Eloquence and Espionage (2 page)

He knew something about hiding. He’d been
burying his feelings, his hopes, under a cloud of ennui for ten
years. Only a few trusted friends had known the truth, and they
were all gone, lost on a foreign field.

She was more dangerous than the cannon
they’d faced. Someone so clever might easily pierce the façade he’d
worked so hard to erect and uncover his secrets. Her seemingly
guileless conversation had already tripped him up once.

And she’d proven particularly dangerous to
his peace of mind. With her lustrous brown hair, sky blue eyes, and
nicely rounded figure, she embodied the very flower of English
womanhood. Wait, was flower the right word? Essence. Yes, the
essence of English womanhood. She’d approve of that. It was
alliterative.

Botheration!

Ariadne Courdebas had gotten under his skin,
and that was no cliché. Protecting good, kind, well-intentioned
people like her was the reason he’d gone into the profession to
begin with. True, he’d only been performing his duties for a couple
years now, and this was the first time his superior had trusted him
with an assignment of this magnitude. All the more reason he had to
succeed.

She was equally determined. He’d observed
her from a distance for the last four days, and from what he could
gather, she was trying to learn the identity of a centurion she’d
met at Lord Rottenford’s party. That was unthinkable. But if he
spent his time throwing her off the scent, he’d have less time to
find and stop his quarry.

Hunt or be hunted. Difficult choice. He knew
what his superior would advise. With Napoleon sweeping across
France, every moment counted. He had to act.

There was only one problem. His superior had
likely never met Ariadne Courdebas. Certainly he’d never sparred
with her on an empty balcony, never touched her creamy, no silky,
cheek, inhaled the honeysuckle of her perfume. No spy had ever been
so tempting.

Or so tempted.

He rose, leaving the remains of his ice
melting in its glass. He had a job to do. Nothing was more
important than that. If Ariadne Courdebas inserted herself into the
center of things, he would have to neutralize her.

For all his heart protested otherwise.

Ariadne finished explaining the situation to
Emily, who nodded in the dark of the coach, the brim of her blue
velvet bonnet framing her narrow face. “And I take it you have
shared this with no one else, except Daphne, of course.”

Ariadne bent her head to tuck her journal
back into her reticule. “Actually, I haven’t confided in my
sister.”

When Emily touched her hand, Ariadne hurried
on. “It’s all rather embarrassing, really. I mean, things like this
happen in books and plays, not to people like me.”

“And haven’t you been the one to
consistently compare our lives to gothic novels and farces?” Emily
challenged, pulling back.

Ariadne raised her head. “Certainly. I can’t
help it if life mirrors art. You make a perfectly wonderful
heroine, Emily, the lonely daughter of a noble house, eschewing
rank for her passions.”

Now Emily ducked her head and rubbed at the
navy lustring skirts of her gown. “Thank you, I think.”

“And Priscilla,” Ariadne continued. “Beauty
daunted by tragic circumstances, triumphing over adversity.”

Emily smiled. “She has at that. News of her
betrothal to Mr. Kent is on everyone’s lips.”

“As it should be,” Ariadne agreed. “And I
understand Daphne’s Amazon feats in discovering Lord Robert’s
dastardly plan at your come out ball are still discussed in hushed
tones of awe among the sporting gentlemen.” A sigh escaped her.
“And then there’s me, watching from the wall, forever in the
shadows. I’m sure that’s why the patronesses never sent me vouchers
to Almack’s. Perhaps I’d just like to come out into the light for
once!”

Emily caught her hand and gave it a squeeze.
“None of us sees you that way but you.”

“Rather say,” Ariadne insisted, “that no one
but you three sees me at all. He did.”

Emily nodded, releasing her. “Very well,
then. This paragon of paragons must be found. I suggest we start
with Priscilla.”

She was going to help. Ariadne drew in a
breath. “Because she knows every gentleman on the
ton
.”

Emily grinned at her. “No, because she can
persuade Nathan Kent to share the guest list for His Grace’s
masquerade.”

