Eloquence and Espionage
Read Eloquence and Espionage Online
Authors: Regina Scott
Tags: #inspirational, #historical romance, #clean romance, #young adult romance, #sweet romance, #romantic mystery, #historical mystery, #regency romp, #traditional regency, #regency romance funny
Eloquence and Espionage
by
Regina Scott
Book 4 in the Lady Emily Capers
Smashwords Edition
© 2015 Regina Lundgren
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To all the bluestockings I love--never stop
learning!
And to the Lord, who continually teaches me
His ways.
Bonus:
First Chapter of
Love and Larceny
Ariadne
Courdebas, youngest daughter of Viscount Rollings, had earned the
reputation as a bluestocking. Not only was she often found with
journal and pencil in hand, noting her impressions of various
activities, but she saw dramatic possibilities in the most mundane
of events. She appreciated a well-placed word, a witty turn of
phrase. In literature, no matter how desperate the circumstances,
everything was generally resolved between the front cover and the
back. Reality was far more messy.
Particularly when one was pursuing a French
spy.
She cracked the shutters on the window of
the landau to peer out at the square. As she’d hoped, Gunter’s was
suitably busy for a sunny afternoon in the middle of May, so that
one more carriage even as distinguished as her family’s would not
be remarked upon. Waiters with white aprons tied around their
waists darted across the crowded street to and from the famous
confectioner’s, taking orders from the aristocracy who waited in
their carriages or sat at little tables under the trees. Already
she’d seen a half dozen perfectly lovely ices pass her vantage
point. But sacrifices must be made to complete an investigation.
She puffed out a sigh.
A spear of light from the open shutter
brightened the page of her journal, and she smoothed her gloved
hand over the writing. How slanted and crowded the letters looked,
testimony to the state of her nerves the night she’d written them.
But truly, what young lady on her first Season in London could have
remained calm after the intriguing events at Lord Rottenford’s
masquerade ball four days ago?
She would always remember the moment her
life changed. She’d been with her dear friend, Priscilla Tate,
whose betrothal to the Duke of Rottenford was to be announced that
very night. Such a momentous occasion would have been cause for
celebration, but for two things: Priscilla had decided she loved
someone else, no less than the duke’s personal secretary, and
someone had been blackmailing her with vague threats of dire
consequences. Quite clichéd, actually. Ariadne would have added
more specifics: demands for her family jewels, perhaps an order to
walk naked past St. George’s Hanover Square on Sunday morning.
Still, even with unimaginative threats, it had taken the combined
forces of Ariadne’s older sister Daphne, Priscilla, and their
acknowledged leader Lady Emily Southwell to uncover the culprits
and bring them to justice.
But that night, while trying to outwit their
nemeses, Ariadne had noticed a gentleman following her and
Priscilla. He was tall and broad-shouldered, and he carried himself
like a celebrated thespian, full of brash confidence and bravado.
He’d been dressed like a Roman centurion, hair black as midnight
streaming down to his shoulders and face hidden by a dark leather
mask. And Ariadne had offered to distract him so Priscilla could
make her escape and save the day.
He’d been standing at the top of the stairs
where a balcony braced His Grace’s massive ballroom. Ariadne had
approached cautiously, trying to conceive of the appropriate
opening gambit in this sort of situation. Priscilla was the one
gifted with the ability to sway a gentleman’s thoughts. Of course,
it didn’t hurt that she had long curly hair of a lustrous gold,
green eyes bright as emeralds, and considerable curves that she
dressed to accentuate.
Ariadne was not so blessed. Her straight
hair was merely light brown, and she generally wore it in a bun at
the top of her head with a few contrived curls framing her round
face. That night, she’d worn it undressed and flowing down her
back, in keeping with the white diaphanous silk robes and laurel
wreath that made up her costume of Athena, goddess of wisdom. Her
eyes were an ordinary blue that was not dark enough to be termed
sapphire or bright enough to be called cornflower. And her figure,
to her ongoing consternation, tended to look more plump than
perfect.
Had she been cast in one of Mr. Sheridan’s
wonderful plays, she would likely have been the understudy to a
minor character. So she thought it particularly bold of her to
sashay up to the powerfully built centurion and say, “Have you no
legions to lead that you must chase after us, sir?”
He was surveying the ballroom, bare arms
crossed over his bronze breastplate, scarlet cloak draping his
back, quite as if he had not noticed her approaching. Now his gaze
swung to meet hers. The mask shadowed his eyes, but she thought
they were dark, brooding.
Quite suitable, actually.
“And how could a gentleman fail to follow
where beauty leads?” he countered with a practiced drawl. The
perfection of it sent gooseflesh up inside her long white evening
gloves.
“Yes, my friend is particularly lovely,” she
acknowledged with a smile. “I would offer to introduce you, but she
is promised to another, I fear.”
He straightened, raising his head above hers
and making her feel surprisingly petite. “Why would you think I
meant your friend?”
His Grace’s elegant ballroom was terribly
warm from all the bodies crushed inside it, but she didn’t think
its coziness was making her face feel as if she were on fire. For a
moment, she couldn’t think of a thing to say. That was generally
the case with her and boys. She remained tongue-tied; they tended
too often to speak of unimportant matters such as horses and
carriages and hunting.
