by Regina Scott
“Well said,” she murmured. “You continue to provide me with substance for my journal.”
He allowed the praise to warm him as Nathan linked arms with Priscilla. “Ready, dearest?” he asked, eyes crinkling at the corners as he beamed at her.
She smiled so charmingly a passing gentleman tripped over his feet he was so busy ogling. “I believe we are finished.” She turned to Ariadne. “Do tell me how it all turns out.”
Ariadne’s smile dimmed, and she lowered her gaze. “I shall. Thank you for your advice, for all it was difficult to hear.”
Priscilla leaned in for a quick hug, then continued down the street with her betrothed. Ariadne heaved a sigh.
“You didn’t care for her suggestions?” Sinclair asked as they turned for Mayfair. Not knowing how long she would be, he had dismissed the carriage earlier.
Ariadne trudged along beside him, oblivious to the wares that held other shoppers spellbound before the windows. “She says the only way I can impress a patroness is to share my darkest secret.”
Sinclair shook his head. “Well, you can’t do that. Other than this business with me, you have no dark secrets.”
Her gaze remained on the pavement, as if each crack and bump fascinated her. Perhaps they did. For all he knew, the Royal Society had recently published a paper about the extraordinary stresses that resulted in pavement cracking.
“Well,” she said with another sigh, “I have one.”
Sinclair stopped. A fellow who had been close behind him detoured around with a pointed frown. “You cannot share that.”
She stopped, turned to gaze at him, eyes wide. “You know?”
“Certainly I know. I was there when he offered you this assignment, remember?”
Her cheeks turned that delightful shade of pink. “Yes, of course. I would never share that secret.”
He’d missed something. Suddenly aware of the crowds around them, he took her arm and started walking again, away from the shops and toward Albemarle Street. Her skirts fluttered as she tried to keep up.
“So, my dear Ariadne,” he said, keeping his tone light, “what is your darkest secret?”
He waited for her to demur, to protest she had no other secret besides their false betrothal. Instead, she fiddled with the strings of her reticule.
“Given the intrigue in your life,” she murmured, “anything I would say pales in comparison.”
He nodded, feeling as if his breath came easier. “That much is true. You told me from the first that you are distressingly normal. I’d say refreshingly normal. There is no guile in you.”
She seemed to shrink in on herself. “And you told me everyone has secrets. I suppose a young lady like myself is no exception. It is the Season, after all.”
The Season? He’d heard that young ladies went to great lengths to make themselves attractive to the gentlemen. Hair pieces were not unknown, as were other ways of improving on nature. But surely she didn’t mean . . .
He glanced her way and quickly averted his gaze, feeling his cheeks heat. “Yes, I had heard a few felt it necessarily to, ahem, augment their figures.”
Now she stopped, hands on her hips and head high among the passersby. “Sinclair! Did you just accuse me of padding my bosom?”
“Certainly not,” he said, shaking his head violently. “Such words would never have left my lips.”
“Good,” she said, starting forward once more as if oblivious to the carriages and lorries that trundled by on the street. “I find such practices ridiculous. As if a gentleman isn’t bound to find out once you’re married.” She shuddered as if imagining it. “I’m certain every young lady on the ton attempts to make the most of her best features, but pretending you have a feature you do not is a false promise.”
A bit like their engagement. He felt himself warming again and tugged at his cravat. “Then I can’t see what secret you could possibly share with the patronesses.”
She cast him a glance, and his stomach tightened. “Have you ever heard of Lord Snedley?” she ventured, hopping over a puddle in their way.
He frowned. “Snedley? The fellow who has the ton enthralled with his witty advice?”
She smiled. “You consider him witty?”
He would never have taken her for a devotee. “Frankly, I consider him a flat bore, prosing on endlessly about things that have little import.”
She flamed. “Oh, really? I suppose the fact that half of London slavishly follows his advice means little to you.”
“Half of London is feeble-minded, overly absorbed in their own lives, or intent on playing follow-the-leader. I am not one of them.”
