Eloquence and Espionage (10 page)

“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.

All at once, he leaned forward from across
the coach, cocking his head to see past her out the window.

“What is it?” Ariadne asked, pulse
quickening.

“We’re being followed,” he said, and he did
not sound distressed by the matter.

Ariadne was afraid to look lest she give
away the game. “Surely there must be other carriages going the same
direction we are this time of night. People returning home from
balls, gentlemen from their clubs.”

“Perhaps,” he acknowledged. “We’ll see
shortly.” He lowered the window and called up to his coachman.
“Change of plans, Butters. Make for Almack’s, and be quick about
it.”

“Almack’s?” Ariadne said, clutching the seat
as the carriage sped. “Why would we go there?”

“For safety,” he said, watching the carriage
behind them. “Your parents and sister are there, as is most of the
ton
. I’ll escort you inside, then run this fellow to
ground.”

“No,” Ariadne informed him. She pointed to
his legs below the folds of his tweed greatcoat. “You won’t be
admitted.”

He glanced down at his trousers and bit back
an oath. “You’re right. I have no idea who made the decree that
only knee breeches are allowed, but as the almighty patronesses
turned away Wellington for wearing trousers, I doubt I can charm my
way in. I’ll have to ask you to enter on your own.”

A sensible plan, but for one thing. “They
won’t allow me in either,” Ariadne said.

He glanced at her. “Why? That white muslin
should be perfectly acceptable.”

He truly didn’t follow fashion. “That isn’t
the issue. I wasn’t granted vouchers.”

He leaned forward and frowned as if he could
not have heard her properly. “I saw your family go. I was certain
someone mentioned Almack’s.”

Oh, the injustice! “My sister was granted
vouchers. I was not.”

He leaned back. “Well, that was
short-sighted. Probably afraid you’d show them up, the old
cats.”

She should not be pleased to hear the
legendary patronesses vilified, but she couldn’t help her smile.
“Thank you, I think.”

He drummed his fingers on the seat, gaze
once out the window at the coach behind them. “It seems Almack’s is
of no use to us. I can’t very well take you to a gentleman’s
lodging like the Fenton, betrothal or not. I don’t want to lead him
back to your house.”

“Very likely he already knows where I live,”
she replied, hiding the shudder that thought engendered. “News of
our engagement seems to have traveled far and wide. And my family
is hardly unknown among the
ton
.”

He opened the window again. “Make that
Pierce Place in Mayfair.”

Ariadne frowned as he shut the window.
“That’s where Priscilla lives.”

“Small, secluded, innocuous,” he agreed.
“And well known to you. Can you think of a better place to
hide?”

“Lacking a crypt or an abandoned monastery,
no. But what I don’t understand is why we are hiding. I thought you
wanted to catch the fellow.”

“That has been my goal for weeks,” Sinclair
admitted. “But I cannot risk any harm coming to you.”

If a hero had said that in a book, she would
have thought it a noble gesture. Now it hardly satisfied. The
security of the Empire was at stake!

“Nonsense,” she said. “Are you prepared to
capture this spy, here, now?”

The frown was back in his voice. “Certainly,
but . . .”

“Then catch him.” She yanked down the window
and shouted against the wind. “Driver! Stop. Now!”

“My lady?” he threw back even as Sinclair
stiffened.

“Now!” Ariadne screeched, and then nearly
tumbled into Sinclair as the coach jerked to a stop. He held her
shoulders as they both listened, heads turned to the window. As the
harness settled, the horses quieted, the approaching rumble of the
other coach seemed to fill the air.

It passed in an instant, yet it felt like
years passed with it. She made out the driver hunched in his
greatcoat, whip at the ready, the heavy black panels and wheels.
The windows were shuttered, giving no glimpse to the occupants.

She pushed on the door. “Go on! Follow him!
I’ll be fine.”

With a look that begged forgiveness,
Sinclair leaped out and sped after the other coach. She saw the
back bounce--he must have jumped aboard. Then the other coach
disappeared around the corner.

