by Regina Scott
“Excuse us,” Ariadne kept saying.
Sinclair was more intent on their destination. He could see Lord Emerson just ahead, surrounded by gentlemen who were no doubt seeking his opinion on the troubles with France.
“Me on one side, you on the other,” Cropper murmured to Sinclair as they approached. “That ought to give the Frenchman pause.”
Ariadne jerked to a stop. “Too late! Look!” She pointed to where a dark-haired waiter was nearing Lord Emerson’s group. His silver tray was held too high, as if he balanced something beneath it.
“Move!” Sinclair shouted, charging forward with Cropper beside him.
Lord Emerson looked up in surprise. Another man pressed against his side, pushing him toward the wall, and Sinclair recognized Lord Trevithan, who was suspected of being one of Lord Hastings’s men. Sinclair joined him a second later, shielding the Parliamentarian with his body.
Lord Emerson raised a brow, gaze more amused than annoyed. “Care to explain, gentlemen?”
“We believe your life to be in danger, my lord,” Trevithan said, even as Sinclair turned to keep the waiter in sight.
Cropper had met him, grabbing his arm. The two stood frozen while everyone at Almack’s moved around them, unconcerned and unknowing. For a moment, Sinclair thought the Frenchman would surrender without a fight. Then the spy threw off the silver tray, which clattered to the hardwood floor, and swung a thin-bladed knife at the Runner.
That woke the sleepy Society guests. Ladies cried out, dandies scuttled back, leaving a wide circle around the pair. Cropper dodged, peeling off his dark evening coat, then wrapping it around one arm.
“In the name of the King,” he said, “I arrest you for attempted murder and treason.”
More voices cried out. Sinclair started forward, but Trevithan caught his arm. “Stay out of it,” he cautioned. “Do nothing to give yourself away.”
Was that his lot, to be forever in the shadows? Once it might have been enough to know that he had been of service to his country and his fallen friends. But Ariadne had shown him a better way, a way of friendship and family, of laughter and love. He’d be a fool not to take it.
“Stay with Emerson,” he told the other agent and hurried for the fray.
Cropper was holding his own against the Frenchman, who was backing toward the door, the crowd parting behind him. Sinclair bent and retrieved the silver tray. Holding it like a shield, he advanced into their circle.
“I’d listen to Mr. Cropper if I were you,” he told the spy. “Drop your weapon now, before anyone is hurt.”
“I don’t take my orders from you,” the French spy sneered.
Lady Jersey appeared at the edge of the circle, head high and diamonds flashing on her bosom. “Then take them from me. You were not invited to this event, sir. I just ask you to leave.”
Ariadne joined her, face equally stern and looking like an avenging angel in her white silk gown. “We know your master. You will both face justice.”
“Not while he lives.” Before Sinclair could move, the spy darted forward and grabbed Ariadne, yanking her into his arms. The blade glinted against her creamy throat.
“Stay back,” he warned, glancing around at them all, “or Miss Courdebas dies.”
No! He couldn’t watch while another person he loved died. For he did love her, her fancies and her dreams and her valor, her fondness for ices and witty phrases. He had to save her, but how?
*
Really! If this had happened on stage or the page of a book, she might have found it enthralling. As it was, she could only be annoyed. What heroine worth her salt allowed herself to be captured by the villain?
“Let go of me this instant,” she insisted as he dragged her back toward the door.
“Shut your mouth and do as you’re told,” he grit out.
Goodness, but it wasn’t easy walking backward in a ball gown. She’d sweated the day she’d been presented at court, dreading that she might trip over her train. Then she would only have embarrassed her entire family. If she fell now, the blade would slice open her throat!
Sinclair and Jamie were following them. She could see the calculation behind Jamie’s gray eyes, but Sinclair, why he looked as if the villain had threatened his own life, waxing pale and flushing red in turn.
And every gaze in the room was on her.
She truly was the heroine.
She raised her head. “Desist, villain! You cannot prosper against the best of British Society.”