She sniffed. “Then you will have no interest in my so-called dark secret.”
Was she related to the fellow? He tried to envision her father writing the book and failed. “He cannot have been one of your suitors. He must be ancient.”
She scowled at him. “Why would you assume that?”
He was digging himself a hole deeper with each word. He could feel it. “Perhaps you should tell me what your dark secret has to do with the infamous Lord Snedley.”
She drew in a deep breath and raised her head so that the veil on her bonnet fluttered. “I am Lord Snedley.”
He shook his head. “You cannot tell that to a patroness. The real Lord Snedley will likely hear of it and call you liar.”
“I tell you, I am Lord Snedley,” she said, stopping to stamp her foot. “My mother insisted that I wear white to Priscilla and Emily’s ball, and I wanted something better. So, I gathered up all the pious, trite sayings she’d given us over the years, made them even more ridiculous, and sent the manuscript to a publisher for an advance. No one would buy something from a girl fresh on her first Season, so I claimed it was by Lord Snedley.”
Sinclair started laughing, but the look on her face made him swallow it. “You really wrote that book?”
Her eyes narrowed. “Yes! Why are you so surprised?”
He bent his head to meet her gaze. “Because it’s drivel, and I know you can do better.”
She colored, dropping her gaze. “Thank you, I think.”
“You’re welcome.” He straightened. “But I do see your problem. If you tell a patroness you authored that book, you’ll make every devotee look foolish, and you ruin any chance of ever publishing again.”
She swallowed. “Exactly. But if I don’t tell the truth, the patroness has no reason to find me interesting. Right now, I don’t even have a reason to ask one to call.” She glanced up at him. “I don’t suppose you know one well. Perhaps are related?”
“No,” he said. “No relations. At times I wonder why I was admitted.”
“Out of respect for your father,” she said.
Possibly. It certainly wasn’t because of his mother. The ton wanted nothing to do with her.
He and Ariadne wound their way through Mayfair discussing schemes, but nothing seemed likely of success. Ahead he could see her house with its elegant white trim, its impressive pediment. If her mother ever learned her daughter had authored that book, Ariadne would be consigned to the country for the rest of her existence. There had to be some way he could help her. Perhaps this was one time he should wield his father’s influence. The word in the right ear might garner her a moment of a patroness’s time.
She stopped at the stoop and put a hand on his arm. “I won’t make you come in. Thank you for allowing me to be part of all this. I don’t know how, but I’ll find a way to secure those vouchers.”
Sinclair smiled at her. “I know you will. I’ll call tomorrow to hear your plan. Is there anything you want of me?”
She bit her lip a moment before answering, and once more his gaze was drawn to the soft pink. He and Ariadne were supposed to be engaged. It would be completely appropriate for him to kiss her. All in the name of furthering the ruse, of course.
“I’ll consider the matter,” she said, meeting his gaze. His thoughts must have been written there, for she stilled. Her tongue wet her lip
s, setting them to glistening.
That was it. Sinclair bent his head and kissed her. She tasted as ripe as a strawberry, like sweet sunlight, warm summer days. He wanted to gather her closer, shelter her from all harm. This was why men went to war, to protect such a marvel of womanhood.
Wait, marvel? Perhaps wonder. Yes, wonder of womanhood. Arg!
He pulled back to find that she’d closed her eyes, mouth turned up as if she were savoring a dream. She truly was the most adorable little thing. He only wanted to pull her closer once more.
“You make me want to be better than I am,” he said.
She opened her eyes, smile widening. “Why? You’re already nearly perfect.”
Now he was blushing like a girl on her first Season. “Thank you, I think.”
Still smiling, she turned and traipsed to the door, skirts swaying with her hips. What man wouldn’t be proud of such a bride-to-be?
He nearly smacked himself in the head. She wasn’t his bride-to-be. Their relationship would last only as long as it served the purposes of the War Office. This engagement wasn’t real.
His feelings, however, were another matter.
