall a scold. Besides, they would worry if they came home and found me missing.”

  How different from his life. He’d been accountable to a tutor before leaving for Eton, but after his mother had died when he was nine, he’d been pretty much on his own. Though of course his father dictated his overall actions. He didn’t see that as worry, precisely, more like ensuring the continuation of the Sinclair line.

  He handed her into the carriage and told his driver where to go before joining her.

  “What’s significant about Camden Place?” she asked.

  Smart girl, but then he’d known that from the beginning. “My family’s town house is at number eight,” he replied, leaning back against the squabs as the carriage started forward. “My father would like to meet you.”

  She stiffened. “Well, I wish you had confided that sooner! I’m hardly dressed for such an occasion.”

  He glanced at the blue velvet evening cloak that all but obscured her figure. His mind helpfully conjured up the womanly curves, the creamy skin at her throat. “You look fine,” he assured her.

  The passing light showed a puckered face that was no less adorable. “My outfit was perfectly acceptable for chasing after French spies,” she informed him. “If I’d known I was meeting your father, I’d have chosen a different gown, had my maid fix my hair properly, and composed a proper speech.”

  “You aren’t introducing a bill to Parliament,” he said with a smile.

  “No, only seeking to impress one of its leaders!”

  She seemed sincerely concerned, her body tensing and leaning back as if to distance herself from the very idea.

  “He hasn’t been considered a leader for years,” he told her. “Now he rarely even attends. It seems these days that he merely trades on his former glory. And remember, this isn’t a true betrothal. You needn’t impress him.”

  She snorted. “Well, it would certainly seem odd if I didn’t try. The heroine must always impress the hero’s family. Have you never read a romantic novel, sir?”

  Would she disdain him if he admitted he’d tried only two and found them not to his taste? “Life isn’t a romantic novel, Miss Courdebas.”

  “Said the dark, brooding hero who practices espionage,” she muttered. Then she raised her voice. “Perhaps you should call me Ariadne if we are to convince people we are besotted. And I shall call you Hawksbury. Or do you prefer Hawk?”

  He grimaced. “Now that sounds like a romantic hero, and I’m nothing of the sort. My father didn’t earn his courtesy title until I was twelve. I went by Sinclair until then. You may call me that.”

  “As you wish.” He thought she relaxed a little, hands folding in the lap of her cloak. “Are there any other facts I should consider before meeting him?”

  “Probably a large number. After all, we know little even about each other.”

  “Only what fact and observation would supply,” she agreed. “I know your name, that your courtesy title comes from your father and your income from a bequest through your mother. You have been somewhat of a recluse though you are known to have deep friendships with those surviving lads who attended Eton with you. Your father is the Marquess of Winthrop, once noted Parliamentarian who helped demolish the slave trade in England.” She paused as if she’d noticed him staring, then shrugged. “Debrett’s and a casual perusal of The Times and those gossip sheets my mother will allow us to purchase.”

  He chuckled. “I shudder to think what observation has taught you.”

  She launched into a recitation. “You are fairly well educated, brave beyond words, determined to serve your country even though your position would dictate that you stay safely out of the mess. But at times you doubt your abilities. I’m not sure why, for they seem formidable.”

  “Thank you, I think.” He shook his head. “You continue to amaze me, Ariadne. I’ve never met anyone like you.”

  “Thank you, I think,” she replied, smile in her voice. She leaned forward, and the light from outside outlined her soft face. “But come now, Sinclair. You pride yourself on being an intelligence agent. Surely you have gleaned something about me.”

  More than he cared to admit. “You are the youngest daughter of Viscount Rollings. Your father is well respected for his temperate politics, your mother for her piety and propriety, your sister for her Amazon feats. There was even a rumor of her hanging off a roof at Priscilla Tate’s come out ball.”

  “Ledge, actually,” she corrected him. “In a ball gown with a train, in pursuit of a jewel thief. I was quite proud of her.”

