Eloquence and Espionage (18 page)

His gaze was intent, determined. It was
almost as if the last days had never been. She wanted to ask him
why he had left, why he was here now. But she knew they had more
important matters to settle first.

“The French spy is after Lord Emerson,” she
murmured back. “We have to warn Emily.”

“I’d think warning him would be more
effective,” he pointed out, taking her arm to dance along the
floor.

They passed the other couples swaying on
either side. Emily and Jamie were near the top of the set and
working their way down as Ariadne and Sinclair worked up. A few
more turns and they’d meet.

“He’d never believe me,” she said. “He might
believe Emily.”

“And Cropper,” he surmised. They separated a
moment in the movement of the dance, then came back together. “Have
you spotted the spy?”

“Not yet. But it may be that he is only a
tool of someone else here in London.”

Again the pattern of the dance separated
them. Emily and Jamie were only a few feet away. She tried to catch
her friend’s eye, but Emily’s gaze was all for Jamie.

“Who?” Sinclair demanded as they
rejoined.

“I don’t know,” Ariadne admitted. “Someone
Lord Hastings’s age, who is an old friend of his and has access to
high-enough levels of government to know Lord Emerson’s power
there. Someone who could convince the patronesses to admit Jamie
Cropper to Almack’s so the duke would come to support him. Does
that sound like anyone you know?”

Sinclair stumbled in the middle of the set,
washing white. “Yes. My father.”

Sinclair couldn’t move. Could it be? Was
that why his father had taken to having him followed? Why he’d had
his secretary ask about Sinclair’s association with Lord Hastings?
Had the bitterness and greed driven him to betray his own country?
The possible truth of it slammed into him.

“Sinclair,” Ariadne hissed. “We must keep
dancing.”

Somehow, he forced his feet to slide across
the polished floor, his hands to take hers. Another turn and they
would be part of Lady Emily and Cropper’s quartet. And he would
have to admit that his father wanted hers dead.

“I cannot believe it of him,” Ariadne said
as if she knew his thoughts. “He fought to make this nation great.
Why throw it over for France?”

“He is not the man you think him,” Sinclair
said, feeling numb. “He is not the man anyone thinks him. Only my
mother and I knew the truth. He does nothing except out of high
ambition and deep grasping.”

They turned together, joining the next
couple, and his other hand touched the slim, strong fingers of Lady
Emily. She eyed Sinclair and Ariadne as the quartet circled.

“You worked hard to get here,” she remarked,
even as Cropper watched them too. “What’s happened?”

“We discovered the spy’s target,” Ariadne
told her, words running together in her haste. “Your father.”

Emily’s steps faltered, but Jamie held her
up. “When, where?” the Runner demanded, gaze sharpening.

“Tonight,” Sinclair told him. “Here. You and
Emily were the bait.”

“Then let’s spring the trap before Lord
Emerson can be caught.” He broke the set and pulled Emily out of
the line.

“Why didn’t we think of that?” Ariadne
marveled as she and Sinclair followed.

Very likely because they had been too well
trained in Society’s dictates. One simply did not disrupt the
traditions of Almack’s. The Runner clearly felt no such
constraints. He pushed through groups of chatting ladies, shoved
past clumps of gentlemen, all of whom raised quizzing glasses or
otherwise frowned at his passage.

“Excuse us,” Ariadne kept saying.

Sinclair was more intent on their
destination. He could see Lord Emerson just ahead, surrounded by
gentlemen who were no doubt seeking his opinion on the troubles
with France.

“Me on one side, you on the other,” Cropper
murmured to Sinclair as they approached. “That ought to give the
Frenchman pause.”

Ariadne jerked to a stop. “Too late! Look!”
She pointed to where a dark-haired waiter was nearing Lord
Emerson’s group. His silver tray was held too high, as if he
balanced something beneath it.

“Move!” Sinclair shouted, charging forward
with Cropper beside him.

Lord Emerson looked up in surprise. Another
man pressed against his side, pushing him toward the wall, and
Sinclair recognized Lord Trevithan, who was suspected of being one
of Lord Hastings’s men. Sinclair joined him a second later,
shielding the Parliamentarian with his body.

Lord Emerson raised a brow, gaze more amused
than annoyed. “Care to explain, gentlemen?”

