Eloquence and Espionage (12 page)

Which was ridiculous really. Why would she
throw over Sinclair, when he actually admired her without
prompting?

“Thank you for telling me,” Ariadne said to
her sister. “Now, if you don’t mind . . .”

Daphne stopped dancing directly in front of
Ariadne and peered into her face. “You aren’t actually ill, are
you?” Peeling off her glove, she put a hand to Ariadne’s
forehead.

Ariadne stepped back. “Certainly not! I’m
fine.”

Daphne dropped her hand. “No, you aren’t.
For one thing, you’ve been keeping to yourself a great deal. Mother
even remarked on it.”

“Mother is forever finding fault,” Ariadne
reminded her, though she felt her face heating.

“Yes, but you have been enamored of Mr.
Cunningham since before Priscilla’s ball, and you didn’t even smile
to think he had asked about you.”

If her sister knew her innermost thoughts,
she would not be so concerned. Well, actually, if she knew
all
Ariadne’s thoughts, she might be concerned indeed!

“I have a great deal on my mind,” Ariadne
explained.

Daphne frowned. “Like what?”

A false betrothal, a French spy out for
blood, the role she might play in his capture--none of which she
could admit to her sister. “Well, it is the Season, you know.”

Daphne’s look turned dreamy. “It is indeed.”
Humming to herself once more, she side-stepped her way toward the
door. Hand on the latch, she glanced back at Ariadne. “We can talk
more tomorrow. We simply must find a way to get you vouchers. It
would have been so much more fun if you had been with me
tonight.”

Ariadne smiled at her. “Thank you, Daphne.
Sleep well.”

“Sweet dreams,” Daphne called before dancing
out the door.

“Rather hope for no dreams,” Ariadne
murmured as she headed for her bed. For she very much feared that
whatever dreams might come, they would hardly be pleasant.

*

Sinclair called for Ariadne precisely at
eleven the next day. He had very nearly been late again. He’d
returned to his rooms the previous night to find an urgent note
from his father, apologizing for his behavior. Sinclair might have
been moved at this unusual response, if the note hadn’t continued
with a demand to meet with Sinclair first thing that morning.
Still, the odd wording had been enough for Sinclair to do as his
father bid.

He had been a little surprised to find his
father missing from the study when Adams showed him in. Instead,
Symthe was hard at work behind the desk. The personal secretary
immediately shoved the papers into a drawer and looked up with his
usual sickly smile.

“Lord Hawksbury, how good to see you. May I
be of assistance?”

Sinclair shook his head. “I thought to speak
with my father, but apparently he has yet to rise. Perhaps
later.”

Symthe rushed to his feet as Sinclair turned
to leave. “Wait, my lord! I believe I know your father’s
concerns.”

Sinclair eyed him. Adam’s apple bobbing,
Symthe scurried closer.

“He does, on occasion, make me privy to his
thoughts,” he said as if confessing a great honor. “He is most
concerned about your association with Lord Hastings.”

Sinclair could hear the trap closing around
him. Did his father suspect? Did the secretary? He kept his face
still to betray none of his concerns. “If my father cannot be
bothered to deal with me, he should not be surprised when I turn to
one of his old friends for guidance.”

Symthe cocked his head, brown eyes sharp as
glass fixed on Sinclair’s face. “Everyone requires guidance from
time to time. I am honored to offer advice to your father on
occasion. Is that the nature of your relationship with Lord
Hastings? Does he listen to your counsel?”

He refused to provide the silky fellow with
details he would no doubt run to report to his employer. “I
couldn’t say. Tell my father I called. Perhaps he can be bothered
to see me next time.”

“Certainly,” Symthe said, gaze darting to
the desk as if he couldn’t wait to return to his tasks. “But, your
father is a busy man, with many plans that require constant
tending. You must excuse him for setting his priorities as he
does.”

“No,” Sinclair said, feeling as if the air
in the room was seeping away, “I don’t have to excuse him at all.
Tell him I have my own priorities to attend to.” He strode to the
door and left.

