Eloquence and Espionage (17 page)

“Please, join me,” she said, motioning them
farther into the room.

Mr. MacDougall found a seat near her. His
wife came more slowly, glancing around. “Your designer has
excellent taste.”

“My mother has excellent taste,” Ariadne
corrected her. “In most things. Perhaps a bit conservative. I like
more imagination.”

“Pink posies?” Mr. MacDougall guessed with a
smile.

“Peacock feathers and moonstones,” Ariadne
confided. “But that will have to wait until I have my own
establishment.”

“I’m sure Sinclair will give you leave to
redecorate Colley Manor,” Mr. MacDougall said.

Mrs. MacDougall frowned at him as she sat
beside Ariadne. “Lucy had excellent taste too. I’m sure her house
is fine.”

And something of a shrine it sounded like.
Ariadne would have to handle any changes with tact and
diplomacy.

Wait. No. This was all a pretense. She
wasn’t going to marry Sinclair or redecorate his home. Unless of
course, he fell madly in love with her and begged her to marry him.
She could just imagine him sweeping her away to a venerable old
manor house, with a turret window and ivy (nothing less would do)
climbing up the chimney.

“I think you’ve given her something to
consider, Mrs. MacDougall,” her husband said with a smile.

Ariadne blinked, forcing her mind to the
present. “Forgive me. I told you I appreciated imagination.”

From the doorway came the grating sound of
Pattison clearing his throat. “Lord Hawksbury, miss.” He stepped
aside, and Sinclair strode into the room, looking handsome as
always in a navy coat and fawn trousers, dark hair back in a queue.
His smile of welcome disappeared as his grandparents rose.

“Hawksbury,” his grandfather said, voice
rough with emotion.

“Oh, my dear boy,” said his grandmother.

Sinclair turned and walked out.

Mrs. MacDougall fell back into her seat,
face clouding.

Had Ariadne blundered? “Excuse me,” she
murmured, rising to hurry after him.

She passed Pattison in the corridor.
“Apparently the sitting room would have been sufficient,” he
muttered.

Ariadne glared at him before clattering down
the stairs.

Sinclair was already at the front door.
Accepting his hat and gloves from the footman, he glanced up at
her. His face was tight, his eyes dark and troubled. “You had no
right, not without consulting me.”

Ariadne froze on the stairs. “Forgive me. I
had no idea you’d react this way.”

He strode back to the foot of the stairs,
gaze locked with hers, hand on the newel post as if to keep it
between them. “Of course you had no idea. I wager you imagined
nothing but a happy reunion. Despite all my protests, you persist
in seeing my life like some adventure novel where everyone lives
happily-ever-after. The world doesn’t work that way. People die.
Parents despise their children.”

Tears pressed against her eyes. “They
shouldn’t.”

He dropped his hand. “They shouldn’t. And
children should not be made to choose one parent over the other.
But that is not the way I was raised, and nothing you can do will
change that.”

“But they truly care for you,” Ariadne
protested. “They wanted to meet you.”

“That is impossible.” He started to turn,
but a voice behind Ariadne stopped him.

“Sinclair.” His grandfather descended to
Ariadne’s side. “Have you so little use for us? What have we done
that you should treat us so? Have you nothing to say to me?”

Sinclair clapped the hat on his head and
glanced back. “Only this. Do not attempt to contact me again. Our
reunion will only bring you heartache. Miss Courdebas, under the
circumstances, I must withdraw my offer for your hand. We simply
will not suit. Good day.” Turning, he strode out the door.

Ariadne could not call him back. What could
she say to him?

“I don’t understand,” she murmured.

Mr. MacDougall put a hand on her shoulder.
“I’m so sorry, lass. I never meant to come between the two of you.
Go after him. Plead your case.”

She wanted to. Part of her wanted to fall on
her knees, beg his forgiveness. The other part wanted to tell him
to stop acting like a spoiled lordling and talk to her. If he’d
given her any indication that his grandparents were some kind of
criminals or dangerously insane, she certainly wouldn’t have
encouraged them to reunite. Yet they seemed so kind, so normal. Why
would he push them away? Why would he push her away?

Why did everything have to be a secret with
him?

