Eloquence and Espionage

by Regina Scott

  He wrinkled his nose. “If you insist, miss.”

  “I insist,” Ariadne said, heading for the stairs. “And show Lord Hawksbury up the moment he arrives.”

  Pattison looked offended that she would think he’d do anything less. “Certainly, Miss Ariadne.”

  At least her mother had impressed upon him the need to encourage Sinclair. Ariadne went upstairs to finish recording her thoughts before her guests arrived.

  She was seated in the withdrawing room when Pattison brought Sinclair’s grandparents in. The saffron-decorated room with its paintings of prominent people and plush furnishings was so much more suited to a family reunion than the sitting room. She had seated herself on her mother’s gilt-edged sofa, skirts draped artfully around her, every hair in place, and she imagined Priscilla would be very proud of her.

  “Please, join me,” she said, motioning them farther into the room.

  Mr. MacDougall found a seat near her. His wife came more slowly, glancing around. “Your designer has excellent taste.”

  “My mother has excellent taste,” Ariadne corrected her. “In most things. Perhaps a bit conservative. I like more imagination.”

  “Pink posies?” Mr. MacDougall guessed with a smile.

  “Peacock feathers and moonstones,” Ariadne confided. “But that will have to wait until I have my own establishment.”

  “I’m sure Sinclair will give you leave to redecorate Colley Manor,” Mr. MacDougall said.

  Mrs. MacDougall frowned at him as she sat beside Ariadne. “Lucy had excellent taste too. I’m sure her house is fine.”

  And something of a shrine it sounded like. Ariadne would have to handle any changes with tact and diplomacy.

  Wait. No. This was all a pretense. She wasn’t going to marry Sinclair or redecorate his home. Unless of course, he fell madly in love with her and begged her to marry him. She could just imagine him sweeping her away to a venerable old manor house, with a turret window and ivy (nothing less would do) climbing up the chimney.

  “I think you’ve given her something to consider, Mrs. MacDougall,” her husband said with a smile.

  Ariadne blinked, forcing her mind to the present. “Forgive me. I told you I appreciated imagination.”

  From the doorway came the grating sound of Pattison clearing his throat. “Lord Hawksbury, miss.” He stepped aside, and Sinclair strode into the room, looking handsome as always in a navy coat and fawn trousers, dark hair back in a queue. His smile of welcome disappeared as his grandparents rose.

  “Hawksbury,” his grandfather said, voice rough with emotion.

  “Oh, my dear boy,” said his grandmother.

  Sinclair turned and walked out.

  Mrs. MacDougall fell back into her seat, face clouding.

  Had Ariadne blundered? “Excuse me,” she murmured, rising to hurry after him.

  She passed Pattison in the corridor. “Apparently the sitting room would have been sufficient,” he muttered.

  Ariadne glared at him before clattering down the stairs.

  Sinclair was already at the front door. Accepting his hat and gloves from the footman, he glanced up at her. His face was tight, his eyes dark and troubled. “You had no right, not without consulting me.”

  Ariadne froze on the stairs. “Forgive me. I had no idea you’d react this way.”

  He strode back to the foot of the stairs, gaze locked with hers, hand on the newel post as if to keep it between them. “Of course you had no idea. I wager you imagined nothing but a happy reunion. Despite all my protests, you persist in seeing my life like some adventure novel where everyone lives happily-ever-after. The world doesn’t work that way. People die. Parents despise their children.”

  Tears pressed against her eyes. “They shouldn’t.”

  He dropped his hand. “They shouldn’t. And children should not be made to choose one parent over the other. But that is not the way I was raised, and nothing you can do will change that.”

  “But they truly care for you,” Ariadne protested. “They wanted to meet you.”

  “That is impossible.” He started to turn, but a voice behind Ariadne stopped him.

  “Sinclair.” His grandfather descended to Ariadne’s side. “Have you so little use for us? What have we done that you should treat us so? Have you nothing to say to me?”