The entire conversation might have darkened
his day if he hadn’t been meeting Ariadne afterward. She was
waiting for him in the sitting room at the front of the house. As
she rose from a blue chintz-upholstered chair, he blinked at the
sight of her outfit. Gone was the pristine white she normally wore
during the day. Her navy- and green-striped walking dress was of
crisp material that said its wearer would brook no nonsense. The
black velvet hat perched on her hair held a lace veil that came to
her chin, offering only a hint of her features.

“I sent my mother and sister out shopping
this morning,” she confided as she moved to his side. “All it took
was the suggestion that you thought Daphne’s gloves more suited to
a dowager.”

He had never so much as noticed her sister’s
gloves. “And my opinion matters so much to them?”

“My entire family is in awe that I captured
your attentions,” she said. “They wish to do nothing to change your
feelings. If you asked them to dress like camels for the queen’s
birthday, I would not be surprised if they politely enquired where
they might purchase the costumes.”

He shook his head as he offered her his arm.
“I am unused to such unswerving devotion. I will use my newfound
powers wisely, I promise.”

Through the veil, he thought she was
grinning. “But I think my mother would look lovely as a camel.”

He chuckled, steering her past her butler,
who was once more eying him as if Sinclair intended to carry off
Ariadne and install her in a sultan’s harem. At least not all the
people in her household thought him just short of divine.

She paused on the step and took a deep
breath, as if afraid to continue. He could see nothing that might
have concerned her.

“Nervous?” he asked, hand gentle on her
arm.

“Quite,” she responded.

He gave her arm a squeeze. “You don’t have
to go, you know. I could relay the message.”

“No,” she said, head coming up so that the
velvet of her hat tickled his chin. “I promised to tell Lord
Hastings, and I intend to keep that promise.”

“The dedicated heroine, protecting her
family at the peril of her reputation” he complimented as he led
her down the stairs to his waiting carriage. “Admirable.”

He thought he caught a smile as he handed
her into the carriage. “And the stalwart hero, always at her side
and protecting her,” she countered.

Pleasure rippled through him at the thought.
But that was silly. He was no hero. He had failed too many times.
The only place where he could claim any success was in safeguarding
his grandparents from his father’s wrath, and she knew nothing of
that.

She sat across from him and arranged her
skirts, then rubbed at them with her black-gloved hands as the
coach set off. “Is there anything I should know, a code word, a
secret handshake?”

“Nothing like that,” Sinclair assured her.
“It’s all very polite. We simply don’t talk much about the whole
thing.”

Her sigh pushed the veil away from her face.
“Pity. But I suppose that is the point.”

He managed to keep her talking about
commonplaces like the weather and the health of the sovereign until
they reached Whitehall. It was a mark of her trepidation that she
did not protest the mundane topics.

Once more he was ushered into Lord
Hastings’s private suite. Captain Randolph raised a brow as Ariadne
came with Sinclair. She glanced around at the plain room, and he
thought he heard a “humph” from behind the veil. No doubt the place
failed to live up to her imagination, but then, he was coming to
realize, so did much of the world.

“Miss Courdebas,” his superior greeted her,
rising from behind the desk until she was seated across from him.
“An unexpected pleasure. I understand you felt it necessary to
speak directly to me about something of great urgency.”

Ariadne pulled the veil up onto the velvet
of her hat to offer them all a clear view of her face. Her normally
creamy skin was turning pink. “Yes, my lord. I had two purposes for
my visit, if you would indulge me.”

Two purposes? What did she have in mind
besides detailing the spy’s activities last night? Sinclair could
see the curiosity in the older man’s deep brown eyes as well.

“Certainly,” Lord Hastings said. “How might
I be of service?”

“It is not how you would serve me, my lord,”
Ariadne said, raising her head. “But how I might assist you. For
one thing, I have news of the French spy you seek, and I can
describe him for you, in great detail.”

He leaned forward. “Please do.”

She held up a hand. “In a moment. But if I
describe him sufficiently for you to apprehend him, then I request
a service from you.”

He smiled. “Tickets to the opera,
perhaps?”

She shook her head. “No, my lord. I want to
join your ranks. I want you to make me an intelligence agent.”

