Eloquence and Espionage (3 page)

“Is it foolhardy to seek a gentleman’s
attentions?” she said, keeping her voice calm and curious. “I was
under the impression that was the entire purpose of the
Season.”

“You do not wish my attentions,” he
said.

She wove a crooked path across the clearing
as if detouring around tree roots and leaves left over from the
winter. The mossy ground betrayed no sound of her footsteps. “Why
not? Are you such a loathsome creature behind that black leather
mask?”

His chuckle warmed her more than her quilted
blue pelisse. Oh, but she should have worn a cloak when she’d
ventured out this morning; it was so much more romantic for a
clandestine meeting!

“I have been told I have a pleasing façade,”
he admitted.

And was rather amused by the fact. Or
perhaps he simply knew his worth, like Priscilla. “Then perhaps
those broad shoulders are the result of a clever tailor and copious
amounts of padding,” she said, edging nearer as if to smell a
blossom on one of the bushes.

“Possibly,” he said. “Or long hours of
practice at fencing and boxing.”

A shiver ran through her as she made out a
shape through the branches. “And of course you have such problems
expressing yourself with eloquence.”

She was certain she saw his sigh sway the
leaves. “Only with you, my dear.”

She stopped in front of the bush, convinced
he was only on the other side. “You can come out, you know. I
shan’t bite.”

“I might.”

The bush rustled as if he were about to push
through it, and despite herself she stepped back. “I’m not
afraid.”

Still, he did not show himself. “You should
be. You are messing about with things beyond your ken.”

She raised her chin. “Espionage is not a
mystical pursuit, sir. It is a matter of two people or two
countries attempting to outsmart the other. Just as I have
outsmarted you.” She reached for the limbs, ready to yank them
apart and see his face at last.

From behind her came the snap of a foot on a
twig. Her stomach sank even as her arms fell to her sides. Somehow,
she’d mistaken his direction. He’d been the one to outsmart her.
Turning, slowly, she gazed across the clearing to where a man with
midnight black hair and broad shoulders stood watching her. In the
shadows of the trees, she could not see his face, but she could
make out the pistol held in one gloved hand.

“Down!”

The bushes behind her were wrenched aside,
and someone leaped at her, knocking her to the ground. The pistol
roared with a flash of powder, and something flew past her bonnet.
Then her assailant was on his feet and dashing across the clearing
in pursuit of the man who’d fired.

Ariadne pushed herself into a sitting
position, trying to find her breath, stop the stuttering of her
pulse. The bushes were nearly crushed once more as Daphne, astride
her black mare, landed in the clearing.

“I heard the shot!” she cried, turning the
agitated horse among the leaves like a dervish. “Are you all
right?”

Ariadne managed a nod, then pointed toward
the trees. “They went that way.”

Daphne put heels to her horse’s haunches and
galloped off.

“They?” Emily asked, coming into the
clearing behind her. Seeing Ariadne on the ground, she hurried to
her side and helped her to her feet. Ariadne adjusted her skirts
with a nod that was more about the shaking of her limbs than an
affirmation to her friend.

“They,” she insisted. “It appears there are
two handsome, black-haired, broad-shouldered spies in London, and
neither is particularly amused with me at the moment.”

*

The dastard! How dare he fire at an
innocent! He pushed himself through the bushes, determined not to
lose the villain. It had to be his spy, the creature who hid among
the London crowds until he struck with lethal force. The fellow’s
reasons for attempting to murder Ariadne Courdebas would have to
wait. Right now, he must be captured.

He broke out of the woods and skidded to
stop on the grass. Hyde Park stretched before him, alive with
movement, conversation, laughter. A dozen top hats were evident
within the first twenty yards alone, and at least half sat on the
heads of dark-haired men. Oh, but the villain knew how to blend in.
He’d been wearing a navy coat and fawn trousers too. Very likely
the pistol fit in a specially designed pocket. His own coat held
two.

He had only caught a glimpse of the fellow
across the clearing. His gaze had been all for that pistol as it
opened its deadly mouth toward Ariadne. No, not opened. The thing
was already opened. He needed a better analogy.

He needed to think!