“We believe your life to be in danger, my
lord,” Trevithan said, even as Sinclair turned to keep the waiter
in sight.

Cropper had met him, grabbing his arm. The
two stood frozen while everyone at Almack’s moved around them,
unconcerned and unknowing. For a moment, Sinclair thought the
Frenchman would surrender without a fight. Then the spy threw off
the silver tray, which clattered to the hardwood floor, and swung a
thin-bladed knife at the Runner.

That woke the sleepy Society guests. Ladies
cried out, dandies scuttled back, leaving a wide circle around the
pair. Cropper dodged, peeling off his dark evening coat, then
wrapping it around one arm.

“In the name of the King,” he said, “I
arrest you for attempted murder and treason.”

More voices cried out. Sinclair started
forward, but Trevithan caught his arm. “Stay out of it,” he
cautioned. “Do nothing to give yourself away.”

Was that his lot, to be forever in the
shadows? Once it might have been enough to know that he had been of
service to his country and his fallen friends. But Ariadne had
shown him a better way, a way of friendship and family, of laughter
and love. He’d be a fool not to take it.

“Stay with Emerson,” he told the other agent
and hurried for the fray.

Cropper was holding his own against the
Frenchman, who was backing toward the door, the crowd parting
behind him. Sinclair bent and retrieved the silver tray. Holding it
like a shield, he advanced into their circle.

“I’d listen to Mr. Cropper if I were you,”
he told the spy. “Drop your weapon now, before anyone is hurt.”

“I don’t take my orders from you,” the
French spy sneered.

Lady Jersey appeared at the edge of the
circle, head high and diamonds flashing on her bosom. “Then take
them from me. You were not invited to this event, sir. I just ask
you to leave.”

Ariadne joined her, face equally stern and
looking like an avenging angel in her white silk gown. “We know
your master. You will both face justice.”

“Not while he lives.” Before Sinclair could
move, the spy darted forward and grabbed Ariadne, yanking her into
his arms. The blade glinted against her creamy throat.

“Stay back,” he warned, glancing around at
them all, “or Miss Courdebas dies.”

No! He couldn’t watch while another person
he loved died. For he did love her, her fancies and her dreams and
her valor, her fondness for ices and witty phrases. He had to save
her, but how?

*

Really! If this had happened on stage or the
page of a book, she might have found it enthralling. As it was, she
could only be annoyed. What heroine worth her salt allowed herself
to be captured by the villain?

“Let go of me this instant,” she insisted as
he dragged her back toward the door.

“Shut your mouth and do as you’re told,” he
grit out.

Goodness, but it wasn’t easy walking
backward in a ball gown. She’d sweated the day she’d been presented
at court, dreading that she might trip over her train. Then she
would only have embarrassed her entire family. If she fell now, the
blade would slice open her throat!

Sinclair and Jamie were following them. She
could see the calculation behind Jamie’s gray eyes, but Sinclair,
why he looked as if the villain had threatened his own life, waxing
pale and flushing red in turn.

And every gaze in the room was on her.

She truly was the heroine.

She raised her head. “Desist, villain! You
cannot prosper against the best of British Society.”

Voices rose in murmurs of agreement. She
could see her mother, hands clasped, face pinched in worry;
Priscilla looking aghast. Emily’s eyes were narrowed in
determination, and Daphne’s mouth was so scrunched up Ariadne
wouldn’t have been surprised to hear her sister growl. They were
with her, ready to help.

“I said shut up,” he warned as they reached
the stairs. If he thought he could maneuver her down them backward,
he was a fool.

“I will never be silent,” she vowed, digging
in the heels of her dancing slippers on the carpet by the stair.
“Not while one drop of blood remains in my veins. Not while one
breath fills my lungs. Not while the valor of England swells my
heart.
Rule, Britannia, Britannia rule the waves
!”

Other voices took up the anthem, thundering
so loudly the rafters shook. “
Britons never shall be
slaves!
”

The blade at her throat wavered, and
Sinclair dove for her even as Jamie sprang forward.

All at once, she was free and tumbling into
Sinclair’s embrace. Gaze locked with his, she barely heard the
clatter of the Frenchman escaping down the stairs.