Chapter Nineteen
The more Ariadne thought about the matter of the French spy and Almack’s, the more she realized she needed help not only to enter the famous ladies’ club but to capture the fellow. Lord Hastings and his cadre were clearly desperate. Why else enlist the aid of an untried would-be agent like herself? So, she sent word Priscilla and Emily to meet at the Emerson town house the next morning.
“But why?” Daphne asked as she and Ariadne walked the short distance from their family’s home to Emily’s. “You know very well that I’m normally riding this time of the morning. I’ll miss the best fellows on Rotten Row.”
Ariadne reached up to adjust the tall velvet shako bonnet. It was sunny today, the sky a delicate shade of blue that matched the spencers covering the top of her and Daphne’s white muslin gowns. She knew the time had come to confess all to her sister, but for once she doubted she had the words to adequately describe the situation.
“Forgive me for interrupting your favorite pastime,” she said as they lifted their embroidered skirts to cross the street, mindful of the lacquered carriage rattling past. “But I need your help and theirs on a mission of some delicacy.” She drew in a breath. “You see, I’m not truly engaged to Sinclair.”
Daphne frowned as she strode along the pavement. “I was certain Mother said you were.”
“Mother believes I am, as does most of the ton. But it’s a ruse. He is pretending to be engaged to me so that no one will guess our true purpose for spending time together. We are intelligence agents.”
“Certainly you are intelligent,” Daphne argued as they started up the stairs to Emily’s town house. “No one would argue that. But an agent? An agent of what?”
Ariadne put a hand on her arm to quiet her as Warburton let them in and directed them upstairs. She had always felt there was far more going on behind those bright blue eyes than the butler let on. Now, he merely smiled at her and assured them they would not be disturbed.
They found Priscilla ensconced in a chair in the blue-and-white withdrawing room, a pot of tea at her elbow, with Emily opposite on the sofa. Both friends wore white, though only Priscilla looked comfortable in the frilly muslin. Emily kept tugging at the tucker under her chin as if she felt choked.
“Lady Minerva told Father I was attempting to remain on the shelf by dressing in dark colors,” she explained when Ariadne looked her askance. “He insisted on several new gowns, three white and one pink.” She shuddered.
“There’s always the rag man,” Ariadne told her, knowing Emily’s antipathy for the color.
“Or a day painting with no smock,” Emily agreed, rebel glint in her eyes, as Ariadne sat beside her and Daphne took up the chair near Priscilla.
“And what was so urgent we must gather now?” Priscilla asked, pouring a cup of tea for each of them.
“Apparently Ariadne is an agent of some sort,” Daphne said, accepting hers.
Ariadne raised her head. “I cannot divulge details, but suffice it to say that a leader in government has entrusted me with a delicate mission. A French spy will stalk the halls at Almack’s next Wednesday, and he must be stopped.”
She waited for the gasps, the questions. Priscilla and Emily merely nodded, and Daphne took a sip of her tea.
“An admirable goal,” Priscilla said, “save for one thing. One of us has not managed to procure vouchers.” She eyed Ariadne.
“Mother is working on it,” Daphne assured her. “She was discussing the matter with friends when we left. Though I’m not sure she knew about the spy.” She glanced at Ariadne for confirmation.
“Certainly not,” Ariadne agreed. “I told Mother that Sinclair had expressed concerns his betrothed had not been granted admittance, implying that he was beginning to wonder about the advisability of marrying me after all. I have every hope she will find a way to rectify matters.”
Emily nodded again. “Very wise. It shouldn’t be difficult. Lady Cowper was persuaded to allow Jamie in. He will be in attendance next Wednesday, as will Father, who is coming in a show of support.”
Ariadne beamed. “Excellent! By all means, inform Mr. Cropper of our plans. I will feel all the more confident knowing Bow Street is at our sides.”
Emily’s smile was proud. Priscilla pointed a pinky finger around her tea cup. “Should we share this secret so widely? I’m a bit surprised you confided in us.”
