Eloquence and Espionage (4 page)

“Ariadne,” Priscilla said, voice sharp
enough to pierce a perfectly fine narrative, “who else is on the
list?”

“Oh.” The list, of course. It was always
good to rule out any other potential suspects. She looked down
again and tried not to think about Mr. Cunningham’s gamin grin.

“Archibald Stump?” Emily suggested,
obviously more intent on her reading. “He has dark hair.”

“And an excellent build to wear a
centurion’s costume,” Priscilla agreed.

“Or Freddie Pulsipher,” Emily added. “I’ve
felt he had a devious streak ever since he called my paintings
decidedly feminine.”

That was more obtuse than devious, as far as
Ariadne was concerned. Emily tended to paint dark, dramatic
subjects like battle scenes and tragic deaths.

“Sir Damon Largesse,” Priscilla suggested,
reading ahead. “Quite the debonair fellow with a flair for the
dramatic. He would have made my list of gentlemen to consider if he
had possessed more than a baronetcy.”

Daphne had twisted her head, obviously
trying to read the list upside down. Now she pointed to a name.
“What about him?”

“Lord Hawksbury?” Priscilla frowned. “I
believe his family name is Sinclair. He is the heir to the Marquess
of Winthrop.”

Ariadne shook her head. “Then it cannot be
him. The Marquess of Winthrop is famous for his many addresses to
Parliament. I have several memorized. Surely his heir would have
some gift for eloquence. The fellow I’m seeking occasionally has
difficulty being persuasive.”

Priscilla raised a golden brow as if
wondering the nature of the centurion’s persuasion.

Emily had risen to consult a book on the
shelf and now returned with
Debrett’s Peerage
in hand, a
page open. “Hawksbury has the courtesy title and precedence of an
earl. He is wealthy through a bequest from his late mother.”

“I would definitely have pursued him,”
Priscilla said, “if he wasn’t known as something of a recluse, like
his august father.” She peered at Ariadne as if trying to envision
her friend landing such a big part as to play opposite a paragon of
his nature.

“Hawksbury.” Ariadne shook her head. “How
perfectly brooding. And I suppose you will tell me his estate is a
crumbling manor house on the Cornish coast.”

“Scottish moors, actually,” Emily answered.
“And I believe it is considered a castle. His father and mine are
well acquainted though Lord Winthrop speaks through his personal
secretary most often these days.”

“Well, he doesn’t sound like the sort to
accost women in the park,” Daphne declared, straightening.

He certainly didn’t. Mr. Stump or Mr.
Pulsipher were much more likely candidates. Neither had been
particularly kind to her this Season. And Ariadne still couldn’t
dampen her hopes that Mr. Cunningham might be her centurion. That
was the man she still hoped to meet again, not the soulless
creature who had pointed a gun at her. She shuddered at the
memory.

Priscilla sat back. “I suppose we will only
know if we encounter the fellow again.”

Emily nodded. “We must attempt to find a way
to question all the gentlemen on our list of suspects.”

“Mr. Cunningham doesn’t ride, as far as I
can tell,” Daphne put in. “I’ve never met him on Rotten Row.”

“Archie and Freddie have been avoiding
Almack’s,” Priscilla added. “Too many matchmaking mamas for their
taste.”

“And I couldn’t meet them there in any
event,” Ariadne reminded them.

They must have heard the frustration in her
tone, for they all rushed to console her.

“It’s only a matter of time,” Priscilla
assured her, patting her hand. “The patronesses are notoriously
fussy.”

“I have heard that only one young lady in a
family is accorded tickets at one time,” Emily explained. “Though I
don’t know whether that’s true.”

“Bunch of old fuddy-duddies,” Daphne said
with a hand on Ariadne’s shoulder. “You’re not missing much.”

Perhaps not, but it did hurt that she was
the only one among her friends and family who had yet to be granted
vouchers to attend balls at London’s exclusive ladies’ club.

“And by the sound of your gentleman, he
wouldn’t attend in any event,” Emily concluded. She tapped her
chin. “So where would our fellow hang about during the day?
White’s? Parliament?”

“More likely Henry Angelo’s fencing academy
and Gentleman Jackson’s boxing emporium,” Ariadne replied,
remembering his comments about how he’d earned his impressive
physique.