Voices rose in murmurs of agreement. She could see her mother, hands clasped, face pinched in worry; Priscilla looking aghast. Emily’s eyes were narrowed in determination, and Daphne’s mouth was so scrunched up Ariadne wouldn’t have been surprised to hear her sister growl. They were with her, ready to help.
“I said shut up,” he warned as they reached the stairs. If he thought he could maneuver her down them backward, he was a fool.
“I will never be silent,” she vowed, digging in the heels of her dancing slippers on the carpet by the stair. “Not while one drop of blood remains in my veins. Not while one breath fills my lungs. Not while the valor of England swells my heart. Rule, Britannia, Britannia rule the waves!”
Other voices took up the anthem, thundering so loudly the rafters shook. “Britons never shall be slaves!”
The blade at her throat wavered, and Sinclair dove for her even as Jamie sprang forward.
All at once, she was free and tumbling into Sinclair’s embrace. Gaze locked with his, she barely heard the clatter of the Frenchman escaping down the stairs.
“That was amazing,” he said.
Ariadne smiled. “Thank you. It isn’t often I find myself in the leading role.”
“Miss Courdebas, are you all right?” Mr. Cunningham crowded close, and she could see Priscilla and Mother just behind.
“Fine,” she said, making no effort to remove herself from Sinclair’s arms. “If you wish to be of use, I suggest you help Mr. Cropper catch the villain.”
“Why?” he asked. “When your sister appears to be doing just that.”
Ariadne jerked upright. “What?”
Sinclair stopped her from moving. “A number of people followed Mr. Cropper down the stairs. Your sister was among them. I’m sure she’ll have sense enough not to engage the man.”
“I’m not,” Ariadne declared. “Come along.”
“Ariadne!” her mother protested, but Ariadne took Sinclair’s hand, lifted her skirts, and tugged him down the stairs.
The street was in chaos. Carriages blocked traffic, people stood in groups exclaiming, pointing. In the distance, she would make out two figures between the street lamps: the Frenchman and the Runner chasing after him.
Sinclair must have seen them too. “He’ll get away. He’s desperate.”
“After them! That way!” A phaeton thundered past, a slender fellow with spectacles and wild brown hair at the reins and Daphne hanging off the side. The silk of her ball gown whipped about her, making her look like a winged fury.
“Faster!” she cried. “No one gets away with threatening my sister!”
“I fly, my Amazon!” the driver promised, whip cracking over his horses.
“Is she mad?” Sinclair said with a shake of his head that was at least in part admiration.
“Possibly,” Ariadne said. “Probably. Oh, I do hope she’s careful!” She turned to Sinclair. “We must go after them. We know where the Frenchman is likely heading. We can meet him there.”
He hesitated, and too late she remembered that the true villain was far too familiar to him. But Sinclair gathered himself, head coming up as he pulled his hand out of hers.
“Stay here,” he said.
After all that, he still didn’t trust her? “I will not!” Ariadne said, hands on her hips. “This is my fight too.”
He reached out, touched her throat, the caress so sweet her arms fell boneless. Drawing back his hand, he held up his fingers. Something dark glistened on them.
> Her blood.
Her hands went to her throat, the sting finally registering.
“It’s only a nick,” he assured her. “But it could have been so much worse. Don’t make me risk you again.”
Once more pain sounded in his voice. Ariadne reached out to him. “It won’t be a risk if we don’t go alone. I imagine Lord Hastings and his entire cadre would like a few choice words with your father.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Ariadne and Sinclair located the spy master, on the edge of the crowd, giving orders, and let him know their suspicions. They were swiftly led to a waiting carriage.
“I hope you’re wrong,” Lord Hastings said as he took his seat across from them, Lord Trevithan at his side. “Your father was once greatly admired. I hate to think of him betraying his country.”
“He betrayed his calling and his family,” Sinclair said, voice wooden. “His country could not have been far behind.”
Ariadne squeezed his hand in support. Even her imagination balked at thinking about how she’d feel if their roles had been reversed. She was only glad to see the French spy in the custody of Jamie Cropper, Daphne, and her new friend as Lord Hastings’s carriage passed the group on the street. At least Lord Winthrop would not have assistance from that quarter.