If they had been ladies on the
ton
,
Ariadne was certain Sinclair, Lord Hastings, and the handsome
fellow in blue regimentals would have all gasped. She might even
have had to administer smelling salts. As it was, Lord Hastings
collapsed back in his chair as if she had issued him a challenge to
a duel, and Sinclair surged to his feet, looking remarkably heated
for all he was wearing an icy gray coat and black trousers.

“Absolutely not,” he declared. “Unthinkable.
I won’t have it.”

What was he doing? Was he trying to protect
her or did he think so little of her? Once she might have
immediately begged their pardons, but now, well now she could not
help but wonder why this must be denied her. She was clever, she
was loyal. Why shouldn’t she serve her country?

Ariadne eyed him. “Frankly, my lord, it is
not your decision. I do wish you’d remember your role.”

He sat, but his gaze remained on hers, eyes
made darker by his concerns. “You persist in casting me as the
hero, madam. What hero encourages the woman he loves to put herself
in danger?”

The woman he loves? Oh, but her heart
started hammering at the thought. But, no. She’d asked him to play
his part. Surely he was just trying to convince Lord Hastings they
were truly engaged. Yet if the betrothal was intended to throw the
spy off the scent, why wouldn’t England’s spy master know the
truth?

Still, she could not allow a word like love,
so casually tossed about, to dissuade her.

“And do you expect me to sit and sip tea
while England is in danger?” she countered. “I hope I am made of
stronger stuff.”

“Ahem.” Lord Hastings’ polite cough drew her
attention back to him. One finger stroked the tip of his walrus
mustache, and she thought he was fighting a smile. “I believe you
were going to describe our quarry, Miss Courdebas.”

So he would not promise anything. Very well.
She supposed it was only logical that she would have to prove
herself first.

“Of course,” she said, settling back in her
seat. “I only saw him sitting, but his head was perhaps four inches
higher than mine, his legs by the manner he curled them under the
seat edge some distance longer. By my estimate, that would place
him at around six feet tall. He was wearing a cloak of fine black
wool in the Russian style favored by the tailor Mr. Simstone on
Bond Street. You might inquire of his clientele.”

Lord Hastings nodded to the fellow in
regimentals, who stepped forward to make a note of that on a paper
on the desk.

“His build was similar to Sinclair’s,”
Ariadne continued, remembering that night, “but I believe him to be
heavier. By the way the carriage dipped when he entered, I’d
estimate nearly ten stone. His hair was dark, perhaps a shade
lighter than Sinclair’s, I should think, and certainly not nearly
as thick, long, or lustrous.”

She glanced at him, trying to picture the
fellow standing next to him. Pink appeared to be creeping into
Sinclair’s cheeks. What had she said wrong? Surely she ought to
provide some manner of comparison, and he was readily handy.

“Go on,” Lord Hastings urged as if
fascinated.

How nice to have a receptive audience! Even
her friends had been known to stop her when she spent too long over
descriptions, preferring action to narrative. “He had a narrow
face, with his hair receding just the slightest. A long nose with a
bit of an upturn to the tip, as if he was in the habit of sneering.
Mouth narrow as well, with thick lips the color of a dead salmon.
Ruddy complexion, with a darker spot just here,” she pointed to the
cheek under her right eye. “Straight teeth in need of a good
brushing. Thick-fingered hands in gloves of Moroccan leather that
are only sold at Harris’.”

The soldier was scribbling frantically.

“Anything else?” Lord Hastings asked.

“Yes. He had a deeper baritone voice, and
his dialect was far too pure. Most people carry a hint of their
original location--the long vowels of Yorkshire, the lilt of
Ireland. He spoke English as if he’d been carefully coached. His
exact words were as follows.”

She drew herself up and took a deep breath
before declaiming firmly. “Tell Lord Hastings we’re on to him and
his little cadre. Back off, or someone will get hurt.”

Sinclair was staring at her. Should she have
been louder, attempted to mimic the spy’s speech? She glanced at
Lord Hastings, whose eyes had narrowed.

“Did he give you no details?” he asked.

Ariadne sighed. “None. And I pressed him. He
didn’t like that. He threatened to torture Sinclair and throttle my
sister. He did, however, wish me to tell you that the message came
from an old friend.”