Eloquence and Espionage (9 page)

His nostrils flared as if her request
disgusted him, but he inclined his head, dropping white powder into
the shoulders of his coat. “At once, miss. May I take your coat, my
lord?”

“No need,” Lord Hawksbury said. “I shan’t be
long. But perhaps you can postpone those refreshments and fetch
Miss Courdebas her cloak. We’ll be going out shortly.”

Pattison’s face puckered as if he’d just
sucked a lemon. “I was not informed of a change in plan.”

Neither was she, but she knew if she had to
sit here all night she’d go mad. She flapped her fingers at the
butler, who backed away as if she’d pulled a weapon on him.

“Well, now you have been told,” she said.
“Fetch my evening cloak, Pattison. Lord Hawksbury and I have an
appointment to keep.”

How easily she trusted him, even knowing his
true calling. He’d watched her family leave earlier, so he knew
they could not interfere with his plans. Still, she took pains to
leave precise instructions with the butler to inform them that
she’d gone out and with whom.

“Making sure they know where to search for
you?” he teased as he led her down to his waiting carriage, a shiny
black barouche with brass appointments.

She cast him a glance. “Trying to forestall
a scold. Besides, they would worry if they came home and found me
missing.”

How different from his life. He’d been
accountable to a tutor before leaving for Eton, but after his
mother had died when he was nine, he’d been pretty much on his own.
Though of course his father dictated his overall actions. He didn’t
see that as worry, precisely, more like ensuring the continuation
of the Sinclair line.

He handed her into the carriage and told his
driver where to go before joining her.

“What’s significant about Camden Place?” she
asked.

Smart girl, but then he’d known that from
the beginning. “My family’s town house is at number eight,” he
replied, leaning back against the squabs as the carriage started
forward. “My father would like to meet you.”

She stiffened. “Well, I wish you had
confided that sooner! I’m hardly dressed for such an occasion.”

He glanced at the blue velvet evening cloak
that all but obscured her figure. His mind helpfully conjured up
the womanly curves, the creamy skin at her throat. “You look fine,”
he assured her.

The passing light showed a puckered face
that was no less adorable. “My outfit was perfectly acceptable for
chasing after French spies,” she informed him. “If I’d known I was
meeting your father, I’d have chosen a different gown, had my maid
fix my hair properly, and composed a proper speech.”

“You aren’t introducing a bill to
Parliament,” he said with a smile.

“No, only seeking to impress one of its
leaders!”

She seemed sincerely concerned, her body
tensing and leaning back as if to distance herself from the very
idea.

“He hasn’t been considered a leader for
years,” he told her. “Now he rarely even attends. It seems these
days that he merely trades on his former glory. And remember, this
isn’t a true betrothal. You needn’t impress him.”

She snorted. “Well, it would certainly seem
odd if I didn’t try. The heroine must always impress the hero’s
family. Have you never read a romantic novel, sir?”

Would she disdain him if he admitted he’d
tried only two and found them not to his taste? “Life isn’t a
romantic novel, Miss Courdebas.”

“Said the dark, brooding hero who practices
espionage,” she muttered. Then she raised her voice. “Perhaps you
should call me Ariadne if we are to convince people we are
besotted. And I shall call you Hawksbury. Or do you prefer
Hawk?”

He grimaced. “Now that sounds like a
romantic hero, and I’m nothing of the sort. My father didn’t earn
his courtesy title until I was twelve. I went by Sinclair until
then. You may call me that.”

“As you wish.” He thought she relaxed a
little, hands folding in the lap of her cloak. “Are there any other
facts I should consider before meeting him?”

“Probably a large number. After all, we know
little even about each other.”

“Only what fact and observation would
supply,” she agreed. “I know your name, that your courtesy title
comes from your father and your income from a bequest through your
mother. You have been somewhat of a recluse though you are known to
have deep friendships with those surviving lads who attended Eton
with you. Your father is the Marquess of Winthrop, once noted
Parliamentarian who helped demolish the slave trade in England.”
She paused as if she’d noticed him staring, then shrugged.
“
Debrett
’s and a casual perusal of
The Times
and
those gossip sheets my mother will allow us to purchase.”