“No,” she said. “I fear Lord Hawksbury and I
were never meant to be.”

His face seemed to lengthen. “A pity. He’s
all alone, then.”

She felt alone herself.

Someone rapped on the door, and Mr.
MacDougall’s gaze lightened with hope. She could feel it surging
through her as well. Her story wasn’t over yet; it could not have
such a dismal end.

The hero was not allowed to take himself off
in high dudgeon. She’d never have written that!

Their footman opened the door to reveal
another footman on the other side. The newcomer held out a sealed
missive. “For Miss Ariadne Courdebas,” he said.

Her footman accepted the note, turned to
offer it to her. “For you, miss.”

Ariadne’s fingers felt stiff as she reached
for it.

“More bad news, lass?” Mr. MacDougall asked,
gaze on her face.

“No,” Ariadne said, staring down at the
piece of vellum, signed by Lady Jersey and stamped in red. “News
I’ve been waiting for all Season. This is a voucher. I’ve been
admitted to Almack’s.”

And she found she simply couldn’t care.

Almack’s was exactly as Ariadne had pictured
it from Priscilla, Emily, and Daphne’s descriptions. Plastered
walls set with statuary, polished floors that reflected the colors
of the gowns sweeping over them, conversation rising and falling
like a gentle tide, perfume mingling as the very cream of London
Society entered the hallowed halls.

The stage was set, but the hero remained
missing. She had not heard from Sinclair since he’d left her with
his distraught grandparents. None of them could understand his
behavior.

“What could we have done to so offend him?”
his grandmother had wailed, crumpling the soggy ball of her
handkerchief in her hand.

Ariadne had no idea. Some character
motivation was missing, a scene not set to fit the mood. She could
not determine the problem. She refused to believe him so calloused,
so cruel. Something was driving him to push them all away. But
what?

Emily, Priscilla, and Daphne had been
supportive, consoling her and berating him in turn.

“If you ask me, he is an unfeeling brute,”
Daphne had declared, eyes narrowed to chips of ice. “No one jilts
my sister.”

Ariadne could not believe him unfeeling.
From what she’d observed, he felt too deeply. Certainly he had had
his share of heartache: his mother’s death, his father’s decline.
But to throw off his last living relatives? That made no sense.

Now she stood with Daphne on one side and
Priscilla on the other, her mother nearby, as the select company of
Almack’s strolled past and the musicians tuned up in their alcove
above the door to the supper room. She had not confided the end of
her engagement to her mother; she’d even resigned herself to
wearing white, this time a soft silk that draped her as effectively
as the Grecian statues, with pearls at her throat and woven into
her hair. Time enough to face her mother’s disappointment after
they’d caught the villain and saved his intended victim. It was
simply unacceptable that so few of the pivotal roles in their play
had been cast.

Ack! Sinclair was right. She did persist in
seeing the world like a play or novel. A shame she still could not
convince herself that that was such a bad thing.

“Do you see him?” Priscilla murmured,
looking stunning as always in a pink satin embossed with roses and
molded to her impressive bosom.

Ariadne glanced around again. Mr. Cunningham
was bowing over a lady’s hand, no doubt securing her promise for a
dance later. She found she did not mind that he had not approached
her. Archibald Stump, Freddie Pulsipher, and many of the other
fellows who had called on her in the last week were likewise lining
up partners.

“No,” she said with a sigh. “I fear Sinclair
has no interest in attending.”

Priscilla shook her golden head. “Not Lord
Hawksbury. Your French agent.”

Oh, of course. That was the entire reason
she was here. She’d already noted Lord Hastings weaving through the
crowd and felt certain his cadre must be present as well. Emily in
a plum gown with black lace at the heart-shaped neckline stood
across the room with one arm firmly linked to Jamie’s while her
father flanked her. No doubt Emily and Jamie stood ready to move in
at Ariadne’s signal. All she had to do was identify the spy.

Emily must have caught Ariadne’s gaze on
her, for she murmured something to Jamie before hurrying across the
room.

“Have you found him, then?” she asked.
Ariadne could feel the tension in her, but she was fairly sure her
friend was as concerned about Jamie’s reception among the
ton
as locating the French spy.