“That was amazing,” he said.

Ariadne smiled. “Thank you. It isn’t often I
find myself in the leading role.”

“Miss Courdebas, are you all right?” Mr.
Cunningham crowded close, and she could see Priscilla and Mother
just behind.

“Fine,” she said, making no effort to remove
herself from Sinclair’s arms. “If you wish to be of use, I suggest
you help Mr. Cropper catch the villain.”

“Why?” he asked. “When your sister appears
to be doing just that.”

Ariadne jerked upright. “What?”

Sinclair stopped her from moving. “A number
of people followed Mr. Cropper down the stairs. Your sister was
among them. I’m sure she’ll have sense enough not to engage the
man.”

“I’m not,” Ariadne declared. “Come
along.”

“Ariadne!” her mother protested, but Ariadne
took Sinclair’s hand, lifted her skirts, and tugged him down the
stairs.

The street was in chaos. Carriages blocked
traffic, people stood in groups exclaiming, pointing. In the
distance, she would make out two figures between the street lamps:
the Frenchman and the Runner chasing after him.

Sinclair must have seen them too. “He’ll get
away. He’s desperate.”

“After them! That way!” A phaeton thundered
past, a slender fellow with spectacles and wild brown hair at the
reins and Daphne hanging off the side. The silk of her ball gown
whipped about her, making her look like a winged fury.

“Faster!” she cried. “No one gets away with
threatening my sister!”

“I fly, my Amazon!” the driver promised,
whip cracking over his horses.

“Is she mad?” Sinclair said with a shake of
his head that was at least in part admiration.

“Possibly,” Ariadne said. “Probably. Oh, I
do hope she’s careful!” She turned to Sinclair. “We must go after
them. We know where the Frenchman is likely heading. We can meet
him there.”

He hesitated, and too late she remembered
that the true villain was far too familiar to him. But Sinclair
gathered himself, head coming up as he pulled his hand out of
hers.

“Stay here,” he said.

After all that, he still didn’t trust her?
“I will not!” Ariadne said, hands on her hips. “This is my fight
too.”

He reached out, touched her throat, the
caress so sweet her arms fell boneless. Drawing back his hand, he
held up his fingers. Something dark glistened on them.

Her blood.

Her hands went to her throat, the sting
finally registering.

“It’s only a nick,” he assured her. “But it
could have been so much worse. Don’t make me risk you again.”

Once more pain sounded in his voice. Ariadne
reached out to him. “It won’t be a risk if we don’t go alone. I
imagine Lord Hastings and his entire cadre would like a few choice
words with your father.”

Ariadne and Sinclair located the spy master,
on the edge of the crowd, giving orders, and let him know their
suspicions. They were swiftly led to a waiting carriage.

“I hope you’re wrong,” Lord Hastings said as
he took his seat across from them, Lord Trevithan at his side.
“Your father was once greatly admired. I hate to think of him
betraying his country.”

“He betrayed his calling and his family,”
Sinclair said, voice wooden. “His country could not have been far
behind.”

Ariadne squeezed his hand in support. Even
her imagination balked at thinking about how she’d feel if their
roles had been reversed. She was only glad to see the French spy in
the custody of Jamie Cropper, Daphne, and her new friend as Lord
Hastings’s carriage passed the group on the street. At least Lord
Winthrop would not have assistance from that quarter.

The family butler was quick to let them in.
“Lord Winthrop is in his study,” he said, leading them in that
direction. “But I don’t believe he was expecting you.” He glanced
at Sinclair for guidance.

“It’s all right, Adams,” Sinclair assured
him, though he sounded as if he’d run a great race.

“We’re old friends,” Lord Hastings
added.

The butler hurried ahead to open the door.
Lord Winthrop was still in his chair, leg up on the hassock. A
bottle of brandy stood at his elbow, the liquid already half gone.
His eyelids lay heavy on his flaccid cheeks, but Ariadne did not
think he was asleep.

“Hastings, Trevithan,” Lord Winthrop greeted
them without bothering to rise. “And Miss Courdebas and my heir as
well. Did I have the poor taste to miss the wedding?”

“No, Father,” Sinclair said, coming to stand
in front of him. “But it appears you had the poor taste to spy for
the French.”