The family butler was quick to let them in. “Lord Winthrop is in his study,” he said, leading them in that direction. “But I don’t believe he was expecting you.” He glanced at Sinclair for guidance.
“It’s all right, Adams,” Sinclair assured him, though he sounded as if he’d run a great race.
“We’re old friends,” Lord Hastings added.
The butler hurried ahead to open the door. Lord Winthrop was still in his chair, leg up on the hassock. A bottle of brandy stood at his elbow, the liquid already half gone. His eyelids lay heavy on his flaccid cheeks, but Ariadne did not think he was asleep.
“Hastings, Trevithan,” Lord Winthrop greeted them without bothering to rise. “And Miss Courdebas and my heir as well. Did I have the poor taste to miss the wedding?”
“No, Father,” Sinclair said, coming to stand in front of him. “But it appears you had the poor taste to spy for the French.”
Of course he denied it. Why not? Who would take the words of a Frenchman or the guess of a young girl on her first Season over the insistence of the legendary Lord Winthrop?
“Have you gone mad?” he blustered, bulk trembling in his agitation. “The prosperity of the Empire was once dearer to me than a wife. Why would I endanger that union by consorting with the French?”
Oh, but he could still turn a phrase when pressed.
Sinclair did not look impressed. He strode to the desk and grabbed a handful of papers.
“Ambition? Money? That’s all you care about.” He tossed the parchment back down, and one piece fluttered off the desk and floated closer to Ariadne. She bent to retrieve it.
“Money.” Lord Winthrop sneered the word. “That was denied me, and with it went ambition. I once dared to dream, and those dreams became nightmare.”
“Then why not accept France’s offer to spy for them?” Lord Hastings suggested. “You must know that France would never defeat England. I suppose you thought you were being wise to profit at its expense.”
“Wise?” Trevithan raised his dark head. “His agent nearly killed Emerson.”
Lord Winthrop’s brows drew down. “What are you talking about?”
Lord Hastings and Lord Trevithan were quick to berate him for his part in the evening’s affairs, but Ariadne couldn’t help glancing down at the paper in her hand. It was the beginning of a note from Lord Winthrop to another Parliamentarian, inviting him to tea to discuss a matter of great importance. The wording was vague, full of trite platitudes, ingratiating comments. Ariadne blinked, then raised her head.
“He didn’t do it,” she said.
Lord Hastings and his man were so involved in their argument with Lord Winthrop they couldn’t have heard her. But Sinclair came around the desk to her side. “What do you mean?”
The tone was terse, sharp, all but demanding an explanation. He wanted to hear his father might be innocent. She thrust the letter at him.
“If this is an example of the sorts of missives being used to further the French plots, your father is innocent,” Ariadne told him. “These are not the words of one of England’s most celebrated leaders.”
Lord Winthrop heaved himself to his feet, forcing Lord Hastings and Lord Trevithan to fall back. “Listen to my son’s betrothed! I have done nothing wrong.”
“Oh, you’ve done a great deal wrong,” Sinclair said, fist closing on to the page, “but perhaps not this.” He drew in a breath as if drawing in strength with it. “Where is your secretary?”
Lord Hastings and his man were watching Sinclair’s father. Lord Winthrop frowned. “Symthe? He has retired for the night, upstairs, first door on the right. Shall I have Adams fetch him?”
Lord Trevithan was already on his way to the door. “No need. I’ll find him and deliver him to Newgate for further questioning.” He paused to glance back at Sinclair. “Coming, Hawksbury?”
Ariadne looked his way. This was his vocation, the way he honored the past. Though she wished to keep him at her side, she knew she must let him go.
“I’d like to remain,” he said, gaze brushing hers before turning to Lord Hastings. “If I may, sir.”
Lord Hastings nodded, then turned to his old friend. “It seems we’ve wronged you, Winthrop, and for that I apologize. You know my role often requires me to act as less than a gentleman for the good of the Empire.”
“You and your cadre,” Lord Winthrop acknowledged.