Why hadn’t she thought of that? Even though
she’d searched London to no avail, she’d been so certain she would
recognize her hero without his costume. Perhaps the sound of that
warm voice would make her turn at a ball to find him gazing at her
with a smile that made her tremble. Or while strolling in Hyde
Park, she’d catch a glimpse of midnight black hair and a confident
walk, and he’d fall into step beside her. She’d imagined a dozen
places they might meet again and twenty ways she might tell him she
wished him to call upon her. She’d never considered simply
consulting the guest list.

As it was, that proved more difficult than
expected. Priscilla was happy to oblige. She’d seen the centurion,
after all. She knew the effect of his sartorial splendor. And,
deliriously happy in her betrothed state, she was delighted to
further another possible romance.

“But I cannot trouble Nathan just now,” she
explained to Ariadne and Emily from the mismatched furniture of the
drawing room in the tiny house Priscilla’s father had rented for
the Season. Her golden hair was not yet dressed for the day, and
she wore a dressing gown with a profusion of cream-colored lace.
“His Grace is determined to find a bride, so Nathan has his hands
full fending off fortune hunters and title nabbers.” Though
Priscilla had been both until recently, she showed considerable
disdain for the breed now, pink lips curled and head high. “And my
father certainly isn’t helping.”

The Tates, Priscilla’s parents, who were
pockets to let, had been devastated to learn their daughter was
planning to throw over the wealthy duke they had seen as their
salvation for his cousin and personal secretary. Nathan’s solution
had been for His Grace the Duke of Rottenford to fund Priscilla’s
father as a social advisor. So far, Mr. Tate’s advice had only
managed to run up the duke’s bill to his tailor and lengthen the
list of sycophants knocking at his door.

“Do what you can,” Emily replied, and
Ariadne swallowed her disappointment and nodded in agreement.

“Would you like me to drive you home?” she
asked Emily as they descended to the pavement where her family’s
coach waited. “I’m to meet Daphne in Hyde Park in a quarter
hour.”

Emily glanced at the coach as if weighing
its advantages. It was a fine landau, lacquered in crimson, the
bold color one of the few concessions Lord Rollings had managed to
secure from his stern wife. Emily had her own carriage, Ariadne
knew, with driver and groom. She was also on tremendously good
terms with her father’s staff, who she saw more often than her busy
father. Ariadne could not make the same statement. Though her
father was a well-respected viscount, their staff only listened to
one person: her iron-willed mother.

“I’ll come with you,” Emily offered. “It
will keep Lady Minerva off the scent.”

Lady Minerva was Emily’s eagle-eyed aunt who
served as her chaperone for the Season. She had been a thorn in
their sides at first, forever demanding certain types of behavior,
but she and Emily had come to an uneasy truce, until Emily had
declared her preference for an unsuitable suitor, Jamie Cropper, a
Bow Street Runner. Now Lady Minerva spied out Emily’s every move
and threatened to tell her father of any alleged impropriety.

With their tendency to uncover murder and
other misdeeds, there were entirely too many things to give the
older lady pause.

Of course, Ariadne had her own watchdogs to
consider. She’d had to work extra hard the last few days to follow
the trail of her centurion without raising suspicions. She could
feel Mr. Crease watching her now as their footman Oscar handed her
and Lady Emily into the landau. The coachman’s feathery gray brows
were down in censure. Really, what unconscionable sin had she
committed? She’d gone to Gunter’s and Priscilla’s, neither of which
was unusual for her. The only thing unusual about it all was that
she hadn’t eaten a single thing in either location.

How could she eat when all she could think
about was finding him?

*

It wasn’t easy seeking his quarry knowing
Ariadne Courdebas was intent on finding him. He’d followed her as
far as the Tate house and figured she’d likely visit her friend
Priscilla for a time. By her conversation at the Duke of
Rottenford’s masquerade, Ariadne thought Miss Tate more attractive.
He was always surprised by the mistaken impressions people
harbored. Miss Tate was a sugar plum compared to Ariadne Courdebas’
roast beef dinner. He doubted she’d approve of that comparison, but
the fact was that no one survived on sugar plums for long.

Besides, mistaken beliefs could serve his
purpose. They made his famous father ignore the hints that his heir
was delving into forbidden matters. They kept his grandparents
safe. They made his foes underestimate him. With any luck, mistaken
beliefs would cause his quarry to show his hand and prevent a
tragedy.