He chuckled. “I shudder to think what
observation has taught you.”

She launched into a recitation. “You are
fairly well educated, brave beyond words, determined to serve your
country even though your position would dictate that you stay
safely out of the mess. But at times you doubt your abilities. I’m
not sure why, for they seem formidable.”

“Thank you, I think.” He shook his head.
“You continue to amaze me, Ariadne. I’ve never met anyone like
you.”

“Thank you, I think,” she replied, smile in
her voice. She leaned forward, and the light from outside outlined
her soft face. “But come now, Sinclair. You pride yourself on being
an intelligence agent. Surely you have gleaned something about
me.”

More than he cared to admit. “You are the
youngest daughter of Viscount Rollings. Your father is well
respected for his temperate politics, your mother for her piety and
propriety, your sister for her Amazon feats. There was even a rumor
of her hanging off a roof at Priscilla Tate’s come out ball.”

“Ledge, actually,” she corrected him. “In a
ball gown with a train, in pursuit of a jewel thief. I was quite
proud of her.”

“So acts of valor run in your family,” he
teased.

She bowed her head. “Not far enough, I fear.
But do go on.”

“You are highly intelligent, brilliant,
actually. You pride yourself on a well-turned phrase. And you seem
sufficiently enamored of romantic novels that I may have to try
another.”

“No need,” she replied. “I told you, you’re
living one.” She leaned forward to peer out the window as the
carriage slowed. “Is this your home?”

He could see the familiar tall brick town
house with the elegant arched doorway. “My father’s. I have rooms
at the Fenton.” He put his hand on the latch and paused. “Before we
go in, Ariadne, you should know that my father has been unwell. I’m
never sure what he’ll say or how he’ll react to me. Just do your
best.”

Her face was once more pale as he handed her
down to the pavement. “What if he doesn’t like me? What if he
disapproves of our liaison?”

He shrugged. “Then our false engagement will
die an early death.” And he was fairly sure he’d be the only one to
regret it.

*

So, if Lord Winthrop disapproved of her, the
betrothal would end immediately. Given the odd gentlemen crowding
her withdrawing room that afternoon, annoying Sinclair’s father
held attraction.
Debrett’s
had confirmed that Sinclair had
yet to reach his majority. They could not marry without their
parents’ consent.

Not that she planned to marry him.

And she was fairly certain he had no
intentions of marrying her either. Hadn’t he said as much last
night? Yet he seemed unaccountably tense as he put his hand on her
elbow and led her up the stairs to the emerald-colored door.
Perhaps he disliked seeing his father ill. The tragedy must weigh
on both of them. That was it--he must be suffering with regret at
how the once-great man had fallen. She offered him a comforting
smile as he raised his other hand to lift the lion’s head brass
knocker and rap on the door.

“Master Sinclair,” declared the tall,
slender man who responded, holding the door wide. “How good to see
you again so soon.” Unlike Pattison’s hair, this man’s needed no
powder, for it was a snowy white. His perfectly fitted black coat
and breeches made him appear as if he were about to set out for a
night on the town.

Of course, why would he need to go anywhere
with this splendor around him? Ariadne tried not to gawk, but
really, it was all simply too perfect. The walls were draped in
green silk delicately patterned with leaves, while polished dark
wood graced the floor and stairs to the chamber story. The brass
chandelier glowed with a dozen candles in glass chimneys, sending
sparkling light in all directions. The only thing missing was the
prince in a velvet banyan descending the stairs to welcome
them.

Sinclair was obviously unaffected by his
father’s home. “Adams.” Sinclair inclined his head as they entered,
though his smile broadened. “Good to see you too. How is Mrs.
Wilkes?”

“Better today. Oh, but she’ll be sorry to
have missed you.” As if he suddenly realized Ariadne was there, he
stiffened, and his face went impassive, regal even. “Forgive me.
May I take your coats?”

Ariadne reached for the clasp at the throat
of her cloak, but Sinclair shook his head. “No need. We won’t be
staying long.”

Her hand fell away, and Adams’ face simply
fell. Still, he recovered quickly.