Lord Hastings did not look concerned that his old friend knew his secret. “You are very fortunate in your heir and his bride-to-be. I’ll leave them to tell the tale. Miss Courdebas would be only too delighted, I’m sure.” With a nod to Ariadne, he strode after his man.
“I expect someone to explain,” Lord Winthrop said in the quiet that followed. “Immediately.”
Sinclair sighed as if a burden had slipped from his shoulders. “Your secretary has been using your influence for the good of France. He made it possible for a French agent to attack Lord Emerson tonight at Almack’s.”
“At Almack’s?” Lord Winthrop asked, falling back into his seat with a squeak of protest from the chair. “Is nothing sacred?”
“Apparently not,” Ariadne said. “But your son and James Cropper of Bow Street were able to stop the attack before Lord Emerson was harmed.”
“And your sister helped Cropper catch the fellow,” Sinclair reminded her. “I imagine a knighthood might be involved.”
“I will insist on it,” Lord Winthrop assured her. “And I must thank you, Miss Courdebas, for supporting an old man too caught up in his own misery to realize he was being duped. I’ll not forgive myself for that.”
Sinclair shook his head. “So now you’ll hold a grudge even against yourself.”
His father shifted on the chair. “Do not disparage my gifts, boy. I can hold a grudge closer and tighter than a miser his purse.”
“To your own detriment,” Ariadne told him. “You call it a gift. I call it a curse.”
“I’ll call the constable to haul you before the magistrate if you don’t leave me be this instant,” Lord Winthrop countered with a scowl.
Ariadne beamed. “Now that was a specific threat. A shame I don’t believe you.”
Sinclair was staring at her. “Why do you doubt him? He once threatened to ruin my grandparents if I so much as spoke to them again.”
“And I would have done so,” Lord Winthrop warned. “Liars. Cheats. Denying me what I perjured myself to attain.”
“And so you deny me my family?” Sinclair stepped forward, hands fisted. Then he stopped and glanced at Ariadne, and she could see the fire reflected in his dark eyes. “His income could not support his ambitions,” he explained. “So, he lowered himself in his own estimation to marry the
daughter of a wealthy Scotsman. He thought he could keep my mother hidden, visiting her only as required to gain an heir. He spent her money, begged more from my grandfather. He provided no medical attention when she was ill. I think he hoped she’d die, relieving him of an embarrassment.”
Lord Winthrop shifted again, and for the first time Ariadne saw him pale. “Now, then,” he murmured. “Never that.”
Sinclair continued undaunted. “But what he didn’t realize is that the last of her money was entailed to her heirs. The income came to me on her death, with my grandfather as trustee. Father was so angry he threatened to ruin my grandparents.”
“That’s why you refused to see them,” Ariadne realized. “You were protecting them.”
Sinclair nodded. “And you. I was afraid what he might do if he thought I might truly come to care for you. He destroyed everything I ever loved.” He reached out a hand to touch her cheek, the caress raising a longing inside her.
“It seems I have greatly wronged you, Sinclair,” his father murmured. “I will not stop you from seeing your grandparents, if that’s what you want. And as for Miss Courdebas, you have my permission to marry her.”
Sinclair took a step back, staring at Lord Winthrop. He had lost so much at his father’s hand that Ariadne wouldn’t have been surprised to hear him accept the offer to marry her, just to prove he could. She didn’t want him that way.
“It was all a ruse to cover Sinclair’s work with Lord Hastings,” she told Lord Winthrop. “Your son has no interest in marrying me.” She would not have imagined just saying the words would hurt so much.
Sinclair took her hand. “You and I can talk further, Father. For now, allow me to escort Miss Courdebas home.”
And so a short time later she was once more seated across from Sinclair in a carriage, this time one belonging to his father. It was beautifully appointed, with brass and polished wood surrounding the plush blue velvet, and she couldn’t help her bounce on the well-padded seat as they set off.
“Thank you,” he said, a shadow in his evening black. “You defeated a French spy and my father’s arrogance in one night. Lord Hastings will be sure to offer you more assignments.”