Eloquence and Espionage (14 page)

Her bones positively wilted at the thought.
“That approach has not proven effective.”

“That’s because you haven’t made an effort,”
Priscilla informed her, turning to face her.

Ariadne raised her chin, then took a step
back as a mother and daughters exited the shop, followed by a
footman armed with packages. “I most certainly have. Ask Mother.
I’ve been polite when others would have railed; danced with every
gentleman who asked even when he was rude, frog-faced, or
flat-footed; and attended every at-home and generally listened more
than I talked.”

Priscilla shook her head, the cabochon on
her bonnet flashing in the sunlight. Only Ariadne and Priscilla’s
parents knew the gem was paste.

“So has every young lady on the
ton
,”
she insisted. “You have to rise above, show them you are worth
their time, prove that you are remarkable.”

Ariadne sighed. “Even when I fear I’m
not?”

Priscilla’s look softened. “You are, you
know. There isn’t a girl in London who can match you for
intellect.”

Ariadne cast her a grateful smile. “Thank
you. But I doubt that will dazzle the patronesses.”

“Perhaps not, but they do enjoy wit,”
Priscilla suggested.

Through the glass, Ariadne could see a clerk
gazing at them. He began waving his arms as if to draw their
attention to the various wares so beautifully displayed. So as not
to give him false hope, she turned and led Priscilla forward.

“I enjoy wit as well,” she told her friend
as they wended through the growing crowds of shoppers. “I simply
tend to think of the witty thing to say after the conversation is
over.”

Priscilla stopped in front of a jeweler’s,
gazing longingly at a tiara shining in the window. “There is
another way,” she murmured. “Though it will take all your courage
and cunning.”

Neither of which she could rely on. “What do
you advise?”

She turned to meet Ariadne’s gaze. “All the
patronesses pride themselves on knowing everything about Society.
Lady Jersey in particular thrives on gossip. Her sobriquet is
Silence, because she is so rarely that.”

“I’m not much of a gossip,” Ariadne
protested. “It is an abhorrent practice that too often is rife with
untruths and misconjectures.”

“Precisely,” Priscilla agreed. “But you do
know a perfectly true secret or two.”

Ariadne started shaking her head, but
Priscilla caught her arm.

“Listen to me! If you truly want vouchers,
Ariadne, there is only one thing for it.”

Ariadne swallowed. “What?”

Priscilla’s face was hard. “You will have to
lay bare your deepest, darkest secret and pray it doesn’t spread
through the
ton
like wildfire.”

“Must be nice to have an easy betrothal,”
Nathan Kent said, clasping his hands behind his bottle green coat
as he and Sinclair ambled back toward their ladies through the
other shoppers thronging Bond Street.

Sinclair would hardly have called his
relationship with Ariadne easy. Interesting, exhilarating,
challenging, certainly. But he couldn’t exactly complain about his
family issues or their investigation of the French spy to the Duke
of Rottenford’s personal secretary, however wise Nathan was rumored
to be.

So he turned the comment around instead.
“Your betrothal can hardly be called difficult. Half the fellows in
London would kill to be in your position, or so I’ve heard.”

Nathan glanced ahead to where Priscilla was
paused before the window of a jeweler’s, the golden curls escaping
her bonnet to catch the summer sun. “I am to be envied above all
men. I merely meant that of Priscilla and her friends, your
betrothal is most likely to meet with the approval of the
ton
. Cropper’s mother may have been aristocracy, but the
fact that his father never acknowledged him makes it difficult for
him to be received. I come from excellent family, but Priscilla’s
family would far have preferred her to accept a greater offer than
mine. You and Miss Courdebas have no such issues.”

He obviously wasn’t up on gossip. Or perhaps
the gossip about Sinclair’s mother had been so long ago that it was
no more remembered. “Every courtship has issues,” Sinclair said.
“It is up to us whether we allow them to rule us or we rule over
them.”

He thought they had been far enough away
from the ladies that his voice would not carry, but Ariadne looked
up just then, smile bright and blue eyes brighter as Sinclair and
Nathan rejoined them.

“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 lips, 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.

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.