“No,” Ariadne reported. “I know most of the
dark-haired men in the room, and I can count the strangers on one
hand. No one matches the fellow from the coach.”

“Perhaps he won’t come as a gentleman,”
Emily suggested. “He could be here as a server, or one of the
musicians.”

“He said he was an old friend of Lord
Hastings,” Daphne put in. “He has to be above a certain age.”

Ariadne glanced to where the spy master was
chatting with his handsome son and a roguish blond-haired fellow.
“No. He was younger than Lord Hastings, by a good bit. Though older
than us.”

Emily narrowed her dark eyes. “Then he could
not have been referring to himself. He isn’t Lord Hastings’s old
friend. His master is.”

Ariadne stared at her. “We have two
villains?” What a twist! She could hardly wait to tell Sinclair.
Then she remembered he no longer wished to speak to her. Oh, but
young men could be maddening!

The first dance was starting. Emily hurried
back to Jamie’s side. Nathan Kent came to collect Priscilla. Three
gentlemen petitioned Daphne, who settled for the tallest and
started for the floor, creamy skirts swinging. One of the remaining
gentlemen glanced Ariadne’s way.

She did not so much as encourage him with a
look. She no longer had to accept her sister’s leftovers. Besides,
she had a job to do.

Her mother moved closer as the music
started. “You are wise to wait for Lord Hawksbury,” she murmured.
“These young ladies who find themselves engaged and yet still must
capture the attentions of every gentleman in the room do themselves
no service.”

“Yes, Mother,” Ariadne said, knowing it was
the expected response.

Her mother opened her fan and moved it
slowly before her sapphire-colored ball gown. “Did he confide what
time he would arrive?”

“No, Mother.”

The fan stopped. “Pity. I shall keep you
company until then. You should not have to stand alone.”

Her mother’s cronies filled the room, ready
to converse, remarking on this lady’s daring décolleté, that lady’s
becoming hairstyle. Yet Lady Rollings chose to stay at her
daughter’s side. That was family.

“Thank you,” Ariadne said, warm despite the
low neckline of her gown. “The company was feeling a bit thin with
everyone dancing.”

“There are a number of Eligibles in
attendance tonight,” her mother agreed. “And relatively few
gentlemen of Parliament. I’m surprised Emerson could spare the
time.”

Ariadne glanced to where Emily’s father was
now talking with Lord Hastings. It seemed odd to see the two
together, like real life and art colliding. But she supposed it was
inevitable they should meet, being the most senior members of
government present.

Ariadne gasped. “Oh, no! Not Lord
Emerson!”

Her mother nodded. “Yes, I quite agree.
Napoleon rampaging across the Continent and one of the leaders of
the War Office making time for Almack’s. Most likely he felt it
incumbent to support Mr. Cropper’s debut here. I cannot imagine
what the patronesses were thinking to admit him.”

Perhaps someone had encouraged it. Perhaps
that someone knew that only his daughter’s happiness would force
the duke out of Whitehall.

So he could be killed.

“I must speak to Emily,” she said.

Her mother tsked. “I doubt she’ll listen.
She seems completely enamored of her Bow Street beau. I must say,
Ariadne, that I am quite pleased you managed to secure a more
presentable groom. At times, I feared you’d marry some penniless
poet.”

She’d have been happy to marry a poet,
penniless or not, if he had treated her as well as Sinclair did. He
appreciated her just as she was, without expecting her to lose
weight, change her hairstyle, or affect a different manner of
speech or dress. He liked her.

Or at least he had liked her, until she’d
tried to reunite him with his grandparents.

“Excuse me,” she said, heading for Emily and
Jamie.

It wasn’t nearly as easy interrupting a set
as she’d thought. Couples spun past, bumping into her and muttering
apologies. Gentlemen frowned at her as if she were quite mad. And
everyone kept moving so she could not get close enough to Emily to
warn her. She found herself twirled to the side and shunted to the
edge of the ballroom.

“Perhaps you require a partner.”

That voice! Ariadne turned to find Sinclair
beside her. Hair confined back behind his head, jacket and breeches
a merciless black, he took her hand and led her into the set,
joining at the bottom.

“What’s the plan?” he murmured as they came
together in the pattern of the dance.