Eloquence and Espionage (16 page)

“Sorry to interrupt, miss,” he said with an
apologetic grimace. “But Mr. Pattison is beside himself. You have
an early caller. It’s Lord Hawksbury. Your mother isn’t even up
yet!”

Something must be wrong for him to have
called so soon. “I’ll be right down,” she promised. Throwing her
white satin dressing gown over her shoulders, she shrugged into the
arms as she followed the footman to the withdrawing room.

“What is it?” she asked, hurrying into the
room. “What’s happened?”

Sinclair stared at her, rising from an
armchair, and she noticed that Pattison had brought him an entire
pot of cocoa instead of the misery half cup she was allotted.
Apparently he did not think Sinclair needed to watch his weight to
avoid having his clothes let out mid-Season.

“What are you wearing?” he asked.

She tugged the sash on her dressing gown
tighter. “You caught me before I’d dressed for the day, sir. I
assumed it was on an urgent matter. It is unfashionably early for
callers otherwise.”

“Remind me to call as early as possible in
the future,” he said with a smile. “You look utterly charming.”

Her cheeks were warming again. “Thank you.
That comment too will go into my journal. Now, what brought you to
my door?”

“Only this,” he said, moving to her side and
bending his head to hers. For a moment, she thought he meant to
kiss her again, and she stood on tiptoe to meet him.

“I convinced Lady Jersey to hear your case,”
he murmured, lips so close to hers she felt his breath brush them
like a caress. “You have a half hour to make yourself ready.”

The import of it dropped her to the soles of
her feet. “Are you mad? How can I possibly compose myself in a half
hour?”

He shrugged as he straightened. “You wished
to be an intelligence agent, madam. We must be ready at a moment’s
notice.”

“Wait here,” she told him and scurried for
her room, calling for her maid.

At slightly more than a half hour later (a
lady can only do so much about a corset, after all), she returned
to the withdrawing room. Sinclair had evidently finished the pot of
cocoa and a plate of biscuits if the crumbs on the fine china were
any indication and was now reading her father’s copy of
The
Times
. Pattison would likely show up with a banyan and hassock
next.

“Ready,” she proclaimed.

He rose and eyed her. “And worth every
moment. Lady Jersey will adore you.”

Ariadne glanced down at her outfit.
Priscilla had said the patronesses were looking for some reason to
find Ariadne interesting. Accordingly, she’d borrowed Daphne’s
spencer with the black military frogging across the front and
thrown a cashmere shawl patterned in cerulean and sunflower over
the top. With her shako bonnet, she thought she looked daring,
determined. That Sinclair approved only made her more confident in
her decision.

That confidence was dealt its first blow as
Sinclair’s carriage drew up before Lady Jersey’s residence. Number
38 Berkeley Square towered five stories above the street and was
easily three times as wide as Ariadne’s home. Bay windows on the
ground and first floor flanked a recessed doorway over which white
marble statues of Greek warriors presided. Ariadne and Sinclair
were ushered inside by a footman in a powdered wig and black
tailcoat. His manner, though as polished as the formal furnishings,
was none-the-less welcoming as he threw open the gilded double
doors to a long withdrawing room.

“Lord Hawksbury and Miss Courdebas, your
ladyship,” he announced before bowing aside to allow Ariadne and
Sinclair to enter.

The room was done in shades of yellow, from
the tufted upholstery on the fine wood chairs to the sunny flowers
on the thick carpet. The walls were draped in yellow satin, the
fireplace made of white marble carved with Grecian relief. Pastoral
paintings alternated with gilded mirrors that threw light in all
directions.

Lady Jersey sat on a velvet-covered sofa,
her gown of rich russet framing her figure. A turban trimmed in
tiny pearls perched on her dark curls, making her look as if she
were a reigning monarch.

Considering the power she wielded over
London Society, she was.

“Lord Hawksbury,” she said, patting the seat
beside her. “How delightful to see you again.”