  Sinclair clapped the hat on his head and glanced back. “Only this. Do not attempt to contact me again. Our reunion will only bring you heartache. Miss Courdebas, under the circumstances, I must withdraw my offer for your hand. We simply will not suit. Good day.” Turning, he strode out the door.

  Ariadne could not call him back. What could she say to him?

  “I don’t understand,” she murmured.

  Mr. MacDougall put a hand on her shoulder. “I’m so sorry, lass. I never meant to come between the two of you. Go after him. Plead your case.”

  She wanted to. Part of her wanted to fall on her knees, beg his forgiveness. The other part wanted to tell him to stop acting like a spoiled lordling and talk to her. If he’d given her any indication that his grandparents were some kind of criminals or dangerously insane, she certainly wouldn’t have encouraged them to reunite. Yet they seemed so kind, so normal. Why would he push them away? Why would he push her away?

  Why did everything have to be a secret with him?

  “No,” she said. “I fear Lord Hawksbury and I were never meant to be.”

  His face seemed to lengthen. “A pity. He’s all alone, then.”

  She felt alone herself.

  Someone rapped on the door, and Mr. MacDougall’s gaze lightened with hope. She could feel it surging through her as well. Her story wasn’t over yet; it could not have such a dismal end.

  The hero was not allowed to take himself off in high dudgeon. She’d never have written that!

  Their footman opened the door to reveal another footman on the other side. The newcomer held out a sealed missive. “For Miss Ariadne Courdebas,” he said.

  Her footman accepted the note, turned to offer it to her. “For you, miss.”

  Ariadne’s fingers felt stiff as she reached for it.

  “More bad news, lass?” Mr. MacDougall asked, gaze on her face.

  “No,” Ariadne said, staring down at the piece of vellum, signed by Lady Jersey and stamped in red. “News I’ve been waiting for all Season. This is a voucher. I’ve been admitted to Almack’s.”

  And she found she simply couldn’t care.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Almack’s was exactly as Ariadne had pictured it from Priscilla, Emily, and Daphne’s descriptions. Plastered walls set with statuary, polished floors that reflected the colors of the gowns sweeping over them, conversation rising and falling like a gentle tide, perfume mingling as the very cream of London Society entered the hallowed halls.

  The stage was set, but the hero remained missing. She had not heard from Sinclair since he’d left her with his distraught grandparents. None of them could understand his behavior.

  “What could we have done to so offend him?” his grandmother had wailed, crumpling the soggy ball of her handkerchief in her hand.

  Ariadne had no idea. Some character motivation was missing, a scene not set to fit the mood. She could not determine the problem. She refused to believe him so calloused, so cruel. Something was driving him to push them all away. But what?

  Emily, Priscilla, and Daphne had been supportive, consoling her and berating him in turn.

  “If you ask me, he is an unfeeling brute,” Daphne had declared, eyes narrowed to chips of ice. “No one jilts my sister.”

  Ariadne could not believe him unfeeling. From what she’d observed, he felt too deeply. Certainly he had had his share of heartache: his mother’s death, his father’s decline. But to throw off his last living relatives? That made no sense.

  Now she stood with Daphne on one side and Priscilla on the other, her mother nearby, as the select company of Almack’s strolled past and the musicians tuned up in their alcove
above the door to the supper room. She had not confided the end of her engagement to her mother; she’d even resigned herself to wearing white, this time a soft silk that draped her as effectively as the Grecian statues, with pearls at her throat and woven into her hair. Time enough to face her mother’s disappointment after they’d caught the villain and saved his intended victim. It was simply unacceptable that so few of the pivotal roles in their play had been cast.

  Ack! Sinclair was right. She did persist in seeing the world like a play or novel. A shame she still could not convince herself that that was such a bad thing.

  “Do you see him?” Priscilla murmured, looking stunning as always in a pink satin embossed with roses and molded to her impressive bosom.

  Ariadne glanced around again. Mr. Cunningham was bowing over a lady’s hand, no doubt securing her promise for a dance later. She found she did not mind that he had not approached her. Archibald Stump, Freddie Pulsipher, and many of the other fellows who had called on her in the last week were likewise lining up partners.