And where would England’s enemy be on a
sunny day in May if he hoped to steal the secrets of the
aristocracy? Nowhere else but Hyde Park.

He strolled among the many couples--the
ladies with their plumed bonnets, the gentlemen in their tailored
coats--and nodded to acquaintances. His gaze, though casual,
searched each face for hidden intentions, studied demeanors for
dark purpose. Somewhere, a spy walked among them, ready to lie,
steal, and even kill for the honor of France. He had been told only
that the fellow was a gentleman who could pass himself off as
English. And that the spy’s orders were deadly. He’d stalked the
shadow through balls, along dark corridors of the theatre, among
the crowds at race tracks, with no more than a hint of the man’s
presence. The miscreant must be found, before murder was done.

Not that he wanted to spend much time in
Hyde Park. Society called him arrogant, claimed that he thought no
one’s company was good enough. It was not the presence of the
living that held him back from trivial pursuits. It was the memory
of the dead. He saw the shade of his friend Winston Wallingford
pelting down Rotten Row, John Warren laughing as he knocked his
friend’s hat off on the bridge over the Serpentine. He smelled the
picnic lunch Peter Makepiece’s mother used to foist on them to her
son’s protesting delight. And he remembered why he was defying his
father to spy for England.

He wasn’t sure how he knew Ariadne had
arrived in the park as well. Perhaps it was the shift in the wind
that brought the scent of honeysuckle. Perhaps it was the sound of
her sister’s ringing laugh. Turning, he glanced toward Rotten Row,
the sandy track that claimed the most gentlemen riders. The
familiar crimson landau was stopped alongside, windows open to
allow Ariadne inside and her sister on horseback to converse. The
breeze tugged loose a strand of her warm brown hair and set it to
stroking her cheek. His fingers tightened as he remembered the feel
of her skin.

Why was she here? Was she still seeking him,
or was her visit as innocent as her looks? He did not think she
would notice him in the crowd, dressed as he was in the common navy
coat and fawn trousers of half the gentlemen on the
ton
.
Even so, he ducked into the shadows of the trees, keeping an eye on
her.

Her sister nodded at something she’d said.
She pulled her horse back. The door swung open, and the lady
herself stepped down. She touched her sister’s skirts as if
confiding something, then turned and hurried into the trees.

Alone.

Lady Emily Southwell climbed from the coach
as well and stood watching her, as did her coachman and footman.
Where was she going with such purpose? Why did no one follow?

What could he do but discover the answers
for himself?

He was here.
She could feel it. Perhaps it was the whisper of a warm male voice
carried on the breeze. Perhaps it was the sight of a top hat on
black hair over broad shoulders, disappearing into the trees.
Regardless, she wasn’t about to let him get away this time. She’d
told Daphne she needed a moment to herself for inspiration,
something her sister accepted without question having been privy to
her flights of fancy since the day Ariadne had been born.

Emily, however, had raised a brow as if she
doubted this sudden need for serenity.

“I shall count to two hundred,” Emily had
told her. “Then Daphne and I will follow you. Be careful.”

Very likely wise advice. But Ariadne didn’t
feel careful and cautious. She felt bold and brave and true. This
time, she would catch him.

As if he knew she was after him, he walked
faster, and she had to scurry to keep pace, her skirts flapping
about her legs. The shadows of the overhanging branches crossed her
face like a lace veil, making her blink after the sunlight. She
stopped amidst a copse of trees, bushes blocking her view in all
directions. She turned in a circle, put her hands on her hips in
consternation. He’d disappeared!

“You aren’t a ghost,” she challenged aloud.
“I will find you.”

“Why?” a voice demanded behind her. “You
must have something better to do with your time than chase after
me.”

She whirled, but still she did not spy him.
“Perhaps I enjoy a little mystery,” she said, head cocked to hear
his reply, eyes narrowed for the least movement.

“There is appreciating a mystery, and then
there is being foolhardy,” he retorted.

The sound came from her left, where the
bushes were thickest. She purposely turned to her right and
strolled closer to the edge of the clearing.