Sinclair went to bow over her offered hand.
“Lady Jersey, always a pleasure. May I introduce my betrothed, Miss
Ariadne Courdebas.”

Ariadne dropped a deep curtsey, skirts
pooling around her. “Your ladyship.”

“Miss Courdebas.” She nodded to the chair
nearest her, and Ariadne sat and arranged her skirts. Sinclair
seated himself on the sofa, where he nodded encouragement to
Ariadne.

“You are Viscount Rollings’s youngest, I
believe,” the countess said, eying Ariadne as if she were a fashion
Lady Jersey wasn’t sure she liked. “Your sister is out this
Season.”

“As am I,” Ariadne assured her. “Mother
thought with Daphne and I so close in years it made sense to bring
us both out together.”

“Social sense or financial cents?” Lady
Jersey asked. She leaned closer. “How tragic to hear that your
family finances are wanting, Miss Courdebas.”

How had Ariadne given that impression? “Our
finances are fine, your ladyship. It’s simply that Daphne and I
have always done everything together, and we saw no need to make an
exception for our first Season.”

“Ah.” She leaned back as if disappointed.
Then she glanced at Sinclair. “But though you are the younger, you
seem to have captured the greater matrimonial prize.” Her gaze
speared back to Ariadne. “How does your sister feel about being
left on the shelf?”

She was digging for gossip! Having something
sordid to say about her family might have made Ariadne interesting,
but she certainly wasn’t about to vilify her sister, even for
vouchers to Almack’s. “My sister has too many callers to be
considered behind the times. She continues to enjoy great
popularity. We expect several offers from very presentable
gentlemen by the end of the Season.”

“How nice,” Lady Jersey said, already
sounding bored. She wiggled her fingers against the satin of her
skirts. “And your mother? How envious she must be of your youth and
vitality.”

Despite her best intentions, Ariadne’s chin
came up. “My mother has never had call to envy anyone.”

Lady Jersey’s eyes narrowed. “Really?”

She’d blundered. She’d made her mother sound
above even the mighty patronesses. It was too late now to make a
witty comment about how her mother had always lacked Lady Jersey’s
taste or her place in Society. And too late to flatter in other
ways. She could see her vouchers winging their way out the tall,
velvet-draped windows.

Oh, but she would not give up so easily.

“Indeed,” Ariadne said quickly. “Of course,
she might have cause to envy if she knew my secret.”

“Secret?” Lady Jersey nearly purred the word
as she reclined against the back of the sofa. “And what secret
could a delightful young lady like yourself possibly hide, my
dear?”

Ariadne took a deep breath, ready to give
all for King and Country.

“Why, the fact that Ariadne has been granted
a private audience with you,” Sinclair put in with a look to
Ariadne. When she met his gaze, he shook his head, then pasted on a
smile as Lady Jersey glanced his way.

Lady Jersey’s interest leaked away, her
eyelids dipping lower as if she was already considering ways to
dismiss her guests. Ariadne did not understand why Sinclair was
trying to warn her away from this tact, but she had to say
something interesting or lose all hope of ever reaching
Almack’s.

“This visit is terribly kind of you, your
ladyship,” Ariadne agreed. “But that was not the secret I meant.
Are you familiar with the sayings of Lord Pompadour Snedley?”

Lady Jersey’s lovely lips curled up.
“Absolutely. Nonsense, of course, and nothing I need heed, but
vastly entertaining for the masses.”

Ariadne doubted the masses could afford the
ten-pound price the publisher charged. “Yes, well I . . .”

“Am a devotee,” Sinclair put in. “As is most
of London, I know.”

What was he doing? He knew this was the only
secret she was at liberty to share. Why was he trying to stop
her?

“He is enormously popular,” Lady Jersey
said, eying him. “Yet do you not find it odd we know so little
about him? I mean, who is he? Who are his antecedents? Why do so
few recall even meeting him?”

And those who claimed acquaintance were
liars. “Not so odd when you realize why he must remain obscure,”
Ariadne told her. “You see, I . . .”