  “No,” she said with a sigh. “I fear Sinclair has no interest in attending.”

  Priscilla shook her golden head. “Not Lord Hawksbury. Your French agent.”

  Oh, of course. That was the entire reason she was here. She’d already noted Lord Hastings weaving through the crowd and felt certain his cadre must be present as well. Emily in a plum gown with black lace at the heart-shaped neckline stood across the room with one arm firmly linked to Jamie’s while her father flanked her. No doubt Emily and Jamie stood ready to move in at Ariadne’s signal. All she had to do was identify the spy.

  Emily must have caught Ariadne’s gaze on her, for she murmured something to Jamie before hurrying across the room.

  “Have you found him, then?” she asked. Ariadne could feel the tension in her, but she was fairly sure her friend was as concerned about Jamie’s reception among the ton as locating the French spy.

  “No,” Ariadne reported. “I know most of the dark-haired men in the room, and I can count the strangers on one hand. No one matches the fellow from the coach.”

  “Perhaps he won’t come as a gentleman,” Emily suggested. “He could be here as a server, or one of the musicians.”

  “He said he was an old friend of Lord Hastings,” Daphne put in. “He has to be above a certain age.”

  Ariadne glanced to where the spy master was chatting with his handsome son and a roguish blond-haired fellow. “No. He was younger than Lord Hastings, by a good bit. Though older than us.”

  Emily narrowed her dark eyes. “Then he could not have been referring to himself. He isn’t Lord Hastings’s old friend. His master is.”

  Ariadne stared at her. “We have two villains?” What a twist! She could hardly wait to tell Sinclair. Then she remembered he no longer wished to speak to her. Oh, but young men could be maddening!

  The first dance was starting. Emily hurried back to Jamie’s side. Nathan Kent came to collect Priscilla. Three gentlemen petitioned Daphne, who settled for the tallest and started for the floor, creamy skirts swinging. One of the remaining gentlemen glanced Ariadne’s way.

  She did not so much as encourage him with a look. She no longer had to accept her sister’s leftovers. Besides, she had a job to do.

  Her mother moved closer as the music started. “You are wise to wait for Lord Hawksbury,” she murmured. “These young ladies who find themselves engaged and yet still must capture the attentions of every gentleman in the room do themselves no service.”

  “Yes, Mother,” Ariadne said, knowing it was the expected response.

  Her mother opened her fan and moved it slowly before her sapphire-colored ball gown. “Did he confide what time he would arrive?”

  “No, Mother.”

  The fan stopped. “Pity. I shall keep you company until then. You should not have to stand alone.”

  Her mother’s cronies filled the room, ready to converse, remarking on this lady’s daring décolleté, that lady’s becoming hairstyle. Yet Lady Rollings chose to stay at her daughter’s side. That was family.

  “Thank you,” Ariadne said, warm despite the low neckline of her gown. “The company was feeling a bit thin with everyone dancing.”

  “There are a number of Eligibles in attendance tonight,” her mother agreed. “And relatively few gentlemen of Parliament. I’m surprised Emerson could spare the time.”

  Ariadne glanced to where Emily’s father was now talking with Lord Hastings. It seemed odd to see the two together, like real life and art colliding. But she supposed it was inevitable they should meet, being the most senior members of government present.

  Ariadne gasped. “Oh, no! Not Lord Emerson!”

  Her mother nodded. “Yes, I quite agree. Napoleon rampaging across the Continent and one of the leaders of the War Office making time for Almack’s. Most likely he felt it incumbent to support Mr. Cropper’s debut here. I cannot imagine what the patronesses were thinking to admit him.”

  Perhaps someone had encouraged it. Perhaps that someone knew that only his daughter’s happiness would force the duke out of Whitehall.

  So he could be killed.

  “I must speak to Emily,” she said.

  Her mother tsked. “I doubt she’ll listen. She seems completely enamored of her Bow Street beau. I must say, Ariadne, that I am quite pleased you managed to secure a more presentable groom. At times, I feared you’d marry some penniless poet.”