“I considered keeping the matter quiet,” Ariadne promised. “But then I realized that the more people were looking for the villain, the less likely he’d be to put his dastardly plan into action.”
“So of course Lord Hawksbury is aware of all this,” Priscilla mused.
Ariadne’s face warmed. “He will be. I’ll explain everything to him when next we meet.”
And think of him every moment until then. In fact, she hadn’t stopped thinking about him since he’d kissed her yesterday. The sweetness, the fire, the way she wanted to remain in his embrace forever, the sheer emotion rising through her, was quite without description.
She knew. She’d tried without success to describe it in her journal.
Daphne leaned forward, tea cup precariously balanced in one hand. “I still don’t understand. Who is this French spy? What does he want at Almack’s?”
“I wasn’t made privy,” Ariadne admitted. “But surely it must be something horrid. If he wished to steal someone’s secrets or belongings, he’d do so at their home, wouldn’t he? No, I imagine he’s there for an assassination.”
At last they all looked properly horrified.
“At Almack’s?” Daphne cried. “Is nothing sacred?”
Emily leaned back in her seat, fingers idly brushing at her soft skirts as if she wished to wipe them away like extra paint from her brush. “He’ll be after someone important, count on it. Lord Sidmouth, the Home Secretary, perhaps. He’s rather unpopular, on both sides of the Channel.”
Priscilla made a face. “But he rarely attends Almack’s. What of the Prime Minister or Wellington?”
“Neither will be in town that night from what I can tell from The Times,” Ariadne reported.
“I suppose it doesn’t matter, so long as we catch him before he has a chance to act,” Daphne said. “Or they start serving those wretched refreshments.” She shuddered.
They spent the next bit stitching up the details of their plan, then Ariadne and Daphne took their leave.
“So now that makes three secrets you felt you could not tell me,” Daphne said.
Was that hurt simmering under the curious tone? “Three?” Ariadne hedged.
“The fact that you are Lord Snedley,” Daphne said, ticking the omissions off on her gloved fingers. “The fact that you are pretending a betrothal with Lord Sinclair, and the fact that you are somehow involved in messy government matters.” She dropped her hand with a frown. “Did Father a
sk that of you? Because I would have thought I’d be much better behind enemy lines.”
“I am not behind enemy lines,” Ariadne reminded her as they started up the steps to their home. “And no, it wasn’t Father. Forgive me, Daphne, but I thought it wisest at the time. I suppose I just wanted something of my own, something no one else could do.”
Daphne squeezed her hand before reaching for the latch. “You already do many things none of us can. You won’t catch me writing novels or plays. But I do hope you confide in me in the future. I miss you.”
Ariadne’s heart warmed. But the moment they stepped through the front door, she knew something was wrong.
“Miss Ariadne.” Pattison stood ramrod straight in front of them as if refusing to move until she acknowledged him. “You have callers. I put them in the front sitting room.”
And that meant he was none too pleased with them, as if the stiffness of his manner would have given her reason to doubt.
“Do I require a chaperone?” Ariadne asked.
His nostrils flared. “If your mother was here, she would have refused them entrance. As it is, I have both footmen stationed in the room, and I have locked up the silver.”
Goodness! Who could possibly have come calling that warranted such precautions?
“I’ll come with you,” Daphne offered.
Though having her stalwart sister beside her would have been comforting, there was the possibility that this visit was associated with Lord Hastings. Until Ariadne knew for sure, she could not chance Daphne’s involvement.
“No, I’ll deal with it,” Ariadne said. “Just stay close in case I need you.”
“I’ll be in the library,” Daphne promised with a nod. “I should be able to find something there to amuse me.” She started down the corridor.
Ariadne squared her shoulders and approached the door to the sitting room. Whoever was inside, she resolved to do a better job of teasing out their secrets than she had with Sinclair or the French spy.
An older couple rose as she entered the room. Both were gray haired, their faces well lined. Their clothing, though simple, was of good material, their bearing proud.