“My lady?” Sinclair’s coachman called. “What
would you have me do?”

He must have seen his master leave, even if
he had no idea why. “Wait here a moment,” she told him. “Then
follow that carriage at a sedate pace. We want to be available
should Lord Hawksbury require assistance.”

“Right you are, miss.”

Satisfied he knew what to do, she pushed up
the window. As she lowered her arms, a face leered through the
glass.

With a cry, she fell back from the door, but
the man grabbed it and jumped inside, landing in a crouch before
her. She opened her mouth to cry out, and he clamped a gloved hand
over her lips.

“Quiet now. I’ve a message for your
betrothed’s employer, and he won’t thank you for interrupting it.
Will you listen?”

Did she have a choice? Mind sorting through
options, Ariadne nodded, and he drew back his hand and sat across
from her. In the darkness, all she could make out was powerful
shoulders swathed in a dark hooded cloak.

“Good girl,” he said as if she were a
favored hunting dog that had just brought home a pigeon. “Now, you
tell Lord Hastings that we’re on to him and his little cadre.”

She nodded again, feeling the carriage start
forward once more. The coachman was obviously oblivious to his
extra passenger, but surely Sinclair had realized by now that the
other coach was empty. Any moment, he would return to her. She just
had to keep his quarry occupied.

That this was anyone other than his spy
never entered her mind. He was shaped like Sinclair, from height to
build. She could not doubt dark hair lay inside that hood. At
times, Sinclair must have felt he was chasing his own shadow.

She settled back against the squabs as if
prepared for a good coz with Emily.

“Lord Hastings?” she asked politely. “Oh, I
couldn’t possibly tell him anything. I don’t believe I’ve had the
pleasure of an introduction.”

“Doesn’t matter,” the spy grit out. “Your
sweetheart will know how to reach him, hidden in the depths of
Whitehall like a shark awaiting prey.”

“Technically, I believe sharks patrol more
shallow waters,” Ariadne explained. “There was a wonderful lecture
on maritime predators at the British Museum last winter. I’m
surprised I didn’t see you there.”

His hand sliced the air like a knife, and
she flinched despite herself. “Pay attention, girl! You tell
Hastings to back off, or someone will get hurt.”

Ariadne forced her eyes wide, hoping she
resembled Daphne at her most confused. “Pardon me, but I thought
that was the entire point. You are attempting to harm something
about England: steal information, stop our advances across the
Continent, capture our capitol. By necessity, someone will get
hurt. You’ve already shot at me.”

“I never shot at you,” he growled. “I shot
at Hawksbury.”

The dastard! She should have realized she
was never the target. “Either way, you cannot expect Lord Hastings
to quiver at a thought he’s no doubt been dealing with for months.
You have to give him specifics, sir, details.”

“I don’t have to give him anything,” he
insisted. “You just deliver my message.”

She sighed. “I’m afraid I can’t. It goes
against everything I believe in. I mean, as a villain you really
should do better if you hope for any chance of being remembered. If
all you can manage are vague generalities, you’ll simply have to
deliver the message yourself.”

He gaped at her. “Are you that brave or that
stupid?”

At the moment, she wasn’t sure. Where was
Sinclair? What would she do if the villain turned violent and shot
at her again? In close quarters, he could not miss this time.

“I have been told I’m reasonably
intelligent,” she said, hoping he didn’t notice the tremor that was
starting inside her. “Truly, if you could just supply a few more
details, I’d be happy to deliver your message.”

“Details, eh?” He leaned forward, and for a
moment light from outside caught his face. She willed herself to
memorize every inch of it. “What if I were to capture your
betrothed and torture him until he sang?”

Horrid picture. Horrid metaphor. “Very
likely he’s proof against torture,” she replied. “And I doubt
you’ll appreciate his singing voice. I imagine he’s a tenor, and
not a particularly good one.”