  She’d have been happy to marry a poet, penniless or not, if he had treated her as well as Sinclair did. He appreciated her just as she was, without expecting her to lose weight, change her hairstyle, or affect a different manner of speech or dress. He liked her.

  Or at least he had liked her, until she’d tried to reunite him with his grandparents.

  “Excuse me,” she said, heading for Emily and Jamie.

  It wasn’t nearly as easy interrupting a set as she’d thought. Couples spun past, bumping into her and muttering apologies. Gentlemen frowned at her as if she were quite mad. And everyone kept moving so she could not get close enough to Emily to warn her. She found herself twirled to the side and shunted to the edge of the ballroom.

  “Perhaps you require a partner.”

  That voice! Ariadne turned to find Sinclair beside her. Hair confined back behind his head, jacket and breeches a merciless black, he took her hand and led her into the set, joining at the bottom.

  “What’s the plan?” he murmured as they came together in the pattern of the dance.

  His gaze was intent, determined. It was almost as if the last days had never been. She wanted to ask him why he had left, why he was here now. But she knew they had more important matters to settle first.

  “The French spy is after Lord Emerson,” she murmured back. “We have to warn Emily.”

  “I’d think warning him would be more effective,” he pointed out, taking her arm to dance along the floor.

  They passed the other couples swaying on either side. Emily and Jamie were near the top of the set and working their way down as Ariadne and Sinclair worked up. A few more turns and they’d meet.

  “He’d never believe me,” she said. “He might believe Emily.”

  “And Cropper,” he surmised. They separated a moment in the movement of the dance, then came back together. “Have you spotted the spy?”

  “Not yet. But it may be that he is only a tool of someone else here in London.”

  Again the pattern of the dance separated them. Emily and Jamie were only a few feet away. She tried to catch her friend’s eye, but Emily’s gaze was all for Jamie.

  “Who?” Sinclair demanded as they rejoined.

  “I don’t know,” Ariadne admitted. “Someone Lord Hastings’s age, who is an old friend of his and has access to high-enough levels of government to know Lord Emerson’s power there. Someone who could convince the patronesses to admit Jamie Cropper to Almack’s so the duke would come to support him. Does that sound like anyone you know?”

  Sincl
air stumbled in the middle of the set, washing white. “Yes. My father.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Sinclair couldn’t move. Could it be? Was that why his father had taken to having him followed? Why he’d had his secretary ask about Sinclair’s association with Lord Hastings? Had the bitterness and greed driven him to betray his own country? The possible truth of it slammed into him.

  “Sinclair,” Ariadne hissed. “We must keep dancing.”

  Somehow, he forced his feet to slide across the polished floor, his hands to take hers. Another turn and they would be part of Lady Emily and Cropper’s quartet. And he would have to admit that his father wanted hers dead.

  “I cannot believe it of him,” Ariadne said as if she knew his thoughts. “He fought to make this nation great. Why throw it over for France?”

  “He is not the man you think him,” Sinclair said, feeling numb. “He is not the man anyone thinks him. Only my mother and I knew the truth. He does nothing except out of high ambition and deep grasping.”

  They turned together, joining the next couple, and his other hand touched the slim, strong fingers of Lady Emily. She eyed Sinclair and Ariadne as the quartet circled.

  “You worked hard to get here,” she remarked, even as Cropper watched them too. “What’s happened?”

  “We discovered the spy’s target,” Ariadne told her, words running together in her haste. “Your father.”

  Emily’s steps faltered, but Jamie held her up. “When, where?” the Runner demanded, gaze sharpening.

  “Tonight,” Sinclair told him. “Here. You and Emily were the bait.”

  “Then let’s spring the trap before Lord Emerson can be caught.” He broke the set and pulled Emily out of the line.

  “Why didn’t we think of that?” Ariadne marveled as she and Sinclair followed.

  Very likely because they had been too well trained in Society’s dictates. One simply did not disrupt the traditions of Almack’s. The Runner clearly felt no such constraints. He pushed through groups of chatting ladies, shoved past clumps of gentlemen, all of whom raised quizzing glasses or otherwise frowned at his passage.