As if he knew how his words had affected
her, he leaned closer, raising his hand to touch her cheek below
her mask with tender fingers, and she found herself trembling.
“You do not give yourself enough credit, my
dear,” he murmured, and her breath hitched in her chest. “I imagine
entire legions would march to the ends of the earth at one word
from those pearly lips.”
Her nerves evaporated. Ariadne sighed. “Oh,
and you were doing so well. My lips are not pearly, sir. No woman
would appreciate that compliment. Who wants to think of her lips as
white and round?”
His fingers touched her lips, soft as a
feather, then withdrew. “I meant because they are delectably
plump.”
Ariadne rolled her eyes. “Plump? I cannot
think why I would approve of that adjective being applied to any
part of my person.”
He straightened. “So you are proof against
seduction.” She thought he sounded disappointed.
“I am proof against poor imagery,” she
replied. “Syntax too. And don’t get me started on misplaced
modifiers.”
He blinked.
“Here,” she said. “Allow me to demonstrate.”
She leaned closer, reached up to touch his cheek, imagining the
pebbles of stubble rough against her gloves. “Your hair, madam,
puts me in mind of pure honey, and I would wager my last guinea
that you taste as sweet.”
“That’s very good,” he said, and now his
voice betrayed his admiration. “I may use it.”
Ariadne dropped her hand with a wave. “Feel
free. Just avoid talking about skin like alabaster. Have you seen
some of the alabaster in London? All mottled brown and white. Not a
compliment that I can see.”
“You seem to have spent considerable time
thinking about all this,” he said, resting his hip against the
balustrade of the balcony so that his long legs below the scarlet
tunic were all the more evident. “What would you do if you were
trying to convince a gentleman to share his secrets? Gentleman to
gentleman, of course.”
Ariadne pursed her lips in thought.
“Gentleman to gentleman, eh? Hmm. Is he particularly vain about
some characteristic: his looks, his intellect?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
“Then does he have some favorite pastime,
say riding or racing his yacht?”
She thought his mouth turned up below the
bottom of the mask. “I don’t believe he owns a yacht.”
She threw up her hands. “You must know
something about him, sir. How else would you know he has
secrets?”
He shrugged. “Everyone has secrets.”
“Only in books and plays,” she retorted.
“Some of us are distressingly normal.”
He leaned closer again. “Are you?”
For a moment, she thought he knew her
secret, the one only she and her three dear friends shared, for his
eyes searched hers so deeply. And they were brown, a warm shade
that drew her in.
But she’d learned enough from Priscilla and
the many plays she’d watched to raise her chin and meet his gaze
even though her heart was hammering. “Yes, completely,
unapologetically normal. Rather boring, actually.”
“I don’t believe you.” He straightened once
more. “But it doesn’t matter. The gentleman in question has far
more secrets. He’s a spy.”
Like him. He didn’t say as much, but she
felt as if the words hung in the air, ready to plunge into her
journal and shake her world. Despite herself, she backed away.
He stiffened as if he knew he had
overstepped himself. “I meant he is dressed like a spy. That’s his
costume tonight.”
She didn’t believe him. People generally
dressed like obvious characters at a masquerade. Priscilla was
gowned as one of those charming Dresden shepherdesses the
ton
so loved to collect. Daphne was dressed very similarly
to Ariadne, only she was supposed to be Diana, goddess of the hunt.
Emily, in her usual dark fashion, had chosen to come as Death. No
one came as a spy, for the very reason that no one knew what a spy
looked like. He could well be the person standing next to you.
Dressed as a Roman centurion.
“How interesting,” she said, taking another
step back. What was she doing, conversing with a spy as if he were
an old friend? Had she no sense at all? “Well, I do hope you locate
him. Excuse me.” She’d started to turn, but he’d caught her arm,
pulling her into his embrace.
“Do nothing to give me away,” he’d murmured,
and then he’d pressed a kiss against her lips, so sweet he once
more robbed her of speech. When he’d released her and swept away,
it had been all she could do to stand there, gathering her wits
around her before going to find her friends.
Her fingers were tightening on her journal
now, and she released the leather-bound book. She hadn’t given him
away, but neither had she been able to forget the encounter. In the
last four days since the masquerade, she’d done everything she
could imagine to find her gentleman spy, with no luck. It was time
to call in a more enlightened investigator.
Hearing footsteps approaching, she peered
out the window again, then swung open the door of the carriage. Her
footman handed in Lady Emily Southwell.
“What’s wrong?” she asked as she settled her
navy skirts next to Ariadne, dark curls bobbing with her movements.
“Why did you ask me to meet you here? And how can I help?”
*
Across the square, a gentleman with broad
shoulders, midnight black hair pulled back in a queue, and warm
brown eyes sipped his coconut ice. A waiter approached the
wrought-iron table offering a second helping, but the gentleman
waved him away with one gloved hand. Gunter’s confections were
famous throughout the capital, but he was more interested in the
coach beyond the trees. The perfectly matched black horses and the
crimson landau they pulled were known to belong to Viscount
Rollings. Why did Ariadne Courdebas think she was hiding?