  “So acts of valor run in your family,” he teased.

  She bowed her head. “Not far enough, I fear. But do go on.”

  “You are highly intelligent, brilliant, actually. You pride yourself on a well-turned phrase. And you seem sufficiently enamored of romantic novels that I may have to try another.”

  “No need,” she replied. “I told you, you’re living one.” She leaned forward to peer out the window as the carriage slowed. “Is this your home?”

  He could see the familiar tall brick town house with the elegant arched doorway. “My father’s. I have rooms at the Fenton.” He put his hand on the latch and paused. “Before we go in, Ariadne, you should know that my father has been unwell. I’m never sure what he’ll say or how he’ll react to me. Just do your best.”

  Her face was once more pale as he handed her down to the pavement. “What if he doesn’t like me? What if he disapproves of our liaison?”

  He shrugged. “Then our false engagement will die an early death.” And he was fairly sure he’d be the only one to regret it.

  *

  So, if Lord Winthrop disapproved of her, the betrothal would end immediately. Given the odd gentlemen crowding her withdrawing room that afternoon, annoying Sinclair’s father held attraction. Debrett’s had confirmed that Sinclair had yet to reach his majority. They could not marry without their parents’ consent.

  Not that she planned to marry him.

  And she was fairly certain he had no intentions of marrying her either. Hadn’t he said as much last night? Yet he seemed unaccountably tense as he put his hand on her elbow and led her up the stairs to the emerald-colored door. Perhaps he disliked seeing his father ill. The tragedy must weigh on both of them. That was it--he must be suffering with regret at how the once-great man had fallen. She offered him a comforting smile as he raised his other hand to lift the lion’s head brass knocker and rap on the door.

  “Master Sinclair,” declared the tall, slender man who responded, holding the door wide. “How good to see you again so soon.” Unlike Pattison’s hair, this man’s needed no powder, for it was a snowy white. His perfectly fitted black coat and breeches made him appear as if he were about to set out for a night on the town.

  Of course, why would he need to go anywhere with this splendor around him? Ariadne tried not to gawk, but really, it was all simply too perfect. The walls were draped in green silk delicately patterned with leaves, while polished dark wood graced the floor and stairs to the chamber story. The brass chandelier glowed with a dozen candles in glass chimneys, sending sparkling light in all directions. The only thing missing was the prince in a velvet banyan descending the stairs to welcome them.

  Sinclair was obviously unaffected by his father’s home. “Adams.” Sinclair inclined his head as they entered, though his smile broad
ened. “Good to see you too. How is Mrs. Wilkes?”

  “Better today. Oh, but she’ll be sorry to have missed you.” As if he suddenly realized Ariadne was there, he stiffened, and his face went impassive, regal even. “Forgive me. May I take your coats?”

  Ariadne reached for the clasp at the throat of her cloak, but Sinclair shook his head. “No need. We won’t be staying long.”

  Her hand fell away, and Adams’ face simply fell. Still, he recovered quickly.

  “Lord Winthrop is in his study,” he confided. “Along with Mr. Symthe. Allow me to announce you.”

  “Father is expecting us,” Sinclair said. “Ariadne, this is Mr. Adams. He’s watched over the House of Winthrop since before I was born. Adams, this is Miss Ariadne Courdebas.”

  He did not mention the engagement. So, he would lie to his father but not a faithful retainer. She wasn’t sure why that fact warmed her.

  Adams bowed to her. “Miss Courdebas, a pleasure. You are very welcome in this house. Just remember that, whatever should happen.”

  Goodness, did he expect Sinclair’s father to hate her on sight? She knew she should have insisted on going back for a different gown. She could have used the confidence of the green satin right now, although it would have matched the shade on the door.

  Immediately she chided herself. It wasn’t a real engagement.

  Yet as they started down the corridor, all she could think was that while she had no real reason to impress Sinclair’s father, she had an unreasonable desire to impress Sinclair.