“Lord Winthrop is in his study,” he
confided. “Along with Mr. Symthe. Allow me to announce you.”

“Father is expecting us,” Sinclair said.
“Ariadne, this is Mr. Adams. He’s watched over the House of
Winthrop since before I was born. Adams, this is Miss Ariadne
Courdebas.”

He did not mention the engagement. So, he
would lie to his father but not a faithful retainer. She wasn’t
sure why that fact warmed her.

Adams bowed to her. “Miss Courdebas, a
pleasure. You are very welcome in this house. Just remember that,
whatever should happen.”

Goodness, did he expect Sinclair’s father to
hate her on sight? She knew she should have insisted on going back
for a different gown. She could have used the confidence of the
green satin right now, although it would have matched the shade on
the door.

Immediately she chided herself. It wasn’t a
real engagement.

Yet as they started down the corridor, all
she could think was that while she had no real reason to impress
Sinclair’s father, she had an unreasonable desire to impress
Sinclair.

Lord Winthrop’s study was equally perfect,
especially for a midnight introduction. The walls were hung up high
with crimson damask figured in leafy medallions, the lower halves
covered by dark walnut bookshelves with latticed glass fronts. The
reflection on the glass from the fire in the black marble hearth
prevented her from reading titles, but she could imagine the
treasures that those shelves must hold. The only other light was
from a lamp on a paper-strewn walnut desk near the back of the
room, where a thin man with a hooded gaze sat as if he had been
chiseled from marble himself. Neither his demeanor nor his looks
said he was related to Sinclair, so she concluded that he must be
this Symthe fellow Adams had mentioned. That meant the man
reclining on a sofa covered in crimson velvet, the king of all he
surveyed, must be Lord Winthrop.

Sinclair’s father looked nothing like his
son. He had once been blond if his craggy brows were any
indication. Now his hair was thinning on top and receding at the
sides so that patches of pink skin gleamed through the silver.
While Sinclair had a square jaw and firm cheekbones, his father’s
face was round and soft and growing slack. His royal blue banyan
with its gold embroidery at the cuffs clung to a massive frame that
nearly filled the sofa. He did not bother to rise in the presence
of a lady, or perhaps the wrapped leg resting on the hassock in
front of him would no longer bear his weight.

He eyed Ariadne as if determining how she’d
taste with a little cranberry dressing. “So this is to be your
bride, eh?”

Sinclair stopped a few feet from his father,
not bothering to sit in either of the leather chairs opposite him.
Up close, she could see crumbs speckling the front of Lord
Winthrop’s banyan, a stain marking the sleeve. He had taken less
trouble to meet her than she had to meet him.

“Ariadne Courdebas, may I present my father,
the Marquess of Winthrop,” Sinclair answered, gaze on his
father.

Ariadne dipped a curtsey. “An honor, my
lord.”

“Honor?” He spat out the word as if it were
undercooked. “There’s no honor in meeting an old man the world has
forgotten.”

Is that how he saw himself? Small wonder he
took no care how he dressed.

“Father,” Sinclair started in warning, but
Ariadne put a hand on his arm.

“I said honor, sir,” she told Lord Winthrop,
“and I meant it. Were you not the one who penned the immortal
words, ‘If one man bows in chains, so bows the soul of the
nation’?”

He narrowed his eyes. “Who told you that?
You’re too young to remember the fight we faced.”

“Too young to have fought beside you, alas,”
Ariadne told him. “But not too young to have profited from the
battle. The nation owes you a debt, my lord. I for one thank
you.”

His frown did not ease. Even Sinclair was
frowning as if he couldn’t understand her purpose.

With a phlegmy rattle, Mr. Symthe cleared
his throat and rose. “I will take no more of your time, my lord,”
he said, voice as nasal and whining as Acantha’s and nearly as
high. “I trust you will remember my advice on certain matters.”

He sounded as if he were the employer
instead of the other way around. Brave attitude for a personal
secretary.

Lord Winthrop waved a meaty hand. “I know
what is expected of me, Symthe. Leave my heir to me.”

Head ducked as if to avoid a cuff, Symthe
hurried out.