“Well, that’s no good,” Daphne scoffed.
“They refuse to admit women, to my everlasting sorrow.”

Ariadne thought harder. Surely something
he’d said, something he’d done would give her some clue as to where
to find him. He didn’t seem the sort to worship his tailor or rush
to see the new horses at Tattersall’s, that haven of the racing
world. But truly, what did she know about him save his ability to
engage in witty conversation?

Her head came up, and she stared at her
friends. “I’ve been looking in all the wrong places.”

Emily frowned. “Indeed? How so?”

Ariadne grinned. “The man I seek won’t be
found whiling away his time at White’s or prosing on in Parliament.
He frequents another spot entirely. We need to visit a bookstore,
and I know just the one.”

Hatchard’s famous bookshop on Piccadilly was
sparsely populated as Ariadne and Daphne entered the next day
gowned in their best muslins with matching blue spencers. She
supposed everyone was out riding or walking or paying calls on such
a sunny day during the Season. Whatever the reason, the limited
number of shoppers would make the store relatively easy to
canvas.

Priscilla and Emily had been unable to
accompany them, having had previous engagements. She supposed that
would be the way of it in the future, as each of the friends found
their true loves. Terribly romantic for them; rather lonely for
her. But that was tomorrow. Today, she had a purpose.

She forced herself to focus on the shop. As
always, Hatchard’s wrapped itself around her like a favorite cloak.
Lit by the glow of golden gas lamps, dark wood bookcases lined the
walls and ran in orderly fashion through the center of the main
room. A curved staircase led upstairs to a second story with yet
more books, including some newly published by the owner himself.
She could see Mr. Hatchard behind his counter now, craggy brows
drawn down as he surveyed his domain, sideburns bristling. With a
distinguished nose and a long face, he looked as if he just might
have read each of the many tomes crowding his bookstore.

“Ah, the Misses Courdebas,” he said with a
nod, smile warming his face. “Welcome back. If I can be of any
assistance, please let me know.”

Ariadne nudged Daphne. They had agreed that
she should question the bookseller while Ariadne looked around.
Daphne gave a sharp nod and set off stalking a nursemaid and her
two young charges through the stacks. Ariadne sighed. Best not to
question her purpose. There was method to her sister’s madness.
Most of the time.

Of course, not when she’d become a devotee
of the
ton
’s favorite pundit, Lord Pompadour Snedley. The
first volume of his book of advice was still prominently displayed
on a table near the front of the shop. Ariadne wasn’t sure whether
to hope that the ridiculous things were thrown out with the rubbish
or that they sold out and languished on library shelves growing
dusty with time. Lord Snedley’s popularity had served its function
leading up to Priscilla and Emily’s come out ball. Now, he rather
embarrassed Ariadne.

So she marched determinedly into the stacks,
trying not to allow the titles to beckon her as she kept an eye out
for other shoppers with sufficiently broad shoulders and dark hair.
The first floor appeared to be empty save for the nursemaid and
company, so she ventured up to the second. Two gentlemen, both
blonds, were debating over a book on horse racing. A lady was
devouring the latest gothic novel. Defeated, Ariadne wandered back
downstairs and into the first stack, hoping she’d somehow missed
him.

Behind her, a bell on the front door
tinkled, alerting Hatchard’s staff that a new customer had entered
the premises. Ariadne glanced toward the door, but the tall
bookcase obscured her vision. All she could make out was the crown
of a gentleman’s top hat, bobbing along the aisle.

Perhaps a gentleman with midnight black
hair?

Heart starting to beat faster (goodness, but
the cliché was true!), she edged her way toward the end of the
aisle. The hat stopped, so she stopped. She could hear a clerk
extolling the virtues of Lord Snedley’s work, assuring the customer
that he wouldn’t need such advice but that perhaps he had a
betrothed for whom it would make a fine gift.

Ariadne rolled her eyes. What young lady
would appreciate the gift of a book with advice on etiquette? She’d
certainly take it to imply the gentleman thought her lacking!

“I am not betrothed,” the newcomer
replied.

That voice! Could it be? She stood on tiptoe
to peer between the books, but all she saw was the back of a bottle
green coat.

“A sister, perhaps?” the clerk persisted.
“Or a good friend?”