“Know the fellow all too well,” Sinclair
finished. “And I’m certain could arrange for an autographed copy,
purely for your library, of course.”

Lady Jersey glanced at Ariadne, eyes once
more narrowed. “You know Lord Snedley?”

Ariadne nodded. “Extremely well. We are
related, you see.”

Lady Jersey’s smile grew. “Are you indeed.
Closely related, perhaps?”

“Very,” Sinclair replied before she could
confess.

“How amusing,” Lady Jersey said,
straightening. “By all means, send me an autographed copy. And do
give my regards to your father.”

“I think that calls for a celebration,”
Sinclair said as they left Lady Jersey’s home and headed for his
waiting carriage. He helped Ariadne inside, told his driver where
to go, and climbed in after her.

“A celebration?” she asked, sounding
anything but pleased. “I don’t know how you can see that visit as a
success. Lady Jersey thinks my father wrote Lord Snedley’s book and
will likely tell everyone she knows, and I’m no closer to obtaining
vouchers to Almack’s!”

“Oh, you’re closer,” Sinclair promised her,
leaning back against the squabs. “In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised
if one didn’t show up this afternoon. And as for rumors about your
father, no one with sense pays any attention to Lady Jersey’s
gossip.”

The way her pretty lips compressed told him
she didn’t believe him. Lady Jersey was a respected Society
hostess, after all. But Lord Rollings was known for being an
even-tempered, kind sort of fellow. Surely the
ton
wouldn’t
believe him capable of writing Lord Snedley’s questionable
advice.

“I don’t understand why you didn’t allow me
to tell her the truth,” Ariadne said, settling back in her seat.
“Surely that would have been easier all around.”

“Easier for whom?” Sinclair argued. “I knew
what might happen if you shared your secret. As it is, you gave her
enough information for her to find you interesting. That ought to
guarantee you entrance to Almack’s.”

Still, she looked doubtful. The carriage was
slowing, and she peered out the window. Then she jerked around to
face him, eyes widening. “Gunter’s?”

He smiled. “I thought you deserved a treat
for that performance.”

She heaved a sigh of delight. “Oh, but you
know me so well.”

Did he? He couldn’t help wondering as he
lowered the window and gave their order to the waiter who appeared
outside. All his life, people important to him had worn two faces:
the one they showed the public, and the one they showed to him
privately. His father had been a brilliant politician who could not
seem to stomach the son born to him from a woman he could not love
except for her money. His mother had been everything kind and good,
but the legal arrangements she’d made before her death had deprived
his father of money he felt owed him and driven him into a decline.
Even Lord Hastings was all affability in public and all cunning
behind closed doors. How could Sinclair be certain Ariadne was any
different?

She had called herself normal, but he was
learning she was so much more. Still, he could almost believe life
might begin to resemble the idyllic world of his dreams as they
chatted about books they had read and plays they had seen and
sipped their ices. In fact, they were the typical young lady and
gentleman, until he saw her home.

Then Ariadne put her hand on his arm as he
reached for the carriage door. “I need you to return by three. I
have a surprise for you.”

He glanced at her askance. “A surprise?”

She raised her brows at his hesitation. “You
brought me one this morning with Lady Jersey and another with
Gunter’s. The least I can do is return the favor.” She squeezed his
arm. “It isn’t anything horrid, I promise. You’ll enjoy it.”

He nodded, smiling at her as he jumped down
to hand her out. “I trust your judgment. I’ll return precisely at
three.” And count the minutes until then.

*

Ariadne floated into the house. Sinclair had
bent and kissed her on the cheek before leaving.

“To further our ruse,” he’d whispered as he
straightened, but she could see the light in his eyes. Their
betrothal was growing into something real, something lasting. She
knew he felt it too.

“Mr. and Mrs. MacDougall are expected at
three,” she told Pattison, who was passing through the hall as she
entered. “Make sure to put them in the withdrawing room.”

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.