He shook his head, bit back an oath. At
least Ariadne was safe, for the moment. He’d heard the bullet
whistle by overhead. She hadn’t been hit. He ought to take comfort
in the fact that he had saved her life.

And would likely have to save it again.

Mindful that she might even now be following
him, plucky thing that she was, he turned and walked toward the
nearest group of people. Several gentlemen knew him by name if not
reputation, so they made room for him, introduced him to the
ladies, asked after his father. He knew how to make polite
conversation while his mind was elsewhere. He positioned himself to
keep the woods in sight.

The first out was her sister astride a
powerful mare. Daphne Courdebas pulled up, glanced around with a
frown as he had done. Having seen neither of the men who had
accosted her sister, she could have no idea who to approach. He
forced himself to laugh at a jest one of his companions had
made.

Next came Ariadne, accompanied by her friend
Lady Emily. Though her pretty blue pelisse was speckled with
leaves, her bonnet askew, she did not appear to be concerned. She
too glanced around, and he turned to chat with the lady beside him
lest he draw undue attention. Miss Haversomething was just out this
Season, and the petite blonde stammered answers to his polite
questions, lowering her blue-eyed gaze and swaying so that her
creamy muslin skirts brushed his boots. She did not appear to
notice the leaves sticking to the leather, the mud across the toes
where he’d dug into the ground to protect Ariadne.

Ariadne would have noticed. She would have
given him better conversation as well. With her, he was the one to
stammer. It was an odd feeling, to be out of his depth, but he
found he could not mind it. She expected him to be better, unlike
everyone else in his life who thought he should aspire to be no
more than the heir to a marquess, as if an accident of birth should
decide his fate.

He chanced a glance her way to find her
hands on her hips as she cast about. For a moment, her gaze brushed
his, then moved on. He was invisible to her, just as he’d been
invisible to his father for so many years. Though he had not wanted
her to discover him, he felt disappointed.

She turned to Lady Emily and spoke, then the
two headed back into the woods. If he knew her, she’d go over and
over the clearing until she found something of use in determining
the nature of the man who had shot at her. She might even learn the
villain’s identity.

For that reason, he must change his tactics.
For the last four days, he’d done his best to keep Ariadne at arm’s
length. Now he must stick to her like sealing wax on a letter. For
if she learned the identity of the French spy, he wanted to hear of
it. And if the spy attempted to harm her again, he knew he must be
beside her to prevent it.

Ariadne had always thought that it must be
terribly gratifying to be made much over after a terrifying
circumstance. She was annoyed to find it quite frustrating. As they
trooped back to the carriage, Emily offered smelling salts, and
Daphne vowed revenge. At the sight of her and a hurried
explanation, Mr. Crease muttered about taking his horsewhip to
brazen young men who preyed on the weak and helpless. She wanted to
shriek at them all to be silent and go away.

Not the act of an injured heroine.

So, she smiled with just the right amount of
melancholy, assured them she was fine, and allowed herself to be
taken to the Emerson town house, which was closer than her family’s
home in London. At least she’d managed a good look at the clearing
before leaving the area, for all it told her nothing save to
confirm what she already knew. By the damage to the bushes, two men
had stood among them, one on the south side, one on the north.
Which had been the one she’d followed? Which had been the one she’d
sought for days? She had no clue and could think of no way to gain
further clues.

Emily’s kindly butler, Warburton, had
immediately sent for some restorative tea and biscuits. Even so,
she could barely partake of the sweets with Daphne pacing about the
elegant blue-and-white withdrawing room, kicking the long skirt of
her navy riding habit out of the way.

“You really should tell her,” Emily murmured
over her dainty rose-patterned teacup.

Ariadne sighed. It was probably too much to
hope that she might keep this secret to herself a while longer.
Since the day she had been born, it seemed as if she and Daphne had
shared everything. She was only ten months younger than her sister,
denoting a shocking lack of planning by her thoroughly organized
mother, so there were times she felt she and Daphne were twins.
Fraternal twins, of course, for the color of Daphne’s hair was more
wheat than honey and more wavy than straight, her eyes were a
guileless blue, and her body more athletic and supple. Their
interests were just as diverse. Had Daphne been born a boy as their
father had wished, she would have belonged to the sporting set, for
she loved being on horseback, driving the gig her father had
purchased her for their country house, and dancing the night away.
If their mother had agreed, Daphne would have learned to fence and
box as well.