The coat moved as if its wearer had replaced
a book on the display. “I know no one who would appreciate this
drivel.”

“Drivel!” As soon as the word exploded out
of her, Ariadne clapped both hands over her mouth and scuttled back
along the row. Stupid, stupid! She’d all but given herself away, in
more ways than one! She clamped her lips together, lowered her
hands, and listened for a similar cry from the other side of the
bookcase, the sound of feet pounding closer. All was silence. In
the distance, the bell chimed again, no doubt accompanying her
quarry as he ran for his life.

She puffed out a sigh and went to find
Daphne. Her sister was bent over the smallest of the nursemaid’s
charges, showing him a book about horses. The slender nursemaid
looked unsure of the situation, head cocked so that her cap slipped
on her blond hair, hands on the shoulders of the other wide-eyed
child as she hugged him close to her dark skirts.

“She loves to ride,” Ariadne explained with
a contrite smile. She took Daphne’s arm and raised her up. “Come
along, sister. We must be going.”

Daphne handed the book to the boy with a
smile. “Very well, but I must say that was a great deal less time
than you usually spend in here.”

“I didn’t find what I was looking for,”
Ariadne said, mindful of the nursemaid watching them.

Daphne frowned and waved a hand that nearly
sent a book tumbling. “Why not? There must be a book here on every
subject imaginable.”

There was that. Glancing around, Ariadne
felt the tug from a dozen directions. That tome on ancient Egypt,
perhaps? She’d always been fascinated by archeology. Or that one on
changes in fashion over the last decade. Her first Season out, she
really should try to remain current. And what about that one on new
machinery using steam? Perhaps she could advise Father on his
investments.

“Now, that’s the Ariadne I know and love,”
Daphne said, giving her a gentle shove down the stacks. “Go on,
pick one or two if you can limit yourself. I have money in my
reticule. I’ll just chat with Mr. Hatchard while you look.”

Ariadne beamed at her. “You truly are a
marvelous sister, you know.”

Daphne grinned. “I know.”

So Ariadne wandered the rows, gazing at
titles and authors, choosing one here to read the dedication,
another to confirm depth of coverage. She’d selected what appeared
to be a perfectly fine set of essays on the theme of British
innovation when a familiar voice spoke again.

“I’d try another, if I were you. Far too
pedantic.”

Ariadne stopped, raising her gaze from the
spine to the row. She was the only one in it, but was that a shadow
on the other side of the stack? “You’ve read it?” she ventured.

“Yes. Disappointing at best. Try the one two
shelves down.”

She could hardly refuse. The longer they
conversed, the more likely Daphne was to spy him. Bending, she
pulled out a thinner tome to find it had been authored by a member
of the Royal Society whose writings she had previously admired.

“Excellent choice,” she said, straightening.
“So I take it you are an eclectic reader?”

“I have been known to indulge in scientific
treatises as well as Mr. Shakespeare’s sonnets.”

Something skittered along her skin. “And did
you learn anything from either?”

“I might compare thee to a summer’s day, but
I shan’t attempt to construct a battery out of shoe polish and
garden twine.”

Where was Daphne? Could she see him better
from her vantage point? Perhaps Ariadne should attempt to draw him
out. She moved along the stack, and he paced her.

“Very wise of you,” she said. “I find shoe
polish can be particularly tricky.”

“Especially if you’re wearing satin
slippers,” he agreed.

Ariadne giggled and hurriedly swallowed the
sound. Had he drawn back? Was she about to lose him? Why not ask
her questions, then? She forced her voice to come out stern. “Why
are you following me?”

He was still there, for his voice came out
surprised. “In case you failed to notice, you’re in danger.”

So he was protecting her. Another thrill ran
through her. “But why? Do I know you?”

“No, and neither does my opponent, I hope.
Or rather, he might know my name, but not my purpose. All he knows
is that you seek me too, and that could have dire
consequences.”

“Oh, not you too,” Ariadne said. “I do wish
people would be specific in their threats.”

“That gun would put a period on your life
quite nicely.”

There was that, and well stated too.
Glancing up to compliment him, she saw they were almost to the end
of the row. If she darted around the corner to confront him, would
he stay long enough to continue the conversation?