  Chapter Twelve

  Lord Winthrop’s study was equally perfect, especially for a midnight introduction. The walls were hung up high with crimson damask figured in leafy medallions, the lower halves covered by dark walnut bookshelves with latticed glass fronts. The reflection on the glass from the fire in the black marble hearth prevented her from reading titles, but she could imagine the treasures that those shelves must hold. The only other light was from a lamp on a paper-strewn walnut desk near the back of the room, where a thin man with a hooded gaze sat as if he had been chiseled from marble himself. Neither his demeanor nor his looks said he was related to Sinclair, so she concluded that he must be this Symthe fellow Adams had mentioned. That meant the man reclining on a sofa covered in crimson velvet, the king of all he surveyed, must be Lord Winthrop.

  Sinclair’s father looked nothing like his son. He had once been blond if his craggy brows were any indication. Now his hair was thinning on top and receding at the sides so that patches of pink skin gleamed through the silver. While Sinclair had a square jaw and firm cheekbones, his father’s face was round and soft and growing slack. His royal blue banyan with its gold embroidery at the cuffs clung to a massive frame that nearly filled the sofa. He did not bother to rise in the presence of a lady, or perhaps the wrapped leg resting on the hassock in front of him would no longer bear his weight.

  He eyed Ariadne as if determining how she’d taste with a little cranberry dressing. “So this is to be your bride, eh?”

  Sinclair stopped a few feet from his father, not bothering to sit in either of the leather chairs opposite him. Up close, she could see crumbs speckling the front of Lord Winthrop’s banyan, a stain marking the sleeve. He had taken less trouble to meet her than she had to meet him.

  “Ariadne Courdebas, may I present my father, the Marquess of Winthrop,” Sinclair answered, gaze on his father.

  Ariadne dipped a curtsey. “An honor, my lord.”

  “Honor?” He spat out the word as if it were undercooked. “There’s no honor in meeting an old man the world has forgotten.”

  Is that how he saw himself? Small wonder he took no care how he dressed.

  “Father,” Sinclair started in warning, but Ariadne put a hand on his arm.

  “I said honor, sir,” she told Lord Winthrop, “and I meant it. Were you not the one who penned the immortal words, ‘If one man bows in chains, so bows the soul of the nation’?”

  He narrowed his eyes. “Who told you that? You’re too young to remember the fight we faced.”

  “Too young to have fought beside you, alas,” Ariadne told him. “But not too young to have profited from the battle. The nation owes you a debt, my lord. I for one thank you.”

  His frown did not ease. Even Sinclair was frowning as if he couldn’t understand her purpose.

  With a phlegmy rattle, Mr. Symthe cleared his throat and rose. “I will take no more of your time, my lord,” he said, voice as nasal and whining as Acantha’s and nearly as high. “I trust you will remember my advice on certain matters.”

  He sounded as if he were the employer instead of the other way around. Brave attitude for a personal secretary.

  Lord Winthrop waved a meaty hand. “I know what is expected of me, Symthe. Leave my heir to me.”

  Head ducked as if to avoid a cuff, Symthe hurried out.

  “You’ve no need to pour on the butter sauce,” Lord Winthrop complained to Ariadne as the door shut behind the secretary. Sinclair’s father shifted on the sofa, and she wasn’t sure if the resulting groan came from him or the furniture. “By all accounts, you’ve already captured my heir.”

  Ariadne glanced at Sinclair, who had not relaxed even with the secretary’s departure. “Your son will tell you that I choose my words with care. I do not flatter unless flattery is warranted.”

  Sinclair’s smile reappeared as he met her gaze. “That much is true. And you certainly aren’t afraid to call out flattery undeserved.”

  “A trait we share,” his father said. “So I suspect you will tell me that you love my heir with your last dying breath.”

  Ariadne made a face as she looked to him again. “Certainly not. What a cliché! Rather say that there is much about Sinclair that I find admirable.”

