Eloquence and Espionage (11 page)

He shook his head. “You’re a cool one, I’ll
give you that. But here’s a detail you can’t ignore. You deliver my
message to Lord Hastings or your sister is likely to meet with an
accident. Will that suffice, or shall I tell you exactly how I plan
to wring her pretty neck?”

Ariadne swallowed. “No need. I have a vivid
imagination.”

“Good.”

The carriage was slowing. The coachman must
have spotted Sinclair approaching or was hoping for further
instruction from Ariadne. Any moment, she’d have help.

The spy must have realized it as well, for
he reached for the door.

“And who shall I say provided this tepid
warning?” she asked, trying to think of any way to keep him in the
coach.

He glanced her way. “An old friend.”

“Wait!” Ariadne cried, putting out her
hand.

But he whisked open the door and disappeared
into the night.

Sinclair nodded his thanks to his coachman
as he walked back to the door. What a waste of time! The hackney
had been empty, its driver blathering on about mysterious riders
who disappeared along the way after paying in gold. The fellow only
knew he was to follow Sinclair’s coach until it reached its
destination. Sinclair was no closer to guessing his quarry’s
identity, and he still had to get Ariadne safely home without
incurring her parents’ wrath.

He opened the door and climbed inside, and
she launched herself at him.

“Oh, it was horrid, hideous!” she cried,
clinging to him.

Sinclair put his arms around her, held her
close, breathing in the scent of honeysuckle. Her curves nestled
nicely against him. The silk of her cheek against his was softer
than fine muslin.

“Now, then,” he murmured. “It’s all right.
I’m back. No one shall harm you.”

She pulled away, lamplight from outside
sparkling on the tears trickling down her cheek. “That’s not the
issue. He was here, in this coach, offering danger.”

He stared at her. “You saw him?”

“Saw him, spoke to him,” she insisted, head
bobbing so hard some of her hair tumbled down to brush her
shoulders. “It was positively terrifying.”

Sinclair grabbed the door handle once more
and leaped from the coach, pausing to glance back at Ariadne, who
had pushed herself into her seat. “Which way did he go?” he
demanded.

She waved a trembling hand. “Left? Right?
Who knows in the dark? Besides, it’s too late now. You’ll never
catch him.”

Again. Disappointment bit sharply as he
climbed back into the coach. She drew in a shuddering breath, and
the terror inside her seemed to reach out to him and draw him
closer. He sat down beside her, put an arm about her shoulders and
let her head rest against his shoulder.

“At least he didn’t hurt you,” he murmured,
thankfulness welling up inside.

She shook her head, and his heart sank.
“What he did was far worse,” she said. “He issued a generic
warning!”

Now Sinclair shook his head, certain he’d
misheard. “What?”

She sat back from him as if intent on making
him see her case. “He issued vile threats with no substance behind
them, and when I demanded details, he said he’d wring Daphne’s
neck. Oh, but he must be stopped!”

He quite agreed, but he still felt as if
he’d come into a play in mid-act and had no idea of the plot.
“Perhaps you should tell me exactly what happened.”

She squared her shoulders. “No time. We must
meet with Lord Hastings immediately.”

Something cold slid over him. How did she
know? Was she a member of Lord Hastings’s cadre as well, or had
Sinclair given her some clue that would allow her to guess the name
of their leader? He refused to believe she was anything other than
innocent.

Careful to betray none of his feelings,
Sinclair eyed her. “Lord Hastings? Do you mean the Marquis of
Hastings? What has he to do with all this?”

She threw up her hands. “Apparently he is
your employer.”

Still, he refused to react. “What would make
you think that?”

“Because the villain claimed it! Oh, please
hurry. Who knows what he’s planning? I won’t have my sister harmed.
She isn’t even part of the story!”

He reached out and took her hands in his.
“Don’t worry, Ariadne. I’ll keep her safe.”

“How?” she demanded. “You couldn’t even
catch him in his carriage.”

He released her hands and sat back. She was
right, of course. He’d thought he’d had the fellow cornered at the
Rottenford masquerade, but the spy had escaped discovery. He’d
caught sight of the fellow when the fiend had fired in Hyde Park
and given chase, but his quarry had disappeared. Sinclair had been
within yards of him just now and missed him completely. Some
intelligence agent he made.