As close as they were, it was a miracle
Ariadne had been able to keep her one secret hidden for the last
six months. Daphne had been terribly hurt to learn she had been
left out of Ariadne’s literary endeavors, such as they were. She
hadn’t spoken to Ariadne for a good couple of hours when she’d
learned the truth. How would she feel now if Ariadne admitted to a
secret of a much more romantic nature?

“What’s happened?” Priscilla demanded,
appearing just outside the open door. Even though she was betrothed
now and had no need to posture, she paused as if to allow them to
admire her icy blue gown with its creamy lace at the neckline and
scallops at the hem. Even with the sheath of papers in her grip,
she looked as if she belonged on the shelf beside the other pieces
of blue-and-white Wedgwood pottery decorating the withdrawing
room.

“Some ruffian accosted Ariadne in Hyde
Park,” Daphne declared, pausing in her pacing. “I say we should
send for Bow Street.”

“Surely Mr. Cropper and his comrades have
more important things to do,” Ariadne protested.

Emily feigned nonchalance. “Oh, I’m sure he
wouldn’t mind.”

Very likely not, as he was attempting to
prove to Emily’s father that he would be worthy of her hand.
Ariadne simply didn’t see how he could help them this time. It
wasn’t as if the famed thief catchers knew what to do with
spies.

“But I’m fine,” she insisted.

“You will be better when I show you this.”
Priscilla swept into the room and handed Ariadne the papers. “I was
able to send word to Nathan after all. He provided the guest list
from His Grace’s masquerade.”

Ariadne took it with trembling fingers.
Somewhere on this list lay her centurion’s name. This morning she
might have been loath to find it, enjoying their game of seek and
be found. But after his behavior in the park, she wasn’t sure what
to think. She wanted him to have been the one who had knocked her
down, to save her from imminent death, of course. He was the hero,
after all.

Daphne strolled closer. “Good thinking.
Everyone in London was there, Ariadne’s attacker included.”

Emily and Priscilla exchanged glances, and
Ariadne was glad Priscilla was clever enough not to correct Daphne
on the timing. For how could Priscilla think to bring the list when
she’d only just heard of the incidence? Of course, Daphne was like
that. She tended to act without thinking, speak without full
understanding. Small wonder Ariadne didn’t want to share her
secrets.

“I’ve crossed through the impossible,”
Priscilla told them, going to take a seat near Ariadne on the sofa
and draping her skirts about her. “We are not interested in females
or anyone above a certain age. And of course, Nathan and His Grace
are exempt from examination. We know where they were.”

Indeed, they did: trying to stop the
blackmailer who had threatened both Priscilla and His Grace.
Ariadne lifted the page and scanned down the list, feeling Emily
angle her head to read as well. One name jumped out at her.

“Mr. Horatio Cunningham was in attendance.”
And of course he hadn’t sought her out. At least, she didn’t think
so. They had been wearing masks, so it was difficult to be
certain.

“Mr. Cunningham, as I recall, is blond,”
Emily reminded her. “Hardly a dark-haired centurion.”

“Centurion,” Daphne said. “Good word for a
fellow who attacks ladies from the bushes: brash, arrogant.”

She ought to argue, but she knew it would
only give up the game.

“He could have been wearing a wig,”
Priscilla mused, ignoring Daphne. “And with a mask you might not
have recognized him.”

It was rather romantic to consider the
matter that way. She’d admired Mr. Cunningham since the moment
they’d first been introduced to each other at the party celebrating
Emily’s disastrous betrothal to that dastard, Lord Robert. Tall,
slender, with the most adorable curly blond hair and a ready
address, he was everything a proper gentleman should be. They’d met
several times now, and he had danced with her at Priscilla and
Emily’s come out ball a month ago. True, he hadn’t called or been
particularly welcoming when she’d meet him since, but perhaps he
was merely awed by her presence. Perhaps he had conceived a passion
for her, penning sonnets at midnight in his lonely room, dreaming
of the day she might be his. Perhaps he’d used the masquerade to
share his true feelings. Perhaps . . .