  His father rested his hands on his paunch. “Such as?”

  She could hardly tell him about the spying. She certainly hoped Sinclair had confided in his father, but if he hadn’t it certainly wasn’t her place to do so. “He is well read, and he isn’t above learning new things. From what I can tell, he is also loyal to his friends.”

  “Loyal.” His eyes were dark in his soft face. “Yes, he is that, even to the wrong sort.”

  What did he mean now? Did he think her unworthy to marry into his family?

  “Father,” Sinclair said again, smile dropping away.

  His father raised a hand. “Do you think that word will stay me? Have you told her about your mother?”

  Silence fell like a curtain after the final act. She could hear the pop and hiss from the fire. She thought she even heard Sinclair breathing. Ariadne glanced between the two of them. Tension stretched like a taut wire from father to son as their gazes locked.

  “Apparently not,” Lord Winthrop said, lowering his hand heavily as if wearied by the effort. “Then allow me the honor, though there be no honor in it.”

  “No.” Sinclair seized Ariadne’s hand. “This meeting was a mistake. Come, Ariadne. You have no need to hear what he has to say.” He turned and started for the door, tugging her after him. Glancing back, she saw Lord Winthrop heave himself to his feet.

  “You can’t run from the truth, boy!” he shouted after them. “She’s smart. She’ll discover your secret and then where will you be, eh?”

  Adams shut the door on the rest of his tirade. “I’m terribly sorry, my lord, Miss Courdebas. He hasn’t had his . . . medicine this evening.” He lowered his voice. “I thought that might help.”

  “He is beyond help,” Sinclair said, lips curling in disgust. “But thank you for trying, Adams. I’ll see Miss Courdebas home.” His anger faded as he lay a hand on his servant’s shoulder. “Will you be all right?”

  Inside the study, something fell with the sound of breaking glass.

  Adams cringed. “Nothing I haven’t handled before, sir.” He inclined his head toward Ariadne. “A delight to meet you, Miss Courdebas, and please do not judge Lord Hawksbury by his father. In this case, the apple fell quite far from
the tree.” With another nod, the butler turned to ease open the door and disappeared inside. Sinclair started for the street, and Ariadne could only follow.

  Once the darkness of the carriage covered them again, she cleared her throat. “You need not explain unless you wish it, but what was all that?”

  His hands were fisted on his trousers. “I told you. He’s been unwell.”

  “There was a fascinating treatise in the transactions of the Royal Society recently on the effects of excessive use of alcohol,” Ariadne said. “Broken veins across the nose, blood-shot eyes, weight gain, mental deterioration. I’m sure other illnesses must have similar symptoms.”

  He sighed. “No, you’re right, as always. My father is addicted to strong spirits. He says they dull the pain. As most of his pain is self-inflicted, I cannot find charity for him.”

  “Self-inflicted?” Ariadne frowned, trying to put the pieces together. “You mean in his emotional state? Surely he cannot doubt he made a difference in the world.”

  “He believes he made a mistake, one he cannot forgive. Please, Miss Courdebas, leave it at that.”

  Miss Courdebas. The use of the formal name and the sorrow in his voice were enough to dissuade her from this line of questioning. “Very well,” she murmured. “Forgive me for prying.”

  He merely nodded, and his hands did not relax.

  How very sad. It was clear to her that Sinclair’s mother had done something to severely disappoint her husband and send him into a decline. It could not merely be that she had died. Lord Winthrop clearly blamed her for something shameful. Small wonder Sinclair did not wish to discuss it.

  Yet the fact that father and son could not discuss it only made the matter more tragic. Though she and her mother disagreed on any number of subjects, they had never grown so angry with each other that they could not come to some sort of truce on a matter. Even Emily had hopes that she might convince her father to look kindly on Jamie Cropper’s suit. Lord Winthrop and Sinclair were at dagger points. She could see Sinclair was hurting. She hurt for him.