His feelings must have betrayed him, for she
quieted. “Forgive me. I never meant to disparage your skills.”

“Such as they are,” he replied. “Pardon me a
moment.” He opened the window and instructed Butters to take them
back to the Rollings’s town house.

“I’m sure you’re an excellent intelligence
agent,” she insisted as he settled back in his seat across from
her. “You’ve proven quite resourceful.”

“Not resourceful enough.” He rubbed his
hands along his coat. “I didn’t intend to be an agent. I wanted to
go to Spain, fight alongside Wellington. Many of my friends from
school went. Father refused to jeopardize his heir.”

“Understandable,” she commiserated as the
coach set off once more. “I imagine some tight-fisted distant
cousin with horrible taste would inherit if something happened to
you.”

He smiled at the picture. “Actually, Cousin
Leonard is a very nice fellow who endows the Royal Society for the
Arts generously. He was eagerly anticipating the title until I came
along.”

“So denied the right to join the Hussars,
you became an intelligence agent instead?”

The way she said it made his decision sound
wildly romantic. He had to admit it felt that way some times.

“I needed to do something,” he explained.
“Some of my friends never came back, you see, or came back
battered, broken. It didn’t seem right that I was allowed to stay
home, dance the night away, while they risked their lives and
futures. I must have complained about the situation to the right
person, because my superior sought me out.”

“Lord Hastings,” she surmised.

Not much use denying it now. “Lord Hastings.
He is aware of the need for intelligence to help win this war, and
he realized that a great deal of intrigue is masked by Society’s
polite façade.”

“Very nicely said,” she replied. “I wish I
had my journal with me to record that sentiment.”

For some reason, her statement eased the
disappointment of the last few minutes. “Now that’s the Ariadne I
know and admire,” he said. “I take it you’re feeling better.”

“I was only rattled,” she promised. “But I
still wish to meet Lord Hastings.”

Sinclair shook his head. “Out of the
question. For one thing, it’s difficult to know where he’ll be at
any given moment.”

“He is a marquis,” she said. “Surely he must
meet with his man of affairs, attend Parliament, eat dinner with
family.”

“Most likely, but I have no knowledge of his
staff, I am not a member of Parliament just yet, and his only son
is a greater profligate than I am, so I doubt they spend many
dinners together.”

She sighed. “You are far too busy with
important matters to qualify as a profligate. Lord Hastings must
have some place he accepts reports from his agents. Take me
there.”

“I don’t think that’s wise,” he started, and
she slumped in her seat.

“I see,” she said, and he was afraid to hear
just what that clever mind had gleaned from his demeanor and
conversation this time. “Is it that you are afraid to acknowledge
me as your betrothed? Is that why we had to meet your father at
night? Am I such an ape leader?”

He’d heard the term applied to confirmed
spinsters with faces like horses. “Certainly not!” he declared,
stiffening. “I can honestly say you’re one of the loveliest young
ladies out this Season. And I doubt there’s one more intelligent.
No, we met my father at night because he tends to sleep most of the
day.”

She seemed to accept that. “Then why not
allow me to meet Lord Hastings?”

Was he being overly cautious? Or did some
part of him want to keep the excitement of spying to himself?
Neither furthered his cause. Hastings could surely keep her safe
even if Sinclair could not.

“All right,” he agreed, and she gave a
little squeal of delight. He held up his hand. “But not tonight.
I’ll call on you at eleven and take you to him.”

“Promise?” she challenged.

“Promise,” he said.

He only prayed it was a promise he would
live to keep.

Thank goodness Sinclair managed to bring her
home before her parents and Daphne returned from Almack’s. Pattison
gave her a narrowed-eyed look as she passed the butler in the
entry, but she continued up the stairs without acknowledging
him.

What a night! She allowed her maid to help
her undress, fending off carefully worded questions with even more
carefully worded answers. She was very glad to be left alone in the
quiet.

She’d always liked her bedchamber, decorated
as it was in shades of rose and cream, from the chintz print of
begonias on her bed hangings to the thick flower-patterned carpet
underfoot. Tonight it felt cramped, tight, as if it could no longer
hold the person she was becoming.

On her dressing table, her journal beckoned,
quill in a brass stand waiting for her hand. Normally, she would
have been eager to record the events of the day, but her mind was
so full she didn’t know which thought to write down first. There
was her impending meeting with Lord Hastings--what to wear to give
the right impression that she was earnest, not flighty (so no white
muslin!) and loyal (perhaps something blue and red like the flag of
the Empire?)? What would she say? ‘My lord, I come bearing tidings
of great import.’ My word, but she sounded like an archangel!

And what exactly did she want out of her
meeting? To tell his lordship about the spy, of course, but was
that to be the extent of her involvement? Was she relegated to the
role of parrot, chattering away for the amusement of others? Again,
she had that feeling that she must be more, do more, than she had
ever done before.

Then there was her encounter with the spy.
Could he really hurt Daphne or her parents? Surely plaguing
Sinclair and Lord Hastings was not his chief purpose for being in
London. He must be up to something dastardly, something risky, that
he felt compelled to warn them away. Would he assassinate a member
of Parliament? The Prime Minister? The Prince Regent! Surely she
was not expected to stand by while others fought the fight.

And the idea of fighting only brought up the
strange visit with Sinclair’s father. Was the once-brilliant man
beyond hope? What tragedy had so snuffed out his bright light? Was
there nothing she could do to help?

Over all her tumbling thoughts was one man:
Sinclair. How noble his reason for becoming an intelligence agent.
How admirable his determination to catch the spy. How dear the
disappointment on his face when he admitted his failings. How manly
the planes of his face. How warm his embrace.

Yes, truly, she did have a great deal on her
mind.

She was still pacing when Daphne and their
parents returned. Her sister poked her head in the door and
brightened when her gaze met Ariadne’s.

“Oh, good, you’re up.” She flounced into the
room, ball gown swinging. “I can give you all the details if you
like.”

One more detail and she thought her head
might explode, and that was no hyperbole. “Perhaps in the
morning.”

Daphne stopped with a frown. “I thought you
would be curious.” She brightened again. “And I have news! You will
never guess who was given vouchers for Almack’s.”

Despite all she had been through, her head
came up, and her heart started beating faster. “You convinced the
patronesses?”

“Someone did,” Daphne said with an emphatic
nod that set her curls to bobbing. “Can you imagine what everyone
will say next Wednesday when Emily walks in on Mr. Cropper’s
arm?”

Mr. Cropper. Jamie. Emily’s inamorata. “Oh,”
Ariadne managed. “Someone convinced the patronesses to admit a Bow
Street Runner to Almack’s. How nice.”

“I think it’s divine,” Daphne said. “I
imagine he’ll dance with her every dance. It’s like that at
Almack’s. I never sat out once.” She hummed a snatch of melody and
swayed on her feet as if she wanted to keep dancing even now.

Ariadne was happy for Emily, but really. Was
it too much to ask that she might be granted vouchers? She was of
excellent family. She was pleasant. She was even supposedly
betrothed to the Season’s greatest catch! What more did these
ladies want?

Daphne began waltzing around the room,
bumping into the bed, the arm chair by the wood-wrapped hearth.
“All our suspects were there as well. Archibald Stump even danced
with me. He asked after you.”

Probably making polite conversation, asking
after friends and family. “How kind. What did you say?”

“He wanted to know why you weren’t there,
and I told him you had a distemperate inflammation of the innermost
ear but would be free Friday if he wished to call. I said the same
thing to Mr. Cunningham when he asked.”

She licked her lips. “Mr. Cunningham asked
after me?”

Daphne nodded. “Yes, and he specifically
told Mother he was disappointed not to have been able to dance with
a lady of your caliber. I thought you’d like to hear that.”

It was nice to hear the gentleman she had so
admired thought of her when surrounded by the cream of London
Society. Perhaps he was even now pining away, regretting the
unthinking words he’d uttered at the Caldecott ball. Perhaps the
next time they’d meet, he’d go down on one knee and beg her to
throw Sinclair over for him.